Bab Bab 17 · 第14章（4）

He had felt on rising up that morning, the morning of the horrible day,

a little stupefaction and dizziness which he attributed to the heat, so

that he remained in his room till the time came for breakfast.

After the meal he had taken a siesta, then, towards the close of the

afternoon, he had gone out to breathe the fresh, soothing breeze under

the trees in the wood.

But, as soon as they were outside, the heavy, scorching air of the plain

oppressed him more. The sun, still high in the heavens, poured out on

the parched soil, dry and thirsty, floods of ardent light. Not a breath

of wind stirred the leaves. Every beast and bird, even the grasshoppers,

were silent. Renardet reached the tall trees, and began to walk over the

moss where the Brindelle sent forth a slight, cool vapor under the

immense roof of trees. But he felt ill at ease. It seemed to him that an

unknown, invisible hand, was squeezing his neck, and he scarcely thought

of anything, having usually few ideas in his head. For the last three

months, only one thought haunted him, the thought of marrying again. He

suffered from living alone, suffered from it morally and physically.

Accustomed for ten years past to feeling a woman near him, habituated

to her presence every moment, to her embrace each successive day, he had

need, an imperious and perplexing need of incessant contact with her and

the regular touch of her lips. Since Madame Renardet's death, he had

suffered continually without knowing why, he had suffered from not

feeling her dress brush against his legs every day, and, above all, from

no longer being able to grow calm and languid between her arms. He had

been scarcely six months a widower, and he had already been looking out

through the district for some young girl or some widow he might marry

when his period of marrying was at an end.

He had a chaste soul, but it was lodged in a powerful Herculean body,

and carnal images began to disturb his sleep and his vigils. He drove

them away; they came back again; and he murmured from time to time,

smiling at himself:

"Here I am, like St. Antony."

Having had this morning several besetting visions, the desire suddenly

came into his breast to bathe in the Brindelle in order to refresh

himself and appease the ardor of his heat.

He knew, a little further on, a large deep spot where the people of the

neighborhood came sometimes to take a dip in summer. He went there.

Thick willow trees hid this clear volume of water where the current

rested and went to sleep for a little while before starting its way

again. Renardet, as he appeared, thought he heard a light sound, a faint

smell which was not that of the stream on the banks. He softly put aside

the leaves and looked. A little girl, quite naked in the transparent

water, was beating the waves with both hands, dancing about in them a

little and dipping herself with pretty movements. She was not a child

nor was she yet a woman. She was plump and formed, while preserving an

air of youthful precocity, as of one who had grown rapidly, and who was

now almost ripe. He no longer moved, overcome with surprise, with a pang

of desire, holding his breath with a strange poignant emotion. He

remained there, his heart beating as if one of his sensual dreams had

just been realized, as if an impure fairy had conjured up before him

this creature so disturbing to his blood, so very young this little

rustic Venus, was born in the waves of the sea.

Suddenly the little girl came out of the water, and without seeing came

over to where he stood looking for her clothes in order to dress

herself. While she was gradually approaching with little hesitating

steps, through fear of the sharp pointed stones, he felt himself pushed

towards her by an irresistible force, by a bestial transport of passion,

which stirred up all his flesh, stupefied his soul, and made him tremble

from head to foot.

She remained standing some seconds behind the willow tree which

concealed him from view. Then, losing his reason entirely, he opened the

branches, rushed on her, and seized her in his arms. She fell, too

scared to offer any resistance, too much terror-stricken to cry out, and

he possessed her without understanding what he was doing.

He woke up from his crime, as one wakes out of a nightmare. The child

burst out weeping.

He said:

"Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue! I'll give you money."

But she did not hear him, she went on sobbing.

He went on:

"Come now, hold your tongue! Do hold your tongue. Keep quiet."

She still kept shrieking, writhing in the effort to get away from him.

He suddenly realized that he was ruined, and he caught her by the neck

to stop her mouth from uttering these heartrending, dreadful screams. As

she continued to struggle with the desperate strength of a being who is

seeking to fly from death, he pressed his enormous hands on the little

throat swollen with cries, and in a few seconds he had strangled her so

furiously did he grip her, without intending to kill her but only to

make her keep silent.

Then he rose up overwhelmed with horror.

