Diard, as he ran, had all the sensations of a dream when he heard a whole city howling, running, panting after him. Nevertheless, he kept his ideas and his presence of mind. Presently he reached the wall of the garden of his house. The place was perfectly silent, and he thought he had foiled his pursuers, though a distant murmur of the tumult came to his ears like the roaring of the sea. He dipped some water from a brook and drank it. Then, observing a pile of stones on the road, he hid his treasure in it; obeying one of those vague thoughts which come to criminals at a moment when the faculty to judge their actions under all bearings deserts them, and they think to establish their innocence by want of proof of their guilt.
That done, he endeavored to assume a placid countenance; he even tried to smile as he rapped softly on the door of his house, hoping that no one saw him. He raised his eyes, and through the outer blinds of one window came a gleam of light from his wife’s room. Then, in the midst of his trouble, visions of her gentle life, spent with her children, beat upon his brain with the force of a hammer. The maid opened the door, which Diard hastily closed behind him with a kick. For a moment he breathed freely; then, noticing that he was bathed in perspiration, he sent the servant back to Juana and stayed in the darkness of the passage, where he wiped his face with his handkerchief and put his clothes in order, like a dandy about to pay a visit to a pretty woman. After that he walked into a track of the moonlight to examine his hands. A quiver of joy passed over him as he saw that no blood stains were on them; the hemorrhage from his victim’s body was no doubt inward.
But all this took time. When at last he mounted the stairs to Juana’s room he was calm and collected, and able to reflect on his position, which resolved itself into two ideas: to leave the house, and get to the wharves. He did not think these ideas, he saw them written in fiery letters on the darkness. Once at the wharves he could hide all day, return at night for his treasure, then conceal himself, like a rat, in the hold of some vessel and escape without any one suspecting his whereabouts. But to do all this, money, gold, was his first necessity, — and he did not possess one penny.
The maid brought a light to show him up.
“Felicie,” he said, “don’t you hear a noise in the street, shouts, cries? Go and see what it means, and come and tell me.”
His wife, in her white dressing-gown, was sitting at a table, reading aloud to Francisque and Juan from a Spanish Cervantes, while the boys followed her pronunciation of the words from the text. They all three stopped and looked at Diard, who stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets; overcome, perhaps, by finding himself in this calm scene, so softly lighted, so beautiful with the faces of his wife and children. It was a living picture of the Virgin between her son and John.
“Juana, I have something to say to you.”
“What has happened?” she asked, instantly perceiving from the livid paleness of her husband that the misfortune she had daily expected was upon them.
“Oh, nothing; but I want to speak to you — to you, alone.”
And he glanced at his sons.
“My dears, go to your room, and go to bed,” said Juana; “say your prayers without me.”
The boys left the room in silence, with the incurious obedience of well-trained children.
“My dear Juana,” said Diard, in a coaxing voice, “I left you with very little money, and I regret it now. Listen to me; since I relieved you of the care of our income by giving you an allowance, have you not, like other women, laid something by?”
“No,” replied Juana, “I have nothing. In making that allowance you did not reckon the costs of the children’s education. I don’t say that to reproach you, my friend, only to explain my want of money. All that you gave me went to pay masters and — ”
“Enough!” cried Diard, violently. “Thunder of heaven! every instant is precious! Where are your jewels?”
“You know very well I have never worn any.”
“Then there’s not a sou to be had here!” cried Diard, frantically.
“Why do you shout in that way?” she asked.
“Juana,” he replied, “I have killed a man.”
Juana sprang to the door of her children’s room and closed it; then she returned.
“Your sons must hear nothing,” she said. “With whom have you fought?”
“Montefiore,” he replied.
“Ah!” she said with a sigh, “the only man you had the right to kill.”
“There were many reasons why he should die by my hand. But I can’t lose time — Money, money! for God’s sake, money! I may be pursued. We did not fight. I — I killed him.”
“Killed him!” she cried, “how?”
“Why, as one kills anything. He stole my whole fortune and I took it back, that’s all. Juana, now that everything is quiet you must go down to that heap of stones — you know the heap by the garden wall — and get that money, since you haven’t any in the house.”
“The money that you stole?” said Juana.
“What does that matter to you? Have you any money to give me? I tell you I must get away. They are on my traces.”
“Who?”
“The people, the police.”
Juana left the room, but returned immediately.
“Here,” she said, holding out to him at arm’s length a jewel, “that is Dona Lagounia’s cross. There are four rubies in it, of great value, I have been told. Take it and go — go!”
“Felicie hasn’t come back,” he cried, with a sudden thought. “Can she have been arrested?”
Juana laid the cross on the table, and sprang to the windows that looked on the street. There she saw, in the moonlight, a file of soldiers posting themselves in deepest silence along the wall of the house. She turned, affecting to be calm, and said to her husband: —
“You have not a minute to lose; you must escape through the garden. Here is the key of the little gate.”
