The first act takes place during that memorable night of 22 June, of which so much has already been said. And, for my part, I attribute the anomalous conduct of which I was guilty on that occasion to the unusual frame of mind in which I found myself on my return home. I had dined with some friends at the Cascade restaurant, and, the entire evening, whilst we smoked and the orchestra played melancholy waltzes, we talked only of crimes and thefts, and dark and frightful intrigues. That is always a poor overture to a night’s sleep.
The Saint-Martins went away in an automobile. Jean Daspry—that delightful, heedless Daspry who, six months later, was killed in such a tragic manner on the frontier of Morocco—Jean Daspry and I returned on foot through the dark, warm night. When we arrived in front of the little house in which I had lived for a year at Neuilly, on the boulevard Maillot, he said to me:
“Are you afraid?”
“What an idea!”
“But this house is so isolated.... no neighbors.... vacant lots....Really, I am not a coward, and yet—-”
“Well, you are very cheering, I must say.”
“Oh! I say that as I would say anything else. The Saint-Martins have impressed me with their stories of brigands and thieves.”
We shook hands and said good-night. I took out my key and opened the door.
“Well, that is good,” I murmured, “Antoine has forgotten to light a candle.”
Then I recalled the fact that Antoine was away; I had given him a short leave of absence. Forthwith, I was disagreeably oppressed by the darkness and silence of the night. I ascended the stairs on tiptoe, and reached my room as quickly as possible; then, contrary to my usual habit, I turned the key and pushed the bolt.