Chapter VIII: Book V: Lafcadio (2)

It was not, however, in the first room that he found her, but in another which was more retired, smaller and not so well lighted. She was sitting sideways, at the corner of a distant table, and was absently turning over the leaves of a photograph album, so as to give herself countenance. When she saw Julius come in, she rose, looking more confused than pleased. Beneath the long black cloak she was wearing could be seen a bodice that was dark, plain and almost in good taste; on the other hand, her tumultuous hat, in spite of its being black, gave her away sadly.

“You’ll think me very forward, Monsieur le Comte. I don’t know how I found courage enough to come to your hotel and ask for you. But you bowed to me so kindly yesterday.... And, besides, what I have to say is so important.”

She remained standing on the other side of the table; it was Julius who drew near; he held out his hand to her over the table, without ceremony.

“To what am I indebted for the pleasure of your visit?”

Carola’s head sunk.

“I know you have just lost....”

Julius did not at first understand; but as Carola took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes:

“What! Is it a visit of condolence?”

“I knew Monsieur Fleurissoire,” she went on.

“Really?”

“Oh, I hadn’t known him long, but I was very fond of him. He was such a dear! so kind!... In fact, it was I who gave him his sleeve-links; you know, the ones they described in the papers. That’s how I knew it was he. But I had no idea he was your brother-in-law. It was a great surprise to me, and you may fancy how pleased I was.... Oh! I beg your pardon--that wasn’t what I meant to say.”

“Never mind, dear Miss Carola. You meant, no doubt, that you are pleased to have an opportunity of meeting me again.”

Without answering, Carola buried her face in her handkerchief; her sobs were convulsive and Julius thought it was his duty to take her hand.

“And so am I,” he said feelingly, “so am I, my dear young lady. Pray believe....”

“That very morning, before he went out, I told him to be careful. But it wasn’t his nature.... He was too confiding, you know.”

“A saint, Mademoiselle, a saint!” said Julius fervently, taking out his handkerchief in his turn.

“Yes, yes, that was just how it struck me,” cried Carola. “At night, when he thought I was asleep, he used to get up and kneel at the foot of the bed and....”

This unconscious revelation put the finishing touch to Julius’s discomposure; he returned the handkerchief to his pocket and, drawing still nearer:

“Do take your hat off, my dear young lady.”

“No, thank you; it’s not in my way.”

“But it _is_ in mine. Won’t you let me....”

But as Carola unmistakably drew back, he pulled himself together.

“Let me ask you whether you had any special reason for uneasiness?”

“Who? I?”

“Yes; when you told my brother-in-law to be careful, I want to know whether you had any reason to suppose.... Speak openly; no one comes in here in the mornings and we can’t be overheard. Do you suspect anyone?”

Carola’s head sank.

“It’s of particular interest to me, you see,” went on Julius with volubility. “Put yourself in my place. Last night, when I came back from the Questura, where I had been giving evidence, I found lying on the table in my room--on the very middle of my table--the railway ticket with which poor Fleurissoire had travelled. It had my name on it; I know those circular tickets are not transferable. Quite so; I did wrong to lend it--but that’s not the point. The very fact of bringing the ticket back to my room--seizing the opportunity to flout me cynically when I had gone out for a few minutes--constitutes a challenge--a piece of bravado--an insult almost--which (I need hardly say) would not disturb me in the least if I hadn’t good reason to suppose that I am threatened in my turn. I’ll tell you why. Your poor friend Fleurissoire was in possession of a secret--an abominable secret--a most dangerous secret--I didn’t question him about it--I had no desire to hear what it was, but he had the lamentable imprudence to confide it to me. And now I ask you again--do you know who the person is who actually went so far as to commit a murder for the purpose of stifling that secret? Do you know who he is?”

“Don’t be alarmed, Monsieur le Comte; I gave his name to the police last night.”

“Mademoiselle Carola, I expected no less of you.”

“He had promised me not to hurt him; he had only to keep his promise and I would have kept mine. It’s more than I can stand! He may do what he likes to me--I don’t care!”

Carola was growing more and more excited; Julius passed behind the table and, drawing near her again:

“We should perhaps be able to talk more comfortably in my room.”

“Oh, Monsieur le Comte,” said Carola, “I’ve told you everything I had to say; I mustn’t keep you any longer.”

As she went on retreating, she completed the tour of the table and found herself near the door once more.

“We had better part now, Mademoiselle,” said Julius virtuously and with the firm determination of appropriating the credit of this resistance. “Ah! I just wanted to add that if you mean to come to the funeral the day after to-morrow, it would be better not to recognise me.”

At this they took leave of each other, without having once mentioned the name of the unsuspected Lafcadio.

V

Lafcadio was bringing Fleurissoire’s mortal remains back from Naples. The funeral van which contained them was coupled to the end of the train, but Lafcadio had not thought it indispensable to travel in it himself. At the same time a sense of propriety had made him take his seat--not actually in the next carriage to it, for this contained only second-class compartments--but at any rate as near the body as was compatible with travelling first. He had left Rome that morning and was due back in the evening of the same day. He was reluctant to admit to himself the new sensation which had taken possession of his soul, for there was nothing he held in greater disdain than ennui--that secret malady from which he had hitherto been preserved by the fine carelessness of his youthful appetites and by the pricks of hard necessity. He left his compartment with a heart empty of hope and joy and prowled up and down the whole length of the corridor, harassed by a kind of ill-defined curiosity and vaguely seeking he knew not what new and absurd enterprise in which to engage. He no longer thought of embarking for the East and acknowledged reluctantly that Borneo did not in the least attract him--nor the rest of Italy either; he could not feel any interest in the consequences of his adventure; it appeared to him, in his present mood, compromising and grotesque. He felt resentment against Fleurissoire for not having defended himself better; his soul protested against the pitiful creature; he would have liked to wipe him from his mind.

