Thirty Hours with a Corpse

by Maurice Level

  “But if I do that . . .”

  “State on the receipt that it can only be claimed in this way. At any rate, if there is any risk, it is mine.”

  “Agreed! What is your name?”

  He replied without hesitation:

  “Duverger, Henri Duverger.”

  When he got back to the street, he breathed a sigh of relief. The first part of his program was over. They could clap the handcuffs on him now: the substance of his theft was beyond reach.

  He had worked things out with cold deliberation on these lines: On the expiration of his sentence he would claim the deposit. No one would be able to dispute his right to it. Four or five unpleasant years to be gone through, and he would be a rich man. It was preferable to spending his life trudging from door to door collecting debts! He would go to live in the country. To everyone he would be Monsieur Duverger. He would grow old in peace and contentment, known as an honest, charitable man . . . for he would spend some of the money on others.

  He waited twenty-four hours longer to make sure the numbers of the notes were not known, and, reassured on this point, he gave himself up, a cigarette between his lips.

  Another man in his place would have invented some story. He preferred to tell the truth, to admit the theft. Why waste time? But at his trial, as when he was first charged, it was impossible to drag from him a word about what he had done with the two hundred thousand francs. He confined himself to saying:

  “I don’t know. I fell asleep on a bench. . . . In my turn I was robbed.”

  Thanks to his irreproachable past, he was sentenced to only five years’ penal servitude. He heard the sentence without moving a muscle. He was thirty-five. At forty he would be free and rich. He considered the confinement a small, necessary sacrifice.

  In the prison where he served his sentence he was a model for all the others, just as he had been a model employee. He watched the slow days pass without impatience or anxiety, concerned only about his health.

  . . . At last the day of his discharge came. They gave him back his little stock of personal effects, and he left with but one idea in his mind, that of getting to the lawyer. As he walked along he imagined the coming scene.

  He would arrive. He would be ushered into the impressive office. Would the lawyer recognize him? He would look in the glass: decidedly he had grown considerably older, and no doubt his face bore traces of his experience. . . . No, certainly the lawyer would not recognize him. Ha! Ha! It would add to the humor of the situation!

  “What can I do for you, Monsieur?”

  “I have come for a deposit I made here five years ago.”

  “Which deposit? In what name?”

  “In the name of Monsieur . . .”

  Ravenot stopped suddenly murmuring:

  “How extraordinary! . . . I can’t remember the name I gave!”

  He racked his brains . . . a blank! He sat down on a bench, and feeling that he was growing unnerved, reasoned with himself:

  “Come, come! Be calm . . . Monsieur . . . Monsieur . . . It began with . . . which letter?”

  For an hour he sat lost in thought, straining his memory, groping after something that might suggest a clue. . . . A waste of time. The name danced in front of him, round about him: he saw the letters jump, the syllables vanish. . . . Every second he felt that he had it, that it was before his eyes, on his lips. No! At first this only worried him; then it became a sharp irritation that cut into him with a pain that was almost physical. Hot waves ran up and down his back. His muscles contracted: he found it impossible to sit still. His hands began to twitch. He bit his dry lips. He was divided between an impulse to weep and to fight.

  But the more he focused his attention, the further the name seemed to recede. He struck the ground with his foot, rose and said aloud:

  “What’s the good of worrying? It only makes things worse. If I leave off thinking about it, it will come of itself !”

  But an obsession cannot be shaken off in this way. In vain he turned his attention to the faces of the passers-by, stopped at the shop windows, listened to the street noises; while he listened, unhearing, and looked, unseeing, the great question persisted:

  “Monsieur? . . . Monsieur? . . .”

  Night came. The streets were deserted. Worn out, he went to a hotel, asked for a room, and flung himself fully dressed on the bed. For hours he went on racking his brain. At dawn he fell asleep. It was broad daylight when he awoke. He stretched himself luxuriously, his mind at ease; but in a flash the obsession gripped him again:

  “Monsieur? . . . Monsieur? . . .”

