Through the Wall | Page 9

to know about it. You are the
only person in the world who will know--everything. So listen! This
afternoon I went into Notre-Dame church and I saw a young girl there
who sells candles. I didn't know her, but she looked up in a queer way,
as if she wanted to speak to me, so I went to her and--well, she told me
of a dream she had last night."
"A dream?" snorted the commissary.

"So she said. She may have been lying or she may have been put up to
it; I know nothing about her, not even her name, but that's of no
consequence; the point is that in this dream, as she called it, she
brought together the two most important events in my life."
"Hm! What was the dream?"
"She says she saw me twice, once in a forest near a wooden bridge
where a man with a beard was talking to a woman and a little girl. Then
she saw me on a boat going to a place where there were black people."
"That was Brazil?"
"I suppose so. And there was a burning sun with a wicked face inside
that kept looking down at me. She says she often dreams of this wicked
face, she sees it first in a distant star that comes nearer and nearer, until
it gets to be large and red and angry. As the face comes closer her fear
grows, until she wakes with a start of terror; she says she would die of
fright if the face ever reached her before she awoke. That's about all."
For some moments the commissary did not speak. "Did she try to
interpret this dream?"
"No."
"Why did she tell you about it?"
"She acted on a sudden impulse, so she says. I'm inclined to believe her;
but never mind that. Pougeot," he rose in agitation and stood leaning
over his friend, "in that forest scene she brought up something that isn't
known, something I've never even told you, my best friend."
"_Tiens!_ What is that?"
"You think I resigned from the police force two years ago, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Everyone thinks so. Well, it isn't true. I didn't resign; _I was

discharged._"
M. Pougeot stared in bewilderment, as if words failed him, and finally
he repeated weakly: "Discharged! Paul Coquenil discharged!"
[Illustration: "'I _didn't_ resign; I was discharged.'"]
"Yes, sir, discharged from the Paris detective force for refusing to
arrest a murderer--that's how the accusation read."
"But it wasn't true?"
"Judge for yourself. It was the case of a poacher who killed a guard. I
don't suppose you remember it?"
M. Pougeot thought a moment--he prided himself on remembering
everything. "Down near Saumur, wasn't it?"
"Exactly. And it was near Saumur I found him after searching all over
France. We were clean off the track, and I made up my mind the only
way to get him was through his wife and child. They lived in a little
house in the woods not far from the place of the shooting. I went there
as a peddler in hard luck, and I played my part so well that the woman
consented to take me in as a boarder."
"Wonderful man!" exclaimed the commissary.
"For weeks it was a waiting game. I would go away on a peddling tour
and then come back as boarder. Nothing developed, but I could not get
rid of the feeling that my man was somewhere near in the woods."
"One of your intuitions. Well?"
"Well, at last the woman became convinced that they had nothing to
fear from me, and she did things more openly. One day I saw her put
some food in a basket and give it to the little girl. And the little girl
went off with the basket into the forest. Then I knew I was right, and
the next day I followed the little girl, and, sure enough, she led me to a
rough cave where her father was hiding. I hung about there for an hour

or two, and finally the man came out from the cave and I saw him talk
to his wife and child near a bridge over a mountain torrent."
"The picture that girl saw in the dream!"
"Yes; I'll never forget it. I had my pistol ready and he was defenseless;
and once I was just springing forward to take the fellow when he bent
over and kissed his little girl. I don't know how you look at these things,
Pougeot, but I couldn't break in there and take that man away from his
wife and child. The woman had been kind to me and trusted me,
and--well, it was a breach of duty and they punished me for it; but I
couldn't do it, I _couldn't_ do