Then the last-named placed a hand on Bergeret’s shoulder:
“What you have just read to us, my dear sir,” said he, “is truly?…”
At this moment Léon flung himself into the shop and exclaimed with a mixture of excitement and importance:
“Madame Houssieu has just been found strangled in her bed.”
“How extraordinary!” said M. de Terremondre.
“From the state of the body,” added Léon, “it is believed that death took place three days ago.”
“Then,” remarked M. Mazure, the archivist, “that would make it Saturday that the crime was committed.”
Paillot, the bookseller, who had remained silent196 up till now, with his mouth wide open out of deference1 to death, now began to collect his thoughts.
“On Saturday, about five o’clock in the afternoon, I plainly heard stifled2 cries and the heavy thud produced by the fall of a body. I even said to these gentlemen” (he turned towards M. de Terremondre and M. Bergeret) “that something extraordinary was going on in Queen Marguerite’s house.”
No one supported the claim that the bookseller was making that he alone, by the keenness of his senses and the penetration3 of his mind, had suspected the deed at the moment when it was taking place.
After a respectful silence, Paillot began again:
“During the night between Saturday and Sunday I said to Madame Paillot: ‘There isn’t a sound from Queen Marguerite’s house.’”
M. Mazure asked the age of the victim. Paillot replied that Madame Houssieu was between seventy-nine and eighty years of age, that she had been a widow fifty years, that she owned landed property, stocks and shares, and a large sum of money, but that, being miserly and eccentric, she kept no servant, and cooked her victuals4 herself over the fireplace in her room, living alone amidst a wreckage5 of furniture and crockery, covered with the dust of a quarter of a century. It was actually more than twenty-five years since any one had wielded6 a broom in Queen Marguerite’s house. Madame Houssieu197 went out but seldom, bought a whole week’s supply of provisions for herself, and never let any one into the house save the butcher-boy and two or three urchins7 who ran errands for her.
“And the crime is supposed to have been committed on Saturday afternoon?” asked M. de Terremondre.
“So it is believed, from the state of the body,” replied Léon. “It appears that it is a ghastly sight.”
“On Saturday, in the afternoon,” replied M. de Terremondre, “we were here, merely separated by a wall from the horrible scene, and we were chatting about passing trifles.”
There was again a long silence. Then some one asked if the assassin had been arrested, or if they even knew who it was. But, in spite of his zeal8, Léon could not answer these questions.
A shadow, which grew ever deeper and deeper and seemed funereal9, began to fall across the bookseller’s shop. It was caused by the dark crowd of sightseers swarming10 in the square in front of the house of crime.
“Doubtless they are waiting for the inspector11 of police and the public prosecutor12,” said Mazure, the archivist.
Paillot, who was gifted with an exquisite13 caution, fearing lest the eager people would break the window-panes14, ordered Léon to close the shutters15.
198 “Don’t leave anything open,” said he, “save the window which looks on the Rue16 des Tintelleries.”
This precautionary measure seemed to bear the stamp of a certain moral delicacy17. The gentlemen of the old-book corner approved of it. But since the Rue des Tintelleries was narrow, and since on that side the panes were covered with notices and drawing-copies, the shop became plunged18 in darkness.
The murmur19 of the crowd, till then unnoticed, spread with the shadow and became continuous, hollow, solemn, almost terrible, evidencing the unanimity20 of the moral condemnation21.
Much moved, M. de Terremondre gave fresh expression to the thought which had struck him:
“It is strange,” said he, “that while the crime was being committed so near us, we were talking quietly of unimportant affairs.”
At this M. Bergeret bent22 his head towards his left shoulder, gave a far-away glance, and spoke23 thus:
“My dear sir, allow me to tell you that there is nothing strange in that. It is not customary, when a criminal action is going on, that conversations should stop of their own accord around the victim, either within a radius24 of so many leagues or even of so many feet. A commotion25 inspired by the most villainous thought only produces natural effects.”
M. de Terremondre made no reply to this speech,199 and the rest of his hearers turned away from M. Bergeret with a vague sense of disquietude and disapproval26.
