In spite of his reluctance12, his sense of foreboding, Georges de Saint Pierre came to Paris on the night of the 12th, which he spent at the widow's apartment. He went to his own rooms on the morning of the 13th.
This eventful day, which, to quote Iago, was either to "make or fordo quite" the widow, found her as calm, cool and deliberate in the execution of her purpose as the Ancient himself. Gaudry came to her apartment about five o'clock in the afternoon. The widow showed him the vitriol and gave him final directions. She would, she said, return from the ball about three o'clock in the morning. Gaudry was then sent away till ten o'clock, as Georges was dining with her. He returned at half-past ten and found the widow dressing13, arraying herself in a pink domino and a blonde wig14. She was in excellent spirits. When Georges came to fetch her, she put Gaudry into an alcove15 in the drawing-room which was curtained off from the rest of the room. Always thoughtful, she had placed a stool there that he might rest himself. Gaudry could hear her laughing and joking with her lover. She reproached him playfully with hindering her in her dressing. To keep him quiet, she gave him a book to read, Montaigne's "Essays." Georges opened it and read the thirty-fifth chapter of the second book, the essay on "Three Good Women," which tells how three brave women of antiquity17 endured death or suffering in order to share their husbands' fate. Curiously18 enough, the essay concludes with these words, almost prophetic for the unhappy reader: "I am enforced to live, and sometimes to live is magnanimity." Whilst Georges went to fetch a cab, the widow released Gaudry from his place of concealment19, exhorted20 him to have courage, and promised him, if he succeeded, the accomplishment21 of his desire. And so the gay couple departed for the ball. There the widow's high spirits, her complete enjoyment22, were remarked by more than one of her acquaintances; she danced one dance with her lover, and with another young man made an engagement for the following week.
Meanwhile, at the Rue de Boulogne, Gaudry sat and waited in the widow's bedroom. From the window he could see the gate and the lights of the cab that was to bring the revellers home. The hours passed slowly. He tried to read the volume of Montaigne where Georges had left it open, but the words conveyed little to him, and he fell asleep. Between two and three o'clock in the morning he was waked by the noise of wheels. They had returned. He hurried downstairs and took up his position in the shadow of one of the pavilions. As Georges de Saint Pierre walked up the drive alone, for the widow had stayed behind to fasten the gate, he thought he saw the figure of a man in the darkness. The next moment he was blinded by the burning liquid flung in his face. The widow had brought down her pigeon.
At first she would seem to have succeeded perfectly23 in her attempt. Georges was injured for life, the sight of one eye gone, that of the other threatened, his face sadly disfigured. Neither he nor anyone else suspected the real author of the crime. It was believed that the unfortunate man had been mistaken for some other person, and made by accident the victim of an act of vengeance24 directed against another. Georges was indeed all the widow's now, lodged25 in her own house to nurse and care for. She undertook the duty with every appearance of affectionate devotion. The unhappy patient was consumed with gratitude26 for her untiring solicitude27; thirty nights she spent by his bedside. His belief in her was absolute. It was his own wish that she alone should nurse him. His family were kept away, any attempts his relatives or friends made to see or communicate with him frustrated28 by the zealous29 widow.
It was this uncompromising attitude on her part toward the friends of Georges, and a rumour30 which reached the ears of one of them that she intended as soon as possible to take her patient away to Italy, that sounded the first note of danger to her peace of mind. This friend happened to be acquainted with the son of one of the Deputy Public Prosecutors31 in Paris. To that official he confided32 his belief that there were suspicious circumstances in the case of Georges de Saint Pierre. The judicial33 authorities were informed and the case placed in the hands of an examining magistrate34. On February 2, nearly a month after the crime, the magistrate, accompanied by Mace35, then a commissary of police, afterwards head of the Detective Department, paid a visit to the Rue de Boulogne. Their reception was not cordial. It was only after they had made known their official character that they got audience of the widow. She entered the room, carrying in her hand a surgical36 spray, with which she played nervously37 while the men of the law asked to see her charge. She replied that it was impossible. Mace placed himself in front of the door by which she had entered, and told her that her attitude was not seemly. "Leave that spray alone," he said; "it might shoot over us, and then perhaps we should be sprinkled as M. de Saint Pierre was." From that moment, writes Mace, issue was joined between the widow and himself.
