XVII
The next day was cold and damp. A fog, so thick that one could notdiscern objects ten steps off, hung over the earth. Sauvresy, afterbreakfast, took his gun and whistled to his dogs.
"I'm going to take a turn in Mauprevoir wood," said he.
"A queer idea," remarked Hector, "for you won't see the end of yourgun-barrel in the woods."
"No matter, if I see some pheasants."
This was only a pretext, for Sauvresy, on leaving Valfeuillu, took thedirect road to Corbeil, and half an hour later, faithful to his promise,he entered the Belle Image tavern.
Jenny was waiting for him in the large room which had always beenreserved for her since she became a regular customer of the house. Hereyes were red with recent tears; she was very pale, and her marble colorshowed that she had not slept. Her breakfast lay untouched on the tablenear the fireplace, where a bright fire was burning. When Sauvresy camein, she rose to meet him, and took him by the hand with a friendlymotion.
"Thank you for coming," said she. "Ah, you are very good."
Jenny was only a girl, and Sauvresy detested girls; but her grief was sosincere and seemed so deep, that he was touched.
"You are suffering, Madame?" asked he.
"Oh, yes, very much."
Her tears choked her, and she concealed her face in her handkerchief.
"I guessed right," thought Sauvresy. "Hector has deserted her. Now Imust smooth the wound, and yet make future meetings between themimpossible."
He took the weeping Jenny's hand, and softly pulled away thehandkerchief.
"Have courage," said he.
She lifted her tearful eyes to him, and said:
"You know, then?"
"I know nothing, for, as you asked me, I have said nothing to Tremorel;but I can imagine what the trouble is."
"He will not see me any more," murmured Jenny. "He has deserted me."
Sauvresy summoned up all his eloquence. The moment to be persuasive andpaternal had come. He drew a chair up to Jenny's, and sat down.
"Come, my child," pursued he, "be resigned. People are not always young,you know. A time comes when the voice of reason must be heard. Hectordoes not desert you, but he sees the necessity of assuring his future,and placing his life on a domestic foundation; he feels the need of ahome."
Jenny stopped crying. Nature took the upper hand, and her tears weredried by the fire of anger which took possession of her. She rose,overturning her chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room.
"Do you believe that?" said she. "Do you believe that Hector troubleshimself about his future? I see you don't know his character. He dreamof a home, or a family? He never has and never will think of anythingbut himself. If he had any heart, would he have gone to live with you ashe has? He had two arms to gain his bread and mine. I was ashamed to askmoney of him, knowing that what he gave me came from you."
"But he is my friend, my dear child."
"Would you do as he has done?"
Sauvresy did not know what to say; he was embarrassed by the logic ofthis daughter of the people, judging her lover rudely, but justly.
"Ah, I know him, I do," continued Jenny, growing more excited as hermind reverted to the past. "He has only deceived me once--the morning hecame and told me he was going to kill himself. I was stupid enough tothink him dead, and to cry about it. He, kill himself? Why, he's toomuch of a coward to hurt himself! Yes, I love him, but I don't esteemhim. That's our fate, you see, only to love the men we despise."
Jenny talked loud, gesticulating, and every now and then thumping thetable with her fist so that the bottles and glasses jingled. Sauvresywas somewhat fearful lest the hotel people should hear her; they knewhim, and had seen him come in. He began to be sorry that he had come,and tried to calm the girl.
"But Hector is not deserting you," repeated he. "He will assure you agood position."
"Humph! I should laugh at such a thing! Have I any need of him? As longas I have ten fingers and good eyes, I shall not be at the mercy of anyman. He made me change my name, and wanted to accustom me to luxury! Andnow there is neither a Miss Jenny, nor riches, but there is a Pelagie,who proposes to get her fifty sous a day, without much trouble."
"No," said Sauvresy, "you will not need--"
"What? To work? But I like work; I am not a do-nothing. I will go backto my old life. I used to breakfast on a sou's worth of biscuit and asou's worth of potatoes, and was well and happy. On Sundays, I dined atthe Turk for thirty sous. I laughed more then in one afternoon, than inall the years I have known Tremorel."
She no longer cried, nor was she angry; she was laughing. She wasthinking of her old breakfasts, and her feasts at the Turk.