Still the professor of literature persisted:
“And why should an act so natural and so common as murder produce strange and uncommon27 results? To kill is common to animals, and especially to man. Murder was for long ages regarded in human civilisation28 as a courageous29 action, and there still remain in our morals and institutions certain traces of this ancient point of view.”
“What traces?” demanded M. de Terremondre.
“They are to be found in the honours,” replied M. Bergeret, “which are paid to soldiers.”
“That is not the same thing,” said M. de Terremondre.
“Certainly it is,” said M. Bergeret. “For the motive30 force of all human actions is hunger or love. Hunger taught savages31 murder, impelled32 them to wars, to invasions. Civilised nations are like hunting-dogs. A perverted33 instinct drives them to destroy without profit or reason. The unreasonableness34 of modern wars disguises itself under dynastic interest, nationality, balance of power, honour. This last pretext35 is perhaps the most extravagant36 of all, for there is not a nation in the world that is not sullied with every crime and loaded with every shame. There is not one of them which has not endured all the humiliations200 that fortune could inflict37 on a miserable38 band of men. If there yet remains39 any honour among the nations, it is a strange means of upholding it to make war—that is to say, to commit all the crimes by which an individual dishonours40 himself: arson41, robbery, rape42, murder. And as for the actions whose motive power is love, they are for the most part as violent, as frenzied43, as cruel as the actions inspired by hunger; so much so that one must come to the conclusion that man is a mischievous44 beast. But it still remains to inquire why I know this, and whence it comes that the fact arouses grief and indignation in me. If nothing but evil existed, it would not be visible, as the night would have no name if the sun never rose.”
M. de Terremondre, however, had extended enough deference to the religion of tenderness and human dignity by reproaching himself with having conversed45 in a gay and careless fashion at the moment of the crime and so near the victim. He began to regard the tragic46 end of Madame Houssieu as a familiar incident which one might look at straightforwardly47 and of which one might deduce the consequences. He reflected that now there was nothing to prevent his buying Queen Marguerite’s house as a storehouse for his collections of furniture, china, and tapestry48, and thus starting a sort of municipal museum. As a reward for his201 zeal and munificence49, he counted on receiving, along with the applause of his fellow-countrymen, the Cross of the Legion of Honour, and perhaps the title of correspondent of the Institute.
He had in the Academy of Inscriptions50 two or three comrades, old bachelors like himself, with whom he sometimes lunched in Paris in some wine-shop, and to whom he recounted many anecdotes51 about women. And there was no correspondent for the district.
“It won’t stand upright much longer,” said he, “that house of Queen Marguerite. The beams of the floors used to fall in flakes54 of touchwood on the poor old octogenarian. It will be necessary to spend an immense sum in putting it in repair.”
“The best thing,” said Mazure, the archivist, “would be to pull it down and remove the frontage to the courtyard of the museum. It would really be a pity to abandon Philippe Tricouillard’s shield to the wreckers.”
They heard a great commotion among the crowd in the square. It was the noise of the people whom the police were driving back to clear a passage for the magistrates55 into the house of crime.
Paillot pushed his nose out of the half-open door.
“Here,” said he, “comes the examining judge,202 M. Roquincourt, with M. Surcouf, his clerk. They have gone into the house.”
One after the other the academicians of the old-book corner had slipped out behind the bookseller on to the pavement of the Rue des Tintelleries, from which they watched the surging movements of the people who crowded the Place Saint-Exupère.
Among the mob Paillot recognised M. Cassignol, the president in chief. The old man was taking his daily constitutional. The excited crowd, in which he had got entangled57 during his walk, impeded58 his short steps and feeble sight. He went on, still upright and sturdy, carrying his withered59, white head erect60.
When Paillot saw him, he ran up to him, doffed61 his velvet62 cap, and, offering him his arm, invited him to come and sit down in the shop.
“How imprudent of you, Monsieur Cassignol, to venture into such a crowd! It’s almost like a riot.”
At the word riot, the old man had a vision, as it were, of the century of revolution, three parts of which he had seen. He was now in his eighty-seventh year, and had already been on the retired63 list for twenty-five years.
