1.
You are right, Sir, I very seldom speak of my halcyon days—those days
when the greatest monarch the world has ever known honoured me with his
intimacy and confidence. I had my office in the Rue St. Roch then, at
the top of a house just by the church, and not a stone’s throw from the
palace, and I can tell you, Sir, that in those days ministers of state,
foreign ambassadors, aye! and members of His Majesty’s household, were
up and down my staircase at all hours of the day. I had not yet met
Theodore then, and fate was wont to smile on me.
As for M. le Duc d’Otrante, Minister of Police, he would send to me or
for me whenever an intricate case required special acumen,
resourcefulness and secrecy. Thus in the matter of the English
files—have I told you of it before? No? Well, then, you shall hear.
Those were the days, Sir, when the Emperor’s Berlin Decrees were going
to sweep the world clear of English commerce and of English enterprise.
It was not a case of paying heavy duty on English goods, or a still
heavier fine if you smuggled; it was total prohibition, and hanging if
you were caught bringing so much as a metre of Bradford cloth or half a
dozen Sheffield files into the country. But you know how it is, Sir:
the more strict the law the more ready are certain lawless human
creatures to break it. Never was smuggling so rife as it was in those
days—I am speaking now of 1810 or 11—never was it so daring or
smugglers so reckless.
M. le Duc d’Otrante had his hands full, I can tell you. It had become a
matter for the secret police; the coastguard or customs officials were
no longer able to deal with it.
Then one day Hypolite Leroux came to see me. I knew the man well—a keen
sleuthhound if ever there was one—and well did he deserve his name, for
he was as red as a fox.
“Ratichon,” he said to me, without preamble, as soon as he had seated
himself opposite to me, and I had placed half a bottle of good Bordeaux
and a couple of glasses on the table. “I want your help in the matter
of these English files. We have done all that we can in our department.
M. le Duc has doubled the customs personnel on the Swiss frontier, the
coastguard is both keen and efficient, and yet we know that at the
present moment there are thousands of English files used in this
country, even inside His Majesty’s own armament works. M. le Duc
d’Otrante is determined to put an end to the scandal. He has offered a
big reward for information which will lead to the conviction of one or
more of the chief culprits, and I am determined to get that reward—with
your help, if you will give it.”
“What is the reward?” I asked simply.
“Five thousand francs,” he replied. “Your knowledge of English and
Italian is what caused me to offer you a share in this splendid
enterprise—”
“It’s no good lying to me, Leroux,” I broke in quietly, “if we are
going to work amicably together.”
He swore.
“The reward is ten thousand francs.” I made the shot at a venture,
knowing my man well.
“I swear that it is not,” he asserted hotly.
“Swear again,” I retorted, “for I’ll not deal with you for less than
five thousand.”
He did swear again and protested loudly. But I was firm.
“Have another glass of wine,” I said.
After which he gave in.
The affair was bound to be risky. Smugglers of English goods were
determined and desperate men who were playing for high stakes and
risking their necks on the board. In all matters of smuggling a
knowledge of foreign languages was an invaluable asset. I spoke Italian
well and knew some English. I knew my worth. We both drank a glass of
cognac and sealed our bond then and there.
After which Leroux drew his chair closer to my desk.
“Listen, then,” he said. “You know the firm of Fournier Frères, in the
Rue Colbert?”
“By name, of course. Cutlers and surgical instrument makers by
appointment to His Majesty. What about them?”
“M. le Duc has had his eyes on them for some time.”
“Fournier Frères!” I ejaculated. “Impossible! A more reputable firm
does not exist in France.”
“I know, I know,” he rejoined impatiently. “And yet it is a curious
fact that M. Aristide Fournier, the junior partner, has lately bought
for himself a house at St. Claude.”
“At St. Claude?” I ejaculated.
“Yes,” he responded dryly. “Very near to Gex, what?”
I shrugged my shoulders, for indeed the circumstances did appear
somewhat strange.
Do you know Gex, my dear Sir? Ah, it is a curious and romantic spot. It
has possibilities, both natural and political, which appear to have
been expressly devised for the benefit of the smuggling fraternity.
Nestling in the midst of the Jura mountains, it is outside the customs
zone of the Empire. So you see the possibilities, do you not? Gex soon
became the picturesque warehouse of every conceivable kind of
contraband goods. On one side of it there was the Swiss frontier, and
the Swiss Government was always willing to close one eye in the matter
of customs provided its palm was sufficiently greased by the
light-fingered gentry. No difficulty, therefore, as you see, in getting
contraband goods—even English ones—as far as Gex.
Here they could be kept hidden until a fitting opportunity occurred for
smuggling them into France, opportunities for which the Jura, with
their narrow defiles and difficult mountain paths, afforded magnificent
scope. St. Claude, of which Leroux had just spoken as the place where
M. Aristide Fournier had recently bought himself a house, is in France,
only a few kilometres from the neutral zone of Gex. It seemed a strange
spot to choose for a wealthy and fashionable member of Parisian
bourgeois society, I was bound to admit.
“But,” I mused, “one cannot go to Gex without a permit from the
police.”
“Not by road,” Leroux assented. “But you will own that there are means
available to men who are young and vigorous like M. Fournier, who
moreover, I understand, is an accomplished mountaineer. You know Gex,
of course?”
