Part 11 (1/2)

”And made her confession?”

”And made her confession, mein Herr.”

”What did she confess?”

The innkeeper shook his head.

”That no one ever knew, save the good G.o.d and her murderer.”

”Her murderer!” I exclaimed.

”Ay, just that. Whatever it was that she confessed, she paid for it with her life. He heard her out, at all events, without discovering himself, and let her go home believing that she had received absolution for her sins. Those who met her that afternoon said she seemed unusually bright and happy. As she pa.s.sed through the town, she went into the shop in the Mongarten Stra.s.se, and bought some ribbons. About half an hour later, my own father met her outside the Basel Thor, walking briskly homewards. He was the last who saw her alive.

”That evening (it was in October, and the days were short), some travellers coming that way into the town heard shrill cries, as of a woman screaming, in the direction of Caspar's farm. But the night was very dark, and the house lay back a little way from the road; so they told themselves it was only some drunken peasant quarrelling with his wife, and pa.s.sed on. Next morning Caspar Rufenacht came to Rheinfelden, walked very quietly into the Polizei, and gave himself up to justice.

”'I have killed my wife,' said he. 'I have killed the Pere Chessez. And I have committed sacrilege.'

”And so, indeed, it was. As for the Frau Margaret, they found her body in an upper chamber, well-nigh hacked to pieces, and the hatchet with which the murder was committed lying beside her on the floor. He had pursued her, apparently, from room to room; for there were pools of blood and handfuls of long light hair, and marks of b.l.o.o.d.y hands along the walls, all the way from the kitchen to the spot where she lay dead.”

”And so he was hanged?” said I, coming back to my original question.

”Yes, yes,” replied the innkeeper and his womankind in chorus. ”He was hanged--of course he was hanged.”

”And it was the shock of this double tragedy that drove the younger Chessez into the church?”

”Just so, mein Herr.”

”Well, he carries it in his face. He looks like a most unhappy man.”

”Nay, he is not that, mein Herr!” exclaimed the landlady. ”He is melancholy, but not unhappy.”

”Well, then, austere.”

”Nor is he austere, except towards himself.”

”True, wife,” said the innkeeper; ”but, as I said, he carries that sort of thing too far. You understand, mein Herr,” he added, touching his forehead with his forefinger, ”the good pastor has let his mind dwell too much upon the past. He is nervous--too nervous, and too low.”

I saw it all now. That terrible light in his eyes was the light of insanity. That stony look in his face was the fixed, hopeless melancholy of a mind diseased.

”Does he know that he is mad?” I asked, as the landlord rose to go.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked doubtful.

”I have not said that the Pere Chessez is _mad_, mein Herr,” he replied.

”He has strange fancies sometimes, and takes his fancies for facts--that is all. But I am quite sure that he does not believe himself to be less sane than his neighbours.”

So the innkeeper left me, and I (my head full of the story I had just heard) put on my hat, went out into the market-place, asked my way to the Basel Thor, and set off to explore the scene of the Frau Margaret's murder.

I found it without difficulty--a long, low-fronted, beetle-browed farmhouse, lying back a meadow's length from the road. There were children playing upon the threshold, a flock of turkeys gobbling about the barn-door, and a big dog sleeping outside his kennel close by. The chimneys, too, were smoking merrily. Seeing these signs of life and cheerfulness, I abandoned all idea of asking to go over the house. I felt that I had no right to carry my morbid curiosity into this peaceful home; so I turned away, and retraced my steps towards Rheinfelden.