CHÉRI-BIBI

THE signalman had struck the eight bells of midnight when Captain Barrachon returned to his cabin. He sat down at his desk, and prepared to resume, at the point at which he had left off, the special report of the exceptional incidents which had occurred during a remarkable voyage. He had come from the sick-bay, where he had been visiting the guards disabled by Chéri-Bibi’s shots, and he had stayed for a space by the bedside of Sister St. Mary of the Angels, who had become delirious. He was anxious to put in writing, in a detailed form, the events of that disastrous day. The weather was fine and the sea quite smooth. The _Bayard_, oppressed by its cargo of convicts, continued its course in “peace and quietness” towards the Iles du Salut. After the recent storms--the storms of heaven as well as those on board ship--this interval of calm was so unexpected and so greatly appreciated that the Captain, who was already bending over a table to write, raised his head with a sigh of relief as though he were coming to himself after a bad dream.

But he sat stock still, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, for he suddenly saw standing before him a gloomy figure which was smiling at him.

“Chéri-Bibi!”

He sprang to his feet.

But he at once fell back in his chair. The gloomy figure leant over the desk and leveled the muzzle of a revolver between his eyes. And it was no longer smiling. He felt his pocket. He was unarmed. Someone had stolen his weapon from him. Someone had foreseen everything. And the figure standing between him and the door was smiling once more.

“Be sensible.... Not a word.... _Fatalitas!_”

Having said which the ominous visitor took a seat without being invited and went on:

“Monsieur, I am an honest man!”

He was silent after making this declaration as if he were weighing deliberately in his mind what he had said, so that it seemed after a few moments as if he must add:

“Or, I have been.”

The statement seemed to plunge him anew into an abyss of cogitation from which he emerged to say:

“Oh, I might have been.... _Fatalitas!_”

The Captain, observing that his visitor was so self-possessed, was infected by this air of placidity. He listened and looked at him. He had seen that frightful face before, but he did not recognize it. So far he had regarded him with disgust and dismay. Now he took stock of him with curiosity. He saw before him a man with a big square head, wide mouth and thick lips, short, squat nose, immense ears, small, round, extremely piercing eyes, always on the alert underneath the arch of their harsh and bushy eyebrows; hair closely cropped in accordance with the regulations, revealing the exact outline of the skull in which Gall or Lavater would easily have discerned bumps of amativeness, combativeness, and destructiveness which might pertain alike to a ragamuffin who would defend his mistress to the death, or to a soldier who would die for his country.

Every instinct was expressed in that face. The broad, lined forehead showed that Chéri-Bibi was capable of great things, but the perpendicular wrinkles at the base of the nose denoted the capacity for hatred and revenge. Small, round, piercing eyes, we know, indicate shrewdness and cunning, and a mischievous and sarcastic disposition. Next, the wide, squat nose was that of a person of simple nature, easily deceived. The jaw was formidable, but the mouth with its thick, fleshy lips, slightly apart, expressed good nature and candor. And the impression as a whole which the vision of this man produced was enormously disturbing inasmuch as it was impossible to obtain an impression of the face as a whole.

One could not tell what to trust in that face. It might be that, at one time, it possessed some harmony which the barber, by depriving him of his natural covering, had got rid of. If Chéri-Bibi had had a forked beard and long hair he would have resembled a somewhat countrified preacher, and if he had worn side whiskers he would have looked like a valet in a great household who had murdered his master.

He might once have been handsome. Satan before the fall was the most beautiful of the angels.

And over and above all this he loved a joke and to seem to be laughing. When he did laugh he looked awful.

“_Fatalitas_,” he said, “there you have my enemy. If you knew what a run of ill-luck I’ve had in my life, you’d scarcely credit it. My fellow-prisoners complain of their failures. But I, what shall I say about mine? By the way, I am considered an anarchist. I should like to say positively at the beginning of this talk that I am anything but an anarchist. I, Monsieur, find society, such as it is at present, extremely well constituted. And I have always had the desire to make for myself a humble but honorable place in it. The unfortunate part is that I have never been able to succeed in doing so.

“_Fatalitas!_ I have read Kropotkine. His theory of society hasn’t a leg to stand on; and as for Karl Marx, I must tell you at once that I should regret all my life the efforts that I have made to secure for myself other people’s property if I were forced to share that property with persons whom I don’t know.... I like to do charitable deeds, of course, but I shouldn’t like to be compelled to do them with a knife at my throat.... The boot should be on the other leg!... I am neither an anarchist nor a socialist.... You must understand that once for all. And if you want to know what I am, well, I myself will tell you, Monsieur. I am a capitalist. At any rate, you understand, all that I ask is to become one!

“The most surprising thing in my career is the obstinacy with which the anarchists who defend me and the judges who prosecute me are at one in hurting my feelings! I am not an anarchist. I will go a step further--I am certain that if you knew me better, my dear Captain, you would agree with me--I am not at all an ill-disposed person. It would never have occurred to me, for instance, to write a book, like Little Buddha’s, on the ‘Reform of the Magistrature.’ Judges do their best, and it would not be right to forget that they are men like ourselves! I grant you that, every now and then, one of them goes wrong. It’s a pity, but it can’t be helped, and of a certainty it’s not because one glazier murders his mother-in-law that we should regard all glaziers as rascals.

