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NAPOLEONIC ERA LITERATURE | ||
[from THE MAN IN GREY,
George H. Doran, New York (1919)]
PROEM
IT has been a difficult task to
piece together the fragmentary documents which alone throw a
light -- dim and flickering at the best -- upon that
mysterious personality known to the historians of the
Napoleonic era as the Man in Grey. So very little is known
about him. Age, appearance, domestic circumstances,
everything pertaining to him has remained a matter of
conjecture -- even his name! In the reports sent by the
all-powerful Minister to the Emperor he is invariably spoken
of as "The Man in Grey." Once only does
Fouché refer to him as "Fernand."
Strange and mysterious creature!
Nevertheless, he played an important part -- the most
important, perhaps in bringing to justice some of those
reckless criminals who, under the cloak of Royalist
convictions and religious and political aims, spent their
time in pillage, murder and arson.
Strange and mysterious creatures, too, these
men so aptly named Chouans -- that is,
"chats-huants"; screech-owls -- since they were a
terror by night and disappeared within their burrows by day.
A world of romance lies buried within the ruins of the
châteaux which gave them shelter -- Tournebut,
Bouvesse, Donnai, Plélan. A world of mystery
encompasses the names of their leaders and, above all, those
of the women -- ladies of high degree and humble peasants
alike -- often heroic, more often misguided, who supplied
the intrigue, the persistence, the fanatical hatred which
kept the fire of rebellion smouldering and spluttering even
while it could not burst into actual flame. D'Aché
Cadoudal, Frotté, Armand le Chevallier, Marquise de
Combray, Mme. Aquet de Férolles -- the romance
attaching to these names pales beside that which clings to
the weird anonymity of their henchmen --
"Dare-Death," "Hare-Lip,"
"Fear-Nought," "Silver-Leg," and so on.
Theirs were the hands that struck whilst their leaders
planned -- they were the screech-owls who for more than
twenty years terrorised the western provinces of France and,
in the name of God and their King, committed every crime
that could besmirch the Cause which they professed to
uphold.
Whether they really aimed at the restoration
of the Bourbon kings and at bolstering up the fortunes of an
effete and dispossessed monarchy with money wrung from
peaceable citizens, or whether they were a mere pack of
lawless brigands made up of deserters from the army and
fugitives from conscription, of felons and bankrupt
aristocrats, will for ever remain a bone of contention
between the apologists of the old régime and those of
the new.
With partisanship in those strangely obscure
though comparatively recent episodes of history we have
nothing to do. Facts alone -- undeniable and undenied --
must be left to speak for themselves. It was but meet that
these men -- amongst whom were to be found the bearers of
some of the noblest names in France -- should be tracked
down and brought to justice by one whose personality has
continued to be as complete an enigma as their own.
CHAPTER I
SILVER-LEG "FORWARD now! And
at foot-pace, mind, to the edge of the wood -- or ----"
The ominous click of a pistol completed the
peremptory command.
Old Gontran, the driver, shook his wide
shoulders beneath his heavy caped coat and gathered the
reins once more in his quivering hands; the door of the
coach was closed with a bang; the postilion scrambled into
the saddle; only the passenger who had so peremptorily been
ordered down from the box-seat beside the driver had not yet
climbed back into his place. Well! old Gontran was not in a
mood to fash about the passengers. His horses, worried by
the noise, the shouting, the click of firearms and the rough
handling meted out to them by strange hands in the darkness,
were very restive. They would have liked to start off at
once at a brisk pace so as to leave these disturbers of
their peace as far behind them as possible, but Gontran was
holding them in with a firm hand and they had to walk --
walk! -- along this level bit of road, with the noisy enemy
still present in their rear.
The rickety old coach gave a lurch and
started on its way; the clanking of loose chains, the
grinding of the wheels in the muddy roads, the snorting and
travail of the horses as they finally settled again into
their collars, drowned the coachman's muttered imprecations.
"A fine state of things, forsooth!"
he growled to himself more dejectedly than savagely.
"What the Emperor's police are up to no one knows. That
such things can happen is past belief. Not yet six o'clock
in the afternoon, and Alençon less than five
kilométres in front of us."
But the passenger who, on the box-seat beside
him, had so patiently and silently listened to old Gontran's
florid loquacity during the early part of the journey, was
no longer there to hear these well-justified lamentations.
No doubt he had taken refuge with his fellow-sufferers down
below.
There came no sound from the interior of the
coach. In the darkness, the passengers -- huddled up against
one another, dumb with fright and wearied with excitement --
had not yet found vent for their outraged feelings in
whispered words or smothered oaths. The coach lumbered on at
foot-pace. In the affray the head-light had been broken; the
two lanterns that remained lit up fitfully the tall pine
trees on either side of the road and gave momentary glimpses
of a mysterious, fairy-like world beyond, through the
curtain of dead branches and the veil of tiny bare twigs.
Through the fast gathering gloom the circle
of light toyed with the haze of damp and steam which rose
from the cruppers, of the horses, and issued from their
snorting nostrils. From far away came the cry of a
screech-owl and the call of some night beasts on the prowl.
Instinctively, as the road widened out
towards the edge of the wood, Gontran gave a click with his
tongue and the horses broke into a leisurely trot.
Immediately from behind, not forty paces to the rear, there
came the sharp detonation of a pistol shot. The horses,
still quivering from past terrors, were ready to plunge once
more, the wheelers stumbled, the leaders reared, and the
team would again have been thrown into confusion but for the
presence of mind of the driver and the coolness of the
postilion.
"Oh! those accursed brigands!"
muttered Gontran through his set teeth as soon as order was
restored. "That's just to remind us that they are on
the watch. Keep the leaders well in hand, Hector," he
shouted to the postilion: "don't let them trot till we
are well out of the wood."
Though he had sworn copiously and plentifully
at first, when one of those outlaws held a pistol to his
head whilst the others ransacked the coach of its contents
and terrorised the passengers, he seemed inclined to take
the matter philosophically now. After all, he himself had
lost nothing; he was too wise a man was old Gontran to carry
his wages in his breeches pocket these days, when those
accursed Chouans robbed, pillaged and plundered rich and
poor alike. No! Gontran flattered himself that the rogues
had got nothing out of him: he had lost nothing -- not even
prestige, for it had been a case of twenty to one at the
least, and the brigands had been armed to the teeth. Who
could blame him that in such circumstances the sixty-two
hundred francs, all in small silver and paper money -- which
the collector of taxes of the Falaise district was sending
up to his chief at Alençon -- had passed from the
boot of the coach into the hands of that clever band of
rascals?
Who could blame him? I say. Surely, not the
Imperial Government up in Paris who did not know how to
protect its citizens from the depredations of such villains,
and had not even succeeded in making the high road between
Caen and Alençon safe for peaceable travellers.
Inside the coach the passengers were at last
giving tongue to their indignation. Highway robbery at six
o'clock in the afternoon, and the evening not a very dark
one at that! It were monstrous, outrageous, almost
incredible, did not the empty pockets and ransacked valises
testify to the scandalous fact. M. Fouché, Duc
d'Otrante, was drawing a princely salary as Minister of
Police, and yet allowed a mail-coach to he held up and
pillaged -- almost by daylight and within five
kilométres, of the county town!
The last half-hour of the eventful journey
flew by like magic: there was so much to say that it became
impossible to keep count of time. Alençon was reached
before everyone had had a chance of saying just what he or
she thought of the whole affair, or of consigning M. le Duc:
d'Otrante and all his myrmidons to that particular chamber
in Hades which was most suitable for their crimes. Outside
the "Adam et Ève," where Gontran finally
drew rein, there was a gigantic clatter and din as the
passengers tumbled out of the coach, and by the dim light of
the nearest street lantern tried to disentangle their own
belongings from the pile of ransacked valises which the
ostlers had unceremoniously tumbled out in a heap upon the
cobble stones. Everyone was talking -- no one in especial
seemed inclined to listen -- anecdotes of former outrages
committed by the Chouans were bandied to and fro.
Gontran, leaning against the entrance of the
inn, a large mug of steaming wine in his hand, watched with
philosophic eye his former passengers, struggling with their
luggage. One or two of them were going to spend the night at
the "Adam et Ève": they had already filed
past him into the narrow passage beyond, where they were now
deep in an altercation with Gilles Blaise, the proprietor,
on the subject of the price and the situation of their
rooms; others had homes or friends in the city, and with
their broken valises and bundles in their hands could be
seen making their way up the narrow main street, still
gesticulating excitedly.
"It's a shocking business, friend
Gontran," quoth Gilles Blaise as soon as he had settled
with the last of his customers. His gruff voice held a
distinct note of sarcasm, for he was a powerful fellow and
feared neither footpads nor midnight robbers, nor any other
species of those satané Chouans. "I
wonder you did not make a better fight for it. You had three
or four male passengers aboard ----"
"What could I do?" retorted Gontran
irritably. "I had my horses to attend to, and did it,
let me tell you, with the muzzle of a pistol pressing
against my temple."
"You didn't see anything of those
miscreants?"
"Nothing. That is ----"
"What?"
"Just when I was free once more to
gather the reins in my hands and the order 'Forward' was
given by those impudent rascals, he who had spoken the order
stood for a moment below one of my lanterns."
"And you saw him?"
"As plainly as I see you -- except his
face, for that was hidden by the wide brim of his hat and by
a shaggy beard. But there is one thing I should know him by,
if the police ever succeeded in laying hands on the
rogue."
"What is that?"
"He had only one leg, the other was a
wooden one."
Gilles Blaise gave a loud guffaw. He had
never heard of a highwayman with a wooden leg before.
"The rascal cannot run far if the police ever do get
after him," was his final comment on the situation.
Thereupon Gontran suddenly bethought himself
of the passenger who had sat on the box-seat beside him
until those abominable footpads had ordered the poor man to
get out of their way.
"Have you seen anything of him,
Hector?" he queried of the postilion.
"Well, now you mention him,"
replied the young man slowly, "I don't remember that I
have."
"He was not among the lot that came out
of the coach."
"He certainly was not."
"I thought when he did not get back to
his seat beside me, he had lost his nerve and gone
inside."
"So did I."
"Well, then?" concluded Gontran.
But the puzzle thus propounded was beyond
Hector's powers of solution. He scratched the back of his
head by way of trying to extract thence a key to the enigma.
"We must have left him behind," he
suggested.
"He would have shouted after us if we
had," commented Gontran. "Unless ----" he
added with graphic significance.
Hector shook himself like a dog who has come
out of the water. The terror of those footpads and of those
pistols clicking in the dark, unpleasantly close to his
head, was still upon him.
