I got up at about eight o’clock the next morning. It was foggy and
dark. As I drew aside the hangings of the bed, I noticed that the snow
was drifted on a level with the windows; the sashes were all white. I
began to reflect upon the sad condition of my companions; they must
have suffered with the cold, particularly old Bremer and Bertha, and
the idea filled me with sorrow. As I was reflecting thus, a strange
noise arose outside. It drew near the inn, and I sprang anxiously to
the window to see if some new dangers were threatening. They were
bringing the famous band of robbers to confront Dame Grédel Dick, who
was not yet sufficiently recovered from her fright to venture out of
doors. My poor comrades came down the street between a double file of
police, and followed by a crowd of street urchins, who screamed and
yelled like savages. It seems to me that I can still see that terrible
scene: poor Bremer chained between his sons, Ludwig and Karl, Wilfred
behind them, and Bertha bringing up the rear and crying piteously: “In
the name of Heaven, my masters, have pity on a poor, innocent harpist!
I kill? I steal? O God! can it be?” She wrung her hands distractedly.
The others proceeded with bowed heads, their hair falling over their
faces.
The crowd swarmed into the dark alleyway of the inn. The guards drove
back the rabble, and the door was closed and barred. The eager crowd
remained outside, standing ankle-deep in slush, with their noses
flattened against the panes. A profound silence settled upon the house.
Having by this time got into my clothes, I opened the door part way to
listen, and see if it would be possible to escape from my unpleasant
quarters. I heard the sound of voices and of people moving about on
the lower floors, which convinced me that the passages were strongly
guarded. My door opened on the landing, directly opposite the window
through which the man had fled two nights before. I did not pay any
attention to this circumstance at first, but as I stood there I
suddenly noticed that the window was open, and that there was no snow
on the sill; approaching it, I saw fresh tracks along the wall. I
shuddered. The man must have returned last night; perhaps visited the
inn every night. It was a revelation to me, and at once the mystery
began to clear up.
“Oh! if it were only true,” I said to myself, “that fortune had placed
the murderer’s fate in my hands, my unhappy fellows would be saved!”
And I followed with my eyes the footprints, which led with surprising
distinctness to the opposite roof. At this moment some words fell on
my ear. The door of the dining hall had just been opened to let in
the fresh air, and I heard the following conversation: “Do you recall
having taken part in the murder of Ulmet Elias on the twentieth of this
month?” Some unintelligible words followed, “Close the door, Madoc!”
said the bailiff; “the woman is ill.” I heard no more. As I stood with
my head resting against the balusters, a sudden resolution seized me.
“I can save my comrades!” I exclaimed; “God has pointed out to me the
means, and if I fail to do my duty, their blood will be upon my head.
My self-respect and peace of mind will be forever lost, and I shall
consider myself the most cowardly of wretches.” It took me some time,
however, to summon up resolution enough. Then I went downstairs and
entered the dining-room.
“Did you ever see this watch before?” the bailiff was saying to Dame
Grédel. “Do your best to remember!” Without waiting for her answer,
I stepped forward and replied firmly: “That watch, bailiff? I have
seen it before in the hands of the murderer himself. I recognize it
perfectly, and if you will only listen to me, I will agree to deliver
the man into your hands this very night.” Perfect stillness followed
my bold declaration. The officials stared at each other, dumfounded;
my comrades seemed to cheer up a bit. “I am the companion of these
unfortunate people,” I continued, “and I say it without shame, for
every one of them is honest, even if he is poor, and there is not one
among them capable of committing the crimes imputed to him.”
Again silence followed. Dame Bertha began to weep quietly. At last the
bailiff aroused himself. Looking at me sharply, he said: “Where do
you pretend to deliver the assassin into our hands?” “Right here in
this very house! And to convince you of it, I only ask for a moment’s
private conversation.” “Let us hear what you have to say,” he replied,
rising. He motioned Madoc to follow us; the others remained. We left
the room. I went hastily up the stairs, with the others at my heels.
Pausing at the window on the third floor, I showed them the man’s
footprints in the snow. “Those are the murderer’s tracks!” I said; “he
visits this house every night. Yesterday he came at two in the morning;
last night he returned, and he will undoubtedly be back again this
evening.”
