Джозеф Конрад - Suspense

Terror–struck, as if at the discovery of a crime, he jumped up trembling in every limb. He had a horror of the room, of being alone within its four bare walls, on which there were no pictures, except that awful one which seemed to hang in the air before his eyes. Cosmo felt that he must get away from it. He snatched up his cloak and hat and fled into the corridor. The hour was late and everything was very still. He did not see as much as a flitting shadow on the bare rough walls of the unfinished palace awaiting the decoration of marbles and bronzes that would never cover its nakedness now. The dwelling of the Grazianis stood as dumb and cold in all its lofty depths as at that desolate hour of the dreadful siege when its owner lay dead of hunger at the foot of the great flight of stairs. It was only in the hall below that Cosmo caught from behind one of the closed doors faint, almost ghostly, murmurs of disputing voices. The two hanging lanterns could not light up that grandly planned cavern in all its extent, but Cosmo made out the dim shape of the elderly lieutenant sitting all alone and perfectly still against the wall, with a bottle of wine before him. By the time he had reached the pavement Cosmo had mastered his trembling and had steadied his thoughts. He wanted to keep away from that house for hours, for hours. He glanced right and left, hesitating. In the whole town he knew only the way to the Palazzo and the way to the port. He took the latter direction. He walked by the faint starlight falling into the narrow streets resembling lofty unroofed corridors, as if the whole town had been one palace, recognising on his way the massive shape of one or two jutting balconies he remembered seeing before, and also a remarkable doorway, the arch of which was held up by bowed giants with flowing beards, like two captive sons of the god of the sea.

At the moment when Cosmo was leaving his room to escape the haunting vision of an old picture, representing a beautiful martyr with a dagger in her breast, Dr. Martel was at work finishing what he called a confidential memorandum, which he proposed to hand over to the Marquis d’Armand. The doctor applied very high standards of honour and fidelity to his appreciation of men’s character. He had a very great respect for the old marquis. He was anxious to make him the recipient of that crop of valuable out–of–the–way information, interesting to the French Bourbons, which he had gathered lately.

Having sat up half the night, he slept late, and was just finishing shaving when a little before eleven o’clock there was a knock at his door, and Cantelucci entered. The innkeeper offered no apology for this intrusion, but announced without preliminaries that the young English gentleman had vanished during the night from the inn. The woman who took the chocolate in the morning upstairs found no servant ready to receive it as usual. The bedroom door was ajar. After much hesitation she had ventured to put her head through. The shutters being open, she had seen that the bed had not been slept in…. The doctor left off dabbing his cheeks with eau de cologne, and turned to stare at the innkeeper. At last he shrugged his shoulders slightly.

Cantelucci took the point immediately. Yes. But in this case it was impossible to dismiss the affair lightly. The young English signore had not been much more than forty–eight hours in Genoa. He had no time to make many acquaintances. And in any case, Cantelucci thought, he ought to have been back by this time.

The doctor picked up his wig and adjusted it on his head thoughtfully, like a considering cap. That simple action altered his physiognomy so completely that Cantelucci was secretly affected. He made one of his austerely deferential bows, which seemed to put the whole matter into the doctor’s hands at once.

“You seem very much upset,” said the doctor. “Have you seen his servant? He must know something.”

“I doubt it, Excellency. He has been upstairs to open the shutters, of course. He is now at the front door, looking out. I did speak to him. He had too much wine last evening and fell asleep with his head on the table. I saw him myself before I retired.”

The doctor preserving a sort of watchful silence, Cantelucci added that he, himself, had retired early on account of one of those periodical headaches he suffered from since the days of his youth, when he had been chained up in the dungeons of St. Elmo for months.

The doctor thought the fellow did look as though he had had a bad night. “Why didn’t you come to see me? You know I can cure worse ailments.”

The innkeeper raised his hands in horror at the mere idea. He would never have dared to disturb his Excellency for such a trifle as a headache.

But the real cause of his trouble was quite other. A partisan of the revolutionary French from his early youth, Cantelucci had been an active conspirator against the old order of things. Now that kings and priests were raising their heads out of the dust, he had again become very busy. The latest matter in hand had been the sending of some important documents to the conspirators in the south. He had found the messenger, had taken steps for getting him away secretly, had given him full instructions the last thing before going to bed. The young fellow was brave, intelligent and resourceful beyond the common. But somehow the very perfection of his arrangements kept the old conspirator awake. He reviewed them again and again. He could not have done better. At last he fell asleep, but almost immediately, it seemed to him, he was roused by the old crone whose task it was to light the fires in the morning. Sordid and witch–like she conveyed to him in a toothless mumble the intelligence that Checca was in the kitchen, all in tears, and demanding to see him at once.

This Checca was primarily and principally a pretty girl, an orphan left to his care by his late sister. She was not consulted when her uncle, of whom she stood in awe, married her to the middle–aged owner of a wine–shop in the low quarter of the town, extending along the shore near the harbour. He was good–natured, slow–witted, and heavy–handed at times. But Checca was much less afraid of him than of her austere uncle. It amused her to be the padrona of an osteria which in the days of empire was a notable resort for the officers of French privateers. But at the peace that clientele had disappeared and Checca’s husband, leaving the wine–casks to her management, employed his leisure in petty smuggling operations, which kept him away from home.

Cantelucci connected his niece’s irruption with some trouble that man might have got into. He was vexed. He had other matters to think of. He was astonished by the violence of her grief. When she could speak at last, her tale turned out to be more in the nature of a confession. The old conspirator could hardly believe his ears when he heard that the man whom he had trusted had committed the crime of betraying the secrecy of his mission by going to the osteria late at night to say good–bye to Checca. She assured him that he had been there only a very few moments.

“What, in a wine–shop! Before all the people! With spies swarming everywhere!”

“No,” she said. “It was much later. Everybody was gone. He scratched at the barred door.”

“And you were on the other side waiting to let him in—miserable girl,” Cantelucci hissed ferociously.

She stared at her terrible uncle with streaming eyes. “Yes, I was.” She had not the heart to refuse him. He stayed only a little moment … (Cantelucci ground his teeth with rage. It was the first he had heard of this affair. Here was a most promising plot endangered by this bestialita )…Only one little hug, and then she pushed him out herself. Before she had finished putting up the bar she heard a tumult in the street. Shots too. Perhaps she would have rushed out, but her husband was home for a few days. He came down to the wine–shop very cross and boxed her ears; she did not know why. Perhaps for being in the shop at that late hour. That did not matter; but he drove her before him up the stairs, and she had to sham sleep for hours, till he began to snore regularly. She had grown so desperate that she took the risk of running out and telling her uncle all about it. She thought he ought to know. What brought her to the inn really was a faint hope that Attilio, having eluded the assassins (she was sure they were assassins), had taken refuge there unscathed—or wounded perhaps. She said nothing of this, however. Before Cantelucci’s stony bearing she broke down. “He is dead— poverino . My own hands pushed him to his death,” she moaned to herself crazily, standing in front of her silent uncle before the blazing kitchen fire in the yet slumbering house.