"You don't think ----" he murmured
through chattering teeth.
Gontran shrugged his shoulders.
"It won't be the first time," he
said sententiously, "that those miscreants have added
murder to their other crimes."
"Lost one of your passengers,
Gontran?" queried Gilles Blaise blandly.
"If those rogues have murdered
him ----" quoth Gontran with an oath.
"Then you'd have to make a special
declaration before the chief commissary of police, and that
within an hour. Who was your passenger, Gontran?"
"I don't know. A quiet, well-mannered
fellow. Good company he was, too, during the first part of
the way."
"What was his name?"
"I can't tell. I picked him up at
Argentan. The box-seat was empty. No one wanted it, for it
was raining then. He paid me his fare and scrambled up
beside me. That's all I know about him."
"What was he like? Young or old?"
"I didn't see him very well. It was
already getting dark," rejoined Gontran impatiently.
"I couldn't look him under the nose, could I?"
"But sacrebleu! Monsieur le
Commissaire de Police will want to know something more than
that. Did you at least see how he was dressed?"
"Yes," replied Gontran, "as
far as I can recollect he was dressed in grey."
"Well, then, friend Gontran,"
concluded Gilles Blaise with a jovial laugh, "you can
go at once to Monsieur le Commissaire de Police, and you can
tell him that an industrious Chouan, who has a wooden leg
and a shaggy beard but whose face you did not see, has to
the best of your belief murdered an unknown passenger whose
name, age and appearance you know nothing about, but who, as
far as you can recollect, was dressed in grey ---- And
we'll see," he added with a touch of grim humour,
"what Monsieur le Commissaire will make out of this
valuable information."
II
The men were cowering together in a burrow
constructed of dead branches and caked mud, with a covering
of heath and dried twigs. Their heads were close to one
another and the dim light of a dark lanthorn placed upon the
floor threw weird, sharp shadows across their eager faces,
making them appear grotesque and almost ghoulish -- the only
bright spots in the surrounding gloom.
One man on hands and knees was crouching by
the narrow entrance, his keen eyes trying to pierce the
density of the forest beyond.
The booty was all there, spread out upon the
damp earth -- small coins and bundles of notes all smeared
with grease and mud; there were some trinkets, too, but of
obviously little value: a pair of showy gold earrings, one
or two signets, a heavy watch in a chased silver case. But
these had been contemptuously swept aside -- it was the
money that mattered. The man with the wooden leg had counted
it all out and was now putting coins and notes back into a
large leather wallet.
"Six thousand two hundred and
forty-seven francs," he said quietly, as he drew the
thongs of the wallet closely together and tied them securely
into a knot. "One of the best hauls we've ever had.
'Tis Madame who will be pleased."
"Our share will have to be paid out of
that first," commented one of his companions.
"Yes, yes!" quoth the other
lightly. "Madame will see to it. She always does. How
many of you are there?" he added carelessly.
"Seven of us all told. They were a pack
of cowards in that coach."
"Well!" concluded the man with the
wooden leg, "we must leave Madame to settle accounts.
I'd best place the money in safety now."
He struggled up into a standing position --
which was no easy matter for him with his stump and in the
restricted space -- and was about to hoist the heavy wallet
on to his powerful shoulders, when one of his mates seized
him by the wrist.
"Hold on, Silver-Leg!" he said
roughly, "we'll pay ourselves for our trouble first.
Eh, friends?" he added, turning to the others.
But before any of them could reply there came
a peremptory command from the man whom they had called
"Silver-Leg."
"Silence!" he whispered hoarsely.
"There's someone moving out there among the
trees."
At once the others obeyed, every other
thought lulled to rest by the sense of sudden danger. For a
minute or so every sound was hushed in the narrow confines
of the lair save the stertorous breathing which came from
panting throats. Then the look-out man at the entrance
whispered under his breath:
"I heard nothing."
"Something moved, I tell you,"
rejoined Silver-Leg curtly. "It may only have been a
beast on the prowl."
But the brief incident had given him the
opportunity which he required; he had shaken off his
companion's hold upon his wrist and had slung the wallet
over his shoulder. Now he stumped out of the burrow.
"Friend Hare-Lip," he said before
he went, in the same commanding tone wherewith he had
imposed silence awhile ago on his turbulent mates,
"tell Monseigneur that it will be 'Corinne' this time,
and you, Mole-Skin, ask Madame to send Red-Poll over on
Friday night for the key."
The others growled in assent and followed him
out of their hiding-place. One of the men had extinguished
the lanthorn, and another was hastily collecting the
trinkets which had so contemptuously been swept aside.
"Hold on, Silver-Leg!" shouted the
man who had been called Hare-Lip; "short reckonings
make long friends. I'll have a couple of hundred francs
now," he continued roughly. "It may be days and
weeks ere I see Madame again, and by that time God knows
where the money will be."
But Silver-Leg stumped on in the gloom,
paying no heed to the peremptory calls of his mates. It was
marvellous how fast he contrived to hobble along, winding
his way in and out in the darkness, among the trees, on the
slippery carpet of pine needles and carrying that heavy
wallet -- six thousand two hundred francs, most of it in
small coin -- upon his back. The others, however, were swift
and determined, too. Within the next minute or two they had
overtaken him, and he could no longer evade them; they held
him tightly, surrounding him on every side and clamouring
for their share of the spoils.
"We'll settle here and now, friend
Silver-Leg," said Hare-Lip, who appeared to be the
acknowledged spokesman of the malcontents. "Two hundred
francs for me out of that wallet, if you please, ere you
move another step, and two hundred for each one of us here,
or ----"
The man with the wooden leg had come to a
halt, but somehow it seemed that he had not done so because
the others held and compelled him, but because he himself
had a desire to stand still. Now when Hare-Lip paused, a
world of menace in every line of his gaunt, quivering body,
Silver-Leg laughed with gentle irony, as a man would laugh
at the impotent vapourings of a child.
"Or what, my good Hare-Lip?" he
queried slowly.
Then as the other instinctively lowered his
gaze and mumbled something between his teeth, Silver-Leg
shrugged his shoulders and said with kind indulgence, still
as if he were speaking to a child:
"Madame will settle, my friend. Do not
worry. It is bad to worry. You remember Fear-Nought: he took
to worrying -- just as you are doing now -- wanted to be
paid out of his turn, or more than his share, I forget
which. But you remember him?"
"I do," muttered Hare-Lip with a
savage oath. "Fear-Nought was tracked down by the
police and dragged to Vincennes, or Force, or Bicêtre
-- we never knew."
"To the guillotine, my good
Hare-Lip," rejoined Silver-Leg blandly, "along
with some other very brave Chouans like yourselves, who also
had given their leaders some considerable trouble."
"Betrayed by you," growled Hare-Lip
menacingly.
"Punished -- that's all," concluded
Silver-Leg as he once more turned to go.
"Treachery is a game at which more than
one can play."
"The stakes are high. And only one man
can win," remarked Silver-Leg dryly.
"And one man must lose," shouted
Hare-Lip, now beside himself with rage, "and that one
shall be you this time, my fine Silver-Leg. À moi, my
mates!" he called to his companions.
And in a moment the men fell on Silver-Leg
with the vigour born of terror and greed, and for the first
moment or two of their desperate tussle it seemed as if the
man with the wooden leg must succumb to the fury of his
assailants. Darkness encompassed them all round, and the
deep silence which dwells in the heart of the woods. And in
the darkness and the silence these men fought -- and fought
desperately -- for the possession of a few hundred francs
just filched at the muzzle of a pistol from a few peaceable
travellers.
Pistols of course could not be used; the
police patrols might not be far away, and so they fought on
in silence, grim and determined, one man against half a
dozen, and that one halt, and weighted with the spoils. But
he had the strength of a giant, and with his back against a
stately fir tree he used the heavy wallet as a flail,
keeping his assailants at arm's length with the menace of
death-dealing blows.
Then, suddenly, from far away, even through
the dull thuds of this weird and grim struggle, there came
the sound of men approaching -- the click of sabres, the
tramp and snorting of horses, the sense of men moving
rapidly even if cautiously through the gloom. Silver-Leg was
the first to hear it.
"Hush!" he cried suddenly, and as
loudly as he dared, "the police!"
Again, with that blind instinct born of
terror and ever-present danger, the others obeyed. The
common peril had as swiftly extinguished the quarrel as
greed of gain had fanned it into flame.
The cavalcade was manifestly drawing nearer.
"Disperse!" commanded Silver-Leg
under his breath. "Clear out of the wood, but avoid the
tracks which lead out of it, lest it is surrounded. Remember
'Corinne' for Monseigneur, and that Red-Poll can have the
key for Madame on Friday."
Once again he had made use of his
opportunity. Before the others had recovered from, their
sudden fright, he had quietly stumped away, and in less than
five seconds was lost in the gloom among the trees. For a
moment or two longer an ear, attuned by terror or the
constant sense of danger, might have perceived the dull,
uneven thud of his wooden leg against the soft carpet of
pine needles, but even this soon died away in the distance,
and over the kingdom of darkness which held sway within the
forest there fell once more the pall of deathlike silence.
The posse of police in search of human quarry had come and
gone, the stealthy footsteps of tracked criminals had ceased
to resound from tree to tree; all that could be heard was
the occasional call of a night-bird, or the furtive movement
of tiny creatures of the wild.
Silence hung over the forest for close upon
an hour. Then from behind a noble fir a dark figure detached
itself and more stealthily, more furtively than any tiny
beast it stole along the track which leads to the main road.
The figure, wrapped in a dark mantle, glided determinedly
along despite the difficulties of the narrow track,
complicated now by absolute darkness. Hours went by ere it
reached the main road, on the very spot where some few hours
ago the mail-coach had been held up and robbed by a pack of
impudent thieves. Here the figure halted for awhile, and
just then the heavy rain clouds, which had hung over the sky
the whole evening, slowly parted and revealed the pale
waning moon. A soft light gradually suffused the sky and
vanquished the impenetrable darkness.
Not a living soul was in sight save that
solitary figure by the roadside -- a man, to all
appearances, wearing a broad-brimmed hat casting a deep
shadow over his face; the waning moon threw a cold light
upon the grey mantle which he wore. On ahead the exquisite
tower of the church of Notre Dame appeared vague and
fairylike against the deep sapphire of the horizon far away.
Then the solitary figure started to walk briskly in the
direction of the city.
III
M. le Procureur Impérial, sitting in
his comfortable armchair in the well-furnished apartment
which he occupied in the Rue St. Blaise at Alençon,
was surveying his visitor with a quizzical and questioning
gaze.
