Gérôme appeared immediately.
“Come in, my friend,” said the Minister, affectionately. “I want to talk to you personally.”
The usher bowed and approached the desk.
“My dear Gérôme, I’m very pleased—very pleased, you understand—with the manner in which you understand your service, and I want to testify to that in a more interesting fashion than compliments.”
He took a wad of thousand-franc notes from his desk; he detached one of them and held it out to the functionary, who was dazzled by that generosity.
“By the way, Gérôme, I beg you to redouble your surveillance. Certain papers have disappeared, fortunately of little importance, which were in my desk. I believe that someone has introduced themselves here, without your knowledge, during my absence.”
“Oh, Monsieur le Président, that’s absolutely impossible. The antechamber commands the various entrances, and I don’t leave it. The cleaning is done by reliable men, as reliable as me—and I’ve been at the Ministry for twenty years, and am incapable of any indelicacy.”
“Nevertheless, observe, observe closely, Gérôme. Don’t let anyone disturb anything in my desk, and if anything abnormal happens, alert me.”
Gérôme bowed, and went out.
Evidently, the man knows nothing. Oh, if I could believe in God or the Devil, I could explain the mystery. In truth, there’s nothing to do but wait.
Nevertheless, he picked up his checkbook again and made a mark on each of the last ten stubs. If the checks disappear, he thought, I’ll alert the banks on which they’re drawn in order that they can have whoever cashes them followed, and perhaps I’ll succeed in unmasking my unknown.
The next day, the first thing that Claude Barsac did on entering his study was to open his desk. He made a gesture of satisfied astonishment. The ten checks were no longer there—but the checkbook had also vanished.
He shrugged his shoulders, carelessly. “Bah! I’m being ridiculous.”
He had been saved; that was the main thing—and the savior wanted to remain invisible. That was his business.
II. Midnight Antitheses: Dance and Drama
One evening, a fortnight after the famous session that had nearly brought down the Barsac Ministry, Arsène Vauclin, his aplomb recovered and his parliamentary influence reconquered, was playing host.
Political men, magistrates, celebrated artists, socialites and sportsmen were all saluting his revival. Red-faced and congested, but triumphant, he was in formal dress, smiling, shaking hands with the men and kissing the hands of the ladies, amiable with everyone, for he was one of those people who thought that he might make use of anyone at a given moment.
Vauclin was exultant; he was riding his lucky streak, and he had a solid grip on it. Sophie Vauclin was also triumphant; this was the life of which she had dreamed. After the soirée, fifty intimates would stay for supper, including, naturally, Simone d’Armez, Jeanne Fortin and Monsieur and Madame Grandjean. Sophie was only too glad to dazzle her former schoolfriends.
Everywhere, there was dancing.
During the fête and the tango:
“You don’t appear to be having a good time, my dear Jeanne.”
“My habits and tastes are so different from yours that it would be surprising if it were otherwise.”
I’m all the more grateful that you’ve come; it’s an unappreciable honor to have you here—you and your father—and I’ll make many people jealous.”
“You always like to make fun,” said Jeanne, smiling.
“I’m not joking. When people read, tomorrow: Brilliant party yesterday at the home of Madame Arsène Vauclin, etc., etc…we observed the presence of Monsieur le Docteur Fortin and his daughter. The illustrious scientist has left his studies for an evening, to permit the fine flower of Parisian elegance to admire the grace and beauty of Mademoiselle Jeanne Fortin. Needless to say, the presence of such illustrious guests was one attraction more...”
“Add to that account my fiancé, Dr. Georges Garnier.”
“You’re joking in your turn. You’re getting married! Is it possible? Your motto is: Outside science, nothing.”
“Certainly, but by marrying Georges Garnier, the two of us will be able to work and carry out research together.”
“Where are you hiding that fortunate mortal?”
“Behind us. He’s chatting to my father and other people.”
Sophie turned round. On seeing her former lover, Julien de Vandeuvre, whose back was turned to her, she went livid.
