“Oh!” cried the young woman, softening and dissolving in tears. “You’re the one who says that I stole!”
“Well, no,” Cornelius replied, swiftly, “I don’t believe it! I don’t say it, dear child—no! But you can see that you have to help me clear you, to find the guilty party—and for that, it’s necessary to be frank with me and tell me everything…everything!”
“Yes, you’re good, you,” replied Christiane, tearfully. “You have pity on me, and you don’t believe what they’re saying. Defend me! Can’t you see how stupid they are with their theft? What do they think I’d steal here? Isn’t this house my entire heart? Is there a single stone in that wall”—she rapped on the wall, and continued with increasing excitement—“that I don’t adore? Can one steal one’s own life and one’s own blood? And to think that my good mother isn’t here!” She was applying the name to Madame Van der Lys. “Oh, if she were here! She would send you back underground with your theft! But I’m alone, aren’t I? And I’ve been accused because I’m a gypsy…because I stole when I was little…and they called me thief! Thief! Thief! They’re calling me thief!”
She fell back on the bed, sobbing.
Balthazar could not stand it any longer. He fell to his knees beside the bed and, in his humblest and most suppliant voice, as if he were the guilty party himself, he said: “Christiane! My sister, my girl, my child, look at me! I’m on my knees, as you see. I beg your pardon for all the harm I’ve done. No one will say anything more; no one will speak again; it’s finished. Do you understand? But since you love me...you don’t want me to be unhappy, do you?... You won’t repay in pain and torment all that you’ve received in benefits? Well, I implore you, if you know where my little locket is… I’m not asking you where it is, you understand? I don’t want to know…it’s all the same to me…but if you know, I beg you, in the name of my mother, whom you call your own, help me get it back. Nothing else… My whole life depends upon it, and he person who has taken it has taken all my happiness. Give me my locket…will you do that? Tell me, will you do that?”
“Oh!” said Christiane, in despair. “If it were in the blood in my veins, you’d have it already.”
“Christiane!”
“But I don’t have it! I don’t have it! I don’t have it!” She was wringing her hands as she spoke.
Exasperated, Balthazar bounded to his feet. “Wretched woman…!”
Cornelius stopped him—and Christiane put her hands to her forehead.
“Oh!” she said, laughing, “When I’ve gone mad, it will be over, won’t it?” And she collapsed, exhausted, hiding her face, as if determined to make no further reply.
VIII
Cornelius drew Balthazar out of the room; he saw that he was tottering like a man suffering from vertigo. They found Monsieur Tricamp in the drawing-room, who had not been wasting his time. He had had old Gudule brought down. Woken up with a start, half deaf and understanding nothing of what had happened, she replied to his questions weeping and lamenting.
“Come, come, my good woman,” Monsieur Tricamp said to her. “Pull yourself together.”
“Divine Jesus, my good master!” Gudule cried, on seeing Balthazar. “What’s going on? They woke me up so suddenly! Oh my God, what do they want with me?”
“Don’t worry, my dear Gudule,” Balthazar replied, “this doesn’t concern you—but someone has stolen from me, and we’re looking for the guilty party.”
“Someone had stolen something?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God!” the poor old serving-woman went on, desperately. “But that’s never happened before—I’ve been in the house for 30 years, and not so much as a pin has ever disappeared! Oh, my God, my God! It had to happen before I was dead!”
“Come, come,” Monsieur Tricamp resumed. “Answer me without any fuss, my good woman.”
“Speak a little louder,” said Balthazar. “She’s deaf, you know.”
“We want to know,” said Tricamp, raising his voice, “if you were here when the theft took place.”
“But I haven’t gone out, Monsieur.”
“Not at all?”
“No, Monsieur, because I felt the storm coming, and because of my age, these days, I don’t have the legs any longer…”
“Then you were in your room?” said Balthazar.
“No, Monsieur, I stayed in the drawing-room all afternoon, knitting by the fire.”
“And you didn’t budge, even to go to the kitchen?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Is your sight good, woman?” asked Tricamp.