  A new sensation began to dominate his anguish of mind: fear. Fear that he might never remember the name, never. He got up, went out, walked for hours at random, loitering about the office of the lawyer. For a second time the night fell. He clutched his head in his hands and groaned:

  “I shall go mad.”

  A terrible idea had now taken possession of his mind: he had two hundred thousand francs in notes, two hundred thousand francs, acquired by dishonesty of course, but his, and they were out of his reach. To get them he had undergone five years in prison, and now he could not touch them. The notes were there waiting for him, and one word, a mere word he could not remember, stood, an insuperable barrier, between him and them. He beat with clenched fists on his head, feeling his reason trembling in the balance; he stumbled against lamp-posts with the sway of a drunken man, tripped over the curbstones. It was no longer an obsession or a torment, it had become a frenzy of his whole being, of his brain and of his flesh. He had now become convinced that he would never remember. His imagination conjured up a sardonic laugh that rang in his ears; people in the streets seemed to point at him as he passed. His steps quickened into a run that carried him straight ahead, knocking up against the passers-by, oblivious of the traffic. He wished that someone would strike him so that he might strike back; that he might be run over, crushed out of existence. . . .

  “Monsieur? . . . Monsieur? . . .”

  At his feet the Seine flowed by, a muddy green, spangled with the reflections of the bright stars. He sobbed out:

  “Monsieur? . . . Oh, that name! . . . that name! . . .”

  He went down the steps that lead to the water, and lying face downwards, worked himself toward the river to cool his face and hands. He was panting . . . the water drew him . . . drew his hot eyes . . . his ears. . . . He felt himself slipping, but unable to cling to the steep bank, he fell. . . . The shock of the cold water set every nerve a-tingle. He struggled . . . thrust out his arms . . . flung his head up . . . went under . . . rose to the surface again, and in a sudden mighty effort, his eyes starting from his head, yelled:

  “I’ve got it! . . . Help! Duverger! Du . . .”

  . . . The quay was deserted. The water rippled against the pillars of the bridge: the echo of the somber arch repeated the name in the silence. . . . The river rose and fell lazily: lights danced on it, white and red. . . . A wave a little stronger than the rest licked the bank near the moving rings. . . . All was still. . . .

  The Kennel

  AS TEN o’clock struck, M. de Hartevel emptied a last tankard of beer, folded his newspaper, stretched himself, yawned, and slowly rose.

  The hanging-lamp cast a bright light on the table-cloth, over which were scattered piles of shot and cartridge wads. Near the fireplace, in the shadow, a woman lay back in a deep armchair.

  Outside the wind blew violently against the windows, the rain beat noisily on the glass, and from time to time deep bayings came from the kennel where the hounds had struggled and strained since morning.

  There were forty of them: big mastiffs with ugly fangs, stiff-haired griffons of Vendée, which flung themselves with ferocity on the wild boar on hunting days. During the night their sullen bayings disturbed the countryside, evoking response from all the dogs in the neighborhood.

  M. de Hartevel lifted a curtain and looked out into the darkness of the park. The wet branches shone like steel blades; the autum
n leaves were blown about like whirligigs and flattened against the walls. He grumbled.

  “Dirty weather!”

  He walked a few steps, his hands in his pockets, stopped before the fireplace, and with a kick broke a half-consumed log. Red embers fell on the ashes; a flame rose, straight and pointed.

  Madame de Hartevel did not move. The light of the fire played on her face, touching her hair with gold, throwing a rosy glow on her pale cheeks and, dancing about her, cast fugitive shadows on her forehead, her eyelids, her lips.

  The hounds, quiet for a moment, began to growl again; and their bayings, the roaring of the wind and the hiss of the rain on the trees made the quiet room seem warmer, the presence of the silent woman more intimate.

  Subconsciously this influenced M. de Hartevel. Desires stimulated by those of the beasts and by the warmth of the room crept through his veins. He touched his wife’s shoulders.