As a precaution she turned to the other windows, looking on the garden. In the shadow of the trees she saw the gleam of the silver lace on the hats of a body of gendarmes; and she heard the distant mutterings of a crowd of persons whom sentinels were holding back at the end of the streets up which curiosity had drawn them. Diard had, in truth, been seen to enter his house by persons at their windows, and on their information and that of the frightened maid-servant, who was arrested, the troops and the people had blocked the two streets which led to the house. A dozen gendarmes, returning from the theatre, had climbed the walls of the garden, and guarded all exit in that direction.
“Monsieur,” said Juana, “you cannot escape. The whole town is here.”
Diard ran from window to window with the useless activity of a captive bird striking against the panes to escape. Juana stood silent and thoughtful.
“Juana, dear Juana, help me! give me, for pity’s sake, some advice.”
“Yes,” said Juana, “I will; and I will save you.”
“Ah! you are always my good angel.”
Juana left the room and returned immediately, holding out to Diard, with averted head, one of his own pistols. Diard did not take it. Juana heard the entrance of the soldiers into the courtyard, where they laid down the body of the murdered man to confront the assassin with the sight of it. She turned round and saw Diard white and livid. The man was nearly fainting, and tried to sit down.
“Your children implore you,” she said, putting the pistol beneath his hand.
“But — my good Juana, my little Juana, do you think — Juana! is it so pressing? — I want to kiss you.”
The gendarmes were mounting the staircase. Juana grasped the pistol, aimed it at Diard, holding him, in spite of his cries, by the throat; then she blew his brains out and flung the weapon on the ground.
At that instant the door was opened violently. The public prosecutor, followed by an examining judge, a doctor, a sheriff, and a posse of gendarmes, all the representatives, in short, of human justice, entered the room.
“What do you want?
” asked Juana.
“Is that Monsieur Diard?” said the prosecutor, pointing to the dead body bent double on the floor.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Your gown is covered with blood, madame.”
“Do you not see why?” replied Juana.
She went to the little table and sat down, taking up the volume of Cervantes; she was pale, with a nervous agitation which she nevertheless controlled, keeping it wholly inward.
“Leave the room,” said the prosecutor to the gendarmes.
Then he signed to the examining judge and the doctor to remain.
“Madame, under the circumstances, we can only congratulate you on the death of your husband,” he said. “At least he has died as a soldier should, whatever crime his passions may have led him to commit. His act renders negatory that of justice. But however we may desire to spare you at such a moment, the law requires that we should make an exact report of all violent deaths. You will permit us to do our duty?”
“May I go and change my dress?” she asked, laying down the volume.
“Yes, madame; but you must bring it back to us. The doctor may need it.”
“It would be too painful for madame to see me operate,” said the doctor, understanding the suspicions of the prosecutor. “Messieurs,” he added, “I hope you will allow her to remain in the next room.”
The magistrates approved the request of the merciful physician, and Felicie was permitted to attend her mistress. The judge and the prosecutor talked together in a low voice. Officers of the law are very unfortunate in being forced to suspect all, and to imagine evil everywhere. By dint of supposing wicked intentions, and of comprehending them, in order to reach the truth hidden under so many contradictory actions, it is impossible that the exercise of their dreadful functions should not, in the long run, dry up at their source the generous emotions they are constrained to repress. If the sensibilities of the surgeon who probes into the mysteries of the human body end by growing callous, what becomes of those of the judge who is incessantly compelled to search the inner folds of the soul? Martyrs to their mission, magistrates are all their lives in mourning for their lost illusions; crime weighs no less heavily on them than on the criminal. An old man seated on the bench is venerable, but a young judge makes a thoughtful person shudder. The examining judge in this case was young, and he felt obliged to say to the public prosecutor, —
“Do you think that woman was her husband’s accomplice? Ought we to take her into custody? Is it best to question her?”
The prosecutor replied, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, —
“Montefiore and Diard were two well-known scoundrels. The maid evidently knew nothing of the crime. Better let the thing rest there.”
The doctor performed the autopsy, and dictated his report to the sheriff. Suddenly he stopped, and hastily entered the next room.
“Madame — ” he said.
Juana, who had removed her bloody gown, came towards him.
“It was you,” he whispered, stooping to her ear, “who killed your husband.”
“Yes, monsieur,” she replied.
The doctor returned and continued his dictation as follows, —
“And, from the above assemblage of facts, it appears evident that the said Diard killed himself voluntarily and by his own hand.”
“Have you finished?” he said to the sheriff after a pause.
“Yes,” replied the writer.
The doctor signed the report. Juana, who had followed him into the room, gave him one glance, repressing with difficulty the tears which for an instant rose into her eyes and moistened them.
“Messieurs,” she said to the public prosecutor and the judge, “I am a stranger here, and a Spaniard. I am ignorant of the laws, and I know no one in Bordeaux. I ask of you one kindness: enable me to obtain a passport for Spain.”
“One moment!” cried the examining judge. “Madame, what has become of the money stolen from the Marquis de Montefiore?”
“Monsieur Diard,” she replied, “said something to me vaguely about a heap of stones, under which he must have hidden it.”
“Where?”
“In the street.”
The two magistrates looked at each other. Juana made a noble gesture and motioned to the doctor.
