THE OLD-IRON SHOP
An enormous yellow and black coach lumbered and strained along by the
aid of six lean horses, and many elaborate springs, chains and straps,
from Brittany towards Paris. The autumn roads were execrable, for the
rains had been heavy, and the ruts made by the harvest-waggons were
deep. The lateness of the season intensified the deserted look of rural
France. Little else was to be seen along most of the route than rows of
polled trees lining the highway, and here and there an old castle on a
hill, or a _commune_ of a few whitewashed cottages, where the coach
would pull up at the inn and perhaps change horses. The driver and guard
remained the same; but various postillions took charge and then gave up
their charges to others. Travellers of assorted ranks and occupations
got in and out. Of the twelve for whom there were places in the coach
some remained during long distances, some shorter, but only one was
faithful from Brittany to the end. He was a short-statured, country
_bourgeois_, whose woollen stockings and faded hat gave to him a certain
look of non-importance. Moreover, he was always wrapped unsociably in a
brown cloak, of which he kept a fold over his lower face, and in which
he snored in his corner even when all the others jumped up to escape an
upset.
After several days the aspect of the country suddenly changed. Immense
woods and parks rendered it even more solitary, yet strange to say the
increased solitude was evidence that the hugest capital in Europe was
near, for these were the hunting domains of the princes of the blood and
great courtiers, which encircled Paris.
During the night there was another sudden change. The forest solitudes
disappeared, the horses sped forward on fine broad roads; and soon the
coach dashed with a triumphant blast into the lights and stir of
Versailles, crossed its Place d'Armes and turned again into darkness
along the Avenue of Paris.
At length, in the first grey of morning, it rumbled loudly over a
stretch of cobbled pave, and pulled up at an iron railing inside the
City wall. Here the officers of the municipal customs came out. One of
the first passengers visited was the _bourgeois_, and his dingy black
box and sleepy expression received exceptionally contemptuous usage.
"Haste, beast, open it! Dost thou think I have to wait all day? Take
that," and the gendarme struck him a tap on the side with the flat of
his sword.
For a second the _bourgeois_ seemed another man. He drew up with such an
inhuman gleam in his cadaverous eyes that the customs man drew back.
"Quick, then, a little," said the latter in something of an apologetic
tone. The short man as rapidly recovered his self-possession. He leered
in a conciliatory way upon the official and pressed a livre into his
palm. The official passed the box through the gate. The coach proceeded
into the City until it arrived at its heart and stopped at the entrance
of that great and wide bridge, the Pont Neuf, the main artery of Paris,
where most of the passengers alighted. They found themselves engulfed
in a yelling multitude of porters, who scrambled for passengers and
baggage as if they would tear both to pieces, which indeed they had no
great aversion to doing.
The _bourgeois_ singled out a tall man who had mingled in the scrimmage
as if only for his amusement. Cuffing the others aside like puppies with
his long arms, the latter lifted the black box out of the tussle and
started away, followed by its owner. They plunged into that maze of
tall, narrow, medieval streets of older Paris which Méryon loved to
picture before they disappeared in the improvements of Napoleon. They
crossed the Latin Quarter and thence wending eastward, entered finally
the Quarter of St. Marcel, the wretchedest of the city, and came into a
lane named the Street of the Hanged Man; where dilapidated rookeries
leaned across at each other, their upper floors occupied by swarms of
human beings. The _bourgeois_ here stopped alongside his porter and
spoke to him in the tone of an intimate.
"Is it far now, Hache? It is already some distance from the old place."
"Here we are; come in quick," replied Hache. He was a bold-looking,
black-haired man, red-faced, unshaven, and battered with the effects of
brandy-drinking.
They turned into a grimy old-iron shop. A woman sitting in a corner
fixed her eyes upon them like a watch-dog. They stumbled through,
climbed a dark stair, and entered a room where the traveller, without
speaking to a man who lay there on a bench, locked the door, and Hache
dropped the box on the table with a thud, shaking off a cap and bottle
which were on it.
The man on the bench started at the noise, and got up on his elbow, his
eyes opening with an effort.
"Great God, the Admiral!" he exclaimed.
