Suspense
The men were talking in the smoking-room after dinner. They were talking about unexpected legacies and curious inheritances, when Monsieur Le Brument, whom they sometimes addressed as “illustrious Master,” sometimes as “illustrious Advocate,” came and leaned up against the chimney.
“I have,” he said, “to search for an heir who disappeared in peculiarly terrible circumstances. It is one of those simple, violent dramas of ordinary life; the kind of thing that may happen any day but which, nevertheless, is one of the most appalling that I know of. This is the story:
“About six months ago I was called to see a dying woman, who said to me: ‘Sir, I wish you to undertake the most delicate and most difficult mission, one that will prove both tedious and wearisome. Please study my will, which is lying there on the table. A sum of five thousand francs is left you as a fee if you do not succeed, and of one hundred thousand francs if you do. I want you to find my son after my death.’
“She begged me to help her to sit up in bed, so that she might talk with greater ease, for her voice, broken and gasping, was whistling in her throat.
“It was a sumptuous house. The luxurious yet simple room was hung with material as thick as a wall, so soothing to the eye that it was like a caress, so restful that it seemed to absorb every word spoken in the room.
“The dying woman continued:
“ ‘You are the first person to hear my terrible story. I will try to keep my strength to go on to the end. You, whom I know to be kindhearted as well as experienced, must know all there is to know so that you may wish with all your heart to do your utmost to help me.
“ ‘Listen to me.
“ ‘Before I was married I loved a young man of whom my parents disapproved because he had not enough money. A short time after his proposal had been rejected, I married a very wealthy man, married him through ignorance, through fear, through obedience, through thoughtlessness, as young girls do. I had one child, a boy. After a few years my husband died. The man I had loved was married too. When he heard I was a widow he suffered terribly because he was not free to marry me. He came to see me, weeping and sobbing so bitterly that he almost broke my heart. We became friends. Perhaps I ought not to have seen him continually. The more’s the pity! I was alone, so sad, and so lonely, so desperate. And I loved him still. How terribly one can suffer!
“ ‘My parents being dead, he was all I had in the world. He often came to the house and spent whole evenings with me. I ought not to have let him come so often, since he was married. But I had not sufficient strength of mind to forbid his visits.
“ ‘How can I tell you? … he became my lover! How did it come about? I don’t even know! Does one ever know? Do you think it could be otherwise when two human beings are driven towards each other by the irresistible force of mutual love? Do you believe that it is always in our power to resist, to struggle, to refuse to yield to the prayers and supplications, the tears, the frenzied words, the paroxysms of passion of the man we adore, whom we desire to crown with every possible happiness, but whom, on the contrary, we must drive to despair in obedience to the world’s convention of honour? What strength would be required, what renunciation of all happiness, what self-denial, and even what virtuous selfishness! Is that not so?
“ ‘In short, I was his mistress, and I was happy. For two years I was happy. I had become his wife’s friend—and this was my greatest weakness and my most cowardly act.
“ ‘We brought up my son together; we made a man of him, a real man, intelligent, sensible and determined, broad-minded and full of generous ideas. My son reached the age of seventeen. He, the boy, loved my—my lover almost as much as I did, for he had been equally loved and cared for by both of us. He always called him “Chum.” He had the greatest respect for him, having learnt nothing but what was good from him and having continually before him this example of uprightness, honour and probity. He looked upon him as his mother’s old, loyal and devoted friend, as a kind of spiritual father, a guardian, protector—what more can I say?
“ ‘Perhaps he had never asked himself what was the position between us, for from his earliest youth he had seen this man about the house, by my side, by his side, always thinking about us both.
“ ‘One evening the three of us were to dine together (this was my greatest treat), and I was expecting them and wondering which would be the first to arrive. The door opened; it was my old friend. I went to meet him with outstretched arms and he kissed me with the lingering kiss of happiness. All of a sudden a sound, a rustle, a whisper in the air—that mysterious sensation that indicates the human presence—made us start and turn abruptly. Jean, my son, stood there, looking at us, livid with rage.
“ ‘I lost my head for a moment then stepped back, holding my hands out to my child as if in supplication, but I could not see him. He had gone.