I had crossed the Jura once, in my youth, but was not very intimately
familiar with the district. Leroux had a carefully drawn-out map of it
in his pocket; this he laid out before me.
“These two roads,” he began, tracing the windings of a couple of thin
red lines on the map with the point of his finger, “are the only two
made ones that lead in and out of the district. Here is the Valserine,”
he went on, pointing to a blue line, “which flows from north to south,
and both the roads wind over bridges that span the river close to our
frontier. The French customs stations are on our side of those bridges.
But, besides those two roads, the frontier can, of course, be crossed
by one or other of the innumerable mountain tracks which are only
accessible to pedestrians or mules. That is where our customs officials
are powerless, for the tracks are precipitous and offer unlimited cover
to those who know every inch of the ground. Several of them lead
directly into St. Claude, at some considerable distance from the
customs stations, and it is these tracks which are being used by M.
Aristide Fournier for the felonious purpose of trading with the
enemy—on this I would stake my life. But I mean to be even with him,
and if I get the help which I require from you, I am convinced that I
can lay him by the heels.”
“I am your man,” I concluded simply.
“Very well,” he resumed. “Are you prepared to journey with me to Gex?”
“When do you start?”
“To-day.”
“I shall be ready.”
He gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Then listen to my plan,” he said. “We’ll journey together as far as
St. Claude; from there you will push on to Gex, and take up your abode
in the city, styling yourself an interpreter. This will give you the
opportunity of mixing with some of the smuggling fraternity, and it
will be your duty to keep both your eyes and ears open. I, on the other
hand, will take up my quarters at Mijoux, the French customs station,
which is on the frontier, about half a dozen kilometres from Gex. Every
day I’ll arrange to meet you, either at the latter place or somewhere
half-way, and hear what news you may have to tell me. And mind,
Ratichon,” he added sternly, “it means running straight, or the reward
will slip through our fingers.”
I chose to ignore the coarse insinuation, and only riposted quietly:
“I must have money on account. I am a poor man, and will be out of
pocket by the transaction from the hour I start for Gex to that when
you pay me my fair share of the reward.”
By way of a reply he took out a case from his pocket. I saw that it was
bulging over with banknotes, which confirmed me in my conviction both
that he was actually an emissary of the Minister of Police and that I
could have demanded an additional thousand francs without fear of
losing the business.
“I’ll give you five hundred on account,” he said as he licked his ugly
thumb preparatory to counting out the money before me.
“Make it a thousand,” I retorted; “and call it ‘additional,’ not ‘on
account.’”
He tried to argue.
“I am not keen on the business,” I said with calm dignity, “so if you
think that I am asking too much—there are others, no doubt, who would
do the work for less.”
It was a bold move. But it succeeded. Leroux laughed and shrugged his
shoulders. Then he counted out ten hundred-franc notes and laid them
out upon the desk. But before I could touch them he laid his large bony
hands over the lot and, looking me straight between the eyes, he said
with earnest significance:
“English files are worth as much as twenty francs apiece in the
market.”
“I know.”
“Fournier Frères would not take the risks which they are doing for a
consignment of less than ten thousand.”
“I doubt if they would,” I rejoined blandly.
“It will be your business to find out how and when the smugglers
propose to get their next consignment over the frontier.”
“Exactly.”
“And to communicate any information you may have obtained to me.”
“And to keep an eye on the valuable cargo, of course?” I concluded.
“Yes,” he said roughly, “an eye. But hands off, understand, my good
Ratichon, or there’ll be trouble.”
He did not wait to hear my indignant protest. He had risen to his feet,
and had already turned to go. Now he stretched his great coarse hand
out to me.
“All in good part, eh?”
I took his hand. He meant no harm, did old Leroux. He was just a
common, vulgar fellow who did not know a gentleman when he saw one.
And we parted the best of friends.
2.
A week later I was at Gex. At St. Claude I had parted from Leroux, and
then hired a chaise to take me to my destination. It was a matter of
fifteen kilometres by road over the frontier of the customs zone and
through the most superb scenery I had ever seen in my life. We drove
through narrow gorges, on each side of which the mountain heights rose
rugged and precipitous to incalculable altitudes above. From time to
time only did I get peeps of almost imperceptible tracks along the
declivities, tracks on which it seemed as if goats alone could obtain a
footing. Once—hundreds of feet above me—I spied a couple of mules
descending what seemed like a sheer perpendicular path down the
mountain side. The animals appeared to be heavily laden, and I
marvelled what forbidden goods lay hidden within their packs and
whether in the days that were to come I too should be called upon to
risk my life on those declivities following in the footsteps of the
reckless and desperate criminals whom it was my duty to pursue.
I confess that at the thought, and with those pictures of grim nature
before me, I felt an unpleasant shiver coursing down my spine.
Nothing of importance occurred during the first fortnight of my sojourn
at Gex. I was installed in moderately comfortable, furnished rooms in
the heart of the city, close to the church and market square. In one of
my front windows, situated on the ground floor, I had placed a card
bearing the inscription: “Aristide Barrot, Interpreter,” and below,
“Anglais, Allemand, Italien.” I had even had a few
clients—conversations between the local police and some poor wretches
caught in the act of smuggling a few yards of Swiss silk or a couple of
cream cheeses over the French frontier, and sent back to Gex to be
dealt with by the local authorities.
