"P'tit homme." (Little Man).

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Part I I

Rue Spontini, before merging on the one side into Avenue Victor Hugo, and on the other into Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne, those old but stylish quarters of Paris, was merely a quiet and bourgeoisie street of Passy. There were then only to be seen small, plain houses, whose doors and windows opened directly on the street. To-day the eye of the pedestrian or of the passer-by falls upon a number of large houses of modern architecture and many smaller ones, separated from the street by railings. As for the old houses they have renewed their youth. They might pass from afar for new ones, with their bright paint, their artistic windows, were it not for the absence of railings, for the doors on a level with the street. If a window on the ground-floor were left open, one could pass with one stride from the sidewalk into the house. A great convenience, surely, for the master or servant who had forgotten his keys, and perhaps too great a convenience for thieves.

Natural coquettes and artful ones, new houses and old, had indifferently very peaceful inhabitants — in- 7 dependent gentlemen, pensioners, retired business men, seeking to prolong their lives in repose, in pure air, one foot in Paris, the other in the semi-country of the Bois-de-Boulogne and its lakes. But, by the side of those good people of the past, in their immediate neighborhood, very frequently lived a young man or woman still “on the turf,’^ to use a slang phrase. One had come to mourn an absent lover in solitude, or to hide forbidden love. Another was a philosopher, a student, a man of letters or an artist; sometimes he was a man of the world, scornful or sated with the charms of lovely women, and thinking to find something new, something better, something unfamiliar among the commoners or the women of the suburbs.

The oldest pf those houses, but the one the most skillfully remodeled, was occupied — to be discreet, we will not give the exact date nor the true names of the personages in this true story — by Count Gontran de Platere, a man of some thirty years of age, very stylish, and rich enough to live well without committing too many follies, well-known in all countries.

At the end of November, i88 — , at about three o’clock on a cloudy afternoon, a coupe, hired by the month, left M. de Platere in front of his hotel. He dismissed his coachman, and as he was searching for his key in order to enter his house, he perceived that the salon window was open, and that his servant, Charles Leflot, was in the room.

'^‘Charles,” he exclaimed, “let me in.’’

A second later, he crossed the vestibule and mounted the stairs, which were covered with a thick carpet, deadening all sound. Arrived at the first floor on thedanding-place, transformed, in order to aggrandize the house, into a sort of small waiting-room, he raised a portiere and entered a large room with low divans around it, in Oriental style, with large cushions here and there, a small secretary in one corner, and which might serve either for smoking-room, study or boudoir. The bedroom was a continuation 'of that room and did not seem to ‘be separated from it on account of the absence of doors.

Gontran de Platere gave his hat and cane to the small servant who had followed him, threw him his gloves, and advancing to the fireplace in which a bright fire burned, he took up a letter put in a conspicuous place near the clock.

“When did that come.?” he asked, glancing at the handwriting before breaking the seal.

“Monsieur had just gone. It was about noon. It came by mail.”

“I can see that, simpleton, since there is a postmark.”

As he spoke he drew the letter from its envelope, glanced rapidly through it, made a gesture of surprise, then, with a smile upon his lips, and with sparkling eyes, he turned to Charles:

“ Did you go to Mile, de Lange’s during my absence .?”

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^‘Yes, sir/’

‘4s she still disposed to leave to-morrow by the nine o’clock express?”

“Ah, I should think so! When Monte-Carlo is in the question, she does not have to be implored. Monsieur can get his bank-notes ready; the roulette awaits them.”

Still smiling, at the remembrance, no doubt, of the letter he had just received, but in a tone which he attempted to render severe, he said:

“Charles, you are indeed becoming very familiar; you must stop that, my boy.”