On the other hand, he would gladly have met that strapping fellow who had carried off his portmanteau--a fine rascal that! And at Capua he leant out of the window and searched the deserted platform with his eyes, as though he hoped to discover him. But would he have recognised him? He had done no more than catch a distant glimpse of his back as he disappeared into the darkness. In his mind’s eye he followed him through the night, saw him reach the river’s bed, find the hideous corpse, rifle it and, almost as challenge, cut out of the hat--Lafcadio’s own hat--that little bit of leather which, as the newspapers had elegantly phrased it, was “of the size and shape of a laurel leaf.” With his hatter’s address inscribed on it, it was a piece of damning evidence, and after all Lafcadio was extremely grateful to his bag-snatcher for having prevented it from falling into the hands of the police. It was, no doubt, very much to this gentleman’s own interest not to attract attention to himself, and if, notwithstanding, he thought fit to make use of his bit of leather, upon my word! a trial of wits with him might not be unamusing.

The night by this time had fallen. A dining-car waiter made his way through the length of the train to announce to the first and second-class passengers that dinner was ready. With no appetite, but at any rate with the saving prospect of an hour’s occupation before him, Lafcadio followed the procession, keeping some way behind it. The dining-car was at the head of the train. The carriages through which Lafcadio passed were empty; here and there various objects, such as shawls, pillows, books, papers, were disposed on the seats so as to mark and reserve the diners’ places. A lawyer’s brief-case caught his eye. Sure of being last, he stopped in front of the compartment and went in. In reality he was not attracted by the bag; it was simply as a matter of conscience that he searched it. On the inner side of the flap, in unobtrusive gilt letters, was written the name

DEFOUQUEBLIZE

FACULTY OF LAW--BORDEAUX

The bag contained two pamphlets on criminal law and six numbers of the _Lawyers’ Journal_.

“More fry for the congress! Bah!” thought Lafcadio, as he put everything back in its place and then hastily joined the little file of passengers on their way to the restaurant.

A delicate-looking little girl and her mother brought up the rear, both in deep mourning. Immediately in front of them was a gentleman in a frock coat, long straight hair and grey whiskers--Monsieur Defouqueblize apparently, the owner of the brief-bag. Their advance was slow and unsteady because of the jolting of the train. At the last turn of the corridor, just as the professor was going to make a dash into the kind of accordion which connects one carriage with another, an exceptionally violent bump toppled him over. As he was trying to regain his balance, a sudden sprawl sent his eye-glasses flying--all their moorings broken--into the corner of the narrow space left by the corridor in front of the lavatory door. As he bent down to search for his eyesight, the lady and little girl passed in front of him. Lafcadio stayed for a moment or two watching the learned gentleman’s efforts with some amusement; pitiably at a loss, he was groping vaguely and anxiously over the floor with both hands; it was as though he were performing the waddling dance of a plantigrade or, back once more in the days of his infancy, had suddenly started playing “hunt the slipper.” ...Come, come, Lafcadio! Listen to your heart! It is not an evil one. Now for a generous impulse! Go to the poor man’s rescue! Hand him back the indispensable glasses! He will never find them by himself. His back is turned to them; in another minute he will smash them. Just then a violent jerk flung the unhappy man head foremost against the door of the water-closet; the shock was broken by his top-hat, which was caved in by the force of the impact and jammed tightly down over his ears. Monsieur Defouqueblize moaned; rose to his feet; took off his hat. Lafcadio, meanwhile, having come to the conclusion that the joke had lasted long enough, picked up the eye-glasses, dropped them like an alms into the hat, and then fled so as to escape being thanked.

Dinner had begun. Lafcadio seated himself at a table for two, next the glass door on the right-hand side of the aisle; the place opposite him was empty; on the left side of the gangway, in the same row as himself, the widow and her daughter were sitting at a table for four, two seats of which were unoccupied.

“What mortal dullness exudes from such places as this!” said Lafcadio to himself, as his listless glance slipped from one to another of the diners, without finding a face on which to dwell. “Herds of cattle going through life as if it were a monotonous grind, instead of the entertainment which it is--or which it might be. How badly dressed they are! But oh! how much uglier they would be if they were naked! I shall certainly expire before dessert, if I don’t order some champagne.”

Here the professor entered. He had apparently just been washing his hands, which had been dirtied by his hunt, and was examining his nails. A waiter motioned him to sit down beside Lafcadio. The man with the wine-list was passing from table to table. Lafcadio, without saying a word, pointed out a Montebello Grand Crémant at twenty francs, while Monsieur Defouqueblize ordered a bottle of St. Galmier. He was holding his pince-nez between his finger and thumb, breathing gently on the glasses and then wiping them with the corner of his napkin. Lafcadio watched him curiously and wondered at his mole’s eyes blinking under their swollen eyelids.

“Fortunately he doesn’t know it was I who gave him back his eyesight. If he begins to thank me, I shall take myself off on the spot.”