On the desk before him lay the letter which
that same visitor had presented to him the previous evening
-- a letter penned by no less a hand than that of M. le Duc
d'Otrante himself, Minister of Police, and recommending the
bearer of this august autograph to the good will of M. de
Saint-Tropèze, Procureur Impérial at the
tribunal of Alençon. Nay, more! M. le Ministre in
that same autograph letter gave orders, in no grudging
terms, that the bearer was to be trusted implicitly, and
that every facility was to be given him in the execution of
his duty: said duty consisting in the tracking down and
helping to bring to justice of as many as possible of those
saucy Chouans who, not content with terrorising the
countryside, were up in arms against the government of His
Imperial Majesty.
A direct encroachment this on the rights and
duties of M. le Procureur Impérial; no wonder he
surveyed the quiet, insignificant-looking individual before
him, with a not altogether benevolent air.
M. le préfet sitting on the opposite
side of the high mantelpiece was discreetly silent until his
chief chose to speak.
After a brief while the Procureur
Impérial addressed his visitor.
"Monsieur le Duc d'Otrante," he
said in that dry, supercilious tone which he was wont to
affect when addressing his subordinates, "speaks very
highly of you, Monsieur -- Monsieur -- By the way, the
Minister, I perceive, does not mention your name. What is
your name, Monsieur?"
"Fernand, Monsieur le Procureur,"
replied the man.
"Fernand? Fernand what?"
"Nothing, Monsieur le Procureur. Only
Fernand."
The little Man in Grey spoke very quietly in
a dull, colourless tone which harmonised with the neutral
tone of his whole appearance. For a moment it seemed as if a
peremptory or sarcastic retort hovered on M. le Procureurs
lips. The man's quietude appeared like an impertinence. M.
de Saint-Tropèze belonged to the old Noblesse.
He had emigrated at the time of the Revolution and spent a
certain number of years in England, during which time a
faithful and obscure steward administered his property and
saved it from confiscation.
The blandishments of the newly-crowned
Emperor had lured M. de Saint-Tropèze back to France.
Common sense and ambition had seemingly got the better of
his antiquated ideals, whilst Napoleon was only too ready to
surround himself with as many scions of the ancient nobility
as were willing to swear allegiance to him. He welcomed
Henri de Saint-Tropèze and showered dignities upon
him with a lavish hand; but the latter never forgot that the
Government he now served was an upstart one, and he never
departed from that air of condescension and high breeding
which kept him aloof from his more plebeian subordinates and
which gave him an authority and an influence in the province
which they themselves could never hope to attain.
M. le préfet had coughed discreetly.
The warning was well-timed. He knew every word of the
Minister's letter by heart, and one phrase in it might, he
feared, have escaped M. le Procureur's notice. It ordered
that the bearer of the Ministerial credentials was to be
taken entirely on trust -- no questions were to be asked of
him save those to which he desired to make reply. To
disregard even the vaguest hint given by the all-powerful
Minister of Police was, to say the least, hazardous.
Fortunately M. de Saint-Tropèze understood the
warning. He pressed his thin lips tightly together and did
not pursue the subject of his visitor's name any farther.
"You propose setting to work
immediately, Monsieur -- er -- Fernand?" he asked with
frigid hauteur.
"With your permission, Monsieur le
Procureur," replied the Man in Grey.
"In the matter of the highway robbery
the other night, for instance?"
"In that and other matters, Monsieur le
Procureur."
"You were on the coach which was
attacked by those damnable Chouans, I believe?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Procureur. I picked up
the coach at Argentan and sat next to the driver until the
vehicle was ordered to halt."
"Then what happened?"
"A man scrambled up on the box-seat
beside me, and holding a pistol to my head commanded me to
descend."
"And you descended?"
"Yes," replied the man quietly. He
paused a moment and then added by way of an explanation:
"I hurt my knee coming down; the pain caused me to lose
some measure of consciousness. When I returned to my senses,
I found myself on the roadside -- all alone -- there was no
sign either of the coach or of the footpads."
"An unfortunate beginning," said M.
de Saint-Tropèze with a distinct note of sarcasm in
his voice, "for a secret agent of His Majesty's Police
sent down to track some of the most astute rascals known in
the history of crime."
"I hope to do better in the future,
Monsieur le Procureur," rejoined the Man in Grey
simply.
M. de Saint-Tropèze made no further
remark, and for a moment or two there was silence in the
room. The massive Louis XIV clock ticked monotonously; M. de
Saint-Tropèze seemed to be dissociating his well-bred
person from the sordid and tortuous affairs of the Police.
The Man in Grey appeared to be waiting until he was spoken
to again, and M. le préfet had a vague feeling that
the silence was becoming oppressive, as if some unspoken
enmity lurked between the plebeian and obscure police agent
and the highly connected and influential Procurator of His
Majesty the Emperor. He threw himself blandly into the
breach.
"Of course, of course," he said
genially. "You, Monsieur -- er -- Fernand, are lucky to
have escaped with your life. Those rascals stick at nothing
nowadays. The driver of the coach fully believed that you
had been murdered. I suppose you saw nothing of the
rogue?"
But this was evidently not one of the
questions which the Man in Grey had any desire to answer,
and M. Vimars did not insist. He turned obsequiously to M.
le Procureur.
"The driver," he said, "spoke
of one having a wooden leg. But the worthy Gontran was very
vague in all his statements. I imagine that he and all the
male passengers must have behaved like cowards or the
rascals would never have got so clean away."
"The night was very dark, Monsieur le
Préfet," observed the Man in Grey dryly,
"and the Chouans were well armed."
"Quite so," here broke in M. le
Procureur impatiently, "and no object can be served now
in recriminations. See to it, my good Vimars," he
continued in a tone that was still slightly sarcastic but
entirely peremptory, "that the Minister's orders are
obeyed to the last letter. Place yourself and all your
personnel and the whole of the local police at Monsieur --
er -- Fernand's disposal, and do not let me hear any more
complaints of inefficiency or want of good will on your part
until those scoundrels have been laid by the heel."
IV
M. de Saint-Tropèze paused after his
peroration. With an almost imperceptible nod of his handsome
head he indicated both to his visitor and to his subordinate
that the audience was at an end. But M. le préfet,
though he knew himself to be dismissed, appeared reluctant
to go. There was something which M. le Procureur had
forgotten, and the worthy préfet was trying to gather
up courage to jog his memory. He had a mightily wholesome
respect for his chief, had M. Vimars, for the Procureur was
not only a man of vast erudition and of the bluest blood,
but one who was held in high consideration by His Majesty's
government in Paris, ay, and, so 'twas said, by His Majesty
himself.
So M. Vimars hummed and hawed and gave one or
two discreet little coughs, whilst M. le Procureur with
obvious impatience was drumming his well-manicured nails
against the arm of his chair. At last he said testily:
"You have something you wish to say to
me, my good Monsieur Vimars?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Procureur,"
hazarded the préfet in reply, "that is -- there
is the matter of the burglary -- and -- and the murder last
night -- that is ----"
M. le Procureur frowned: "Those are
local matters," he said loftily, "which concern
the commissary of police, my good Vimars, and are beneath
the notice of Monsieur le Ministre's secret agent."
The préfet, conscious of a reprimand,
blushed to the very roots of his scanty hair. He rose with
some haste and the obvious desire to conceal his
discomfiture in a precipitate retreat, when the Man in Grey
interposed in his quiet, even monotone:
"Nothing is beneath the notice of a
secret agent, Monsieur le Procureur," he said;
"and everything which is within the province of the
commissary of police concerns the representative of the
Minister."
M. Vimars literally gasped at this
presumption. How anyone dared thus to run counter to M. le
Procureur's orders simply passed his comprehension. He
looked with positive horror on the meagre, insignificant
personage who even now was meeting M. le Procureur's
haughty, supercilious glance without any sign of contrition
or of shame.
M. de Saint-Tropèze had raised his
aristocratic eyebrows, and tried to wither the audacious
malapert with his scornful glance, but the little Man in
Grey appeared quite unconscious of the enormity of his
offence; he stood by -- as was his wont -- quietly and
silently, his eyes fixed inquiringly on the préfet,
who was indeed hoping that the floor would open conveniently
and swallow him up ere he was called upon to decide whether
he should obey the orders of his official chief, or pay heed
to the commands of the accredited agent of M. the Minister
of Police.
But M. le Procureur decided the question
himself and in the only way possible. The Minister's letter
with its peremptory commands lay there before him -- the
secret agent of His Majesty's Police was to be aided and
obeyed implicitly in all matters relating to his work; there
was nothing to be done save to comply with those orders as
graciously as he could, and without further loss of dignity.
"You have heard the wishes of Monsieur
le Ministre's agent, my good Vimars," he said coldly;
"so I pray you speak to him of the matter which
exercises your mind, for of a truth I am not well acquainted
with all the details!"
Whereupon he fell to contemplating the
exquisite polish on his almond-shaped nails. Though the
overbearing little upstart in the grey coat could command
the obsequiousness of such men as that fool Vimars, he must
be shown at the outset that his insolence would find no weak
spot in the armour of M. de Saint-Tropèze's lofty
self-respect.
"Oh! it is very obvious," quoth the
préfet, whose only desire was to conciliate both
parties, "that the matter is not one which affects the
graver question of those satané Chouans. At
the same time both the affairs of last night are certainly
mysterious and present some unusual features which have
greatly puzzled our exceedingly able commissary of police.
It seems that in the early hours of this morning the library
of Monseigneur the Constitutional Bishop of Alençon
was broken into by thieves. Fortunately nothing of any value
was stolen, and this part of the affair appeared simple
enough, until an hour or two later a couple of peasants, who
were walking from Lonrai towards the city, came across the
body of a man lying face upwards by the roadside. The man
was quite dead -- had been dead some time apparently.
The two louts hurried at once to the commissariat of police
and made their depositions. Monsieur Lefèvre, our
chief commissary, proceeded to the scene of the crime; he
has now the affair in hand."
The préfet had perforce to pause in
his narrative for lack of breath. He had been talking
volubly and uninterruptedly, and indeed he had no cause to
complain of lack of attention on the part of his hearer. M.
le Ministre's secret agent sat absolutely still, his
deep-set eyes fixed intently upon the narrator. Alone M. le
Procureur Impérial maintained his attitude of calm
disdain. He still appeared deeply absorbed in the
contemplation of his finger-nails.
