Paris Again
"Le courage commence l'oeuvre et ... "
The same afternoon John Turner and I quitted Hopton. I with a heavy
enough heart, which, _d'ailleurs_, I always carried when leaving
Lucille. There was, however, work to be done, and a need for instant
action is one of the surest antidotes to sad thought. I was engaged,
moreover, in affairs intimately concerning Lucille. A man, it appears,
whose heart is taken from him, is best employed in doing something for
the woman who has it. No other occupation will fully satisfy him.
We journeyed to London, and there took the night train to Paris,
crossing the Channel in a boat crowded with Frenchmen, who had
contented themselves with deploring their country's evil day from
across seas. As we drove through the streets of Paris in the early
morning, John Turner sat looking out of the window of a cab. Never,
surely, has a city been so wasted and destroyed.
"The d----d fools; the d----d fools!" my companion muttered under his
breath. And I believe the charred walls of each ruined landmark burnt
into his soul.
I left John Turner in his rooms in the Avenue d'Antan, where
everything seemed to be in order, and drove across to the Quartier St.
Germain. It was my intention to dwell in the Hôtel Clericy until that
house could be made habitable for the ladies. The _concierge_, I
found, had been killed in one of the sorties, and his wife had, with
the quick foresight of her countrywomen, secured the safety of the
house by letting a certain portion of it in apartments to the officers
of the National Guard as soon as the Commune was declared.
These gentlemen (one arrogant captain, I was informed, sold cat's meat
in times of peace) had lived with a fine military freedom, and left
marks of their boots on all the satin chairs. They had made a practice
of throwing cigar ends and matches on the carpets, had stabbed a few
pictures and bespattered the walls with wine, but a keen regard for
their own comfort had prevented further wanton damage, and all could
be repaired within a few days.
The woman made me some coffee, and while I was drinking it brought me
a telegram.
"Sander wires that he has run Miste to earth in Nice. Wait for me. I
follow by day mail."
The message was from Alphonse Giraud.
I laboured all day in Madame's interests, and re-engaged some of the
servants who had been scattered by the war and Commune, and a fear,
perhaps, of acknowledging any sympathy for the nobility.
In the evening I met Alphonse Giraud on his arrival at the Gare du
Nord, and found him in fine feather, carrying a stick of British oak,
which he had bought, he told me, for Miste's back.
"It will not be a matter of hitting each other with walking sticks," I
answered.
We drove across to the Lyons station, and took the night mail to
Marseilles. It was my second night out of bed. But I was hardy in
those days, and can still thank God that I am stronger than many of my
contemporaries.
"Confound you!" cried Alphonse to me the next morning as the train
raced down the valley of the Loire. "You have slept all night!"
"Of course."
"And I not a wink--when each moment brings us nearer to Miste. You are
no sportsman after all, Dick."
"He is the best sportsman who has the coolest head," replied I,
sleepily.
We arrived at Nice in the afternoon. The very pavement smelt of heat.
At the station a man came up to me, and, raising his hat, spoke my
name. He handed me a letter, which I read then and there.
"The bearer is watching Miste in Nice. I am going to stop the passages
by Ventimiglia and the Col di Tende. Miste has evidently appointed to
meet his confederate at Genoa. Two passages have been taken on the
steamer sailing Saturday thence to Buenos Ayres."
The letter was unsigned, but the handwriting that of my astute agent,
Sander. Things were beginning to look black for Monsieur Miste. I saw
plainly enough that Sander was thinking only of the money, and meant
to catch both the thieves. The bearer of the letter, who was a
Frenchman, said that he had his eye on Miste, who was staying in the
old inn of the Chapeau Rouge at the top of the Quai Massena, and
passed for a commercial traveller there.
"Monsieur must not molest my charge," he said. "Mr. Sander has so
ordered. It is probable that Miste has in his possession only a
portion of the money."
[Illustration: "ARE WE MEN?" RETORTED ALPHONSE, IN RESPONSE, AS HE
WRESTLED WITH HIS SHIRT COLLAR, "OR ARE WE SCHOOLGIRLS? TELL ME THAT,
MR. THE POLICEMAN!"]
We went to the Hôtel des Anglais, and there wrote fictitious names in
the police register; for it was impossible to be too careful.
