The Orphan
Mademoiselle Source had adopted the boy under very sad circumstances. At the time, she was thirty-six years old, and her deformity (when a little girl she had slipped from her nurse’s knee into the fire, and her face had been horribly burnt and was a terrible sight) had determined her not to marry, for she did not want to be married for her money.
A neighbour, who was with child when she became a widow, died in her confinement, leaving no money at all. Mademoiselle Source looked after the baby, put it out to nurse, brought it up, sent it to school, and then took the boy home when he was fourteen that she might have someone to love her in the empty house, someone to look after her and to sweeten her old age.
She lived on a little country estate four miles from Rennes, and had given up keeping a servant, because her expenses had more than doubled since she had adopted the orphan, her income of three thousand francs not being sufficient for three people.
She did her own cooking and housework and sent the youngster, who looked after the garden, to do the errands. He was gentle, shy, quiet, and affectionate, and she felt a deep joy—quite a new experience for her—when he kissed her without being astonished at or afraid of her ugliness. He called her Auntie and treated her like a mother.
In the evenings they both sat by the fireside while she prepared something nice for him: hot wine and toasted bread, which made an enjoyable light supper before going to bed. She often took him on her knee and fondled him, murmuring words of passionate tenderness. She used to call him “my little flower, my cherub, my darling angel, my precious jewel,” to all of which he was gently submissive, laying his head on the old maid’s shoulder.
Although nearly fifteen now, he was still little and frail, and looked rather unhealthy. Sometimes Mademoiselle Source would take him into town to see the only two relations she had left—distant cousins who were married and lived in one of the suburbs. The two women had a grievance against her for adopting the child, on account of her money, but they welcomed her nevertheless, still hoping for their share—in all probability one-third—if the inheritance were equally divided.
She was very, very happy, her time being fully occupied with her child; she bought him books to develop his mind, and he became a great reader.
He no longer sat on her knee in the evenings to fondle her, but would rush to his chair by the fire and get his book. The light from the lamp, placed on the table just above his head, was reflected on his curly hair and part of his forehead; he never moved, never raised his eyes, but went on reading, entirely absorbed in the adventures in print.
Seated on the opposite side of the fire, she would gaze at him with a fixed, loving gaze, surprised at his concentration, feeling jealous, and often ready to cry about it. Every now and then she would say: “You will overtire yourself, my treasure!” hoping that he would raise his head and come and kiss her, but he never answered; he never heard her; he had not understood; he was oblivious of everything except the book he was reading.
For two years he simply devoured a great number of books, and there was a change in his character. He began to ask Mademoiselle Source for money, which she gave him, but as his demands kept growing she ended by refusing to give any more, for she was energetic and methodical, and could be sensible when necessary.
After much pleading he did obtain a considerable sum one evening, but when a few days later he begged for more, she was quite determined, and, indeed, she never yielded to his pleadings again.
He was apparently reconciled to do without and returned to his former ways, sitting quietly for hours with downcast eyes, lost in daydreaming. He never talked to Mademoiselle Source, and only replied to short, sharp sentences. However, he was charming and considerate to her, but never kissed her.
He occasionally made her feel frightened as they sat opposite each other by the fireside, silent and still. She wanted to rouse him, to say something, anything, to him, to break the silence which was as terrifying as the gloom of a forest. But he never seemed to hear her, and she trembled with terror—as poor weak women will—when she received no reply after speaking five or six times.
What was the matter? What was passing in that impenetrable mind? After some two or three hours spent in this way, she felt she must be going mad, she wanted to go away, to escape from the house, not only to avoid this everlasting dumb tête-à-tête, but to avoid, too, a vague unknown danger that she felt threatening her. She would often weep in her loneliness. What was the matter with him? She had only to express a wish and he carried it out without a murmur. If she wanted anything in town, he would go off and fetch it at once. She certainly had no ground for complaint! And yet—
A year passed by, and it struck her that there was another change in the young man. How had she noticed this, felt it, guessed it? No matter! She knew she was not mistaken, but she could not have put into words the change that had occurred in that strange youth’s unknown thoughts. To her it seemed that where he had been beset with hesitation, he was now quite resolute; this idea struck her one evening when she caught him staring at her curiously, with an expression she had never seen before.
After that he watched her continually until she felt as if she must hide herself to avoid the cold glance always fixed upon her. For whole evenings he would stare at her, only turning away his eyes when, reduced to helplessness, she said: “Don’t look at me like that, my child!” Then he would lower his head. But as soon as her back was turned she felt his eye upon her again. Wherever she went, he followed her with his tenacious gaze. Sometimes in the garden she would suddenly catch sight of him crouched among the shrubs as if he were hiding; or else when she was seated out of doors mending stockings, and he was digging in the vegetable garden, he would slyly and persistently watch her all the time he was at work. It was no use asking him: “What is the matter, my dear? You are so changed these last three years, I can’t recognise you. I implore you to tell me what’s wrong, what is filling your thoughts.”