"At first," resumed the
préfet after his dramatic pause, "these two
crimes, the greater and the less, seemed in no way
connected, and personally I am not sure even now that they
are. A certain air of similarity and mystery, however,
clings to them both, for in both cases the crimes appear at
the outset so very purposeless. In the case of the burglary
in Monseigneur's palace the thieves were obviously scared
before they could lay hands on any valuables, but even so
there were some small pieces of silver lying about which
they might have snatched up, even if they were in a vast
hurry to get away; whilst in the case of the murder, though
the victim's silver watch was stolen and his pockets
ransacked, the man was obviously poor and not worth knocking
down."
"And is the identity of the victim known
to the police?" here asked the Man in Grey in his dull,
colourless voice.
"Indeed it is," replied the
préfet; "the man was well known throughout the
neighbourhood. He was valet to Madame la Marquise de
Phélan."
M. le Procureur looked up suddenly from his
engrossing occupation.
"Ah!" he said, "I did not know
that. Lefèvre did not tell me that he had established
the identity of the victim."
He sighed and once more gazed meditatively
upon his finger-nails.
"Poor Maxence! I have often seen him at
Plélan. There never was a more inoffensive creature.
What motive could the brute have for such a villainous
murder?"
The préfet shrugged his shoulders.
"Some private quarrel, I imagine,"
he said.
"A love affair?" queried the Man in
Grey.
"Oh no, Monsieur. Maxence was the wrong
side of fifty."
"A smart man?"
"Anything but smart -- a curious,
shock-headed, slouchy-looking person with hair as red as a
fox's."
Just for the space of one second the
colourless eyes of the Man in Grey lit up with a quick and
intense light; it seemed for the moment as if an exclamation
difficult to suppress would escape his thin, bloodless lips,
and his whole insignificant figure appeared to be quivering
with a sudden, uncontrollable eagerness. But this departure
from his usual quietude was so momentary that M. le
préfet failed to notice it, whilst M. le Procureur
remained as usual uninterested and detached.
"Poor Maxence!" resumed M. Vimars
after awhile. "He had, as far as is known, not a single
enemy in the world. He was devoted to Madame la Marquise and
enjoyed her complete confidence; he was not possessed of any
savings, nor was he of a quarrelsome disposition. He can't
have had more than a few francs about his person when he was
so foully waylaid and murdered. Indeed, it is because the
crime is ostensibly so wanton that the police at once
dismissed the idea that those abominable Chouans had
anything to do with it!"
"Is the road where the body was found
very lonely of nights?" asked the Man in Grey.
"It is a lonely road," replied the
préfet, "and never considered very safe, as it
is a favourite haunt of the Chouans -- but it is the direct
road between Alençon and Mayenne, through Lonrai and
Plélan."
"Is it known what business took the
confidential valet of Madame la Marquise de Plélan on
that lonely road in the middle of the night?"
"It has not been definitely
established," here broke in M. le Procureur curtly,
"that the murder was committed in the middle of the
night."
"I thought ----"
"The body was found in the early
morning," continued M. de Saint-Tropèze with an
air of cold condescension; "the man had been dead some
hours -- the leech has not pronounced how many. Maxence had
no doubt many friends or relations in Alençon: it is
presumed that he spent the afternoon in the city and was on
his way back to Plélan in the evening when he was
waylaid and murdered."
"That presumption is wrong," said
the Man in Grey quietly.
"Wrong?" retorted M. le Procureur
frigidly.
"What do you mean?"
"I was walking home from Plélan
towards Alençon in the small hours of the morning.
There was no dead body lying in the road then."
"The body lay by the roadside, half in
the ditch," said M. le Procureur dryly, "you may
have missed seeing it."
"Possibly," rejoined the Man in
Grey equally dryly, "but unlikely."
"Were you looking out for it then?"
riposted the Procureur. But no sooner were the words out of
his mouth than he realised his mistake. The Man in Grey made
no reply; he literally appeared to withdraw himself into an
invisible shell, to efface himself yet further within a
colourless atmosphere, out of which it was obviously unwise
to try to drag him.
M. le Procureur pressed his thin lips
together, impatient with himself at an unnecessary loss of
dignity. As usual M. le préfet was ready to throw
himself into the breach.
"I am sure," he said with his usual
volubility, "that we are wasting Monsieur le
Procureur's valuable time now. I can assure you, Monsieur --
er -- Fernand, that our chief commissary of police can give
you all the details of the crime -- if, indeed, they
interest you. Shall we go now? -- that is," he added,
with that same feeling of hesitation which overcame
him every time he encountered the secret agent's calm,
inquiring look, "that is -- er -- unless there's
anything else you wish to ask of Monsieur le
Procureur."
"I wish to know with regard to the
murder, what was the cause of death," said the Man in
Grey quietly.
"A pistol shot, sir," replied M. de
Saint-Tropèze coldly, "right between the
shoulder blades, delivered at short range apparently, seeing
that the man's coat was charred and blackened with powder.
The leech avers that he must have fallen instantly."
"Shot between the shoulders, and yet
found lying on his back," murmured the Man in Grey.
"And was nothing at all found upon the body that would
give a clue to the motive of the crime?"
"Nothing, my dear sir," broke in
the préfet glibly, "nothing at all. In his
breeches' pocket there was a greasy and crumpled sheet of
letter-paper, which on examination was found to be covered
with a row of numerals all at random -- like a child's
exercise-book."
"Could I see the paper?"
"It is at the commissariat of
police," explained the Procureur curtly.
"Where I can easily find it, of
course," concluded the Man in Grey with calm decision.
"In the meanwhile perhaps Monsieur le préfet
will be kind enough to tell me something more about the
burglary at the Archbishop's Palace."
"There's very little to tell, my good
Monsieur Fernand," said M. Vimars, who, far more
conscious than was the stranger of the Procureur's growing
impatience, would have given a month's salary for the
privilege of making himself scarce.
"With what booty did the burglars make
off?"
"With nothing of any value; and what
they did get they dropped in their flight. The police found
a small silver candlestick, and a brass paper weight in the
street close to the gate of Monseigneur's Palace, also one
or two books which no doubt the burglars had seized in the
hope that they were valuable editions."
"Nothing, then, has actually been
stolen?"
"Nothing. I believe that Monseigneur
told the chief commissary that one or two of his books are
still missing, but none of any value. So you see, my good
Monsieur -- er -- Fernand," concluded M. Vimars
blandly, "that the whole matter is quite beneath your
consideration. It is a case of a vulgar murder with only a
private grudge by way of motive -- and an equally vulgar
attempt at burglary, fortunately with no evil results. Our
local police -- though none too efficient, alas! in these
strenuous days, when His Majesty's army claims the flower of
our manhood -- is well able to cope with these simple
matters, which, of course, must occur in every district from
time to time. You may take it from me -- and I have plenty
of experience, remember -- that the matter has no concern
whatever with the Chouans and with your mission here. You
can, quite conscientiously, devote the whole of your time to
the case of the highway robbery the other night, and the
recovery of the sixty-two hundred francs which were stolen
from the coach, as well as the tracking of that daring
rascal with the wooden leg."
Satisfied with his peroration, M. Vimars at
last felt justified in moving towards the door.
"I don't think," he concluded with
suave obsequiousness, "that we need take up any more of
Monsieur le Procureur's valuable time, and with his gracious
permission ----"
To his intense relief, M. Vimars perceived
that the Man in Grey was at last prepared to take his leave.
M. de Saint-Tropèze, plainly at the
end of his patience, delighted to be rid of his tiresome
visitors, at once became pleasantly condescending. To the
secret agent of His Majesty's Police he gave a quite
gracious nod, and made the worthy préfet proud and
happy by whispering in his ear:
"Do not allow that little busybody to
interfere with you too much, my dear Monsieur Vimars. I am
prepared to back your skill and experience in such matters
against any young shrimp from Paris."
The nod of understanding which accompanied
this affable speech sent M. Vimars into an empyrean of
delight. After which M. le Procureur finally bowed his
visitors out of the room.
The little Man in Grey walked in silence
beside M. Vimars along the narrow network of streets which
lead to the Hôtel de Ville. The préfet had a
suite of apartments assigned to him in the building, and
once he was installed in his own well-furnished library,
untrammelled by the presence of his chief, and with the
accredited agent of His Majesty's Minister sitting opposite
to him, he gave full rein to his own desire for perfect
amity with so important a personage.
He began by a lengthy disquisition on the
merits of M. le Procureur Impérial. Never had there
been a man of such consideration and of such high culture in
the city. M. de Saint-Tropèze was respected alike by
the municipal officials, by the townspeople and by the
landed aristocracy of the neighbourhood -- and he was a
veritable terror to the light-fingered gentry, as well as to
the gangs of Chouans that infested the district.
The Man in Grey listened to the fulsome
panegyric with his accustomed deep attention. He asked a few
questions as to M. de Saint-Tropèze's domestic
circumstances. "Was he married?" "Was he
wealthy?" "Did he keep up a luxurious mode of
life?"
To all these questions M. Vimars was only too
ready to give reply. No, Monsieur le Procureur was not
married. He was presumably wealthy, for he kept up a very
elegant bachelor establishment in the Rue St. Blaise with
just a few old and confidential servants. The sources of his
income were not known, as Monsieur de Saint-Tropèze
was very proud and reserved, and would not condescend to
speak of his affairs with anyone.
Next the worthy préfet harked back,
with wonted volubility, to the double outrage of the
previous night, and rehearsed at copious length every
circumstance connected with it. Strangely enough, the secret
agent who had been sent by the Minister all the way from
Paris in order to track down that particular band of
Chouans, appeared far more interested in the murder of Mme.
de Plélan's valet and the theft of a few books out of
Monseigneur the Bishop's library than he was in the daring
robbery of the mail-coach.
"You knew the unfortunate Maxence, did
you not, Monsieur le Préfet?" he asked.
"Why, yes," replied M. Vimars,
"for I have often paid my respects to Madame la
Marquise de Plélan."
"What was he like?"
"You can go over to the commissariat of
police and see what's left of the poor man," rejoined
the préfet, with a feeble attempt at grim humour.
"The most remarkable feature about him was his red hair
-- an unusual colour among our Normandy peasantry."
Later M. Vimars put the finishing touch to
his amiability by placing his services unreservedly at the
disposal of M. le Ministre's agent.
"Is there anything that I can do for
you, my good Monsieur Fernand?" he asked urbanely.
"Not for the moment, I thank you,"
replied Fernand. "I will send to you if I require any
assistance from the police. But in the meanwhile," he
added, "I see that you are something of a scholar. I
should be greatly obliged if you could lend me a book to
while away some of my idle hours."
"A book? With pleasure!" quoth M.
Vimars, not a little puzzled. "But how did you
know?"
