THE EVENING PAPER
It was the habit of the three friends to play a game of dominoes in
the evening after dinner. M. Lecamus, who was a Norman, took a delight
in using terms racy of the soil. When he set down the Double-six, he
would cry: "Now for the double-nigger!" When he put down a Five, he
would cry: "The pup! That bites!" When he put down a One, he would cry:
"The maggot! Bait!" The Three drew from him this phrase: "If you've the
pluck, down with the pig's-tail!" He called the Two "The beggar!" The
unfortunate Four was blasted by the name of "The whelp!" and he could
not put down a Blank without announcing: "The washerwoman!"
Marceline took the greatest delight in these exclamations, and she was
always ready to play dominoes. Theophrastus generally lost; and it was
a pleasure to see him lose, for at this game he had displayed the most
disagreeable nature in the world. Whenever he lost, he sulked.
One evening Theophrastus had, as usual, lost; and with an angry frown
on his brow, he had stopped playing, and buried himself in an evening
paper. He was very fond of the political notes, and his opinions were
limited. They were bounded on the north by "The Despotism of Tyrants,"
and on the south by "The Socialist Utopia." Between the Socialist
Utopia and the Despotism of Tyrants, he understood everything, he
declared, except that one should attack the army. He often said, "The
army must not be touched!" He was a worthy soul.
That evening he read the Political Notes without, as usual, commenting
aloud on them, because he was sulking. And then his eyes were caught by
this headline:
CARTOUCHE IS NOT DEAD.
He could not refrain from smiling, so absurd did this hypothesis seem
to him. Then he ran his eyes over the first lines of the article,
and let escape him the word "Strange!..." and then the word "Odd..."
and then the word "Amazing..." But without any particular display of
emotion. Then he decided that it was time to stop sulking, and said:
"You haven't read this article entitled: 'Cartouche is not dead,'
Adolphe. It's a strange and amazing article."
Marceline and Adolphe started violently and looked at one another in
dismay. Theophrastus read:
"Is Cartouche, then, not dead? For some days the police, with the
greatest mystery which we however have penetrated, have been solely
occupied with a series of strange crimes of which they have been
forced to conceal the most curious side from the public. These crimes
and _the manner in which their author escapes from the Police at
the very moment at which they believe they have caught him_, recall
point by point _the methods of the celebrated Cartouche_. If it were
not a question of an affair as reprehensible as a series of crimes,
one could even admire the art with which the model is imitated. As
an official of the Prefecture of Police, whose name we do not give
since he insisted on secrecy, said to us yesterday, 'He's the very
spit of Cartouche!' So much so that the detectives no longer call the
mysterious robber, on the track of whom they sometimes find themselves,
anything but Cartouche! Moreover the authorities, with great secrecy
but with considerable intelligence--for once we find no difficulty
in admitting it--have placed in the hands of three of them a history
of Cartouche edited by the Librarians of the National Library. They
have decided, quite subtly, that the history of Cartouche should be
useful to them, not only in the matter in hand, which consists in their
preventing to-day the criminal eccentricities of the new Cartouche and
in arresting the new Cartouche himself, but also that his story ought
to form a part of the general instruction of all detectives. Indeed a
rumour has come to our ears that M. Lepine, the Prefect of Police, has
ordered several of the evening courses at the Prefecture to be devoted
to the authentic history of the illustrious robber."
"What do you think of that?" said Theophrastus with an air of amiable
indulgence. "It's a regular farce. The journalists are queer beggars to
try to stuff us with all this rubbish."
Neither Adolphe nor Marceline smiled. In a somewhat shaky voice
Marceline bade him go on reading.
"The first crime of the new Cartouche, the crime at least with which
the Police was first called on to occupy itself, does not present
that aspect of horror which we find in some of the others. It is a
romantic crime. Let us say at once that all the crimes of which we have
cognisance and which are attributed to the new Cartouche, have been
committed during the last fortnight and _always between eleven o'clock
at night and four in the morning_."
Madame Longuet started up, her face as white as a sheet. Since the
Astral operation, Theophrastus had been sleeping in the bedroom by
himself, while she had slept in a small bed in the study. M. Lecamus
caught her wrist and swiftly drew her back into her seat. His eyes bade
her be silent.
Theophrastus paused in his reading and said, "What on earth do they
mean by their new Cartouche? _Myself, I only know the old one!_...
