1.
You must not think for a moment, my dear Sir, that I was ever actually
deceived in Theodore. Was it likely that I, who am by temperament and
habit accustomed to read human visages like a book, was it likely, I
say, that I would fail to see craftiness in those pale, shifty eyes,
deceit in the weak, slobbering mouth, intemperance in the whole aspect
of the shrunken, slouchy figure which I had, for my subsequent sorrow,
so generously rescued from starvation?
Generous? I was more than generous to him. They say that the poor are
the friends of the poor, and I told you how poor we were in those days!
Ah! but poor! my dear Sir, you have no conception! Meat in Paris in the
autumn of 1816 was 24 francs the kilo, and milk 1 franc the quarter
litre, not to mention eggs and butter, which were delicacies far beyond
the reach of cultured, well-born people like myself.
And yet throughout that trying year I fed Theodore—yes, I fed him. He
used to share onion pie with me whenever I partook of it, and he had
haricot soup every day, into which I allowed him to boil the skins of
all the sausages and the luscious bones of all the cutlets of which I
happened to partake. Then think what he cost me in drink! Never could I
leave a half or quarter bottle of wine but he would finish it; his
impudent fingers made light of every lock and key. I dared not allow as
much as a sou to rest in the pocket of my coat but he would ferret it
out the moment I hung the coat up in the outer room and my back was
turned for a few seconds. After a while I was forced—yes, I, Sir, who
have spoken on terms of equality with kings—I was forced to go out and
make my own purchases in the neighbouring provision shops. And why?
Because if I sent Theodore and gave him a few sous wherewith to make
these purchases, he would spend the money at the nearest cabaret in
getting drunk on absinthe.
He robbed me, Sir, shamefully, despite the fact that he had ten per
cent, commission on all the profits of the firm. I gave him twenty
francs out of the money which I had earned at the sweat of my brow in
the service of Estelle Bachelier. Twenty francs, Sir! Reckoning two
hundred francs as business profit on the affair, a generous provision
you will admit! And yet he taunted me with having received a thousand.
This was mere guesswork, of course, and I took no notice of his taunts:
did the brains that conceived the business deserve no payment? Was my
labour to be counted as dross?—the humiliation, the blows which I had
to endure while he sat in hoggish content, eating and sleeping without
thought for the morrow? After which he calmly pocketed the twenty
francs to earn which he had not raised one finger, and then demanded
more.
No, no, my dear Sir, you will believe me or not, that man could not go
straight. Times out of count he would try and deceive me, despite the
fact that, once or twice, he very nearly came hopelessly to grief in
the attempt.
Now, just to give you an instance. About this time Paris was in the
grip of a gang of dog-thieves as unscrupulous and heartless as they
were daring. Can you wonder at it? with that awful penury about and a
number of expensive “tou-tous” running about the streets under the very
noses of the indigent proletariat? The ladies of the aristocracy and of
the wealthy bourgeoisie had imbibed this craze for lap-dogs during
their sojourn in England at the time of the emigration, and being women
of the Latin race and of undisciplined temperament, they were just then
carrying their craze to excess.
As I was saying, this indulgence led to wholesale thieving. Tou-tous
were abstracted from their adoring mistresses with marvellous
adroitness; whereupon two or three days would elapse while the adoring
mistress wept buckets full of tears and set the police of M. Fouché,
Duc d’Otrante, by the ears in search of her pet. The next act in the
tragi-comedy would be an anonymous demand for money—varying in amount
in accordance with the known or supposed wealth of the lady—and an
equally anonymous threat of dire vengeance upon the tou-tou if the
police were put upon the track of the thieves.
You will ask me, no doubt, what all this had to do with Theodore. Well!
I will tell you.
You must know that of late he had become extraordinarily haughty and
independent. I could not keep him to his work. His duties were to sweep
the office—he did not do it; to light the fires—I had to light them
myself every morning; to remain in the anteroom and show clients in—he
was never at his post. In fact he was never there when I did want him:
morning, noon and night he was out—gadding about and coming home, Sir,
only to eat and sleep. I was seriously thinking of giving him the sack.
And then one day he disappeared! Yes, Sir, disappeared completely as if
the earth had swallowed him up. One morning—it was in the beginning of
December and the cold was biting—I arrived at the office and found that
his chair-bed which stood in the antechamber had not been slept in; in
fact that it had not been made up overnight. In the cupboard I found
the remnants of an onion pie, half a sausage, and a quarter of a litre
of wine, which proved conclusively that he had not been in to supper.
At first I was not greatly disturbed in my mind. I had found out quite
recently that Theodore had some sort of a squalid home of his own
somewhere behind the fish-market, together with an old and wholly
disreputable mother who plied him with drink whenever he spent an
evening with her and either he or she had a franc in their pocket.
Still, after these bouts spent in the bosom of his family he usually
returned to sleep them off at my expense in my office.
I had unfortunately very little to do that day, so in the late
afternoon, not having seen anything of Theodore all day, I turned my
steps toward the house behind the fish-market where lived the mother of
that ungrateful wretch.
The woman’s surprise when I inquired after her precious son was
undoubtedly genuine. Her lamentations and crocodile tears certainly
were not. She reeked of alcohol, and the one room which she inhabited
was indescribably filthy. I offered her half a franc if she gave me
authentic news of Theodore, knowing well that for that sum she would
have sold him to the devil. But very obviously she knew nothing of his
whereabouts, and I soon made haste to shake the dirt of her abode from
my heels.
I had become vaguely anxious.
I wondered if he had been murdered somewhere down a back street, and if
I should miss him very much.
I did not think that I would.
Moreover, no one could have any object in murdering Theodore. In his
own stupid way he was harmless enough, and he certainly was not
possessed of anything worth stealing. I myself was not over-fond of the
man—but I should not have bothered to murder him.
Still, I was undoubtedly anxious, and slept but little that night
thinking of the wretch. When the following morning I arrived at my
office and still could see no trace of him, I had serious thoughts of
putting the law in motion on his behalf.