"That you were a scholar?" rejoined
the other with a vague smile. "It was a fairly simple
guess, seeing your well-stocked cases of books around me,
and that a well-fingered volume protrudes even now from your
coat-pocket."
"Ah! Ah!" retorted the
préfet ingenuously, "I see that truly you are a
great deal sharper, Monsieur Fernand, than you appear to be.
But in any case," he added, "I shall be charmed to
be of service to you in the matter of my small library. I
flatter myself that it is both comprehensive and select --
so if there is anything you especially desire to read
----"
"I thank you, Sir," said the Man in
Grey; "as a matter of fact I have never had the
opportunity of reading Madame de Staël's latest work,
Corinne, and if you happen to possess a copy
----"
"With the greatest of pleasure, my dear
sir," exclaimed the préfet. He went at once to
one of his well-filled bookcases, and after a brief search
found the volume and handed it with a smile to his visitor.
"It seems a grave pity," he added,
"that no new edition of this remarkable work has ever
been printed. But Madame de Staël is not in favour with
His Majesty, which no doubt accounts for the publisher's
lack of enterprise."
A few more words of polite farewell: after
which M. Vimars took final leave of the Minister's agent.
The little Man in Grey glided out of the
stately apartment like a ghost, even his footsteps failing
to resound along the polished floor.
V
Buried in a capacious armchair, beside a
cheerfully blazing fire, M. le Procureur Impérial had
allowed the copy of the Moniteur which he had
been reading to drop from his shapely hands on to the floor.
He had closed his eyes and half an hour had gone by in
peaceful somnolence, even while M. Lefèvre, chief
commissary of police, was cooling his heels in the
antechamber, preparatory to being received in audience on
most urgent business.
M. le Procureur Impérial never did
anything in a hurry, and, on principle, always kept a
subordinate waiting until any officiousness or impertinence
which might have been lurking in the latter's mind had been
duly squelched by weariness and sore feet.
So it was only after he had indulged in a
short and refreshing nap that M. de Saint-Tropèze
rang for his servant, and ordered him to introduce M.
Lefèvre, chief commissary of police. The latter, a
choleric, apoplectic, loud-voiced official, entered the
audience chamber in a distinctly chastened spirit. He had
been shown the original letter of credentials sent to M. le
Procureur by the Minister, and yesterday he had caught sight
of the small grey-clad figure as it flitted noiselessly
along the narrow streets of the city. And inwardly the brave
commissary of police had then and there perpetrated an act
of high treason, for he had sworn at the ineptitude of the
grand Ministries in Paris, which sent a pack of incompetent
agents to interfere with those who were capable of dealing
with their own local affairs.
Monsieur le Procureur Impérial, who no
doubt sympathised with the worthy man's grievances, was
inclined to be gracious.
"Well? And what is it now, my good
Monsieur Lefèvre?" he asked as soon as the
commissary was seated.
"In one moment, Monsieur le
Procureur," growled Lefèvre. "First of all,
will you tell me what I am to do about that secret agent who
has come here, I suppose, to poke his ugly nose into my
affairs?"
"What you are to do about him?"
rejoined M. de Saint-Tropèze with a smile. "I
have shown you the Minister's letter: he says that we must
leave all matters in the hands of his accredited
agent."
"By your leave," quoth
Lefèvre wrathfully, "that accredited agent might
as well be polishing the flagstones of
the Paris boulevards, for all the good that he will do down
here."
"You think so?" queried M. le
Procureur, and with a detached air, he fell into his
customary contemplation of his nails. "And with your
permission," continued the commissary, "I will
proceed with my own investigations of the outrages committed
by those abominable Chouans, for that bundle of conceit will
never get the hang of the affair."
"But the Minister says that we must not
interfere. We must render all the assistance that we
can."
"Bah! we'll render assistance when it is
needed," retorted Lefèvre captiously. "But
in the meantime I am not going to let that wooden-legged
scoundrel slip through my fingers, to please any grey-coated
marmoset who thinks he can lord it over me in my own
district."
M. de Saint-Tropèze appeared
interested.
"You have a clue?" he asked.
"More than that. I know who killed
Maxence."
"Ah! You have got the man? Well done, my
brave Lefèvre," exclaimed M. le Procureur,
without, however, a very great show of enthusiasm.
"I haven't got him yet," parried
Lefèvre. "But I have the description of the
rascal. A little patience and I can lay my hands on him --
provided that busybody does not
interfere."
"Who is he, then?" queried M. de
Saint-Tropèze.
"One of those damned Chouans."
"You are sure?"
"Absolutely. All day yesterday I was
busy interrogating witnesses, who I knew must have been
along the road between Lonrai and the city in the small
hours of the morning -- workpeople and so on, who go to and
from their work every morning of their lives. Well! after a
good deal of trouble we have been able to establish that the
murder was actually committed between the hours of five and
half-past, because although no one appears actually to have
heard the pistol shot, the people who were on the road
before five saw nothing suspicious, whilst the two louts who
subsequently discovered the body actually heard the tower
clock of Notre Dame striking the half-hour at the very
time."
"Well? And ----"
"No fewer than three of the witnesses
state that they saw a man with a queer-shaped lip, dressed
in a ragged coat and breeches, and with stockingless feet
thrust into sabots, hanging about the road shortly before
five o'clock. They gave him a wide berth, for they took him
to be a Chouan on the prowl."
"Why should a Chouan trouble to kill a
wretched man who has not a five-franc piece to bless himself
with?"
"That's what we've got to find
out," rejoined the commissary of police, "and we
will find it out, too, as soon as we've got the ruffian and
the rest of the gang. I know the rogue, mind you -- the man
with the queer lip. I have had my eye on him for some time.
Oh! he belongs to the gang, I'll stake mine oath on it: a
youngish man who should be in the army and is obviously a
deserter -- a ne'er-do-well who never does a day's honest
work and disappears o' nights. What his name is and where he
comes from I do not know. But through him we'll get the
others, including the chief of the gang -- the man with the
wooden leg."
"God grant you may succeed!"
ejaculated M. le Procureur sententiously. "These
perpetual outrages in one's district are a fearful strain on
one's nerves. By the way," he added, as he passed his
shapely hand over a number of miscellaneous papers which lay
in a heap upon his desk, "I don't usually take heed of
anonymous letters, but one came to me this morning which
might be worth your consideration."
He selected a tattered, greasy paper from the
heap, fingering it gingerly, and having carefully unfolded
it passed it across the table to the chief commissary of
police. Lefèvre smoothed the paper out: the writing
was almost illegible, and grease and dirt had helped further
to confuse the characters, but the commissary had had some
experience of such communications, and contrived slowly to
decipher the scrawl.
"It is a denunciation, of course,"
he said. "The rogues appear to be quarrelling amongst
themselves. 'If,' says the writer of the epistle, 'M. le
Procureur will send his police to-night between the hours of
ten and twelve to the Cache-Renard woods and they follow the
directions given below, they will come across the money and
valuables which were taken from the mail-coach last
Wednesday, and also those who robbed the coach and murdered
Mme. de Pléllan's valet. Strike the first bridle-path
on the right after entering the wood by the main road, until
you come to a fallen fir tree lying across another narrow
path; dismount here and follow this track for a further
three hundred mètres, till you come to a group of
five larches in the midst of a thicket of birch and oak.
Stand with your back to the larch that is farthest from you,
and face the thicket; there you will perceive another track
which runs straight into the depths of the wood, follow it
until you come to a tiny clearing, at the bottom of which
the thicket will seem so dense that you would deem it
impenetrable. Plunge into it boldly to where a nest of
broken branches reveals the presence of human footsteps, and
in front of you you will see a kind of hut composed of dead
branches and caked mud and covered with a rough thatch of
heather. In that hut you will find that for which you
seek.'"
"Do you think it worth while to act upon
this anonymous denunciation?" queried M.
Saint-Tropèze when Lefèvre had finished
reading.
"I certainly do," replied the
commissary. "In any case it can do no harm."
"You must take plenty of men with
you."
"Leave that to me, Monsieur le
Procureur," rejoined Lefèvre, "and I'll see
that they are well armed, too."
"What about the secret agent?"
Lefèvre swore.
"That worm?" was his sole but very
expressive comment.
"Will you see him about the
matter?"
"What do you think?"
"I suppose you must."
"And if he gives me orders?"
"You must obey them, of course. Have you
seen him this morning?"
"Yes. He had ordered me to come to his
lodgings in the Rue de France."
"What did he want?"
"The scrap of paper which we had found
in the breeches' pocket of Maxence."
"You gave it to him?"
"Of course," growled Lefèvre
savagely. "Haven't we all got to obey him?"
"You left him in his lodgings,
then?"
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
"Reading a book."
"Reading a book?" exclaimed M. de
Saint-Tropèze with a harsh laugh. "What
book?"
"I just noticed the title," replied
Lefèvre, "though I'm nothing of a scholar and
books don't interest me."
"What was the title?"
"Corinne," said the
commissary of police.
Apparently M. le Procureur Impérial
had come to the end of the questions which he desired to put
to the worthy M. Lefèvre, for he said nothing more,
but remained leaning back in his chair and gazing straight
out of the window beside him. His pale, aristocratic profile
looked almost like chiselled marble against the purple
damask of the cushions. He seemed absorbed in thought, or
else supremely bored; M. Lefèvre -- nothing of a
psychologist, despite his calling -- could not have said
which.
The ticking of the massive Louis XIV clock
upon the mantelpiece and the sizzling of damp wood on the
hearth alone broke the silence which reigned in the stately
apartment. Through the closed window the manifold sounds
which emanate from a busy city came discreet and subdued.
Instinctively M. Lefèvre's glance
followed that of his chief: he, too, fell to gazing out of
the window where only a few passers-by were seen hurrying
homewards on this late dreary October afternoon. Suddenly he
perceived the narrow, shrinking figure of the little Man in
Grey gliding swiftly down the narrow street. The commissary
of police smothered the savage oath which had risen to his
lips: he turned to his chief, and even his obtuse
perceptions were aroused by what he saw. M. le Procureur
Impérial was no longer leaning back listlessly
against the damask cushions: he was leaning forward, his
fine, white hands clutching the arms of his chair. He, too,
had apparently caught sight of the grey-clad figure, for his
eyes, wide open and resentful, followed it as it glided
along, and on his whole face there was such an expression of
hatred and savagery that the worthy commissary felt
unaccountably awed and subdued. Next moment, however, he
thought he must have been dreaming, for M. de
Saint-Tropèze had once more turned to him with that
frigid urbanity which became his aristocratic personality so
well.