Alphonse, in his zeal, would have written himself down an Englishman
had I not remonstrated, and told him that the ordinary housefly could
have in its mind no doubt as to his nationality. So he borrowed the
name of a friend who had gone to Pondicherry. Our orders were to keep
within the hotel garden, and thus in masterly inactivity we passed the
afternoon and evening. The heat was intense, and the gay town
deserted. Indeed, one half of the shops were closed.
I went to bed early, and was already asleep when a great rapping
aroused me. It was Sander's colleague, who came into my room, and
dismissed the waiter who had brought him thither. Alphonse, aroused by
the clamour, appeared on the scene, making use of a door of
communication connecting our rooms.
"Quick, Messieurs!" the man said. "Into your clothes. I will tell you
my news as you dress. My man," he went on, acting valet as he spoke,
"has left by the night diligence for St. Martin Lantosque. But, tell
me, are these gentlemen good for forty miles on horseback to-night?"
"Are we men?" retorted Alphonse, in response, as he wrestled with his
shirt collar, "or are we schoolgirls? Tell me that, Mr. the Policeman!"
"You can only hope to do it on horseback," continued the man. "It is
sixty kilometres, and for thirty of them you mount. No carriage
ascends at the trot. The diligence is the quickest on the road. It
proceeds at the trot where the hired carriages go at a snail's pace.
You hire horses--they are your own. You beat them--_hein_!"
And he made a gesture descriptive of a successful and timely arrival.
"It is my custom," he went on, confidentially, "to make sure that my
patients are comfortably in bed at night. I go this evening to the
Chapeau Rouge--Monsieur knows the house--facing the river; wine
excellent--drainage leaves to be desired. Well, I find our friend is
absent--has taken his luggage. He has vanished--_Pfui_! I know he is
safe at eight o'clock--at ten he is gone. There are no trains. This
man wants to get to Italy, I know. There is no boat. One way remains.
To take the diligence to St. Martin Lantosque, five miles from the
frontier, at the head of the valley of the Vesubie--to walk over the
pass; it is but a footpath, and now buried under the snow--to reach
the wildest part of northern Italy, and, if the good God so will it,
arrive at Entraque. Thence by way of Cuneo and Savona one takes the
train to Genoa. I inquire at the diligence office. It is as I
suspected. Miste is in the diligence. He is now"--the man paused to
consult his watch--"between La Tourette and Levens. It is 11:30. The
diligence was twenty minutes late in starting. Our friend has two
hours and ten minutes start of these gentlemen."
By way of reply we made greater haste, and, in truth, were aided
therein by our new ally, who, if he possessed a busy tongue, had
fingers as active.
"The horses," he continued, "await us in the Rue Paradis, just behind
here--a quiet street--good horses of two comrades of mine in the
mounted gendarmerie who are away on furlough. If necessary, you can
leave them at the Hôtel des Alpes, at St. Martin, and write me word.
If the horses come to harm, I know these gentlemen will not let my
comrades suffer."
Here Alphonse, who had borrowed the money from me earlier in the day,
produced two notes of five hundred francs, and pressed them
unavailingly on the agent.
As we walked rapidly towards the Rue Paradis, our masterful friend
gave us particulars of the road.
"It is," he said, "the route de Levens. Monsieur knows it--well, no
matter! They say it was built hundreds of years before the Romans
came. One ascends this bank of the river until the road divides, then
to the left through the village of St. André. After two kilometres one
finds one's self in a gorge--the cliffs on either side of many hundred
feet. There are places where the sunlight never enters. It is an
ascent always--follows La Tourette, a fortified village high above the
road on the right. Then the road becomes dangerous. There are places
between Levens and St. Jean de la Rivière where to make a false step
is to fall a thousand feet. One hears the Vesubie roaring far below,
but the river is invisible--it is dark even at midday. The great
cliffs are unbroken by a tree or a pathway. This is the Col du Dragon,
a great height. In descending one passes through a long tunnel cut in
the rock, and that is half-way. At St. Jean de la Rivière you will
find yourselves in the valley of the Vesubie. Here, again, one mounts
continually by the side of the river. The road is a dangerous one, for
there are landslips and chutes of stone--at times the whole roadway is
swept down into the river."
The man, with the quick gestures of his people, described all so
graphically that I could see the road and its environments as he
traversed it in imagination.