Well, let's hear about the romantic crime..."
He read on, growing calmer and calmer at every line:
"A lady, young and charming, and very well known in Paris, where
her Salon is filled by all those who occupy themselves gracefully
with Spiritualism--the affair is, after all, somewhat compromising,
therefore we do not publish her name--was in the middle of her toilet
about one o'clock in the morning, preparing to enjoy her well-earned
repose after a somewhat exhausting conference with the most illustrious
of the Pneumatics, when suddenly her window, which opens on to a
balcony, was flung open violently, and a man of little more than middle
height, still young, and extremely vigorous (this detail is in the
police report), but with his hair entirely white, sprang into the room.
He had in his hand a shining, nickel-plated revolver.
"'Do not be frightened, madame,' he said to the terrified lady. 'I am
not going to harm you. Regard me as your most humble servant. My name
is Louis-Dominique Cartouche; and my only ambition is to sup with you.
By the throttle of Madame Phalaris! I've got a devil of a twist on me!'
And he laughed.
"Mme. de B.... (we will call her Mme. de B....) thought she had to do
with a madman. But it was only a man resolved to sup with her, since,
he said, he had been for a long time fascinated by her grace and charm.
Yet this man was far more dangerous than a madman. For it was necessary
to give way to him, _owing to his nickel-plated revolver_.
"'You are going to ring for your servants, and order them to bring
an excellent supper,' said the man coolly. 'Do not give them any
explanation which might cause me trouble. If you do, you're a dead
woman.'
"Mme. de B.... is a lady of courage. She rose at once to the occasion,
rang for her maid, ordered supper to be brought to her boudoir, and
a quarter of an hour later she and the man with the white hair were
facing one another at table, _the best friends in the world_. We need
hardly say that the man with the white hair made no haste over that
delightful meal; and it was after two o'clock when he climbed down
from the balcony. It was perhaps not unnatural that the beautiful Mme.
de B.... should not have informed the police of the adventure. It was
necessity that compelled her to the avowal; for a few days later a
Commissary of Police called on her, and informed her that the ring,
containing a magnificent diamond, which she wore on the third finger
of her right hand was the property of Mlle. Emilienne de Besançon;
that that lady had seen it on her finger at a charity bazaar the day
before; that Mme. de B.... was doubtless ignorant whose property it
was; doubtless it had been given to her. Mme. de B.... was beyond
words surprised and annoyed. She told the story of the balcony, the
unknown, and the supper; and said that in bidding her good-bye he
had forced the ring on her, saying that he had had it from a lady of
whom he had been very fond, Mme. de Phalaris, _but who had died a long
while ago_. It was impossible to suspect Mme. de B.... She furnished
a proof: the shining, nickel-plated revolver, which the unknown had
left on a small table in the boudoir. At the same time she begged the
Commissary of Police to take away a hundred bottles of champagne of the
finest brands, which the unknown had sent to her the day after that
extraordinary night, on the pretext that the supper had been excellent,
but the champagne alone had left something to be desired. She feared
lest, like the ring, the champagne should have been stolen.
"This adventure, which is the least of those we have to relate, is a
faithful reproduction of an affair which took place on the night of
July 13, 1721, at the house of Mme. la Maréchale de Boufflers. That
lady also was at her toilet. The young man arrived by the balcony; he
had not a shining, nickel-plated revolver in his hand, but he carried
six English pistols in his belt. After having introduced himself
as Louis-Dominique Cartouche, he demanded supper. And the widow of
Louis-François, Duke de Boufflers, Peer and Marshal of France, the
hero of Lille and Malplaquet, supped with Cartouche, and did not hurry
over the supper.
"Cartouche only complained of the champagne; and next morning Mme. de
Boufflers received a hundred bottles. He had had them taken from the
cellars of a great financier by his butler Patapon.
"A few days later one of the bands of Cartouche stopped a carriage in
the street. Cartouche looked in through the window and scanned the
faces. It was Mme. la Maréchale de Boufflers.
"He turned to his men and said in ringing tones, 'Let Mme. la Maréchale
de Boufflers pass freely to-night and always.'
"He bowed low to Mme. la Maréchale, after having slipped on her finger
a magnificent diamond which he had previously stolen from Mme. de
Phalaris. Mme. de Phalaris never saw it again!
"And now let us pass on to the crime in Bac Street."