"Well, my good Lefèvre," he
said, "I don't really think that I can help you further
in any way. I quite appreciate your mistrust of the
obtrusive stranger, and personally I cannot avoid a
suspicion that he will hamper you by interfering at a
critical moment to-night during your expedition against the
Chouans. He may just be the cause of their slipping through
your fingers, which would be such a terrible pity now that
you have gathered the net so skilfully around them."
Lefèvre rose, and with firm,
deliberate movements tightened the belt around his portly
waist, re-adjusted the set of his tunic, and generally
contrived to give himself an air of determination and
energy.
"I'll say nothing to the shrimp about
our expedition to-night," he said with sullen
resolution. "That is, unless you, Monsieur le
Procureur, give me orders to do so."
"Oh, I?" rejoined M. de
Saint-Tropèze carelessly. "I won't say anything
one way or the other. The whole matter is out of my hands
and you must act as you think best. Whatever happens,"
he added slowly and emphatically, "you will get no
blame from me."
Which was such an extraordinary thing for M.
le Procureur to say -- who was one of the most pedantic,
censorious and autocratic of men -- that the good
Lefèvre spoke of it afterwards to M. le préfet
and to one or two of his friends. He could not understand
this attitude of humility and obedience on the part of his
chief: but everyone agreed that it was small wonder M. le
Procureur Impérial was upset, seeing that the
presence of that secret police agent in Alençon was a
direct snub to all the municipal and departmental
authorities throughout the district, and M. de
Saint-Tropèze was sure to resent it more than anyone
else, for he was very proud, and acknowledged to be one of
the most capable of highly-placed officials in the whole of
France.
VI
The night that followed was unusually dark.
Out in the Cache-Renard woods the patter of the rain on the
tall crests of the pines and the soughing of the wind
through the branches of the trees drowned every other sound.
In the burrow built of dead branches, caked mud and dried
heather, five men sat waiting, their ears strained to the
crackling of every tiny twig, to the fall of every drop of
moisture from the over-laden twigs. Among them the dark
lantern threw a dim, flickering light on their sullen,
glowering faces. Despite the cold and the damp outside, the
atmosphere within was hot to suffocation; the men's breath
came panting and laboured, and now and again they exchanged
a few whispered words.
"In any case," declared one of
them, "if we feel that he is playing us false we shall
have to do for him to-night, eh, mates?"
A kind of muffled assent went round the
circle, and one man murmured:
"Do you really mistrust him,
Hare-Lip?"
"I should," replied Hare-Lip
curtly, "if I thought, he knew about Red-Poll."
"You don't think that he suspects?"
queried another.
"I don't see how he can. He can't have
shown his face, or rather his wooden leg inside
Alençon since the mail-coach episode. The police are
keen after him. But if he did hear rumours of the death of
Red-Poll he will also have heard that the murder was only an
ordinary case of robbery -- watch and money stolen -- and
that a sheet of letter-paper covered with random numerals
was found in the breeches' pocket of the murdered man."
One of the men swore lustily in the dark.
"The paper covered with numerals!"
he muttered savagely under his breath. "You clumsy fool
to have left that behind!"
"What was the use ----" began
another.
But Hare-Lip laughed, and broke in quietly:
"Do ye take me for a fool, mates? I was
not going to take away that original sheet of paper and
proclaim it to our chiefs that it was one of us who killed
Red-Poll. No! I took the sheet of letter-paper with me when
I went to meet Red-Poll. After he fell -- I shot him between
the shoulders -- I turned him over on his back and ransacked
his pockets; that was a blind. Then I found the paper with
the figures and copied them out carefully -- that was
another blind, -- in case Silver-Leg heard of the affair and
suspected us."
One or two of the others gave a growl of
dissent.
"You might have been caught while you
were playing that silly game," said one of the men,
"which would not deceive a child."
"Silver-Leg is no gaby," murmured
another.
"Well, he'll be here anon,"
concluded Hare-Lip lightly. "If you think he means to
play a dirty trick, he can go and join Red-Poll, that's
all."
"He may not come, after all."
"He must come. I had his message to meet
him here to-night without fail. The chiefs have planned
another attack: on the Orleans coach this time. Silver-Leg
wants us to be of the party."
"We ought to have got hold of the last
booty before now!"
"Impossible! Mole-Skin and I have not
figured out all the directions from the book and the
numerals yet. It is not an easy task, I tell you, but it
shall be done soon, and we can take you straight to the spot
as soon as we have the directions before us."
"Unless Silver-Leg and Madame remove the
booty in the meanwhile," grunted one of the party
caustically.
"I sometimes wonder ----" said
another. But he got no further. A peremptory
"Hush!" from Hare-Lip suddenly silenced them all.
With a swift movement one of them
extinguished the lanthorn, and now they cowered in absolute
darkness within their burrow like so many wild beasts
tracked to earth by the hunters. The heat was suffocating:
the men vainly tried to subdue the sound of their breath as
it came panting from their parched throats.
"The police!" Hare-Lip muttered
hoarsely.
But they did not need to he told. Just like
tracked beasts they knew every sound which portended danger,
and already from afar off, even from the very edge of the
wood, more than a kilométre away, their cars, attuned
to every sound, had perceived the measured tramp of horses
upon the soft, muddy road. They cowered there, rigid and
silent. The darkness encompassed them, and they felt safe
enough in their shelter in the very heart of the woods, in
this secret hiding-place which was known to no living soul
save to them. The police on patrol duty had often passed
them by: the nearest track practicable on horseback was four
hundred mètres, away, the nearest footpath made a
wide détour round the thicket, wherein these skulking
miscreants had contrived to build their lair.
As a rule, it meant cowering, silent and
motionless, inside the burrow whilst perhaps one posse of
police, more venturesome than most, had dismounted at the
end of the bridle-path and plunged afoot into the narrower
track, scouring the thicket on either side for human quarry.
It involved only an elementary amount of danger, distant and
intangible, not worth an accelerated heart-beat, or even a
gripping of knife or pistol wherewith to sell life and
liberty at a price.
And so, for the first five minutes, while the
tramp of horses' hoofs drew nearer, the men waited in placid
silence.
"I hope Silver-Leg has found
shelter," one of the men murmured under his breath.
"He should have been here by now,"
whispered another.
Then they perceived the usual sound of men
dismounting, the rattle of chains, the champing of bits,
peremptory words of command. Even then they felt that they
had nothing to fear: these were all sounds they had heard
before. The thicket and the darkness were their allies; they
crouched in silence, but they felt that they were safe.
Their ears and senses, however, were keenly on the alert:
they heard the crackling of dried twigs under the heavy
footsteps of the men, the muttered curses that accompanied
the struggle against the density of the thicket, the
clashing of metal tools against dead branches of intervening
trees. Still they did not move. They were not afraid -- not
yet! But somehow in the obscurity which held them as in a
pall their attitude had become more tense, their breathing
more laboured, and one or two strong quivering hands went
out instinctively to clutch a neighbouring one.
Then suddenly Hare-Lip drew in his breath
with a hissing sound like that of an angry snake. He
suppressed an imprecation which had forced itself to his
lips. Though the almost imperceptible aperture of the burrow
he had perceived the flicker of lanthorns: and sounds of
broken twigs, of trampling feet, of moving, advancing
humanity appeared suddenly to be strangely near.
"By Satan!" he hissed almost
inaudibly; "they are in the clearing!"
"They are attacking the thicket,"
added Mole-Skin in a hoarse whisper.
Never before had the scouring posse of police
come so near to the stronghold of these brigands. It was
impossible to see how many of them there were, but that they
were both numerous and determined could not for a moment be
disputed. Voices now became more distinct.
"This way!" "No -- that!"
"Here, Marcel, where's your pick?" "Lend us
your knife, Jules Marie; the bramble has got into my
boots."
Some of the men were joking, others swearing
lustily. But there were a great number of them, and they
were now desperately near.
"They are on us!" came in a husky
murmur from Hare-Lip. "They know their way."
"We are betrayed!" was the stifled
response.
"By Silver-Leg!" ejaculated
Hare-Lip hoarsely, and with such an intensity of vengeful
hatred as would have made even the autocratic wooden-legged
chief of this band of brigands quake. "The accursed
informer! By all the demons in hell he shall pay for his
treachery!"
Indeed, there was no longer any doubt that it
was not mere chance which was guiding the posse of police to
this secret spot. They were making their way unhesitatingly
by the dim light of the dark lanterns which their leaders
carried before them. One of the men suddenly hit upon the
almost imperceptible track, which led straight to the
burrow. There was no mistaking the call which he gave to his
comrades.
"I have it now, mates!" he shouted.
"Follow me!"
The sharp report of a pistol came by way of a
reply from the lurking-hole of the Chouans, and the man who
had just uttered the call to his mates fell forward on his
face.
"Attention, my men!" commanded the
officer in charge. "Close the lanterns and put a charge
of powder into the brigands' den."
Once more the report of a pistol rang out
through the night. But the men of the police, though
obviously scared by the mysterious foe who struck at them
out of the darkness, were sufficiently disciplined not to
give ground: they fought their way into line, and the next
moment a terrific volley of gunfire rent the echoes of the
wood from end to end. In front of the men now there was a
wide clearing, where the undergrowth had been repeatedly
broken and trampled upon. This they had seen, just before
the lanthorns were closed, and beyond it the burrow with its
thatch of heather and its narrow aperture which revealed the
muzzle of two or three muskets, and through the aperture
several pairs of glowing eyes and shadowy forms vaguely
discernible in the gloom.
"Up with the lights and charge!"
commanded the officer.
The lanterns were opened, and three sharp
reports came in immediate answer from the lair.
One or two men of the police fell amidst the
bed of brambles; but the others, maddened by this resistance
and by the fall of their comrades, rushed forward in force.
Dividing their line in the centre, they
circled round the clearing, attacking the stronghold from
two sides. The commissary of police, leaving nothing to
chance, had sent half a company to do the work. In a few
seconds the men were all over the burrow, scrambling up the
thatch, kicking aside the loose walls of dead branches, and
within two minutes they had trampled every fragment of the
construction under foot.
But of the gang of Chouans there remained
only a few traces, and two or three muskets abandoned in
their hasty flight: they had succeeded in making good their
escape under cover of the darkness. The sergeant in command
of the squad of police ordered the One or two watches and pocket-books were
subsequently identified by the passengers of the coach that
had been held up; there was the silver watch which had
belonged to the murdered valet, and a couple of books which
bore Monseigneur the Bishop of Alençon's book-plate.
But of the man with the wooden leg and his
rascally henchmen, or of the sixty-two hundred francs stolen
from the coach there was not a sign.