The _bourgeois_ had thrown off his hat, wig, and cloak. He was the
visitor to the cavern of Fontainebleau.
"It is I, Gougeon," he returned, his death's-head face smiling.
Gougeon wore the garb of an old-iron gatherer. His countenance was
unkempt, pale, scowling, with black eyes embedded in it, his hair coarse
and long, his mouth hard and drooping. He pushed back the grey _tuque_
with which his head had been covered, and without readdressing the
Admiral, got up, slowly unwound the cords which bound the black box, and
raised the lid. Hache looked on.
Gougeon first took out a couple of coarse articles of clothing, and
uttered a grunt. His next grasp brought up a brilliant article of
apparel. He raised it to examine it at the window. The garment shone
even in the meagre light. It was a waistcoat of flowered silk, sown with
seed-pearls. The Admiral stood by, smiling.
With the other hand Gougeon pulled out and lifted a magnificent
rose-coloured dress-coat with silver buttons.
Having gazed at them all round and grunted to his own satisfaction and
to that of Hache, he dived again into the box, where he fumbled around a
large lump covered with linen, and at length drew out a shining
article--a golden _soleil_, or sun-shaped stand for displaying the Host
at the mass. Beside it was a finely embossed chalice of silver. His eyes
and those of Hache were lost in wonder.
There came just then a tap at the door.
The articles were whipped back into their box and covered. The woman of
the shop below walked in. All recovered self-possession. She bolted the
door herself.
Gougeon's mate, who thus appeared among them, was a small woman of about
forty, with the sharp grey eyes of a wild animal.
The coat and vessels were displayed to her by her husband.
"Admiral," she said, "where do these come from?"
The chief seemed to recognise in her a personage equal to himself. He
bowed and said--
"Madame, the _soleil_ and chalice were the Abbey of Pontcalec's, and
were politely removed for safe-keeping by seven marines of the
Galley-on-land."
"And this fine waistcoat?" said Madame, smiling.
"Was one of which the owner had no longer need," he said, looking at
her.
"Indeed," she returned nonchalantly.
"It was a troublesome marquis who ventured home one night by a short
cut. He was one of the fellows who does not believe in the necessity of
a poor man living. He saw a fire of ours in the waste, and what does he
do but ride up and over us. Luckily there is no blood on the waistcoat."
Madame's smile expanded. She looked the article over, picked the
seed-pearls and lace with her little skinny hands, turned out the
pockets, and inspected the flower-pattern of the silk.
Gougeon held the glittering _soleil_ fast in his hands. He could not
keep his scowling eyes off it. Hache took up the bottle from the floor,
and poured some wine into the chalice, whence he drank it off. Madame
lifted the dress-coat, and inspected it with the same feminine closeness
as the vest.
"It is a good package," remarked she.
"You have not seen all," vivaciously replied the Admiral, and diving his
hand into the box he drew forth and opened the black kerchief of the
cave of Fontainebleau. Gougeon's hand snatched the watch of the Prince
de Poix. Hache caught up the chalice, and executed a jig round the room
while drinking it empty; and Madame arranged her neck to great
self-satisfaction with Cyrène's necklace, while the Admiral told with no
small exaggeration the story connected with the plunder.
"This brings us," he continued, "to the object of my coming. Bec, Caron,
and la Tour, the three taken in the cave, are now in Paris imprisoned in
the Little Châtelet. What can be done for them?"
"Nothing," answered Gougeon.
"Be still," enjoined his wife, flashing her eyes at him.
"Were it I, I would go to the galleys and get away just as I did
before," exclaimed Hache.
"Hache, you have no head."
"Not so good as yours, wife Gougeon, I admit; but I escaped from the
galleys."
"To force the guards is impossible," said she speculating. "Who are the
witnesses?"
"I fear they are out of the question."
"Who are they?"
"The Prince de Poix."
"He will not appear in the matter. It is not like your provincial
tribunals."
"Several gendarmes."
"They have their price."
"Granted; but another remains, a bad one."
"Who?"
"The aristocrat who fell into the cave. He is near us."
"His name?"
"Répentigny."
"I will do what I can. We shall see what the Galley is good for in
Paris."