第100章

"It is a fact that scraps of conscience do remain intact in very depraved individuals.One sees instances of this especially in countries where habits and morals are more genuine and true to nature than ours.There's Spain, for instance, the country that interests you so much; when I lived in Spain, it was still infested by brigands.One had to make treaties with them in order to cross the Sierras in safety; there was no case known in which they broke the contract.The history of celebrated criminal cases swarms with scoundrels who have been excellent friends, devoted sons, and constant lovers.But I am of your opinion, and I think it is best not to count too much upon them."He smiled as he uttered the last words, and now he looked full at me with those light blue eyes which were so mysterious and impassible.No, I was not of stature to cope with him, to read his heart by force.It needed capacity of another kind than mine to play in the case of this personage the part of the magnate of police who magnetizes a criminal.And yet, why did my suspicions gather force as I felt the masked, dissimulating, guarded nature of the man in all its strength? Are there not natures so constituted that they shut themselves up without cause, just as others reveal themselves; are there not souls that love darkness as others love daylight? Courage, then, let me strike again.

"M.Massol and I," I resumed, "have been talking about what kind of life Troppmann's accomplice must be leading; and also Rochdale's;for neither of us has relinquished the intention of finding him.

Before M.Massol's retirement he took the precaution to bar the limitation by a formal notice, and we have several years before us in which to search for the man.Do these criminals sleep in peace?

Are they punished by remorse, or by the apprehension of danger, even in their momentary security? It would be strange if they were both at this moment good, quiet citizens, smoking their cigars like you and me, loved and loving.Do you believe in remorse?""Yes, I do believe in remorse," he answered.

Was it the contrast between the affected levity of my speech, and the seriousness with which he had spoken, that caused his voice to sound grave and deep to my ears? No, no; I was deceiving myself, for without a thrill he had heard the news that the limitation had been barred, that the case might be reopened any day--terrible news for him if he were mixed up with the murder--and he added, calmly, referring to the philosophic side of my question only:

"And does M.Massol believe in remorse?"

"M.Massol," said I, "is a cynic.He has seen too much wickedness, known too many terrible stories.He says that remorse is a question of stomach and religious education, and that a man with a sound digestion, who had never heard anything about hell in his childhood, might rob and kill from morning to night without feeling any other remorse than fear of the police.He also maintains, being a sceptic, that we do not know what part that question of the other life plays in solitude; and I think he is right, for I often begin to think of death, at night, and I am afraid;-- yes, I, who don't believe in anything very much, am afraid.And you," Icontinued, "do you believe in another world?""Yes." This time I was sure that there was an alteration in his voice.

"And in the justice of God?"

"In His justice and His mercy," he answered, in a strange tone.

"Singular justice," I said vehemently, "which is able to do everything, and yet delays to punish! My poor aunt used always to say to me when I talked to her about avenging my father: 'I leave it to God to punish,' but, for my part, if I had got hold of the murderer, and he was there before me--if I were sure--no, I would not wait for the hour of that tardy justice of God."I had risen while uttering these words, carried away by involuntary excitement which I knew to be unwise.M.Termonde had bent over the fire again, and once more taken up the tongs.He made no answer to my outburst.Had he really felt some slight disturbance, as I believed for an instant, at hearing me speak of that inevitable and dreadful morrow of the grave which fills myself with such fear now that there is blood upon my hands?

I could not tell.His profile was, as usual, calm and sad.

The restlessness of his hands--recalling to my mind the gesture with which he turned and returned his cane while my mother was telling him of the disappearance of my father--yes, the restlessness of his hands was extreme; but he had been working at the fire with the same feverish eagerness just before.Silence had fallen between us suddenly; but how often had the same thing happened? Did it ever fail to happen when he and I were in each other's company? And then, what could he have to say against the outburst of my grief and wrath, orphan that I was? Guilty or innocent, it was for him to be silent, and he held his peace.My heart sank; but, at the same time, a senseless rage seized upon me.

At that moment I would have given my remaining life for the power of forcing their secret from those shut lips, by any mode of torture.

My stepfather looked at the clock--he, too, had risen now--and said: "Shall I put you down anywhere? I have ordered the carriage for three o'clock, as I have to be at the club at half-past.

There's a ballot coming off tomorrow." Instead of the down-stricken criminal I had dreamed of, there stood before me a man of society thinking about the affairs of his club.He came with me so far as the hall, and took leave of me with a smile.

Why, then, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when we passed each other on the quay, I going homeward on foot, he in his coupe--yes--why was his face so transformed, so dark and tragic? He did not see me.He was sitting back in the corner, and his clay-colored face was thrown out by the green leather behind his head.His eyes were looking--where, and at what? The vision of distress that passed before me was so different from the smiling countenance of a while ago that it shook me from head to foot with an extraordinary emotion, and forced me to exclaim, as though frightened at my own success:

"Have I struck home?"