and immediately set off at the top of my speed to a branch "Prefecture"
of Police, which I knew was situated in the immediate neighbourhood. A
"Sub-prefect," and several picked men among his subordinates, happened
to be up, maturing, I believe, some scheme for discovering the
perpetrator of a mysterious murder which all Paris was talking of just
then. When I began my story, in a breathless hurry and in very bad
French, I could see that the Sub-prefect suspected me of being a drunken
Englishman who had robbed somebody; but he soon altered his opinion as I
went on, and before I had anything like concluded, he shoved all the
papers before him into a drawer, put on his hat, supplied me with
another (for I was bareheaded), ordered a file of soldiers, desired his
expert followers to get ready all sorts of tools for breaking open doors
and ripping up brick flooring, and took my arm, in the most friendly and
familiar manner possible, to lead me with him out of the house. I will
venture to say that when the Sub-prefect was a little boy, and was taken
for the first time to the play, he was not half as much pleased as he
was now at the job in prospect for him at the gambling-house!
Away we went through the streets, the Sub-prefect cross-examining and
congratulating me in the same breath as we marched at the head of our
formidable _posse comitatus_. Sentinels were placed at the back and
front of the house the moment we got to it, a tremendous battery of
knocks was directed against the door; a light appeared at a window; I
was told to conceal myself behind the police--then came more knocks, and
a cry of "Open in the name of the law!" At that terrible summons bolts
and locks gave way before an invisible hand, and the moment after the
Sub-prefect was in the passage, confronting a waiter half dressed and
ghastly pale. This was the short dialogue which immediately took place:
"We want to see the Englishman who is sleeping in this house."
"He went away hours ago."
"He did no such thing. His friend went away; _he_ remained. Show us to
his bedroom!"
"I swear to you, Monsieur le Sous-prefect, he is not here! he--"
"I swear to you, Monsieur le Garcon, he is. He slept here--he didn't
find your bed comfortable--he came to us to complain of it--here he is
among my men--and here am I ready to look for a flea or two in his
bedstead. Renaudin! (calling to one of the subordinates, and pointing to
the waiter), collar that man, and tie his hands behind him. Now, then,
gentlemen, let us walk upstairs!"
Every man and woman in the house was secured--the "Old Soldier" the
first. Then I identified the bed in which I had slept, and then we went
into the room above.
No object that was at all extraordinary appeared in any part of it. The
Sub-prefect looked round the place, commanded everybody to be silent,
stamped twice on the floor, called for a candle, looked attentively at
the spot he had stamped on, and ordered the flooring there to be
carefully taken up. This was done in no time. Lights were produced, and
we saw a deep raftered cavity between the floor of this room and the
ceiling of the room beneath. Through this cavity there ran
perpendicularly a sort of case of iron thickly greased; and inside the
case appeared the screw, which communicated with the bed-top below.
Extra lengths of screw, freshly oiled; levers covered with felt; all the
complete upper works of a heavy press--constructed with infernal
ingenuity so as to join the fixtures below, and when taken to pieces
again to go into the smallest possible compass--were next discovered and
pulled out on the floor. After some little difficulty the Sub-prefect
succeeded in putting the machinery together, and, leaving his men to
work it, descended with me to the bedroom. The smothering canopy was
then lowered, but not so noiselessly as I had seen it lowered. When I
mentioned this to the Sub-prefect, his answer, simple as it was, had a
terrible significance. "My men," said he, "are working down the bed-top
for the first time--the men whose money you won were in better
practise."
We left the house in the sole possession of two police agents--every one
of the inmates being removed to prison on the spot. The Sub-prefect,
after taking down my "proces verbal" in his office, returned with me to
my hotel to get my passport. "Do you think," I asked, as I gave it to
him, "that any men have really been smothered in that bed, as they tried
to smother _me_?"
"I have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the Morgue," answered the
Sub-prefect, "in whose pocketbooks were found letters stating that they
had committed suicide in the Seine, because they had lost everything at
the gaming-table. Do I know how many of those men entered the same
gambling-house that _you_ entered? won as _you_ won? took that bed as
_you_ took it? slept in it? were smothered in it? and were privately
thrown into the river, with a letter of explanation written by the
murderers and placed in their pocketbooks? No man can say how many or
how few have suffered the fate from which you have escaped. The people
of the gambling house kept their bedstead machinery a secret from
us--even from the police! The dead kept the rest of the secret for them.