Leaning on the bookseller, Paillot, he crossed the doorstep of the shop and sat down on a rush-bottomed chair, in the midst of the respectful academicians. His malacca cane64, with its silver top,203 trembled under his hand between his hollow thighs65. His spine66 was stiffer than the back of his chair. He drew off his tortoiseshell spectacles to wipe them, and it took him a long time to put them on again. He had lost his memory for faces, and although he was hard of hearing, it was by the voice that he recognised people.
He asked concisely67 for the cause of the crowds which had gathered in the square, but he hardly listened to the answer given him by M. de Terremondre. His brain, sound but ossified68, steeped as it were in myrrh, received no new impressions, although old ideas and passions remained deeply embedded69 in it.
MM. de Terremondre, Mazure, and Bergeret stood up in a circle round him. They were ignorant of his story, lost now in the immemorial past. They only knew that he had been the disciple70, the friend, and the companion of Lacordaire and Montalembert, that he had opposed, as far as the precise limits of his rights and his office permitted, the establishment of the Empire, that in former days he had been subjected to the insults of Louis Veuillot,[L] and that he went every Sunday to mass, with a great book under his arm. Like all the town, they recognised that he retained his old-world204 honesty and the glory of having maintained the cause of liberty throughout his whole life. But not one of them could have told of what type was his liberalism, for none of them had read this sentence in a pamphlet, published by M. Cassignol in 1852, on the affairs of Rome: “There is no liberty save that of the man who believes in Jesus Christ, and in the moral dignity of man.” It was said that, still remaining active in mind at his age, he was classifying his correspondence and working at a book on the relations between Church and State. He still spoke fluently and brightly.
[L] Louis Veuillot, author and journalist, born 1813, and much given to duels71, both with words and swords.
During the conversation which he followed with difficulty, on hearing a mention of the name of M. Garrand, the public prosecutor of the Republic, he remarked, looking down at the knob of his stick as though it were the solitary72 witness of those bygone days that still survived:
“In 1838 I knew at Lyons a public prosecutor for the Crown who had a high idea of his duties. He used to maintain that one of the attributes of public administration was infallibility, and that the king’s prosecutor could no more be in the wrong than the king himself. His name was M. de Clavel, and he left some valuable works on criminal cross-examination.”
Then the old man was silent, alone with his memories in the midst of men.
205 Paillot, on the doorstep, was watching what was going on outside.
“Here is M. Roquincourt coming out of the house.”
M. Cassignol, thinking only of past events, said:
“I started at the bar. I was under the orders of M. de Clavel, who used again and again to repeat to me: ‘Grasp this maxim73 thoroughly74: The interests of the prisoner are sacred, the interests of society are doubly sacred, the interests of justice are thrice sacred.’ Metaphysical principles had in those days more influence on men’s minds than they have nowadays.”
“That’s very true,” said M. de Terremondre.
“They are carrying away a bedside-table, some linen75, and a little truck,” said Paillot. “These are doubtless articles to be used in evidence.”
M. de Terremondre, no longer able to restrain himself, went forward to watch the loading of the truck. Suddenly, knitting his brows, he exclaimed:
“Sacrebleu!”
Then, seeing Paillot’s inquiring look, he added:
“It’s nothing! nothing!”
Cunning collector that he was, he had just caught sight of a water-jug in porcelaine à la Reine among the articles attached, and he was making up his mind to inquire about it after the trial from Surcouf, the registrar76, who was an obliging man. In getting206 together his collections he used artifice77. “One must rise to the occasion,” he used to say to himself. “Times are bad.”
“I was nominated deputy at twenty-two years of age,” resumed M. Cassignol. “At that time my long, curly hair, my beardless, ruddy cheeks, gave me a look of youth that rendered me desperate. In order to inspire respect I had to affect an air of solemnity and to wear an aspect of severity. I carried out my duties with a diligence that brought its reward. At thirty-three years of age I became attorney-general at Puy.”
“It is a picturesque78 town,” said M. Mazure.
