HILAIRE
It might be well to hark back a few hours and discover what was taking
place in the shop which was to have its brief moment of fame.
M. Hilaire was a tradesman of good reputation in the quarter. His
leanness and the singular expression of his countenance, which seemed to
be laughing and crying at the same time, made of him a well-known
figure. He was a boon companion to those whom he favored with his
friendship, and a persistent card player; for he had a taste for the
tap-room as well as a love of practical joking, notwithstanding that, to
please his wife, he assumed the airs of a respectable tradesman.
His wife was the dark spot in Hilaire's otherwise fortunate existence,
for Virginie was of a jealous temperament and endowed by nature with an
execrable temper. Had he been free from Virginie and the competition of
a provision merchant at the next corner, Hilaire would have been a
perfectly happy man. It was said in the district that he had risen from
nothing, but that was all to his credit. His enemies--the provision
merchant and his wife, their customers and their circle--declared that
M. Hilaire had spent a more than riotous youth and must be an
ex-anarchist, for his language when he was in his cups showed little
respect for the established order of society.
On that particular night M. Hilaire was in his shop making up his books.
The reason why he was not in bed was that he was waiting up for his
wife, with whom he had had a stormy altercation in connection with the
girl who formed his sole staff, for the two young men who were learning
how to sell golden syrup and prunes had left for the war, in which, in
fact, they conducted themselves like heroes, and when they returned on
leave from time to time each wore stripes on his arm and medals on his
breast.
The girl in question was seventeen years of age, had dazzling teeth and
a turned-up nose. She was as dark as a mole or a gypsy. Perhaps she was
a gypsy. She spoke Italian. She was probably a child picked up in the
streets. Hilaire did not go into these details when he engaged her. The
girl bore a name which her character belied. She was called Sarah.
Madame Hilaire called her Zoé.
Now this young creature, who worked under her mistress with the will of
four men and was always of an exasperating good humor, had one serious
failing: she possessed a pair of magnificent black eyes which seemed to
laugh at the whole world. M. Hilaire found some diversion in those two
eyes, and could not look at them without a smile. It was not the same
thing with Madame Hilaire. She caught her husband on more than one
occasion in the act of ogling the girl. She did not like it, and the
scenes which ensued were sufficient proof of it.
That very evening she surprised them throwing prunes at each other. The
thing caused a pretty disturbance. Zoé and Hilaire both received a box
on the ear, and afterwards Madame Hilaire went upstairs to dress, vowing
that she was fed up with a man who had no respect for his goods and did
not know how to keep his place with his servant.
After locking Sarah-Zoé in her attic and putting the key in her pocket,
she told her husband that she was going to stay with her mother until
something better turned up. The threat, which was obviously directed at
M. Hilaire's honor and was renewed at least once a week, was not
calculated to stagger him. He knew that it was in Virginie's temperament
to betray him, and that she had another fault: her love of cards. "Go
and have a game of poker," he said to himself, "and make it last as long
as possible."
She would come back cleaned out--that was the rule.
Meantime, in order to furnish himself with weapons that would give him
the advantage, M. Hilaire was examining the books in detail. They were
kept by his better half, who falsified them now and again in order to
conceal slight borrowings from the cash, which she made without saying a
word to her skinflint of a husband.
Thus the hours went by. M. Hilaire discovered that his wife had
appropriated forty-two francs fifty centimes, and was waiting for her
with an impatience which may well be imagined, when two tremendous blows
from a fist sounded on the iron shutters and a voice growled
"_Fatalitas!_"
It was two o'clock in the morning. At that same hour Didier was in the
train to Paris thinking of the penal settlement for the first time
without undue shame. As he heard that significant word Hilaire sprang
from his office like a Jack-in-the-box shot up by a powerful spring, and
tottered in the shop as if he had received one of those blows that make
a man turn dizzy.
Hilaire felt certain that he recognized the voice which flung out the
astounding word. Was such a thing possible?
It was so possible, indeed, that the word was repeated and fresh blows
shook the shop front. And the voice, the curious voice which unhinged
the mind of M. Hilaire, shouted:
"Open the door; I know you're alone!"
Trembling like a child who is frightened or overjoyed, Hilaire leant
towards the small, low door in the shop front, unlocked and opened it. A
huge form at once glided into the shop. The door was closed with a kick,
and the figure displayed itself in its full proportions.