The bailiff and Madoc examined the footprints without a word. “How do
you know that these are the murderer’s tracks?” asked the chief of
police, doubtfully. Thereupon I told him of the man’s appearance in our
loft. I pointed out to them the little window above us through which I
had watched him as he fled in the moonlight, and which Wilfred had not
seen, as he remained in bed. I admitted that it was mere chance that
had led me to the discovery of the tracks made the night before.
“It is strange!” muttered the bailiff; “this greatly modifies the
position of the accused. But how do you explain the presence of the
robber in the cellar?” “That robber was myself.” I now related briefly
everything that had taken place from the time of my comrades’ arrest
until the moment of my flight from the inn. “That will do,” said the
bailiff; and, turning toward the chief of police, he added: “I must
admit, Madoc, that the depositions of these musicians never seemed
to me very conclusive of their guilt; moreover, their passports
established an alibi difficult to controvert. Nevertheless, young man,”
turning to me, “in spite of the plausibility of the proofs you have
given us, you must remain in our power until they are verified. Keep
him in sight, Madoc, and take your measures accordingly.” The bailiff
descended the stairs thoughtfully, and, refolding his papers, he said,
without continuing the examination: “Let the accused be taken back to
the prison!” And with a scornful glance at the landlady, he departed,
followed by the secretary. Madoc alone remained with two officials.
“Madame,” he said to Dame Grédel, “maintain the strictest secrecy
about what has happened, and give this brave young man the same room
he occupied night before last.” Madoc’s look and emphasis admitted of
no reply. Dame Grédel swore she would do whatever was required of her
if she could only be rid of the robbers! Madoc replied: “We shall stay
here all day and to-night to protect you. Go about your work in peace,
and begin by giving us some breakfast. My good fellow, you will give
us the pleasure of dining with us?” My situation did not permit me to
decline. I accepted accordingly, and we soon found ourselves seated
before a leg of ham and a jug of Rhine wine. Other people arrived from
time to time, and endeavored to elicit the confidence of Dame Grédel
and Annette, but they maintained a discreet silence, for which they
deserve no little credit. We spent the afternoon smoking our pipes and
emptying our mugs; no one paid any attention to us.
The chief of police, in spite of his sallow face, piercing glance, pale
lips, and sharp nose, was excellent company after a bottle or two; he
told us some excellent stories, and at every word of his the other two
burst out laughing. I remained gloomy and silent. “Come, my dear young
fellow!” he said to me with a smile, “forget for a little the death of
your respectable grandmother. Take a drop, and put your troublesome
thoughts to flight.”
Others joined in the conversation, and the time passed in the midst of
tobacco smoke, the clinking of glasses, and the ringing of mugs. But
at nine o’clock, after the watchman’s visit, the expression of things
changed. Madoc rose and said: “Well, my friends, let us proceed to
business. Fasten the doors and shutters quietly! You, ladies, may go to
bed!” His two tattered followers looked more like robbers themselves
than like props of law and order. Each drew a club with a knob of lead
attached to one end, from his trousers’ leg, and Madoc tapped his
breast pocket to make sure that his pistol was there. This done, he bid
me lead them to the loft. We climbed the stairs. Having reached the
little room, where thoughtful little Annette had taken care to light a
fire, Madoc, cursing between his teeth, hastened to throw water on the
coals; then motioning to the pile of straw, he said to me: “You may go
to sleep if you like.”
He sat down, together with his two acolytes, at the end of the room
close to the wall, and they put out the light. I lay down on the
straw, breathing a prayer to the Almighty to send hither the assassin.
After midnight the silence became so profound that you would never
have suspected three men were there with wide-open eyes, on the alert
for the slightest sound. The hours wore slowly away. I could not
sleep. A thousand terrible ideas teemed in my brain. One o’clock--two
o’clock--three o’clock struck, and nothing appeared. At three o’clock
one of the officials stirred slightly. I thought the man had come at
last. But again all was still. I began to think that Madoc would take
me for an impostor, as he must be only too ready to do, and that in the
morning things would fare badly with me; thus, instead of helping my
companions, I should only be fettered with them.
The time seemed to me to pass very rapidly after three o’clock. I
wished the night might last forever, that the only ray of hope might
not be gone. I was starting to go over all these thoughts for the
fiftieth time, when, suddenly, without my having heard a sound, the
window opened and two eyes glistened in the opening. Nothing stirred
in the loft. “The others are asleep,” I thought. The head remained
in the opening, listening. The wretch seemed to suspect something.