The magistrate insisted on seeing the patient. He sat by his bedside. M. de Saint Pierre told him that, having no enemies, he was sure he had been the victim of some mistake, and that, as he claimed no damages for his injuries, he did not wish his misfortune to be made public. He wanted to be left alone with his brave and devoted38 nurse, and to be spared the nervous excitement of a meeting with his family. He intended, he added, to leave Paris shortly for change of scene and air. The widow cut short the interview on the ground that her patient was tired.
It was inhuman39, she said, to make him suffer so. The magistrate, before leaving, asked her whither she intended taking her patient. She replied, "To Italy." That, said the magistrate, would be impossible until his inquiry40 was closed. In the meantime she might take him to any place within the Department of the Seine; but she must be prepared to be under the surveillance of M. Mace, who would have the right to enter her house whenever he should think it expedient41. With this disconcerting intelligence the men of the law took leave of the widow.
She was no longer to be left in undisturbed possession of her prize. Her movements were watched by two detectives. She was seen to go to the bachelor lodgings42 of Georges and take away a portable desk, which contained money and correspondence. More mysterious, however, was a visit she paid to the Charonne Cemetery43, where she had an interview with an unknown, who was dressed in the clothes of a workman. She left the cemetery alone, and the detectives lost track of her companion. This meeting took place on February 11. Shortly after the widow left Paris with Georges de Saint Pierre for the suburb of Courbevoie.
Mace had elicited44 certain facts from the porter at the Rue de Boulogne and other witnesses, which confirmed his suspicion that the widow had played a sinister45 part in her lover's misfortune. Her insistence46 that he should take her to the ball on January 13; the fact that, contrary to the ordinary politeness of a gentleman, he was walking in front of her at the time of the attack; and that someone must have been holding the gate open to enable the assailant to escape it was a heavy gate, which, if left to itself after being opened, would swing too quickly on its hinges and shut of its own accord—these facts were sufficient to excite suspicion. The disappearance47, too, of the man calling himself her brother, who had been seen at her apartment on the afternoon of the 13th, coupled with the mysterious interview in the cemetery, suggested the possibility of a crime in which the widow had had the help of an accomplice. To facilitate investigation48 it was necessary to separate the widow from her lover. The examining magistrate, having ascertained49 from a medical report that such a separation would not be hurtful to the patient, ordered the widow to be sent back to Paris, and the family of M. de Saint Pierre to take her place. The change was made on March 6. On leaving Courbevoie the widow was taken to the office of Mace. There the commissary informed her that she must consider herself under provisional arrest. "But who," she asked indignantly, "is to look after my Georges?" "His family," was the curt16 reply. The widow, walking up and down the room like a panther, stormed and threatened. When she had in some degree recovered herself, Mace asked her certain questions. Why had she insisted on her lover going to the ball? She had done nothing of the kind. How was it his assailant had got away so quickly by the open gate? She did not know. What was the name and address of her reputed brother? She was not going to deliver an honest father of a family into the clutches of the police. What was the meaning of her visit to the Charonne Cemetery? She went there to pray, not to keep assignations. "And if you want to know," she exclaimed, "I have had typhoid fever, which makes me often forget things. So I shall say nothing more—nothing—nothing."
Taken before the examining magistrate, her attitude continued to be defiant50 and arrogant51. "Your cleverest policemen," she told the magistrate, "will never find any evidence against me. Think well before you send me to prison. I am not the woman to live long among thieves and prostitutes." Before deciding finally whether the widow should be thrown into such uncongenial society, the magistrate ordered Mace to search her apartment in the Rue de Boulogne.
On entering the apartment the widow asked that all the windows should be opened. "Let in the air," she said; "the police are coming in; they make a nasty smell." She was invited to sit down while the officers made their search. Her letters and papers were carefully examined; they presented a strange mixture of order and disorder52. Carefully kept account books of her personal expenses were mixed up with billets dous, paints and pomades, moneylenders' circulars, belladonna and cantharides. But most astounding53 of all were the contents of the widows' prie-Dieu. In this devotional article of furniture were stored all the inmost secrets of her profligate54 career. Affectionate letters from the elderly gentleman on whom she had imposed a supposititious child lay side by side with a black-edged card, on which was written the last message of a young lover who had killed himself on her account. "Jeanne, in the flush of my youth I die because of you, but I forgive you.—M." With these genuine outpourings of misplaced affection were mingled55 the indecent verses of a more vulgar admirer, and little jars of hashish. The widow, unmoved by this rude exposure of her way of life, only broke her silence to ask Mace the current prices on the Stock Exchange.