“Look here, as we’re talking of judges I will admit that I bear them no ill-will for their mistakes, seeing that to err is human. And yet, Monsieur, the man who is talking to you like this, and is entered on the convicts’ register as No. 3216, is innocent.

“You seem to be astonished, and I will admit that you have good reason to be. But it is God’s truth, as my sister says ...”

“Will you have a glass of water?” asked the Captain.

“No, thank you. You’re too kind. Don’t disturb anyone on my account.”

The Captain bowed in assent. What was the object of the peculiar and remarkable farce that was being played by these two men? The Captain, in so far as Chéri-Bibi was concerned, wondered. “He must have some reason for wanting to gain time,” he said to himself, “and as he is a criminal of the most impudent type, he’s trying to stagger me.”

As a matter of fact Chéri-Bibi was showing off, and the sight of Chéri-Bibi showing off was a monstrous one. It was only necessary to hear him say: “I am innocent.... That’s God’s truth as my sister says.” The phrase “as my sister says” added to the words “God’s truth” were uttered in a tone that seemed to set the whole world at defiance. He went on with his explanation:

“When I say ‘as my sister says’ I don’t want you to think that my sister believes in my innocence, but that she believes in God. I, Monsieur, I do not believe in God. Brought up from infancy in principles which enabled me to do without any such belief, I shall not have the final satisfaction of knowing exactly on whom to lay the blame for all my misfortunes. Well, Monsieur, if the Supreme Being, as we say at school, existed he would have a devilish bad time of it with me, please believe. There is only one thing which can explain my case, and which it is really worth while to dwell on, only one thing, and that thing is a confounded _she_: I’ve called her Fatality. Monsieur, you see before you a victim by decree of fate: _Fatalitas!_ I was good, I am bad. I was gentle, I am violent. I used to love, I now hate. Monsieur, I will tell you the story of my first offense, and you will at once pity me. As a stroke of bad luck, my first offense goes beyond anything that you can imagine. And yet it was very ordinary. Here it is ...

“I was born at Dieppe of poor but honest parents. My parents were servants in an old and honorable family. My father was the gardener, and my mother the lodge-keeper. We lived in a small cottage at the park gates. I have nothing to hide from you. I will mention names. My name is Jean Mascart. Our master’s name was Bourrelier, and the Bourreliers belong to an old middle-class family of extremely wealthy shipowners who, however, were greatly worried by having such a common name.

“The family consisted of Monsieur and Madame Bourrelier, a daughter and a son. The son was enjoying himself in Paris. During the summer months they lived on their big estate at Puys, a mile at most from Dieppe, on the main road. The daughter was called Cécile, but everyone called her by the sweet name of Cecily and everyone loved her. For that matter, it was impossible to see her and not to love her. I was only fifteen at that time and she was seventeen, and I was very struck on her. Oh, in the most innocent and respectful manner in the world, for I was then as good as gold, and I had a level mind which enabled me to see things in their proper proportion; and the position that Cecily occupied was so much above my humble station that I did not allow myself to indulge in any ridiculous hopes. I loved her, that was all.

“My only happiness consisted in watching Cecily. I never lost an opportunity. I gave up my calling, which was, it seems, to be a surveyor, in order to see her every day. Yes, my schoolmaster had discovered that I had an inclination for geometry. Then my father, a simple soul who did not make difficulties where there were none, said:

“‘Very well, we’ll make a surveyor of him.’

“But I should have had to go to a boarding school in Rouen. I should never have agreed to that. Leave Cecily! Why, I would rather die. Nevertheless I had reached an age when I had to make up my mind. Something had to be done. So one day I said to my father: ‘Dad, do you know what I should like to be? I should like to be a butcher. Yes, I feel that I have a taste for the slaughter-house!’

“I was not talking at random. More than once I had stopped outside butchers’ shops with no sort of intention of buying anything, but simply to look on and to understand. The sight of all that red meat, quite fresh, attracted me. I envied one of my young friends who was a butcher’s boy and could handle it every day.

“Sometimes he took me to the slaughter-house, and it was a joy to see how he cut a calf’s throat with a single stroke of his knife called ‘the bleeder.’ I felt a shudder, which was not wholly unpleasant, when he manipulated this big knife, which was double the size of a carver, and when he explained to me how to unsinew the animal. The knife must not, he said, be used with a ‘double movement’; in other words, you had to avoid working backwards in the cut, as was done by persons who did not understand their job. Otherwise the meat would be hacked, and it was work that should be neatly done!

“Afterwards he showed me how to ‘decorate’ the skin of the calf’s stomach with a small sharp knife. I, who had an inclination for geometry, would have liked to draw on the calf’s skin, circles, squares, parallelograms, just as he drew hearts, arrows, flowers. Let it not be said that the butcher is a materialist, for, after all, nothing compels him--does it?--to draw flowers on the stomachs of calves.

“And so I acquired the taste for this very safe and respectable business which, in most cases, brings in considerable profits. My father did not stand in my way, and indeed he was at once satisfied when I told him that I was about to become an apprentice to a butcher in Le Pollet, a suburb of Dieppe near Puys; a butcher who, as it happened, supplied the Bourreliers with their meat.

