The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Émile Gaboriau - Emile Gaboriau

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crying, “but I have done you no harm.”

      He grasped her hands in his, and bending over her, repeated:

      “For the last time, the letter; give it to me, or I will take it by force.”

      It would have been folly to resist longer. “Leave me alone,” said she. “You shall have it.”

      He released her, remaining, however, close by her side, while she searched in all her pockets. Her hair had been loosened in the struggle, her collar was torn, she was tired, her teeth chattered, but her eyes shone with a bold resolution.

      “Wait—here it is—no. It’s odd—I am sure I’ve got it though —I had it a minute ago—”

      And, suddenly, with a rapid gesture, she put the letter, rolled into a ball, into her mouth, and tried to swallow it. But Sauvresy as quickly grasped her by the throat, and she was forced to disgorge it.

      He had the letter at last. His hands trembled so that he could scarcely open it.

      It was, indeed, Bertha’s writing.

      Sauvresy tottered with a horrible sensation of dizziness; he could not see clearly; there was a red cloud before his eyes; his legs gave way under him, he staggered, and his hands stretched out for a support. Jenny, somewhat recovered, hastened to give him help; but her touch made him shudder, and he repulsed her. What had happened he could not tell. Ah, he wished to read this letter and could not. He went to the table, turned out and drank two large glasses of water one after another. The cold draught restored him, his blood resumed its natural course, and he could see. The note was short, and this was what he read:

      “Don’t go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg; or rather, return before breakfast. He has just told me that he must go to Melun, and that he should return late. A whole day!”

      “He”—that was himself. This other lover of Hector’s was Bertha, his wife. For a moment he saw nothing but that; all thought was crushed within him. His temples beat furiously, he heard a dreadful buzzing in his ears, it seemed to him as if the earth were about to swallow him up. He fell into a chair; from purple he became ashy white. Great tears trickled down his cheeks.

      Jenny understood the miserable meanness of her conduct when she saw this great grief, this silent despair, this man with a broken heart. Was she not the cause of all? She had guessed who the writer of the note was. She thought when she asked Sauvresy to come to her, that she could tell him all, and thus avenge herself at once upon Hector and her rival. Then, on seeing this man refusing to comprehend her hints, she had been full of pity for him. She had said to herself that he would be the one who would be most cruelly punished; and then she had recoiled—but too late—and he had snatched the secret from her.

      She approached Sauvresy and tried to take his hands; he still repulsed her.

      “Let me alone,” said he.

      “Pardon me, sir—I am a wretch, I am horrified at myself.”

      He rose suddenly; he was gradually coming to himself.

      “What do you want?”

      “That letter—I guessed—”

      He burst into a loud, bitter, discordant laugh, and replied:

      “God forgive me! Why, my dear, did you dare to suspect my wife?”

      While Jenny was muttering confused excuses, he drew out his pocket-book and took from it all the money it contained—some seven or eight hundred francs—which he put on the table.

      “Take this, from Hector,” said he, “he will not permit you to suffer for anything; but, believe me, you had best let him get married.”

      Chapter XVIII

       Table of Contents

      A small, fine, chilly rain had succeeded the morning fog; but Sauvresy did not perceive it. He went across the fields with his head bare, wandering at hazard, without aim or discretion. He talked aloud as he went, stopping ever and anon, then resuming his course. The peasants who met him—they all knew him—turned to look at him after having saluted him, asking themselves whether the master of Valfeuillu had not gone mad. Unhappily he was not mad. Overwhelmed by an unheard-of, unlooked-for catastrophe, his brain had been for a moment paralyzed. But one by one he collected his scattered ideas and acquired the faculty of thinking and of suffering. Each one of his reflections increased his mortal anguish. Yes, Bertha and Hector had deceived, had dishonored him. She, beloved to idolatry; he, his best and oldest friend, a wretch that he had snatched from misery, who owed him everything. And it was in his house, under his own roof, that this infamy had taken place. They had taken advantage of his noble trust, had made a dupe of him. The frightful discovery not only embittered the future, but also the past. He longed to blot out of his life these years passed with Bertha, with whom, but the night before, he had recalled these “happiest years of his life.” The memory of his former happiness filled his soul with disgust. But how had this been done? When? How was it he had seen nothing of it? And now things came into his mind which should have warned him had he not been blind. He recalled certain looks of Bertha, certain tones of voice, which were an avowal. At times, he tried to doubt. There are misfortunes so great that to be believed there must be more than evidence.

      “It is not possible!” muttered he.

      Seating himself upon a prostrate tree in the midst of Mauprevoir forest, he studied the fatal letter for the tenth time within four hours.

      “It proves all,” said he, “and it proves nothing.”

      And he read once more.

      “Do not go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg—”

      Well, had he not again and again, in his idiotic confidence, said to Hector:

      “I shall be away to-morrow, stay here and keep Bertha company.”

      This sentence, then, had no positive signification. But why add:

      “Or rather, return before breakfast.”

      This was what betrayed fear, that is, the fault. To go away and return again anon, was to be cautious, to avoid suspicion. Then, why “he,” instead of, “Clement?” This word was striking. “He” —that is, the dear one, or else, the master that one hates. There is no medium—’tis the husband, or the lover. “He,” is never an indifferent person. A husband is lost when his wife, in speaking of him, says, “He.”

      But when had Bertha written these few lines? Doubtless some evening after they had retired to their room. He had said to her, “I’m going to-morrow to Melun,” and then she had hastily scratched off this note and given it, in a book, to Hector.

      Alas! the edifice of his happiness, which had seemed to him strong enough to defy every tempest of life, had crumbled, and he stood there lost in the midst of its debris. No more happiness, joys, hopes—nothing! All his plans for the future rested on Bertha; her name was mingled in his every dream, she was at once the future and the dream. He had so loved her that she had become something of himself, that he could not imagine himself without her. Bertha lost to him, he saw no direction in life to take, he had no further reason for living. He perceived this so vividly that the idea of suicide came to him. He had his gun, powder and balls; his death would be attributed to a hunting accident, and all would be over.

      Oh, but the guilty ones!

      They would doubtless go on in their infamous comedy—would seem to mourn for him, while really their hearts would bound with joy. No more husband, no more hypocrisies or terrors. His will giving his fortune to Bertha, they would be rich. They would sell everything, and would depart rejoicing to some distant clime. As to his memory, poor man, it would amuse them to think of him as the cheated and despised husband.

      “Never!” cried he, drunk with fury, “never! I must kill myself, but first, I must avenge my dishonor!”

      But

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