classic mystery and detective stories-第52部分

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I　have　at　times　discovered　that　a　long　and　plausible　history

constructed　by　me；　relating　to　personal　friends；　has　crumpled　into

a　ruin　of　absurdity；　by　the　disclosure　of　the　primary　misconception

on　which　the　whole　history　was　based。　　I　have　gone；　let　us　say；　on

the　supposition　that　two　people　were　secretly　lovers；　on　this

supposition　my　imagination　has　constructed　a　whole　scheme　to

explain　certain　acts；　and　one　fine　day　I　have　discovered

indubitably　that　the　supposed　lovers　were　not　lovers；　but

confidants　of　their　passions　in　other　directions；　and；　of　course；

all　my　conjectures　have　been　utterly　false。　　The　secret　flush　of

shame　at　failure　has　not；　however；　prevented　my　falling　into

similar　mistakes　immediately　after。



When；　therefore；　I　hereafter　speak　of　my　〃constructive

imagination；〃　the　reader　will　know　to　what　I　am　alluding。　　It　was

already　busy　with　Bourgonef。　　To　it　must　be　added　that　vague

repulsion；　previously　mentioned。　　This　feeling　abated　on　the　second

day；　but；　although　lessened；　it　remained　powerful　enough　to　prevent

my　speaking　to　him。　　Whether　it　would　have　continued　to　abate　until

it　disappeared；　as　such　antipathies　often　disappear；　under　the

familiarities　of　prolonged　intercourse；　without　any　immediate

appeal　to　my　amour　propre；　I　know　not；　but　every　reflective　mind；

conscious　of　being　accessible　to　antipathies；　will　remember　that

one　certain　method　of　stifling　them　is　for　the　object　to　make　some

appeal　to　our　interest　or　our　vanity：　in　the　engagement　of　these

more　powerful　feelings；　the　antipathy　is　quickly　strangled。　　At　any

rate　it　is　so　in　my　case；　and　was　so　now。



On　the　third　day；　the　conversation　at　table　happening　to　turn；　as

it　often　turned；　upon　St。　Sebald's　Church；　a　young　Frenchman；　who

was　criticising　its　architecture　with　fluent　dogmatism；　drew

Bourgonef　into　the　discussion；　and　thereby　elicited　such　a　display

of　accurate　and　extensive　knowledge；　no　less　than　delicacy　of

appreciation；　that　we　were　all　listening　spellbound。　　In　the　midst

of　this　triumphant　exposition　the　irritated　vanity　of　the　Frenchman

could　do　nothing　to　regain　his　position　but　oppose　a　flat　denial　to

a　historical　statement　made　by　Bourgonef；　backing　his　denial　by　the

confident　assertion　that　〃all　the　competent　authorities〃　held　with

him。　　At　this　point　Bourgonef　appealed　to　me；　and　in　that　tone　of

deference　so　exquisitely　flattering　from　one　we　already　know　to　be

superior　he　requested　my　decision；　observing　that；　from　the　manner

in　which　he　had　seen　me　examine　the　details　of　the　architecture；　he

could　not　be　mistaken　in　his　confidence　that　I　was　a　connoisseur。

All　eyes　were　turned　upon　me。　　As　a　shy　man；　this　made　me　blush；　as

a　vain　man；　the　blush　was　accompanied　with　delight。　　It　might

easily　have　happened　that　such　an　appeal；　acting　at　once　upon

shyness　and　ignorance；　would　have　inflamed　my　wrath；　but　the　appeal

happening　to　be　directed　on　a　point　which　I　had　recently

investigated　and　thoroughly　mastered；　I　was　flattered　at　the

opportunity　of　a　victorious　display。



The　pleasure　of　my　triumph　diffused　itself　over　my　feelings　towards

him　who　had　been　the　occasion　of　it。　　The　Frenchman　was　silenced；

the　general　verdict　of　the　company　was　too　obviously　on　our　side。