She lay before him with her face bleeding and blackened. He was going to

rush away when there sprang up in his agitated soul the mysterious and

undefined instinct that guides all beings in the hour of danger.

It was necessary to throw the body into the water; but another impulse

drove him towards the clothes, of which he made a thin parcel. Then as

he had a piece of twine in his pocket, he tied it up and hid it in a

deep portion of the stream, under the trunk of a tree, the foot of which

was steeped in the Brindelle.

Then he went off at a rapid pace, reached the meadows, took a wide turn

in order to show himself to some peasants who dwelt some distance away

at the opposite side of the district, and he came back to dine at the

usual hour, and told his servants all that was supposed to have happened

during his walk.

He slept, however, that night; he slept with a heavy brutish sleep, such

as the sleep of persons condemned to death must be occasionally. He

only opened his eyes at the first glimmer of dawn, and he waited,

tortured by the fear of having his crime discovered, for his usual

waking hour.

Then he would have to be present at all the stages of the inquiry as to

the cause of death. He did so after the fashion of a somnambulist, in a

hallucination which showed him things and human beings in a sort of

dream, in a cloud of intoxication, in that dubious sense of unreality

which perplexes the mind at the time of the greatest catastrophe.

The only thing that pierced his heart was La Roque's cry of anguish. At

that moment he felt inclined to cast himself at the old woman's feet,

and to exclaim--

"'Tis I."

But he restrained himself. He went back, however, during the night, to

fish up the dead girl's wooden shoes, in order to carry them to her

mother's threshold.

As long as the inquiry lasted, as long as it was necessary to guide and

aid justice, he was calm, master of himself, sly and smiling. He

discussed quietly with the magistrates all the suppositions that passed

through their minds, combated their opinions, and demolished their

arguments. He even took a keen and mournful pleasure in disturbing their

investigations, in embroiling their ideas in showing the innocence of

those whom they suspected.

But from the day when the inquiry came to a close he became gradually

nervous, more excitable still than he had been before, although he

mastered his irritability. Sudden noises made him jump up with fear; he

shuddered at the slightest thing, trembled sometimes from head to foot

when a fly alighted on his forehead. Then he was seized with an

imperious desire for movement, which compelled him to keep continually

on foot, and made him remain up whole nights walking to and fro in his

own room.

It was not that he was goaded by remorse. His brutality did not lend

itself to any shade of sentiment or of moral terror. A man of energy and

even of violence, born to make war, to ravage conquered countries and to

massacre the vanquished, full of the savage instincts of the hunter and

the fighter, he scarcely took count of human life. Though he respected

the church through policy, he believed neither in God nor in the devil,

expecting consequently in another life neither chastisement nor

recompense for his acts. As his sole belief, he retained a vague

philosophy composed of all the ideas of the encyclopedists of the last

century; and he regarded religion as a moral sanction of the law, the

one and the other having been invented by men to regulate social

relations. To kill anyone in a duel, or in war, or in a quarrel, or by

accident, or for the sake of revenge, or even through bravado, would

have seemed to him an amusing and clever thing, and would not have left

more impression on his mind than a shot fired at a hare; but he had

experienced a profound emotion at the murder of this child. He had, in

the first place, perpetrated it in the distraction of an irresistible

gust of passion, in a sort of spiritual tempest that had overpowered his

reason. And he had cherished in his heart, cherished in his flesh,

cherished on his lips, cherished even to the very tips of his murderous

fingers, a kind of bestial love, as well as a feeling of crushing

horror, towards this little girl surprised by him and basely killed.

Every moment his thoughts returned to that horrible scene, and, though

he endeavored to drive away this picture from his mind, though he put it

aside with terror, with disgust, he felt it surging through his soul,

moving about in him, waiting incessantly for the moment to reappear.

Then, in the night, he was afraid, afraid of the shadow falling around

him. He did not yet know why the darkness seemed to seem frightful to

him; but he instinctively feared it, he felt that it was peopled with

terrors. The bright daylight did not lend itself to fears. Things and

beings were seen there, and so there were only to be met there natural

things and beings which could exhibit themselves in the light of day.

But the night, the unpenetrable night, thicker than walls, and empty,

the infinite night, so black, so vast, in which one might brush against

frightful things, the night when one feels that mysterious terror is

wandering, prowling about, appeared to him to conceal an unknown danger,

close and menacing.