“I had thought out the whole scheme. I knew that I should have to take the meat to Puys, and I was certain to see Cecily every day, because her mother had made a good housewife of her, and it was she who nearly always interviewed the tradesmen. Matters turned out as I expected, and, believe me, I did not rob her in any transaction. I always managed things in such a way as to supply her with the best cuts, and I was not the one to try to palm off on her an upper-cut as an under-cut, or a cut from the leg as rump steak. Moreover, I took good care when I delivered veal, to do the ‘decorations’ myself, and I assure you that Monsieur Bouguereau, the famous painter, could not have shown off a calf more beautifully with his brush than I did with my small knife.

“I am entering into these particulars, Monsieur, because I’m very glad to spread myself a little over a time which was the most delightful in my life. I can see myself now, my spotlessly clean apron tucked up carefully above the knee and taken in at the waist, my steel at my side, the veal in my basket, hastening on my bicycle to meet Cecily. I left my machine at the door of the cottage in which my parents lived, and after kissing my dear mother and my charming sister who, in those days, was called Jacqueline, like anybody else, I turned my steps with a beating heart to the park. If sometimes I stopped out of breath, gasping, it was because I had heard Cecily’s fairy footsteps gliding over the grassy slope. How beautiful she was! What grace of movement! What simplicity of manner!

“And then she was as fresh as a daisy and as gay as a lark on a summer’s day. To see her was all I asked. To die for her was all I wanted. And no one ever knew the secret of my heart. You see, Monsieur, my voice trembles now when I recall those exquisite moments. She had a way of asking: ‘Well, young man, is the meat really spotty to-day?’ Was it really spotty indeed!... I used to blush, and when she observed it, she would smile and say:

“‘You are still a little bit of a muff, my poor boy.’

“And she took the joints from me with her own beautiful fragrant hands.

“And now, Monsieur, this is how the crime was committed, and how I was arrested and convicted. Believe it if you can. True, I committed the murder, but I was not to blame. Even now, after the lapse of so many years, I haven’t got over it. I must tell you at once that Cecily’s father, an immensely wealthy shipowner, was an old rake. He had been taking notice of my sister. Poor Jacqueline, who was as pious as a child’s prayer, was certainly the most virtuous girl in the district. Mothers held her up as an example to their daughters, and the rector would have chosen her as the winner of the rose if the custom of crowning the best girl in the parish had survived, in our country, the destruction of ancient customs.

“I have nothing to keep secret in this doleful story, which is known throughout Dieppe, where my sister lived again quite recently amid universal respect and the devoted friendship of the nuns in the hospital, who welcomed her with open arms.

“How and by what piece of trickery did Jacqueline fall a victim to the old ruffian Bourrelier? For my part, I’ve always believed the youngster’s story. She declared that Bourrelier enticed her into his office in Dieppe and drugged her one Sunday, after evening service, when no one was there. The result was that my sister nearly died, and there were terrible scenes between my father and Bourrelier, who, of course, got rid of us. Even I was sacked by my master, who was anxious to keep his customer. But I found a place elsewhere, and my sister became a nun.

“Meanwhile, I continued to see Cecily because I delivered meat for my new firm to the Château des Roches-Blanches, in Puys, where the Marquis du Touchais and his family, friends of the Bourreliers, lived during the season. The Marchioness was a very fine lady who, when she went out, was invariably escorted by old Rose, her lady-companion. I know that both of them are still living, for, as you may readily believe, although the case was tried fifteen years ago, the affair will never be finished with as long as my head is on my shoulders.

“The Marquis had a son, Count Maxime, a young man who was gadding about in Paris with Bourrelier’s son. Both of them used to return to their families in the season, and they often brought a friend with them who stayed at Bourrelier’s house. This friend was the Viscount Georges de Pont-Marie. The sons continued to visit each other in Puys, and very close relations existed between the château and the villa. Cecily often went with her mother to the château, and, therefore, I was able to behold her as the fancy took me.

“I no longer recognized her. She had a wistful expression which was painful for me to see, even if I assumed that this air of sadness had its origin in the terrible accident which had befallen my sister whom she loved so well. The three young men endeavored to cheer her up. Her father himself, the rascally Bourrelier, did not succeed in rousing her from her dejection even when he resorted to threats.

“One day I heard him bullying her rather severely. I walked away at once for I felt that I might not be able to control myself. Moreover, I always got out of the way of old Bourrelier, lest I should do something rash. And this was the one thing, above everything else, which I tried to avoid because of my love for his daughter. Now I learnt, some time after, the cause of these scenes. Old Bourrelier wanted his daughter to become a Countess and one day a Marchioness.... Yes, in spite of her opposition, he wanted her to marry Maxime du Touchais.

“The old Marquis du Touchais, of course, backed him up, for he was a poor man, and the Roches-Blanches estate, as well as everything that remained to the du Touchais’s of their old Norman property, was mortgaged up to the hilt and beyond. All their schemes for my poor Cecily were nicely faked! I felt sick at heart, especially as I knew that the poor girl always hoped to marry one of her cousins, young Marcel Garacan, who was then making a trial trip prior to attaining Captain’s rank in the merchant service.