From　this　time　the　conversation　continued　between　Bourgonef　and

myself；　and　he　not　only　succeeded　in　entirely　dissipating　my　absurd

antipathywhich　I　now　saw　to　have　been　founded　on　purely　imaginary

grounds；　for　neither　the　falseness　nor　the　furtiveness　could　now　be

detectedbut　he　succeeded　in　captivating　all　my　sympathy。　　Long

after　dinner　was　over；　and　the　salle　empty；　we　sat　smoking　our

cigars；　and　discussing　politics；　literature；　and　art　in　that

suggestive　desultory　manner　which　often　gives　a　charm　to　casual

acquaintances。



It　was　a　stirring　epoch；　that　of　February；　1848。　　The　Revolution；

at　first　so　hopeful；　and　soon　to　manifest　itself　in　failure　so

disastrous；　was　hurrying　to　an　outburst。　　France　had　been　for　many

months　agitated　by　cries　of　electoral　reform；　and　by　indignation　at

the　corruption　and　scandals　in　high　places。　　The　Praslin　murder；

and　the　dishonor　of　M。　Teste；　terminated　by　suicide；　had　been

interpreted　as　signs　of　the　coming　destruction。　　The　political

banquets　given　in　various　important　cities　had　been　occasions　for

inflaming　the　public　mind；　and　to　the　far…seeing；　these　banquets

were　interpreted　as　the　sounds　of　the　tocsin。　　Louis　Philippe　had

become　odious　to　France；　and　contemptible　to　Europe。　　Guizot　and

Duchatel；　the　ministers　of　that　day；　although　backed　by　a

parliamentary　majority　on　which　they　blindly　relied；　were

unpopular；　and　were　regarded　as　infatuated　even　by　their　admirers

in　Europe。　　The　Spanish　marriages　had　all　but　led　to　a　war　with

England。　　The　Opposition；　headed　by　Thiers　and　Odillon　Barrot；　was

strengthened　by　united　action　with　the　republican　party；　headed　by

Ledru　Rollin；　Marrast；　Flocon；　and　Louis　Blanc。



Bourgonef　was　an　ardent　republican。　　So　was　I；　but　my　color　was　of

a　different　shade　from　his。　　He　belonged　to　the　Reds。　　My　own

dominant　tendencies　being　artistic　and　literary；　my　dream　was　of　a

republic　in　which　intelligence　would　be　the　archon　or　ruler；　and；

of　course；　in　such　a　republic；　art　and　literature；　as　the　highest

manifestation　of　mind；　would　have　the　supreme　direction。　　Do　you

smile；　reader？　　I　smile　now；　but　it　was　serious　earnest　with　me

then。　　It　is　unnecessary　to　say　more　on　this　point。　　I　have　said　so

much　to　render　intelligible　the　stray　link　of　communion　which

riveted　the　charm　of　my　new　acquaintance's　conversation；　there　was

both　agreement　enough　and　difference　enough　in　our　views　to　render

our　society　mutually　fascinating。



On　retiring　to　my　room　that　afternoon　I　could　not　help　laughing　at

my　absurd　antipathy　against　Bourgonef。　　All　his　remarks　had

disclosed　a　generous；　ardent；　and　refined　nature。　　While　my

antipathy　had　specially　fastened　upon　a　certain　falseness　in　his

smilea　falseness　the　more　poignantly　hideous　if　it　were

falseness；　because　hidden　amidst　the　wreaths　of　amiabilitymy

delight　in　his　conversation　had　specially　justified　itself　by　the

truthfulness　of　his　mode　of　looking　at　things。　　He　seemed　to　be

sincerity　itself。　　There　was；　indeed；　a　certain　central　reserve；

but　that　might　only　he　an　integrity　of　pride；　or　it　might　be

connected　with　painful　circumstances　in　his　history；　of　which　the

melancholy　in　his　face　was　the　outward　sign。



That　very　evening　my　constructive　imagination　was　furnished　with　a

detail　on　which　it　was　soon　to　be　actively　set　to　work。　　I　had　been