As Charles, in confusion, lowered his bright eyes, and bowed his head, M. de Platere was tempted to regret his severity. He was fond of the boy, grown almost to manhood, whom his mother, an old servant of the Plateres, had entrusted to him on her death-bed. “I shall die happy,” said she with clasped hands, “if you will promise me that he shall never leave you. Take him from this moment into your service, and may he always remain in it, as I remained with your father and mother.” Gontran promised, and made of Charles, who often, with touching familiarity, he called “P’tit Homme,” a sort of page, but a page who was allowed many liberties, who was treated very kindly, and whom the count, in his leisure hours, taught — “In order to raise you later,” said he with a smile, “to the dignity of secretary.” The boy, mischievous at times, but ordinarily serious and

II considerate, was very grateful for all his kindness, and loved as a father that affectionate master whose service was very light, the count lunching and dining at the club, and only looking upon the little hotel on Rue Spontini as a sort of haven in which to rest.

“Did Mile.’ de Lange say that she would call for me to-day to dine as we agreed upon ?” he asked after again looking over the letter he had just received.

“Yes, but a little later, at about half-past seven, replied Charles.

“Does she not need you for her trunks, her final preparations.^’^ -

“I think she would have liked to have kept me, but monsieur bade me return.”

“I thought I should need you, I was mistaken. You can offer your services to Mile, de Lange; you can return with her at half-past seven.”

“That is to say I annoy monsieur, and that he wishes to get rid of me,” said Charles boldly.

“You bore me. Go, as quickly as possible.”

“I ask nothing better! The lady who is coming will probably detain you in Paris.”

“I expect no lady. I expect a gentleman on business. What makes you think I expect a lady

“Monsieur has such a contented air.”

“Indeed, did you perceive that.?”

“Surely! I have good eyes.”

“You will oblige me by closing them in future. So you do not like to have me leave to-morrow.?”

“What a question! Monsieur is not taking me with him !”

“I will send for you when I am settled somewhere/’

“If Mile. Gabriellede Lange permits — and she will not.”

“Why not, I pray you?”

“I am too fond of you.”

“She should be pleased at your devotion to me.”

“Yes, if she really loved you, but she only cares for your money. She is not a good woman. Monsieur might have chosen better.”

“Will you be silent?”

“I know what I am saying!”

“Will you go?”

“I am going! I am going!”

With those words he rushed toward the stairs which he cleared in two bounds.

When alone, Gontran de Platere once more read the letter he still held in his hand:

“Thank you, thank you, my friend, for granting my prayer, for consenting to leave Paris, for my peace of mind, at the commencement of winter, in the midst of all your enjoyment. I shall be grateful to you all my life for having saved me from myself — from the folly I might have committed. Yes, I can now say it — since you are so good, so generous, since you are going away. Often I feared some inconsiderate act. But now I am reassured, I have become sensible again. Thanks to you, I no longer fear anything, and to prove it to you, to prove that I have absolute faith in your loyalty, I yield to your prayer. Yes, for the first and last time, I will come to your house to-day to bid you farewell, to place my hands honorably, platonically in yours. Expect me at five o’clock. Admit me yourself. I tremble on writing this. Am I doing wrong No; you are only and will always be my friend. It has been vowed by you, by me. Mathilde.’^

After that last reading, he made a movement as if to throw the letter into the fire — and the wood which blazed up at that moment seemed to invite it — but, changing his mind, he placed it in a voluminous pocket-book which he drew from the pocket of his redingote. Then, as it still lacked several minutes of the hour of meeting, he thought of her whom he awaited: a very pretty woman who in every respect merited her reputation as a beauty; young, scarcely twenty-five, well-developed, a brunette, with a clearcut profile, long, dreamy black eyes, red lips and pearly teeth. Her husband, young like herself, handsome and affable, was Baron Robert de Cloziers, who, though titled, was not a wealthy man, and who engaged in business in order to add to his income; that is to say, who entered into any honest enterprise in which he could make money without compromising himself, without derogating from his dignity. Rich to-day in consequence of a fortunate veat^ ure; poor to-morrow in consequence of a failure. He loved his wife devotedly, with all the strength of passion, and, for her part, she had loved him until the day on which she met Count Gontran de Platere. How had he attracted her? Probably by his reserve, his coldness, contrasting with the ardor of her husband, or for no reason at all. Can those infatuations of the most sensible women be explained and should we attempt to do so? For a year, they had met every week, often every day, at the theater, at a ball or a dinner. Then Gontran, who was fascinated by that great beauty, succeeded in entering the baroness’ home, under the pretext of business with her husband. Great was his astonishment: Mathilde de Cloziers, whom he thought half-conquered, made a long and stubborn resistance, so long, so stubborn, that the count determined it was useless to struggle any longer. Like a clever man who awaits his opportunity in the future, and who never despairs of women, instead of withdrawing, he was dismissed.