“I saw Cecily every day for a fortnight, and every day she was in tears. It made me quite ill. She told her father, moreover, that she would rather die than marry Maxime du Touchais; and all the countryside was aware of it. The people pitied her, for they knew Bourrelier, and were quite sure that he would never allow her to have her own way.

“One evening, in mid-September, I was coming back from Roches-Blanches, on my bicycle, when I caught sight of two men fighting on the top of the cliff. They held each other round the body, and their struggles were such that I marveled how it was that they hadn’t fallen into the sea.

“I got off my bicycle, for in order to reach them I had to run across country, and then I distinctly heard one of them shouting in a choking voice: ‘Help!... Help!... Murder!’ I recognized the voice. It was Bourrelier’s.

“Notwithstanding that it was nightfall and growing dark, I was at once able to grasp the position. Bourrelier had his back to the sea, and was nearing the edge of the cliff; the other man, who had managed to release himself, gave him a push while clutching, with one hand, a telegraph pole. Consequently, this man had his back turned to me, and I could not see his face.

“It was not the moment to hesitate. I rushed forward and seized my man, shouting: ‘Let go, murderer!’ For answer he gave me a tremendous kick on the calf without turning round. I uttered a cry of pain, and grasping the knife which was hanging from my belt that evening, I aimed a terrible blow at his back. Monsieur, I must tell you that I had come from the slaughter-house, and had on me the ‘bleeder’ which I was taking to Le Pollet to be sharpened. You may imagine the sort of blow that I dealt him with that knife.

“Unfortunately, at that very moment old Bourrelier, who had succeeded in again seizing his opponent by the body, whisked him round in a flash towards the edge of the cliff, compelling him to leave go his hold of the telegraph pole, with the result ... with the result, listen to this carefully, that it was now old Bourrelier whose back was turned to me, and my knife went through old Bourrelier’s back as if it were butter, my dear Monsieur.

“He did not give even a groan. He sank to the ground at my feet. He was dead.

“I had killed the man whom I wanted to save.

“What do you say to that? Don’t you think that it was a stroke of ill-luck? And when I declare that it was fatality, that fate was against me, am I lying? Am I claiming too much?

“I had killed Cecily’s father. I ran off like a madman towards Dieppe, while the other man ran off like a madman, too, towards Puys. The body lay on the cliff with the knife still plunged in its back.

“Before I reached the top of the hill at Le Pollet, I worked out in my mind that if I left the knife in his back, people would soon find out that it was I who struck the blow. So I wandered back again, but I could not find the body. It had already gone! Had some passer-by discovered it? Had the alarm been given? I did not think so, for in that case there would have been a crowd of people on the cliff and considerable excitement along the coast at Puys.

“So what was I to do? The other man must have returned and, doubtless, thrown the body over the rocks. But what had he done with the knife? The knife, like the body, had disappeared. It was a terrible position for me to be in.

“At that very moment I noticed that I had lost my apron.... But where had I lost it?... I hunted high and low for it without finding it. Night had fallen. I was clean off my head.

“Only one hope was left to me: to find the man with whom Bourrelier had been fighting. I went down to Puys, taking care to keep out of the way, drawing back into the fields, or hiding myself behind a hedge when I heard the sound of footsteps.

“I had noticed one thing only about the man: his large gray hat, which was rammed over his brow and the brim of which was turned down over his eyes. Moreover, the ups and downs of the struggle and the darkening night prevented me from seeing anything more. I might recognize him by his hat and perhaps, too, by his build. He was tall and slim of figure, and he had shown by running away that he was pretty wide awake.

“I wandered round the château, the taverns, the villas during the greater part of the night, on the watch for the occasional shadows that rose up before me. At length I reached Dieppe, a prey to despair, as may easily be understood, but I dared not return to the shop nor to my own home. I spent the night in the open near the railway. Early next morning I turned my steps towards Le Pollet. Outside my new employer’s shop a crowd was assembled, and I caught a glimpse of a couple of policemen in the doorway. I at once took to my heels, and hid myself in a cave in the cliff which had once served as hiding-place for Georges Cadoudal.[2] He was a grave man if you like! Honor to his memory! I stayed there all day, convinced that the police were looking for me, and, worse luck, it was only too true.

“In the evening I left the cave, for I was ravenously hungry. I managed to steal, from a haberdasher’s shop-front in Beville, a piece of Gruyère cheese which lay there, wrapped up in a newspaper. An accident had made me a murderer, and the circumstances of my new life made me a thief. It was the finishing stroke; and I was under sixteen!

“It was a nice beginning, but wait a bit, the story is not yet over. I am keeping the tit-bit for the end.

“The newspaper in which the cheese was wrapped was a Dieppe paper of that very day. When I finished eating, I read it seated under a porch at the back of a poor, lonely farm up to which I had crept hoping to find something that might stay my hunger, for the Gruyère cheese had by no means satisfied it. A flickering light disclosed the headline of an article which I shall remember all my life:

‘TERRIBLE REVENGE BY A BOY OF FIFTEEN.’

Now I knew all about it. It concerned me. There was no possible mistake!