  “It is ten o’clock. Are you going to bed?”

  She said “yes,” and left her chair, as if regretfully.

  “Would you like me to come with you?”

  “No—thank you—”

  Frowning, he bowed.

  “As you like.”

  His shoulders against the mantelshelf, his legs apart, he watched her go. She walked with a graceful, undulating movement, the train of her dress moving on the carpet like a little flat wave. A surge of anger stiffened his muscles.

  In this chateau where he had her all to himself he had in bygone days imagined a wife who would like living in seclusion with him, attentive to his wishes, smiling acquiescence to all his desires. She would welcome him with gay words when he came back from a day’s hunting, his hands blue with cold, his strong body tired, bringing with him the freshness of the fields and moors, the smell of horses, of game and of hounds, would lift eager lips to meet his own. Then, after the long ride in the wind, the rain, the snow, after the intoxication of the crisp air, the heavy walking in the furrows, or the gallop under branches that almost caught his beard, there would have been long nights of love, orgies of caresses of which the thrill would be mutual.

  The difference between the dream and the reality!

  When the door had shut and the sound of steps died away in the corridor, he went to his room, lay down, took a book and tried to read.

  The rain hissed louder than ever. The wind roared in the chimney; out in the park, branches were snapping from the trees; the hounds bayed without ceasing, their howlings sounded through the creaking of the trees, dominating the roar of the storm; the door of the kennel strained under their weight.

  He opened the window and shouted:

  “Down!”

  For some seconds they were quiet. He waited. The wind that drove the rain on his face refreshed him. The barkings began again. He banged his fist against the shutter, threatening:

  “Quiet, you devils!”

  There was a singing in his ears, a whistling, a ringing; a desire to strike, to ransack, to feel flesh quiver under his fists took possession of him. He roared: “Wait a moment!” slammed the window, seized a whip, and went out.

  He strode along the corridors with no thought of the sleeping house till he got near his wife’s room, when he walked slowly and quietly, fearing to disturb her sleep. But a ray of light from under her door caught his lowered eyes, and there was a sound of hurried footsteps that the carpet did not deaden. He listened. The noise ceased, the light went out. . . . He stood motionless, and suddenly, impelled by a suspicion, he called softly:

  “Marie Therèse . . .”

  No reply. He called louder. Curiosity, a doubt that he dared not formulate, held him breathless. He gave two sharp little taps on the door; a voice inside asked:

  “Who is there?”

  “I—open the door—”

  A whiff of warm air laden with various perfumes and a suspicion of other odors passed over his face.

  The voice asked:

  “What is it?”

  He walked in without replying. He felt his wife standing close in front of him; her breath was on him, the lace of her dress touched his chest. He felt in his pocket for matches. Not finding any, he ordered:

  “Light the lamp!”

  She obeyed, and as his eyes ran over the room he saw the curtains drawn closely, a shawl on the carpet, the open bed, white and very large; and in a corner, near the fireplace, a man lying across a long rest-chair, his collar unfastened, his head drooping, his arms hanging loosely, his eyes shut.

  He gripped his wife’s wrist:

  “Ah, you . . . filth! . . . Then this is why you turn your back on me!” . . .

  She did not shrink from him, did not move. No shadow of fear passed over her pallid face.

  She only raised her head, murmuring:

  “You are hurting me!—”

  He let her go, and bending over the inert body, his fist raised, cried:

  “A lover in my wife’s bedroom! And . . . what a lover! A friend . . . Almost a son . . . Whore!—”

  She interrupted him:

  “He is not my lover . . .”

  He burst into a laugh.

  “Ha! Ha! You expect me to believe that!”

  He seized the collar of the recumbent man, and lifted him up toward him. But when he saw the livid face, the half-opened mouth showing the teeth and gums, when he felt the strange chill of the flesh that touched his hands, he started and let go. The body fell back heavily on the cushions, the forehead beating twice against a chair. His fury turned upon his wife.