Just then, however, an incident occurred which drove all thoughts of
such an insignificant personage as Theodore from my mind.
I had just finished tidying up the office when there came a peremptory
ring at the outer door, repeated at intervals of twenty seconds or so.
It meant giving a hasty glance all round to see that no fragments of
onion pie or of cheap claret lingered in unsuspected places, and it
meant my going, myself, to open the door to my impatient visitor.
I did it, Sir, and then at the door I stood transfixed. I had seen many
beautiful women in my day—great ladies of the Court, brilliant ladies
of the Consulate, the Directorate and the Empire—but never in my life
had I seen such an exquisite and resplendent apparition as the one
which now sailed through the antechamber of my humble abode.
Sir, Hector Ratichon’s heart has ever been susceptible to the charms of
beauty in distress. This lovely being, Sir, who now at my invitation
entered my office and sank with perfect grace into the arm-chair, was
in obvious distress. Tears hung on the fringe of her dark lashes, and
the gossamer-like handkerchief which she held in her dainty hand was
nothing but a wet rag. She gave herself exactly two minutes wherein to
compose herself, after which she dried her eyes and turned the full
artillery of her bewitching glance upon me.
“Monsieur Ratichon,” she began, even before I had taken my accustomed
place at my desk and assumed that engaging smile which inspires
confidence even in the most timorous; “Monsieur Ratichon, they tell me
that you are so clever, and—oh! I am in such trouble.”
“Madame,” I rejoined with noble simplicity, “you may trust me to do the
impossible in order to be of service to you.”
Admirably put, you will admit. I have always been counted a master of
appropriate diction, and I had been quick enough to note the plain band
of gold which encircled the third finger of her dainty left hand,
flanked though it was by a multiplicity of diamond, pearl and other
jewelled rings.
“You are kind, Monsieur Ratichon,” resumed the beauteous creature more
calmly. “But indeed you will require all the ingenuity of your
resourceful brain in order to help me in this matter. I am struggling
in the grip of a relentless fate which, if you do not help me, will
leave me broken-hearted.”
“Command me, Madame,” I riposted quietly.
From out the daintiest of reticules the fair lady now extracted a very
greasy and very dirty bit of paper, and handed it to me with the brief
request: “Read this, I pray you, my good M. Ratichon.” I took the
paper. It was a clumsily worded, ill-written, ill-spelt demand for five
thousand francs, failing which sum the thing which Madame had lost
would forthwith be destroyed.
I looked up, puzzled, at my fair client.
“My darling Carissimo, my dear M. Ratichon,” she said in reply to my
mute query.
“Carissimo?” I stammered, yet further intrigued.
“My darling pet, a valuable creature, the companion of my lonely
hours,” she rejoined, once more bursting into tears. “If I lose him, my
heart will inevitably break.”
I understood at last.
“Madame has lost her dog?” I asked.
She nodded.
“It has been stolen by one of those expert dog thieves, who then levy
blackmail on the unfortunate owner?”
Again she nodded in assent.
I read the dirty, almost illegible scrawl through more carefully this
time. It was a clumsy notification addressed to Mme. la Comtesse de
Nolé de St. Pris to the effect that her tou-tou was for the moment
safe, and would be restored to the arms of his fond mistress provided
the sum of five thousand francs was deposited in the hands of the
bearer of the missive.
Minute directions were then given as to where and how the money was to
be deposited. Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé was, on the third day from this
at six o’clock in the evening precisely, to go in person and alone to
the angle of the Rue Guénégaud and the Rue Mazarine, at the rear of the
Institut.
There two men would meet her, one of whom would have Carissimo in his
arms; to the other she must hand over the money, whereupon the pet
would at once be handed back to her. But if she failed to keep this
appointment, or if in the meanwhile she made the slightest attempt to
trace the writer of the missive or to lay a trap for his capture by the
police, Carissimo would at once meet with a summary death.
These were the usual tactics of experienced dog thieves, only that in
this case the demand was certainly exorbitant. Five thousand francs!
But even so . . . I cast a rapid and comprehensive glance on the
brilliant apparition before me—the jewelled rings, the diamonds in the
shell-like ears, the priceless fur coat—and with an expressive shrug of
the shoulders I handed the dirty scrap of paper back to its fair
recipient.
“Alas, Madame,” I said, taking care that she should not guess how much
it cost me to give her such advice, “I am afraid that in such cases
there is nothing to be done. If you wish to save your pet you will have
to pay. . .”
“Ah! but, Monsieur,” she exclaimed tearfully, “you don’t understand.
Carissimo is all the world to me, and this is not the first time, nor
yet the second, that he has been stolen from me. Three times, my good
M. Ratichon, three times has he been stolen, and three times have I
received such peremptory demands for money for his safe return; and
every time the demand has been more and more exorbitant. Less than a
month ago M. le Comte paid three thousand francs for his recovery.”
“Monsieur le Comte?” I queried.
“My husband, Sir,” she replied, with an exquisite air of hauteur. “M.
le Comte de Nolé de St. Pris.”
“Ah, then,” I continued calmly, “I fear me that Monsieur de Nolé de St.
Pris will have to pay again.”
“But he won’t!” she now cried out in a voice broken with sobs, and
incontinently once more saturated her gossamer handkerchief with her
tears.
“Then I see nothing for it, Madame,” I rejoined, much against my will
with a slight touch of impatience, “I see nothing for it but that
yourself . . .”
“Ah! but, Monsieur,” she retorted, with a sigh that would have melted a
heart of stone, “that is just my difficulty. I cannot pay . . .”
“Madame,” I protested.
“Oh! if I had money of my own,” she continued, with an adorable gesture
of impatience, “I would not worry. Mais voilà: I have not a silver
franc of my own to bless myself with. M. le Comte is over generous. He
pays all my bills without a murmur—he pays my dressmaker, my furrier;
he loads me with gifts and dispenses charity on a lavish scale in my
name. I have horses, carriages, servants—everything I can possibly want
and more, but I never have more than a few hundred francs to dispose
of. Up to now I have never for a moment felt the want of money. To-day,
when Carissimo is being lost to me, I feel the entire horror of my
position.”