He invariably answered, in a quiet, tired voice: “But nothing’s the matter, Auntie!” And when she insisted with: “Oh! my child, answer me, answer me when I speak to you. If you could know how you make me suffer, you would always answer, and you would not look at me in that way. Are you in trouble? Tell me, I will comfort you—” he would go off wearily, muttering: “But I assure you nothing’s wrong with me.”
He had not grown much and still looked like a child though his features were those of a man. They were, however, hard and looked unfinished. He seemed somehow incomplete, unpleasant to the eye, only a sketch, so to speak, and as alarming as a mystery. He was quite closed to outer influences, impenetrable, a prey to some constant mental ferment, both active and dangerous.
Mademoiselle Source could not help feeling all this, and her anguish of mind prevented her from sleeping. She was assailed by appalling terror and horrible nightmares. She locked herself in her room and barricaded the door, tortured by a panic fear. Of what was she afraid?
She had no idea.
She was afraid of everything, the night, the walls, the shadows projected by the moon through the white curtains at the windows, and, above all, she was afraid of him.
Why?
What had she to fear? Did she know of anything? She could not go on living like that. She knew she was menaced by some misfortune, some appalling misfortune.
One morning, secretly, she went to town to see her relatives and breathlessly told them what she felt. The two women thought she was going mad and tried to reassure her. She said to them: “If you only knew how he looks at me from morning till night! He never takes his eyes off me! Sometimes I want to shout for help, call in the neighbours, I am so afraid! But what could I say to them? He does nothing but stare at me.”
The cousins said: “Does he ever treat you roughly, does he answer you rudely?”
She replied: “No, never; he does everything I wish, he works well and is very steady now; but I am beside myself with fright. He has some idea in his head, I know it, I know it. I won’t stay any longer in the country alone with him.”
The scared relatives told her that everyone would be surprised, that no one would understand, and advised her to put aside her fears and give up her plans, but they did not discourage her from coming to live in town, in the hope that the removal would secure all her property for the two of them. They even promised to help her to sell her house and to find another one near them.
Mademoiselle Source went back home but she was in such a state of nerves that she started at the least sound and her hands trembled at the merest trifle.
She visited her relatives again twice, now quite determined not to remain in her lonely country home, and at last she found a suitable little house in the suburb, which she secretly bought.
The contract was signed on a Tuesday morning, and the rest of the day was spent in arranging for the removal. Mademoiselle Source caught the eight o’clock p.m. coach which passed about a mile and a half from the house, and stopped at the spot where the driver usually set her down. As he whipped up his horses he shouted: “Good night, Mademoiselle Source, good night!” and she replied as she was moving away: “Good night, Father Joseph.”
At seven o’clock the next morning, the village postman noticed a big pool of fresh blood on the crossroad not far from the highway, and said to himself: “Halloa! Some drunken lout’s nose has been bleeding.” But a few steps farther on he picked up a fine cambric handkerchief stained with blood, and as he neared the ditch he thought he could see some strange object lying there.
Mademoiselle Source was lying at the bottom of the ditch with her throat cut. An hour later, the gendarmes, the magistrate and others in authority gathered round the corpse, all giving their opinion as to what had happened. The two relations, called as witnesses, came and told them of the old maid’s fears and of the arrangements she had just made.
The orphan was arrested. Since his adopted mother’s death he had done nothing but weep, plunged, at least to all appearances, in the deepest woe. He was able to prove that he had spent the evening up to eleven o’clock in a café; he had been seen by ten people who had been there until he left. As the coach-driver declared that he had set the murdered woman down between half past nine and ten o’clock, the crime could only have been committed on the road leading from the highway to the house, not later than ten o’clock. The prisoner was acquitted.
By a will drawn up years before and left with a notary of Rennes, he was made sole legatee, and got all the property.
For a long time the country folk kept him at a distance, still suspecting him of the murder. His house, the dead woman’s house, was looked upon as bearing a curse, and everybody avoided him in the street. But he was so companionable, so friendly, that the horrible suspicion about him was gradually forgotten. He was generous, considerate, and would chat at will with the humblest of his neighbours.
The notary, Maître Rameau, was one of the first to revise his opinions about him, being captivated by the young man’s bright conversation. One evening when dining with the Collector of Taxes he declared that “a man with his gift of words—always good-humoured—cannot have such a dreadful crime on his conscience.” Impressed by the argument, the guests thought the matter over. They remembered the long conversations held by this man, who would stop them at the corner of the road and make them listen to him, who forced them into his house as they passed by, who made a better joke than the Lieutenant of the Armed Police Force himself, and was so infectiously cheerful that one could not help laughing when with him in spite of the repugnance he inspired.
Once more all doors were opened to him. He is now mayor of his commune.