Conscience — Complete






CHAPTER XII. THE CRUCIAL MOMENT

When he reached Caffies door the night had scarcely fallen, and the streets were not yet lighted.

The better and the surest plan for him had been to wait in the ‘porte-cochere’ across the street; from there he could watch the ‘concierge’, who would not be able to go out without being seen by him. But though the passers were few at this moment, they might have observed him. Next to this ‘porte-cochere’ was a small ‘cafe’, whose brilliant lights would cause him to be seen quite plainly. He, therefore, walked on, but soon returned.

All irresolution, all hesitation, had disappeared, and the only point on which he still questioned himself bore upon the state in which he found himself at this moment. He felt himself firm, and his pulse, he was certain, beat regularly. He was as he had imagined he would be; experience confirmed his foresight; his hand would tremble no more than his will.

As he passed before the house he saw the concierge come slowly out of her lodge and close her door carefully, putting the key in her pocket. In her left hand she held something white that he could not see distinctly in the twilight, but it was probably the wax-taper which, doubtless, she had not lighted for fear the wind would blow it out.

This was a favorable circumstance, that gave him one or two minutes more than he had counted on, for she would be obliged to strike a match on the stairs to light her taper; and, in the execution of his plan, two minutes, a single minute even, might be of great importance.

With dragging steps and bent back she disappeared through the vestibule of the stairway. Then Saniel continued his walk like an ordinary passer-by until she had time to reach the first story; then, turning, he returned to the porte-cochere and entered quietly. By the gaslight in the vestibule he saw by his watch, which he held in his hand, that it was fourteen minutes after five o’clock. Then, if his calculation was right, at twenty-four or twenty-five minutes after five he must pass before the lodge, which should still be empty at that moment.

On the staircase above him he heard the heavy step of the concierge; she had lighted the gas on the first story, and continued on her way slowly. With rapid but light steps he mounted behind her, and, on reaching Caffie’s door, he rang the bell, taking care not to ring too loudly or too timidly; then he knocked three times, as Caffie had instructed him.

Was Caffie alone?

Up to this time all had gone as he wished; no one in the vestibule, no one on the stairs; fate was in his favor; would it accompany him to the end?

While he waited at the door, asking himself this question, an idea flashed into his mind. He would make a last attempt. If Caffie consented to make the loan he would save himself; if he refused, he condemned himself.

After several seconds, that appeared like hours, his listening ears perceived a sound which announced that Caffie was at home. A scratching of wood on the tiled floor denoted that a chair had been pushed aside; heavy, dragging steps approached, then the bolt creaked, and the door was opened cautiously.

“Ah! It is you, my dear sir!” Caffie said, in surprise.

Saniel entered briskly and closed the door himself, pressing it firmly.

“Is there anything new?” Caffie asked, as he led the way to his office.

“No,” Saniel replied.

“Well, then?” Caffie asked, as he seated himself in an armchair before his desk, on which stood a lighted lamp. “I suppose you have come to hear more about my young friend. This hurry augurs well.”

“No, it is not of the young person that I wish to talk to you.”

“I am sorry.”

On seating himself opposite to Caffie, Saniel had taken out his watch. Two minutes had passed since he left the vestibule; he must hurry. In order to keep himself informed of the passing of time, he retained his watch in his hand.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“Yes; I will come immediately to business. It concerns myself, my position, and I make a last appeal to you. Let us be honest with each other. Undoubtedly you think that, pushed by my distress, and seeing that I shall be lost forever, I shall decide to accept this marriage to save myself.”

“Can you suppose such a thing, my dear sir?” Caffie cried.

But Saniel stopped him....

“The calculation is too natural for you not to have made it. Well, I must tell you that it is false. Never will I lend myself to such a bargain. Renounce your project, and let us discuss my demand. I am in absolute want of three thousand francs, and I will pay the interest that you fix upon.”

“I have not found a money-lender, my dear sir. I have taken a great deal of trouble, I assure you, but I did not succeed.”

“Make an effort yourself.”

“Me? My dear sir!”

“I address myself to you.”

“But I have no ready money.”

“It is a desperate appeal that I make. I understand that your long experience in business makes you insensible to the misery that you see every day—”

“Insensible! Say that it breaks my heart, my dear sir.”

“But will you not permit yourself to be touched by the misery of a man who is young, intelligent, courageous, who will drown if a hand is not held out to help him? For you, the assistance that I ask so earnestly is nothing—”

“Three thousand francs! Nothing! Bless me! How you talk!”

“For me, if you refuse me, it is death.”

Saniel began to speak with his eyes fixed on the hands of his watch, but presently, carried away by the fever of the situation, he raised them to look at Caffie, and to see the effect that he produced on him. In this movement he made a discovery that destroyed all his calculations.