“In the performance of my new duties I had to inquire into an affair of little interest, if one only took account of the nature of the crime and the character of the accused, but which had indeed its own importance, since it was a matter that involved the death sentence. A fairly prosperous farmer had been found murdered in his bed. I pass over the circumstances of the crime, which yet remain fixed79 in my memory, although they were as commonplace as possible. I need only say that, from the opening of the inquiry80, suspicions fell on a ploughman, a servant of the victim. This was a man of thirty. His name was Poudrailles, Hyacinthe Poudrailles. On the day following the crime he had suddenly disappeared, and was found in a wine-shop, where207 he was spending pretty freely. Strong circumstantial evidence pointed81 to him as the author of this murder. A sum of sixty francs was found on him, for the possession of which he could not account; his clothes bore traces of blood. Two witnesses had seen him prowling round the farm on the night of the crime. It is true that another witness swore to an alibi82, but that witness was a well-known bad character.
“The examination had been very well managed by a judge of consummate83 ability. The case for the prosecution84 was drawn85 up with much skill. But Poudrailles had made no confession86. And in court, during the whole course of the cross-examination, he fenced himself about with a series of denials from which nothing could dislodge him. I had prepared my address as public prosecutor with all the care of which I was capable and with all the conscientiousness87 of a young man who does not wish to appear unfitted for his high duties. I brought to the delivery of it all the ardour of my youth. The alibi furnished by the woman Cortot, who pretended that she had kept Poudrailles in her house at Puy during the night of the crime, was a great obstacle to me. I set myself to break it down. I threatened the woman Cortot with the penalties attaching to perjury88. One of my arguments made a special impression on the mind of the jury. I reminded208 them that, according to the report of the neighbours, the watch-dogs had not barked at the murderer. That was because they knew him. It was, then, no stranger. It was the ploughman; it was Poudrailles. Finally I called for the death penalty, and I got it. Poudrailles was condemned89 to death by a majority of votes. After the reading of the sentence, he exclaimed in a loud voice: ‘I am innocent!’ At this a terrible doubt seized me. I felt that, after all, he might be speaking the truth, and that I did not myself possess that certainty with which I had inspired the minds of the jury. My colleagues, my chiefs, my seniors, and even the counsel for the defence came to congratulate me on this brilliant success, to applaud my youthful and formidable eloquence90. These praises were sweet to me. You know, gentlemen, Vauvenargues’ dainty fancy about the first rays of glory. Yet the voice of Poudrailles saying, ‘I am innocent’ thundered in my ears.
“My doubts still remained with me, and I was forced again and again to go over my speech for the prosecution in my mind.
“Poudrailles’ appeal was dismissed, and my uncertainty91 increased. At that time it was comparatively seldom that reprieves92 arrested the carrying out of the death sentence. Poudrailles petitioned in vain for a commutation of the sentence. On the morning of the day fixed for the execution, when209 the scaffold had already been erected93 at Martouret, I went to the prison, got them to open the condemned cell to me, and alone, face to face with the prisoner, said to him: ‘Nothing can alter your fate. If there remains in you one good feeling, in the interests of your own soul and to set my mind at rest, Poudrailles, tell me whether you are guilty of the crime for which you are condemned.’ He looked at me for some moments without replying. I still see his dull face and wide, dumb mouth. I had a moment of terrible anguish94. At last he bent his head right down and murmured in a feeble but distinct voice: ‘Now that I have no hope left, I may as well tell you that I did it. And I had more trouble than you would believe, because the old man was strong. All the same, he was a bad lot.’ When I heard this final confession I heaved a deep sigh of relief.”
M. Cassignol stopped, gazed fixedly95 for a long time at the knob of his stick with his faded, washed-out eyes, and then uttered these words:
“That’s a reassuring97 statement,” said M. de Terremondre.
“It makes my blood run cold with horror,” murmured M. Bergeret.
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1
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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3
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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4
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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6
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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8
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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9
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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10
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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11
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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13
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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14
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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unreasonableness
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| 无理性； 横逆 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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40
dishonours
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| 不名誉( dishonour的名词复数 )； 耻辱； 丢脸； 丢脸的人或事 | |
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41
arson
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| n.纵火，放火 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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43
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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44
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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45
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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46
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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47
straightforwardly
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| adv.正直地 | |
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48
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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49
munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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50
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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51
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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52
depreciating
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的现在分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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53
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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54
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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ossified
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| adj.已骨化[硬化]的v.骨化，硬化，使僵化( ossify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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reprieves
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| n.（死刑）缓期执行令( reprieve的名词复数 )；暂缓，暂止v.缓期执行（死刑）( reprieve的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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