Then I departed. He accompanied me to the door with many polite expressions.
I at once betook me to the head police station, where I related the story of the theft of my furniture and of the discovery I had just made.
They immediately asked for information by telegram from the Department which had had charge of the burglary, asking me to wait for the reply. An hour later a quite satisfactory answer arrived.
“I shall have this man arrested and questioned at once,” the chief told me, “for he may possibly have been suspicious and made away with your belongings. If you dine and come back in a couple of hours, I will have him here and make him undergo a fresh examination in your presence.”
“Most certainly, sir. My warmest thanks. …”
I went to my hotel and dined with a better appetite than I could have believed possible. Still I was contented enough. They had him. Two hours later I went back to the chief inspector, who was waiting for me.
“Well, sir,” he said, as soon as he saw me, “they haven’t found your man. My fellows haven’t been able to put their hands on him!”
“Ah!” I felt that I should faint. “But … you have found his house all right?” I asked.
“Quite. It will be watched and held until he comes back. But as for himself, vanished!”
“Vanished?”
“Vanished. Usually he spends the evenings with his neighbour, herself a dealer, a queer old witch, Widow Bidoin. She has not seen him this evening and can give no information about him. We must wait till tomorrow.”
I departed. How sinister, how disturbing, how haunted the streets of Rouen seemed to me.
I slept badly enough, with nightmares to drag me out of each bout of sleep. As I did not want to appear either too worried or in too much haste, I waited on the following day until ten o’clock before going to the police station.
The dealer had not appeared. His shop remained closed.
The inspector said to me:
“I have taken all the necessary steps. The Department has charge of the affair; we will go off together to this shop and have it opened, and you shall point out your belongings to me.”
We were driven there in a carriage. Some policemen with a locksmith were posted in front of the shop door, which stood open.
When I entered, I found neither my wardrobe, my armchairs, nor my tables, nor anything—nothing of what had furnished my house—absolutely nothing, even though on the previous evening I could not move a step without meeting one of my pieces.
The inspector, surprised, at first looked at me with distrust.
“Good God, sir!” I said, “the disappearance of this furniture coincides amazingly with the disappearance of the dealer.”
He smiled:
“True enough. You were wrong to buy and pay for those things of yours yesterday. It put him on his guard!”
I replied:
“What seems incomprehensible to me is that all the places where my furniture stood are now occupied by other pieces!”
“Oh,” answered the inspector, “he had the whole night, and accomplices too, no doubt. This house probably communicates with its neighbours. Never mind, sir, I am going to move very quickly in this matter. This rogue won’t keep out of our hands very long, now we hold his retreat!”
Ah, my heart, my poor heart, how it was beating.
I stayed in Rouen for a fortnight. The man did not return. My God! My God! Is there any man alive who could confound, could overreach him? Then on the morning of the sixteenth day, I received from my gardener, the caretaker of my pillaged and still empty house, the following strange letter:
Sir:
I beg to inform you that last night there occurred something which no one can fathom, the police no more than ourselves. All the furniture has come back, everything without exception, down to the very smallest objects. The house is now exactly the same as it was on the night of the burglary. It is enough to drive one off one’s head. It happened during the night of Friday-Saturday. The drive is cut up as if they had dragged everything from the gate to the door exactly as it was on the day of the disappearance.
We await you, sir, while remaining,
Ah, no, no, no, no! I will never go back there!
I took the letter to the police inspector.
“This restitution has been made very skilfully,” he said. “Let’s pretend to do nothing now. We’ll catch our man one of these days.”
But he is not caught. No. They haven’t got him, and I am as afraid of him now as if he was a wild beast lurking behind me.
Not to be found! He is not to be found, this moon-headed monster. Never will he be caught. He will never again come back to his house. What does that matter to him! I am the only person who could confront him, and I will not.
I will not! I will not! I will not!
And if he returns, if he comes back to his shop, who could prove that my furniture was in his place? Mine is the only evidence against him; and I am well aware that it is regarded with suspicion.
Oh, no, such a life was no longer bearable. And I could not keep the secret of what I had seen. I could not go on living like anyone else with the dread that such happenings would begin again.
I went to see the doctor in charge of this private asylum, and told him the whole story.
After questioning me for a long time, he said:
“Would you be willing to remain here for some time?”
“Very willing.”
“You have means?”
“Yes.”
“You would like separate quarters?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care to see friends?”
“No, not a soul. The man from Rouen might dare, for vengeance’ sake, to follow me here.”
And I have been alone, alone, quite alone, for three months. I am almost at peace. I have only one fear. … Suppose the antique-dealer went mad … and suppose they brought him to