“Monsieur,” she said in his ear, “can I be suspected of some infamous action? I! The pile of stones must be close to the wall of my garden. Go yourself, I implore you. Look, search, find that money.”
The doctor went out, taking with him the examining judge, and together they found Montefiore’s treasure.
Within two days Juana had sold her cross to pay the costs of a journey. On her way with her two children to take the diligence which would carry her to the frontiers of Spain, she heard herself being called in the street. Her dying mother was being carried to a hospital, and through the curtains of her litter she had seen her daughter. Juana made the bearers enter a porte-cochere that was near them, and there the last interview between the mother and the daughter took place. Though the two spoke to each other in a low voice, Juan heard these parting words, —
“Mother, die in peace; I have suffered for you all.”
THE RECRUIT
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley
An 1831 short story, Le Réquisitionnaire takes place in November 1793 and features Madame de Dey, a danger seeking aristocrat, whose one love is for her son, the sole heir of the family. Already widowed at the time of the Terror, she has retired from Court and settled in Carentan, where she is apparently the most popular person in town. However, rumours run wild when Madame de Dey’s evenings are cancelled twice in a row.
DEDICATION
To my dear Albert Marchand de la Ribellerie.
THE RECRUIT
At times they saw him, by a phenomenon of vision or locomotion, abolish space in its two forms of Time and Distance; the former being intellectual space, the other physical space.
Intellectual History of Louis Lambert.
On an evening in the month of November, 1793, the principal persons of Carentan were assembled in the salon of Madame de Dey, where they met daily. Several circumstances which would never have attracted attention in a large town, though they greatly preoccupied the little one, gave to this habitual rendezvous an unusual interest. For the two preceding evenings Madame de Dey had closed her doors to the little company, on the ground that she was ill. Such an event would, in ordinary times, have produced as much effect as the closing of the theatres in Paris; life under those circumstances seems merely incomplete. But in 1793, Madame de Dey’s action was likely to have fatal results. The slightest departure from a usual custom became, almost invariably for the nobles, a matter of life or death. To fully understand the eager curiosity and searching inquiry which animated on this occasion the Norman countenances of all these rejected visitors, but more especially to enter into Madame de Dey’s secret anxieties, it is necessary to explain the role she played at Carentan. The critical position in which she stood at this moment being that of many others during the Revolution the sympathies and recollections of more than one reader will help to give color to this narrative.
Madame de Dey, widow of a lieutenant-general, chevalier of the Orders, had left the court at the time of the emigration. Possessing a good deal of property in the neighborhood of Carentan, she took refuge in that town, hoping that the influence of the Terror would be little felt there. This expectation, based on a knowledge of the region, was well-founded. The Revolution committed but few ravages in Lower Normandy. Though Madame de Dey had known none but the nobles of her own caste when she visited her property in former years, she now felt it advisable to open her house to the principle bourgeois of the town, and to the new governmental authorities; trying to make them pleased at obtaining her society, without arousing either hatred or jealousy. Gracious and kind, gifted by nature with that inexpressible charm which can please without having recourse to subserviency or to making overtures, she suc
ceeded in winning general esteem by an exquisite tact; the sensitive warnings of which enabled her to follow the delicate line along which she might satisfy the exactions of this mixed society, without humiliating the touchy pride of the parvenus, or shocking that of her own friends.
Then about thirty-eight years of age, she still preserved, not the fresh plump beauty which distinguishes the daughters of Lower Normandy, but a fragile and, so to speak, aristocratic beauty. Her features were delicate and refined, her figure supple and easy. When she spoke, her pale face lighted and seemed to acquire fresh life. Her large dark eyes were full of affability and kindness, and yet their calm, religious expression seemed to say that the springs of her existence were no longer in her.
Married in the flower of her age to an old and jealous soldier, the falseness of her position in the midst of a court noted for its gallantry contributed much, no doubt, to draw a veil of melancholy over a face where the charms and the vivacity of love must have shone in earlier days. Obliged to repress the naive impulses and emotions of a woman when she simply feels them instead of reflecting about them, passion was still virgin in the depths of her heart. Her principal attraction came, in fact, from this innate youth, which sometimes, however, played her false, and gave to her ideas an innocent expression of desire. Her manner and appearance commanded respect, but there was always in her bearing, in her voice, a sort of looking forward to some unknown future, as in girlhood. The most insensible man would find himself in love with her, and yet be restrained by a sort of respectful fear, inspired by her courtly and polished manners. Her soul, naturally noble, but strengthened by cruel trials, was far indeed from the common run, and men did justice to it. Such a soul necessarily required a lofty passion; and the affections of Madame de Dey were concentrated on a single sentiment, — that of motherhood. The happiness and pleasure of which her married life was deprived, she found in the passionate love she bore her son. She loved him not only with the pure and deep devotion of a mother, but with the coquetry of a mistress, and the jealousy of a wife. She was miserable away from him, uneasy at his absence, could never see him enough, and loved only through him and for him. To make men understand the strength of this feeling, it suffices to add that the son was not only the sole child of Madame de Dey, but also her last relation, the only being in the world to whom the fears and hopes and joys of her life could be naturally attached.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 1194