It was a man, or rather a human animal, tall of stature, square of
build, thick-set, with tremendous limbs, and fists capable of felling an
ox, and an extraordinary, fierce-looking head in which only the gleam in
the eyes was visible.
"Chéri-Bibi!" gasped Hilaire, placing his hand on his heart like
sensitive persons who are undergoing a moment of intense excitement.
"If any one asks you if I am Chéri-Bibi say you know nothing about me,"
growled Chéri-Bibi. "You took a long time to open the door. Have you
forgotten me, Dodger?"
At these words Hilaire, who was deathly pale, stretched out his arms and
fell upon the immense chest of the man whom he loved more than any being
in the world.
Chéri-Bibi gave signs of a certain degree of satisfaction.
"You show me at this moment," he said in his gruff voice, which quivered
with an agitation that he strove to control, "you show me that there are
still honest men in the world. Prosperity has not shriveled up your
heart, my dear Dodger."
"I am the happiest man alive now that I see you again, Monsieur le
Marquis."
"Hush!" growled Chéri-Bibi. "Never let that name pass your lips again.
Forget the past, Dodger, as I try to forget it myself. Erase from your
memory those adventures which had their day and from which present
events separate us for ever. At this terrible hour other duties arise. I
have come back to France to defend an innocent man, old chap!"
"Ah, there I recognize Monsieur le Marquis."
"Will you stop worrying me with your 'Monsieur le Marquis'? I would have
you know that I call myself the Bleeder now."
"Good, Monsieur le----"
"Bleeder! They gave me that name at La Villette, where I work in the
slaughter-houses. I am the man whose business it is to cut the throats
of cattle. So they call me the Bleeder. There's an end of it. It's a
name which suits me and I've stuck to it."
"Have you been there long, Monsieur le Bleeder?"
"Please call me Bleeder simply."
"I can't, I can't; I have too much respect for you, Monsieur le
Marquis."
"Oh, you ass! You were always silly like that. Shake hands, my dear old
Dodger. Do you know that you've grown a bit stout!"
"That's not Virginie's fault, for she's continually making scenes."
Chéri-Bibi chuckled.
"And you let her make scenes! Oh, my dear Dodger, that is all that was
wanted. It's clear that you've become a respectable citizen."
They looked into each other's eyes for a moment in silence. They were
seated facing one another, and they held each other's hand, and their
eyes spoke for their hearts in which bloomed the red flower of their
friendship. Thenceforward complete trust returned to them as in the
brave days of their youth, when they were engaged in so many struggles
against an adverse fate, and their minds sped back to the time of their
pleasantest memories. But Chéri-Bibi's life was so ordered that his
pleasantest memories were always enveloped with the tragedy of death.
And those who might have heard the two men thus conjure up with emotion
their delightful past would undoubtedly have fled from them in terror.
"I asked you if you had been long in France, Monsieur le Bleeder."
"The date is no business of yours," Chéri-Bibi returned. "I've been
busy altering my status. I've managed it. Now I am quite easy in my mind
at La Villette, not to mention that I have a coal-dealer's shop in view.
As soon as I had an hour to spare I came to see you. I knew that you
were alone because I had your wife's movements watched. I didn't want
you to have any worries in your household on my account. Do you follow
me, Dodger?"
"You have always been very considerate, Monsieur le Bleeder."
"When Madame Hilaire comes back I shall be warned by a signal from a
fellow on the look-out."
"I see that Monsieur le Bleeder's police can still be relied on."
"So you'll hide me somewhere and I'll slip off when you've gone to bed.
And now, Dodger, let's talk of serious things."
Chéri-Bibi's face became so solemn that Hilaire felt that they were
about to discuss certain things that he had been forbidden to mention,
and of which he had the discretion not to breathe a word.
"Have you had any news during the last five years?" began Chéri-Bibi.
Hilaire broke in at once:
"None during the five years that Madame la Marchioness----"
Chéri-Bibi sprang from his chair with a fierce gesture.
"Who told you to speak of her?" he demanded, choking for breath.
He succeeded in at once mastering his intense excitement. He fell back
into his seat, and passing his hand over his forehead, said in quiet,
gloomy tones with an air of the deepest dejection:
"My dear old Dodger, you must never speak of her or her child. Our lips
are not pure enough for us to dare utter her name; and as to her child,
I fear lest we should bring bad luck upon him. I am dead, actually dead.