Leroux had found lodgings at Mijoux, and twice daily he walked over to
Gex to consult with me. We met, mornings and evenings, at the café
restaurant of the Crâne Chauve, an obscure little tavern situated on
the outskirts of the city. He was waxing impatient at what he called my
supineness, for indeed so far I had had nothing to report.
There was no sign of M. Aristide Fournier. No one in Gex appeared to
know anything about him, though the proprietor of the principal hotel
in the town did recollect having had a visitor of that name once or
twice during the past year. But, of course, during this early stage of
my stay in the town it was impossible for me to believe anything that I
was told. I had not yet succeeded in winning the confidence of the
inhabitants, and it was soon pretty evident to me that the whole
countryside was engaged in the perilous industry of smuggling. Everyone
from the mayor downwards did a bit of a deal now and again in
contraband goods. In ordinary cases it only meant fines if one was
caught, or perhaps imprisonment for repeated offenses.
But four or five days after my arrival at Gex I saw three fellows
handed over to the police of the department. They had been caught in
the act of trying to ford the Valserine with half a dozen pack-mules
laden with English cloth. They were hanged at St. Claude two days
later.
I can assure you, Sir, that the news of this summary administration of
justice sent another cold shiver down my spine, and I marvelled if
indeed Leroux’s surmises were correct and if a respectable tradesman
like Aristide Fournier would take such terrible risks even for the sake
of heavy gains.
I had been in Gex just a fortnight when the weather, which hitherto had
been splendid, turned to squalls and storms. We were then in the second
week of September. A torrential rain had fallen the whole of one day,
during which I had only been out in order to meet Leroux, as usual, at
the Café du Crâne Chauve. I had just come home from our evening
meeting—it was then ten o’clock—and I was preparing to go comfortably
to bed, when I was startled by a violent ring at the front-door bell.
I had only just time to wonder if this belated visitor desired to see
me or my worthy landlady, Mme. Bournon, when her heavy footsteps
resounded along the passage. The next moment I heard my name spoken
peremptorily by a harsh voice, and Mme. Bournon’s reply that M.
Aristide Barrot was indeed within. A few seconds later she ushered my
nocturnal visitor into my room.
He was wrapped in a dark mantle from head to foot, and he wore a
wide-brimmed hat pulled right over his eyes. He did not remove either
as he addressed me without further preamble.
“You are an interpreter, Sir?” he queried, speaking very rapidly and in
sharp commanding tones.
“At your service,” I replied.
“My name is Ernest Berty. I want you to come with me at once to my
house. I require your services as intermediary between myself and some
men who have come to see me on business. These men whom I wish you to
see are Russians,” he added, I fancied as an afterthought, “but they
speak English fluently.”
I suppose that I looked just as I felt—somewhat dubious owing to the
lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, not to speak of the
abominable weather, for he continued with marked impatience:
“It is imperative that you should come at once. Though my house is at
some little distance from here, I have a chaise outside which will also
bring you back, and,” he added significantly, “I will pay you whatever
you demand.”
“It is very late,” I demurred, “the weather—”
“Your fee, man!” he broke in roughly, “and let’s get on!”
“Five hundred francs,” I said at a venture.
“Come!” was his curt reply. “I will give you the money as we drive
along.”
I wished I had made it a thousand; apparently my services were worth a
great deal to him. However, I picked up my mantle and my hat, and
within a few seconds was ready to go. I shouted up to Mme. Bournon that
I would not be home for a couple of hours, but that as I had my key I
need not disturb her when I returned.
Once outside the door I almost regretted my ready acquiescence in this
nocturnal adventure. The rain was beating down unmercifully, and at
first I saw no sign of a vehicle; but in answer to my visitor’s sharp
command I followed him down the street as far as the market square, at
the corner of which I spied the dim outline of a carriage and a couple
of horses.
Without wasting too many words, M. Ernest Berty bundled me into the
carriage, and very soon we were on the way. The night was impenetrably
dark and the chaise more than ordinarily rickety. I had but little
opportunity to ascertain which way we were going. A small lanthorn
fixed opposite to me in the interior of the carriage, and flickering
incessantly before my eyes, made it still more impossible for me to see
anything outside the narrow window. My companion sat beside me, silent
and absorbed. After a while I ventured to ask him which way we were
driving.
“Through the town,” he replied curtly. “My house is just outside
Divonne.”
Now, Divonne is, as I knew, quite close to the Swiss frontier. It is a
matter of seven or eight kilometres—an hour’s drive at the very least
in this supremely uncomfortable vehicle. I tried to induce further
conversation, but made no headway against my companion’s taciturnity.
However, I had little cause for complaint in another direction. After
the first quarter of an hour, and when we had left the cobblestones of
the city behind us, he drew a bundle of notes from his pocket, and by
the flickering light of the lanthorn he counted out ten fifty-franc
notes and handed them without another word to me.
The drive was unspeakably wearisome; but after a while I suppose that
the monotonous rumbling of the wheels and the incessant patter of the
rain against the window-panes lulled me into a kind of torpor. Certain
it is that presently—much sooner than I had anticipated—the chaise drew
up with a jerk, and I was roused to full consciousness by hearing M.
