The Second Class Passenger Part 27

"He gasped. 'For--for----'"

"'I don't know what for,' I told him. 'For whatever you have been doing.'"

"He had to blink and swallow and wipe his brow before he mastered the fact. His mind, like his body, was a shameful ruin. But the fact that he was not to be arrested at the moment seemed to comfort him. He leaned over the table to me."

"'My wife's here,' he said, in a raucous whisper."

"'Yes; she knows,' I answered."

"He frowned, and seemed perplexed. 'She'll make me shoot myself,' he went on. 'I know what she means. I warn you, she'll make me do it.

Have a drink?'"

"He was horrible, an offence to the daylight. He bawled an order to the Arab, and turned to me again."

"'That's what it'll come to,' he said. 'I warn you.'"

"He repeated the last phrase in whispers, staring at me heavily: 'I warn you; I warn you.'"

"'Have you a pistol?' I asked him. Yes, Madame, I asked him that."

"He smiled at me. 'No, I haven't,' he said, still confidentially.

'You see how it is? I haven't even a pistol. But I know what she means.'"

"I was in field uniform, and I unb.u.t.toned my holster and laid the revolver on the table before him. He looked at it with an empty smile. 'It is loaded,' I said, and left him."

"But I wondered. It seemed to me that there was a tension in the affairs of Bertin and his wife which could not endure, that the moment was at hand when the breaking-point would be reached. And it was this idea that carried me the same evening to visit Madame Bertin. The night about me was still, yet overhead there was wind, for great clouds marched in procession across the moon, trailing their shadows over the sand. Bertin inhabited a little house at the fringe of the village; it looked out at the emptiness of the desert.

I was yet ten paces from the door when it opened and Madame Bertin came forth. She was wrapped in her bernouse, and she closed the door behind her quickly and stepped forward to meet me. She gave me greeting in her cool even tones, the pallor of her face shining forth from the hood of her garment."

"'Since you are so good as to come and see me,' she said, 'let us walk here for a while. Captain Bertin is occupied; and we can watch the clouds on the sand.'"

"We walked to and fro before the house. 'I saw your husband to-day,'

I told her."

"'He said so,' she answered. 'It was pleasant for him to talk with an old comrade.'"

"One window in the house was lighted, with a curtain drawn across it.

As we paused, I saw the shadow of a man on the curtain--a man who lurched and pressed both hands to his head. I could not tell whether Madame Bertin saw it also; she continued to walk, looking straight before her; her face was calm."

"'Doubtless he has his occupations here?' I ventured presently.

'There are matters in which he interests himself--non?'"

"'That is so,' she replied. 'And this evening he tells me he has a letter to write, concerning some matters of importance. I have promised him that for an hour he shall not be interrupted. What wonderful color there is yonder?'"

"The shadow of a great cloud, blue-black like a moonlit sea, was racing past us; it seemed to break like surf on a line of sandhills.

But while I watched it awe was creeping upon me. She was erect and grave, with lips a little parted, staring before her; the heavy folds of the bernouse were like the marble robe of a statue. I glanced behind me at the lighted window, and the shadow of an arm moved upon it, an arm that gesticulated and conveyed to me a sense of agony, of appeal. I remembered the revolver; I felt a weakness overcome me."

"'Madame!' I cried. 'I fear--I doubt that it is safe to leave him for an hour to-night.'"

"She turned to me with a faint movement of surprise. The moon showed her to me clearly. Before the deliberate strength of her eyes, my gaze faltered."

"'But I a.s.sure you,' she answered; 'nothing can be safer.'"

"I made one more effort. 'But if I might see him for an instant,' I pleaded."

"She smiled and shook her head. I might have been an importunate child. 'I promised him an hour,' she said. Her voice was indulgent, friendly, commonplace; it made me powerless. I had it on my lips to cry out, 'He is in there alone, working himself up to the point of suicide!' But I could not utter it. I could no more say it than I could have smitten her in the face. She was impregnable behind; that barrier of manners which she upheld so skillfully. She continued to look at me for some seconds and to smile--so gently, so mildly. I think I groaned."

"She began to talk again of the clouds, but I could not follow what she said. That was my hour of impotence. Madame, I have seen battles and slaughter and found no meaning in them. But that isolated tragedy boxed up in the little house between the squalid town and the lugubrious desert--it sucked the strength from my bones. She continued to speak; the cultivated sweetness of her voice came and went in my ears like a maddening distraction from some grave matter in hand. I think I was on the point of breaking in, violently, hysterically, when I cast a look at the lighted window again. I cried out to her."

"'Look! Look!' I cried."

"She did not turn. 'I have seen the sea like that at Naples,' she was saying, gazing out to the desert, with her back to the house. 'With the moon shining over Capri----'"

"'For the love of G.o.d!' I said, and made one step toward the house.

But it was too late. The shadowed hand--and what it held--rose; the shadowed head bent to meet it."

"Even at the sound of the shot she did not turn. 'What was that?' she said tranquilly."

"For the moment I could not speak. I had to gulp and breathe to recover myself."

"'Let us go and see,' I said then. 'The hour is past, and the letter of importance is finished.'"

"She nodded. 'By all means,' she agreed carelessly, and I followed her into the house."

"Once again I will spare Madame la Comtesse the details. Bertin had evaded arrest. At the end of all his laborings and groanings, the instant of resolution had come to him and he had made use of it. On the table were paper and writing-things; one note was finished."

"'It is not for me,' said Madame Bertin, as she leaned upon the table and read it. I was laying a sheet upon the body; when I rose she handed it to me. It bore neither name nor address; the poor futile life had blundered out without even this thing completed. It was short, and to some woman. 'Tres-chere amie,' it said; 'once I made a mistake. I have paid for it. You laughed at me once; You would not laugh now. If you could see----'"

The Colonel stopped; the Comtesse was holding out both hands as though supplicating him. Elsie Gray rose and bent over her. The Comtesse put her gently aside.

"You have that letter?" she asked.

The little Colonel pa.s.sed a hand into a breast pocket and extracted a dainty Russia-leather letter-case. From it he drew a faded writing and handed it to the Comtesse.

"Madame la Comtesse is welcome to the letter," he said. "Pray keep it."

The Comtesse did not read it. She folded it in her thin smooth hands and sighed.

"And then?" she asked.

"This is the end of my tale," said the Colonel. "I took the letter and placed it in my pocket. Madame Bertin watched me imperturbably."

"'I may leave the formalities to you?' she asked me suddenly; 'the notification of death and so on?'"

"I bowed; I had still a difficulty in speaking."

"'Then I will thank you for all your friendship,' she said."

"I put up my hand. 'At least do not thank me,' I cried. I could not face her serene eyes, and that little lifting of the brows with which she answered my words. Awe, dread, pa.s.sion--these were at war within me, and the dead man lay on the floor at my feet, I pushed the door open and fled."