And I gave it to him. I told him the most glorious nonsense, of which I myself hadn’t had the least notion even a second beforehand. I don’t know even now how I came by this unusual inspiration so opportunely. I told him that among all the hours of the week there was one that had a secret and strange significance. That was the hour in which Christ left His grave to go down to helclass="underline" the sixth hour of the afternoon of the last day of the Jewish week. And he might take into consideration, I went on, that it was exactly in this hour, between five and six o’clock on Friday afternoon, in which all three of the suicides had been committed. For the present I could not tell him more, but I might refer him to the Book of Revelations according to St. John.
The Commissioner put on a wise expression, as if he had understood it all, thanked me, and asked me to come back in the evening. I came back to his office promptly at the appointed time; I saw a copy of the New Testament lying in front of him on the table. In the meantime I had done just what he had: I had read the Book of Revelations through and — had not understood a word of it. Perhaps the Commissioner was more intelligent than I was; at least he told me that he understood what I was driving at in spite of my very vague hints. And that he was ready to grant my request and to aid me in every possible way.
I must admit that he has actually been of very considerable assistance. He has made arrangements with the landlady under which I am to enjoy all the comforts and facilities of the hotel free of charge. He has given me an exceptionally fine revolver and a police pipe. The policemen on duty have orders to go through the little Rue Alfred Stevens as often as possible, and to come up to the room at a given signal. But the main thing is his installation of a desk telephone that connects directly with the police station. Since the station is only four minutes’ walk from the hotel, I am thus enabled to have all the help I want immediately. With all this, I can’t understand what there is to be afraid of...
Tuesday, March 1
Nothing has happened, neither yesterday nor today. Madame Dubonnet brought me a new curtain cord from another room — Heaven knows she has enough of them vacant. For that matter, she seems to take every possible opportunity to come to my room; every time she comes she brings me something. I have again had all the details of the suicides told me, but have discovered nothing new. As far as the causes of the suicides were concerned, she had her own opinions. As for the actor, she thought he had had an unhappy love affair; when he had been her guest the year before, he had been visited frequently by a young woman who had not come at all this year. She admittedly couldn’t quite make out why the Swiss gentleman had decided to commit suicide, but of course one couldn’t know everything. But there was no doubt that the police sergeant had committed suicide only to spite her.
I must confess these explanations of Madame Dubonnet’s are rather inadequate. But I let her gabble on; at least she helps break up my boredom.
Thursday, March 3
Still nothing. The Commissioner rings me up several times a day and I tell him that everything is going splendidly. Evidently this information doesn’t quite satisfy him. I have taken out my medical books and begun to work. In this way I am at least getting something out of my voluntary confinement.
Friday, March 4, 2 P. M.
I had an excellent luncheon. Madame Dubonnet brought a half bottle of champagne along with it. It was the kind of dinner you get before your execution. She already regards me as being three-fourths dead. Before she left me she wept and begged me to go with her. Apparently she is afraid I might also hang myself “just to spite her.”
I have examined the new curtain cord in considerable detail. So I am to hang myself with that? Well, I can’t say that I feel much like doing it. The cord is raw and hard, and it would make a good slipknot only with difficulty — one would have to be pretty powerfully determined to emulate the example of the other three suicides in order to make a success of the job. But now I’m sitting at the table, the telephone at my left, the revolver at my right. I certainly have no fear — but I am curious.
6 P. M.
Nothing happened — I almost write it with regret. The crucial hour came and went, and was just like all the others. Frankly I can’t deny that sometimes I felt a certain urge to go to the window — oh, yes, but for other reasons! The Commissioner called me up at least ten times between five and six. He was just as impatient as I was. But Madame Dubonnet is satisfied: some one has lived for a week in No. 7 without hanging himself. Miraculous!
Monday, March 7
I am now convinced that I shall discover nothing; and I am inclined to think that the suicides of my predecessors were a matter of pure coincidence. I have asked the Commissioner to go over all the evidence in all three cases again, for I am convinced that eventually a solution of the mystery will be found. But as far as I am concerned, I intend to stay here as long as possible. I probably will not conquer Paris, but in the meantime I’m living here free and am already gaining considerably in health and weight. On top of it all I’m studying a great deal, and I notice I am rushing through in great style. And of course there is another reason that keeps me here.
Wednesday, March 9
I’ve progressed another step. Clarimonde—
Oh, but I haven’t said a word about Clarimonde yet. Well, she is — my third reason for staying here. And it would have been for her sake that I would gladly have gone to the window in that fateful hour — but certainly not to hang myself. Clarimonde — but why do I call her that? I haven’t the least idea as to what her name might be; but it seems to me as if I simply must call her Clarimonde. And I’d like to bet that some day I’ll find out that that is really her name.
I already noticed Clarimonde the first few days I was here. She lives on the other side of this very narrow street, and her window is directly opposite mine. She sits there back of her curtains. And let me also say that she noticed me before I was aware of her, and that she visibly manifested an interest in me. No wonder — every one on the street knows that I am here, and knows why, too. Madame Dubonnet saw to that.
I am in no way the kind of person who falls in love. My relations with women have always been very slight. When one comes to Paris from Verdun to study medicine and hardly has enough money to have a decent meal once every three days, one has other things besides love to worry about. I haven’t much experience, and I probably began this affair pretty stupidly. Anyhow, it’s quite satisfactory as it stands.
At first it never occurred to me to establish communications with my strange neighbor. I simply decided that since I was here to make observations, and that I probably had nothing real to investigate anyhow, I might as well observe my neighbor while I was at it. After all, one can’t pore over one’s books all day long. So I have come to the conclusion that, judging from appearances, Clarimonde lives all alone in her little apartment. She has three windows, but she sits only at the one directly opposite mine. She sits there and spins, spins at a little old-fashioned distaff. I once saw such a distaff at my grandmother’s, but even my grandmother never used it. It was merely an heirloom left her by some great-aunt or other. I didn’t know that they were still in use. For that matter, Clarimonde’s distaff is a very tiny, fine thing, white, and apparently made of ivory. The threads she spins must be infinitely fine. She sits behind her curtains all day long and works incessantly, stopping only when it gets dark. Of course it gets dark very early these foggy days. In this narrow street the loveliest twilight comes about five o’clock. I have never seen a light in her room.