Berty’s voice saying curtly:
“Here we are! Come with me!”
I was stiff, Sir, and I was shivering—not so much with cold as with
excitement. You will readily understand that all my faculties were now
on the qui vive. Somehow or other during the wearisome drive by the
side of my close-tongued companion my mind had fastened on the
certitude that my adventure of this night bore a close connexion to the
firm of Fournier Frères and to the English files which were causing so
many sleepless nights to M. le Duc d’Otrante, Minister of Police.
But nothing in my manner, as I stepped out of the carriage under the
porch of the house which loomed dark and massive out of the surrounding
gloom, betrayed anything of what I felt. Outwardly I was just a worthy
bourgeois, an interpreter by profession, and delighted at the
remunerative work so opportunely put in my way.
The house itself appeared lonely as well as dark. M. Berty led the way
across a narrow passage, at the end of which there was a door which he
pushed open, saying in his usual abrupt manner: “Go in there and wait.
I’ll send for you directly.”
Then he closed the door on me, and I heard his footsteps recrossing the
corridor and presently ascending some stairs. I was left alone in a
small, sparsely furnished room, dimly lighted by an oil lamp which hung
down from the ceiling. There was a table in the middle of the room, a
square of carpet on the floor, and a couple of chairs beside a small
iron stove. I noticed that the single window was closely shuttered and
barred. I sat down and waited. At first the silence around me was only
broken by the pattering of the rain against the shutters and the
soughing of the wind down the iron chimney pipe, but after a little
while my senses, which by this time had become super-acute, were
conscious of various noises within the house itself: footsteps
overhead, a confused murmur of voices, and anon the unmistakable sound
of a female voice raised as if in entreaty or in complaint.
Somehow a vague feeling of alarm possessed itself of my nervous system.
I began to realise my position—alone, a stranger in a house as to whose
situation I had not the remotest idea, and among a set of men who, if
my surmises were correct, were nothing less than a gang of determined
and dangerous criminals. The voices, especially the female one, were
now sounding more clear. I tiptoed to the door, and very gently opened
it. There was indeed no mistaking the tone of desperate pleading which
came from some room above and through & woman’s lips. I even caught the
words: “Oh, don’t! Oh, don’t! Not again!” repeated at intervals with
pitiable insistence.
Mastering my not unnatural anxiety, I opened the door a little farther
and slipped out into the passage, all my instincts of chivalry towards
beauty in distress aroused by those piteous cries. Forgetful of every
possible danger and of all prudence, I had already darted down the
corridor, determined to do my duty as a gentleman as soon as I had
ascertained whence had come those cries of anguish, when I heard the
frou-frou of skirts and a rapid patter of small feet down the stairs.
The next moment a radiant vision, all white muslin, fair curls and the
scent of violets, descended on me from above, a soft hand closed over
mine and drew me, unresisting, back into the room from whence I had
just come.
Bewildered, I gazed on the winsome apparition before me, and beheld a
young girl, slender as a lily, dressed in a soft, clinging gown which
made her appear more slender still, her fair hair arranged in a tangle
of unruly curls round the dainty oval of her face.
She was exquisite, Sir! And the slenderness of her! You cannot imagine
it! She looked like a young sapling bending to the gale. But what cut
me to the heart was the look of terror and of misery in her face. She
clasped her hands together and the tears gathered in her eyes.
“Go, Sir, go at once!” she murmured under her breath, speaking very
rapidly. “Do not waste a minute, I beg of you! As you value your life,
go before it is too late!”
“But, Mademoiselle,” I stammered; for indeed her words and appearance
had roused all my worst fears, but also all my instincts of the
sleuth-hound scenting his quarry.
“Don’t argue, I beg of you,” continued the lovely creature, who indeed
seemed the prey of overwhelming emotions—fear, horror, pity. “When he
comes back do not let him find you here. I’ll explain, I’ll know what
to say, only I entreat you—go!”
Sir, I have many faults, but cowardice does not happen to be one of
them, and the more the angel pleaded the more determined was I to see
this business through. I was, of course, quite convinced by now that I
was on the track of M. Aristide Fournier and the English files, and I
was not going to let five thousand francs and the gratitude of the
Minister of Police slip through my fingers so easily.
“Mademoiselle,” I rejoined as calmly as I could, “let me assure you
that though your anxiety for me is like manna to a starving man, I have
no fears for my own safety. I have come here in the capacity of a
humble interpreter; I certainly am not worth putting out of the way.
Moreover, I have been paid for my services, and these I will render to
my employer to the best of my capabilities.”
“Ah, but you don’t know,” she retorted, not departing one jot from her
attitude of terror and of entreaty, “you don’t understand. This house,
Monsieur,” she added in a hoarse whisper, “is nothing but a den of
criminals wherein no honest man or woman is safe.”
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” I riposted as lightly and as gallantly as I
could, “I see before me the living proof that angels, at any rate,
dwell therein.”
“Alas! Sir,” she rejoined, with a heart-rending sigh, “if you mean me,
I am only to be pitied. My dear mother and I are naught but slaves to
the will of my brother, who uses us as tools for his nefarious ends.”