Good-night, or rather good-morning, Monsieur Faulkner! Be at my office
again at nine o'clock--in the meantime, au revoir!"
The rest of my story is soon told. I was examined and reexamined; the
gambling-house was strictly searched all through from top to bottom; the
prisoners were separately interrogated; and two of the less guilty among
them made a confession. I discovered that the Old Soldier was the master
of the gambling-house--_justice_ discovered that he had been drummed out
of the army as a vagabond years ago; that he had been guilty of all
sorts of villainies since; that he was in possession of stolen property,
which the owners identified; and that he, the croupier, another
accomplice, and the woman who had made my cup of coffee, were all in the
secret of the bedstead. There appeared some reason to doubt whether the
inferior persons attached to the house knew anything of the suffocating
machinery; and they received the benefit of that doubt, by being treated
simply as thieves and vagabonds. As for the Old Soldier and his two head
myrmidons, they went to the galleys; the woman who had drugged my coffee
was imprisoned for I forget how many years; the regular attendants at
the gambling-house were considered "suspicious," and placed under
"surveillance"; and I became, for one whole week (which is a long time),
the head "lion" in Parisian society. My adventure was dramatized by
three illustrious play-makers, but never saw theatrical daylight; for
the censorship forbade the introduction on the stage of a correct copy
of the gambling-house bedstead.
One good result was produced by my adventure, which any censorship must
have approved: it cured me of ever again trying "Rouge et Noir" as an
amusement. The sight of a green cloth, with packs of cards and heaps of
money on it, will henceforth be forever associated in my mind with the
sight of a bed canopy descending to suffocate me in the silence and
darkness of the night.
THE TORTURE BY HOPE
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE ADAM
Many years ago, as evening was closing in, the venerable Pedro Arbuez
d'Espila, sixth prior of the Dominicans of Segovia, and third Grand
Inquisitor of Spain, followed by a _fra redemptor_, and preceded by two
familiars of the Holy Office, the latter carrying lanterns, made their
way to a subterranean dungeon. The bolt of a massive door creaked, and
they entered a mephitic _in-pace_, where the dim light revealed between
rings fastened to the wall a blood-stained rack, a brazier, and a jug.
On a pile of straw, loaded with fetters and his neck encircled by an
iron carcan, sat a haggard man, of uncertain age, clothed in rags.
This prisoner was no other than Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, a Jew of Arragon,
who--accused of usury and pitiless scorn for the poor--had been daily
subjected to torture for more than a year. Yet "his blindness was as
dense as his hide," and he had refused to abjure his faith.
Proud of a filiation dating back thousands of years, proud of his
ancestors--for all Jews worthy of the name are vain of their blood--he
descended Talmudically from Othoniel and consequently from Ipsiboa, the
wife of the last judge of Israel, a circumstance which had sustained his
courage amid incessant torture. With tears in his eyes at the thought of
this resolute soul rejecting salvation, the venerable Pedro Arbuez
d'Espila, approaching the shuddering rabbi, addressed him as follows:
"My son, rejoice: your trials here below are about to end. If in the
presence of such obstinacy I was forced to permit, with deep regret, the
use of great severity, my task of fraternal correction has its limits.
You are the fig tree which, having failed so many times to bear fruit,
at last withered, but God alone can judge your soul. Perhaps Infinite
Mercy will shine upon you at the last moment! We must hope so. There are
examples. So sleep in peace to-night. To-morrow you will be included in
the _auto da fe_: that is, you will be exposed to the _quema-dero_, the
symbolical flames of the Everlasting Fire: It burns, as you know, only
at a distance, my son; and Death is at least two hours (often three) in
coming, on account of the wet, iced bandages, with which we protect the
heads and hearts of the condemned. There will be forty-three of you.
Placed in the last row, you will have time to invoke God and offer to
Him this baptism of fire, which is of the Holy Spirit. Hope in the
Light, and rest."
With these words, having signed to his companions to unchain the
prisoner, the prior tenderly embraced him. Then came the turn of the
_fra redemptor_, who, in a low tone, entreated the Jew's forgiveness for
what he had made him suffer for the purpose of redeeming him; then the
two familiars silently kissed him. This ceremony over, the captive was
left, solitary and bewildered, in the darkness.