One discovery, however, disturbed her equanimity56. In the drawer of a cupboard, hidden under some linen57, Mace found a leather case containing a sheaf of partially-burnt letters. As he was about to open it the widow protested that it was the property of M. de Saint Pierre. Regardless of her protest, Mace opened the case, and, looking through the letters, saw that they were addressed to M. de Saint Pierre and were plainly of an intimate character. "I found them on the floor near the stove in the dining-room," said the widow, "and I kept them. I admit it was a wrong thing to do, but Georges will forgive me when he knows why I did it." From his better acquaintance with her character Mace surmised58 that an action admitted by the widow to be "wrong" was in all probability something worse. Without delay he took the prisoner back to his office, and himself left for Courbevoie, there to enlighten, if possible, her unhappy victim as to the real character of his enchantress.
The interview was a painful one. The lover refused to hear a word against his mistress. "Jeanne is my Antigone," he said. "She has lavished59 on me all her care, her tenderness, her love, and she believes in God." Mace told him of her past, of the revelations contained in the prie-Dieu of this true believer, but he could make no impression. "I forgive her past, I accept her present, and please understand me, no one has the power to separate me from her." It was only when Mace placed in his hands the bundle of burnt letters, that he might feel what he could not see, and read him some passages from them, that the unhappy man realised the full extent of his mistress' treachery. Feeling himself dangerously ill, dying perhaps, M. de Saint Pierre had told the widow to bring from his rooms to the Rue de Boulogne the contents of his private desk. It contained some letters compromising to a woman's honour. These he was anxious to destroy before it was too late. As he went through the papers, his eyes bandaged, he gave them to the widow to throw into the stove. He could hear the fire burning and feel its warmth. He heard the widow take up the tongs60. He asked her why she did so. She answered that it was to keep the burning papers inside the stove. Now from Mace he learnt the real truth. She had used the tongs to take out some of the letters half burnt, letters which in her possession might be one day useful instruments for levying61 blackmail62 on her lover. "To blind me," exclaimed M. de Saint Pierre, "to torture me, and then profit by my condition to lie to me, to betray me—it's infamous—infamous!" His dream was shattered. Mace had succeeded in his task; the disenchantment of M. de Saint Pierre was complete. That night the fastidious widow joined the thieves and prostitutes in the St. Lazare Prison.
It was all very well to imprison63 the widow, but her participation64 in the outrage65 on M. de Saint Pierre was by no means established.
The reputed brother, who had been in the habit of attending on her at the Rue de Boulogne, still eluded66 the searches of the police. In silence lay the widow's only hope of baffling her enemies. Unfortunately for the widow, confinement67 told on her nerves. She became anxious, excited. Her very ignorance of what was going on around her, her lover's silence made her apprehensive68; she began to fear the worst. At length—the widow always had an itch69 for writing—she determined70 to communicate at all costs with Gaudry and invoke71 his aid. She wrote appealing to him to come forward and admit that he was the man the police were seeking, for sheltering whom she had been thrown into prison. She drew a harrowing picture of her sufferings in jail. She had refused food and been forcibly fed; she would like to dash her head against the walls. If any misfortune overtake Gaudry, she promises to adopt his son and leave him a third of her property. She persuaded a fellow-prisoner; an Italian dancer undergoing six months' imprisonment72 for theft, who was on the point of being released, to take the letter and promise to deliver it to Gaudry at Saint Denis. On her release the dancer told her lover of her promise. He refused to allow her to mix herself up in such a case, and destroyed the letter. Then the dancer blabbed to others, until her story reached the ears of the police. Mace sent for her. At first she could remember only that the name Nathalis occurred in the letter, but after visiting accidentally the Cathedral at Saint Denis, she recollected73 that this Nathalis lived there, and worked in an oil factory. It was easy after this for the police to trace Gaudry. He was arrested. At his house, letters from the widow were found, warning him not to come to her apartment, and appointing to meet him in Charonne Cemetery. Gaudry made a full confession74. It was his passion for the widow, and a promise on her part to marry him, which, he said, had induced him to perpetrate so abominable75 a crime. He was sent to the Mazas Prison.
In the meantime the Widow Gras was getting more and more desperate. Her complete ignorance tormented76 her. At last she gave up all hope, and twice attempted suicide with powdered glass and verdigris77. On May 12 the examining magistrate confronted her with Gaudry. The man told his story, the widow feigned79 surprise that the "friend of her childhood" should malign80 her so cruelly. But to her desperate appeals Gaudry would only reply, "It is too late!" They were sent for trial.