“But . . .” I stammered, horrified beyond speech at the vista of
villainy which her words had opened up before me.
“My mother, Sir,” she said simply, “is old and ailing; she is dying of
anguish at sight of her son’s misdeeds. I would not, could not leave
her, yet I would give my life to see her free from that miscreant’s
clutches!”
My whole soul was stirred to its depths by the intensity of passion
which rang through this delicate creature’s words. What weird and
awesome mystery of iniquity and of crime lay hid, I wondered, between
these walls? In what tragedy had I thus accidentally become involved
while fulfilling my prosaic duty in the interest of His Majesty’s
exchequer? As in a flash it suddenly came to me that perhaps I could
serve both this lovely creature and the Emperor better by going out of
the house now, and lying hidden all the night through somewhere in its
vicinity until in daylight I could locate its exact situation. Then I
could communicate with Leroux at once and procure the apprehension of
this Berty—or Fournier—who apparently was a desperate criminal. Already
a bold plan was taking shape in my brain, and with my mind’s eye I had
measured the distance which separated me from the front door and safety
when, in the distance, I heard heavy footsteps slowly descending the
stairs. I looked at my lovely companion, and saw her eyes gradually
dilating with increased horror. She gave a smothered cry, pressed her
handkerchief to her lips, then she murmured hoarsely, “Too late!” and
fled precipitately from the room, leaving me a prey to mingled emotions
such as I had never experienced before.
3.
A moment or two later M. Ernest Berty, or whatever his real name may
have been, entered the room. Whether he had encountered his exquisite
sister on the corridor or the stairs, I could not tell; his face, in
the dim light of the hanging lamp, looked impenetrable and sinister.
“This way, M. Barrot,” he said curtly.
Just for one brief moment the thought occurred to me to throw myself
upon him with my whole weight—which was considerable—and make a wild
dash for the front door. But it was more than probable that I should be
intercepted and brought back, after which no doubt I would be an object
of suspicion to these rascals and my life would not be worth an hour’s
purchase. With the young girl’s warnings ringing in my ears, I felt
that my one chance of safety and of circumventing these criminals lay
in my seeming ingenuousness and complete guileless-ness.
I assumed a perfect professional manner and followed my companion up
the stairs. He ushered me into a room just above the one where I had
been waiting up to now. Three men dressed in rough clothes were sitting
at a table on which stood a couple of tankards and four empty pewter
mugs. My employer offered me a glass of ale, which I declined. Then we
got to work.
At the first words which M. Berty uttered I knew that all my surmises
had been correct. Whether he himself was M. Aristide Fournier, or
another partner of that firm, or some other rascal engaged in nefarious
doings, I could not know; certain it was that through the medium of
cipher words and phrases which he thought were unintelligible to me,
and which he ordered me to interpret into English, he was giving
directions to the three men with regard to the convoying of contraband
cargo over the frontier.
There was much talk of “toys” and “babies”—the latter were to take a
walk in the mountains and to avoid the “thorns”; the “toys” were to be
securely fastened and well protected against water. It was obviously a
case of mules and of the goods, the “thorns” being the customs
officials. By the time that we had finished I was absolutely convinced
in my mind that the cargo was one of English files or razors, for it
was evidently extraordinarily valuable and not at all bulky, seeing
that two “babies” were to carry all the “toys” for a considerable
distance. The men, too, were obviously English. I tried the few words
of Russian that I knew on them, and their faces remained perfectly
blank.
Yes, indeed, I was on the track of M. Aristide Fournier, and of one of
the most important hauls of enemy goods which had ever been made in
France. Not only that. I had also before me one of the most brutish
criminals it had ever been my misfortune to come across. A bully, a
fiend of cruelty. In very truth my fertile brain was seething with
plans for eventually laying that abominable ruffian by the heels:
hanging would be a merciful punishment for such a miscreant. Yes,
indeed, five thousand francs—a goodly sum in those days, Sir—was
practically assured me. But over and above mere lucre there was the
certainty that in a few days’ time I should see the light of gratitude
shining out of a pair of lustrous blue eyes, and a winning smile
chasing away the look of fear and of sorrow from the sweetest face I
had seen for many a day.
Despite the turmoil that was raging in my brain, however, I flatter
myself that my manner with the rascals remained consistently calm,
businesslike, indifferent to all save to the work in hand. The
soi-disant Ernest Berty spoke invariably in French, either dictating
his orders or seeking information, and I made verbal translation into
English of all that he said. The séance lasted close upon an hour, and
presently I gathered that the affair was terminated and that I could
consider myself dismissed.
I was about to take my leave, having apparently completed my work, when
M. Ernest Berty called me back with a curt command.
“One moment, M. Barrot,” he said.
“At Monsieur’s service,” I responded blandly.
“As you see,” he continued, “these fellows do not know a word of
French. All along the way which they will have to traverse they will
meet friendly outposts, who will report to them on the condition of the
roads and warn them of any danger that might be ahead. Their ignorance
of our language may be a source of infinite peril to them. They need an
interpreter to accompany them over the mountains.”