  “What have you to say? . . . Explain! . . .”

  “It is very simple,” she said. “I was just going to bed when I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor . . . uncertain steps . . . faltering . . . and a voice begging, ‘Open the door . . . open the door’ . . . I thought you might be ill. I opened the door. Then he came, or rather, fell into the room. . . . I knew he was subject to heart-attacks. . . . I laid him there . . . I was just going to bring you when you knocked. . . . That’s all . . .”

  Bending over the body, and apparently quite calm again, he asked, every word pronounced distinctly:

  “And it does not surprise you that no one heard him come in? . . .”

  “The hounds bayed . . .”

  “And why should he come here at this hour of the night?”

  She made a vague gesture:

  “It does seem strange . . . But . . . I can only suppose that he felt ill and that . . . quite alone in his own house . . . he was afraid to stay there . . . came here to beg for help . . . In any case, when he is better . . . as soon as he is able to speak . . . he will be able to explain . . .”

  M. de Hartevel drew himself up to his full height, and looked into his wife’s eyes.

  “It appears we shall have to accept your supposition, and that we shall never know exactly what underlies his being here tonight . . . for he is dead.”

  She held out her hands and stammered, her teeth chattering:

  “It’s not possible . . . He is . . .”

  “Yes—dead . . .”

  He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then went on in an easier voice:

  “After all, the more I think of it, the more natural it seems . . . Both his father and his uncle died like this, suddenly . . . Heart disease is hereditary in his family . . . A shock . . . a violent emotion . . . too keen a sensation . . . a great joy . . . We are weak creatures at best . . .”

  He drew an armchair to the fire, sat down, and, his hands stretched out to the flames, continued:

  “But however simple and natural the event in itself may be, nothing can alter the fact that a man has died in your bedroom during the night . . . Is that not so?”

  She hid her face in her hands and made no reply.

  “And if your explanation satisfies me, I am not able to make others accept it. The servants will have their own ideas, will talk . . . That will be dishonor for you, for me, for my family . . . That is not possible. . . . We must find a way out of it . . . and I ha
ve already found it . . . With the exception of you and me, no one knows, no one will ever know what has happened in this room . . . No one saw him come in . . . Take the lamp and come with me . . .”

  He seized the body in his arms and ordered:

  “Walk on first.”

  She hesitated as they went out at the door.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Leave it to me . . . Go on.”

  Slowly and very quietly they went toward the staircase, she holding high the lamp, its light flickering on the walls, he carefully placing his feet on stair after stair. When they got to the door that led to the garden, he said:

  “Open it without a sound.”

  A gust of wind made the light flare up. Beaten on by the rain, the glass burst and fell in pieces on the threshold. She placed the extinguished lamp on the soil. They went into the park. The gravel crunched under their steps and the rain beat upon them. He asked:

  “Can you see the walk? . . . Yes? . . . Then come close to me . . . hold the legs . . . the body is heavy . . .”

  They went forward in silence. M. de Hartevel stopped near a low door, saying:

  “Feel in my right-hand pocket . . . There is a key there . . . That’s it . . . Give it to me . . . Now let the legs go . . . It is as dark as a grave . . . Feel about till you find the keyhole . . . Have you got it?—Turn . . .”

  Excited by the noise, the hounds began to bay. Madame de Hartevel started back.

  “You are frightened? . . . Nonsense . . . Another turn . . . That’s it!—Stand out of the way . . .”

  With a thrust from his knee he pushed open the door. Believing themselves free, the hounds bounded against his legs. Pushing them back with a kick, suddenly, with one great effort, he raised the body above his head, balanced it there a moment, flung it into the kennel, and shut the door violently behind him.

  Baying at full voice, the beasts fell on their prey. A frightful death-rattle: “Help!” pierced their clamor, a terrible cry, superhuman. It was followed by violent growlings.