‘^Go away, I implore you,’^ she had said to him, and he went. But instead of going alone, and for her sake, as she thought, in her innocence, he simply went to winter at Nice with Gabrielle de Lange, a demi-mondaute, by whose side he hoped to forget the invincible baroness.

Would she still be invincible on that special day? Was she really coming to his house as a friend who believed she was fulfilling a duty of friendship, and with the firm desire, the serious conviction of being respected? He would be able to divine that after a few moments’ conversation, and he would act accordingly. However, he placed great hope in the issue of that final struggle.

Five o’clock. She might arrive any minute. That she might not wait after having rung, he descended to the ground-floor and paced the hall with impatience, with agitation. Suddenly he remembered that the window of the salon was open when he arrived. Had his servant, before going out, thought of closing it? He turned towards the salon in order to find out, when he heard the bell.

It was she. Prudently, fearing the coachman, she had dismissed him and had come part of the way on foot. He opened the door. It was indeed she. In spite of the large cloak which covered her, he recognized her by her finely developed shoulders and bust, by the carriage of her head. He pressed her hand in silence and preceded her to show her the way. She followed him trembling, like a woman unaccustomed to paying visits of that kind.

The hall, staircase and landing were lighted by iron lanterns. They reached the first floor. On the mantel-piece were candelabra, each containing four candles.

She remained erect, motionless, in the middle of the boudoir, enveloped in her mantle and veil.

“Shall you not lay that aside?” he asked in a gentle voice, approaching her.

l6

As she did not reply, being perhaps too startled, he skillfully unhooked her cloak and untied her veil. On raising it, he uncovered the upper part of her neck, plump but still delicate. Did that sight agitate him, or did it determine him to give battle.^ Whichever it was, he stooped and pressed a hasty kiss upon it.

At the same time. Baroness de Cloziers, turning her head, said to the count:

‘‘That was wrong of you! I have placed so much confidence in you!’^

While he was wondering if that umbrage were genuine, she resumed very firmly, but without severity, as if it pained her to be obliged to speak thus:

“I fear you have deceived yourself. It is my fault. I have thought about my letter since I wrote it, somewhat rashly. It may have inspired you with hope. Perhaps you said to yourself: ‘Those adieux are only a pretext for coming to my house. She is, this time, determined for — all. ' But, no ! When you said to me the day before yesterday: ‘I obey you, I shall go!’ I was deeply touched by that sacrifice, and I had only one thought, to thank you for it with all my heart, here, in your house, in order that the departure might be less sad — and that you might carry away with you a' pleasant memory — such as one has on leaving a friend, a sister. Nothing, nothing more, I assure you.’^

She was so resplendent at that moment and her emotion lent her such a charm, that, notwithstanding the clearness of her language, he made one last struggle.

“What you have just said to me,’^ said he, taking one of her hands, which she did not attempt to withdraw, “is very severe. Hove you, you know it, and — you have permitted me to believe that you loved me as^well.”

“Yes, I have permitted that/^ said she boldly, with head erect, looking fixedly in his eyes. “You have greatly disturbed my peace of mind, I venture to say. Despite my resistance, my letters, you have taken my heart entirely. But is that any reason that I should do anything worse It may terminate fatally. I cannot tell. I do not think myself any stronger than many others who have finally succumbed, but I shall at least have struggled to the last against myself, with all my courage, all my will, all the energy which I would employ to save you were you in peril, to avenge you were you harmed.’’