He paused for a moment or two, then added abruptly:
“Would you care to go? The matter is important,” he went on quietly,
“and I am willing to pay you. It means a couple of nights’ journey—a
halt in the mountains during the day—and there will be ten thousand
francs for you if the ‘toys’ reach St. Claude safely.”
I suppose that something in my face betrayed the eagerness which I
felt. Here was indeed the finger of Providence pointing to the best
means of undoing this abominable criminal. Not that I intended to risk
my neck for any ten thousand francs he chose to offer me, but as the
trusted guide of his ingenuous “babies” I could convoy them—not to St.
Claude, as he blandly believed, but straight into the arms of Leroux
and the customs officials.
“Then that is understood,” he said in his usual dictatorial manner,
taking my consent for granted. “Ten thousand francs. And you will
accompany these gentlemen and their ‘babies’ as far as St. Claude?”
“I am a poor man, Sir,” I responded meekly.
“Of course you are,” he broke in roughly.
Then from a number of papers which lay upon the table, he selected one
which he held out to me.
“Do you know St. Cergues?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “It is a short walk from Gex.”
“This,” he added, pointing to a paper which I had taken from him, “is a
plan of the village and of the Pass of Cergues close by. Study it
carefully. At some point some way up the pass, which I have marked with
a cross, I and my men with the ‘babies’ will be waiting for you
to-morrow evening at eight o’clock. You cannot possibly fail to find
the spot, for the plan is very accurate and very minute, and it is less
than five hundred metres from the last house at the entrance of the
pass. I shall escort the men until then, and hand them over into your
charge for the mountain journey. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well, then; you may go. The carriage is outside the door. You
know your way.”
He dismissed me with a curt nod, and the next two minutes saw me
outside this house of mystery and installed inside the ramshackle
vehicle on my way back to my lodgings.
I was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and I imagine that I slept
most of the way. Certain it is that the journey home was not nearly so
long as the outward one had been. The rain was still coming down
heavily, but I cared nothing about the weather, nothing about fatigue.
My path to fame and fortune had been made easier for me than in my
wildest dreams I would have dared to hope. In the morning I would see
Leroux and make final arrangements for the capture of those impudent
smugglers, and I thought the best way would be for him to meet me and
the “babies” and the “toys” at the very outset of our journey, as I did
not greatly relish the idea of crossing lonely and dangerous mountain
paths in the company of these ruffians.
I reached home without adventure. The vehicle drew up just outside my
lodgings, and I was about to alight when my eyes were attracted by
something white which lay on the front seat of the carriage,
conspicuously placed so that the light from the inside lanthorn fell
full upon it. I had been too tired and too dazed, I suppose, to notice
the thing before, but now, on closer inspection, I saw that it was a
note, and that it was addressed to me: “M. Aristide Barrot,
Interpreter,” and below my name were the words: “Very urgent.”
I took the note feeling a thrill of excitement running through my veins
at its touch. I alighted, and the vehicle immediately disappeared into
the night. I had only caught one glimpse of the horses, and none at all
of the coachman. Then I went straight into my room, and by the light of
the table lamp I unfolded and read the mysterious note. It bore no
signature, but at the first words I knew that the writer was none other
than the lovely young creature who had appeared to me like an angel of
innocence in the midst of that den of thieves.
“Monsieur,” she had written in a hand which had clearly been trembling
with agitation, “you are good, you are kind; I entreat you to be
merciful. My dear mother, whom I worship, is sick with terror and
misery. She will die if she remains any longer under the sway of that
inhuman monster who, alas! is my own brother. And if I lose her I shall
die, too, for I should no longer have anyone to stand between me and
his cruelties.
“My dear mother has some relations living at St. Claude. She would have
gone to them before now, but my brother keeps us both virtual prisoners
here, and we have no means of arranging for such a perilous journey for
ourselves. Now, by the most extraordinary stroke of good fortune, my
brother will be absent all day to-morrow and the following night. My
dear mother and I feel that God Himself is showing us the way to our
release.
“Will you, can you help us, dear M. Barrot? Mother and I will be at Gex
to-morrow at one hour after sundown. We will lie perdu in the little
Taverne du Roi de Rome, where, if you come to us, you will find us
waiting anxiously. If you can do nothing to help us, we must return
broken-hearted to our hated prison; but something in my heart tells me
that you can help us. All that we want is a vehicle of some sort and
the escort of a brave man like yourself as far as St. Claude, where our
relatives will thank you on their knees for your kindness and
generosity to two helpless, miserable, unprotected women, and I will
kiss your hands in unbounded gratitude and devotion.”
It were impossible, Monsieur, to tell you of the varied emotions which
filled my heart when I had perused that heart-rending appeal. All my
instincts of chivalry were aroused. I was determined to do my duty to
these helpless ladies as a man and as a gallant knight. Even before I
finally went to bed I had settled in my mind what I meant to do.
Fortunately it was quite possible for me to reconcile my duties to my
Emperor and those which I owed to myself in the matter of the reward
for the apprehension of the smugglers, with my burning desire to be the
saviour and protector of the lovely creature whose beauty had inflamed
my impressionable heart, and to have my hands kissed by her in
gratitude and devotion.