My heart galloped and the blood coursed through my veins. I dared
not even breathe. A few moments passed thus. Then, suddenly, the man
seemed to make up his mind. He let himself down into the loft with the
same caution as on the preceding night. On the instant a terrible cry,
short, piercing, blood-curdling, resounded through the house. “We’ve
got him!”
The whole house shook from cellar to attic; cries, struggles, and
hoarse shouts, coupled with muttered oaths, filled the loft. The man
roared like a wild beast, and his opponents breathed painfully as they
battled with his terrible strength. Then there was a crash that made
the flooring creak, and I heard nothing more but a gritting of teeth
and a rattle of chains. “A light here!” cried the formidable Madoc. And
as the sulphur burned, illuminating the place with its bluish light, I
vaguely distinguished the forms of the three officials kneeling above
the prostrate man. One of them was holding him by the throat, another
had sunk his knees into his chest, and Madoc encircled his wrists with
handcuffs hard enough to crush them. The man, in his shirt sleeves as
before, seemed inert, save that one of his powerful legs, naked from
the knee to the ankle, raised up from time to time and struck the floor
with a convulsive movement. His eyes were literally starting from
his head, and his lips were covered with a bloody foam. Scarcely had
I lighted the taper when the officials exclaimed, thunderstruck: “Our
Dean!” All three got up and stood staring at each other, white with
astonishment. The bloodshot eyes of the murderer turned on Madoc. He
tried to speak, and after a moment I heard him murmur: “What a terrible
dream! My God, what a terrible dream!” Then he sighed and became
motionless.
I approached to take a look at him. It was indeed the man who had given
us advice on the road to Heidelberg. Perhaps he had had a presentiment
that we would be the means of his destruction, for people do sometimes
have these terrible forebodings. As he did not stir, and a tiny stream
of blood flowed on the dusty floor, Madoc, rousing himself from his
stupor, bent over him and tore away his shirt; we then saw that he had
stabbed himself to the heart with his great knife. “Ho! ho!” cried
Madoc, with a sinister smile, “our Dean has cheated the gallows. You
others stay here while I go and notify the bailiff.” He picked up his
hat, that had fallen off during the mêlée, and left without another
word. I remained opposite the corpse, with the two others.
The news spread like wildfire. It was a sensation for the neighborhood.
Dean Daniel Van den Berg enjoyed a fortune and a reputation so well
established that many people refused to believe in the abominable
instincts which dominated him. The matter was discussed from every
conceivable point of view. Some held that he was a somnambulist and
irresponsible for his acts; others that he was a murderer through love
of blood, having no other possible motive for committing these crimes.
Perhaps both were right, for it is an undeniable fact that moral being,
will, soul, whatever name you choose to call it by, is wanting in the
somnambulist. The animal nature left to itself naturally yields to the
dictates of its pacific or sanguinary instincts. Be that as it may, my
comrades were at once restored to liberty. Little Annette was quoted
for a long time after as a model of devotion. She was even sought in
marriage by the son of the burgomaster Trungott, a romantic youth, who
will one day disgrace his family.
As for me, I lost no time in returning to the Black Forest, where,
since that time I have officiated as leader of the orchestra at the
Sabre Vert Tavern, on the road to Tubingen. If you should ever happen
to pass that way, and my story has interested you, come in and see
me. We will drink a bottle or two together, and I will relate to you
certain details that will make your hair stand on end.
AT THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE
BY ALPHONSE DAUDET
[Illustration]
_Alphonse Daudet, best known among English-speaking people
perhaps as author of the humorous “Tartarin de Tarascon,”
written in 1872, was born at Nîmes, 1840, and died at Paris,
1897. For such novels as “Sapho,” “Sidonie,” “Numa Roumestan,”
etc., he has been called a stern censor, unsparing in his
exposition of, and satire on, the weakness and hypocrisy of
human nature. But that he has a warm, sympathetic side to his
nature, too, is plain enough in the following story, which,
on the whole, is an almost perfect example of Daudet’s art.
Jules Claretie said of him that he was a “winged realist,”
with a lightness and depth of touch that yet never forgot the
realities of life. He was subjective, not objective._
[Illustration]
AT THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE
BY ALPHONSE DAUDET
Translated by Mrs. Dallas Bache.
Copyright, 1898, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
I know not if it be from lack of habit, but I can never enter the
Palais de Justice without an uneasiness, an inexplicable heart pang.
