The Shadow Again
"Qui ne craint pas la mort craint donc la vie."
As I sat in my study, the sounds of the house gradually ceased, and
the quiet of night settled down between its ancient walls. It seemed
to me at times that the Vicomte was moving in his own room. I knew,
however, that the passage between us was locked on both sides. My old
patron had said nothing to me on the subject, but I had found the door
bolted and the key removed. I never was the man to intrude upon
another's privacy, and respected the Vicomte's somewhat
incomprehensible humour at this time.
I scarcely knew at what hour I at last went to bed; but the oil in my
lamp was nearly exhausted and the candles had burnt low. Taking up one
of these, I went to my bedroom, pausing at the head of the black
staircase to listen as one instinctively does in a great silence. The
household was asleep. A faint patter broke the stillness; Lucille's
dog--a small white shadow in the gloom--came towards me from her
bedroom, outside of which he slept. He looked up at me with a
restrained jerk of the tail, for we were always friends, and his
expression said:
"Anything wrong?"
He glanced back over his shoulder to Lucille's door, as if to intimate
that his own charge was, at all events, safe; then he passed me, and
pressed his inquiring nose to the threshold of the Vicomte's study
door. He was a singular little dog, with a deep sense of
responsibility, which he only laid aside in Lucille's presence. In
which he resembled his betters. Men are usually at ease of mind in the
presence of one woman only. At night I often heard him blowing the
dust from his nostrils at the threshold of my door, whither he came to
satisfy himself that I was in my room and all well in the house before
he sought his own mat.
When I went softly to my bedroom he was still sniffing at the study
door.
I must have slept a couple of hours only when my door handle was
quietly turned, and, being a light sleeper, I became aware of a
presence in the room before a touch was laid upon my shoulder. It was
Madame de Clericy.
"Where is my husband?" she asked, and added: "I thought he was sitting
up with you."
"No; I have been alone all the evening," answered I, with a quick
feeling of uneasiness.
"I do not think that he is in the house at all," said Madame, moving
towards the door. "Will you get up and dress? You will find me in the
morning-room."
Lighting my candle, this woman of few words left me. The dawn was
creeping up over the opposite roof and through the open window; the
freshness of the March air made me shiver as I hurried into my
clothes. In the morning-room I found Madame de Clericy.
"Mother," Lucille had once said to me, "always rises to the occasion,
but the process is not visible."
"Come quietly," said Madame, speaking, as indeed was her habit in
regard to myself, with a certain kindness and sympathy--"come quietly;
for Lucille is asleep. I have been to see."
She took it for granted that she and I should consider Lucille before
all else, and the assumption gave me pleasure. Although she said
"Come," she stood aside and allowed me to lead the way. We naturally
went first to the study. The door was locked. At the entrance from my
own room we were again met by bars.
"Can you break it open?" asked Madame.
"Not without noise. Let us make sure that he is not elsewhere in the
house first."
Together we went up and down the old dwelling, and I traversed many
corridors and chambers for the first time. We found nothing. It was
beginning to get light when we returned to my study.
"Shall I break open the door?" I asked, when I had unbarred the
shutters.
"Yes," answered Madame.
The door was a solid one of walnut, and not to be broken open by mere
pressure. While I was moving some of the chairs in order to give
myself a run, Lucille came into the room. She had hurried on a
dressing-gown and her hair was all down her back, but she was much too
simple-minded to think that such things mattered at such a moment.
"What is it?" she cried. "What _are_ you doing?"
Madame explained, and the two stood hand in hand while I made ready to
burst in upon the mystery that lay behind that closed door.
I took a run, and brought my shoulder to bear just above the lock,
wrenching the four screws out of the wood by the force of the blow. I
staggered into the dark passage beyond, with a sore shoulder and my
heart in my mouth. Madame and Lucille followed. I tried the handle of
the door leading from the passage to the Vicomte's study. The key had
not been turned.
"I will go in alone," I said, laying a hand on Madame's arm, who gave
me a candle and made no attempt to follow me.
[Illustration: MADAME EXPLAINED, AND THE TWO STOOD HAND IN HAND WHILE
I MADE READY TO BURST IN UPON THE MYSTERY THAT LAY BEHIND THAT CLOSED
DOOR.]