“But surely, Madame,” I urged, “M. le Comte . . .”
“No, Monsieur,” she replied. “M. le Comte has flatly refused this time
to pay these abominable thieves for the recovery of Carissimo. He
upbraids himself for having yielded to their demands on the three
previous occasions. He calls these demands blackmailing, and vows that
to give them money again is to encourage them in their nefarious
practices. Oh! he has been cruel to me, cruel!—for the first time in my
life, Monsieur, my husband has made me unhappy, and if I lose my
darling now I shall indeed be broken-hearted.”
I was silent for a moment or two. I was beginning to wonder what part I
should be expected to play in the tragedy which was being unfolded
before me by this lovely and impecunious creature.
“Madame la Comtesse,” I suggested tentatively, after a while, “your
jewellery . . . you must have a vast number which you seldom wear . . .
five thousand francs is soon made up. . . .”
You see, Sir, my hopes of a really good remunerative business had by
now dwindled down to vanishing point. All that was left of them was a
vague idea that the beautiful Comtesse would perhaps employ me as an
intermediary for the sale of some of her jewellery, in which case . . .
But already her next words disillusioned me even on that point.
“No, Monsieur,” she said; “what would be the use? Through one of the
usual perverse tricks of fate, M. le Comte would be sure to inquire
after the very piece of jewellery of which I had so disposed, and
moreover . . .”
“Moreover—yes, Mme. la Comtesse?”
“Moreover, my husband is right,” she concluded decisively. “If I give
in to those thieves to-day and pay them five thousand francs, they
would only set to work to steal Carissimo again and demand ten thousand
francs from me another time.”
I was silent. What could I say? Her argument was indeed unanswerable.
“No, my good M. Ratichon,” she said very determinedly after a while. “I
have quite decided that you must confound those thieves. They have
given me three days’ grace, as you see in their abominable letter. If
after three days the money is not forthcoming, and if in the meanwhile
I dare to set a trap for them or in any way communicate with the
police, my darling Carissimo will be killed and my heart be broken.”
“Madame la Comtesse,” I entreated, for of a truth I could not bear to
see her cry again.
“You must bring Carissimo back to me, M. Ratichon,” she continued
peremptorily, “before those awful three days have elapsed.”
“I swear that I will,” I rejoined solemnly; but I must admit that I did
it entirely on the spur of the moment, for of a truth I saw no prospect
whatever of being able to accomplish what she desired.
“Without my paying a single louis to those execrable thieves,” the
exquisite creature went on peremptorily,
“It shall be done, Madame la Comtesse.”
“And let me tell you,” she now added, with the sweetest and archest of
smiles, “that if you succeed in this, M. le Comte de Nolé de St. Pris
will gladly pay you the five thousand francs which he refuses to give
to those miscreants.”
Five thousand francs! A mist swam before my eyes,
“Mais, Madame la Comtesse . . .” I stammered.
“Oh!” she added, with an adorable uptilting of her little chin, “I am
not promising what I cannot fulfil. M. le Comte de Nolé only said this
morning, apropos of dog thieves, that he would gladly give ten thousand
francs to anyone who succeeded in ridding society of such pests.”
I could have knelt down on the hard floor, Sir, and . . .
“Well then, Madame,” was my ready rejoinder, “why not ten thousand
francs to me?”
She bit her coral lips . . . but she also smiled. I could see that my
personality and my manners had greatly impressed her.
“I will only be responsible for the first five thousand,” she said
lightly. “But, for the rest, I can confidently assure you that you will
not find a miser in M. le Comte de Nolé de St. Pris.”
I could have knelt down on the hard floor, Sir, and kissed her
exquisitely shod feet. Five thousand francs certain! Perhaps ten! A
fortune, Sir, in those days! One that would keep me in comfort—nay,
affluence, until something else turned up. I was swimming in the
empyrean and only came rudely to earth when I recollected that I should
have to give Theodore something for his share of the business. Ah!
fortunately that for the moment he was comfortably out of the way!
Thoughts that perhaps he had been murdered after all once more coursed
through my brain: not unpleasantly, I’ll admit. I would not have raised
a finger to hurt the fellow, even though he had treated me with the
basest ingratitude and treachery; but if someone else took the trouble
to remove him, why indeed should I quarrel with fate?
Back I came swiftly to the happy present. The lovely creature was
showing me a beautifully painted miniature of Carissimo, a King Charles
spaniel of no common type. This she suggested that I should keep by me
for the present for purposes of identification. After this we had to go
into the details of the circumstances under which she had lost her pet.
She had been for a walk with him, it seems, along the Quai Voltaire,
and was returning home by the side of the river, when suddenly a number
of workmen in blouses and peaked caps came trooping out of a side
street and obstructed her progress. She had Carissimo on the lead, and
she at once admitted to me that at first she never thought of
connecting this pushing and jostling rabble with any possible theft.
She held her ground for awhile, facing the crowd: for a few moments she
was right in the midst of it, and just then she felt the dog straining
at the lead. She turned round at once with the intention of picking him
up, when to her horror she saw that there was only a bundle of
something weighty at the end of the lead, and that the dog had
disappeared.
The whole incident occurred, the lovely creature declared, within the
space of thirty seconds; the next instant the crowd had scattered in
several directions, the men running and laughing as they went. Mme. la
Comtesse was left standing alone on the quay. Not a passer-by in sight,
and the only gendarme visible, a long way down the Quai, had his back
turned toward her. Nevertheless she ran and hied him, and presently he
turned and, realizing that something was amiss, he too ran to meet her.
He listened to her story, swore lustily, but shrugged his shoulders in
token that the tale did not surprise him and that but little could be
done. Nevertheless he at once summoned those of his colleagues who were
on duty in the neighbourhood, and one of them went off immediately to
notify the theft at the nearest commissariat of police. After which
they all proceeded to a comprehensive scouring of the many tortuous
sidestreets of the quartier; but, needless to say, there was no sign of
Carissimo or of his abductors.