The chief commissary of police swore lustily
when his men returned to the bridle-path where he had been
waiting for them, and the sergeant reported to him that the
rogues had made good their escape. But even his wrath --
violent and wordy as it was -- was as nothing to the white
heat of anger wherewith M. le Procureur Impérial
received the news of the dire failure of the midnight raid
in the Cache-Renard woods.
Indeed, he appeared so extraordinarily upset
at, the time that his subsequent illness was directly
attributable to this cause. The leech vowed that his august
patient was suffering from a severe shock to his nerves. Be
that as it may, M. de Saint-Tropèze, who was usually
in such vigorous health, was confined to his room for some
days after the raid. It was a fortnight and more ere he
again took his walks abroad, as had been his wont in the
past, and his friends, when they saw him, could not help but
remark that something of M. le Procureur's elasticity and
proud bearing had gone. He who used to be so upright now
walked with a decided stoop; his face looked at times the
colour of ashes; and now and again, when he was out in the
streets, he would throw a look around him almost as if he
were afraid.
On the other hand, the secret agent of His
Imperial Majesty's Police had received the news of the
escape of the Chouans with his habitual quietude and
equanimity.
He did not make any comment on the
commissary's report of the affair, nor did he offer the
slightest remonstrance to M. le Procureur Impérial
for having permitted the expedition without direct
instructions from the official representative of the
Minister.
Nothing was seen of the little Man in Grey
for the next two or three weeks: he appeared absorbed in the
books which M. le préfet so graciously lent him, and
he did not trouble either the latter, or M. le Procureur, or
the commissary of police with many visits.
The matter of the highway robbery, as well as
that of the murdered valet Maxence, appeared to he already
relegated to the growing list of the mysterious crimes
perpetrated by those atrocious Chouans, with which the
police of His Imperial Majesty were unable to cope. The
appearance of the enigmatic person in grey had had no
deterrent effect on the rascals, nor was it likely to have
any, if he proved as inept as the local officials had been
in dealing with such flagrant and outrageous felony.
VII
And once again the silence of the forest was
broken in the night by the sound of human creatures on the
prowl. Through the undergrowth which lies thickest at the
Lonrai end of the woods, to the left of the intersecting
main road, the measured tread of a footfall could be faintly
perceived -- it was a strange and halting footfall, as of a
man walking with a stump.
Behind the secular willow, which stands in
the centre of the small clearing beside the stagnant pool in
the very heart of this dense portion of the forest, a lonely
watcher crouched, waiting. He had lain there and waited
night after night, and for hours at a stretch the
surrounding gloom held him in its close embrace: his ears
and senses were strained to hear that uneven footfall,
whenever its faint thud broke the absolute silence. To no
other sound, no other sight, did he pay any attention, or no
doubt he would have noticed that in the thicket behind him
another watcher cowered. The stalker was stalked in his
turn: the watcher was watched. Someone else was waiting in
this dense corner for the man with the wooden leg -- a small
figure rapped in a dark mantle, a silent, furtive creature,
more motionless, more noiseless than any beast in its lair.
At last, to-night, that faint, uneven thud of
a wooden stump against the soft carpet of the woods reached
the straining ears of the two watchers. Anon the feeble
flicker of a dark lanthorn was vaguely discernible in the
undergrowth.
The man who was crouching behind the willow
drew in his breath with a faint, hissing sound; his hand
grasped more convulsively the pistol which it held. He was
lying flat upon his stomach, like a creeping reptile
watching for its prey; his eyes were fixed upon the tiny
flickering light as it slowly drew near towards the stagnant
pool.
In the thicket behind him the other watcher
also lay in wait: his hand, too, closed upon a pistol with a
firm and determined grip; the dark mantle slid noiselessly
down from his shoulders. But he did not move, and not a twig
that helped to give him cover, quivered at his touch.
The next moment a man dressed in a rough
blouse and coarse breeches and with a woollen cap pulled
over his shaggy hair came out into the clearing. He walked
deliberately up to the willow tree. In addition to the small
dark lantern which he held in one hand, he carried a spade
upon his shoulder. Presently he threw down the spade and
then proceeded so to arrange the lantern that its light fell
full upon one particular spot, where the dry moss appeared
to have been recently disturbed. The man crouching behind
the willow watched his every movement; the other behind the
thicket hardly dared to breathe.
Then the newcomer did a very curious thing.
Sitting down upon the soft, sodden earth, he stretched his
wooden stump out before him: it was fastened with straps to
the leg which was bent at the knee, the shin and foot beyond
appearing like a thick and shapeless mass, swathed with
bandages. The supposed maimed man, however, now set to work
to undo the straps which bound the wooden stump to his leg,
then he removed the stump, straightened out his knee,
unwound the few métres of bandages which concealed
the shape of his shin and foot, and finally stood up on both
legs, as straight and hale as nature had originally made
him. The watcher behind the willow had viewed all his
movements with tense attention. Now he could scarcely
repress a gasp of mingled astonishment and rage, or the
vengeful curse which had risen to his lips.
The newcomer took up his spade and, selecting
the spot where the moss, and the earth bore traces of having
been disturbed, he bent to his task and started to dig. The
man behind the tree raised his pistol and fired: the other
staggered backwards with a groan -- partly of terror and
partly of pain -- and his left hand went up to his right
shoulder with a quick, convulsive gesture. But already the
assassin, casting, his still smoking pistol aside, had
fallen upon his victim; there was a struggle, brief and
grim, a smothered call for help, a savage exclamation of
rage and satisfied vengeance, and the wounded man fell at
last with a final cry of horror, as his enemy's grip
fastened around his throat.
For a second or two the murderer stood quite
still contemplating his work. With a couple of vigorous
kicks with his boot he turned the body callously over. Then
he picked up the lanthorn and allowed the light to play on
the dead man's face; he gave one cursory glance at the
straight, marble-like features, and at the full, shaggy
beard and hair which disfigured the face, and another
contemptuous one at the wooden stump which still lay on the
ground close by.
"So dies an informer!" he
ejaculated with a harsh laugh.
He searched for his pistol and having found
it he tucked it into his belt; then putting his fingers to
his lips he gave a cry like that of a screech-owl. The cry
was answered by a similar one some little distance away; a
minute or two later another man appeared through the
undergrowth.
"Have you done for him?" queried
this stranger in a husky whisper.
"He is dead," replied the other
curtly. "Come nearer, Mole-Skin," he added,
"you will see something that will amaze you."
Mole-Skin did as his mate ordered; he, too,
stood aghast when Hare-Lip pointed to the wooden stump and
to the dead man's legs.
"It was not a bad idea!" said
Hare-Lip after a while. "It put the police on a wrong
scent all the time: while they searched for a man with one
leg, he just walked about on two. Silver-Leg was no fool.
But," he added savagely, "he was a traitor, and
now he'll neither bully nor betray us again."
"What about the money?"
"We'd best get that now. Didn't I tell
you that Silver-Leg would come here sooner or later? We lost
nothing by lying in wait for him."
Without another word MoleSkin picked up the
spade, and in his turn began to dig at the spot where
Silver-Leg had toiled when the bullet of his betrayed
comrade laid him low. There was only the one spade and
Hare-Lip kept watch while his comrade dug. The light from
the dark lantern revealed the two miscreants at their work.
While Hare-Lip had thus taken the law into
his own hands against the informer, the watcher in the
thicket had not stirred. But now he, also, began to crawl
slowly and cautiously out of his hiding-place. No snake, or
lizard, or crawling, furtive beast could have been more
noiseless than he was; the moss beneath him dulled the sound
of every movement, till he, too, had reached the willow
tree.
The two Chouans were less than. thirty paces
away from him. Intent upon their work they had been
oblivious of every other sound. Now when the tracker of his
human quarry raised his arm to fire, Hare-Lip suddenly
turned and at once gave a warning call to his mate. But the
call broke upon his lips, there came a sharp report,
immediately followed by another -- the two brigands,
illumined by the lanthorn, had been an easy target, and the
hand which wielded the pistol was steady and unerring.
And now stillness more absolute than before
reigned in the heart of the forest. Summary justice had been
meted out to a base informer by the vengeful arm of the
comrades whom he had betrayed, and to the two determined
criminals by an equally relentless and retributive hand.
The man who had so inexorably accomplished
this last act of unfaltering justice waited for a moment or
two until the last lingering echo of the double pistol shot
had ceased to resound through the woods. Then he put two
fingers to his lips and gave a shrill prolonged whistle;
after which he came out from behind the willow. He was small
and insignificant-looking, with a pale face and colourless
eyes. He was dressed in grey and a grey cap was pulled low
down over his forehead. He went up to where the two
miscreants whom he had shot were lying, and with a practised
eye and hand assured himself that they were indeed dead. He
turned the light of the dark lantern first on the man with
the queer-shaped lip and then on the latter's companion. The
two Chouans had at any rate paid for some of their crimes
with their lives; it remained for the Almighty judge to
pardon or to punish as they deserved. The third man lay,
stark and rigid, where a kick from the other man had roughly
cast him aside. His eyes, wide open and inscrutable, had
still around them a strange look of authority and pride; the
features appeared calm and marble-like; the mouth under the
obviously false beard was tightly closed, as if it strove
even in death to suppress every sound which might betray the
secret that had been so jealously guarded throughout life.
Near by lay the wooden stump which had thrown such a cloud
of dust into the eyes of good M. Lefèvre and his
local police.
With slow deliberation the Man in Grey picked
up the wooden stump, and so replaced it against the dead
man's leg that in the feeble light and dense black shadows
it looked as real as it had done in life -- a support for an
amputated limb. A moment or two later, the flickering light
of a lantern showed through the thicket, and soon the lusty
voice of the commissary of police broke in on the watcher's
loneliness.
"We heard three distinct shots,"
explained M. Lefèvre, as soon as he reached the
clearing and caught sight of the secret agent.
"Three acts of justice," replied
the Man in Grey quietly, as he pointed to the bodies of the
three Chouans.
"The man with the wooden leg!"
exclaimed the commissary in tones wherein astonishment and
unmistakable elation struggled with a momentary feeling of
horror. "You have got him?"
"Yes," answered the Man in Grey
simply. "Where are your men?"
"I left them at the junction of the
bridle-path, as you ordered me to do," growled the
commissary sullenly, for he still felt sore and aggrieved at
the peremptory commands which had been given to him by the
secret agent earlier on that day.
"Then go back and send half a dozen of
them here with improvised stretchers to remove the
bodies."
"Then it was you, who ----"
murmured Lefèvre, not knowing, indeed, what to say or
do in the face of this puzzling and grim emergency.