The waiter came back with the St. Galmier and the champagne; he first uncorked the latter and put it down between the two diners. The bottle was no sooner on the table than Defouqueblize seized hold of it without noticing which one it was, poured out a glassful and swallowed it at one gulp. The waiter was going to interfere but Lafcadio stopped him with a laugh.

“Oh! what on earth is this stuff?” cried Defouqueblize with a frightful grimace.

“This gentleman’s Montebello,” replied the waiter with dignity. “_This_ is your St. Galmier! Here!”

He put down the second bottle.

“I’m extremely sorry, Sir.... My eyesight is so bad.... Really, I’m overcome with....”

“You would greatly oblige me, Sir,” interrupted Lafcadio, “by not apologising--and even by accepting another glass--if the first was to your taste, that is.”

“Alas! my dear sir, I must confess that I thought it was horrible and I can’t think how I came to be so absentminded as to swallow a whole glassful.... I was so thirsty.... Would you mind telling me whether it’s very strong wine?... because I must confess that ... I never drink anything but water.... The slightest drop invariably goes to my head.... Good heavens! Good heavens! What’ll happen to me? Perhaps it would be more prudent to go back at once to my compartment. I expect I had better lie down.”

He made as though to get up.

“Stop! Stop! my dear sir,” said Lafcadio, who was beginning to be amused. “You’d better eat your dinner, on the contrary, and not trouble about the glass of wine. I will take you back myself later on, if you’re in need of help; but don’t be alarmed; you haven’t taken enough to turn the head of a baby.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But really, I don’t know how to.... May I offer you a little St. Galmier?”

“Thank you very much--will you excuse me if I say I prefer my champagne?”

“Ah! really! So it was champagne, was it? And ... you are going to drink all that?”

“Just to give you confidence.”

“You’re exceedingly kind, but in your place I should....”

“Suppose you were to eat your dinner,” interrupted Lafcadio, who was himself eating and had had enough of Defouqueblize. His attention was now attracted by the widow.

An Italian certainly. An officer’s widow, no doubt. What modesty in her bearing! What tenderness in her eyes! How pure a brow! What intelligent hands! How elegantly dressed and yet how simply!... Lafcadio, when your heart fails to re-echo to such a blended concord of harmonies, may that heart have ceased to beat! Her daughter is like her, and even at that early age, what nobility--half serious, half sad even--tempers the child’s excessive grace! With what solicitude her mother bends towards her! Ah! the fiend himself would yield to such beings as these; to such beings as these, Lafcadio, who can doubt that you would offer your heart’s devotion?...

At that moment the waiter passed by to change the plates. Lafcadio allowed his to be carried away before it was half empty, for at that moment he was gazing at a sight that filled him with sudden stupor--the widow--the exquisitely refined widow--had bent down towards the side nearest the aisle, and deftly raising her skirt, with the most natural movement in the world, had revealed a scarlet stocking and a neatly turned calf and ankle.

So incongruous was this fiery note that burst into the calm gravity of the symphony ... could he be dreaming? In the meantime the waiter was handing round another dish. Lafcadio was on the point of helping himself; his eyes fell upon his plate, and what he saw there finally did for him.

There, right in front of him, plain to his sight, in the very middle of his plate, fallen from God knows where, frightful and unmistakable among a thousand--don’t doubt it for an instant, Lafcadio--there lies Carola’s sleeve-link! The sleeve-link which had been missing from Fleurissoire’s second cuff! The whole thing was becoming a nightmare.... But the waiter is bending over him with the dish. With a sweep of his hand, Lafcadio wipes his plate and brushes the horrid trinket on to the table-cloth; he puts his plate back on to the top of it, helps himself abundantly, fills his glass with champagne, empties it at a draught and fills it again. For if a man who hasn’t dined is to have drunken visions.... But no! it was not an hallucination; he hears the squeak of the link against his plate; he raises his plate, seizes the link, slips it into his waistcoat pocket beside his watch, feels it again, makes certain--yes! there it is, safe and sound! But who shall say how it came on his plate? Who put it there?... Lafcadio looks at Defouqueblize. The learned gentleman is innocently eating, his nose in his plate. Lafcadio tries to think of something else; he looks once more at the widow; but everything about her demeanour and her attire has become proper again and commonplace; he doesn’t think her as pretty as before; he tries to imagine afresh the provocative gesture--the red stocking--but he fails; he tries to imagine afresh the sleeve-link on his plate and if he did not actually feel it in his pockets, there’s no question but that he would doubt his senses.... But now he comes to reflect, why did he take a sleeve-link which doesn’t belong to him? What an admission is implied by this instinctive and absurd action--what a recognition! How he has given himself away to the people--whoever they may be--who are watching him--the police, perhaps! He has walked straight into their booby trap like a fool. He feels himself grow livid. He turns sharply round; there, behind the glass door leading into the corridor.... No! no one.... But a moment ago there may have been someone who saw him! He forces himself to go on eating, but his teeth clench with vexation. Unhappy young man! it is not his abominable crime that he regrets, but this ill-starred impulse.... What has come over the professor now? Why is he smiling at him?

Defouqueblize had finished eating. He wiped his lips; then with both elbows on the table, fiddling nervously with his napkin, he began to look at Lafcadio; his lips worked in an odd sort of grin; at last, as though unable to contain himself any longer:

“Might I venture to ask for just a little more?”

He pushed his glass timidly towards the almost empty bottle.

Lafcadio, surprised out of his uneasiness and delighted at the diversion, poured him out the last drops.