* * * * *
Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, with parched lips and visage worn by suffering, at
first gazed at the closed door with vacant eyes. Closed? The word
unconsciously roused a vague fancy in his mind, the fancy that he had
seen for an instant the light of the lanterns through a chink between
the door and the wall. A morbid idea of hope, due to the weakness of his
brain, stirred his whole being. He dragged himself toward the strange
_appearance_. Then, very gently and cautiously, slipping one finger into
the crevice, he drew the door toward him. Marvellous! By an
extraordinary accident the familiar who closed it had turned the huge
key an instant before it struck the stone casing, so that the rusty bolt
not having entered the hole, the door again rolled on its hinges.
The rabbi ventured to glance outside. By the aid of a sort of luminous
dusk he distinguished at first a semicircle of walls indented by winding
stairs; and opposite to him, at the top of five or six stone steps, a
sort of black portal, opening into an immense corridor, whose first
arches only were visible from below.
Stretching himself flat he crept to the threshold. Yes, it was really a
corridor, but endless in length. A wan light illumined it: lamps
suspended from the vaulted ceiling lightened at intervals the dull hue
of the atmosphere--the distance was veiled in shadow. Not a single door
appeared in the whole extent! Only on one side, the left, heavily grated
loopholes sunk in the walls, admitted a light which must be that of
evening, for crimson bars at intervals rested on the flags of the
pavement. What a terrible silence! Yet, yonder, at the far end of that
passage there might be a doorway of escape! The Jew's vacillating hope
was tenacious, for it was _the last_.
Without hesitating, he ventured on the flags, keeping close under the
loopholes, trying to make himself part of the blackness of the long
walls. He advanced slowly, dragging himself along on his breast, forcing
back the cry of pain when some raw wound sent a keen pang through his
whole body.
Suddenly the sound of a sandaled foot approaching reached his ears. He
trembled violently, fear stifled him, his sight grew dim. Well, it was
over, no doubt. He pressed himself into a niche and half lifeless with
terror, waited.
It was a familiar hurrying along. He passed swiftly by, holding in his
clenched hand an instrument of torture--a frightful figure--and
vanished. The suspense which the rabbi had endured seemed to have
suspended the functions of life, and he lay nearly an hour unable to
move. Fearing an increase of tortures if he were captured, he thought of
returning to his dungeon. But the old hope whispered in his soul that
divine _perhaps_, which comforts us in our sorest trials. A miracle had
happened. He could doubt no longer. He began to crawl toward the chance
of escape. Exhausted by suffering and hunger, trembling with pain, he
pressed onward. The sepulchral corridor seemed to lengthen mysteriously,
while he, still advancing, gazed into the gloom where there _must_ be
some avenue of escape.
Oh! oh! He again heard footsteps, but this time they were slower, more
heavy. The white and black forms of two inquisitors appeared, emerging
from the obscurity beyond. They were conversing in low tones, and seemed
to be discussing some important subject, for they were gesticulating
vehemently.
At this spectacle Rabbi Aser Abarbanel closed his eyes: his heart beat
so violently that it almost suffocated him; his rags were damp with the
cold sweat of agony; he lay motionless by the wall, his mouth wide open,
under the rays of a lamp, praying to the God of David.
Just opposite to him the two inquisitors paused under the light of the
lamp--doubtless owing to some accident due to the course of their
argument. One, while listening to his companion, gazed at the rabbi!
And, beneath the look--whose absence of expression the hapless man did
not at first notice--he fancied he again felt the burning pincers scorch
his flesh, he was to be once more a living wound. Fainting, breathless,
with fluttering eyelids, he shivered at the touch of the monk's floating
robe. But--strange yet natural fact--the inquisitor's gaze was evidently
that of a man deeply absorbed in his intended reply, engrossed by what
he was hearing; his eyes were fixed--and seemed to look at the Jew
_without seeing him_.
In fact, after the lapse of a few minutes, the two gloomy figures slowly
pursued their way, still conversing in low tones, toward the place
whence the prisoner had come; HE HAD NOT BEEN SEEN! Amid the horrible
confusion of the rabbi's thoughts, the idea darted through his brain:
"Can I be already dead that they did not see me?" A hideous impression
roused him from his lethargy: in looking at the wall against which his
face was pressed, he imagined he beheld two fierce eyes watching him! He
flung his head back in a sudden frenzy of fright, his hair fairly
bristling! Yet, no! No. His hand groped over the stones: it was the
_reflection_ of the inquisitor's eyes, still retained in his own, which
had been refracted from two spots on the wall.