What was it?

He knew it ere long. As he sat in his armchair, rather late one evening

when he could not sleep, he thought he saw the curtain of his window

move. He waited, in an uneasy state of mind, with beating heart. The

drapery did not stir; then, all of a sudden it moved once more. He did

not venture to rise up; he no longer ventured to breathe, and yet he was

brave. He had often fought, and he would have liked to catch thieves in

his house.

Was it true that this curtain did move? he asked himself, fearing that

his eyes had deceived him. It was, moreover, such a slight thing, a

gentle flutter of lace, a kind of trembling in its folds, less than an

undulation such as is caused by the wind.

Renardet sat still, with staring eyes, and outstretched neck; and he

sprang to his feet abruptly ashamed of his fear, took four steps, seized

the drapery with both hands, and pulled it wide apart. At first, he saw

nothing but darkened glass, resembling plates of glittering ink. The

night, the vast, impenetrable sketched behind as far as the invisible

horizon. He remained standing in front of this illimitable shadow, and

suddenly he perceived a light, a moving light, which seemed some

distance away.

Then he put his face close to the window-pane, thinking that a person

looking for crayfish might be poaching in the Brindelle, for it was past

midnight, and this light rose up at the edge of the stream, under the

trees. As he was not yet able to see clearly, Renardet placed his hands

over his eyes; and suddenly this light became an illumination, and he

beheld little Louise Roque naked and bleeding on the moss. He recoiled

frozen with horror, sank into his chair, and fell backward. He remained

there some minutes, his soul in distress, then he sat up and began to

reflect. He had had a hallucination--that was all; a hallucination due

to the fact that a marauder of the night was walking with a lantern in

his hand near the water's edge. What was there astonishing, besides, in

the circumstance that the recollection of his crime should sometimes

bring before him the vision of the dead girl?

He rose up, swallowed a glass of wine and sat down again.

He thought.

"What am I to do if this come back?"

And it did come back; he felt it; he was sure of it. Already his glance

was drawn towards the window; it called him; it attracted him. In order

to avoid looking at it, he turned aside his chair. Then he took a book

and tried to read; but it seemed to him that he presently heard

something stirring behind him, and he swung round his armchair on one

foot.

The curtain still moved--unquestionably, it did move this time; he could

no longer have any doubt about it.

He rushed forward and seized it in his grasp so violently that he

knocked it down with its fastener. Then, he eagerly pasted his face

against the glass. He saw nothing. All was black without; and he

breathed with the delight of a man whose life has just been saved.

Then, he went back to his chair, and sat down again; but almost

immediately he felt a longing once more to look out through the window.

Since the curtain had fallen the space in front of him made a sort of

dark patch fascinating and terrible on the obscure landscape. In order

not to yield to this dangerous temptation, he took off his clothes, blew

out the light, went to bed, and shut his eyes.

Lying on his back motionless, his skin hot and moist, he awaited sleep.

Suddenly a great gleam of light flashed across his eyelids. He opened

them, believing that his dwelling was on fire. All was black as before,

and he leaned on his elbow in order to try to distinguish his window

which had still for him an unconquerable attraction. By dint of

straining his eyes, he could perceive some stars, and he arose, groped

his way across the room, discovered the panes with his outstretched

hands, and placed his forehead close to them. There below, under the

trees, the body of the little girl glittered like phosphorus, lighting

up the surrounding darkness.

Renardet uttered a cry and rushed towards his bed, where he lay till

morning, his head hidden under the pillow.

From that moment, his life became intolerable. He passed his days in

apprehension of each succeeding night; and each night the vision came

back again. As soon as he had locked himself up in his room, he strove

to struggle; but in vain. An irresistible force lifted him up and pushed

him against the glass, as if to call the phantom, and ere long he saw it

lying at first in the spot where the crime was committed, lying with

arms and legs outspread, just in the way the body had been found.

Then the dead girl rose up and came towards him with little steps just

as the child had done when she came out of the river. She advanced

quietly, passing straight across the grass, and over the border of

withered flowers. Then she rose up into the air towards Renardet's

window. She came towards him, as she had come on the day of the crime

towards the murderer. And the man recoiled before the apparition--he

retreated to his bed and sank down upon it, knowing well that the little

one had entered the room, and that she now was standing behind the

curtain which presently moved. And until daybreak, he kept staring at

this curtain, with a fixed glance, ever waiting to see his victim

depart.