“I’m afraid it’s impossible to give you much.... But shall I order some more?”

“Oh, well, not more than half a bottle then.”

Defouqueblize was obviously elevated and had lost all sense of the proprieties. Lafcadio, for whom dry champagne had no terrors and who was amused at the other’s ingenuousness, ordered the waiter to uncork another bottle of Montebello.

“No, no, not too much,” said Defouqueblize, as with a quavering hand he raised the glass which Lafcadio succeeded in filling to the brim. “It’s curious--I thought it so nasty at first. That’s the way with a great many things which one makes mountains of till one knows more about them. The fact is, I thought I was drinking St. Galmier, and you see I thought that for St. Galmier it had a very queer taste. If you were given St. Galmier now, when you thought you were drinking champagne, wouldn’t you say: ‘For champagne, it has a very queer taste’?...”

He laughed at his own words, then bending across the table to Lafcadio, who was laughing too, he went on in a low voice:

“I can’t think why I’m laughing so; it must be the fault of your wine. I suspect, all the same, it’s rather more heady than you make out. Eh! Eh! Eh! But you’ll take me back to my carriage? That’s agreed, isn’t it? If I behave indecently, you’ll know why.”

“When one’s travelling,” hazarded Lafcadio, “there’s no fear of consequences.”

“Oh!” replied the other at once, “all the things one would do in this life if there were no fear of consequences, as you justly remark! If one could only be sure that it wouldn’t lead to anything!... Why, merely what I’m saying to you just now--which, after all, is nothing but a very natural reflection--do you think I should venture to utter it without more disguise, if we were in Bordeaux, now? I say Bordeaux, because Bordeaux is where I live. I’m known there--respected. Not married, but well-to-do in a quiet little way; I’m in an honourable walk of life--Professor of Law at the Faculty of Bordeaux--yes, comparative criminology, a new chair.... You can see for yourself that when I’m there, I’m not allowed, actually not _allowed_, to get tipsy--not even once in a while, by accident. My life must be respectable. Just fancy! Supposing one of my pupils were to meet me in the street drunk!... Respectable! yes--and it mustn’t look as if it were forced; there’s the rub; one mustn’t make people think: ‘Monsieur Defouqueblize’ (my name, sir) ‘keeps a tight hand on himself--and a jolly good thing too.’ ... One must not only never _do_ anything out of the way, one must persuade other people that one _couldn’t_ do anything out of the way, even with all the licence in the world--that there’s nothing whatever out of the way in one, wanting to come out. Is there just a little more wine left? Only a drop or two, my dear accomplice, only a drop or two.... Such an opportunity doesn’t come twice in a lifetime. To-morrow, at the congress in Rome, I shall meet a number of my colleagues--grave, sober fellows, as tame, as disciplined, as stiffly self-restrained as I shall become myself, once I get back into harness again. People who are in society, like you and me, owe it to ourselves to go masked.”

In the meantime the meal was drawing to a close; a waiter went round collecting the scores and pocketing the tips.

As the car emptied, Defouqueblize’s voice became deeper and louder; at moments its bursts of sonority made Lafcadio feel almost uncomfortable. He went on:

“And even if there were no society to restrain us, that little group of relations and friends whom we can’t bear to displease, would suffice. They confront our uncivil sincerity with an image of ourselves for which we are only half responsible--an image which has very little resemblance to us, but out of whose borders, I tell you, it is indecent to emerge. At this moment--it’s a fact--I have escaped from my shape--taken flight out of myself.... Oh! dizzy adventure! Dangerous rapture!... But I’m boring you to death!”

“You interest me singularly.”

“I keep on talking ... talking! It can’t be helped! Once a professor, always a professor--even when one’s drunk; and it’s a subject I have at heart.... But if you’ve finished dinner, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give me your arm back to my carriage, while I can still stand on my legs. I’m afraid if I wait any longer, I mayn’t be able to get up.”

At these words Defouqueblize made a kind of bound as though in an effort to get out of his chair, but subsided again immediately in a half sprawl over the table, where, with his head and shoulders flung forward in Lafcadio’s direction, he went on in a lower, semi-confidential voice:

“This is my thesis: Do you know what is needful to turn an honest man into a rogue? A change of scene--a moment’s forgetfulness suffice. Yes, sir, a gap in the memory and sincerity comes out into the open!... a cessation of continuity--a simple interruption of the current. Naturally, I don’t say this in my lectures ... but, between ourselves, what an advantage for the bastard! Just think! a being whose very existence is owing to an erratic impulse--to a crook in the straight line!...”

The professor’s voice had again grown loud; the eyes he now fixed on Lafcadio were peculiar; their glance, which was at times vague and at times piercing, began to alarm him. Lafcadio wondered now whether the man’s short sight were not feigned, and that peculiar glance seemed to him almost familiar. At last, more embarrassed than he cared to own, he got up and said abruptly:

“Come, Monsieur Defouqueblize, take my arm. Get up. Enough talk!”

Defouqueblize quitted his chair with a lumbering effort. Together they tottered down the corridor towards the compartment where the professor had left his brief-bag. Defouqueblize went in first. Lafcadio settled him in his corner and took his leave. He had already turned his back to go out, when a great hand fell heavily on his shoulder. He turned swiftly round. Defouqueblize had sprung to his feet--but was it really Defouqueblize?--this individual who, in a voice that was at once mocking, commanding and jubilant, exclaimed:

“You mustn’t desert an old friend like this, Mr. Lafcadio. What-the-deuceki. No? Really? Trying to make off?”