You must never forget that. Chéri-Bibi may be alive, but Monsieur le
Marquis is dead. And Chéri-Bibi himself is dead to them so long as they
have no need of him. I know that at the present moment they are abroad
and happy. Her son is growing up by her side, and she is making of him
one of the finest and best of the sons of men. If she wants me later on,
we shall see what we shall see. Meantime, let us sever all connection
with the past. Is that agreed. Dodger?"
"I blush, my dear Monsieur le Bleeder, for having thoughtlessly stirred
up so many painful memories."
"That'll do."
They did not speak again of that mysterious past which we must respect,
as they themselves respected it, till the day when fate in the course of
their extraordinary careers may decree its return. Chéri-Bibi after a
last sigh, went on:
"I merely wanted to ask you if anyone has been here and spoken to you of
me."
"No, not during the last five years."
Chéri-Bibi remained brooding for a while.
"It's just as well. He's forgotten me," he said.
And as Chéri-Bibi's thoughts seemed to have reverted to the other end
of the world, Hilaire, in order to give him the opportunity of coming
back to him, uttered this pithy maxim:
"Ingratitude is met with everywhere and always."
"I don't expect gratitude from anybody, and I owe no gratitude to
anybody," growled Chéri-Bibi. "In this world it's each for himself and
God against us all."
Hilaire did not wince at these terrible words of blasphemy. He had so
often heard his friend "go for" heaven and earth in the most withering
language that he had made up his mind never to allow himself to become
excited over it. Moreover, during the last few moments something
attracted his attention apart from Chéri-Bibi's outburst.
He heard hurried footsteps in the street and some one came to a stand
outside his shop. That some one brushed against the shop-front. The
footsteps were clearly not those of a woman, and thus the person in
question could not be Madame Hilaire.
He was about to get up and see for himself what was coming, when a blow
from a fist was struck on the shutters and the ominous word was once
more flung into echoes of the street: "_Fatalitas!_"
Chéri-Bibi sprang forward.
"It's he," he cried. "I've come in the nick of time. Is Providence this
time on my side?"
He turned to Hilaire, who gazed at him in bewilderment, quite at a loss
as to what was happening either in the house or in the street.
"Open the door and pay every attention to the man who comes in, but
don't mention that I am here."
Having said which Chéri-Bibi retreated to the dining-room.
Hilaire opened the small low door for the second time, but not before
taking from a drawer a revolver which he kept for use in case of
emergency. The Nut darted into the shop. Hilaire closed the door and as
a measure of greater precaution closed also the iron shutter.
He glanced at his strange visitor and at once felt much easier as he saw
before him the face of a scared but entirely honest man.
The new-comer breathed heavily, passing a feverish hand across his brow,
bathed in perspiration.
"Won't you sit down, Monsieur?" said Hilaire, in a tone of extreme
politeness.
The Nut took the proffered chair. He grew more self-possessed. A smile
flickered across Hilaire's face.
"You are quite out of breath. What happened to you, Monsieur?"
"Some ruffians were after me," returned the Nut. "They can't be far
away. If I had not caught sight of the light under your door, and if you
had net been sitting up so late, I don't know what would have become of
me."
He ceased speaking. Furtive steps creeping along the pavement, and even
the exchange of a few words in hushed whispers could be heard some five
paces away from them. And then a great silence fell, but they were not
deceived by it, and Hilaire said in an undertone:
"They're still there."
"Yes, they must have seen me come in. If that's so, they won't go away
in a hurry."
"What do they want with you?"
"I can't tell you that."
"I've been too inquisitive. I apologize. I don't wish to know anything.
I am entirely at your disposal, and ready to help you to the best of my
ability. You said a word when you banged at my door which makes me your
slave."
The Nut turned red.
"Yes, _fatalitas_," he said in a breath.
He paused. They pricked up their ears to the night, which still
maintained its silence. After a while, not without embarrassment, the
Captain went on:
"It's a password which was given to me by a friend of mine who is also,
it seems, your friend."
"Yes, Monsieur," acquiesced Hilaire, with a bow, "a great friend; the
best, the truest of friends, and also the most unfortunate."
"I owe everything to him," said the Captain simply. "He has saved my
life again to-night."
Hilaire bowed again. Neither of them had mentioned the name of
Chéri-Bibi, but they were both thinking of him.