Sauvresy was stupefied. He had no idea of this Parisian nature,detestable and excellent, emotional to excess, nervous, full oftransitions, which laughs and cries, caresses and strikes in the sameminute, which a passing idea whirls a hundred leagues from the presentmoment.
"So," said Jenny, more calmly, "I snap my fingers at Hector,"--she hadjust said exactly the contrary, and had forgotten it--"I don't care forhim, but I will not let him leave me in this way. It sha'n't be saidthat he left me for another. I won't have it."
Jenny was one of those women who do not reason, but who feel; with whomit is folly to argue, for their fixed idea is impregnable to the mostvictorious arguments. Sauvresy asked himself why she had asked him tocome, and said to himself that the part he had intended to play would bea difficult one. But he was patient.
"I see, my child," he commenced, "that you haven't understood or evenheard me. I told you that Hector was intending to marry."
"He!" answered Jenny, with an ironical gesture. "He get married."
She reflected a moment, and added:
"If it were true, though--"
"I tell you it is so."
"No," cried Jenny, "no, that can't be possible. He loves another, I amsure of it, for I have proofs."
Sauvresy smiled; this irritated her.
"What does this letter mean," cried she warmly, "which I found in hispocket, six months ago? It isn't signed to be sure, but it must havecome from a woman."
"A letter?"
"Yes, one that destroys all doubts. Perhaps you ask, why I did not speakto him about it? Ah, you see, I did not dare. I loved him. I was afraidif I said anything, and it was true he loved another, I should lose him.And so I resigned myself to humiliation, I concealed myself to weep, forI said to myself, he will come back to me. Poor fool!"
"Well, but what will you do?"
"Me? I don't know--anything. I didn't say anything about the letter, butI kept it; it is my weapon--I will make use of it. When I want to, Ishall find out who she is, and then--"
"You will compel Tremorel, who is kindly disposed toward you, to useviolence."
"He? What can he do to me? Why, I will follow him like his shadow--Iwill cry out everywhere the name of this other. Will he have me put inSt. Lazare prison? I will invent the most dreadful calumnies againsthim. They will not believe me at first; later, part of it will bebelieved. I have nothing to fear--I have no parents, no friends, nobodyon earth who cares for me. That's what it is to raise girls from thegutter. I have fallen so low that I defy him to push me lower. So, ifyou are his friend, sir, advise him to come back to me."
Sauvresy was really alarmed; he saw clearly how real and earnest Jenny'smenaces were. There are persecutions against which the law is powerless.But he dissimulated his alarm under the blandest air he could assume.
"Hear me, my child," said he. "If I give you my word of honor to tellyou the truth, you'll believe me, won't you?"
She hesitated a moment, and said:
"Yes, you are honorable; I will believe you."
"Then, I swear to you that Tremorel hopes to marry a young girl who isimmensely rich, whose dowry will secure his future."
"He tells you so; he wants you to believe it."
"Why should he? Since he came to Valfeuillu, he could have had no otheraffair than this
with you. He lives in my house, as if he were mybrother, between my wife and myself, and I could tell you how he spendshis time every hour of every day as well as what I do myself."
Jenny opened her mouth to reply, but a sudden reflection froze the wordson her lips. She remained silent and blushed violently, looking atSauvresy with an indefinable expression. He did not observe this, beinginspired by a restless though aimless curiosity. This proof, which Jennytalked about, worried him.
"Suppose," said he, "you should show me this letter."
She seemed to feel at these words an electric shock.
"To you?" she said, shuddering. "Never!"
If, when one is sleeping, the thunder rolls and the storm bursts, itoften happens that the sleep is not troubled; then suddenly, at acertain moment, the imperceptible flutter of a passing insect's wingawakens one.
Jenny's shudder was like such a fluttering to Sauvresy. The sinisterlight of doubt struck on his soul. Now his confidence, his happiness,his repose, were gone forever. He rose with a flashing eye and tremblinglips.
"Give me the letter," said he, in an imperious tone. Jenny recoiled withterror. She tried to conceal her agitation, to smile, to turn the matterinto a joke.
"Not to-day," said she. "Another time; you are too curious."