"What else would you have had me
do?" rejoined the Man in Grey, as, with a steady hand,
he removed the false hair and beard which disguised the
pale, aristocratic face of M. de Saint-Tropèze.
"Monsieur le Procureur
Impérial!" ejaculated Lefèvre hoarsely.
"I -- I -- don't understand -- you -- you -- have
killed him -- he -- oh, my God!"
"The Chouans whom he betrayed killed
him, my good Lefèvre," replied the Man in Grey
quietly. "He was their chief and kept the secret of his
anonymity even from them. When he was amongst them and led
them to their many nefarious deeds he was not content to
hide his face behind a tangle of false and shaggy hair, or
to appear in rough clothes and with grimy hands. No! His
artistry in crime went a step farther than that; he strapped
a wooden leg to his own whole one and while you scoured the
countryside in search of a Chouan with a wooden leg, the
latter had resumed his personality as the haughty and
well-connected M. de Saint-Tropèze, Procureur at the
tribunal of Alençon to His Majesty the Emperor. Here
is the stump," added the Man in Grey, as with the point
of his boot he, kicked the wooden stump aside, "and
there," he concluded, pointing to the two dead Chouans,
"are the men who wreaked their vengeance upon their
chief."
"But how ----" interjected
Lefèvre, who was too bewildered to speak or even to
think coherently, "how did you find out -- how
----"
"Later I may tell you," broke in
the Man in Grey shortly, "now we must see to the
removal of the bodies. But remember," he added
peremptorily and with solemn earnestness, "that
everything you have seen and heard to-night must remain for
ever a secret within your breast. For the honour of our
administration, for the honour of our newly-founded Empire,
the dual personality and countless crimes of such a highly
placed official as M. de Saint-Tropèze must never be
known to the public. I saved the hangman's work when I
killed these two men -- there is no one living now, save you
and I, who can tell the tale of M. de Saint-Tropèze's
double entity. Remember that to the public who knew him, to
his servants, to your men who will carry his body in all
respect and reverence, he has died here by my side in the
execution of his duty -- disguised in rough clothes in order
to help me track these infernal Chouans to their lair. I
shall never speak of what I know, and as for you ----"
The Man in Grey paused and, even through the
gloom, the commissary felt the strength and menace of those
colourless eyes fixed steadfastly upon him.
"Your oath, Monsieur le Commissaire de
Police," concluded the secret agent in firm, commanding
tones.
Awed and subdued -- not to say terrified-the
chief commissary gave the required oath of absolute secrecy.
"Now go and fetch your men, my good
Lefèvre," enjoined the Man in Grey quietly.
Mechanically the commissary turned to go. He
felt as if he were in a dream from which he would presently
awake. The man whom he had respected and feared, the
Procurator of His Majesty the Emperor, whose authority the
whole countryside acknowledged, was identical with that
nefarious Chouan with the wooden leg whom the entire
province loathed and feared.
Indeed, the curious enigma of that dual
personality was enough to addle even a clearer intellect
than that of the worthy commissary of police. Guided by the
light of the lanthorn he carried he made his way back
through the thicket whence he had come.
Alone in the forest, the Man in Grey watched
over the dead. He looked down meditatively on the pale,
aristocratic face of the man who had lied and schemed and
planned, robbed and murdered, who had risked so much and
committed such villainies, for a purpose which would
henceforth and for ever remain an unfathomable mystery.
Was passionate loyalty for the decadent
Royalist cause at the root of all the crimes perpetrated by
this man of culture and position -- or was it merely vulgar
greed, vulgar and insatiable worship of money, that drove
him to mean and sordid crimes? To what uses did he put the
money wrung from peaceable citizens? Did it go to swell the
coffers of a hopeless Cause, or to contribute to M. de
Saint-Tropèzes own love of luxury?
The Man in Grey pondered these, things in the
loneliness and silence of the night. All such questions must
henceforth be left unanswered. For the sake of officialdom,
of the government of the new Empire, the memory of such a
man as M. de Sant-Tropèze must remain for ever
untarnished.
Anon the posse of police under the command of
a sergeant arrived upon the scene. They had improvised three
stretchers; one of these was reverently covered with a
mantle, upon which they laid the body of M. le Procureur
Impérial, killed in the discharge of his duty whilst
aiding to track a gang of desperate Chouans.
VIII
In the forenoon of the following day the
chief commissary of Police having seen M. le Préfet
on the subject of the arrangements for the public funeral of
M. de Saint-Tropèze, called at the lodgings of the
secret agent of His Imperial Majesty's Police.
After the usual polite formalities,
Lefèvre plunged boldly into the subject of his visit.
"How did you find out?" he asked,
trying to carry off the situation with his accustomed bluff.
"You owe me an explanation, you know, Monsieur -- er --
Fernand. I am chief commissary of this district, and by your
own statement you stand convicted of having killed two men.
Abominable rogues though they were, the laws of France do
not allow ----"
"I owe you no explanation, my good
Lefèvre," interrupted the Man in Grey in his
quiet monotone, "as you know. If you would care to take
the responsibility on yourself of indicting me for the
wilful murder of those two men, you are of course at liberty
to do so. But ----"
The commissaire hastened to assure the secret
emissary of His Majesty that what he had said had only been
meant as a joke.
"Only as a spur," he added affably,
"to induce you to tell me how you found out the secret
of M. de Saint-Tropèze."
"Quite simply," replied the Man in
Grey, "by following step by step the series of crimes
which culminated in your abortive expedition against the
Chouans. On the evening of the attack on the coach on the
10th of October last, I lay hidden and forgotten by the
roadside. The coach had driven away; the footpads were
making off with their booty. I followed them. I crawled
behind them on my hands and knees, till they came to their
burrow -- the place where you made that foolish and
ill-considered attack on them the other night. I heard them
quarrelling over their loot; I heard enough to guess that
sooner or later a revolt would break out amongst them and
that the man whom they called Hare-Lip meant to possess
himself of a large share of the spoils. I also heard the man
with the wooden leg say something about a book named
'Corinne' which was to be mentioned to 'Monseigneur,' and a
key which would be sent to 'Madame' by the intermediary of
Red-Poll.
"Within two days of this I learned that
a man who had red hair and was valet to Madame la Marquise
de Plélan had been murdered, and that a sheet of
note-paper covered with random numerals was found upon his
person; at the same time a burglary had been committed in
the house of Monseigneur the Bishop of Alençon and
all that had been stolen were some books. At once I
recognised the hand of Hare-Lip and his gang. They had
obviously stolen the book from Monseigneur's library and
then murdered Red-Poll, in order to possess themselves of
the cipher, which I felt sure would prove to be the
indication of the secret hiding-place of the stolen booty.
It was easy enough to work out the problem of the book and
the key. The numerals on the sheet of note-paper referred to
pages, lines and words in the book -- a clumsy enough cipher
at best. It gave me -- just as I expected -- clear
indications of the very place, beside the willow tree and
the pool. Also -- just as I anticipated -- Silver-Leg, the
autocratic chief, had in the meanwhile put his threat into
execution and punished his rebellious followers by betraying
them to the police."
"Great God!" exclaimed
Lefèvre, recollecting the anonymous letter which M.
le Procureur had handed to him.
"I dare say you recollect this phase of
the episode," continued the Man in Grey. "Your
expedition against the Chouans nearly upset all my plans. It
had the effect of allowing three of them to escape. However,
let that pass for the moment. I could not help but guess,
when I heard of the attack, that Hare-Lip and his mates
would wish to be revenged on the informer. Their burrow was
now known to the police, but there was still the
hiding-place of the booty, to which sooner or later I knew
that Silver-Leg must return.
"You remember the orders I gave you a
full month ago; to be prepared to go on any day and at an
instant's notice with a dozen of your men to a certain point
on the main road at the Lonrai end of the wood which I had
indicated to you, whenever I sent you a peremptory message
to do so, and there to wait in silence and on the alert
until a shrill whistle from me brought you to my side. Well!
in this matter you did your duty well, and the Minister
shall hear of it.
"As for me, I was content to bide my
time. With the faithful henchman whom you placed at my
disposal I lay in wait for Monsieur de Saint-Tropèze
in the Rue St. Blaise during all those weary days and nights
when he was supposed to be too ill to venture out of his
house. At last he could refrain no longer; greed or perhaps
sheer curiosity, or that wild adventurous spirit which made
him what he was, drove him to lend a deaf ear to the
dictates of prudence and to don once again the shaggy beard,
the rough clothes and wooden stump of his lawless and shady
life.
"I had so placed your man that from
where he was he could not see Monsieur le Procureur,
whenever the latter came out of his house, nor did he know
whom or what it was that I was watching; but as soon as I
saw Monsieur de Saint-Tropèze emerging stealthily
from his side gate, I dispatched your man to you with the
peremptory message to go at once to the appointed place, and
then I started in the wake of my quarry.
"You, my good Lefèvre, have no
conception what it means to track -- unseen and unheard --
one of those reckless Chouans who are more alert than any
wild beast. But I tracked my man; he came out of his house
when the night was at its darkest and first made his way to
that small derelict den which no doubt you know and which
stands just off the main road, on the fringe of the
Cache-Renard wood. This he entered and came out about a
quarter of an hour later, dressed in his Chouan rig-out. I
must own that for a few seconds he almost deceived me, so
marvellous was his disguise; the way he contrived that
wooden leg was positively amazing.
"After that he plunged into the woods.
But I no longer followed him; I knew whither he was going
and was afraid lest, in the depths and silence of the
forest, he would hear my footfall and manage to give me the
slip. Whilst he worked his way laboriously with his wooden
stump through the thicket and the undergrowth, I struck
boldly along the main road, and plunged into the wood at the
point which had been revealed to me by the cipher. I had
explored the place many a time during the past month, and
had no difficulty in finding the stagnant pool and the
willow tree. Hare-Lip and his mate were as usual on the
watch. No sooner had Silver-Leg appeared on the scene than
the others meted out to him the full measure of their
vengeful justice. But I could not allow them to be, taken
alive. I did not know how much they knew or guessed of their
leader's secret, or how much they might reveal at their
first interrogation. The gallows had already claimed them
for its own; for me they were a facile prey. I shot them
both deliberately and will answer to His Majesty's Minister
of Police alone for my actions."
The Man in Grey paused. As he completed his
narrative Lefèvre stared at him, dumbfounded at the
courage, the determination, the dogged perseverance which
alone could have brought this amazing undertaking to its
grim and gruesome issue.
"After this, my good
Lefèvre," remarked the secret agent more
lightly, "we shall have to find out something about
'Madame' and quite a good deal about 'Monseigneur.'"
(End.)
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