That time she convinced him of her sincerity, of her desire to remain pure. Men who have had much experience with the gentler sex are not deceived by those signs. Nothing to be done, they end by saying, and they are wise enough to desist.

Gontran de Platere was one of those wise men, and seated on the large divan, beside Baroness de Cloziers, he contented himself with telling her again of his love and with hearing her tell of hers.

i8

“Already six clock,” said she suddenly, “I must go;” tenderly adding: “Adieu, my friend, my brother, I promise to remember you.”

She hastily threw over her shoulders the cloak she had taken off on arriving, put on her veil before the glass at the mantel-piece, and, turning again to Gontran, with her back to the portiere which separated the boudoir from the landing, with a rapid movement, she extended to him both hands.

They stood thus an instant, with clasped hands, looking at one another. Then, unconsciously perhaps, they drew nearer each other, their hearts met.

Gazing into her eyes, his lips near hers, Gontran murmured: “Before parting, perhaps forever, one kiss— the first and the last.”

She resisted a second, then their lips met. But scarcely had they met than a shot was fired and Count de Platere fell heavily to the floor.

Count de Platere fell heavily to the floor. — p. i8

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II

With a revolver still smoking- in his hand, a man stood motionless near the raised portiere.

Mathilde recognized him. It was her husband, Baron Robert de Cloziers.

She cast upon him a terrible glance, then, heedless of him, without considering if he would kill her too, she fell upon Gontran’s inanimate body, and spoke thus: “Do you see me? Do you hear me? Answer

me, please. Oh, my God !” And terrified by the pallor of his face, by the rigidity of his form, by the blood which flowed in streams, she drew back, and his head which she had raised sank back heavily upon the floor.

“He is dead! He is dead!” she repeated, and she then cried or rather essayed to cry, when sounds succeeded in escaping her contracted throat: “Help! Help ! A doctor ! A doctor !” Alas ! who could hear her in that deserted house? Her husband only. But he remained in the same spot, motionless, mute, terrified as well at what he had done, at that sudden death which he had not anticipated, had not perhaps desired.

However, he awoke from his stupor, when his wife 19 turned towards him, and fearlessly, braving the pistol he still held in his hand, cried:

^‘Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!’’

“I am not a murderer!” he murmured sadly, without anger — for his anger had disappeared, it was appeased by blood.

“Murderer! Murderer!”

“No, I am not a murderer,” he repeated louder, raising his head. “I am an outraged husband who has obtained justice!”

“Justice! For what!”

“He was your lover. I have killed him as I should have killed you too perhaps.”

“Kill me then!” she cried.

Rapidly she rose, rushed towards him, and presented to him her breast.

Still he did not stir; the hand which held the revolver hung by his side.

“The coward! The coward! He dares not — because I look him in the face. He only strikes from behind.”

“How you loved him!” said he simply, in a voice profoundly sad.

“Yes, I loved him. Was that his fault.? But it was the first time I was alone with him, the first time I entered this house — to which I carpe as a friend, as a sister.”

“I surprised you in his arms.”

“No, on his breast. He was bidding me adieu. Our first and our last kiss, those were his last words.

the unhappy man — and you killed him! Cov/ard! Murderer!”

He turned to go. But paused, as Mathilde, kneeling beside the corpse, cried:

“Ah, you wish to fly! You fear being found near your victim. You hope to escape justice.”

“I do not fear it,” he replied. “It will absolve me.”

“Absolve you! Ah, yes, that is true! That barbarous, monstrous law — which pardons the murderer, the assassin — which excuses the husband when he kills the lover.”

An idea seemed to occur to her, and she added in a low voice:

“But was he a lover

“No one will doubt it!”

“Do you think so.^^”

She bent over Gontran’s form and muttered several words; they were almost like a vow to the dead. Then, after having pressed a kiss upon those livid lips, upon the icy brow, she rose with a bound, went out without turning to look back, descended the staircase, crossed the hall, and left the house. It was now she who seemed in haste to fly.