But she did not show herself any more; she remained there behind the

curtain which quivered tremulously now and then.

And Renardet, his fingers clinging to the bedclothes, squeezed them as

he had squeezed the throat of little Louise Roque.

He heard the clock striking the hours; and in the stillness the pendulum

kept ticking in time with the loud beatings of his heart. And he

suffered, the wretched man, more than any man had ever suffered before.

Then, as soon as a white streak of light on the ceiling announced the

approaching day, he felt himself free, alone, at last, alone in his

room; and at last he went to sleep. He slept then some hours--a

restless, feverish sleep in which he retraced in dreams the horrible

vision of the night just past.

When, later on, he went down to breakfast, he felt doubled up as if

after prodigious fatigues; and he scarcely ate anything, still haunted

as he was by the fear of what he had seen the night before.

He knew well, however, that it was not an apparition, that the dead do

not come back, and that his sick soul, his soul possessed by one thought

alone, by an indelible remembrance, was the only cause of his

punishment, the only evoker of the dead girl brought back by it to life,

called up by it and raised by it before his eyes in which the

ineffaceable image remained imprinted. But he knew, too, that he could

not cure it, that he would never escape from the savage persecution of

his memory; and he resolved to die, rather than to endure these tortures

any longer.

Then, he thought of how he would kill himself. He wished for something

simple and natural, which would preclude the idea of suicide. For he

clung to his reputation, to the names bequeathed to him by his

ancestors; and if there were any suspicion as the cause of his death,

people's thoughts might be perhaps directed towards the mysterious

crime, towards the murderer who could not be found, and they would not

hesitate to accuse him of the crime.

A strange idea came into his head, that of getting himself crushed by

the tree at the foot of which he had assassinated little Louise Roque.

So he determined to have his wood cut down, and to simulate an accident.

But the beech-tree refused to smash his ribs.

Returning to his house, a prey to utter despair he had snatched up his

revolver, and then he did not dare to fire it.

The dinner bell summoned him. He could eat nothing, and then he went

up-stairs again. And he did not know what he was going to do. Now that

he had escaped the first time, he felt himself a coward. Presently, he

would be ready, fortified, decided, master of his courage and of his

resolution; now, he was weak and feared death as much as he did the dead

girl.

He faltered:

"I will not venture it again--I will not venture it."

Then he glanced with terror, first at the revolver on the table, and

next at the curtain which hid his window. It seemed to him, moreover

that something horrible would occur as soon as his life was ended.

Something? What? A meeting with her perhaps. She was watching for him;

she was waiting for him; she was calling him; and her object was to

seize him in her turn, to draw him towards the doom that would avenge

her, and to lead him to die so that she might exhibit herself thus every

night.

He began to cry like a child, repeating:

"I will not venture it again--I will not venture it." Then, he fell on

his knees, and murmured:

"My God! my God!" without believing, nevertheless, in God. And he no

longer dared, in fact, to look out through his window where he knew the

apparition was visible nor at his table where his revolver gleamed.

When he had risen up, he said:

"This cannot last; there must be an end of it."

The sound of his voice in the silent room made a shiver of fear pass

through his limbs, but, as he could not bring himself to come to a

determination as he felt certain that his finger would always refuse to

pull the trigger of his revolver, he turned round to hide his head under

the bedclothes, and plunged into reflection.

He would have to find some way in which he could force himself to die,

to invent some device against himself, which would not permit of any

hesitation on his part, any delay, any possible regrets. He envied

condemned criminals who are led to the scaffold surrounded by soldiers.

Oh! if he could only beg of some one to shoot him; if he could,

confessing the state of his soul, confessing his crime to a sure friend

who would never divulge it, obtain from him death.

