The Counterfeiters

“The time has now come for me to hear a step in the passage,” said Bernard to himself. He raised his head and listened. Nothing! His father and elder brother were away at the law-courts; his mother paying visits; his sister at a concert; as for his small brother Caloub⁠—the youngest⁠—he was safely shut up for the whole afternoon in his day-school. Bernard Profitendieu had stayed at home to cram for his bachot; he had only three more weeks before him. His family respected his solitude⁠—not so the demon! Although Bernard had stripped off his coat, he was stifling. The window that looked on to the street stood open, but it let in nothing but heat. His forehead was streaming. A drop of perspiration came dripping from his nose and fell on to the letter he was holding in his hand.

“Pretending to be a tear!” thought he. “But it’s better to sweat than to weep.”

Yes; the date was conclusive. No one could be in question but him, Bernard himself. Impossible to doubt it. The letter was addressed to his mother⁠—a love-letter⁠—seventeen years old, unsigned.

“What can this initial stand for? A V? It might just as well be an N.⁠ ⁠… Would it be becoming to question my mother?⁠ ⁠… We must give her credit for good taste. I’m free to imagine he’s a prince. It wouldn’t advance matters much to know that I was the son of a rapscallion. There’s no better cure for the fear of taking after one’s father, than not to know who he is. The mere fact of enquiry binds one. The only thing to do is to welcome deliverance and not attempt to go any deeper. Besides which, I’ve had sufficient for the day.”

“I was on the Bourgogne, you know, on the day of the wreck. I was seventeen, so now you know how old I am. I was a very good swimmer, and to show you that I’m not hard-hearted, I’ll tell you that if my first thought was to save myself, my second was to save someone else. I’m not quite sure even whether it wasn’t my first. Or rather, I don’t think I thought of anything; but nothing disgusts me so much in such moments as the people who only think of themselves⁠—oh, yes⁠—the women who scream. There was a first boatload, chiefly of women and children, and some of them yelled to such an extent that it was enough to make anyone lose his head. The boat was so badly handled that instead of dropping down on to the sea straight, it dived nose foremost and everyone in it was flung out before it even had time to fill with water. The whole scene took place by the light of torches and lanterns and searchlights. You can’t imagine how ghastly it was. The waves were very big and everything that was not in the light was lost in darkness on the other side of the hill of water.

“I have never lived more intensely; but I was as incapable of reflection as a Newfoundland dog, I suppose, when he jumps into the water.

(But all this gets rather draggled by sleeping on benches.)⁠ ⁠…

He had a horrible turn when the attendant told him there were ten centimes to pay. He had not a single sou left. What should he do? The suitcase was there, on the counter. The slightest sign of hesitation would give the alarm⁠—so would his want of money. But the demon is watching over him; he slips between Bernard’s anxious fingers, as they go searching from pocket to pocket with a pretence of feigned despair, a fifty-centime bit, which had lain forgotten since goodness knows when in his waistcoat pocket. Bernard hands it to the attendant. He has not shown a sign of his agitation. He takes up the suitcase, and in the simplest, honestest fashion pockets the forty centimes change. Heavens! How hot he is! Where shall he go now? His legs are beginning to fail him and the suitcase feels heavy. What shall he do with it?⁠ ⁠… He suddenly remembers that he has no key. No! No! Certainly not! He will not break open the lock; what the devil, he isn’t a thief!⁠ ⁠… But if he only knew what was in it. His arm is aching and he is perspiring with the heat. He stops for a moment and puts his burden down on the pavement. Of course he has every intention of returning the wretched thing to its owner; but he would like to question it first. He presses the lock at a venture.⁠ ⁠… Oh miracle! The two shells open and disclose a pearl⁠—a pocketbook, which in its turn discloses a bundle of banknotes. Bernard seizes the pearl and shuts up the oyster.

Laura was very simply dressed, all in black; she looked as if she were in mourning. During the few days she had been in Paris, she had been vaguely waiting for something or somebody to get her out of her straits. She had taken the wrong road, not a doubt of it; she felt completely lost. She had the unfortunate habit of counting on the event rather than on herself. She was not without virtue, but now that she had been abandoned she felt that all her strength had left her. At Bernard’s entrance, she raised one hand to her face, like someone who keeps back a cry or shades his eyes from too bright a light. She was standing, and took a step backwards; then, finding herself close to the window, with her other hand she caught hold of the curtain.

Bernard stopped, waiting for her to question him; but she too waited for him to speak. He looked at her; with a beating heart, he tried in vain to smile.

“Excuse me, Madame,” he said at last, “for disturbing you in this manner. Edouard X, whom I believe you know, arrived in Paris this morning. I have something urgent to say to him; I thought you might be able to give me his address and⁠ ⁠… forgive me for coming so unceremoniously to ask for it.”

“Why,” he asked, and his voice was solemn and loud, but as toneless as though it came from beyond the grave, “why did they let you in? I told the maid to say if anyone came, that Monsieur de La Pérouse was dead.”

I was greatly distressed, not so much by these absurd words, as by their tone⁠—a declamatory tone, unspeakably affected, to which I was unaccustomed in my old master⁠—so natural with me, as a rule⁠—so confiding.

“The girl didn’t want to tell a falsehood,” I said at last. “Don’t scold her for having let me in. I am happy to see you.”

He repeated stolidly: “Monsieur de La Pérouse is dead,” and then plunged back into silence. I had a moment’s ill temper and got up, meaning to leave, and put off till another day the task of finding a clue to this melancholy piece of acting. But at that moment the maid came back; she was carrying a cup of smoking chocolate:

“Make a little effort, sir; you haven’t tasted anything all day.”

La Pérouse made an impatient gesture, like an actor whose effect has been spoilt by a clumsy super.

“Later. When the gentleman has gone.”

But the maid had no sooner shut the door, when:

“Be kind, my dear friend. Get me a glass of water⁠—plain water. I’m dying of thirst.”

I found a water bottle and a glass in the dining-room. He filled the glass, emptied it at a draught and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his old alpaca coat.

“Are you feverish?” I asked.

The words brought him back to the remembrance of the part he was playing.