After all, the precaution was unnecessary, for the room was empty.
"You may come," I said; and the ladies stood in the dimly lighted
chamber. None of us had entered there since the Baron Giraud had come
to occupy it in his coffin. The dust was thick on the writing-table.
Some flowers, broken from the complimentary wreaths, lay on the floor.
The air was heavy. I kicked the withered lilies towards the fireplace,
and looked carefully round the room. The furniture was all in order.
Madame went to the window and threw it open. A river steamer, moving
cautiously in the dawning light, cast its booming note over the
housetops towards us. The frog in the fountain--a family friend--was
croaking comfortably in the courtyard below us.
"Lucille, my child," said Madame, quietly, "go back to bed. Your
father is not in the house. It will explain itself to-morrow."
But the face that Madame turned towards me, when her daughter had
reluctantly left us, was not one that looked for a pleasant solution
to the mystery. It is said that wherever a man may be cast he makes a
little world around him. But it seemed rather that for me a world of
hope and fear and interest and suspense was forming itself, despite
me, encompassing me about so that I could not escape it.
"I will go out," I said to Madame, and left her abruptly. I had no
plan or intention--for where could I seek the Vicomte at that
hour--but a great desire came over me to get away from this gloomy
house, where trouble seemed to move and live.
The streets were empty. I walked slowly to the _quai_, and then,
turning to the left, approached the palace of the D'Orsays, which
stood then, though to-day, in a fine irony, the broken walls alone
remain, amid the new glory of republican Paris. I knew I was going in
the wrong direction, and at length, with a queer feeling of shame,
turned and crossed to the Isle St. Louis.
Of course, the Vicomte had not done away with himself! The idea was
absurd. Aged men do not lay violent hands upon themselves. It was
different for Pawle, a friend of mine, who had shot himself as he
descended the club stairs, a ruined man. Nevertheless, I walked
instinctively towards the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and past that
building to the little square house--like a roadside railway
station--where Paris keeps her nameless dead.
Half guiltily I went in at one door and out by the other. Two men lay
on the slates--the lowest of the low--and even the sanctifying hand of
death could not allay the conviction that the world must necessarily
be the richer for their removal from it. I came away and walked
towards the river again. Standing on one of the bridges, I never knew
which, I looked down at the slow green water. As I stood a municipal
guard passed me with a suspicious glance. The clocks of the city
struck six in a solemn jangle of tones. The boats were moving on the
river--the great unwieldy barges as big as a ship. The streets were
now astir. Paris seemed huge and as populous as an ant-hill. I felt
the hopelessness of seeking unaided one who purposely hid himself in
its streets.
I went back to the Morgue and made some inquiries of the attendant
there. Nay, I did more--for why should a man be coward enough to shut
his eyes to patent fact?--I gave my name and address to the courteous
official and asked him to send for me should any news come his way. It
was plain enough that the Vicomte de Clericy had of late been in such
a state of mind that the worst fears must needs be kept in view.
I went back to the Faubourg St. Germain and crept quietly into the
house of my patron by the side door, of which he himself had given me
the key. Despite my noiseless tread, Madame was waiting for me at the
head of the stairs.
"Nothing?" she asked.
"Nothing," replied I, and avoided her persistent eyes. To share an
unspoken fear is akin to the knowledge of a common crime.
At nine o'clock I sought John Turner in his apartment in the Avenue
D'Antan, almost within a stone's throw of the British Embassy. There
are some to whom one naturally turns in time of trouble and
perplexity, while the existence of others who are equally important in
their own estimation is at such moments forgotten. Our fellows seem to
move around us in a circle--some step out of the rank and touch us as
they pass--one, if it please God, comes out and stands beside us. John
Turner had, I suppose, touched me in passing. He was at breakfast when
I was shown into his presence.
"You are looking fresh and well," he said, in his abrupt way, "so I
suppose you are engaged in some mischief."
"Not exactly. But what I began in play is continuing in earnest."
"Yes," he said, looking at me with his easy smile while he dropped a
piece of sugar into his coffee-cup. "Yes; young men are fond of
walking into streams without ascertaining the depth on the farther
side."