“What’s the matter?” Jeanne asked.
“It seemed to me…but this crowd, this heat…I don’t feel very well. Come to my room. Come on.”
Cutting a path through the dancing couples, with difficulty, she dragged Jeanne away.
Fortin was following the scene from the corner of his eye when Vauclin approached.
“My dear Master, I’m thankful for the presence here of one of the purest national glories. My wife has told me that your daughter was infinitely beautiful, and that you’ve deprived Parisian salons of her. You’re a great egotist.”
“In truth, I won’t hide the fact that my best moments are those I spend in my laboratory at the Red Nest, with my daughter and Georges Garnier, my future son-in-law.”
“Why haven’t you introduced him?”
“I’ll go look for him.”
Dr. Fortin thought: I’ll bowl you over. He went to join someone who was hidden by the large leaves of a latania palm in a corner of the room.
“Stay calm and try to recall your memories. Here, look in that mirror at the man I’ve just left. Do you recognize him? He’s coming toward us.”
“Yes—that’s the man who killed me.”
“Let’s manage our effect. Don’t turn round until I introduce you... Monsieur Vauclin, you wanted to meet my future son-in-law. Here he is: Monsieur Georges Garnier.”
Vauclin leapt backwards, and collapsed, as if thunderstruck. The chemist Bernardot caught him in his arms. Everyone ran forward.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Why, it…it’s him, it’s Vandeuvre,” said several guests, including a general—and the general added, addressing Georges-Julien: “I would have been astonished not to see you here this evening, as one of the intimates.”
“Messieurs,” said the young man, “there’s some mistake; my name is Georges Garnier.”
“But that doesn’t explain out host’s fainting fit,” said Dr. Fortin. “Everyone is astonished by the extraordinary resemblance, but no one else has fainted.”
“Indeed,” said Bernardot, who, aided by several other people, had carried Vauclin to a window, and had then returned to look for Fortin. “I was surprised, too, but not to the point of feeling ill. Fortunately, we’re physicians, Come on.”
“Go find Jeanne, and leave us to it,” whispered Fortin in the young man’s ear. “I’ll take care of Vauclin.” Aloud, he added: “Go quickly, Georges.”
“I thought Monsieur de Vandeuvre was named Julian?” said a lady.
“Know, my dear Baronne, that that young man isn’t Monsieur Vandeuvre.”
“Get away!” said the Baronne. “It’s a hoax!”
“No, Madame,” Bernardot interjected, “And that’s the cause of Monsieur Vaudin’s fainting fit. In truth, it’s remarkable.”
“I greeted him just now, thinking that I was greeting Vandeuvre,” said a guest. “I was astonished that he didn’t stop for a chat. It’s at least two months since I last saw him.”
In the meantime, Fortin had devoted his cares to Vauclin, who had come round completely.
“Well,” said Fortin, “How are you, my dear Monsieur?”
“Me?... Oh yes…I remember... Where is he? Get rid of him! Get rid of him! He’s dead, I’m sure of it.”
“What are you talking about?” Fortin interjected, swiftly.
“Is it Monsieur de Vandeuvre?” asked Bernardot.
“But Vandeuvre isn’t dead, so far as I know,”
said the Baronne.
“Vandeuvre,” said Vauclin, standing up. “Where is he? Have you seen him?”
“No,” said Barnardot, “but we’ve seen someone who bears a striking resemblance to him—isn’t that so, Messieurs?”
“Which I to say that I was convinced that I had seen Vandeuvre, and no other,” said the general.
“In that case,” Vauclin repeated, “I really saw Monsieur de Vandeuvre, or someone who resembles him strangely.”
“You saw my son-in-law-to-be, Georges Garnier,” agreed Fortin, “whom I was introducing to you at the moment when you were struck by a sort of congestion caused by the heat. I’ve just sent him to fetch my daughter, for we’ll take our leave, thanking you for your welcome and the pleasure I’ve had at the party.”