Caffie’s office was a small room with a high window looking into the court; never having been in this office except in the evening, he had not observed that this window had neither shutters nor curtains of muslin or of heavier stuff; there was nothing but the glass. To tell the truth, two heavy curtains of woollen damask hung on either side of the window, but they were not drawn. Talking to Caffie, who was placed between him and this window, Saniel suddenly perceived that on the other side of the court, in the second wing of the building, on the second story, were two lighted windows directly opposite to the office, and that from there any one could see everything that occurred in the office.

How should he execute his plan under the eyes of these people whom he saw coming and going in this room? He would be lost. In any case, it was risking an adventure so hazardous that he would be a fool to attempt it, and he was not that; never had he felt himself so much the master of his mind and nerves.

Also, it was not only to save Caffie’s life that he argued, it was to save himself in grasping this loan.

“I can only, to my great regret, repeat to you what I have already said, my dear sir. I have no ready money.”

And he held his jaw, groaning, as if this refusal aroused his toothache.

Saniel rose; evidently there was nothing for him to do but to go. It was finished, and instead of being in despair he felt it as a relief.

But, as he was about to leave the room, an idea flashed through his mind.

He looked at his watch, which he had not consulted for some time; it was twenty minutes after five; there yet remained four minutes, five at the most.

“Why do you not draw these curtains?” he said. “I am sure your sufferings are partly caused by the wind that comes in this window.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it; you should be warm about the head, and avoid currents of air.”

Passing behind Caffie, he went to the window to draw the curtains, but the cords would not move.

“It is years since they were drawn,” Caffie said. “Doubtless the cords are entangled. I will bring the light.”

And, taking the lamp, he went to the window, holding it high in order to throw light on the cords.

With a turn of the hand Saniel disentangled the cords, and the curtains slid on the rods, almost covering the window.

“It is true a good deal of air did come in the window,” Caffie said. “I thank you, my dear doctor.”

All this was done with a feverish rapidity that astonished Caffie.

“Decidedly, you are in a hurry,” he said.

“Yes, in a great hurry.”

He looked at his watch.

“However, I have still time to give you a consultation if you desire it.”

“I would not trouble you—”

“You do not trouble me.”

“But—”

“Sit down in your armchair, and show me your mouth.”

While Caffie seated himself, Saniel continued in a vibrating voice:

“You see I give good for evil.”

“How is that, my dear sir?”

“You refuse me a service that would save me, and I give you a consultation. It is true, it is the last.”

“And why the last, my dear sir?”

“Because death is between us.”

“Death!”

“Do you not see it?”

“No.”

“I see it.”

“You must not think of such a thing, my dear sir. One does not die because one cannot pay three thousand francs.”

The chair in which Caffie seated himself was an old Voltaire, with an inclined back, and he half reclined in it. As his shirtcollar was too large for him since he had become thin, and his narrow cravat was scarcely tied, he displayed as much throat as jaw.

Saniel, behind the chair, had taken the knife in his right hand, while he pressed the left heavily on Caffies forehead, and with a powerful stroke, as quick as lightning, he cut the larynx under the glottis, as well as the two carotid arteries, with the jugular veins. From this terrible wound sprang a large jet of blood, which, crossing the room, struck against the door. Cut clean, not a cry could be formed in the windpipe, and in his armchair Caffie shook with convulsions from head to foot.

Leaving his position behind the chair, Saniel, who had thrown the knife on the floor, looked at his watch and counted the ticking of the second-hand in a low voice.

“One, two, three-”

At the end of ninety seconds the convulsions ceased.

It was twenty-three minutes after five. Now it was important that he should hurry and not lose a second.

The blood, after having gushed out, had run down the body and wet the vest pocket in which was the key of the safe. But blood does not produce the same effect upon a doctor as upon those who are not accustomed to its sight and odor, and to its touch. In spite of the lukewarm sea in which it lay, Saniel took the key, and after wiping his hand on one of the tails of Caffie’s coat, he placed it in the lock.

Would it turn freely, or was it closed with a combination? The question was poignant. The key turned and the door opened. On a shelf and in a wooden bowl were packages of bank-notes and rolls of gold that he had seen the evening when the bank-clerk came. Roughly, without counting; he thrust them into his pocket, and without closing the safe, he ran to the front door, taking care not to step in the streams of blood, which, on the sloping tiled floor, ran toward this door. The time was short.

And now was the greatest danger, that of meeting some one behind this door, or on the stairs. He listened, and heard no noise. He went out, and no one was to be seen. Without running, but hastily, he descended the stairs. Should he look in the lodge, or should he turn his head away? He looked, but the concierge was not there.

A second later he was in the street mingling with the passersby, and he drew a long breath.

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