“The story seemed obvious. The evening before, M. Bourrelier’s family had vainly waited dinner for him. As it was growing late Madame Bourrelier, in a state of great anxiety, sent her son Robert to make inquiries. He went to Roches-Blanches, where he was informed by the astonished Marquis that Bourrelier had left the place in good time to return home for dinner by way of the cliff. Fearing that some accident had happened, the Marquis, his son Maxime, their friend Georges de Pont-Marie and Bourrelier’s son, set out along the cliff, and there, with better luck than I had, they found a butcher-boy’s apron; but there was no Bourrelier.

“They returned to the spot with lanterns, and finally they discovered traces of a struggle on the ground and in the grass. Feeling convinced that Bourrelier had been thrown over the cliff, they went to the village and along the beach, and the tide, as it happened, was low and there was no difficulty. It was not long before they saw in front of them the shipowner’s body.

“They carried the dead man to his house after the Marquis, who went on ahead, had broken the dreadful news to the family. You can imagine Cecily and her mother’s grief. The young girl was taken ill there and then and had to be put to bed. Meanwhile they telephoned to Dieppe; and the Commissary of Police appeared, accompanied by his secretary. The investigation was soon made.... A stab in the back and a butcher-boy’s apron.... That very evening my apron was identified by my employer. Besides, the Marquis remembered having seen me start off from Roches-Blanches a few minutes after Bourrelier, and declared that I had taken the same road.

“In the eyes of everyone, my connection with the matter was as clear as spring water. I had determined to avenge my sister whom the shipowner had, to use the expression of the newspaper, ‘treated badly.’ Moreover, I had benefited personally by the act of vengeance inasmuch as I had plundered the man whom I had murdered. Bourrelier’s pocketbook was not found on him, and, it seems, it contained several thousand franc notes. I was rich!

“The thing that astonished me, however, was the fact that the knife was nowhere to be found. Oh, they knew exactly what it was like! In a special edition of the newspaper, which was issued at ten o’clock in the morning, the knife was fully described. How was it that at ten o’clock in the morning they had not found the knife, the ‘bleeder,’ with which such splendid cuts could be made that there was no need to strike a second blow! The newspaper explained furthermore that the stab could only have been inflicted by someone who was an adept at that sort of thing, by a young butcher.

“Now that very night I myself found the precious knife in circumstances which were by no means ordinary, I can tell you.

“I folded up the newspaper, which foretold my early arrest, and went back to my cave in a somewhat dispirited frame of mind, believing that it was all up with me. What, indeed, could I do? What could I say to get myself acquitted? Tell the story of the man in the gray hat? The judge would shrug his shoulders, and no one would believe me. I could do nothing and say nothing unless I brought the man in the gray hat before the judge.

“There was no getting away from that. The man in the gray hat must be found. It struck me that his general appearance was not unfamiliar to me, and that I had had occasion to meet that particular form in Puys during the season. I ought not to despair, but to return every evening, every night, to Puys so as to spy upon all the shadows that passed in the dark.

“I still had my bicycle with me. I brought it out of my cave, and off I went to Puys. When I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, or caught sight of a light, I retreated into the open country and lay on the ground. Now, that night, I had given up all hope of meeting the man for whom I was searching, and after stealthily hunting throughout the village, I went off to the beach and was about to lie down on the sand under the cliff when a figure passed in front of me. It was my man!

“Oh, there was no mistake about it. It was he right enough.... Please believe that my heart throbbed wildly. At first I lay motionless. I was watching him. What was he doing on the beach at that hour? It was past two o’clock in the morning. I saw him make for a small, extremely narrow flight of steps, hewn in the solid rock, which led directly to the garden of Roches-Blanches, whose heavy and lofty outline towered above the sea.

“I did not want to alarm my man! I did not want him to run away as he did the night before, and I followed him on all fours. He mounted the steps. I stayed below and waited, intending to go up in my turn when he reached the top. Every now and then he stopped short and gazed around him, with ears on the alert for the least noise. I swear that I didn’t make a sound. Then he dived into his pocket, took out a key, and opened the little door which led to the Roches-Blanches garden.

“He closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar. The moon illuminated the entire scene. But I could only see the man from a somewhat restricted angle of the beach because there was a set-back in the cliff; and as he failed to observe anyone on that part of the beach, he might well believe that his presence was undetected.

“I clambered up the steps. When I reached the top, I pushed the door and slipped into the garden. A great calm reigned over the château. Everyone seemed to be asleep. Not a light gleamed in any of the windows. Which way had my man taken? I carefully closed the door behind me and bolted it lest he should escape me; and I hid myself in a pathway close by, ready to jump out upon him, and to call for help when he returned, for there was no doubt that he would come back that way. I had no idea what he came to the house for, but the fact that he left the door ajar suggested that, in all likelihood, he was relying on getting quietly away by the same means.

“Before he could unbolt the door I should be on him! And we should see what would happen. I was a match for him. I wasn’t afraid of him.

“Nearly a quarter of an hour passed.

“Nothing seemed to have stirred in the house when suddenly I heard a hollow cry, like a cry of fear and pain, followed by the heavy impact of a body falling to the ground. I darted forward. A window was open on the ground floor of the château. A figure hastily revealed itself at the window and seemed on the point of jumping out. It was he. It was the man in the gray hat.