But from whom could he ask this terrible service? From whom? He cast

about in his thoughts among his friends whom he knew intimately. The

doctor? No, he would talk about it afterwards, most certainly. And

suddenly a fantastic idea entered his mind. He would write to the

examining magistrate, who was on terms of close friendship with him and

would denounce himself as the perpetrator of the crime. He would in this

letter confess everything, revealing how his soul had been tortured, how

he had resolved to die, how he had hesitated about carrying out his

resolution, and what means he had employed to strengthen his failing

courage. And in the name of their old friendship he would implore of the

other to destroy the letter as soon as he had ascertained that the

culprit had inflicted justice on himself. Renardet might rely on this

magistrate, he knew him to be sure, discreet, incapable of even an idle

word. He was one of those men who have an inflexible conscience

governed, directed, regulated by their reason alone.

Scarcely had he formed this project when a strange feeling of joy took

possession of his heart. He was calm now. He would write his letter

slowly, then at daybreak he would deposit it in the box nailed to the

wall in his office, then he would ascend his tower to watch for the

postman's arrival, and when the man in the blue blouse showed himself,

he would cast himself head foremost on the rocks on which the

foundations rested. He would take care to be seen first by the workmen

who had cut down his wood. He could then climb to the step some distance

up which bore the flag staff displayed on fete days. He would smash this

pole with a shake and precipitate it along with him.

Who would suspect that it was not an accident? And he would be killed

completely, having regard to his weight and the height of the tower.

Presently he got out of bed, went over to the table, and began to write.

He omitted nothing, not a single detail of the crime, not a single

detail of the torments of his heart, and he ended by announcing that he

had passed sentence on himself, that he was going to execute the

criminal, and begging of his friend, his old friend, to be careful that

there should never be any stain on his memory.

When he had finished his letter, he saw that the day had dawned.

He closed and sealed it, wrote the address; then he descended with light

steps, hurried towards the little white box fastened to the wall in the

corner of the farm-house, and when he had thrown into it the paper which

made his hand tremble, he came back quickly, shut the bolts of the great

door, and climbed up to his tower to wait for the passing of the

postman, who would convey his death sentence.

He felt self-possessed, now. Liberated! Saved!

A cold dry wind, an icy wind, passed across his face. He inhaled it

eagerly, with open mouth, drinking in its chilling kiss. The sky was

red, with a burning red, the red of winter, and all the plain whitened

with frost glistened under the first rays of the sun, as if it had been

powdered with bruised glass.

Renardet, standing up, with his head bare, gazed at the vast tract of

country before him, the meadow to the left, and to the right the village

whose chimneys were beginning to smoke with the preparations for the

morning meal. At his feet he saw the Brindelle flowing towards the

rocks, where he would soon be crushed to death. He felt himself reborn

on that beautiful frosty morning, full of strength, full of life. The

light bathed him, penetrated him like a new-born hope. A thousand

recollections assailed him, recollections of similar mornings, of rapid

walks on the hard earth which rang under his footsteps, of happy chases

on the edges of pools where wild ducks sleep. All the good things that

he loved, the good things of existence rushed into memory, penetrated

him with fresh desires, awakened all the vigorous appetites of his

active, powerful body.

And he was about to die? Why? He was going to kill himself stupidly,

because he was afraid of a shadow--afraid of nothing? He was still rich

and in the prime of life! What folly! But all he wanted was distraction,

absence, a voyage in order to forget.

This night even he had not seen the little girl because his mind was

preoccupied, and so had wandered towards some other subject. Perhaps he

would not see her any more? And even if she still haunted him in this

house, certainly she would not follow him elsewhere! The earth was wide,

the future was long.

Why die?

His glance traveled across the meadows, and he perceived a blue spot in

the path which wound alongside the Brindelle. It was Mederic coming to

bring letters from the town and to carry away those of the village.

Renardet got a start, a sensation of pain shot through his breast, and

he rushed towards the winding staircase to get back his letter, to

demand it back from the postman. Little did it matter to him now whether

he was seen. He hurried across the grass moistened by the light frost of

the previous night, and he arrived in front of the box in the corner of

the farm-house exactly at the same time as the letter carrier.

The latter had opened the little wooden door, and drew forth the four

papers deposited there by the inhabitants of the locality.

Renardet said to him:

"Good morrow, Mederic."

"Good morrow, M'sieu le Maire."

"I say, Mederic, I threw a letter into the box that I want back again. I

came to ask you to give it back to me."

"That's all right, M'sieur le Maire--you'll get it."