He left after her, followed her a moment with his eyes in the silent and deserted street of that winter evening. But soon he lost sight of her; she walked quickly towards Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne, and from that side the street was darker, the mist thicker.

Ill

At half-past seven, as she had said, Gabrielle de Lange arrived at Rue Spontini in a carriage. Charles sprang from the seat which he had mounted in obedience to his master’s orders, opened the door of the coupe, then the door of the house, and drew back before Mile, de Lange.

As she passed him, she uttered these words:

“In spite of all that I have told you, you have again forgotten to close the window on the ground-floor. You will end by causing Gontran’s assassination.”

As she could not see him, he shrugged his shoulders, and murmured:

“She has scarcely arrived, and she is scolding me already.” And, knave that he was occasionally, the little servant imitated Gabrielle de Lange’s gait and made a grimace behind her back.

“Gontran,” she cried, crossing the hall, “it is I. Are you ready to go to dinner.? Will you comedown or shall I come up.? Why, he does not reply. Can he have gone out.? Go and see,” she added, turning to Charles who abruptly interrupted his grimace.

He ascended the staircase in the same manner in which he had descended it three hours before, at a 23 bound, crossed the landing on the first floor, softly raised the portiere after having shaken it — that was his mode of knocking at the door in the house in which there were no doors — and suddenly uttered a cry.

‘^What is it?” asked Gabrielle in affright.

Without awaiting a reply, she mounted the staircase as quickly as she could. When she reached the landing, Charles stood before her pale and trembling:

“What is it? Speak!”

She hastened towards him in order to support him, for he seemed about to fall, and she heard him murmur:

“He is dead! He is dead!”

“Who is dead?”

“My master.”

Bravely she walked on, raised the drapery and entered. The sight she gazed upon certainly affected her less than it did Charles Leflot. Fair, slender, delicate, Cabrielle de Lange was, however, neither impressionable nor nervous. She had the heart of a man beneath an exterior very effeminate and charming.

Walking on tiptoe, avoiding the pools of blood, she advanced to the body stretched upon the floor, looked at it several seconds, stooped to touch brow and face, to listen to the heart, assured herself of death as a doctor would have done, and turning to the poor little servant, whose eyes were filled with large tears, she said to him:

LirTL£ MAN

“Nothing can be done. He has been dead some time. We must notify the police at once.’^

“The police!’^ repeated Charles, not understanding clearly.

“Yes, the commissioner of the quarter.’’

He rose mechanically to obey, walked in the direction of the landing, and as he reached it, said:

“Will you remain here alone

“Why not? I am not afraid of the dead. Come, make haste. In order to go more quickly, take the carriage which brought us and place it at the disposal of the commissioner.”

She thought of everything. Her presence of mind was perfect. Poor Charles went out with lowered head, his eyes obscured by tears, thinking only of one thing: “My master, who has been so kind to me, who has taken the place of a father, is dead, is dead !”

When left alone, Gabrielle de Lange calmly looked around the salon, more curious than affected, to try to discover what had happened, what drama had been played. She had assured herself of his death like a veritable doctor. To learn the cause of that death, she constituted herself coroner.

Suicide? That idea had already occurred to her, but she banished it. Why should Count de Platere kill himself, he who loved life so dearly and could enjoy it so thoroughly? Moreover, if he had committed suicide, a weapon would be found near him, or at least in the salon. She looked around, in order to be perfectly sure, she even raised the corpse and turned it over. That little fair woman was very strong! She found no weapon.

A crime must have been perpetrated. An ordinary, common crime? Murder followed or preceded by theft? Why not ? In that deserted street, on that afternoon darker than night, in that house so insecure.

No doubt of it. But it might also have been what is called a passionate crime. Count de Platere, in his adventurous life, fluttering from woman to woman, had made many enemies, athirst for vengeance.

From reasoning, from analysis, Gabrielle de Lange passed to active research.