"Before long, however, one sees Venanson," he went on, "a church and
village on a point of rock far above the river. At a turn of the road
Venanson is left behind; and in front, three thousand feet above the
sea, surrounded by snow mountains, lies St. Martin Lantosque. The air
is cold, the people are different from the Niçois--it is another
world. These gentlemen have a wonderful ride before them, and there is
a moon. If I were a younger man--but there! I am married, and have
two children. Also I am afraid of my wife. Mon Dieu! I make no
concealment of it. My comrades know that I fear nothing that comes in
the way of our business; but I tremble before my wife--a little woman
as high as my elbow. What will you? A tongue!--_Pstt_!"
And with his forefinger he described in the air the descent of a fork
of lightning.
"These are the horses, gentlemen."
And indeed he had done us well.
"Your comrades," I said, "must be fine fellows," as I climbed up the
side of a horse as tall as one of my own hunters at home.
We were soon on the road, which was plain enough, and Alphonse had
crammed a handful of the hotel matches into his pocket in case we
should have to climb the sign posts.
My companion, it may be imagined, was in high good humour, and sat on
the top of his great charger in a state of ebullient excitement worthy
of a schoolboy on his first mount.
"Ah!" he cried, as we clattered along the dusty road before the great
mad-house, "this is sport, my friend. Surely, fox-hunting cannot beat
this?"
"'Tis rather like riding to covert, but we cannot tell what sport this
fox will give us."
The police horses were heavy footed, and wore part of their
professional accoutrement, so we made a military clatter which
obviously pleased the brave soul of my companion.
We had to make all speed, and yet spare no care, for should we make a
false turn there would be no stopping Monsieur Miste on this side of
the frontier. There were, fortunately, many carts on the road with
teams of four or five horses, carrying vast loads of produce from the
outlying villages to Nice. Of the drivers of these we made careful
inquiries, though we often had to wake them for the purpose, as they
lay asleep on the top of the load of hay or straw. One of these men
thanked us for arousing him, and would have detained us to relate a
tale of some carter who, at a spot called the "Saut du Français," had
been thrown thus, as he slept, from the summit of his hay cart, and
was broken to pieces on the rock two thousand feet below.
As we topped the Col du Dragon the day broke, and lighted up the white
peaks in front of us with a pink glow. The vast snow-capped range of the
Alpes Maritimes was stretched out before us like a panorama--behind us
the Mediterranean lay in a blue and perfect peace. The air was cool and
clear as spring water.
Alphonse Giraud pulled off his hat as he looked around him.
"Blessed Name," he cried, "what a world the good God made when He was
busy with it."
Our horses threw up their heads, and answered to the voice with a
willingness that made us wish we had a shorter journey before us.
At St. Jean de la Rivière we rested them for fifteen minutes. The
villagers were already astir, and we learnt that we had as yet gained
only half an hour on the diligence.
There was no doubt about the road now, for we were enclosed in a
narrow valley, with only the great thoroughfare built above the river,
and that not too securely. We made good speed, and soon sighted
Venanson, a queer village perched above all vegetation on the spur of
a mountain.
At a turn of the road we seemed suddenly to quit France, and wheel
into Switzerland. The air was Alpine, and the vegetation that of the
higher valleys there. It was near seven o'clock when we approached St.
Martin Lantosque, a quaint brown village of wood, clustering around a
domed church.
We soon found the Hôtel des Alpes, which was but a sorry inn of no
great cleanliness. The proprietor, a white-faced man, watched us
descend without enthusiasm.
"What time did the diligence come in?" I asked him.
"These gentlemen have ridden," he said pleasantly.
He was joined at this moment by a person who seemed to be a waiter,
though he was clad more like a stable help.
I repeated my question at a shout, and the attendant, placing his lips
against the innkeeper's ear, issued another edition of it in a voice
that awakened an echo far across the vale, and startled the tired
horses.
"The patron is deaf," explained the servant.
"You don't say so," I answered.
We gave these people up as hopeless, and Alphonse had the brilliant
idea of applying at the post-office across the way. Here we found an
intelligent man. Miste had arrived by the diligence. He had sent a
telegram to Genoa. He had posted a letter; and, after a hurried
breakfast at the hotel, he had set off half an hour ago by the bridle
path to the Col di Finestra, alone and on foot.