“Say that your presence was one attraction more. Henceforth, we hope to see you more often. My wife and your admirable daughter are old school friends. But permit me to go and repair the disorder of my costume. If your daughter, whose beauty equals her genius, is with my wife, I’ll bring her back to you.”
Vauclin went away in the direction of the private apartments. Fortin followed him at a distance, murmuring: “I’m not losing sight of you, my man.”
At that moment he perceived Vanel, who was kissing the hand of Simone d’Armez, as if saying goodbye. In fact, Marc did quit the Comtesse. When he turned round, he found himself facing Fortin.
“Come with me,” said the latter, “I believe I’m going to need you.”
“At your orders, Master,” said Homo-Deus.
III. The Recalcitrant Dead Man
Guiding Jeanne, Madame Vauclin had taken her to the first-floor apartments. There, all was calm and the sounds of conversation and music scarcely reached them. After passing through an elegant boudoir, they went into Sophie’s bedroom, furnished with refined taste.
“Here, at least, we can chat at our ease without fear of being disturbed. Let’s see, my dear Jeanne, you were telling me that you’re engaged to your father’s best pupil. Tell me about him. It’s the first time I’ve see him, you know—and only from behind. I wouldn’t have thought that such a great scientist could also be a man of the world.” With her habitual versatility, she added: “Is he handsome, is he nice?”
“My father?”
“No, your fiancé.”
“If you hadn’t dragged me here, you’d know. But I hope you’ll see him soon other than from behind.”
“It’s astonishing how his appearance reminds me of…someone you don’t know. But come on, you, who knows everything, can give me some information.”
“About what?”
“Oh, a very macabre subject. Every human body found on the public highway is taken to the Morgue, isn’t it?”
“An odd conversation for a pretty socialite like you.”
“Indeed, but can you answer my question?”
“Yes, unless papers are found on the body establishing its identity, in which case it’s taken to his domicile. That, of course, is in the case of natural death, for if it’s a murder, transport elsewhere is necessary for the autopsy.”
“Is there a possibility that something else might happen?”
“The corpse might be picked up by people capable of making a profit from it—as, for example, by selling it to physicians for their anatomical studies.”
“And has that ever happened to your father?”
“Oh, often. In fact, it happened about two months ago.”
“Two months, you say—and what was that corpse?”
“That of a man of about thirty.”
At that moment, Georges-Julien appeared, who bowed to the petrified Madame Vauclin.
“What’s wrong, Madame?”
Sophie, terrified, had thrown herself backward on the divan and was hiding her head in the cushions.
“Julien! It’s Julien!” stammered Madame Vauclin, still hiding her face.
“Do you recognize this woman?” said Jeanne to Julien de Vandeuvre, in a low voice.
“I didn’t know her a little while ago, but on hearing her cry: ‘Julien! It’s Julien!’ it seemed to me that a veil was torn apart in my brain. I remember…it was her and her husband who murdered me!”
Finally, Jeanne thought, the mind of the other is beginning to resume its identity.
Georges-Julien had launched himself toward Sophie and raised her head brutally. “Your husband and you…I remember, now... Wretch! While he broke my neck, you were holding my arms. But why that crime? Why?”
“To steal your mother’s legacy.”
“Ah! That violent love was only a lie? I, a poor fly, had fallen into the web of two spiders!”
“Pity, Julien, pity! I confess, yes, it’s true—but it was my husband who drove me...”
At that moment, the door opened again and Vauclin appeared on the threshold, distraught. His bulging eyes were staring at Georges-Julien, unable to detach themselves. His terror was such that he did not perceive that two men had appeared behind him, seemingly ready to throw themselves upon him at the slightest suspect gesture.
“It’s really him! It’s not an illusion...” The dead man took several strides across the room. “By what frightful mystery have you emerged from the grave?”
“I am, in fact, dead,” replied Georges-Julien, laughing. “Does that astonish you? Me, too!”
