Room No. Eleven
“What! You do not know why President Amandon was transferred?”
“No, not at all.”
“As far as that is concerned, neither did he ever know it. But it is a story of the strangest sort.”
“Tell it to me.”
“I am sure you remember Madame Amandon, that pretty brunette, thin, and so distinguished and pretty that she was called Madame Marguerite in all Perthuis-le-Long?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Very well, then. You recall also how much she was respected and considered, and better loved than anyone in the town; she knew how to receive, how to organize a fête or a charity fair, how to find money for the poor, and how to please the young people in a thousand ways.
“She was very elegant and very coquettish, nevertheless, but in a Platonic fashion, and with the charming elegance of the provinces, for she was a provincial, this pretty little woman, an exquisite provincial.
“The poets and writers, who are all Parisian, sing to us of the Parisian woman and of her charm, because they know only her; but I declare here that the woman from the provinces is worth a hundred times more, when she is of superior quality.
“The provincial has an attraction all her own, more discreet than that of the Parisienne, more humble, promising nothing and giving much, while the Parisienne, for the most part, promises much but gives nothing when she is undressed.
“The Parisian woman is the elegant and brazen triumph of artificiality; the provincial, an example of the modesty of truth.
“Yet the wide-awake provincial, with her air of homely alertness, her deceitful, schoolgirl candour, her smile which means nothing, and her good little passions, direct and tenacious, is capable of a thousand times more deceit, artifice, and feminine invention than all the Parisiennes together, for gratifying her own tastes or vices, and that without awakening suspicion, or scandal, or gossip in the little town which watches her with all its eyes from all its windows.
“Madame Amandon was a type of this rare but charming race. Never had anyone suspected her, never had anyone thought that her life was not as limpid as her look, a sly look, transparent and warm, but seemingly so honest—you should have seen it!
“Then she had admirable tact, a marvellous ingenuity and power of invention, and unbelievable simplicity.
“She picked all her lovers from the army and kept them three years, the time of their sojourn in the garrison. In short, she gratified, not her heart but her senses.
“When some new regiment arrived at Perthuis-le-Long, she informed herself about all the officers between thirty and forty years of age—for, before thirty one is not discreet, and after forty, one is often feeble.
“Oh! she knew the list of officers as well as the Colonel did. She knew all, all the habits, manners, instruction, education, physical qualities, the power of resistance to fatigue, the character, whether patient or violent, the fortune, and the tendency to closeness or prodigality of each of them. Then she made her choice. She gave preference to men of calm exterior, like herself, but they must be handsome. She also wished them to have had no previous entanglements, any passion having the power to leave traces, or that had made any trouble. Because the man whose loves are mentioned is never very discreet.
“After having decided upon the one she would love for the three years of his regulation sojourn, it only remained for her to set her cap at him.
“How many women would find themselves embarrassed, would have taken ordinary means, following the way of others, having court paid them, marking off all the stages of conquest and resistance, allowing their fingers to be kissed one day, their wrist the next, their cheek the following, then the lips, then the rest. She had a method more prompt, more discreet, and more sure. She gave a ball.
“The chosen officer was invited to dance with the mistress of the house. Then, in waltzing, led on by the rapid movement, bewildered by the intoxication of the dance, she would press against him as if surrendering herself, and hold his hand with a nervous, continued pressure.
“If he did not understand, he was only a fool, and she passed on to the next, classed as number two, on the list of her desires.
“If he understood, the thing was done, without fuss, without compromising gallantries, without numerous visits.
“What could be simpler or more practical?
“How well women might follow a similar procedure, in order to let us know that they like us! How many difficulties, hesitations, misunderstandings that would obviate! How often we pass by, without knowing it, a possible happiness, without suspecting it, because we are unable to penetrate the mystery of thought, the secret abandon of the will, the mute appeal of the flesh, the unknown soul of a woman whose mouth preserves silence, whose eye is impenetrable and clear.
“When the man understood, he asked for a rendezvous. But she always made him wait a month or six weeks in order to watch and be sure that he had no dangerous faults.
“During this time he was racking his brain to think of some place where they could meet without peril, and imagining combinations difficult and unsafe.
“Then, at some official feast, she would say to him in a whisper:
“ ‘Go on Tuesday evening, at nine o’clock, to the Hôtel du Cheval d’Or, near the ramparts, on the Vouziers road, and ask for Mademoiselle Clarisse. I shall be waiting for you. And be sure to be in mufti.’
“For eight years she had in fact rented this furnished room by the year, in this obscure inn. It was an idea of her first lover which she found practical, and after the man departed, she kept the nest.
“Oh! it was a mediocre nest; four walls covered with gray paper adorned with blue flowers, a pine bedstead under muslin curtains, an armchair bought at her order by the innkeeper’s wife, two chairs, a bedside rug, and some necessary articles for the toilette—what more was needed?
“Upon the walls were three large photographs. Three colonels on horseback; the colonels of her lovers! Why not? It would not do to preserve the true likeness, the exact likeness, but she could perhaps keep some souvenirs by proxy.
“And she had never been recognized by anyone in all these visits to the Cheval d’Or, you ask?
“Never, by anyone!
“The means she employed were admirable and simple. She had thought out and organized some charity reunions and religious meetings, some of which she attended, others she did not. Her husband, knowing her good works, which cost him dear, lived without suspicions. Then, when a rendezvous had been agreed upon, she would say at dinner, before the servants:
“ ‘I am going this evening to the Association for making flannel bandages for the paralysed old men.’