rambling　about　the　old　fortifications；　and　was　returning　at

nightfall　through　the　old　archway　near　Albert　Durer's　house；　when　a

man　passed　by　me。　　We　looked　at　each　other　in　that　automatic　way　in

which　men　look　when　they　meet　in　narrow　places；　and　I　felt；　so　to

speak；　a　start　of　recognition　in　the　eyes　of　the　man　who　passed。

Nothing　else；　in　features　or　gestures；　betrayed　recognition　or

surprise。　　But　although　there　was　only　that；　it　flashed　from　his

eyes　to　mine　like　an　electric　shock。　　He　passed。　　I　looked　back。

He　continued　his　way　without　turning。　　The　face　was　certainly　known

to　me；　but　it　floated　in　a　mist　of　confused　memories。



I　walked　on　slowly；　pestering　my　memory　with　fruitless　calls　upon

it；　hopelessly　trying　to　recover　the　place　where　I　could　have　seen

the　stranger　before。　　In　vain　memory　traveled　over　Europe　in

concert…rooms；　theaters；　shops；　and　railway　carriages。　　I　could　not

recall　the　occasion　on　which　those　eyes　had　previously　met　mine。

That　they　had　met　them　I　had　no　doubt。　　I　went　to　bed　with　the

riddle　undiscovered。





II



THE　ECHOES　OF　MURDER





Next　morning　Nuremberg　was　agitated　with　a　horror　such　as　can

seldom　have　disturbed　its　quiet；　a　young　and　lovely　girl　had　been

murdered。　　Her　corpse　was　discovered　at　daybreak　under　the　archway

leading　to　the　old　fortifications。　　She　had　been　stabbed　to　the

heart。　　No　other　signs　of　violence　were　visible；　no　robbery　had

been　attempted。



In　great　cities；　necessarily　great　centers　of　crime；　we　daily　hear

of　murders；　their　frequency　and　remoteness　leave　us　undisturbed。

Our　sympathies　can　only　be　deeply　moved　either　by　some　scenic

peculiarities　investing　the　crime　with　unusual　romance　or　unusual

atrocity；　or　else　by　the　more　immediate　appeal　of　direct　neighborly

interest。　　The　murder　which　is　read　of　in　the　Times　as　having

occurred　in　Westminster；　has　seldom　any　special　horror　to　the

inhabitants　of　Islington　or　Oxford　Street；　but　to　the　inhabitants

of　Westminster；　and　especially　to　the　inhabitants　of　the　particular

street　in　which　it　was　perpetrated；　the　crime　assumes　heart…shaking

proportions。　　Every　detail　is　asked　for；　and　every　surmise　listened

to；　with　feverish　eagerness　is　repeated　and　diffused　through　the

crowd　with　growing　interest。　　The　family　of　the　victim；　the

antecedents　of　the　assassin；　if　he　is　known；　or　the　conjectures

pointing　to　the　unknown　assassin；are　eagerly　discussed。　　All　the

trivial　details　of　household　care　or　domestic　fortunes；　all　the

items　of　personal　gossip；　become　invested　with　a　solemn　and

affecting　interest。　　Pity　for　the　victim　and　survivors　mingle　and

alternate　with　fierce　cries　for　vengeance　on　the　guilty。　　The　whole

street　becomes　one　family；　commingled　by　an　energetic　sympathy；

united　by　one　common　feeling　of　compassion　and　wrath。



In　villages；　and　in　cities　so　small　as　Nuremberg；　the　same

community　of　feeling　is　manifested。　　The　town　became　as　one　street。

The　horror　spread　like　a　conflagration；　the　sympathy　surged　and

swelled　like　a　tide。　　Everyone　felt　a　personal　interest　in　the

event；　as　if　the　murder　had　been　committed　at　his　own　door。　　Never

shall　I　forget　that　wail　of　passionate　pity；　and　that　cry　for　the

vengeance　of　justice；　which　rose　from　all　sides　of　the　startled

city。　　Never　shall　I　forget　the　hurry；　the　agitation；　the　feveri