"I suppose you were young yourself once?" retorted I, bringing forward
a chair.
"Yes--but I was always fat. Women always laughed at me behind my back.
And, with a woman half the fun is to let you know her intention as
she passes. I returned the compliment in my sleeve."
"I do not see what women have to do in this matter," said I.
"No--but I do. How is Mademoiselle this morning? Sit down; have a cup
of coffee, and tell me all about her."
I sat down, and related to him the events of the past night. Turner's
face was grave enough when I had finished, and I saw him note with
some surprise that he had allowed his coffee to get cold.
"I don't like the sound of it," he said. "One never knows with a
Frenchman--he is never too old to talk of his mother, or make an ass
of himself."
The English banker was of the greatest assistance to me during that
most anxious day. But we found no clew, nor discovered any reason for
the Vicomte's disappearance. I went back in the evening to the Hôtel
Clericy, and there found Madame de Clericy and Lucille awaiting me,
with that calmness which is admirable when there is nothing else but
waiting to be done.
It was at eight o'clock in the evening that the explanation came, from
a source as natural as it was unexpected. A letter was delivered by
the postman for Madame de Clericy, who at once recognized her
husband's unsteady handwriting. She crossed the room, and stood
beside me while she opened the envelope. Lucille, seeing the action,
frowned, as I thought. I was still under displeasure--still learning
that the better sort of woman will not forgive deception so long as
she herself is its motive, as cheap cynics would have us believe.
Madame read the letter with that self-repression which was habitual to
her, and made me ever wonder what her youth had been. Lucille and I
watched her in silence.
"There," she said, and gave me the letter to pass to Lucille, who
received it from my hand without taking her eyes from her mother's
face. Then I quitted the room, leaving the two women alone. Madame
followed me presently to the study, and there gave me the Vicomte's
last letter to read. It was short and breathed of affection.
"Do not seek for me," it ran. "I cannot bear my great misfortunes, and
the world will, perhaps, be less cruel to two women who have no
protector."
Madame handed me the envelope, which bore the Passy postmark, and I
read her thoughts easily enough.
I saw John Turner again that evening, also Alphonse Giraud, who had
called at the Hôtel Clericy during the day. With these gentlemen I set
off the next morning for Passy, taking passage in one of those little
river steamers which we had all seen a thousand times, without
thinking of a nearer acquaintance.
"This is gay," cried Alphonse, on whom the sunshine had always an
enlivening effect, as we sped along. "This is what you call
sport--_n'est ce pas_? For you are a maritime race, is it not so,
Howard?"
"Yes," answered I, "we are a maritime race."
"And figure to yourself this is the first time that I am afloat on
anything larger than a ferry-boat."
During our short trip Alphonse fully decided that if his fortune
should be recovered he would buy a yacht.
"Do you think you can recover it?" he asked quite wistfully, his mind
full of this new scheme, and oblivious to the mournful object of our
journey.
At Passy we were received with shrugging shoulders and outspread
hands.
No, such an old gentleman had not been seen--but the river was large
and deep. If one wanted--mon Dieu!--one could do such a thing easily
enough. To drag the river--yes--but that cost money. Ten francs a day
for each man. It was hard work out there in the stream. And if one
found something--name of a dog--it turned on the stomach.
We arranged that two men should drag the river, and, after a weary
day, went back to Paris no wiser than we came.
In this suspense a week passed, while I, unwilling to touch my
patron's papers until we had certain news of his death, could render
little assistance to Madame de Clericy and Lucille. That the latter
resented anything in the nature of advice or suggestion was soon made
clear enough to me. Nay! she left no doubt of her distrust, and showed
this feeling whenever we exchanged words.
"It is a small thing upon which to condemn a man, Mademoiselle," I
said to her one morning when chance left us together. "I told you what
I thought to be the truth. Fate ruled that I was after all a poor
man--but I have not been proved a liar."
"I do not understand you," she answered, with hard eyes. "You are such
a strange mixture of good and bad."
An hour afterwards I received a telegram advising me that the body of
the Vicomte de Clericy had been found in the river at Passy.