That night my lovely client went home distracted.
The following evening, when, broken-hearted, she wandered down the
quays living over again the agonizing moments during which she lost her
pet, a workman in a blue blouse, with a peaked cap pulled well over his
eyes, lurched up against her and thrust into her hand the missive which
she had just shown me. He then disappeared into the night, and she had
only the vaguest possible recollection of his appearance.
That, Sir, was the substance of the story which the lovely creature
told me in a voice oft choked with tears. I questioned her very closely
and in my most impressive professional manner as to the identity of any
one man among the crowd who might have attracted her attention, but all
that she could tell me was that she had a vague impression of a wizened
hunchback with evil face, shaggy red beard and hair, and a black patch
covering the left eye.
2.
Not much data to go on, you will, I think, admit, and I can assure you,
Sir, that had I not possessed that unbounded belief in myself which is
the true hall-mark of genius, I would at the outset have felt
profoundly discouraged.
As it was, I found just the right words of consolation and of hope
wherewith to bow my brilliant client out of my humble apartments, and
then to settle down to deep and considered meditation. Nothing, Sir, is
so conducive to thought as a long, brisk walk through the crowded
streets of Paris. So I brushed my coat, put on my hat at a becoming
angle, and started on my way.
I walked as far as Suresnes, and I thought. After that, feeling
fatigued, I sat on the terrace of the Café Bourbon, overlooking the
river. There I sipped my coffee and thought. I walked back into Paris
in the evening, and still thought, and thought, and thought. After that
I had some dinner, washed down by an agreeable bottle of wine—did I
mention that the lovely creature had given me a hundred francs on
account?—then I went for a stroll along the Quai Voltaire, and I may
safely say that there is not a single side and tortuous street in its
vicinity that I did not explore from end to end during the course of
that never to be forgotten evening.
But still my mind remained in a chaotic condition. I had not succeeded
in forming any plan. What a quandary, Sir! Oh! what a quandary! Here
was I, Hector Ratichon, the confidant of kings, the right hand of two
emperors, set to the task of stealing a dog—for that is what I should
have to do—from an unscrupulous gang of thieves whose identity, abode
and methods were alike unknown to me. Truly, Sir, you will own that
this was a herculean task.
Vaguely my thoughts reverted to Theodore. He might have been of good
counsel, for he knew more about thieves than I did, but the ungrateful
wretch was out of the way on the one occasion when he might have been
of use to me who had done so much for him. Indeed, my reason told me
that I need not trouble my head about Theodore. He had vanished; that
he would come back presently was, of course, an indubitable fact;
people like Theodore never vanish completely. He would come back and
demand I know not what, his share, perhaps, in a business which was so
promising even if it was still so vague.
Five thousand francs! A round sum! If I gave Theodore five hundred the
sum would at once appear meagre, unimportant. Four thousand five
hundred francs!—it did not even _sound_ well to my mind.
So I took care that Theodore vanished from my mental vision as
completely as he had done for the last two days from my ken, and as
there was nothing more that could be done that evening, I turned my
weary footsteps toward my lodgings at Passy.
All that night, Sir, I lay wakeful and tossing in my bed, alternately
fuming and rejecting plans for the attainment of that golden goal—the
recovery of Mme. de Nolé’s pet dog. And the whole of the next day I
spent in vain quest. I visited every haunt of ill-fame known to me
within the city. I walked about with a pistol in my belt, a hunk of
bread and cheese in my pocket, and slowly growing despair in my heart.
In the evening Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé called for news of Carissimo,
and I could give her none. She cried, Sir, and implored, and her tears
and entreaties got on to my nerves until I felt ready to fall into
hysterics. One more day and all my chances of a bright and wealthy
future would have vanished. Unless the money was forthcoming on the
morrow, the dog would be destroyed, and with him my every hope of that
five thousand francs. And though she still irradiated charm and luxury
from her entire lovely person, I begged her not to come to the office
again, and promised that as soon as I had any news to impart I would at
once present myself at her house in the Faubourg St. Germain.
That night I never slept one wink. Think of it, Sir! The next few hours
were destined to see me either a prosperous man for many days to come,
or a miserable, helpless, disappointed wretch. At eight o’clock I was
at my office. Still no news of Theodore. I could now no longer dismiss
him from my mind. Something had happened to him, I could have no doubt.
This anxiety, added to the other more serious one, drove me to a state
bordering on frenzy. I hardly knew what I was doing. I wandered all day
up and down the Quai Voltaire, and the Quai des Grands Augustins, and
in and around the tortuous streets till I was dog-tired, distracted,
half crazy.
I went to the Morgue, thinking to find there Theodore’s dead body, and
found myself vaguely looking for the mutilated corpse of Carissimo.
Indeed, after a while Theodore and Carissimo became so inextricably
mixed up in my mind that I could not have told you if I was seeking for
the one or for the other and if Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé was now
waiting to clasp her pet dog or my man-of-all-work to her exquisite
bosom.
She in the meanwhile had received a second, yet more peremptory,
missive through the same channel as the previous one. A grimy deformed
man, with ginger-coloured hair, and wearing a black patch over one eye,
had been seen by one of the servants lolling down the street where
Madame lived, and subsequently the concierge discovered that an
exceedingly dirty scrap of paper had been thrust under the door of his
lodge. The writer of the epistle demanded that Mme. la Comtesse should
stand in person at six o’clock that same evening at the corner of the
Rue Guénégaud, behind the Institut de France. Two men, each wearing a
blue blouse and peaked cap, would meet her there. She must hand over
the money to one of them, whilst the other would have Carissimo in his
arms. The missive closed with the usual threats that if the police were
mixed up in the affair, or the money not forthcoming, Carissimo would
be destroyed.
