The magistrate thought it possible to discover the criminal without police-warrant or enquiry. On a date agreed upon at midnight, he had the floor of the library, the treads of the stairs, the vestibule, the garden path leading to Monsieur Maurice’s summerhouse, and the entrance hall of the latter, all covered with a coating of talc.
The following morning Monsieur des Aubels, assisted by a photographer from the Prefecture, and accompanied by Monsieur René d’Esparvieu and Monsieur Sariette, came to take the imprints. They found nothing in the garden, the wind had blown away the coating of talc; nothing in the summerhouse either. Young Maurice told them he thought it was some practical joke and that he had brushed away the white dust with the hearth-brush. The real truth was, he had effaced the traces left by the boots of Odile, the lady’s-maid. On the stairs and in the library the very light print of a bare foot could be discerned, it seemed to have sprung into the air and to have touched the ground at rare intervals and without any pressure. They discovered five of these traces. The clearest was to be found in the abode of the busts and spheres, on the edge of the table where the books were piled. The photographer took several negatives of this imprint.
“This is more terrifying than anything else,” murmured Monsieur Sariette.
Monsieur des Aubels did not hide his surprise.
Three days later the anthropometrical department of the Prefecture returned the proofs exhibited to them, saying that they were not in the records.
After dinner Monsieur René showed the photographs to his brother Gaétan, who examined them with profound attention, and after a long silence exclaimed:
“No wonder they have not got this at the Prefecture; it is the foot of a god or of an athlete of antiquity. The sole that made this impression is of a perfection unknown to our races and our climates. It exhibits toes of exquisite grace, and a divine heel.”
René d’Esparvieu cried out upon his brother for a madman.
“He is a poet,” sighed Madame d’Esparvieu.
“Uncle,” said Maurice, “you’ll fall in love with this foot if you ever come across it.”
“Such was the fate of Vivant Denon, who accompanied Bonaparte to Egypt,” replied Gaétan. “At Thebes, in a tomb violated by the Arabs, Denon found the little foot of a mummy of marvellous beauty. He contemplated it with extraordinary fervour. ‘It is the foot of a young woman,’ he pondered, ‘of a princess—of a charming creature. No covering has ever marred its perfect shape.’ Denon admired, adored, and loved it. You may see a drawing of this little foot in Denon’s atlas of his journey to Egypt, whose leaves one could turn over upstairs, without going further afield, if only Monsieur Sariette would ever let us see a single volume of his library.”
Sometimes, in bed, Maurice, waking in the middle of the night, thought he heard the sound of pages being turned over in the next room, and the thud of bound volumes falling on the floor.
One morning at five o’clock he was coming home from the club, after a night of bad luck, and while he stood outside the door of the summerhouse, hunting in his pocket for his keys, his ears distinctly heard a voice sighing:
“Knowledge, whither dost thou lead me? Thought, whither dost thou lure me?”
But entering the two rooms he saw nothing, and told himself that his ears must have deceived him.
VIII
Which speaks of love, a subject which always gives pleasure, for a tale without love is like beef without mustard: an insipid dish.
Nothing ever astonished Maurice. He never sought to know the causes of things and dwelt tranquilly in the world of appearances. Not denying the eternal truth, he nevertheless followed vain things as his fancy led him.
Less addicted to sport and violent exercise than most young people of his generation, he followed unconsciously the old erotic traditions of his race. The French were ever the most gallant of men, and it were a pity they should lose this advantage. Maurice preserved it. He was in love with no woman, but, as St. Augustine said, he loved to love. After paying the tribute that was rightly due to the imperishable beauty and secret arts of Madame de la Berthelière, he had enjoyed the impetuous caresses of a young singer called Luciole. At present he was joylessly experiencing the primitive perversity of Odile, his mother’s lady’s-maid, and the tearful adoration of the beautiful Madame Boittier. And he felt a great void in his heart.
It chanced that one Wednesday, on entering the drawing-room where his mother entertained her friends—who were, generally speaking, unattractive and austere ladies, with a sprinkling of old men and very young people—he noticed, in this intimate circle, Madame des Aubels, the wife of the magistrate at the Law Courts, whom Monsieur d’Esparvieu had vainly consulted on the mysterious ransacking of his library. She was young, he found her pretty, and not without cause. Gilberte had been modelled by the Genius of the Race, and no other genius had had a part in the work.
Thus all her attributes inspired desire, and nothing in her shape or her being aroused any other sentiment.
The law of attraction which draws world to world moved young Maurice to approach this delicious creature, and under its influence he offered to escort her to the tea-table. And when Gilberte was served with tea, he said:
“We should hit it off quite well together, you and I, don’t you think?”
He spoke in this way, according to modern usage, so as to avoid inane compliments and to spare a woman the boredom of listening to one of those old declarations of love which, containing nothing but what is vague and undefined, require neither a truthful nor an exact reply.
And profiting by the fact that he had an opportunity of conversing secretly with Madame des Aubels for a few minutes, he spoke urgently and to the point. Gilberte, so far