And the postman raised his eyes. He stood petrified at the sight of

Renardet's face. The Mayor's cheeks were purple, his eyes were glaring

with black circles round them as if they were sunk in his head, his hair

was all tangled, his beard untrimmed, his necktie unfastened. It was

evident that he had not gone to bed.

The postman asked:

"Are you ill, M'sieur le Maire?"

The other, suddenly comprehending that his appearance must be unusual,

lost countenance, and faltered--

"Oh! no--oh! no. Only I jumped out of bed to ask you for this letter. I

was asleep. You understand?"

He said in reply:

"What letter?"

"The one you are going to give back to me."

Mederic now began to hesitate. The Mayor's attitude did not strike him

as natural. There was perhaps a secret in that letter, a political

secret. He knew Renardet was not a Republican, and he knew all the

tricks and chicaneries employed at elections.

He asked:

"To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?"

"To M. Putoin, the examining magistrate--you know my friend, M. Putoin,

well!"

The postman searched through the papers, and found the one asked for.

Then he began looking at it, turning it round and round between his

fingers, much perplexed, much troubled by the fear of committing a

grave offense or of making an enemy for himself of the Mayor.

Seeing his hesitation, Renardet made a movement for the purpose of

seizing the letter and snatching it away from him. This abrupt action

convinced Mederic that some important secret was at stake and made him

resolve to do his duty, cost what it may.

So he flung the letter into his bag and fastened it up, with the reply:

"No, I can't, M'sieur le Maire. From the moment it goes to the

magistrate, I can't."

A dreadful pang wrung Renardet's heart, and he murmured:

"Why, you know me well. You are even able to recognize my handwriting. I

tell you I want that paper."

"I can't."

"Look here, Mederic, you know that I'm incapable of deceiving you--I

tell you I want it."

"No, I can't."

A tremor of rage passed through Renardet's soul.

"Damn it all, take care! You know that I don't go in for chaffing, and

that I could get you out of your job, my good fellow, and without much

delay either. And then, I am the Mayor of the district, after all; and I

now order you to give me back that paper."

The postman answered firmly:

"No, I can't, M'sieur le Maire."

Thereupon, Renardet, losing his head, caught hold of the postman's arms

in order to take away his bag; but, freeing himself by a strong effort,

and springing backwards, the letter carrier raised his big holly stick.

Without losing his temper, he said emphatically:

"Don't touch me, M'sieur le Maire, or I'll strike. Take care, I'm only

doing my duty!"

Feeling that he was lost, Renardet suddenly became humble, gentle,

appealing to him like a crying child:

"Look here, look here, my friend, give me back that letter, and I'll

recompense you--I'll give you money. Stop! Stop! I'll give you a hundred

francs, you understand--a hundred francs!"

The postman turned on his heel and started on his journey.

Renardet followed him, out of breath, faltering:

"Mederic, Mederic, listen! I'll give you a thousand francs, you

understand--a thousand francs."

The postman still went on without giving any answer.

Renardet went on:

"I'll make your fortune, you understand--whatever you wish--fifty

thousand francs--fifty thousand francs for that letter! What does it

matter to you? You won't? Well, a hundred thousand--I say--a hundred

thousand francs. Do you understand? A hundred thousand francs--a hundred

thousand francs."

The postman turned back, his face hard, his eye severe:

"Enough of this, or else I'll repeat to the magistrate everything you

have just said to me."

Renardet stopped abruptly. It was all over. He turned back and rushed

towards his house, running like a hunted animal.

Then, in his turn, Mederic stopped, and watched this flight with

stupefaction. He saw the Mayor re-entering his own house, and he waited

still as if something astonishing was about to happen.

In fact, presently the tall form of Renardet appeared on the summit of

the Fox's tower. He ran round the platform, like a madman. Then he

seized the flagstaff and shook it furiously without succeeding in

breaking it, then, all of a sudden, like a swimmer taking a plunge, he

dashed into the air with his two hands in front of him.

Mederic rushed forward to give succor. As he crossed the park, he saw

the woodcutters going to work. He called out to them telling them an

accident had occurred, and at the foot of the walls they found a

bleeding body the head of which was crushed on a rock. The Brindelle

surrounded this rock, and over its clear, calm waters, swollen at this

point, could be seen a long red stream of mingled brains and blood.