The trial of the widow and her accomplice opened before the Paris Assize Court on July 23, 1877, and lasted three days. The widow was defended by Lachaud, one of the greatest criminal advocates of France, the defender81 of Madame Lafarge, La Pommerais, Troppmann, and Marshal Bazaine. M. Demange (famous later for his defence of Dreyfus) appeared for Gaudry. The case had aroused considerable interest. Among those present at the trial were Halevy, the dramatist, and Mounet-Sully and Coquelin, from the Comedie Francaise. Fernand Rodays thus described the widow in the Figaro: "She looks more than her age, of moderate height, well made, neither blatant82 nor ill at ease, with nothing of the air of a woman of the town. Her hands are small. Her bust83 is flat, and her back round, her hair quite white. Beneath her brows glitter two jet-black eyes—the eyes of a tigress, that seem to breathe hatred84 and revenge."
Gaudry was interrogated85 first. Asked by the President the motive87 of his crime, he answered, "I was mad for Madame Gras; I would have done anything she told me. I had known her as a child, I had been brought up with her. Then I saw her again. I loved her, I was mad for her, I couldn't resist it. Her wish was law to me."
Asked if Gaudry had spoken the truth, the widow said that he lied. The President asked what could be his motive for accusing her unjustly. The widow was silent. Lachaud begged her to answer. "I cannot," she faltered88. The President invited her to sit down. After a pause the widow seemed to recover her nerve.
President: Was Gaudry at your house while you were at the ball?
Widow: No, no! He daren't look me in the face and say so.
President: But he is looking at you now.
Widow: No, he daren't! (She fixes her eyes on Gaudry, who lowers his head.)
President: I, whose duty it is to interrogate86 you, look you in the face and repeat my question: Was Gaudry at your house at half-past ten that night?
Widow: No.
President: You hear her, Gaudry?
Gaudry: Yes, Monsieur, but I was there.
Widow: It is absolutely impossible! Can anyone believe me guilty of such a thing.
President: Woman Gras, you prefer to feign78 indignation and deny everything. You have the right. I will read your examination before the examining magistrate. I see M. Lachaud makes a gesture, but I must beg the counsel for the defence not to impart unnecessary passion into these proceedings90.
Lachaud: My gesture was merely meant to express that the woman Gras is on her trial, and that under the circumstances her indignation is natural.
President: Very good.
The appearance in the witness box of the widow's unhappy victim evoked91 sympathy. He gave his evidence quietly, without resentment92 or indignation. As he told his story the widow, whose eyes were fixed93 on him all the time, murmured: "Georges! Georges! Defend me! Defend me!" "I state the facts," he replied.
The prisoners could only defend themselves by trying to throw on each other the guilt89 of the crime. M. Demange represented Gaudry as acting94 under the influence of his passion for the Widow Gras. Lachaud, on the other hand, attributed the crime solely95 to Gaudry's jealousy96 of the widow's lover, and contended that he was the sole author of the outrage.
The jury by their verdict assigned to the widow the greater share of responsibility. She was found guilty in the full degree, but to Gaudry were accorded extenuating97 circumstances. The widow was condemned98 to fifteen years' penal99 servitude, her accomplice to five years' imprisonment.
It is dreadful to think how very near the Widow Gras came to accomplishing successfully her diabolical100 crime. A little less percipitancy on her part, and she might have secured the fruits of her cruelty. Her undoubted powers of fascination101, in spite of the fiendishness of her real character, are doubly proved by the devotion of her lover and the guilt of her accomplice. At the same time, with that strange contradiction inherent in human nature, the Jekyll and Hyde elements which, in varying degree, are present in all men and women, the Widow Gras had a genuine love for her young sister. Her hatred of men was reasoned, deliberate, merciless and implacable. There is something almost sadistic102 in the combination in her character of erotic sensibility with extreme cruelty.
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1
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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alluringly
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| 诱人地，妩媚地 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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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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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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prosecutors
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| 检举人( prosecutor的名词复数 )； 告发人； 起诉人； 公诉人 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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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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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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54
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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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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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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interrogate
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| vt.讯问，审问，盘问 | |
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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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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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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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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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98
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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99
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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100
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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101
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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102
sadistic
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| adj.虐待狂的 | |
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