That grating, those great courts, that stone staircase so vast that
every one mounts it in isolation, enveloped in his individual torment.
The antiquity of the structures, the melancholy clock, the height
of the windows, and also the mist of the quay, that moisture that
clings to walls that skirt the water, all give you a foretaste of
the neighboring prison. In the halls the impression is the same, or
more vivid still, because of the peculiar company which peoples them,
because of those long black robes which make the solemn gestures,
because of those who accuse, and the unintelligible records, the
eternal records spread out everywhere on the tables, carried under the
arms in enormous bundles, overflowing--
There are great green doors, noiseless and mysterious, from whence
escape--when they are ajar--gusts of voices severe or weeping, and
visions of school benches, platforms black with caps, and great
crucifixes leaning forward. Muskets ring out on the flags. Sinister
rumblings of carriages pass shaking the arches. All these noises
blended together are like a respiration, the panting breath of a
factory, the apparatus of justice at work. And hearing this terrible
machine at labor, one desires to shrink within himself, to dwindle for
fear of being caught, even by a hair, in this formidable gearing which
one knows to be so complicated, tenacious, destructive--
I was thinking of this the other morning, in going to see an examining
magistrate before whom I had, in behalf of a poor devil, to recommend
a stay of proceedings. The hall of witnesses, where I was waiting,
was full of people, sheriff’s officers, clerks engrossing behind a
glass partition, witnesses whispering to each other in advance of
their depositions, women of the people, impressive and garrulous who
were telling the officers their entire lives in order to arrive at
the affair that had brought them there. Near me, an open door lit
the sombre lobby of the examining magistrate, a lobby which leads
everywhere, even to the scaffold, and from which the prisoners
issue as accused. Some of these unfortunates, brought there under a
strong escort by way of the staircase of la Conciergerie, lay about
on the benches awaiting their turn to be interrogated, and it is in
this ante-chamber of the convict prison that I overheard a lovers’
dialogue, an idyl of the faubourg, as impassioned as “l’Oarystis,” but
more heartbreaking--Yes, in the midst of this shadow, where so many
criminals have left something of their shuddering, of their hopes, and
of their rages, I saw two beings love, and smile; and however lowly
was this love, however faded was this smile, the old lobby must have
been as astonished by it as would a miry and black street of Paris, if
penetrated by the cooing of a turtle-dove.
* * * * *
In a listless attitude, almost unconscious, a young girl was seated at
the end of a bench, quiet as a working woman who waits the price of
her day’s labor. She wore the calico bonnet, and the sad costume of
Saint-Lazare with an air of repose and of well-being, as though the
prison régime were the best thing she had found in all her life. The
guard, who sat beside her, seemed to find her much to his taste, and
they laughed together softly. At the other end of the lobby, wholly
in the shadow, was seated, handcuffs on wrists, the Desgrieux of this
Manon. She had not seen him at first; but as soon as her eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, she perceived him and trembled: “Why,
that’s Pignou--hé! Pignou!”--
The guard silenced her. The prisoners are expressly forbidden to talk
to each other.
“Oh! I beg of you, only one word!” she said, leaning far forward toward
the remotest part of the lobby.
But the soldier remained inflexible. “No--no--it can’t be done--only if
you have some message to give him, tell it to me, I will repeat it to
him.”
Then a dialogue was entered into between this girl and her Pignou, with
the guard as interpreter.
Much moved, without heeding those about her, she began:
“Tell him I have never loved any one but him; that I will never love
another in all my life.”
The guard made a number of steps in the lobby, and redoubling his
gravity as though to take from the proceeding all that was too kindly,
he repeated: “She says she has never loved but you, and that she’ll
never love another.”
I heard a grumbling, a confused stammering which must have been the
response of Pignou, then the guard went back with measured step toward
the bench.
“What did he say?” demanded the child all anxious, and as though
waiting were too long: “Well, tell me what he said now?”
“He said he was very miserable!”--
Then, carried away by her emotion and the custom of the noisy and
communicative streets, she cried out loud:
“Don’t be weary, m’ami--the good days will come again!”
And in this voice, still young, there was something piteous, almost
maternal. Plainly this was the woman of the people with her courage
under affliction and her dog-like devotion.
From the depths of the lobby, a voice replied, the voice of Pignou,
wine-soaked, torn, burned with alcohol:
“Va donc! the good days--I’ll have them at the end of my five years.”