III
The youth of the photograph had hardly aged. Juste-Agénor had said nineteen; one would not have taken him for more than sixteen. Lafcadio could certainly have only just arrived; when Julius was putting back the pocket-book a moment before, he had raised his eyes to look at the door and had seen no one; but how was it he had not heard him coming? An instinctive glance at the young man’s feet showed Julius that he was wearing goloshes instead of boots.
There was nothing hostile about Lafcadio’s smile; he seemed amused, on the contrary—and ironical; he had kept his travelling-cap on his head, but when he met Julius’s eyes, he took it off and bowed ceremoniously.
“Monsieur Wluiki?” asked Julius.
The young man bowed again without answering.
“Please excuse my sitting down in your room while I was waiting for you. I really shouldn’t have ventured to do so if I hadn’t been shown in.”
Julius spoke faster and louder than usual to convince himself that he was at ease. Lafcadio frowned imperceptibly; he went towards Julius’s umbrella and without a word put it outside to stream in the passage; then coming back into the room again, he motioned Julius to sit down.
“You are no doubt surprised to see me?”
Lafcadio quietly took a cigarette out of a silver cigarette case and lit it.
“I will explain my reason for calling in a few words. Of course you will understand....”
The more he spoke, the more he felt his assurance oozing away.
“Well, then!—But first allow me to introduce myself....” and as though he felt embarrassed at having to pronounce his own name, he drew a visiting-card out of his waistcoat pocket and held it out to Lafcadio, who put it down on the table without looking at it.
“I am ... I have just finished a rather important piece of work; it’s a small piece of work which I have no time to copy out myself. Someone mentioned you to me as having an excellent handwriting and I thought that, perhaps ...” here Julius’s glance travelled eloquently over the bareness of the room—“I thought that perhaps you would have no objection....”
“There is no one in Paris,” interrupted Lafcadio, “no one who could have mentioned my handwriting to you.” As he spoke, he directed his eyes towards the drawer, in opening which Julius had unwittingly destroyed a minute and almost invisible seal of soft wax; then turning the key violently in the lock and putting it in his pocket:
“No one, that is, who has any right to”; and as he spoke he watched Julius’s face redden.
“On the other hand” (he spoke very slowly—almost stolidly, without any expression at all), “I don’t quite grasp so far what reasons Monsieur ...” (he looked at the card) “what reasons Count Julius de Baraglioul can have for taking a special interest in me. Nevertheless” (and his voice suddenly became smooth and mellifluous in imitation of Julius’s), “your proposal deserves to be taken into consideration by a person who, as it has not escaped you, is in need of money.” (He got up.) “Kindly allow me to bring you my answer to-morrow morning.”
The hint to leave was unmistakable. Julius felt too uncomfortable to insist. He took up his hat, hesitated an instant and then:
“I should have liked a little further talk with you,” he said awkwardly. “Let me hope that to-morrow ... I shall expect you any time after ten o’clock.”
Lafcadio bowed.
As soon as Julius had turned the corner of the passage, Lafcadio pushed to the door and bolted it. He ran to the drawer, pulled out the pocket-book, opened it at the last telltale page and just at the place where he had left off several months before, he wrote in pencil in a large hand, sloping defiantly backwards and very unlike the former:
“For having let Olibrius poke his dirty nose into this book ... 1 punta.”
He took a penknife out of his pocket; its blade had been sharpened away until nothing was left of it but a short point like a stiletto, which he passed over the flame of a match and then thrust through his trouser pocket, straight into his thigh. In spite of himself he made a grimace. But he was still not satisfied. Leaning upon the table, without sitting down, he again wrote just below the last sentence:
“And for having shown him that I knew it ... 2 punte.”
This time he hesitated; unfastened his trousers and turned them down on one side. He looked at his thigh in which the little wound he had just made was bleeding; he examined the scars of similar wounds, which were like vaccination marks all round. Then, having once more passed the blade over the flame of a match, he very quickly and twice in succession plunged it into his flesh.
“I usedn’t to take so many precautions in the old days,” he said, going to the bottle of spirits of peppermint and sprinkling a few drops on each of the wounds.
His anger had cooled a little, when, as he was putting back the bottle, he noticed that the photograph of himself and his mother had been slightly disturbed. Then he seized it, gazed at it for the last time with a kind of anguish, and as the blood rushed to his face, tore it furiously to shreds. He tried to burn the pieces, but he could not get them to light; so, clearing the fire-place of the bags which littered it, he took his only two books and set them in the hearth to serve as fire-dogs, pulled his pocket-book apart, hacked it to pieces, crumpled it up, flung his picture on the top and set fire to the whole.
With his face close to the flames he persuaded himself that it was with unspeakable satisfaction that he watched these keepsakes burning, but when he rose to his feet after nothing was left of them but ashes, his head was swimming. The room was full of smoke. He went to his wash-hand-stand and bathed his face.
He was now able to consider the little visiting-card with a steadier eye.
“Count Julius de Baraglioul,” he repeated. “Dapprima importa sapere chi è.”
He tore off the silk handkerchief which he was wearing instead of a collar and tie, unfastened his shirt and, standing in front of the open window, let the cool air play round his chest and sides. Then suddenly all eagerness to go out, with his boots rapidly drawn on, his cravat swiftly knotted, a respectable grey felt hat on his head—appeased and civilised as far as in him lay—Lafcadio shut the door of his room behind him and made his way to the Place St. Sulpice. There, in the big lending-library opposite the town hall, he would be certain to find all the information he wanted.