“Monsieur?” said Gudule, who did not understand the question.
“I asked whether you have good eyes,” Tricamp repeated.
“Oh, for that, yes, Monsieur. No ears—that’s a little hard—but the eyes are still good, like the memory.”
“Ah—a good memory! Well, how many people came during the afternoon?”
“The postman came, Monsieur, and then a neighbor to borrow a roll of pastry…then Petersen, who came to ask Christiane something.”
“Ah! Who’s Petersen?”
“He’s a neighbor, Monsieur—a night-watchman. Monsieur knows him well.”
“Yes,” Balthazar said to Tricamp. “He’s a poor devil who lost his wife a month ago, and his two children are ill—an honest man who has done some odd jobs for us.”
“This Petersen came in, then?” Tricamp continued.
“No, Monsieur. He only talked to Christiane, through the window…”
“To say what?”
“I didn’t hear, Monsieur.”
“And after that…no one else?”
Gudule had the question repeated, and replied: “No one.”
“And Christiane,” Tricamp went on, “Where was she while you were knitting?”
“Well, Monsieur, the child came and went, as always; she took care of the kitchen for me, since I couldn’t. She’s so helpful!”
“But she wasn’t in the kitchen all the time?”
“No, Monsieur—she went into her bedroom at nightfall.”
“Ah! She went into her own room, did she?”
“Yes, Monsieur, to have a wash, because of supper.”
“And did she stay in her room for a long time?”
“An hour, Monsieur.”
“An hour?”
“Yes, Monsieur, a good hour.”
“And you didn’t hear anything during that time?”
“What did Monsieur say?”
“I asked whether you heard any noise…hammer-blows on wood, for example?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Yes,” said Tricamp, turning to the young men. “She’s deaf!” And, leaning toward Gudule and raising his voice, he added: “And the storm was already rumbling, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Monsieur. Oh, I certainly heard thunder!”
“She’s confused the two noises,” murmured Tricamp. He raised his voice again: “And afterwards?”
“And afterwards, Monsieur, it was completely dark; the storm burst; Monsieur didn’t come home. I was very frightened. I got down on my knees and said my prayers…and that was when Christiane came out of her room, all trembling…very pale…and at that moment, the thunder exploded so loudly!”
“Ah!” said Tricamp, excitedly. “You noticed that she was pale and trembling?”
“Of course—like me, Monsieur. That storm broke our arms and legs. I couldn’t get up, myself…and it was then that Monsieur started knocking, and Christiane opened the door. And that’s all I know, Monsieur…as true as I’m a Christian and an honest woman!”
“You can stop weeping, my dear Gudule,” Balthazar repeated, “since I’ve told you that no one is accusing you.”
“Who, then, Monsieur? Who, then?” Struck by a sudden thought, she exclaimed: “Blessed Virgin! Is it Christiane?”
No one replied.
“Oh—you’re not answering!” Gudule went on. “Oh, Monsieur—that’s not possible.”
; “My dear Gudule!”
“Christiane, Monsieur!” the old woman continued, not listening. “A child who comes from the good God!”
“Come on,” said Tricamp. “Since it isn’t you...”
“Oh, I’d prefer that, Monsieur!” replied Gudule, desperately. “I’d rather people accused me…accuse me, you hear! An old woman like me…who’s done for…what can it do to me? I’ll settle my accounts on high, before much longer…but that child! I don’t want anything to touch her, Monsieur! Oh, Monsieur Balthazar, don’t let anything touch her, she’s sacred! Don’t listen to this wicked man—he’s the one behind all this!”
In response to an impatient gesture from Monsieur Tricamp, the policemen each took hold of one of the old woman’s arms in order to take her away.