“ ‘We remained together—my lover and I—overwhelmed, unable to say a word. I sank into an armchair and felt a desire, a confused and violent desire, to escape, to rush out into the night, and to disappear forever. Then I sobbed convulsively and wept, shaken with spasms of grief, my spirit utterly crushed, my nerves tortured by the frightful sense of an irreparable misfortune and by the appalling sense of shame that fills a mother’s heart in such circumstances.
“ ‘He looked at me, terrified, not daring to come near me, to speak to me, to touch me, for fear the boy should return. At last he said: “I will go and look for him—talk to him—make him understand—I must see him—he must know—” and he left me. I waited—I waited, distracted, trembling at the least sound, sick with fright and filled with an undefined unbearable emotion at every slight crackling of the fire in the grate: I waited an hour, two hours, with an increasing dread in my heart, such as I had never felt before, a feeling of such intense anguish that I would not condemn any criminal to ten minutes of it. Where was my child? What was he doing?
“ ‘Towards midnight a messenger brought me a note from my lover. I know it by heart:
“ ‘ “Has your boy come back? I have not found him. I am downstairs. It is too late to come up.”
“ ‘I wrote in pencil on the same piece of paper:
“ ‘ “Jean has not returned; you must find him.”
“ ‘I spent the night in the armchair, waiting.
“ ‘I was going mad. I wanted to shout, to run about, to roll on the ground, but I kept perfectly still, waiting, waiting. What was going to happen? I tried hard to guess. But in spite of all my efforts, in spite of my agony of mind, I did not foresee the truth.
“ ‘Then I was afraid they might meet each other. What would they do? What would the boy do? Terrifying thoughts, alarming possibilities, racked my whole being. You can understand my feelings, can’t you?
“My maid, who neither knew nor understood what was happening, came to me again and again, but I sent her away, either by a word or a sign, until finally she went for the doctor, who arrived to find me suffering from a severe nervous attack. I was put to bed.
“ ‘When I regained consciousness after a long spell of brain fever I saw my lover—alone, standing by the bed. I cried out:
“ ‘ “My son? Where is my son?”
“ ‘He made no reply. I stammered: “Dead—dead—he has killed himself?”
“ ‘He answered: “No, not that, I swear. But, in spite of my efforts, we have been unable to find him.”
“ ‘Then in a sudden burst of rage and exasperation—for we are all subject to fits of unreasonable and unaccountable anger—I said: “I forbid you to come back, to see me again, unless you find him; now go.”
“ ‘He went away and I have never seen either of them again; that is how I have lived for the last twenty years. Can you imagine such a life? Can you understand the appalling torture, the long constant gnawing at a mother’s heart, at a woman’s heart; this terrible, endless suspense without end—endless! No—it is going to end—for I am dying. I shall die without having seen them—either one—or the other!
“ ‘He, my friend, has written to me every day for the last twenty years, and I have always refused to see him, even for a second, for I had a strange feeling that the very moment he came, my son would come too! My son!—my son! Is he dead? Is he living? Where is he hiding? Over there, perhaps beyond the great ocean, in some country so far away that its very name is unknown to me! Does he ever think of me? Oh! if he only knew! How cruel children are! Has he understood the terrible suffering to which he has condemned me; the agony, the despair of which he was the cause while I was still in the prime of life, which will endure to the end; me, his mother, who loved him with all the passion of a mother’s love? Cruel, cruel, isn’t it? You will tell him what I have said. You will repeat my last words: “My child, my dear, dear child, don’t be so hard on suffering humanity; life is fierce and brutal enough! My dear child, think of what your poor mother’s existence has been since the day you left her. My dear child, forgive her, love her now that she is dead, for she has had to live through the most terrible penitential suffering.” ’
“She gasped for breath, trembling as if she were speaking to her son himself. Then she added: ‘You will also tell him that I have never seen—the other one again.’
“She was silent, then continued in a broken voice: ‘Now, leave me, please. I want to die alone, since neither of them is with me.’ ”
Maître Le Brument added: “I left the house crying like a dumb animal, so much so that my coachman turned round to stare at me. And to think that, every day, dramas like this are happening all around us. I have not found the son—that son. You may say what you like; I call him that criminal son.”