Six o’clock was the hour fixed by these abominable thieves for the
final doom of Carissimo. It was now close on five. In a little more
than an hour my last hope of five or ten thousand francs and a smile of
gratitude from a pair of lovely lips would have gone, never again to
return. A great access of righteous rage seized upon me. I determined
that those miserable thieves, whoever they were, should suffer for the
disappointment which I was now enduring. If I was to lose five thousand
francs, they at least should not be left free to pursue their evil
ways. I would communicate with the police; the police should meet the
miscreants at the corner of the Rue Guénégaud. Carissimo would die; his
lovely mistress would be brokenhearted. I would be left to mourn yet
another illusion of a possible fortune, but they would suffer in gaol
or in New Caledonia the consequences of all their misdeeds.
Fortified by this resolution, I turned my weary footsteps in the
direction of the gendarmerie where I intended to lodge my denunciation
of those abominable thieves and blackmailers. The night was dark, the
streets ill-lighted, the air bitterly cold. A thin drizzle, half rain,
half snow, was descending, chilling me to the bone.
I was walking rapidly along the river bank with my coat collar pulled
up to my ears, and still instinctively peering up every narrow street
which debouches on the quay. Then suddenly I spied Theodore. He was
coming down the Rue Beaune, slouching along with head bent in his usual
way. He appeared to be carrying something, not exactly heavy, but
cumbersome, under his left arm. Within the next few minutes he would
have been face to face with me, for I had come to a halt at the angle
of the street, determined to have it out with the rascal then and there
in spite of the cold and in spite of my anxiety about Carissimo.
All of a sudden he raised his head and saw me, and in a second he
turned on his heel and began to run up the street in the direction
whence he had come. At once I gave chase. I ran after him—and then,
Sir, he came for a second within the circle of light projected by a
street lanthorn. But in that one second I had seen that which turned my
frozen blood into liquid lava—a tail, Sir!—a dog’s tail, fluffy and
curly, projecting from beneath that recreant’s left arm.
A dog, Sir! a dog! Carissimo! the darling of Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé’s
heart! Carissimo, the recovery of whom would mean five thousand francs
into my pocket! Carissimo! I knew it! For me there existed but one dog
in all the world; one dog and one spawn of the devil, one arch-traitor,
one limb of Satan! Theodore!
How he had come by Carissimo I had not time to conjecture. I called to
him. I called his accursed name, using appellations which fell far
short of those which he deserved. But the louder I called the faster he
ran, and I, breathless, panting, ran after him, determined to run him
to earth, fearful lest I should lose him in the darkness of the night.
All down the Rue Beaune we ran, and already I could hear behind me the
heavy and more leisured tramp of a couple of gendarmes who in their
turn had started to give chase.
I tell you, Sir, the sound lent wings to my feet. A chance—a last
chance—was being offered me by a benevolent Fate to earn that five
thousand francs, the keystone to my future fortune. If I had the
strength to seize and hold Theodore until the gendarmes came up, and
before he had time to do away with the dog, the five thousand francs
could still be mine.
So I ran, Sir, as I had never run before; the beads of perspiration
poured down from my forehead; the breath came stertorous and hot from
my heaving breast.
Then suddenly Theodore disappeared!
Disappeared, Sir, as if the earth had swallowed him up! A second ago I
had seen him dimly, yet distinctly through the veil of snow and rain
ahead of me, running with that unmistakable shuffling gait of his,
hugging the dog closely under his arm. I had seen him—another effort
and I might have touched him!—now the long and deserted street lay dark
and mysterious before me, and behind me I could hear the measured tramp
of the gendarmes and their peremptory call of “Halt, in the name of the
King!”
But not in vain, Sir, am I called Hector Ratichon; not in vain have
kings and emperors reposed confidence in my valour and my presence of
mind. In less time than it takes to relate I had already marked with my
eye the very spot—down the street—where I had last seen Theodore. I
hurried forward and saw at once that my surmise had been correct. At
that very spot, Sir, there was a low doorway which gave on a dark and
dank passage. The door itself was open. I did not hesitate. My life
stood in the balance but I did not falter. I might be affronting within
the next second or two a gang of desperate thieves, but I did not
quake.
I turned into that doorway, Sir; the next moment I felt a stunning blow
between my eyes. I just remember calling out with all the strength of
my lungs: “Police! Gendarmes! A moi!” Then nothing more.
3.
I woke with the consciousness of violent wordy warfare carried on
around me. I was lying on the ground, and the first things I saw were
three or four pairs of feet standing close together. Gradually out of
the confused hubbub a few sentences struck my reawakened senses.
“The man is drunk.”
“I won’t have him inside the house.”
“I tell you this is a respectable house.” This from a shrill feminine
voice. “We’ve never had the law inside our doors before.”
By this time I had succeeded in raising myself on my elbow, and, by the
dim light of a hanging lamp somewhere down the passage, I was pretty
well able to take stock of my surroundings.
The half-dozen bedroom candlesticks on a table up against the wall, the
row of keys hanging on hooks fixed to a board above, the glass
partition with the words “Concierge” and “Réception” painted across it,
all told me that this was one of those small, mostly squalid and
disreputable lodging houses or hotels in which this quarter of Paris
still abounds.
The two gendarmes who had been running after me were arguing the matter
of my presence here with the proprietor of the place and with the
concierge.
I struggled to my feet. Whereupon for the space of a solid two minutes
I had to bear as calmly as I could the abuse and vituperation which the
feminine proprietor of this “respectable house” chose to hurl at my
unfortunate head. After which I obtained a hearing from the bewildered
minions of the law. To them I gave as brief and succinct a narrative as
I could of the events of the past three days. The theft of
Carissimo—the disappearance of Theodore—my meeting him a while ago,
with the dog under his arm—his second disappearance, this time within
the doorway of this “respectable abode,” and finally the blow which
alone had prevented me from running the abominable thief to earth.
The gendarmes at first were incredulous. I could see that they were
still under the belief that my excitement was due to over-indulgence in
alcoholic liquor, whilst Madame the proprietress called me an
abominable liar for daring to suggest that she harboured thieves within
her doors. Then suddenly, as if in vindication of my character, there
came from a floor above the sound of a loud, shrill bark.
