“I confess before Almighty God, to the man who has been so wronged on my account, and to my friends and neighbors, whom I have deceived”—so Lawrence Gerald's confession began—“that I am guilty in deed, though not in intention, of the death of Madame Chevreuse, for which Mr. Schöninger is now unjustly condemned. I had gambled, and was in debt to a man who threatened to expose me if I did not pay him at once. I knew that the exposure would ruin me. I should have lost my situation, my marriage would have been prevented, and my mother's heart would have been broken. The debt was not a new one. I had not gambled for a good while, and had resolved never to do so again; and I have kept that resolution. If I would have broken it, and increased my debt, the man would have waited. I was tempted to, but I resisted. It seemed to me better to take the money—I did not call it stealing—when I could get it, and repay it privately after my marriage. I knew that I could have it then, a little at a time. I had known many men to be excused for such things—men who had used money that belonged to others, meaning to repay it some time, and the law had not punished them severely. Yet there was not a case where the need seemed to be as great as mine. I thought of it a long time before I felt as if I could do it, and then I didn't resolve that I would. I only felt that I would take advantage of whatever chance occurred. I never arranged anything. F. Chevreuse dropped his latch-key into the furnace register one day when he was at my mother's. I got it out afterward, and kept it. I knew already that the key of our street-door would unlock his. Those two helps I regarded as an intimation of what I was to do. I even thought them providential; and I promised God that if I should succeed in getting the money and paying my debts, I would lead a good life in future. I didn't know that I was blaspheming. Afterward I heard F. Chevreuse say just how much money he had, and where he kept it. He was talking to my mother and me. I took that as another intimation. I said, Such a good man as he would not be permitted to help me along in this way, if I were not to do what I am thinking of. Then I knew that for one night he would be away; but still I did not resolve. I only followed wherever circumstances [pg 500] led me; and every circumstance led me straight on to crime. We were at Mrs. Ferrier's that evening singing, and the night was dark. If it had been a bright night, I should not have ventured to go to the priest's door. I said to myself that it was perhaps God who had made the night dark for me. I went home from Mrs. Ferrier's, and went to my own room, taking the key of the street-door with me. I stayed there till all were asleep; and I thought that if my mother had left her chamber-door open, I would not go out, for she might hear me going down-stairs. She usually left it open, but that night it was shut. I went down the back stairs, and got out of a little window at the back of the house; and even then I did not say surely to myself what I was going to do.
“It was necessary that I should have some disguise, and I had none; but I had seen Mr. Schöninger lay his shawl down in Mrs. Ferrier's garden, and I thought he had left it there. I took that for another sign. If the shawl were not there, I would go home again. It was there, and I wrapped myself in it, and walked toward the priest's house, ready to turn back at the least obstacle. The only person I saw was a policeman, and he was behind me, so that I was forced to go forward. A thunder-shower was coming up, and the sound of it deadened my steps. When I reached the door, I stopped again, and, for the first time, made a plan. If any one should find me unlocking it, I would say that my mother was sick, and I had come for Mother Chevreuse. If Andrew or Jane should meet and know me as I entered, I would tell the same story, and would ask for Mother Chevreuse, and then confess the whole truth to her. I knew she would pity, and perhaps she would help, me. If Mother Chevreuse herself should come upon me, and recognize me, I would confess to her, and beg her mercy. Nobody saw or heard me till I had got the money into my hands, and was going away; and then it was too late to confess. All my irresolution had gone away, and I was desperate. It was no longer a question of confessing to one person, but of being exposed before three, and, of course, before the world. All the excuses I had made for myself before became as nothing, and I knew that I was a thief. The money was in my hands, I had earned it, and I meant to keep it. The rest is all like a flash of lightning. Why did she cling so to me? I told her twice to let go, or I might hurt her. My blood was all in my head. If those two servants had come and seen me there, I should have killed myself before their faces. I heard their steps coming, and I pushed her with all my strength. I did not stop to think where we were. She let go then; but I have felt her soft hands clinging to me ever since. It maddens a man to have a woman's soft hands clinging to him when he wants to get away. After that, I ran back to Mrs. Ferrier's garden, and left the shawl, and then I went home.
“When I was sick, and thought I was going to die, and couldn't get another priest, I confessed to F. Chevreuse, and he forgave me; but he told me that I must consent to his telling all in order to clear Mr. Schöninger as soon as I should be dead. I consented; but I did not die, and so he could do nothing. I hereby give him leave to tell all that I then told him. I have not been to confession since, because I [pg 501] didn't want to give him a chance to say anything to me. I forgot then to tell him that I had the money still, but I shall give it back with this. Of course I did not dare to use it. I told the man I owed to do his worst about it, and he did nothing, only said he would wait till I could pay him. I found I had gained nothing, and lost all.
“My wife found me out, I do not know how, and I never asked; and it is she who writes this from my dictation. John, my mother's footman, found me out, and I have never asked him how. He will sign this, but without reading it. I think he has no proof against me. F. Chevreuse knows nothing except what he has learned in the confessional. This will be left with him, to be opened four weeks from to-day. With him, also, I leave a letter to my dearest mother, whom I am not worthy to name, and a letter for Mr. Schöninger.”
The letter to his mother was buried with her. No one ever read it, unless those dead eyes could see. The letter to Mr. Schöninger was simply to beg the forgiveness which, the writer added, he scarcely hoped to receive.
The confession was written in a clear, even hand, with evident deliberation and painstaking on the part of the amanuensis; and if the writer's heart had trembled, not a line showed it. Only here and there a large blister on the paper showed where a tear had fallen.
Mr. and Mrs. Grundy were shocked at the writer's insensibility; but then Annette Ferrier always was queer, they added.
Perhaps only one of the many who read that confession was aware of the sting it contained for F. Chevreuse, or dreamed that those “soft, clinging hands” would be felt by him also, as well as by the criminal, for many a day. Mr. Schöninger shrank with a pang of sympathetic pain when he saw the words, and almost wondered that Annette Gerald could, even in that moment of supreme misery, have been unaware of their cruelty.
“I own to you,” F. Chevreuse confessed years afterward to F. O'Donovan, “that when I first read those words, I realized for one moment how a man might be willing to kill another. The image of him flinging off my mother's clinging hands—well, well! The time will never come when I can speak calmly of it. Fortunately for me then, it was Holy Week, and I had my crucified Lord before me, and plenty of work on my hands. Mr. Schöninger helped me, too. I knew what he meant, though he made no explanation. He only said, ‘Your Christ is strong, if he can keep your hand from clinching.’ ”
Christ was strong, and the Jew was yet to feel his might.