If the count had been killed for the sake of plunder, what had been taken from him? She hastened to the small bureau in which she had often seen him put his money. The key was in a lock of the drawer. She opened it, and at a glance discovered that it contained one thousand francs in bank-notes and louis d’or. M. de Platere’s pocket money. “Strange thieves,’^ said she, closing the drawer without disturbing anything. “They had only to stretch out their hands and to steal, — but they took nothing. But,’’ she continued, “the count must have had a large sum in the house. We were going away to-morrow morning, we were going to Monte-Carlo, which is an expensive place, and he certainly must have provided himself with more money. Where is it ? If I do not find it, I shall come to this conclusion: murder and theft.”

She hunted again on all sides. “Nothing. But, on him.^^’^ she said to herself; “I should have begun there.

In the fear of being surprised in the midst of that very natural search, but a search which might be misinterpreted, she raised and fastened with the curtain-bands the portiere which separated the boudoir from the landing. In that way, she could watch the staircase, which was in front of her, the hall, which was below, and if anyone entered could hear and see them from a distance.

Those precautions taken, after having tucked up her skirt in order not to stain it, she again approached the corpse, stooped, and with her dainty but skillful fingers, she examined the pockets of the redingote worn by M. de Platere.

Soon she drew from it a pocket-book, and without any hesitation proceeded to open it; three rolls of bank-notes for ten thousand francs each, a number of papers, bills, no doubt, and a letter — from a woman. There could be no mistake about that.

She thought she had discovered the nature of the crime, its motive — murder, evidently dictated by passion, by jealousy; a meeting, husband is informed of it, hastens thither and kills the lover.

She had just reached that conclusion, when she heard the door open.

What should she do with the pocket-book, which she still held in her hand.? There was not sufficient time to put it back where she had found it. She might be seen from the foot of the stairs, and might be suspected of trying to rob a dead man. Did not those bank-notes belong to her.^ They were for her, for the journey of to-morrow, for her expenses at Monte-Carlo-- for her pleasure, her gaming— yes, for her beloved roulette. M. de Platere had drawn the thirty thousand francs. Should they not revert to the survivor.^ Who would get them.^ The count s wealthy relatives. What a pity ! She needed them, she, Gabrielle de Lange, whom the count s death would leave in dire distress. Those reflections made in an instant — for thought, at times, is more swift than lightning — she slipped the pocket-book into her pocket, one of those large pockets in the form of a sack, cut in the skirts of women.

IV

The commissioner of police of the sixteenth ward, after having dined, was about to enter his office, when Charles Leflot rushed in.

When he comprehended his object — a not very easy matter, for the servant, very much agitated and frightened, explained incoherently — he bade an inspector go in search of a doctor and take him to Rue Spontini, then he entered the carriage with his registrar, while Charles Leflot was so overcome that he was helped to a seat !

When he had established the crime, for all idea of suicide was immediately removed by the doctor, the commissioner informed the attorney of the Republic and the Prefecture, and then began a summary inquiry.

The first to be examined, Gabrielle de Lange, affirmed that she knew nothing of the drama which had just taken place; when she arrived at half-past seven with Charles Leflot, the body of the victim was already rigid.

To the question: Do you suspect any one of this murder.? she responded: “No one. I do not know of one enemy M. de Platere had.’’

Then the magistrate, who, from professional duty, looked at her attentively, and was forced to acknowledge that she was extremely pretty, with a beauty very bewitching, asked himself and her if she were not involuntarily mixed up in the affair, if Count de Platere had not been killed by a jealous lover whom she had discarded.

With an innocent air she rejected that idea; she could not discard lovers, for, living in strict retirement, she had never had one until the day on which she met M. de Platere. She was careful to say as little as possible, to prevent them from suspecting what she had discovered, what she knew. Indeed, if it were proven that the count had been killed by an outraged husband, all idea of theft would be set aside, and when it was proven that he had money in the house or on his person, they might suspect her for she was found alone there. So the abstraction of the pocket-book might bear the gravest consequences.