Page 9 - Edgar Allan Poe

One day, for a housewife affair, she accompanied me to the cellar of the old house where our poverty had reduced us to living. The cat, following me down the high steps of the staircase, almost made me fall, which exasperated me to the point of madness. Raising an hatchet, forgetting in anger the childish fear that until then had held my hand, I sent, in the direction of the animal, a blow that would have been mortal, if it had, as it was my design, reached. But the blow was stopped by my wife's hand. Ignited by this intervention of a rage rather than demonic, I took my arm from the grasp and smashed my head with my hatchet. It fell dead on the spot without a groan. After the horrible crime took place, I immediately, and deliberately, set myself to hide the corpse. I knew that, day or night, I could not take him out of the house without running the risk of being seen by neighbors. Various projects crossed my mind. I decided to wall it in the cellar, as it is said that the monks of the Middle Ages walled their victims. When I had finished, I was sure it was okay. The wall showed no trace of alterations. I carefully collected the remains on the floor. Then I looked around triumphantly. Soon after, I began to look for the beast that had been the cause of so much misfortune: I was firmly determined to suppress it. If I had been able to meet him at that moment there would have been no doubt about his destiny: but evidently the ingenious animal was frightened of the violent click of my anger and avoided appearing before me while I was in that mood. One cannot describe or imagine the profound, blissful feeling of relief that the absence of the detestable creature awoke in my chest. It didn't show up all night; so it was that I could enjoy a good night, the first from the moment he entered the house; I slept long and quietly; yes, I slept despite the murder that weighed on my heart! The second passed, the third day, and my executioner did not reappear. I breathed again like a free man. The frightened monster had fled forever! I would never see him again! My happiness was at its height! The guilt of my black crime gave me little trouble. The few questions that had been asked to me had been answered promptly. A search was also ordered, but of course nothing could be discovered. I therefore considered my future happiness to be assured. On the fourth day after the assassination a group of police officers unexpectedly fell into the house and proceeded to a rigorous examination of the places again. As sure as I was of the impenetrability of my hiding place, I felt no fear. The agents wanted me to accompany them in their research. They did not leave a corner, a song, unexplored. Finally, for the third or fourth time, they went down to the cellar. Not one of my muscles started. My heart beat quietly like that of a man who sleeps the sleep of innocence. I turned the cellar from top to bottom. Crossing my arms on my chest, I walked around freely and freely. The police were fully persuaded and prepared to leave. The jubilation of my heart was too intense to be restrained. I was burning to say that it was only a word of triumph, even to make their conviction of my innocence doubly secure.