“I sprang forward and found myself in a large dark room.

“At that moment a door opened and someone cried: ‘Who’s there? If you move a step you’re a dead man!’

“The light of a lantern was thrown on me, and I saw a short, stout man in night attire who threatened me with his revolver. ‘Don’t fire,’ I said, ‘I won’t move. There’s a man in the house!’

“‘I can see that well enough,’ was the reply.

“And he straightway kicked up the devil’s own row and shouted for help.

“The household came rushing in from all quarters; all of them in their night attire. Lights were brought, and I was recognized, and they exclaimed: ‘It’s Chéri-Bibi!’--I was known throughout the countryside by the name which my sister had given me--‘It’s Chéri-Bibi! We’ve got him!’

“‘He’s up to more mischief here,’ interposed a voice.

“And suddenly they raised a great outcry, for they had just discovered the Marquis du Touchais stretched at full length on the floor, in a pool of blood, in front of his safe.... He was dead with a big knife driven in his back.... I recognized the knife. It was mine.

“Well, Monsieur, what do you think of that, eh? Something out of the common in the way of chance! Have you ever heard of such a run of bad luck? If you have, say so. But I know that you’ve never heard of anything like it before, have you? _Fatalitas._ I am not, you understand, a disciple of Kropotkine or Tolstoy. I am not the product of anarchism or dubious reading. Nor am I the victim of evil instincts; that’s humbug. The circumvolution of the brain, as the Kanaka would say, is, as far as I am concerned, humbug also. When you’re born, you have all the bumps and none of the bumps ... a disposition for everything and nothing. At the beginning, take it from me, our instincts and our bumps mean nothing to us. They represent energies which demand to be utilized. That’s all.... That’s my theory of life. It’s not a complicated one. But, of course, these energies will flow into whatever channel they may be directed, that’s a certainty. But who manipulates the lever?... That’s what we want to find out.... That’s what we must take into consideration.... That’s where we must fix the responsibility....

“Sometimes the parents are at fault and sometimes society. It is never the child.... The poor kid himself is only too willing to go ahead--straight or crooked.... Well, who pulled the lever in my own particular case? It was neither my parents nor society. It was _Fatality_, that was all. The fact hits you in the eye. I can see it. I’ve faced it all my life. It was Fatality that pointed the way. When, by chance, I did not see the way, it drove me from behind. _Fatalitas!_ Oh, the jade!

“You understand me, I hope.... It’s all the better if you do. It shows that you have your wits about you....

“So it was my knife that they found!... You can imagine how they laid hands on me, and how they treated me. And how they settled me.... What was the good of my telling them that I was after a man in a gray hat? They disbelieved me all the more after they had searched the house from top to bottom so as to discover whether I had an accomplice, and found no trace of anyone. A couple of months later I appeared before the Assize Court, and as I was too young to be guillotined, I was sent to Cayenne to finish my education.

“I didn’t care one way or the other once I knew that I shouldn’t see Cecily again. What happened to her young life? I learnt the facts after my escape and return to France. Three days after her father’s death, and consequently two days after the Marquis’s death, Cecily sent word for Maxime du Touchais to come and see her. The young man had lost a great deal by Bourrelier’s death; for it seemed as if the man who had killed the shipowner had killed the marriage. He knew that Cecily would only marry him if she were compelled to do so by force. And even so, she had given him to understand that she would never yield to her father’s entreaties.

“So you can picture the young Marquis’s amazement when immediately after Bourrelier’s funeral, Cecily, in Bourrelier’s study and under Bourrelier’s portrait, gave him her hand saying: ‘Monsieur du Touchais, I regard you as my affianced husband. I give you my promise. A terrible misfortune has afflicted both of us, and in marrying you I am fulfilling my father’s last wishes.’ So saying she bowed to him and left him in a state bordering on stupor.

“This young ‘nut,’ as we should say in these days, could not understand from the beginning how a girl who had rejected the wishes of her father when he was alive should conform to them when he was dead. The idea of sacrifice over her father’s grave, which arose in that young girl’s heart, was far beyond his limited comprehension, and he could not rise to such heights for a moment; and if he had been told that old Bourrelier had threatened to curse his refractory daughter on the day of his death, it would not have sufficed to account for Cecily’s conduct. In his eyes, a father’s curse was one of those conventional phrases which have come down to us from a somewhat old-fashioned literature, and which have now ceased to pass for currency. He accepted his happiness, therefore, without understanding it, and when the period of mourning was over, Cecily and he called in the services of the mayor and the rector, not forgetting, of course, the solicitor.”

“How well you express yourself,” observed the Captain, who took care not to interrupt the speaker, but wished to convey to him from time to time that he was following him with attention. As a matter of fact, while listening to the engrossing story, Barrachon kept wondering: “How shall I set about laying hold of Chéri-Bibi without doing too much harm?”

Chéri-Bibi continued:

“It so happens that I have often been astonished like you, Monsieur, by the good form and lucidity which my language reveals at times, but apart from my considerable reading during the hours that I wasted at the convict settlement, my only explanation is that at those particular moments my thoughts are centered wholly in Cecily, and are expressed in elevated language because Cecily elevated everyone who came in contact with her.