There remained not a trace of the tipsy, uncanny old professor of a moment ago in this great strapping stalwart fellow in whom Lafcadio no longer hesitated to recognise--Protos--a bigger, taller, stouter Protos who gave an impression of formidable power.

“Ah! it’s you, Protos?” said he, simply. “That’s better. I didn’t recognise you till this minute.”

For however terrible the reality might be, Lafcadio preferred it to the grotesque nightmare in which he had been struggling for the last hour.

“Not badly got up, was I? I’d taken special pains for your sake. But all the same, my dear fellow, it’s you who ought to take to spectacles. You’ll get into trouble if you’re not cleverer than that at recognising ‘the slim.’”

What half-forgotten memories this catchword _the slim_ aroused in Cadio’s mind! The _slim_, in their slang, at the time Protos and he were schoolboys together, were a genus who, for one reason or another, did not present to all persons and in all places the same appearance. According to the boys’ classification, there were many categories of the “slim,” more or less elegant and praiseworthy; and answering to them and opposed to them, was the single great family of “the crusted,” whose members strutted and swaggered through every walk of life, high or low.

Our schoolfellows accepted the following axioms:

1. The slim recognise each other.

2. The crusted do not recognise the slim.

All this came back to Lafcadio; as his nature was to throw himself into the spirit of the game, whatever it might be, he smiled. Protos went on:

“All the same, it was lucky I happened to turn up the other day, eh?... Not altogether by accident, maybe. I like keeping an eye on young novices: they’ve got ideas; they’re enterprising; they’re smart. But they’re too much inclined to think they can do without advice. Your handiwork the other night, my dear fellow, was sadly in need of touching up.... To wear a tile of that kind on one’s head when one’s out on the job! Was there ever such a notion? With the hatter’s address in the lining too! Why! you’d have been collared before the week was out. But when it’s a case of old friends I’ve a feeling heart--and, what’s more, I’ll prove it. Do you know, I used to be very fond of you, Cadio. I always thought something might be made of you. With a handsome face like yours, we could have got round all the women, and, for the matter of that, God forgive me! bled one or two of the men into the bargain. You can’t think how glad I was to have news of you at last and to hear you were coming to Italy. Upon my soul, I was longing to know what had become of you since the days we used to go and see that little wench of ours together. You’re not bad-looking even now. Oh! she knew a thing or two, did Carola!”

Lafcadio’s irritation was becoming more and more manifest--and likewise his endeavours to hide it; all this amused Protos prodigiously, though he pretended to notice nothing. He had taken a little round of leather out of his waistcoat pocket and was now examining it.

“Neatly cut out, eh?”

Lafcadio could have strangled him; he clenched his fists till his nails dug into his flesh. The other went on with his gibing:

“Damned good of me! Well worth the six thousand francs which--by the way, will you tell me why you didn’t pocket?”

Lafcadio made a movement of disgust:

“Do you take me for a thief?”

“Look here, my dear boy,” went on Protos quietly, “I’m not very fond of amateurs and I’d better tell you so at once quite frankly. And you know, it’s not a bit of use taking up the high and mighty line with me or playing the simpleton. You show promise--granted!--remarkable promise, but....”

“Stop your witticisms,” interrupted Lafcadio, whose anger was now uncontrollable. “What are you driving at? I committed an act of folly the other day--do you think I need to be told so? Yes! you have a weapon against me. I won’t ask whether it would be prudent of you, for your own sake, to use it. You want me to buy back that piece of leather? Very well, then, say so! Stop laughing and looking at me like that. You want money? How much?”

His tone was so determined that Protos fell back for a second, but recovered himself immediately.

“Gently! Gently!” he said. “Have I said anything ill-mannered? We are talking between friends--coolly. There’s no need to get excited. My word! Cadio, you’re younger than ever!”

But as he began to stroke his arm gently, Lafcadio jerked himself away.

“Let’s sit down,” went on Protos; “we shall talk more comfortably.”

He settled himself in a corner beside the door into the corridor and put his feet up on the opposite seat. Lafcadio thought he meant to bar the exit. Without a doubt Protos was carrying a revolver. He himself was unarmed. He reflected that if it came to a hand-to-hand struggle, he would certainly get the worst of it. But if for a moment he had contemplated flight, curiosity was already getting the upper hand--that passionate curiosity of his against which nothing--not even his personal safety--had ever been able to prevail. He sat down.

“Money? Oh, fie!” said Protos. He took a cigar out of his cigar-case and offered one to Lafcadio, who refused. “Perhaps you mind smoke?... Well, then, listen to me.” He took two or three puffs at his cigar and then said very calmly:

“No, no, Lafcadio, my friend, no, it isn’t money I want--it’s obedience. You don’t seem, my dear boy (excuse my frankness), you don’t seem to realise quite exactly what your situation is. You must force yourself to face it boldly. Let me help you a little.

“A youth, then, wished to escape from the social framework that hems us in; a sympathetic youth--a youth, indeed, entirely after my own heart--ingenuous and charmingly impulsive--for I don’t suppose there was much calculation in what he did.... I remember, Cadio, in the old days, though you were a great dab at figures, you would never consent to keep an account of your own expenses.... In short, the crusted scheme of things disgusts you.... I leave it to others to be astonished at that.... But what astonishes _me_ is that a person as intelligent as you, Cadio, should have thought it possible to quit a society as simply as all that, without stepping at the same moment into another; or that you should have thought it possible for any society to exist without laws.

