After several hours of reflection, I came to the conclusion that only one plan was reasonable, and available: this was to have a private talk with my stepfather at a moment when he would least expect it, an interview in which all should be hints, shades, double meanings, in which each word should be like the laying of a finger upon the sorest spots in his breast, if indeed his reflections were those of a murderer.
Every sentence of mine must be so contrived as to force him to ask himself: "Why does he say this to me if he knows nothing? He does know something.How much does he know?"So well acquainted was I with every physical trait of his, the slightest variations of his countenance, his ******st gestures, that no sign of disturbance on his part, however slight, could escape me.If I did not succeed in discovering the seat of the malady by this process, I should be convinced of the baselessness of those suspicions which were constantly springing up afresh in my mind since the death of my aunt.I would then admit the ****** and probable explanation--nothing in my father's letters discredited it--that M.Termonde had loved my mother without hope in the lifetime of her first husband, and had then profited by her widowhood, of which he had not even ventured to think.
If, on the contrary, I observed during our interview that he was alive to my suspicions, that he divined them, and anxiously followed my words; if I surprised that swift gleam in his eye which reveals the instinctive terror of an animal, attacked at the moment of its fancied security, if the experiment succeeded, then--then--Idared not think of what then?
The mere possibility was too overwhelming.
But should I have the strength to carry on such a conversation? At the mere thought of it my heart-beats were quickened, and my nerves thrilled.What! this was the first opportunity that had been offered to me of action, of devoting myself to the task of vengeance, so coveted, so fully accepted during all my early years, and I could hesitate?
Happily, or unhappily, I had near me a counsellor stronger than my doubts, my father's portrait, which was hung in my smoking-room.
When I awoke in the night and plunged into those thoughts, I would light my candle and go to look at the picture.How like we were to each other, my father and I, although I was more slightly built!
How exactly the same we were! How near to me I felt him, and how dearly I loved him! With what emotion I studied those features, the lofty forehead, the brown eyes, the rather large mouth, the rather long chin, the mouth especially half-hidden by a black moustache cut like my own; it had no need to open, and cry out:
"Andre, Andre, remember me!" Ah, no, my dear dead father, I could not leave you thus, without having done my utmost to avenge you, and it was only an interview to be faced, only an interview!
My nervousness gave way to determination at once feverish and fixed--yes, it was both--and it was in a mood of perfect self-mastery, that, after a long period of mental conflict, I repaired to the hotel on the boulevard, with the plan of my discourse clearly laid out.I felt almost sure of finding my stepfather alone; for my mother was to breakfast on that day with Madame Bernard.M.Termonde was at home, and, as I expected, alone in his study.
When I entered the room, he was sitting in a low chair, close to the fire, looking chilly, and smoking.Like myself in my dark hours, he drugged himself with tobacco.The room was a large one, and both luxurious and ordinary.A handsome bookcase lined one of the walls.Its contents were various, ranging from grave works on history and political economy, to the lightest novels of the day.
A large, flat writing-table, on which every kind of writing-material was carefully arranged, occupied the middle of the room, and was adorned with photographs in plain leather cases.These were portraits of my mother and M.Termonde's father and mother.
At least one prominent trait of its owner's character, his scrupulous attention to order and correctness of detail, was revealed by the aspect of my stepfather's study; but this quality, which is common to so many persons of his position in the world, may belong to the most commonplace character as well as to the most refined hypocrite.It was not only in the external order and bearing of his life that my stepfather was impenetrable, none could tell whether profound thoughts were or were not hidden behind his politeness and elegance of manner.I had often reflected on this, at a period when as yet I had no stronger motive for examining into the recesses of the man's character than curiosity, and the impression came to me with extreme intensity at the moment when Ientered his presence with a firm resolve to read in the book of his past life.
We shook hands, I took a seat opposite to his on the other side of the hearth, lighted a cigar, and said, as if to explain my unaccustomed presence:
"Mamma is not here?"
"Did she not tell you, the other day, that she was to breakfast with Madame Bernard? There's an expedition to Lozano's studio"(Lozano was a Spanish painter much in vogue just then), "to see a portrait he is painting of Madame Bernard.Is there anything you want to have told to your mother?" he added, simply.
These few words were sufficient to show me that he had remarked the singularity of my visit.Ought I to regret or to rejoice at this?
He was, then, already aware that I had some particular motive for coming; but this very fact would give all their intended weight to my words.I began by turning the conversation on an indifferent matter, talking of the painter Lozano and a good picture of his which I knew, "A Gipsy-dance in a Tavern-yard at Grenada." Idescribed the bold attitudes, the pale complexions, the Moorish faces of the "gitanas," and the red carnations stuck into the heavy braids of their black hair, and I questioned him about Spain.
He answered me, but evidently out of mere politeness.