“Nevertheless we must make an exception in the case of the loathsome Maxime du Touchais, who encountered perfection on earth and did not perceive it. He was too busy looking after the money bags. The fortune that he acquired through his marriage left him no time to trouble himself about Cecily, whom he entirely neglected after she became a mother. He built a splendid yacht for himself in which he sails in the holiday season with his boon companions of both sexes. These extravagant parties and scandalous cruises take place while the young wife mourns at home in the château.”

Chéri-Bibi stopped, heaved a deep sigh, and went on:

“At this point, Monsieur, this part of the story finishes. My first thought on returning to France, after my escape from the convict settlement, was naturally to see Cecily. I made my way to Dieppe, but I was still pursued by incredible misfortune, for I no sooner reached St. Valery en Caux than I learnt that Cecily, taking advantage of her husband’s absence, had gone with her son to England so as to improve his knowledge of a language which I cannot too strongly recommend young people to learn. If I had known English, I should never have been caught when I slipped away from the lock-up. But I didn’t know the language. _Fatalitas!_

“And now, Monsieur, I will make only a slight further demand upon your patience, and you will know at last why it is that I have thought it my duty to inflict upon you this long confession. Fate still continued to persecute me. I was anxious to be reinstated in an honest and respectable life, for I was young still and in no way corrupted by the ‘old offenders,’ and moreover the thought of Cecily had always obsessed me, and I was, I venture to say, filled with eagerness to do good. After performing veritable marvels on the outskirts of society in the art of good-natured burglary, and of swindles that did no harm to anyone--because it’s the law of nature that whatever happens one must live--I had the good fortune to glimpse a harbor of refuge. At last I should live a quiet life.... I should be honest like other people.... I became a porter in the office of a millionaire banker.

“Well, will you believe me, Monsieur, I was fixed up with an anarchist. The fellow associated with none but anarchists, whom he entertained every day at his table. He read only anarchist newspapers which he subsidized, and thus considered, apparently that he had done his duty by humanity, for he was not over-generous with his servants. It was he who gave me Kropotkine to read; it was his New Year’s present to me.... The whole thing disgusted me. Here with this pot-bellied person--I mean my employer--keeping his millions for himself, and trying to convince other people that they had no right to possess anything at all. It was sickening, upon my word, and I gave him notice to leave. Oh, I didn’t hang about very long over it.

“Now, as if by chance, fatality was on the watch, determined that the day after my departure the bank should be robbed by a few smart lads who adopted the literary theories of my ex-governor and unhesitatingly shot down the unfortunate staff who mounted guard over the cash. From the start of the investigation the banker spoke of me. I had left too opportunely not to be aware of what was going to happen. From that assumption to the conclusion that I entered his employ solely to give my confederates the requisite information was but one step.

“In order to get over that one step they wanted to know exactly who I was. And they might not, perhaps, have succeeded but for a man called Costaud. Who was Costaud? Have you ever read ‘Les Miserables?’... Yes, you have read the book. Very well, Costaud played the same part as Javert did in Victor Hugo’s story. That is the long and the short of it.

“Costaud got to know me in Dieppe at the time when I committed what we agree to call my first offense. He was the secretary to the Commissary of Police. Ever since my escape from penal servitude he had been after me. He and Fatality were in collusion.

“One chilly, misty evening in January I met them both in an omnibus shelter, and he proceeded to lay hands on me, when I remembered in time that I had a small pocket knife with me, and I made Costaud a present of it. That settled him, and he swooned in the arms of his companion. He did not die from his wound and I don’t bear him any malice. For all that, Costaud, while looking for the office-boy of the looted bank, found Chéri-Bibi.

“They were all agreed from that moment that it was Chéri-Bibi who did the trick, and one heard of nothing but Chéri-Bibi and his gang. I was obliged to run to earth like a rabbit. Now I never committed so many crimes as when, like a wise man, I lay in my hole and didn’t stir a foot. That infernal Chéri-Bibi’s gang were up to their old games again. They stole motor-cars, robbed bank messengers, frightened the ordinary public out of their wits, and finally worked wonders which covered me with glory. At times when the newsboys’ shouts brought me details of Chéri-Bibi’s latest crime I longed to come out of my retreat and cry: ‘That’ll do.... That’ll do.... You are choking me with cream!’... Monsieur, I must bring my story to a close. I will pass over a few insignificant details, such as, for instance, my arrests and escapes, to come to the young servant girl. You remember Marguerite Berger, the girl who was cut into I don’t know how many pieces?”

“Seventeen,” interposed the Captain.

“Look here, I thought there were only sixteen! But after all, perhaps you’re right.”

“At the sixteenth the effect was so great on you that you were obliged to take a mustard foot bath,” added Barrachon, becoming more and more self-possessed and master of himself, for, taking everything into consideration, he reckoned that it was impossible for the wretch to escape him. When Chéri-Bibi went to open the door he would hang on to him whatever happened and shout to the sentry on guard, whose movements to and fro he could hear in the passage, to fire even if he himself were the first to fall. “And now my man, go ahead!” he thought to himself.

