THE MELODIOUS BRICKLAYER
Theophrastus, though he had with good reason made up his mind never
again to be astonished by anything, was nevertheless astonished by the
disappearance of the railway-carriage, with the earless head of Signor
Petito waggling in the wind. With a melancholy air he walked down the
little side-line, asking himself whether he ought to be more astonished
by the disappearance of the carriage than by its sudden appearance. In
truth, the suppression of the express was troubling his spirit deeply.
It seems to me that I, who know the secrets of the sandalwood box,
have no right to give the explanation of this suppression before the
hour at which Theophrastus learnt it himself, from a quite commonplace
observation which the Commissary of Police, M. Mifroid, an earnest
student of Logic from his earliest years, made to him in the Catacombs
of Paris. At the same time, it is only fair to say that all the points
in the problem are already in the possession of the reader, who can
solve it himself, if indeed he has not already done so, without further
delay. Theophrastus then, in a state of prostration, walked down the
side-line, arrived at the bifurcation, examined the switch, thrust back
the lever which he had thrust over, locked the padlock, and carried
away, once and for all, the key which had been so carelessly left in it
a few days before. He performed this action because he felt that it was
only right; and he restored the switch to its place, because he felt
that his reason could not stand another disappearance of the express.
Still melancholy, he reached the deserted station A. All the rest of
the staff was absent on the search for the express; only the signal-man
was on the look-out. Theophrastus questioned the signal-man, who could
only say, as he pointed to the red arm of the signal:
"_The express is signalled, but it does not come!_"
"Was it really signalled from the last station?" said Theophrastus.
"Yes, sir, the station-master and all the staff of the last station
saw the express go through it. They telegraphed it to us. Besides,
sir, look at my little red arm! Look at my little red arm! And it is
quite impossible that there should have been a wreck between the last
station and this one. There is no bridge, sir, no viaduct, no works of
art. Besides, just now I climbed to the top of that ladder against the
big tank there. From it you can see the whole line right to the other
station. I saw our people down the line, gesticulating, but I did not
see the express!"
"Strange--very strange," said Theophrastus mournfully.
"Strange isn't the word for it! Look at my little red arm!"
"Inexplicable!" said Theophrastus gloomily.
"The most inexplicable thing in the world!" cried the signal-man.
"Not so: there is one thing even more inexplicable than an express
which disappears with its engine and passengers without anyone being
able to tell what has become of it," said Theophrastus in the same
gloomy tone.
"What on earth's that?" said the signal-man, opening his astonished
eyes wider than ever.
"Why, a railway-carriage without an engine which suddenly appears
without one's being able to tell where it comes from."
"What?" cried the signal-man.
"And which disappeared as suddenly as it appeared... You haven't by any
chance seen a railway-carriage with a man looking out of the window
pass this way?"
"You're laughing at me, sir!" said the signal-man with some heat.
"_You're exaggerating!_ Just because you don't believe the story of
the express which has been signalled and does not come! But look, sir,
look! Look at my little red arm!"
M. Longuet replied: "If you haven't seen the express, no more have I!"
He shrugged his shoulders bitterly and left the station. An idea had
occurred to him: his misfortune was so utter and so irremediable that
he was resolved to die... for others.
With a little astuteness the thing is practicable, even easy. Since
he is dressed in the clothes of Signor Petito, nothing prevents him
leaving his own clothes on the bank of the first river he comes to.
This simple proceeding will constitute a formal act of suicide. Behold
Marceline and Adolphe once more at peace!
On the bank of what river did M. Longuet lay his clothes? How did he
re-enter Paris? These are matters of such little importance that he
makes no mention of them in his memoirs. There is only one thing that
is really important, _the explanation of the disappearance of the
express_.
In the dull November sunset a workman was bricking up a hole in the
roadway of a Paris square in the ancient Quarter d'Enfer. As he filled
it he was singing the _Internationale_, the hymn of the advanced Labour
Parties throughout the world.
This workman, a bricklayer, was with his comrades engaged in assisting
in that perpetual occupation of modern municipalities, getting the
streets up; and the street was up.
The municipal engineers had been making a new sewer through the Quarter
d'Enfer with a patient disregard of the fact that under that quarter
the Catacombs spread their innumerable tunnels. It was but natural that
the bottom of the end of the excavation, in which they were laying
the new sewer, should have fallen out, and that they should have been
obliged to rest the pipes on railway sleepers cut in half. They were,
however, at the end of their task: the hole at the bottom of the
excavation, which ran right down to a passage of the Catacombs, had
been nearly bricked up; and the aperture which remained could not have
been much more than three feet across. As the bricklayer bricked it up,
he sang the _Internationale_.
At the same hour, a few yards down the side of the square, M. Mifroid
stood before the counter of a shop at which they sold electric lamps,
and was buying half a dozen of them for his men. Each lamp was
guaranteed to give forty-eight hours' light, though they were not much
larger than cigar-cases. His lamps had been packed up; and he had just
put his fingers through the loop of the string of the packet, when a
little way down the counter he perceived a man, still young but with
quite white hair, slipping several examples of these electric lamps
into his pocket without paying for them. They would doubtless be
quite as useful to a thief as a policeman. M. Mifroid, with his usual
courage, sprang towards the man, crying, "It's Cartouche!"
He had recognised him owing to the fact that since the Calf's Revenge
every Commissary of Police in Paris carried a portrait of the new
Cartouche in his pocket. They owed them to Mme. Longuet herself and
M. Lecamus, who had fled from the article in the evening paper to
the nearest police-station, since they felt themselves bound, in the
interests of humanity, to inform the police, somewhat tardily, of the
bicentenary mental condition of Theophrastus.
Therefore M. Mifroid, who had had the further advantage of a passing
acquaintance with Theophrastus in his home, recognised him at once.
Theophrastus, who had for some nights known the intentions of the
police, when he saw M. Mifroid and heard his cry, said to himself,
"It's time I was off!"
He bolted out of the shop; and the Commissary of Police bolted after
him.
To return to our bricklayer, he sang the _Internationale_ all the
time. He was alone, because his comrades had gone round the corner to
refresh themselves. He was at the chorus of the song; and it was the
seventy-ninth time he had sung it since two o'clock in the afternoon.
He raised his head towards Heaven and roared:
"Cellalutte finale
Groupppons-nous etddemain..."
With his head turned to Heaven he did not see two shadows flying
headlong, which, one after the other, fell through the hole; their
cries were drowned in the volume of sound which poured from his lungs.
They were the shadows of Theophrastus and of M. Mifroid pursuing him
through the dusk. In their careless haste they fell clean through the
street which was up. The bricklayer turned his head a little to the
right and roared enthusiastically:
"L'lnterrrnationaaaaleu
Sera le genrrhummain!..."
And he finished bricking up the hole. Singing the _Internationale_, he
had performed the symbolic act of interring a policeman and a thief.