BETWEEN CHARYBDIS AND SCYLLA.
The situation was indeed a terrible one. Bobichel's words were true.
When Fanfar fell as if dead, it was supposed that it was an attack of
apoplexy, and some good people ventured to call it a judgment from
heaven for his crimes. Others again spoke of poison, and arraigned the
governor of the prison for carelessness. There was one physician among
those who were called in who could not agree with the others. He used a
number of scientific expressions, but the fact remained the same--Fanfar
was dead. But there was so much discussion that a post-mortem
examination was deemed essential. The body, therefore, was carried on a
litter to the hospital, where he was examined by a crowd of curious
medical students, who declared that he was so splendidly developed that
he ought to have lived to be a hundred years old.
A messenger was sent to Dr. Albant, and the dissecting table was
prepared.
This time the plan of the heroes of the right had failed. Fanfar was
alive, but he would certainly be killed now, as his torpidity was so
great that he would not utter a cry or a groan until the instruments
touched some vital organ.
The door opened and Dr. Albant, a handsome old man, entered with smiles
and nods. He removed his coat and tied on a large apron. Trying the edge
of his scalpel on his nail, he turned to the students and physicians,
and began to talk of the German method of conducting a post mortem.
"We French, however, begin here," he said, lightly placing his scalpel
on the tender flesh.
"Dr. Albant!" cried a stentorian voice.
The surgeon turned. A messenger in the king's livery stood in the
doorway.
"Gentlemen, excuse me--the king communicates with me!"
A close observer would have thought it singular that the king should
send a letter by an ordinary servant, like a simple bourgeois. But this
did not seem to strike Dr. Albant, who, with a face beaming with smiles,
turned to the students, saying:
"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the king demands my presence."
"But the autopsy?"
"Oh! that may be given up. This man died from cerebral congestion--I see
it as plain as day!"
As he spoke he tore off his apron, and got himself into his coat again
with all possible speed.
"Bury the man at once!" he said as he left the room. A carriage awaited
him at the door, and he drove off.
The royal messenger waited a moment and then he, too, walked away, and
going down a narrow alley he entered a little wineshop by a back door,
and throwing himself on a bench, exclaimed:
"I was just in time, Bobichel. A second later and Fanfar would have been
no more!"
The hospital was now anxious to get rid of this useless body, and orders
were given that it should be buried without delay. Gudel and his friends
had bribed the functionaries.
All went smoothly, and in an hour the hearse was to take Fanfar away.
But before this, a card was brought in to the governor of the hospital.
On this card was the name of the Marquis de Fongereues, and in the
corner of the glossy bit of pasteboard was a tiny sign, which signified
that his visitor was especially recommended by the Society of which he
was a member. He gave orders that the Marquis should be shown in at
once.
Fongereues appeared, leaning on the arm of Pierre Labarre. The Marquis
had suddenly grown old, his strength was gone, and his feet were as
uncertain as those of a drunken man.
The governor rose to receive him. Fongereues tried to speak, but his
voice died in his throat. He handed the governor an order from the
minister, directing that the body of the man named Fanfar should be
surrendered to the Marquis de Fongereues.
Our readers will notice that the promised million had already borne
fruit in the granting of the first request made by the Marquis, who had
laid aside his ambition and thought only of recovering the body of his
son in return for the million.
"Can I see the body?" asked the Marquis.
The governor bowed assent and led him to the room where Fanfar still
lay. Fongereues looked down on the noble features and manly form. How
entirely they differed from those of the son for whom the Marquis had
sacrificed everything. The Marquis knelt in silence for some minutes,
while Labarre shed bitter tears.
"What does the Marquis propose to do?" asked the governor, who did not
understand this scene, and was becoming impatient.
Labarre said, in a low voice, "The men will come up with a bier."
In a few minutes Fanfar's body was carried to the Hotel de Fongereues
and laid by the side of the Vicomte.
Labarre made no attempt to resist this caprice of the Marquis. The old
servant, now that De Fongereues showed such humility and grief, had
become his devoted servant.
The Marquis asked for his wife, and was told that she had left the hotel
alone and on foot.
"Pierre," said the Marquis, "I must say a few words to you. With the
exception of this million I have required at your hands, the fortune
which should have been Simon's must be given to his daughter. Tell her
the whole truth; it is only just. Watch over this girl, proclaim her
right to the name and property of our house. When I am dead do not lay
me in French soil--I am not worthy of France--but place me where I am
unknown and unheard of. You will obey these wishes?"
Labarre answered, solemnly, "I will obey them."
"Very good; we will start to-night for the chateau, and there side by
side we will bury the two sons whom I have murdered."
While Fongereues, crushed under the weight of his remorse, was thus
announcing his last wishes, another scene was taking place in the
hospital. Gudel and Bobichel had applied for Fanfar's body.
"Too late!" answered the concierge. And the two men heard with
consternation that Fanfar had been taken away. And where? No one knew.
Delay was inevitable. Gudel and the former clown went out into the
street and there abandoned themselves to their distress.