“I’m going mad,” Vauclin groaned. “I’m going mad. Or it’s an abominable nightmare. Sophie…say something! Speak, so that I can hear a living voice! I’m dreaming, aren’t I? It’s a dream, a frightful dream. Oh, I understand now. It’s remorse. Did I know what that was, remorse? It exists, then, the conscience, as in novels and Shakespeare. Banquo’s ghost... One thinks one is strong, one comes and goes, nothing stirs…then night comes, one goes to sleep full of confidence, and then...oh, then, everything changes! Conscience is there, the avenger, it takes you by the throat, it grips you, and the dead…the dead come back. They look at you, speak to you, laugh in your face...”
“Ha ha! You thought you’d killed me, imbecile. I’ll always be alive for you, and every night—every one!—I’ll come back. And every night—every night, do you hear?—until you confess, or…you go mad...”
“I’m scared! Scared!” howled Sophie.
His wife’s voice seemed to reanimate Vauclin; his gaze became somewhat firmer, he straightened up, and his combative nature got the upper hand again.
“Anyway,” he said, “dream or reality, answer me, specter—what do you want with us?”
“A detailed account of your crime.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t refuse.”
“Why?”
“Because if you refuse to make the confession that I’m demanding here and now, I’ll force you to make it in front of the crowd that’s filling your drawing rooms.”
“Well, speak, you!” roared Vauclin, turning toward his wife, who was moaning on the divan. “You deserve your part of the punishment.”
“I don’t want to! I’m only a weak woman.”
“Enough nonsense! Speak as if I didn’t know anything.”
A suspicion was dawning in Vauclin. He darted a suspicious glance around him, and suddenly perceived, in a mirror set in front of him, although not distinctly enough to make out their faces, two men of tall stature standing behind him, not missing a single one of his movements.
There are three of them, he thought, they didn’t dare come alone.
Redoubling his attention, he observed the ghost and the other two phantoms by turns. As for Jeanne Fortin, as soon as Vauclin came in, she had hidden behind the curtains of a window. She was only visible to the living dead man, who was asking her with his eyes what step to take.
“I’d been married for two years,” Sophie began, in a choked voice, “when I met you for the first time, at Madame Chambigne’s. For two years, I’d been serving my husband’s ambitious aims. I’d married him for love, but he had only seen in my beauty an advantage to favor the means of
reaching his goals. Through him, I learned the métier of petitioner, and how one obtains that for which the ugly or prudish wait indefinitely. I was a coquette; you were amiable and attentive. My husband, absorbed by his political affairs, neglected me. I was bored; you were handsome, rich, gallant, much sought-after by women, and I was proud of having attracted your attention. I didn’t take long to become your mistress.
“I thought my husband was unaware of our liaison; he was not—and it was then that he constrained me to solicit and obtain gifts and loans from your generosity, which, for him, were the sole means of rising above his mediocrity. Our relationship might have gone on for a long time like that. To your misfortune, you were summoned to collect your mother’s legacy, and I was informed by you of all the formalities of the inheritance. I knew the manner in which you planned to collect your fortune, and, finally, that at a given moment you would have in your home about two million in cash, with which you were going to attempt a big coup on the Bourse.
“It was at the instigation of my husband, and on his advice, that you were going to attempt that supposedly-infallible coup, which had no other objective, for us, but to have the certainty of finding the desired sum in your home. Once the idea of the crime had been decided, we planned the details minutely and settled the procedure. Arsène had already put about the rumor of an inheritance in my family. My mother was creole, so it was a matter of an American uncle who had made me his heir. Then we waited for your return from Vandeuvre. As soon as you arrived, your first concern was to call on me and offer me a piece of jewelry. My husband had pretended to go away, but remained on watch here. I followed his instructions exactly.
“The following evening, you were to spend the evening with me; I’d prepared a fine supper and sent away my only domestic. I encouraged you to drink; you had no suspicions. Then, after supper, we went into my bedroom...”
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