“Carissimo!” I cried triumphantly. Then I added in a rapid whisper,
“Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé is rich. She spoke of a big reward for the
recovery of her pet.”
These happy words had the effect of stimulating the zeal of the
gendarmes. Madame the proprietress grew somewhat confused and
incoherent, and finally blurted it out that one of her lodgers—a highly
respectable gentleman—did keep a dog, but that there was no crime in
that surely.
“One of your lodgers?” queried the representative of the law. “When did
he come?”
“About three days ago,” she replied sullenly.
“What room does he occupy?”
“Number twenty-five on the third floor.”
“He came with his dog?” I interposed quickly, “a spaniel?”
“Yes.”
“And your lodger, is he an ugly, slouchy creature—with hooked nose,
bleary eyes and shaggy yellow hair?”
But to this she vouchsafed no reply.
Already the matter had passed out of my hands. One of the gendarmes
prepared to go upstairs and bade me follow him, whilst he ordered his
comrade to remain below and on no account to allow anyone to enter or
leave the house. The proprietress and concierge were warned that if
they interfered with the due execution of the law they would be
severely dealt with; after which we went upstairs.
For a while, as we ascended, we could hear the dog barking furiously,
then, presently, just as we reached the upper landing, we heard a loud
curse, a scramble, and then a piteous whine quickly smothered.
My very heart stood still. The next moment, however, the gendarme had
kicked open the door of No. 25, and I followed him into the room. The
place looked dirty and squalid in the extreme—just the sort of place I
should have expected Theodore to haunt. It was almost bare save for a
table in the centre, a couple of rickety chairs, a broken-down bedstead
and an iron stove in the corner. On the table a tallow candle was
spluttering and throwing a very feeble circle of light around.
At first glance I thought that the room was empty, then suddenly I
heard another violent expletive and became aware of a man sitting close
beside the iron stove. He turned to stare at us as we entered, but to
my surprise it was not Theodore’s ugly face which confronted us. The
man sitting there alone in the room where I had expected to see
Theodore and Carissimo had a shaggy beard of an undoubted ginger hue.
He had on a blue blouse and a peaked cap; beneath his cap his lank hair
protruded more decided in colour even than his beard. His head was sunk
between his shoulders, and right across his face, from the left eyebrow
over the cheek and as far as his ear, he had a hideous crimson scar,
which told up vividly against the ghastly pallor of his face.
But there was no sign of Theodore!
At first my friend the gendarme was quite urbane. He asked very
politely to see Monsieur’s pet dog. Monsieur denied all knowledge of a
dog, which denial only tended to establish his own guilt and the
veracity of mine own narrative. The gendarme thereupon became more
peremptory and the man promptly lost his temper.
I, in the meanwhile, was glancing round the room and soon spied a wall
cupboard which had obviously been deliberately screened by the
bedstead. While my companion was bringing the whole majesty of the law
to bear upon the miscreant’s denegations I calmly dragged the bedstead
aside and opened the cupboard door.
An ejaculation from my quivering throat brought the gendarme to my
side. Crouching in the dark recess of the wall cupboard was
Carissimo—not dead, thank goodness! but literally shaking with terror.
I pulled him out as gently as I could, for he was so frightened that he
growled and snapped viciously at me. I handed him to the gendarme, for
by the side of Carissimo I had seen something which literally froze my
blood within my veins. It was Theodore’s hat and coat, which he had
been wearing when I chased him to this house of mystery and of
ill-fame, and wrapped together with it was a rag all smeared with
blood, whilst the same hideous stains were now distinctly visible on
the door of the cupboard itself.
I turned to the gendarme, who at once confronted the abominable
malefactor with the obvious proofs of a horrible crime. But the
depraved wretch stood by, Sir, perfectly calm and with a cynicism in
his whole bearing which I had never before seen equalled!
“I know nothing about that coat,” he asserted with a shrug of the
shoulders, “nor about the dog.”
The gendarme by this time was purple with fury.
“Not know anything about the dog?” he exclaimed in a voice choked with
righteous indignation. “Why, he . . . he barked!”
But this indisputable fact in no way disconcerted the miscreant.
“I heard a dog yapping,” he said with consummate impudence, “but I
thought he was in the next room. No wonder,” he added coolly, “since he
was in a wall cupboard.”
“A wall cupboard,” the gendarme rejoined triumphantly, “situated in the
very room which you occupy at this moment.”
“That is a mistake, my friend,” the cynical wretch retorted, undaunted.
“I do not occupy this room. I do not lodge in this hotel at all.”
“Then how came you to be here?”
“I came on a visit to a friend who happened to be out when I arrived. I
found a pleasant fire here, and I sat down to warm myself. Your noisy
and unwarranted irruption into this room has so bewildered me that I no
longer know whether I am standing on my head or on my heels.”
“We’ll show you soon enough what you are standing on, my fine fellow,”
the gendarme riposted with breezy, cheerfulness. “Allons!”
I must say that the pampered minion of the law arose splendidly to the
occasion. He seized the miscreant by the arm and took him downstairs,
there to confront him with the proprietress of the establishment, while
I—with marvellous presence of mind—took possession of Carissimo and hid
him as best I could beneath my coat.
In the hall below a surprise and a disappointment were in store for me.
I had reached the bottom of the stairs when the shrill feminine accents
of Mme. the proprietress struck unpleasantly on my ear.
“No! no! I tell you!” she was saying. “This man is not my lodger. He
never came here with a dog. There,” she added volubly, and pointing an
unwashed finger at Carissimo who was struggling and growling in my
arms, “there is the dog. A gentleman brought him with him last
Wednesday, when he inquired if he could have a room here for a few
nights. Number twenty-five happened to be vacant, and I have no
objection to dogs. I let the gentleman have the room, and he paid me
twenty sous in advance when he took possession and told me he would
keep the room three nights.”
“The gentleman? What gentleman?” the gendarme queried, rather inanely I
thought.