“Oh yes, the mustard foot bath,” returned Chéri-Bibi. “You haven’t forgotten it! I suppose you thought it was a bad joke. Well, it wasn’t; it was the truth. Poor little serving-wench! Poor child! It occurred after my last escape. I hadn’t a penny in the world, and was wandering round the slaughterhouses at La Villette, feeling very depressed, and thinking to myself that if ever I managed to get back to respectability again, it would be in the meat trade for which I had an inclination, and which was my real trade as a respectable man. I had stolen a butcher’s smock, and put it on; and I tried to open up a conversation with men in the trade who had finished their day’s work. One of them passed me arm in arm with a young servant girl. He was treating her so roughly that I felt compelled to interfere, and ask him to behave himself a little better, seeing he had a girl with him, for the honor of the trade.

“I spoke quite politely, not intending any harm. He tried to give me a dressing; but he got one instead, and the servant girl, fearing for herself, in her turn, begged me to see her home. Her name, she told me, was Marguerite Berger, and she lived in the Avenue de Saint Ouen. It was some distance away, but I escorted her there like a gentleman.

“When we reached her place she asked me, as she was still in fear of her lover, not to leave her before the morning. But I went off at once, considering that I had done enough in the way of rescuing beauty in distress, preferring not to prolong my stay, in the circumstances, in a neighborhood the geography of which I had had no opportunity of studying.

“The next morning Marguerite Berger was found in her room cut into pieces. Well, I had nothing to do with it. When I left her the night before she was in one piece! Her lover, the butcher, had undoubtedly done the deed after a violent outburst of jealousy. Of course Costaud arrived on the scene, and on observing the pieces, exclaimed: ‘That ... that’s Chéri-Bibi’s handiwork.’

“The door-keeper who saw me go upstairs to the girl’s room the day before gave a description of me. The thing was at once settled! I always learnt of my murders from the newspapers. The same thing happened on this occasion, and I nearly had an attack of apoplexy. And that’s why I took a mustard footbath. There’s no witchcraft about it. It was then, Monsieur, that, disgusted with life, and thinking that it was impossible for me to do any good in this world, I put myself in Costaud’s way. He arrested me and received the Legion of Honor.

“In the meantime the anarchists considered that I was a champion, for they found that I had taken away the body of an old marchioness and robbed her of her jewelry in order to buy food for a large family who were starving; they believed no end of things to my honor, I can tell you. For my part, I didn’t mind. I no longer denied anything, for I saw that such an attitude gratified the judge. I asked him if he wanted any more. He could have as much as he liked! I only required one thing: a quick finish. Well, you see, there again I had no luck. The jury were in a funk, and found that I was partly irresponsible on the grounds of insanity, and instead of sending me to the guillotine, a room was provided for me at the convict settlement. I was to go back to Cayenne. It was this decision which rendered me desperate.

“I’ve sworn that I will never set foot in Cayenne again. Do you understand me, Captain? If you refuse to understand me, there is sure to be a row. My sister who joined the ship to try to influence me, my sister herself can’t prevent it. You can take that from me ... I may have been a little long-winded in my story, but I think I have shown you that I am a good man, a good man down on his luck. I have it in me to become a tiger; not a tiger in a menagerie, but a regular tiger who will destroy the lot of you.

“There are over eight hundred men here, who will blindly let themselves be guided by me. You haven’t half that number. Your men would hardly be a mouthful for us. We are armed. We have weapons. So, be assured, they are only waiting for me to give them the signal to begin the fight. It would have been given before but that I caught sight of my sister’s cornette. That sight inspired me with a kindly thought. Once more I felt a sort of pity for my fellow-men, and this is what I’ve come to you to propose: Monsieur, society was wrong to close its doors against me. Society would be incomplete without me.” Chéri-Bibi gave vent to a tremendous sneer. “But I have my self-respect, and it’s I, now, who don’t want to have anything more to do with society.” He was speaking seriously. “You may, therefore, be easy in your mind. I promise you, on my conscience, not to return and make myself a nuisance to my fellow-countrymen.

“What do I want? We are not far from Africa. A sharp turn of the wheel and the trick’s done. Lower a boat, and there I am landed in a new country. It will be said once again that Chéri-Bibi got clear away, and no one will think any the worse of you for that. And I, Monsieur, I can start life afresh among the savages. Does the plan appeal to you? What will it cost you? A little salt beef, some biscuits, a cask of brandy--I must be able to sustain my strength when I take to the bush--and a cask of water. If it’s a bargain, say so. You’ll have nothing more to fear from Chéri-Bibi. Neither you nor any one else.

“With Chéri-Bibi away, everything will settle down quietly here, because the prisoners can do nothing without me. If you refuse to accept my offer, look out for yourself! I am not a bad sort of man, but I have already proved to you, in the store-room, that when I am attacked I know how to defend myself.”

There was a pause.

The Captain was silent and seemed to be reflecting deep down within himself. Chéri-Bibi began to lose patience.

“Well, you’d better say something. Is it to be yes or no?”

“No,” replied the Captain.

“_Fatalitas!_”

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Georges Cadoudal, leader of the Vendeans, executed for conspiracy against Napoleon, as First Consul, in 1804.--TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.]