Forward! He must hasten toward that goal which he fancied (absurdly, no
doubt) to be deliverance, toward the darkness from which he was now
barely thirty paces distant. He pressed forward faster on his knees, his
hands, at full length, dragging himself painfully along, and soon
entered the dark portion of this terrible corridor.
Suddenly the poor wretch felt a gust of cold air on the hands resting
upon the flags; it came from under the little door to which the two
walls led.
Oh, Heaven, if that door should open outward. Every nerve in the
miserable fugitive's body thrilled with hope. He examined it from top to
bottom, though scarcely able to distinguish its outlines in the
surrounding darkness. He passed his hand over it: no bolt, no lock! A
latch! He started up, the latch yielded to the pressure of his thumb:
the door silently swung open before him.
* * * * *
"Halleluia!" murmured the rabbi in a transport of gratitude as, standing
on the threshold, he beheld the scene before him.
The door had opened into the gardens, above which arched a starlit sky,
into spring, liberty, life! It revealed the neighbouring fields,
stretching toward the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines were relieved
against the horizon. Yonder lay freedom! O, to escape! He would journey
all night through the lemon groves, whose fragrance reached him. Once in
the mountains and he was safe! He inhaled the delicious air; the breeze
revived him, his lungs expanded! He felt in his swelling heart the _Veni
foras_ of Lazarus! And to thank once more the God who had bestowed this
mercy upon him, he extended his arms, raising his eyes toward Heaven. It
was an ecstasy of joy!
Then he fancied he saw the shadow of his arms approach him--fancied that
he felt these shadowy arms inclose, embrace him--and that he was pressed
tenderly to some one's breast. A tall figure actually did stand directly
before him. He lowered his eyes--and remained motionless, gasping for
breath, dazed, with fixed eyes, fairly drivelling with terror.
Horror! He was in the clasp of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the
venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila who gazed at him with tearful eyes, like
a good shepherd who had found his stray lamb.
The dark-robed priest pressed the hapless Jew to his heart with so
fervent an outburst of love, that the edges of the monochal haircloth
rubbed the Dominican's breast. And while Aser Abarbanel with protruding
eyes gasped in agony in the ascetic's embrace, vaguely comprehending
that all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged
torture, that of HOPE, the Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching
reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath
parched and burning from long fasting:
"What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation--you wished to leave
us?"
THE BOX WITH THE IRON CLAMPS
FLORENCE MARRYAT
I
Molton Chase is a charming, old-fashioned country house, which has been
in the possession of the Clayton family for centuries past; and as Harry
Clayton, its present owner, has plenty of money, and (having tasted the
pleasures of matrimony for only five years) has no knowledge (as yet) of
the delights of college and school bills coming in at Christmas-time, it
is his will to fill the Chase at that season with guests, to each of
whom he extends a welcome, as hearty as it is sincere.
"Bella! are you not going to join the riding-party this afternoon?" he
said across the luncheon-table to his wife, one day in a December not
long ago.
"Bella" was a dimpled little woman, whose artless expression of
countenance would well bear comparison with the honest, genial face
opposite to her, and who replied at once--
"No! not this afternoon, Harry, dear. You know the Damers may come at
any time between this and seven o'clock, and I should not like to be out
when they arrive."
"And may I ask Mrs. Clayton who _are_ the Damers," inquired a friend of
her husband, who, on account of being handsome, considered himself
licensed to be pert--"that their advent should be the cause of our
losing the pleasure of your company this afternoon?"
But the last thing Bella Clayton ever did was to take offence.
"The Damers are my cousins, Captain Moss," she replied; "at least
Blanche Damer is."
At this juncture a dark-eyed man who was sitting at the other end of the
table dropped the flirting converse he had been maintaining with a
younger sister of Mrs. Clayton's, and appeared to become interested in
what his hostess was saying.
"Colonel Damer," he continued, "has been in India for the last twelve
years, and only returned to England a month ago; therefore it would seem
unkind on the first visit he has paid to his relatives that there should
be no one at home to welcome him."
"Has Mrs. Damer been abroad for as long a time?" resumed her questioner,
a vision arising on his mental faculties of a lemon-coloured woman with
shoes down at heel.
"Oh dear no!" replied his hostess. "Blanche came to England about five
years ago, but her health has been too delicate to rejoin her husband in
India since. Have we all finished, Harry, dear?"--and in another minute
the luncheon-table was cleared.