“‘Lawless’--do you remember reading that somewhere? ‘Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea, not more lawless than we....’[I] A fine thing literature! Lafcadio, my friend, learn the law of the slim!”

“You might get on a little.”

“Why hurry? We’ve plenty of time before us. I’m not getting out till Rome. Lafcadio, my friend, it happens that a crime occasionally escapes the detectives. I’ll explain you why it is that we are more clever than they--it’s because our lives are at stake. Where the police fail, we succeed. Damn it, Lafcadio, you’ve made your choice; the thing’s done and it’s impossible now for you to escape. I should much prefer you to be obedient, because I should really be extremely grieved to hand an old friend like you over to the police. But what’s to be done? For the future you are in their power--or ours.”

“If you hand me over, you hand yourself over at the same time.”

“I hoped we were speaking seriously. Try and take this in, Lafcadio. The police collar people who kick up a row; but in Italy they’re glad to come to terms with ‘the slim.’ ‘Come to terms’--yes, I think that’s the right expression. I work a bit for the police myself. I’ve a way with me. I help to keep order. I don’t act on my own--I cause others to act.

“Come, come, Cadio, stop champing at the bit. There’s nothing very dreadful about my law. You exaggerate these things; so ingenuous--so impulsive! Do you think it wasn’t out of obedience and just because I willed it, that you picked up Mademoiselle Venitequa’s sleeve-link off your plate at dinner? Ah! how thoughtless--how idyllic an action! My poor Lafcadio, how you cursed yourself for that little action, eh? The bloody nuisance is that I wasn’t the only one to see it. Pooh! Don’t take on so; the waiter and the widow and the little girl are all in it too. Charming people! It lies entirely with you to have them for your friends. Lafcadio, my friend, be sensible. Do you give in?”

Out of excessive embarrassment perhaps, Lafcadio had taken up the line of not speaking. He sat stiff--his lips set, his eyes staring straight in front of him.

Protos went on, with a shrug of his shoulders:

“Rum chap!... and in reality so easy-going!... But perhaps you would have consented already if I had told you what I expect of you. Lafcadio, my friend, enlighten my perplexity. How is it that you, whom I left in such poverty, refrained from picking up a windfall of six thousand francs dropped at your feet? Does that seem to you natural? Old Monsieur de Baraglioul, Mademoiselle Venitequa told me, happened to die the day after Count Julius, his worthy son, came to pay you a visit; and the evening of the same day you chucked Mademoiselle Venitequa. Since then your connexion with Count Julius has become ... well! well! let’s say exceedingly intimate; would you mind explaining why? Lafcadio, my friend, in old days you were possessed to my knowledge of numerous uncles; since then your pedigree seems to me to have become slightly embaragliouled!... No, no, don’t say anything. I’m only joking. But what is one to suppose?... unless, indeed, you owe your present fortune to Mr. Julius himself?... in which case, allow me to say, that attractive as you are, Lafcadio, the affair seems to me considerably more scandalous still. Whichever way it may be, though, and whatever you let us conjecture, the thing is clear enough, Lafcadio, my friend, and your duty is as plain as a pike-staff--you must blackmail Julius. Come, come, don’t make a fuss! Blackmail is a wholesome institution, necessary for the maintenance of morale. What! what! are you going to leave me?”

Lafcadio had risen.

“Let me pass!” he cried, striding over Protos’s body. Stretched across the compartment from one seat to the other, the latter made no movement to stop him. Lafcadio, astonished at not finding himself detained, opened the corridor door and, as he went off:

“I’m not running away,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. You can keep your eye on me. But anything is better than listening to you any longer. Excuse me if I prefer the police. Go and inform them. I am ready.”

VI

On that same day the Anthimes arrived from Milan by the evening train. As they travelled third it was not till they reached Rome that they saw the Comtesse de Baraglioul and her daughter, who had come from Paris in a sleeping-car of the same train.

A few hours before the arrival of the telegram announcing Fleurissoire’s death, the Countess had received a letter from her husband; the Count had written eloquently of the immense pleasure his unexpected meeting with Lafcadio had caused him. Doubtless he had not breathed the faintest word of allusion to that semi-fraternity which, in Julius’s eyes, invested the young man with a perfidious charm (Julius, faithful to his father’s commands, had never had any open explanation with his wife, any more than with Lafcadio himself), but certain hints, certain reticences had been sufficient to enlighten the Countess; I am not quite sure even that Julius, who had very little to amuse him in the daily round of his bourgeois existence, did not find some pleasure in fluttering about the scandal and singeing the tips of his wings. I am not sure either that Lafcadio’s presence at Rome, the hope of meeting him again, had not something--had not a great deal--to do with Genevieve’s decision to accompany her mother.

Julius was there to meet them at the station. He hurried them back to the Grand Hotel, without speaking more than a word or two to the Anthimes, whom he was to meet next day at the funeral. The latter went to the hotel in the Via Bocca di Leone, where they had stayed for a day or two during their first visit to Rome.

Marguerite brought the author good news. Not a single hitch remained in the way of the Academy election; Cardinal André had semi-officially informed her the day before that there was no need even for the candidate to pay any further visits; the Academy was advancing to welcome him with open doors.

“You see!” said Marguerite. “What did I tell you in Paris? _Tout vient à point_.... One has nothing to do in this world but to wait.”

