The Sacrificial Altar

For a few moments Louis hoped he was dead, that his ice-cold body was yielding up his agonized spirit. He made a desperate effort to rouse the sleeping artist and summon him to the rescue, but without avail; the man was left alone to face the fact that he was a murderer who had taken not one life, but two. And of the two he regretted the friendless burglar the more poignantly.

The fundamental moral questions had never held debate in his highly specialized brain. He had been brought up respectably and had led so impersonal a life that he had obeyed the laws of society automatically. But in this hour of awful revelation, while the artist in him slept the sleep of the dead, he was merely the son of a long line of excellent bourgeois ancestors and could have spat upon himself as a pariah dog.

But in time he got up, bathed, dressed. He even paid his customary visit to the barber. Then he turned his steps toward M. Cesar.

Madame Dupont had gone to Santa Barbara to recuperate after the severe shock to her nerves. M. Cesar, unless dining out, would be at his club. It was eight o’clock.

“Mr. Dupont,” he was told, was in the dining-room. Louis gave orders not to disturb him, and was shown into the library. A bright fire burned. He was very cold. He sank limply into a deep chair beside it and dropped his chin on his chest. His mind was too dull for thought, but fully made up.

He was roused by a firm grip on his shoulder, and started up to meet his old friend’s tired but kindly eyes.

“But how is this?” cried M. Dupont, in genuine surprise. “It cannot be that you have finished the great work in three months? I did not expect to see you for another two. But of a certainty you write with more and more facility—”

“I wish to see you alone. I have something horrible to say.”

“Come up-stairs. My chambers are being done over and I am staying here.” M. Dupont, who had given the young author a keen, appraising glance, spoke soothingly and drew a trembling arm through his own. “Mon Dieu, Louis, but you are thin! How long do you fancy you can keep this up? I feared for your gifts. Now I fear for something more precious still. You look on the verge of collapse.”

“It does not matter. Take me quickly to your room.”

M. Dupont, who never hurried, and always carried his portly form with a certain stateliness, led Louis out of the library and up one flight of the broad staircase to his temporary quarters. Already, Louis automatically noted, his club bedroom had the intimate and sybaritic look of his famous apartment. He had brought to it silver and crystal for his bureau and little buffet, framed photographs of beautiful women, a Meissonier, and several easy-chairs.

He pushed Louis into the deepest of the chairs, poured out a stiff whisky-and-soda, and stood over his guest until the glass was empty. Then he lighted his second after-dinner cigar and settled himself with the first sensation of anticipatory humor he had felt for many weeks. Louis always interested him and not infrequently amused him, with no effort on the part of that most unhumorous mind.

Louis lay back in his chair for a moment, responding to the glow of the spirits. He was still very cold.