The next morning Leroux and I were deep in our plans, whilst we sipped
our coffee outside the Crâne Chauve. He was beside himself with joy and
excitement at the prospective haul, which would, of course, redound
enormously to his credit, even though the success of the whole
undertaking would be due to my acumen, my resourcefulness and my pluck.
Fortunately I found him not only ready but eager to render me what
assistance he could in the matter of the two ladies who had thrown
themselves so entirely on my protection.
“We might get valuable information out of them,” he remarked. “In the
excess of their gratitude they may betray many more secrets and
nefarious doings of the firm of Fournier Frères.”
“Which further proves,” I remarked, “how deeply you and Monsieur le
Ministre of Police are indebted to me over this affair.”
He did not argue the point. Indeed, we were both of us far too much
excited to waste words in useless bickerings. Our plans for the evening
were fairly simple. We both pored over the map which Fournier-Berty had
given me, until we felt that we could reach blindfolded the spot which
had been marked with a cross. We then arranged that Leroux should
betake himself thither with a strong posse of gendarmes during the day,
and lie hidden in the vicinity until such time as I myself appeared
upon the scene, identified my friends of the night before, parleyed
with them for a minute or two, and finally retired, leaving the law in
all its majesty, as represented by Leroux, to deal with the rascals.
In the meantime I also mapped out for myself my own share in this
night’s adventurous work. I had hired a vehicle to take me as far as
St. Cergues; here I intended to leave it at the local inn, and then
proceed on foot up the mountain pass to the appointed spot. As soon as
I had seen the smugglers safely in the hands of Leroux and the
gendarmes, I would make my way back to St. Cergues as rapidly as I
could, step into my vehicle, drive like the wind back to Gex, and place
myself at the disposal of my fair angel and her afflicted mother.
Leroux promised me that at the customs station on the French frontier
the officials would look after me and the ladies, and that a pair of
fresh horses would be ready to take us straight on to St. Claude,
which, if all was well, we could then reach by daybreak.
Having settled all these matters we parted company, he to arrange his
own affairs with the Commissary of Police and the customs officials,
and I to await with as much patience as I could the hour when I could
start for St. Cergues.
4.
The night—just as I anticipated—promised to be very dark. A thin
drizzle, which wetted the unfortunate pedestrian to the marrow, had
replaced the torrential rain of the previous day.
Twilight was closing in very fast. In the late autumn afternoon I drove
to St. Cergues, after which I left the chaise in the village and boldly
started to walk up the mountain pass. I had studied the map so
carefully that I was quite sure of my way, but though my appointment
with the rascals was for eight o’clock, I wished to reach the appointed
spot before the last flicker of grey light had disappeared from the
sky.
Soon I had left the last house well behind me. Boldly I plunged into
the narrow path. The loneliness of the place was indescribable. Every
step which I took on the stony track seemed to rouse the echoes of the
grim heights which rose precipitously on either side of me, and in my
mind I felt aghast at the extraordinary courage of those men who—like
Aristide Fournier and his gang—chose to affront such obvious and
manifold dangers as these frowning mountain regions held for them for
the sake of paltry lucre.
I had walked, according to my reckoning, just upon five hundred metres
through the gorge, when on ahead I perceived the flicker of lights
which appeared to be moving to and fro. The silence and loneliness no
longer seemed to be absolute. A few metres from where I was men were
living and breathing, plotting and planning, unconscious of the net
which the unerring hand of a skilful fowler had drawn round them and
their misdeeds.
The next moment I was challenged by a peremptory “Halt!” Recognition
followed. M. Ernest Berty, or Aristide Fournier, whichever he was,
acknowledged with a few words my punctuality, whilst through the gloom
I took rapid stock of his little party. I saw the vague outline of
three men and a couple of mules which appeared to be heavily laden.
They were assembled on a flat piece of ground which appeared like a
roofless cavern carved out of the mountain side. The walls of rock
around them afforded them both cover and refuge. They seemed in no
hurry to start. They had the long night before them, so one of them
remarked in English.
However, presently M. Fournier-Berty gave the signal for the start to
be made, he himself preparing to take leave of his men. Just at that
moment my ears caught the welcome sound of the tramping of feet, and
before any of the rascals there could realise what was happening, their
way was barred by Leroux and his gendarmes, who loudly gave the order,
“Hands up, in the name of the Emperor!”
I was only conscious of a confused murmur of voices, of the click of
firearms, of words of command passing to and fro, and of several
violent oaths uttered in the not unfamiliar voice of M. Aristide
Fournier. But already I had spied Leroux. I only exchanged a few words
with him, for indeed my share of the evening’s work was done as far as
he was concerned, and I made haste to retrace my steps through the
darkness and the rain along the lonely mountain path toward the goal
where chivalry and manly ardour beckoned to me from afar.
I found my vehicle waiting for me at St. Cergues, and by the promise of
an additional pourboire, I succeeded in making the driver whip up his
horses to some purpose. Less than an hour later we drew up at Gex
outside the little inn, pretentiously called Le Roi de Rome. On
alighting I was met by the proprietress who, in answer to my inquiry
after two ladies who had arrived that afternoon, at once conducted me
upstairs.
Already my mind was busy conjuring up visions of the fair lady of
yester-eve. The landlady threw open a door and ushered me into a small
room which reeked of stale food and damp clothes. I stepped in and
found myself face to face with a large and exceedingly ugly old woman
who rose with difficulty from the sofa as I entered.
