The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard [80]
because my guardian does not pay for my schooling any longer."
"Gracious goodness! Your guardian seems to me to be a thorough scoundrel."
"Then you know---"
"What?"
"Oh! don't ask me to tell you that!--but I would rather die than find myself alone with him again."
"And why did you not write to me?"
"I was watched."
At this instant I formed a resolve which nothing in this world could have induced me to change. I did, indeed, have some idea that I might be acting contrary to law; but I did not give myself the least concern about that idea. And, being firmly resolved, I was able to be prudent. I acted with remarkable coolness.
"Jeanne," I asked, "tell me! does that room you are in open into the court-yard?"
"Yes."
"Can you open the street-door from the inside yourself?"
"Yes,--if there is nobody in the porter's lodge."
"Go and see if there is any one there, and be careful that nobody observes you."
Then I waited, keeping a watch on the door and window.
In six or seven seconds Jeanne reappeared behind the bars, and said,
"The servant is in the porter's lodge."
"Very well," I said, "have you a pen and ink?"
"No."
"A pencil?"
"Yes."
"Pass it out here."
I took an old newspaper out of my pocket, and--in a wind which blew almost hard enough to put the street-lamps out, in a downpour of snow which almost blinded me--I managed to wrap up and address that paper to Mademoiselle Prefere.
While I was writing I asked Jeanne,
"When the postman passes he puts the papers and letters in the box, doesn't he? He rings the bell and goes away? Then the servant opens the letter-box and takes whatever she finds there to Mademoiselle Prefere immediately; is not that about the way the thing is managed whenever anything comes by post?"
Jeanne thought it was.
"Then we shall soon see. Jeanne, go and watch again; and, as soon as the servant leaves the lodge, open the door and come out here to me."
Having said this, I put my newspaper in the box, gave the bell a tremendous pull, and then hid myself in the embrasure of a neighbouring door.
I might have been there several minutes, when the little door quivered, then opened, and a young girl's head made its appearance through the opening. I took hold of it; I pulled it towards me.
"Come, Jeanne! come!"
She stared at me uneasily. Certainly she must have been afraid that I had gone mad; but, on the contrary, I was very rational indeed.
"Come, my child! come!"
"Where?"
"To Madame de Gabry's."
Then she took my arm. For some time we ran like a couple of thieves. But running is an exercise ill-suited to one as corpulent as I am, and, finding myself out of breath at last, I stopped and leaned upon something which turned out to be the stove of a dealer in roasted chestnuts, who was doing business at the corner of a wine- seller's shop, where a number of cabmen were drinking. One of them asked us if we did not want a cab. Most assuredly we wanted a cab! The driver, after setting down his glass on the zinc counter, climbed upon his seat and urged his horse forward. We were saved.
"Phew!" I panted, wiping my forehead. For, in spite of the cold, I was perspiring profusely.
What seemed very odd was that Jeanne appeared to be much more conscious than I was of the enormity which we had committed. She looked very serious indeed, and was visibly uneasy.
"In the kitchen!" I cried out, with indignation.
She shook her head, as if to say, "Well, there or anywhere else, what does it matter to me?" And by the light of the street-lamps, I observed with pain that her face was very thin and her features all pinched. I did not find in her any of that vivacity, any of those bright impulses, any of that quickness of expression, which used to please me so much. Her gaze had become timid, her gestures constrained, her whole attitude melancholy. I took her hand--a little cold hand, which had become all hardened and bruised. The poor child must have suffered very much. I questioned her. She told me very quietly
"Gracious goodness! Your guardian seems to me to be a thorough scoundrel."
"Then you know---"
"What?"
"Oh! don't ask me to tell you that!--but I would rather die than find myself alone with him again."
"And why did you not write to me?"
"I was watched."
At this instant I formed a resolve which nothing in this world could have induced me to change. I did, indeed, have some idea that I might be acting contrary to law; but I did not give myself the least concern about that idea. And, being firmly resolved, I was able to be prudent. I acted with remarkable coolness.
"Jeanne," I asked, "tell me! does that room you are in open into the court-yard?"
"Yes."
"Can you open the street-door from the inside yourself?"
"Yes,--if there is nobody in the porter's lodge."
"Go and see if there is any one there, and be careful that nobody observes you."
Then I waited, keeping a watch on the door and window.
In six or seven seconds Jeanne reappeared behind the bars, and said,
"The servant is in the porter's lodge."
"Very well," I said, "have you a pen and ink?"
"No."
"A pencil?"
"Yes."
"Pass it out here."
I took an old newspaper out of my pocket, and--in a wind which blew almost hard enough to put the street-lamps out, in a downpour of snow which almost blinded me--I managed to wrap up and address that paper to Mademoiselle Prefere.
While I was writing I asked Jeanne,
"When the postman passes he puts the papers and letters in the box, doesn't he? He rings the bell and goes away? Then the servant opens the letter-box and takes whatever she finds there to Mademoiselle Prefere immediately; is not that about the way the thing is managed whenever anything comes by post?"
Jeanne thought it was.
"Then we shall soon see. Jeanne, go and watch again; and, as soon as the servant leaves the lodge, open the door and come out here to me."
Having said this, I put my newspaper in the box, gave the bell a tremendous pull, and then hid myself in the embrasure of a neighbouring door.
I might have been there several minutes, when the little door quivered, then opened, and a young girl's head made its appearance through the opening. I took hold of it; I pulled it towards me.
"Come, Jeanne! come!"
She stared at me uneasily. Certainly she must have been afraid that I had gone mad; but, on the contrary, I was very rational indeed.
"Come, my child! come!"
"Where?"
"To Madame de Gabry's."
Then she took my arm. For some time we ran like a couple of thieves. But running is an exercise ill-suited to one as corpulent as I am, and, finding myself out of breath at last, I stopped and leaned upon something which turned out to be the stove of a dealer in roasted chestnuts, who was doing business at the corner of a wine- seller's shop, where a number of cabmen were drinking. One of them asked us if we did not want a cab. Most assuredly we wanted a cab! The driver, after setting down his glass on the zinc counter, climbed upon his seat and urged his horse forward. We were saved.
"Phew!" I panted, wiping my forehead. For, in spite of the cold, I was perspiring profusely.
What seemed very odd was that Jeanne appeared to be much more conscious than I was of the enormity which we had committed. She looked very serious indeed, and was visibly uneasy.
"In the kitchen!" I cried out, with indignation.
She shook her head, as if to say, "Well, there or anywhere else, what does it matter to me?" And by the light of the street-lamps, I observed with pain that her face was very thin and her features all pinched. I did not find in her any of that vivacity, any of those bright impulses, any of that quickness of expression, which used to please me so much. Her gaze had become timid, her gestures constrained, her whole attitude melancholy. I took her hand--a little cold hand, which had become all hardened and bruised. The poor child must have suffered very much. I questioned her. She told me very quietly