He drew an armchair to the fire, sat down, and, his hands stretched out to the flames, continued:
“But however simple and natural the event in itself may be, nothing can alter the fact that a man has died in your bedroom during the night… Is that not so?”
She hid her face in her hands and made no reply.
“And if your explanation satisfies me, I am not able to make others accept it. The servants will have their own ideas, will talk… That will be dishonor for you, for me, for my family… That is not possible…. We must find a way out of it… and I have already found it… With the exception of you and me, no one knows, no one will ever know what has happened in this room… No one saw him come in… Take the lamp and come with me…”
He seized the body in his arms and ordered:
“Walk on first.”
She hesitated as they went out at the door.
“What are you going to do?”
“Leave it to me… Go on.”
Slowly and very quietly they went toward the staircase, she holding high the lamp, its light flickering on the walls, he carefully placing his feet on stair after stair. When they got to the door that led to the garden, he said:
“Open it without a sound.”
A gust of wind made the light flare up. Beaten on by the rain, the glass burst and fell in pieces on the threshold. She placed the extinguished lamp on the soil. They went into the park. The gravel crunched under their steps and the rain beat upon them. He asked:
“Can you see the walk?… Yes?… Then come close to me… hold the legs… the body is heavy…”
They went forward in silence. M. de Hartevel stopped near a low door, saying:
“Feel in my right-hand pocket… There is a key there… That’s it… Give it to me… Now let the legs go… It is as dark as a grave… Feel about till you find the keyhole… Have you got it?—Turn…”
Excited by the noise, the hounds began to bay. Madame de Hartevel started back.
“You are frightened?… Nonsense… Another turn… That’s it!—Stand out of the way…”
With a thrust from his knee he pushed open the door. Believing themselves free, the hounds bounded against his legs. Pushing them back with a kick, suddenly, with one great effort, he raised the body above his head, balanced it there a moment, flung it into the kennel, and shut the door violently behind him.
Baying at full voice, the beasts fell on their prey. A frightful death-rattle: “Help!” pierced their clamor, a terrible cry, superhuman. It was followed by violent growlings.
An unspeakable horror took possession of Madame de Hartevel; a quick flash of understanding dominated her fear, and, her eyes wild, she flung herself on her husband, digging her nails in his face as she shrieked:
“Fiend!… He wasn’t dead!…”
M. de Hartevel pushed her off with the back of his hand, and standing straight up before her, jeered:
“Did you think he was?”
Who?
THAT DAY I had worked very late, so late that when at length I raised my eyes from my desk, I found twilight had invaded my study. For some minutes I sat perfectly still, my brain in the dull condition that follows a big mental effort, and looked round mechanically. Everything was gray and formless in the half-light, except where reflections from the last rays of the setting sun made little patches of brightness on table or mirror or picture. One must have fallen with particular strength on a skull placed on the top of a bookcase, for, looking up, I saw it clearly enough to distinguish every detail from the point of the cheekbones to the brutal angle of the jaw. As everything else became swallowed up in the fast-deepening shadow, it seemed to me that slowly but surely this head quickened into life and became covered with flesh; lips came down over the teeth, eyes filled the orbits, and soon, by some strange illusion, I had before me, as if suspended in the darkness, a face that was looking at me.
It was watching me fixedly, the mouth set in a mocking smile. It was not one of those vague floating images one sees in hallucinations: this face appeared so real that for a second I was tempted to stretch out my hand to touch it. Immediately the cheeks dissolved, the orbits emptied, a slight mist enveloped it… and I saw nothing but a skull like all other skulls.
I lit my lamp and went on with my writing. Twice or thrice I raised my eyes to the place where I had seen the apparition; then the momentary excitement it had caused died away, and my head bent over my desk, I forgot all about it.
Now, a few days later, as I was going out of my house, near my door I passed a young man who drew aside to allow me to cross the road. I bowed. He did the same and went on. But the face was familiar, and believing it was someone I knew, I turned to look after him, imagining he might have stopped. He had not, but I stood watching him till he disappeared among the passersby. “A mistake on my part,” I thought, but to my surprise, I kept on asking myself: “Where the devil have I seen him?… In the drawing-room?… At the hospital?… In my consultingroom?… No… I concluded that he must resemble someone else and dismissed him from my thoughts. Or tried to—for in spite of myself I continued to endeavor to place him. I certainly knew the head welclass="underline" its deep-set eyes, hard, steady gaze, cleanshaven lip, straight mouth, and square jaw made it too characteristic to be either forgotten or mistaken for that of another person. Where on earth had I seen it? During the whole evening it obsessed me, coming between me and what I looked at, giving me that feeling of irritation caused by not being able to remember a name or some melody that haunts you. And this persisted for a long time, for weeks.
One day I saw my Unknown again in the street. As I approached I almost stared at him. On his part he looked at me with the same frigid expression, with the cold look I knew so well; but he betrayed no sign of knowing me, did not hesitate a second, and avoided me by turning sharply to the right. My conclusion was the inevitable one. If I really knew him he must also know me, and meeting me face to face for the second time, would have shown it by a glance or movement as if to stop. There had been nothing of this: I was therefore the victim of an illusion.
And I forgot all about him.
Some time after this, late one afternoon, a man was shown into my consulting room. He was hardly over the threshold when, much surprised, I rose to greet him: it was my Unknown. And once again the likeness that had so obsessed me was so striking that, mechanically, I walked toward him with outstretched hand as to an acquaintance. He showed surprise, and I almost stammered as I pointed to a chair, saying:
“Excuse me, but you are so extraordinarily like…”
Under his cold, intent gaze, I left my sentence unfinished, saying instead:
“What can I do for you?”
Sitting quietly with his two hands stretched on the arm of his chair, he did not reply immediately. I was beginning once more to cudgel my brains: “Where have I seen him?” when suddenly a thought, or rather an extraordinary vision flashed into my mind, a vision amazing enough almost to surprise me into crying aloud: “I know.” At last I had succeeded in locating him—I had recognized on the shoulders of this living man the head that had appeared to me one evening in the darkness above my bookcase! It was not a resemblance: it was identically the same face. The coincidence was sufficiently curious to distract my attention from what he was saying, and he had been talking for some moments before I began to follow his case:
“I don’t think I was ever normal. When I was quite young I began to feel different from other boys, to have sudden desires to rush away, to hide myself, to be alone; while at other times I longed passionately for society, for wild excitements that would make me forget myself. Sometimes, for little or no reason, I had sudden fits of temper that almost choked me… They sent me to the sea, to the mountains: nothing did me any good. At the present time I start at the slightest sound; a very bright light hurts me like a pain; and though all my organs are sound—I have been to several doctors—the whole of my body aches. Even if I sleep, I wake in the morning as tired as if I had been dissipating all night. Frequently a feeling of agony of mind for which there is no real cause makes my brain giddy; I can’t sleep, or if I do, I have horrible nightmares…”