Maurice Level - Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

It lay there before me a little lifeless thing, with its ivory butt and shining barrel. Twice, thrice, I stretched out, then drew back my hand. The desire was stronger than my will. I was obliged to touch it, to seize it.

It is impossible to understand the temptation that assails one in the face of certain kinds of danger. I remember that one day when I was in the park of the Buttes Chaumont I was obliged to hold on to the parapet of the place they call “The Suicide’s Bridge” to prevent myself from leaping off into space. Several times when I have been alone in a railway carriage I have felt a sick longing to pull the alarm-signal. The nickel knob drew me toward it, seemed to beg to be pulled. It was in vain I told myself that such an action would be absurd, that I should be heavily fined or punished for doing it; had not the chance stoppage of the train or the flashing by of another suddenly diverted my thoughts, I am certain I should have succumbed to the temptation.

Well, at that moment I was overwhelmed by the same irresistible impulse. My eyes and my hands ceased to obey my will. I seemed to be watching myself as if I were someone else, to be following the movements of that other person without knowing what they were leading up to.

Was she still talking?… Was she silent?… I do not know. The only thing I am certain of is that I walked toward her with the revolver in my hand, that my wrist rose, and when it was on a level with her forehead, I pressed the trigger. There was a sharp noise like the crack of a whip. I saw a red mark, very small, under the right lid, and the woman fell, inert, like a petticoat that has been unfastened and slips down on the carpet.

Then, instantly, my reason came back to me. A wild terror dominated me. I rushed about the room like a madman without even thinking of looking at my victim, and some base instinct of cowardice forced me to open the door and run down the staircase shouting:

“Help!… She has killed herself !…”

At first everyone believed it was suicide. Later the experts found that very improbable. I was arrested. The trial was a long one. I could have explained everything in a few words. I need only have said:

“This is how it happened.”

I persisted in obstinate denial. And as, sooner or later, they always find some motive to account for a criminal action, I was eventually acquitted.

Reviewing it all calmly now, I am wondering if I was wrong to go on lying. If I had told the jury what I am writing now, would they have believed me? Would they have absolved me from blame? I believe I was right to deny it. Imperfectly understood, certain truths can very easily seem like lies…

My God, how good it is to be free, to be able to come and go as I like.

From my window I see the street, the houses and the trees… It was here on this very spot the thing happened. They did not want to give me this room. I insisted on having it. I am not afraid of ghosts. Besides, I can write this better here than I should have elsewhere. One can visualize a past incident so much more realistically in the place where it happened.

…Somehow this confession has completely relieved my mind. My soul seems clean once again as if it had been washed.

I shall try to forget the nightmare it has all been. I will go and live in the country somewhere far away from Paris. Soon everyone will have forgotten even my name. I shall be another man, living another existence, with the ways and habits of a peasant… I shall cease to recognize myself.

There is one thing above all that I want to get rid of: the revolver they gave back to me in court this morning. It reminds me too forcibly of things I must forget. If I need a weapon I will buy another.

It is close beside me as I write, and the sight of it hurts me. Yet what a little thing it is… It is pretty… it looks like a toy, a charming ornament… incapable of doing any harm.

…I have just taken it in my hand. It is very light, very smooth to the touch. It is also very cold… It frightens me a little… It is so mysterious, this sleeping weapon… The danger of a knife is apparent; you see the sharp blade, can feel the pointed end… Here, nothing: you must have used it to—I will not keep it… I will not keep it… I will sell it at once, tomorrow… Sell it?… I will give it away… No, I will not. I will throw it away…

Yet, after all, why should I, so long as I don’t see it for some time? I am looking at it too much… It is natural enough, too… It lies there like a silent witness… Decidedly I do not like it. I will get rid of it instantly.

…I keep on writing and the revolver is still before me.

People who commit suicide must sit just like this writing their last wishes. I wonder what their sensations are… I believe I know exactly. At first they dare not look at the revolver… then once their resolution has been made, they probably cannot take their eyes from it, sit looking at it, fascinated…

Does it really need so much courage for a man to kill himself ?

The worst part must be the simple act of stretching out the hand, grasping the weapon, and feeling its chill…

…But no, I am holding it in my left hand… I place the barrel against my temple… The sensation is not at all disagreeable… A little shiver… then the steel grows warm against your flesh…

No, that cannot be the most horrible moment… it must be the second when one presses the trigger… the last order the soul gives the body…

Who knows?… Perhaps even that is nothing… Once the glamor has got hold of you, you feel irresistibly drawn on.

I understand that perfectly…

…You almost feel as if you no longer exist…

…You are no longer conscious of any sensation…

…The Unknown calls you…

…And you press the trigg…

SEATED ON his stool, an elbow on the table, the man ate his supper slowly, a long interval between every spoonful of soup. The woman was standing by the big open hearth, now and again pushing the blazing twigs into place with her sabot. She talked incessantly, paying no attention to the obstinate silence with which her remarks were received.

“Is it true that the Chaputs have got rid of their old hens? that the Rizoys’ butter has turned?”

Without raising his head he murmured: “I don’t know.”

“And you—what sort of prices did you get?”

“Bah!”

“Why are you so short tonight? What’s the matter with you?”

He put his spoon down. His arms stretched out before him, his two fists on the table, he drew a deep breath as if he were on the point of lifting a heavy sack.

“The matter… the matter…”

He stopped, drew back the plate he had pushed away, cut himself a piece of bread, shut his knife, and drying his mouth with the back of his hand, said:

“Nothing.”

She insisted:

“You’re put out about something…”

For a time there was silence, broken only by the sound of the rain and the wind outside. The fire blazed cheerfully, throwing big lights and shadows on the walls.

Presently the woman said:

“Have you finished your soup? Would you like anything else?”

He shook his head, and his “no” was short and sharp. Ignoring his tone, she began to talk again, telling him the gossip of the village, dwelling on details in the way one would if a man had been absent for a long time and wanted to hear about everyone and everything.

“Do you know about the Heutrots’ dog? The big brown dog? They say it’s gone mad. While they were getting a gun to shoot it, it ran away and no one knows where it is.”

The man whistled between his teeth. She burst out:

“Is that all you’ve got to say? I don’t know what’s the matter with you tonight… Been to the inn, I suppose… though usually when you’ve been there you come home in a good temper, ready to talk! Tonight not a word: you’ve eaten your food as if it was poison, and you haven’t even asked where the boy is.”