“What conclusion do you draw from it?”
said a voice.
The story-teller seemed to hesitate.
“The conclusion I draw from it—well,
by Jove, the conclusion is that it was just a coincidence!
And then—who can tell? Perhaps it
was some glance of hers which I had not noticed and
which came back that night to me through one of those
mysterious and unconscious —recollections
that often bring before us things ignored by our own
consciousness, unperceived by our minds!”
“Call it whatever you like,” said one
of his table companions, when the story was finished;
“but if you don’t believe in magnetism
after that, my dear boy, you are an ungrateful fellow!”
All Veziers-le-Rethel had followed the funeral procession
of M. Badon-Leremince to the grave, and the last words
of the funeral oration pronounced by the delegate
of the district remained in the minds of all:
“He was an honest man, at least!”
An honest man he had been in all the known acts of
his life, in his words, in his examples, his attitude,
his behavior, his enterprises, in the cut of his beard
and the shape of his hats. He never had said a
word that did not set an example, never had given
an alms without adding a word of advice, never had
extended his hand without appearing to bestow a benediction.
He left two children, a boy and a girl. His son
was counselor general, and his daughter, having married
a lawyer, M. Poirel de la Voulte, moved in the best
society of Veziers.
They were inconsolable at the death of their father,
for they loved him sincerely.
As soon as the ceremony was over, the son, daughter
and son-in-law returned to the house of mourning,
and, shutting themselves in the library, they opened
the will, the seals of which were to be broken by
them alone and only after the coffin had been placed
in the ground. This wish was expressed by a notice
on the envelope.
M. Poirel de la Voulte tore open the envelope, in
his character of a lawyer used to such operations,
and having adjusted his spectacles, he read in a monotonous
voice, made for reading the details of contracts:
My children, my dear children, I could
not sleep the eternal sleep in peace if I did not
make to you from the tomb a confession, the confession
of a crime, remorse for which has ruined my life.
Yes, I committed a crime, a frightful, abominable
crime.
I was twenty-six years old, and I had
just been called to the bar in Paris, and was living
the life off young men from the provinces who are
stranded in this town without acquaintances, relatives,
or friends.
I took a sweetheart. There are beings
who cannot live alone. I was one of those.
Solitude fills me with horrible anguish, the solitude
of my room beside my fire in the evening. I
feel then as if I were alone on earth, alone, but