Gudule took a few steps, then let herself fall to her knees near the fire, sobbing and lamenting that she had not died before such wickedness, and Monsieur Tricamp signaled to his agents to leave her there, praying…
IX
“Well,” said the policeman, turning to Cornelius, “no one has come who could reasonably be suspected…neither the postman, nor the neighbor, nor Petersen. Therefore, it’s either the old woman who’s a thief, or the young one—and as I don’t believe that the old one is in any condition to perform this feat of gymnastics, I beg Monsieur the scientist to draw the same conclusion…”
“Oh, don’t ask me for anything,” said Cornelius. “I no longer know what to think. It seems to me that I’m dreaming and that all this is a horrible nightmare!”
“I don’t know whether it’s a dream,” Tricamp replied, “but it seems to me that I’m wide awake, and that I’m reasoning very soundly.”
“Yes, yes,” said Cornelius, pacing back and forth feverishly. “You’re reasoning soundly!”
“And my logic is sufficiently rigorous!”
“Yes, yes—rigorous.”
“And everything so far has confirmed my reasoning.”
“Yes, everything confirms your reasoning.”
“Well then, agree with me that the young woman is guilty.”
“Well…no!” Cornelius replied, hotly, stopping short in front of the policeman. “No! That’s what I’ll never believe, until I hear her accuse herself! And God knows…if she said it at this moment, in front of us…I would still swear to her innocence!”
“But in truth…” The agent objected, amazed. “Her innocence…but what proof is there, damn it?”
“Oh, I have none, I know,” Cornelius went on. “And I know all those you’ve invoked. And my reason is ready to find them evident…terrible…implacable…”
“Well, then?”
“But my conscience immediately rebels against my reason! But my heart is there, which says to me: No, no, those words, that face…that despair! No, all that is not the behavior of a guilty person, and I swear to you, she is innocent! I can’t prove it, myself…but I feel it…but I’m sure of it, and I proclaim it with all my might…with all my anguish…with all my tears. Don’t listen to those who accuse her! They lie! Their logic is that of the earth, which is deceptive…mine is that of the heavens, which does not lie. Theirs appeals to Reason; I appeal to Faith…”
“But at the end of the day…”
“Don’t listen to them,” Cornelius continued, his excitement growing, “and remember that on those bad days when your scientific pride is ready to deny God Himself…it only requires a quiver of the heart to affirm Him! And how could that heart, which never lies, deceive you about the innocence of a child, when God prompts it?”
“Well,” said Tricamp, “if the police reasoned like that…”
“Oh, I don’t expect to convince you,” Cornelius went on. “Do your job, and I shall do mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yes, yes… Search! Investigate! Examine! Heap up proof upon proof to overwhelm that unfortunate child; I shall be well able, for my part, to amass all those that can defend her.”
“In that case, Monsieur” Tricamp replied, “I don’t advise you to count among the latter what I’ve just found in one of the demoiselle’s drawers.”
“What?” demanded Cornelius.
“This pearl, detached from the locket.”
Cornelius seized the pearl. He shivered. “In her drawer?”
“Yes, my friend, yes!” cried Balthazar. “In one of the drawers in her chest…just now…before my eyes!”
Cornelius was pale, motionless, overwhelmed. The proof was so convincing, so terrible! That unfortunate little pearl was burning his hand and crushing him beneath its weight. He looked at it, mechanically, without seeing it…but without being able to take his eyes off it. Balthazar took his hand, but Cornelius could not feel anything. He seemed stunned, and was still looking at the pearl…
“Cornelius!” exclaimed Balthazar, anxiously—but Cornelius pushed him away sharply, and leaned over as if to get a better view of the pearl by making it reflect the daylight.
“What is it?” Balthazar murmured.
“Get out of the way!” Cornelius replied—and, abruptly shoving him aside, he ran to the window and looked at the pearl more closely.
Balthazar and Tricamp exchanged surprised glances—and at the same moment, without saying a word, Cornelius launched himself toward the study.
“He’s crazy!” muttered Monsieur Tricamp, following him with his eyes. “Monsieur Balthazar, would you care to pour a small glass of curaçao for my men? It’s getting light, and the street must be a little cold.”
“Done, Monsieur,” said Balthazar.
Tricamp went out. On turning round, Balthazar saw old Gudule kneeling and praying in the corner. Swiftly, he went to join Cornelius in the study.