“My lodger,” the woman replied. “He is out for the moment, but he will
be back presently I make no doubt. The dog is his. . . .”
“What is he like?” the minion of the law queried abruptly.
“Who? the dog?” she retorted impudently.
“No, no! Your lodger.”
Once more the unwashed finger went up and pointed straight at me.
“He described him well enough just now; thin and slouchy in his ways.
He has lank, yellow hair, a nose perpetually crimson—with the cold no
doubt—and pale, watery eyes. . . .”
“Theodore,” I exclaimed mentally.
Bewildered, the gendarme pointed to his prisoner.
“But this man . . . ?” he queried.
“Why,” the proprietress replied. “I have seen Monsieur twice, or was it
three times? He would visit number twenty-five now and then.”
I will not weary you with further accounts of the close examination to
which the representative of the law subjected the personnel of the
squalid hotel. The concierge and the man of all work did indeed confirm
what the proprietress said, and whilst my friend the gendarme —puzzled
and floundering—was scratching his head in complete bewilderment, I
thought that the opportunity had come for me to slip quietly out by the
still open door and make my way as fast as I could to the sumptuous
abode in the Faubourg St. Germain, where the gratitude of Mme. de Nolé,
together with five thousand francs, were even now awaiting me.
After Madame the proprietress had identified Carissimo, I had once more
carefully concealed him under my coat. I was ready to seize my
opportunity, after which I would be free to deal with the matter of
Theodore’s amazing disappearance. Unfortunately just at this moment the
little brute gave a yap, and the minion of the law at once interposed
and took possession of him.
“The dog belongs to the police now, Sir,” he said sternly.
The fatuous jobbernowl wanted his share of the reward, you see.
4.
Having been forced thus to give up Carissimo, and with him all my hopes
of a really substantial fortune, I was determined to make the
red-polled miscreant suffer for my disappointment, and the minions of
the law sweat in the exercise of their duty.
I demanded Theodore! My friend, my comrade, my right hand! I had seen
him not ten minutes ago, carrying in his arms this very dog, whom I had
subsequently found inside a wall cupboard beside a blood-stained coat.
Where was Theodore? Pointing an avenging finger at the red-headed
reprobate, I boldly accused him of having murdered my friend with a
view to robbing him of the reward offered for the recovery of the dog.
This brought a new train of thought into the wooden pates of the
gendarmes. A quartet of them had by this time assembled within the
respectable precincts of the Hôtel des Cadets. One of them—senior to
the others—at once dispatched a younger comrade to the nearest
commissary of police for advice and assistance.
Then he ordered us all into the room pompously labelled “Réception,”
and there proceeded once more to interrogate us all, making copious
notes in his leather-bound book all the time, whilst I, moaning and
lamenting the loss of my faithful friend and man of all work, loudly
demanded the punishment of his assassin.
Theodore’s coat, his hat, the blood-stained rag, had all been brought
down from No. 25 and laid out upon the table ready for the inspection
of M. the Commissary of Police.
That gentleman arrived with two private agents, armed with full powers
and wrapped in the magnificent imperturbability of the law. The
gendarme had already put him _au fait_ of the events, and as soon as he
was seated behind the table upon which reposed the “pièces de
conviction,” he in his turn proceeded to interrogate the ginger-pated
miscreant.
But strive how he might, M. the Commissary elicited no further
information from him than that which we all already possessed. The man
gave his name as Aristide Nicolet. He had no fixed abode. He had come
to visit his friend who lodged in No. 25 in the Hôtel des Cadets. Not
finding him at home he had sat by the fire and had waited for him. He
knew absolutely nothing of the dog and absolutely nothing of the
whereabouts of Theodore.
“We’ll soon see about that!” asserted M. the Commissary.
He ordered a perquisition of every room and every corner of the hotel,
Madame the proprietress loudly lamenting that she and her respectable
house would henceforth be disgraced for ever. But the thieves—whoever
they were—were clever. Not a trace of any illicit practice was found on
the premises—and not a trace of Theodore.
Had he indeed been murdered? The thought now had taken root in my mind.
For the moment I had even forgotten Carissimo and my vanished five
thousand francs.
Well, Sir! Aristide Nicolet was marched off to the depot—still
protesting his innocence. The next day he was confronted with Mme. la
Comtesse de Nolé, who could not say more than that he might have formed
part of the gang who had jostled her on the Quai Voltaire, whilst the
servant who had taken the missive from him failed to recognize him.
Carissimo was restored to the arms of his loving mistress, but the
reward for his recovery had to be shared between the police and myself:
three thousand francs going to the police who apprehended the thief,
and two thousand to me who had put them on the track.
It was not a fortune, Sir, but I had to be satisfied. But in the
meanwhile the disappearance of Theodore had remained an unfathomable
mystery. No amount of questionings and cross-questionings, no amount of
confrontations and perquisitions, had brought any new matter to light.
Aristide Nicolet persisted in his statements, as did the proprietress
and the concierge of the Hôtel des Cadets in theirs. Theodore had
undoubtedly occupied room No. 25 in the hotel during the three days
while I was racking my brain as to what had become of him. I equally
undoubtedly saw him for a few moments running up the Rue Beaune with
Carissimo’s tail projecting beneath his coat. Then he entered the open
doorway of the hotel, and henceforth his whereabouts remained a
baffling mystery.
Beyond his coat and hat, the stained rag and the dog himself, there was
not the faintest indication of what became of him after that. The
concierge vowed that he did not enter the hotel—Aristide Nicolet vowed
that he did not enter No. 25. But then the dog was in the cupboard, and
so were the hat and coat; and even the police were bound to admit that
in the short space of time between my last glimpse of Theodore and the
gendarme’s entry into room 25 it would be impossible for the most
experienced criminal on earth to murder a man, conceal every trace of
the crime, and so to dispose of the body as to baffle the most minute
inquiry and the most exhaustive search.
Sometimes when I thought the whole matter out I felt that I was growing
crazy.
5.