"I will tell you what, in the name of this friend, I ask you to do,"
went on the Nut. "You will be able to say whether it's possible."
"What is it?"
"First I must apologize for not giving you my name, and I shall be
thankful if you will not attempt to discover it."
"When you leave this place I shall forget that you ever came here."
The Nut gave Hilaire his hand.
"My friend was right in telling me that I could count on you. What you
have just said is most considerate, and I shall never forget it."
"He taught me to be considerate," sighed Hilaire. "What can I do for
you?"
"I must get away from here at the earliest moment without being seen."
"They're waiting for you outside," objected Hilaire, indicating by a
movement of his head the street, in which some amount of stir could
still be heard.
"Yes," returned the Captain, "I should like to dodge this street when I
get away. Would that be possible?"
"Possible, but perhaps unwise. Will you stay here for a moment?"
So saying Hilaire left the shop and entered the dining-room, from which
he returned almost at once.
"My proposal is that we should take a stroll on the roofs."
"Where will they lead me?"
"Past the Rue Saint Roch and near the Hotel d'Or . . ."
The officer was already on his feet.
"I'll go with you, Monsieur."
Hilaire opened a door which gave access to a back staircase, and they
soon reached the passage leading to the servants' bedrooms. Hilaire was
carrying a lighted candle. He blew it out.
"We'd better not show a light in the attic we're going into," he
explained, "because it looks out on to the street."
"Is it empty?" asked the Captain.
"No, Monsieur. My wife, who is away this evening, locked our shop-girl
in it before she went out."
Hilaire knocked at the door.
"Who's there?" cried Zoé.
"It's me. Don't trouble. And be sure not to light the candle."
Mademoiselle Zoé as she lay in her bed turned her face to the wall and
thought to herself: "What a madman the governor is! He's going to make
another trip over the rain pipes. One fine day Madame will find him out,
and it's poor Zoé who will suffer."
Suddenly she propped herself up on her elbow.
"But you know very well that you can't come in. Madame has the key."
"I tell you to turn your face to the wall," whispered the voice on the
landing.
And Zoé at once heard Hilaire "rummaging" with the lock. It was not
long in the doing. Zoé herself was quite astonished. She had no idea
that Hilaire possessed such a nice talent in locks.
The door opened and two men entered the room. Turn her face to the wall
as she might, Mademoiselle Zoé none the less found means of satisfying
her curiosity, thanks to a pale moonbeam which pierced the curtain.
Her master was by this time standing at the window, which he opened with
the greatest caution and without the slightest sound. He beckoned to the
man who was with him, and himself led the way on to the roof where the
man followed him.
"There," thought Zoé, "he's got a friend with him to-night. What's the
meaning of it? Who is the man? Where does he come from? Where's he going
to?"
Young Sarah-Zoé had too great a relish for intrigue not to be
interested in the highest degree in the man. She had by now slipped her
little feet out of the bed-clothes when the door was once again opened
and a huge dark form appeared. She gave a cry of fright. But the dark
form had already thrust her back on to the bed.
"Stay where you are, if you value your skin, gypsy. You needn't be
afraid of a Romany."
"Hullo, he's one of us. Seems to know me," she thought, shivering from
head to foot.
She tried to feel reassured, but she was ill at ease. She was very glad
to see him climb on to the roof like the others.
"Good gracious," she thought, "there are plenty of people on the balcony
to-night. What a carnival on the tiles!"
She covered herself with the bed-clothes. Her little face did not pop
out again till half an hour later, when Hilaire came back, and after
closing the window threatened her with dire penalties if she did not
forget what she had seen that night.
Then he quickly went downstairs, for he heard the voice of Madame
Hilaire, who had already come back from her mother.
Next morning as Zoé was helping her master to lay out the goods for
sale in the shop window, she saw an officer stop and approach Hilaire,
and as she had sharp ears she caught the words:
"You acted last night like a man of courage and you saved my life. We
shall meet again, Monsieur."
"Whenever you like," returned Hilaire. "My shop is always open except
after midday on Sundays. Every evening from five to seven I have a
little game of cards in the café round the corner. There's a private
room for a chat. I shall always be glad to be of service to you." And as
a new customer came up to him he added:
"And the next thing, please?"
The officer apparently did not require anything else, for he left the
quarter, without delay, stepped into a taxi, and was driven to the
railway station.