X
The scientist was studying the hilt of the knife, and the scratch observed by Monsieur Tricamp, with minute attention. The examination lasted several seconds, during which Balthazar, weary and discouraged, watched his friend mechanically, without taking the slightest interest in what he was doing.
Without saying a word, Cornelius climbed on to a chair and inspected the iron bell-wire and the manner in which it had been broken with the same care.
“Where’s the bell?” he said, abruptly.
“In the drawing-room,” Balthazar replied.
Cornelius pulled the section of wire that ought to have been connected to it, but no sound was heard.
“Ah!” said Balthazar. “She’s thought of everything—she’s unhooked the clapper.”
Without replying, Cornelius looked attentively at the continuation of the steel wire. It was encased in a little tin-plate tube; the wire moved easily within it. There was evidently no obstacle therein.
“Look at the bell,” he said to Balthazar. “Does it move when I pull the wire?”
Balthazar went to the threshold of the connecting door and obeyed, uncomprehendingly.
“Does it move?” Cornelius repeated, pulling the wire several times.
“A little,” said Balthazar, but it can’t rung; it’s all stiff and upside-down, with its mouth in the air. One would think that something were maintaining it in that position.”
“That’s good,” said Cornelius. “We’ll see about that shortly. Hold the writing-desk while I climb up.”
Balthazar came back into the study and did what was asked of him. Cornelius climbed from the chair on to the writing-desk and, assisting himself with the knife, hoisted himself awkwardly up to the bull’s-eye, as if he wanted to judge the difficulty of the enterprise for himself.
Balthazar was opening his mouth to interrogate his friend when he heard Gudule call out to him from the next room. He went out immediately and found the old woman very emotional. The policemen were running in response to her voice.
“Monsieur!” she cried. “She’s just run away!”
“Christiane?”
“Yes, Monsieur. I got up, and I saw her go through the room and escape through the garden. Oh, my God! Run quickly—she’s going to do something silly!”
“Oh, the little serpent!” exclaimed Monsieur Tricamp. “She was playing dead. After her, you lot—through the garden!”
All the policemen launched themselves outside, Monsieur Tricamp at their head, and Balthazar ran to the young woman’s room to assure himself that Gudule was telling the truth.
Christiane had, indeed, disappeared—but he found Cornelius in the room, who had got down from the bull’s-eye. The scientist was holding the bed-curtains apart, and his attitude testified to the utmost amazement.
“Yes, yes, go on—search it,” Balthazar said to him, furious and convinced that the cause of his friend’s amazement was Christiane’s departure. “Search it! You can clearly see that she’s guilty, since’s she’s run away!”
“I can see,” Cornelius replied, turning round, with his eyes on fire and trembling with emotion, “that she’s innocent, and that we’re the ones who are guilty…and the ones who are stupid!”
“Are you mad?”
“And I have him, your thief!” Cornelius added, with increasing excitement. “I’ll tell you everything that he’s done, myself—and how he got in, and how he got out! And I’ll tell you his name! First of all, it wasn’t from this room, nor through that opening, that he got in—it was through the fireplace in your study.”
“The fireplace?”
“Yes, the fireplace! And as he was attracted, as usual, to metal, to your gold and silver; he ran first to your portfolio, whose steel lock he forced, then to your writing-desk, whose iron lock he broke—and, making a parcel of your florins, your ducats and your jewelry, he carried them all off, leaving you the dagger in the wall by way of farewell…
“And from there, detaching the wallpaper, he leapt into the bedroom of that unfortunate child, where he dropped a pearl…and if you want to see what has become of your locket, come here!”
He drew the curtains back, and showed Balthazar the young woman’s little copper crucifix, entirely gilded from top to bottom, resplendent with that new gleam.
“This is what he did with the golden frame…”
Plunging his hand into the seashell that served as the font of the crucifix, he took therefrom the two glass plates of the locket, fused into a single piece with the flower in between.
The Supreme Progress Page 6