But Sauvresy's anger was terrible; he became as purple as if he had hada stroke of apoplexy, and he repeated, in a choking voice:
"The letter, I demand the letter."
"Impossible," said Jenny. "Because," she added, struck with an idea, "Ihaven't got it here."
"Where is it?"
"At my room, in Paris."
"Come, then, let us go there."
She saw that she was caught; and she could find no more excuses,quick-witted as she was. She might, however, easily have followedSauvresy, put his suspicions to sleep with her gayety, and when once inthe Paris streets, might have eluded him and fled. But she did not thinkof that. It occurred to her that she might have time to reach the door,open it, and rush downstairs. She started to do so. Sauvresy caught herat a bound, shut the door, and said, in a low, hoarse voice:
"Wretched girl! Do you wish me to strike you?"
He pushed her into a chair, returned to the door, double locked it, andput the keys in his pocket. "Now," said he, returning to the girl, "theletter."
Jenny had never been so terrified in her life. This man's rage made hertremble; she saw that he was beside himself, that she was completely athis mercy; yet she still resisted him.
"You have hurt me very much," said she, crying, "but I have done you noharm."
He grasped her hands in his, and bending over her, repeated:
"For the last time, the letter; give it to me, or I will take it byforce."
It would have been folly to resist longer. "Leave me alone," said she."You shall have it."
He released her, remaining, however, close by her side, while shesearched in all her pockets. Her hair had been loosened in the struggle,her collar was torn, she was tired, her teeth chattered, but her eyesshone with a bold resolution.
"Wait--here it is--no. It's odd--I am sure I've got it though--I had ita minute ago--"
And, suddenly, with a rapid gesture, she put the letter, rolled into aball, into her mouth, and tried to swallow it. But Sauvresy as quicklygrasped her by the throat, and she was forced to disgorge it.
He had the letter at last. His hands trembled so that he could scarcelyopen it.
It was, indeed, Bertha's writing.
Sauvresy tottered with a horrible sensation of dizziness; he could notsee clearly; there was a red cloud before his eyes; his legs gave wayunder him, he staggered, and his hands stretched out for a support.Jenny, somewhat recovered, hastened to give him help; but her touch madehim shudder, and he repulsed her. What had happened he could not tell.Ah, he wished to read this letter and could not. He went to the table,turned out and drank two large glasses of water one after another. Thecold draught restored him, his blood resumed its natural course, and hecould see. The note was short, and this was what he read:
"Don't go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg; or rather, return before breakfast.He has just told me that he must go to Melun, and that he should returnlate. A whole day!"
"He"--that was himself. This other lover of Hector's was Bertha, hiswife. For a moment he saw nothing but that; all thought was crushedwithin him. His temples beat furiously, he heard a dreadful buzzing inhis ears, it seemed to him as if the earth were about to swallow him up.He fell into a chair; from purple he became ashy white. Great tearstrickled down his cheeks.
Jenny understood the miserable meanness of her conduct when she saw thisgreat grief, this silent despair, this man with a broken heart. Was shenot the cause of all? She had guessed who the writer of the note was.She thought when she asked Sauvresy to come to her, that she could tellhim all, and thus avenge herself at once upon Hector and her rival.Then, on seeing this man refusing to comprehend her hints, she had beenfull of pity for him. She had said to herself that he would be the onewho would be most cruelly punished; and then she had recoiled--but toolate--and he had snatched the secret from her.
She approached Sauvresy and tried to take his hands; he still repulsedher.
"Let me alone," said he.
"Pardon me, sir--I am a wretch, I am horrified at myself."
He rose suddenly; he was gradually coming to himself.
"What do you want?"
"That letter--I guessed--"
He burst into a loud, bitter, discordant laugh, and replied:
"God forgive me! Why, my dear, did you dare to suspect my wife?"
While Jenny was muttering confused excuses, he drew out his pocket-bookand took from it all the money it contained--some seven or eight hundredfrancs--which he put on the table.
"Take this, from Hector," said he, "he will not permit you to suffer foranything; but, believe me, you had best let him get married."
Then he mechanically took up his gun, opened the door, and went out. Hisdogs leaped upon him to caress him; he kicked them off. Where was hegoing? What was he going to do?
Le crime d'Orcival. English Page 17