“And not to change,” added Julius, with an air of compunction, raising his wife’s hand to his lips, and not noticing his daughter’s eyes grow big with contempt as they dwelt on him. “Faithful to you, to my opinions, to my principles! Perseverance is the most indispensable of virtues.”

The recollection of his recent wild-goose chase had already faded from his mind, as well as every opinion that was other than orthodox, and every intention that was other than proper. Now that he knew the facts, he recovered his balance without an effort. He was filled with admiration for the subtle consistency which his mind had shown in its temporary deviation. It was not _he_ who had changed--it was the Pope!

“On the contrary, my opinions have been extraordinarily consistent,” he said to himself, “extraordinarily logical. The difficulty is to know where to draw the line. Poor Fleurissoire perished from having gone behind the scenes. The simplest course for the simple-minded is to draw the line at the things they know. It was this hideous secret that killed him. Knowledge never strengthens any but the strong.... No matter! I am glad that Carola was able to warn the police. It allows me to meditate with greater freedom.... All the same, if Armand-Dubois knew that it was not the real Holy Father who was responsible for his losses and his exile, what a consolation it would be for him--what an encouragement in his faith--what a solace and relief! To-morrow, after the funeral, I must really speak to him.”

* * * * *

The funeral did not attract much of a concourse. Three carriages followed the hearse. It was raining. In the first carriage came Arnica, supported by the friendly presence of Blafaphas (as soon as she was out of mourning, he no doubt married her); they had left Pau together two days earlier (the thought of abandoning the widow in her grief, of allowing her to take the long journey all by herself, was intolerable to Blafaphas; and for what? Had he not gone into mourning like one of the family? Was any relation in the world equal to a friend like him?), but on account of their unfortunately missing one of their trains, they arrived in Rome only a few hours before the ceremony.

In the last carriage were Madame Armand-Dubois with the Countess and her daughter; in the second, the Count and Anthime Armand-Dubois.

No allusion was made over Fleurissoire’s grave to his unlucky adventure. But on the way back from the cemetery, as soon as Julius de Baraglioul was alone with Anthime, he began:

“I promised you I would intercede on your behalf with his Holiness.”

“God is my witness that I never asked you to.”

“True! But I was so outraged by the state of destitution in which the Church had abandoned you, that I listened only to my own heart.”

“God is my witness that I never complained.”

“I know ... I know ... I was irritated to death by your resignation! And even--since you insist--I must admit, my dear Anthime, that it seemed to me a proof of pride rather than sanctity, and the last time I saw you at Milan that exaggerated resignation of yours struck me really as savouring more of rebellion than of true piety, and was extremely distasteful to me as a Christian. God didn’t demand as much of you as all that! To speak frankly, I was shocked by your attitude.”

“And I, my dear brother--perhaps I too may be allowed to say so now--was grieved by yours. Wasn’t it you yourself who urged me to rebel and....”

Julius, who was getting heated, interrupted him:

“My own experience has sufficiently proved to myself--and to others--during the whole course of my career, that it is perfectly possible to be an excellent Christian, without disdaining the legitimate advantages of the state of life to which it pleases God to call us. The fault that I found with your attitude was precisely that its affectation seemed to give it an appearance of superiority over mine.”

“God is my witness that....”

“Oh, don’t go on calling God to witness!” interrupted Julius again. “God has nothing to do with it. I am merely explaining that when I say that your attitude was almost one of rebellion ... I mean what would be rebellion for me; and what I find fault with is precisely that while you get credit for submitting to injustice, you leave other people to rebel for you. As for me, I wouldn’t accept the Church’s being in the wrong; while you with your air of not letting butter melt in your mouth, really _put_ her in the wrong. So I made up my mind to complain in your stead. You’ll see in a moment how right I was to be indignant.”

Julius, on whose forehead the beads of perspiration were beginning to gather, put his top-hat on his knee.

“Wouldn’t you like a little air?” asked Anthime, as he obligingly lowered the window on his side.

“So,” went on Julius, “as soon as I got to Rome, I solicited an audience. It was granted. This step of mine met with the most singular success....”

“Ah!” said Anthime indifferently.

“Yes, my dear Anthime, for though in reality I obtained nothing of what I came to ask, at any rate I brought away from my visit an assurance which ... effectually cleared our Holy Father from all the injurious suppositions we had been making about him.”

“God is my witness that I never made any injurious suppositions about our Holy Father.”

“I made them for you. I saw you wronged. I was indignant.”

“Come to the point, Julius. Did you see the Pope?”

“Well, no, then! I didn’t see the Pope,” burst out Julius at last, containing himself no longer, “but I became possessed of a secret--a secret which, though almost incredible at first, received sudden confirmation from our dear Amédée’s death--an appalling--a bewildering secret--but one from which your faith, dear Anthime, will be able to draw comfort. You must know, then, that the Pope is innocent of the injustice of which you were the victim....”

“Tut! I never for a moment doubted it.”

“Listen to me, Anthime--I didn’t see the Pope--because he is not to be seen. The person who is actually seated on the pontifical throne, who is obeyed by the Church, who promulgates--the person who spoke to me--the Pope who is to be seen at the Vatican--the Pope whom I saw--_is not the real one_.”

At these words Anthime began to shake all over with a fit of loud laughter.

“Laugh away! Laugh away!” went on Julius, nettled. “I laughed too, to begin with. If I had laughed a little less, Fleurissoire would not have been murdered. Ah! poor dear saint that he was! Poor lamb of a victim!...” His voice trailed off into sobs.