As Mrs. Clayton crossed the hall soon afterwards to visit her nursery,
the same dark-eyed man who had regarded her fixedly when she mentioned
the name of Blanche Damer followed and accosted her.
"Is it long since you have seen your cousin Mrs. Damer, Mrs. Clayton?"
"I saw her about three years ago, Mr. Laurence; but she had a severe
illness soon after that, and has been living on the Continent ever
since. Why do you ask?"
"For no especial reason," he answered smiling. "Perhaps I am a little
jealous lest this new-comer to whose arrival you look forward with so
much interest should usurp more of your time and attention than we
less-favoured ones can spare."
He spoke with a degree of sarcasm, real or feigned, which Mrs. Clayton
immediately resented.
"I am not aware that I have been in the habit of neglecting my guests,
Mr. Laurence," she replied; "but my cousin Blanche is more likely to
remind me of my duties than to tempt me to forget them."
"Forgive me," he said, earnestly. "You have mistaken my meaning
altogether. But are you very intimate with this lady?"
"Very much so," was the answer. "We were brought up together, and loved
each other as sisters until she married and went to India. For some
years after her return home our intercourse was renewed, and only
broken, on the occasion of her being ill and going abroad, as I have
described to you. Her husband, I have, of course, seen less of, but I
like what I know of him, and am anxious to show them both all the
hospitality in my power. She is a charming creature, and I am sure you
will admire her."
"Doubtless I shall," he replied; "that is if she does not lay claim to
all Mrs. Clayton's interest in the affairs of Molton Chase."
"No fear of that," laughed the cheery little lady as she ascended the
stairs, and left Mr. Laurence standing in the hall beneath.
"Clayton," observed that gentleman, as he re-entered the luncheon-room
and drew his host into the privacy of a bay-window, "I really am afraid
I shall have to leave you this evening--if you won't think it rude of me
to go so suddenly."
"But _why_, my dear fellow?" exclaimed Harry Clayton, as his blue eyes
searched into the other's soul. "What earthly reason can you have for
going, when your fixed plan was to stay with us over Christmas Day?"
"Well! there is lots of work waiting for me to do, you know; and really
the time slips away so, and time is money to a slave like
myself--that--"
"Now, my dear Laurence," said Harry Clayton conclusively, "you know you
are only making excuses. All the work that was absolutely necessary for
you to do before Christmas was finished before you came here, and you
said you felt yourself licensed to take a whole month's holiday. Now,
was not that the case?"
Mr. Laurence could not deny the fact, and so he looked undecided, and
was silent.
"Don't let me hear any more about your going before Christmas Day," said
his host, "or I shall be offended, and so will Bella; to say nothing of
Bella's sister--eh, Laurence!"
Whereupon Mr. Laurence felt himself bound to remain; and saying in his
own mind that fate was against him, dropped the subject of his departure
altogether.
One hour later, the riding party being then some miles from Molton
Chase, a travelling carriage laden with trunks drove up to the house,
and Mrs. Clayton, all blushes and smiles, stood on the hall-steps to
welcome her expected guests.
Colonel Damer was the first to alight. He was a middle-aged man, but
with a fine soldierly bearing, which took off from his years; and he was
so eager to see to the safe exit of his wife from the carriage-door that
he had not time to do more than take off his hat to blooming Bella on
the steps.
"Now, my love," he exclaimed as the lady's form appeared, "pray take
care; two steps: that's right--here you are, safe."
And then Mrs. Damer, being securely landed, was permitted to fly into
the cousinly arms which were opened to receive her.
"My dear Bella!"
"My dearest Blanche--I am so delighted to see you again. Why, you are
positively frozen! Pray come in at once to the fire. Colonel Damer, my
servants will see to the luggage--do leave it to them, and come and warm
yourselves."
A couple of men-servants now came forward and offered to see to the
unloading of the carriage--but Mrs. Damer did not move.
"Will you not go in, my love, as your cousin proposes?" said her
husband. "I can see to the boxes if you should wish me to do so."
"No, thank you," was the low reply; and there was such a ring of
melancholy in the voice of Mrs. Damer that a stranger would have been
attracted by it. "I prefer waiting until the carriage is unpacked."
"Never mind the luggage, Blanche," whispered Mrs. Clayton, in her
coaxing manner. "Come in to the fire, dear--I have so much to tell you."
"Wait a minute, Bella," said her cousin; and the entreaty was so firm
that it met with no further opposition.