“And she went out about eight o’clock, went straight to the Association, came out again immediately, passed through diverse streets, and, finding herself alone in some little street, in some sombre corner without a light, she would take off her hat, replace it by a maid’s cap which she carried under her cape, fold a kerchief after the same fashion and tie it over her shoulders, carrying her hat and the garment she had worn in a napkin; she would go trotting along, full of courage, her hips uncovered, like a good little maid that had been sent upon some errand; and sometimes she would even run, as if she were in a great hurry.
“Who could have recognized in this trim servant the lively wife of President Amandon?
“She would arrive at the Cheval d’Or, go up to her room, to which she had the key, and the big proprietor, Maître Trouveau, seeing her pass his desk, would murmur:
“ ‘There is Mademoiselle Clarisse coming to meet some lover.’
“He had indeed guessed something, the rogue, but did not try to learn more, and he would certainly have been much surprised to find that his client was Madame Amandon, or Madame Marguerite, as she was called in Perthuis-le-Long. And this is how the horrible discovery took place.
“Never had Mademoiselle Clarisse come to her meeting-place two evenings in succession, never! being too nice and too prudent for that. And Maître Trouveau knew this well, since not once in eight years had he seen her come the next day after a visit. Often, therefore, in days of need, he had disposed of her room for a night.
“Now, last summer, Monsieur Amandon absented himself from home for a week. It was in July. Madame was ardently in love, and as there was no fear of being surprised, she asked her lover, the handsome Major Varangelles, one Tuesday evening on leaving him, if he wished her to return the next day.
“He replied: ‘How can you ask!’
“And it was agreed that they should return at the usual hour on Wednesday. She said to him in a low tone:
“ ‘If you arrive first, my dear, you can wait for me in bed.’
“Then they embraced and separated. The next day, as Maître Trouveau sat reading Les Tablettes de Perthuis, the Republican organ of the town, he cried out to his wife, who was plucking a fowl in the courtyard:
“ ‘Here! the cholera has broken out in the country. There was a man died yesterday of it in Vauvigny.’ But he thought no more about it, his inn being full of people, and business very good.
“Towards noon a traveller presented himself on foot, a kind of tourist, who ordered a good breakfast, after having drunk two absinthes. And, as he was very warm, he absorbed a bottle of wine and two bottles of water at least. Then he took his coffee and his little glass of liqueur, or rather three little glasses, and feeling rather drowsy he asked for a room where he might sleep for an hour or two. There was no longer a vacant room, and the proprietor, after consulting his wife, gave him Mademoiselle Clarisse’s.
“The man went in there and, about five o’clock, as he had not been seen coming out, the landlord went to wake him. What was his astonishment to find him dead!
“The innkeeper descended to find his wife: ‘Listen,’ he whispered to her, ‘the tourist I put in number 11, I believe is dead.’
“She raised her arms, crying: ‘It’s not possible! Lord God! It is the cholera!’
“Maître Trouveau shook his head:
“ ‘I should rather believe that it was a cerebral congestion, seeing that he is as black as the dregs of wine.’
“But the mistress was frightened and kept repeating:
“ ‘We must not mention it. We must not talk of it. People will say it is cholera. Go and make the report and say nothing. They will take him away in the night, and no one will know about it. “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” ’
“The man murmured: ‘Mademoiselle Clarisse was here yesterday, the room will be free this evening.’
“And he found the doctor who made out the certificate, ‘From congestion after a copious repast.’ Then he made an agreement with the commissioner of police to remove the dead body towards midnight, so that there might be no suspicion about the hotel.
“It was scarcely nine o’clock when Madame Amandon went secretly up the staircase of the Cheval d’Or, without being seen by anyone. She reached her room, opened the door, and entered. A candle was burning upon the chimneypiece. She turned toward the bed. The major, she thought, was already there and had closed the curtains.
“She said to him: ‘One minute, darling, and I am coming.’
“And she undressed with a feverish haste, throwing her boots upon the floor and her corset upon the armchair. Then, her black dress and skirts having fallen in a circle around her, she stood in her red silk chemise like a flower that has just blossomed.
“As the major said not a word, she asked:
“ ‘Are you asleep, my big dear?’
“He did not answer, and she began to laugh, murmuring:
“ ‘Wait! He is asleep. It is too funny!’
“She kept on her black silk openwork stockings and, running to the bed, slipped in quickly, seizing him full in her arms and kissing him on the lips, in order to wake him suddenly. It was the cold dead body of the traveller.
“For one second she remained immovable, too frightened to comprehend anything. But the cold of this inert flesh penetrated her own, giving her an atrocious fright before her mind had time to reflect.
“She made a bound out of the bed, trembling from head to foot; then running to the chimneypiece, she seized the candle, returned, and looked! And she perceived a frightful face that she had never before seen, black, swollen, with eyes closed, and a horrible grimace of the jaw.
“She uttered a cry, one of those piercing interminable cries which women utter in their fright, and, letting fall the candle, she opened the door and fled, unclothed, down the passage, continuing to scream in frightful fashion. A commercial traveller, in his socks, who occupied room number 4, came out immediately and received her in his arms.
“He asked, much startled: ‘What is the matter, pretty dear?’
“She stammered out, terrified: ‘Someone has been killed—in—my room!’
“Other guests appeared. The landlord himself ran out.
“And suddenly the tall figure of the major appeared at the end of the corridor. When she saw him, she threw herself toward him, crying:
“ ‘Save me, save me, Gontran—someone has been killed in our room.’
“Explanations were difficult. Maître Trouveau, however, told the truth and demanded that they release Mademoiselle Clarisse, for whom he vouched with his own head. But the commercial traveller in socks, having examined the dead body, declared that a crime had been committed, and he convinced the other guests that Mademoiselle Clarisse and her lover should not be allowed to depart.
“They were obliged to await the arrival of the police commissioner, who gave them their liberty, but was not discreet.
“The following month, President Amandon received promotion with a new place of residence.”