“What? What? Do you mean to say that this ridiculous story is really true? Dear me! Dear me!...” said Armand-Dubois, who was disturbed by Julius’s pathos. “All the same, this must be inquired into....”

“It was for inquiring into it that he met his death.”

“Because if after all I’ve sacrificed my fortune, my position, my science--if I’ve consented to be made a fool of ...” continued Anthime, who was gradually becoming excited in his turn.

“But I tell you the _real_ one is in no way responsible for any of that. The person who made a fool of you is a mere man of straw put up by the Quirinal.”

“Am I really to believe what you say?”

“If you don’t believe me, you can at any rate believe our poor martyr here.”

They both remained silent for a few minutes. It had stopped raining; a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds. The carriage slowly jolted into Rome.

“In that case, I know what remains for me to do,” went on Anthime in his most decided voice. “I shall give the whole show away.”

Julius started with horror.

“My dear friend, you terrify me. You’ll get yourself excommunicated for a certainty.”

“By whom? If it’s by a sham Pope, I don’t care a damn!”

“And I, who thought I should help you to extract some consolatory virtue out of this secret,” went on Julius, in dismay.

“You’re joking!... And who knows but what Fleurissoire, when he gets to heaven, won’t find after all that his Almighty isn’t the _real_ God either?”

“Come, come, my dear Anthime, you’re rambling! As if there _could_ be two! As if there could be another!”

“It’s all very easy for you to talk--you, who have never in your life given up anything for Him--you, who profit by everything--true or false. Oh! I’ve had enough! I want some fresh air!”

He leant out of the window, touched the driver on the shoulder with his walking-stick and stopped the carriage. Julius prepared to get out with him.

“No! Let me be! I know all that’s necessary for my purpose. You can put the rest in a novel. As for me, I shall write to the Grand Master of the Order this very evening, and to-morrow I shall take up my scientific reviewing for the _Dépêche_. Fine fun it’ll be!”

“What!” said Julius, surprised to see that he was limping again. “You’re lame?”

“Yes, my rheumatism came back a few days ago.”

“Oh, I see! So _that’s_ at the bottom of it!” said Julius, as he sank back into the corner of the carriage, without looking after him.

VII

Did Protos really intend to give Lafcadio up to the police as he had threatened? I cannot tell. The event proved at any rate that the police were not entirely composed of his friends. These gentlemen, who had been advised by Carola the day before, laid their mousetrap in the Vicolo dei Vecchierelli; they had long been acquainted with the house and knew that the upper floor had easy means of communication with the next-door house, whose exits also they watched.

Protos was not afraid of the detectives; nor of any particular accusation that might be brought against him; the machinery of the law inspired him with no terrors; he knew that it would be hard to catch him out; that he was innocent in reality of any crime and guilty only of misdemeanours too trifling to be brought home to him. He was therefore not excessively alarmed when he realised that he was trapped--which he did very quickly, having a particular flair for nosing out these gentry, in no matter what disguise.

Hardly more than slightly perplexed, he shut himself up in Carola’s room and waited for her to come in; he had not seen her since Fleurissoire’s murder, and was anxious to ask her advice and to leave a few instructions in the very probable event of his being run in.

Carola, in the meantime, in deference to Julius’s wishes, had not shown herself in the cemetery. No one knew that, hidden behind a mausoleum and beneath an umbrella, she was assisting at the melancholy ceremony from afar. She waited patiently, humbly, until the approach to the newly dug grave was free; she saw the procession re-form--Julius go off with Anthime and the carriages drive away in the drizzling rain. Then, in her turn, she went up to the grave, took out from beneath her cloak a big bunch of asters, which she put down a little way from the family’s wreaths; there she stayed for a long time, looking at nothing, thinking of nothing, and crying instead of praying.

When she returned to the Vicolo dei Vecchierelli, she noticed, indeed, two unfamiliar figures on the threshold, but without realising that the house was being watched. She was anxious to rejoin Protos; she did not for a moment doubt that it was he who had committed the murder, and she hated him....

A few minutes later the police rushed into the house on hearing her screams--too late, alas! Protos, exasperated at learning that she had betrayed him, had already strangled Carola.

This happened about midday. The news came out in the evening papers, and as the piece of leather cut out of the hat-lining was found in his possession, his two-fold guilt did not admit of a doubt in anyone’s mind.

Lafcadio, in the meantime, had spent the hours till evening in a state of expectancy--of vague fear. It was not the police with whom Protos had threatened him that he feared, so much as Protos himself, or some nameless thing or other, against which he no longer attempted to defend himself. An incomprehensible torpor lay heavy on him--mere fatigue perhaps; at any rate, he gave up.

The day before, he had seen Julius for barely a moment, when the latter had come to meet the train from Naples and take over the consignment of the corpse; then he had tramped the town for hours, trying to walk down the exasperation that had been left in him by his conversation with Protos and by the feeling of his dependence.

And yet the news of Protos’s arrest did not bring Lafcadio the relief that might have been expected. It was almost as though he were disappointed. Queer creature! As he had deliberately rejected all the material profits of the crime, so he was unwilling to part with any of the risks. He could not consent to the game’s coming to an end so soon. He would gladly--as in the old days when he used to play chess--have given his adversary a rook; and as though this latest development had made his victory too easy and taken away all his interest in the match, he felt that he should never rest content till he had set Fate at defiance more rashly still.