Thus about a week or ten days went by and I had just come reluctantly
to the conclusion that there must be some truth in the old mediaeval
legends which tell us that the devil runs away with his elect from time
to time, when I received a summons from M. the Commissary of Police to
present myself at his bureau.
He was pleasant and urbane as usual, but to my anxious query after
Theodore he only gave me the old reply: “No trace of him can be found.”
Then he added: “We must therefore take it for granted, my good M.
Ratichon, that your man of all work is—of his own free will—keeping out
of the way. The murder theory is untenable; we have had to abandon it.
The total disappearance of the body is an unanswerable argument against
it. Would you care to offer a reward for information leading to the
recovery of your missing friend?”
I hesitated. I certainly was not prepared to pay anyone for finding
Theodore.
“Think it over, my good M. Ratichon,” rejoined M. le Commissaire
pleasantly. “But in the meanwhile I must tell you that we have decided
to set Aristide Nicolet free. There is not a particle of evidence
against him either in the matter of the dog or of that of your friend.
Mme. de Nolé’s servants cannot swear to his identity, whilst you have
sworn that you last saw the dog in your man’s arms. That being so, I
feel that we have no right to detain an innocent man.”
Well, Sir, what could I say? I knew well enough that there was not a
tittle of solid evidence against the man Nicolet, nor had I the power
to move the police of His Majesty the King from their decision. In my
heart of hearts I had the firm conviction that the ginger-polled
ruffian knew all about Carissimo and all about the present whereabouts
of that rascal Theodore. But what could I say, Sir? What could I do?
I went home that night to my lodgings at Passy more perplexed than ever
I had been in my life before.
The next morning I arrived at my office soon after nine. The problem
had presented itself to me during the night of finding a new man of all
work who would serve me on the same terms as that ungrateful wretch
Theodore.
I mounted the stairs with a heavy step and opened the outer door of my
apartment with my private key; and then, Sir, I assure you that for one
brief moment I felt that my knees were giving way under me and that I
should presently measure my full length on the floor.
There, sitting at the table in my private room, was Theodore. He had
donned one of the many suits of clothes which I always kept at the
office for purposes of my business, and he was calmly consuming a
luscious sausage which was to have been part of my dinner today, and
finishing a half-bottle of my best Bordeaux.
He appeared wholly unconscious of his enormities, and when I taxed him
with his villainies and plied him with peremptory questions he met me
with a dogged silence and a sulky attitude which I have never seen
equalled in all my life. He flatly denied that he had ever walked the
streets of Paris with a dog under his arm, or that I had ever chased
him up the Rue Beaune. He denied ever having lodged in the Hôtel des
Cadets, or been acquainted with its proprietress, or with a red-polled,
hunchback miscreant named Aristide Nicolet. He denied that the coat and
hat found in room No. 25 were his; in fact, he denied everything, and
with an impudence, Sir, which was past belief.
But he put the crown to his insolence when he finally demanded two
hundred francs from me: his share in the sum paid to me by Mme. de Nolé
for the recovery of her dog. He demanded this, Sir, in the name of
justice and of equity, and even brandished our partnership contract in
my face.
I was so irate at his audacity, so disgusted that presently I felt that
I could not bear the sight of him any longer. I turned my back on him
and walked out of my own private room, leaving him there still munching
my sausage and drinking my Bordeaux.
I was going through the antechamber with a view to going out into the
street for a little fresh air when something in the aspect of the
chair-bedstead on which that abominable brute Theodore had apparently
spent the night attracted my attention. I turned over one of the
cushions, and with a cry of rage which I took no pains to suppress I
seized upon what I found lying beneath: a blue linen blouse, Sir, a
peaked cap, a ginger-coloured wig and beard!
The villain! The abominable mountebank! The wretch! The . . . I was
wellnigh choking with wrath.
With the damning pieces of conviction in my hand, I rushed back into
the inner room. Already my cry of indignation had aroused the vampire
from his orgy. He stood before me sheepish, grinning, and taunted me,
Sir—taunted me for my blindness in not recognizing him under the
disguise of the so-called Aristide Nicolet.
It was a disguise which he had kept by him in case of an emergency when
first he decided to start business as a dog thief. Carissimo had been
his first serious venture and but for my interference it would have
been a wholly successful one. He had worked the whole thing out with
marvellous cleverness, being greatly assisted by Madame Sand, the
proprietress of the Hôtel des Cadets, who was a friend of his mother’s.
The lady, it seems, carried on a lucrative business of the same sort
herself, and she undertook to furnish him with the necessary
confederates for the carrying out of his plan. The proceeds of the
affair were to be shared equally between himself and Madame; the
confederates, who helped to jostle Mme. de Nolé whilst her dog was
being stolen, were to receive five francs each for their trouble.
When he met me at the corner of the Rue Beaune he was on his way to the
Rue Guénégaud, hoping to exchange Carissimo for five thousand francs.
When he met me, however, he felt that the best thing to do for the
moment was to seek safety in flight. He had only just time to run back
to the hotel to warn Mme. Sand of my approach and beg her to detain me
at any cost. Then he flew up the stairs, changed into his disguise,
Carissimo barking all the time furiously. Whilst he was trying to
pacify the dog, the latter bit him severely in the arm, drawing a good
deal of blood—the crimson scar across his face was a last happy
inspiration which put the finishing touch to his disguise and to the
hoodwinking of the police and of me. He had only just time to staunch
the blood from his arm and to thrust his own clothes and Carissimo into
the wall cupboard when the gendarme and I burst in upon him.
I could only gasp. For one brief moment the thought rushed through my
mind that I would denounce him to the police for . . . for . . .
But that was just the trouble. Of what could I accuse him? Of murdering
himself or of stealing Mme. de Nolé’s dog? The commissary would hardly
listen to such a tale . . . and it would make me seem ridiculous. . . .
So I gave Theodore the soundest thrashing he ever had in his life, and
fifty francs to keep his mouth shut.
But did I not tell you that he was a monster of ingratitude?