“M. Aristide Barrot,” she said as soon as the landlady had closed the
door behind me.
“At your service, Madame,” I stammered. “But—”
I was indeed almost aghast. Never in my life had I seen anything so
grotesque as this woman. To begin with she was more than ordinarily
stout and unwieldy—indeed, she appeared like a veritable mountain of
flesh; but what was so disturbing to my mind was that she was nothing
but a hideous caricature of her lovely daughter, whose dainty features
she grotesquely recalled. Her face was seamed and wrinkled, her white
hair was plastered down above her yellow forehead. She wore an
old-fashioned bonnet tied under her chin, and her huge bulk was draped
in a large-patterned cashmere shawl.
“You expected to see my dear daughter beside me, my good M. Barrot,”
she said after a while speaking with remarkable gentleness and dignity.
“I confess, Madame—” I murmured.
“Ah! the darling has sacrificed herself for my sake. We found to-day
that though my son was out of the way, he had set his abominable
servants to watch over us. Soon we realized that we could not both get
away. It meant one of us staying behind to act the part of unconcern
and to throw dust in the eyes of our jailers. My daughter—ah! she is an
angel, Monsieur—feared that the disappointment and my son’s cruelty,
when he returned on the morrow and found that he had been tricked,
would seriously endanger my life. She decided that I must go and that
she would remain.”
“But, Madame—” I protested.
“I know, Monsieur,” she rejoined with the same calm dignity which
already had commanded my respect, “I know that you think me a selfish
old woman; but my Angèle—she is an angel, of a truth!—made all the
arrangements, and I could not help but obey her. But have no fears for
her safety, Monsieur. My son would not dare lay hands on her as often
as he has done on me. Angèle will be brave, and our relations at St.
Claude will, directly we arrive, make arrangements to go and fetch her
and bring her back to me. My brother is an influential man; he would
never have allowed my son to martyrize me and Angèle had he known what
we have had to endure.”
Of course I could not then tell her that all her fears for herself and
the lovely Angèle could now be laid to rest. Her ruffianly son was even
now being conveyed by Leroux and his gendarmes to the frontier, where
the law would take its course. I was indeed not sorry for him. I was
not sorry to think that he would end his evil life upon the guillotine
or the gallows. I was only grieved for Angèle who would spend a night
and a day, perhaps more, in agonized suspense, knowing nothing of the
events which at one great swoop would free her and her beloved mother
from the tyranny of a hated brother and send him to expiate his crimes.
Not only did I grieve, Sir, for the tender victim of that man’s
brutality, but I trembled for her safety. I did not know what minions
or confederates Fournier-Berty had left in the lonely house yonder, or
under what orders they were in case he did not return from his
nocturnal expedition.
Indeed for the moment I felt so agitated at thought of that beautiful
angel’s peril that I looked down with anger and scorn at the fat old
woman who ought to have remained beside her daughter to comfort and to
shield her.
I was on the point of telling her everything, and dragging her back to
her post of duty which she should never have relinquished. Fortunately
my sense of what I owed to my own professional dignity prevented my
taking such a step. It was clearly not for me to argue. My first duty
was to stand by this helpless woman in distress, who had been committed
to my charge, and to convey her safely to St. Claude. After which I
could see to it that Mademoiselle Angèle was brought along too as
quickly as influential relatives could contrive.
In the meanwhile I derived some consolation from the thought that at
any rate for the next four and twenty hours the lovely creature would
be safe. No news of the arrest of Aristide Fournier could possibly
reach the lonely house until I myself could return thither and take her
under my protection.
So I said nothing; but with perfect gallantry, just as if fat Mme.
Fournier had been a young and beautiful woman, I begged her to give
herself the trouble of mounting into the carriage which was waiting for
her.
It took time and trouble, Sir, to hoist that mass of solid flesh into
the vehicle, and the driver grumbled not a little at the unexpected
weight. However, his horses were powerful, wiry, mountain ponies, and
we made headway through the darkness and along the smooth, departmental
road at moderate speed. I may say that it was a miserably uncomfortable
journey for me, sitting, as I was forced to do, on the narrow front
seat of the carriage, without support for my head or room for my legs.
But Madame’s bulk filled the whole of the back seat, and it never
seemed to enter her head that I too might like the use of a cushion.
However, even the worst moments and the weariest journeys must come to
an end, and we reached the frontier in the small hours of the morning.
Here we found the customs officials ready to render us any service we
might require. Leroux had not failed to order the fresh relay of
horses, and whilst these were being put to, the polite officers of the
station gave Madame and myself some excellent coffee. Beyond the
formal: “Madame has nothing to declare for His Majesty’s customs?” and
my companion’s equally formal: “Nothing, Monsieur, except my personal
belongings,” they did not ply us with questions, and after half an
hour’s halt we again proceeded on our way.
We reached St. Claude at daybreak, and following Madame’s directions,
the driver pulled up in front of a large house in the Avenue du Jura.
Again there was the same difficulty in hoisting the unwieldy lady out
of the vehicle, but this time, in response to my vigorous pull at the
outside bell, the concierge and another man came out of the house, and
very respectfully they approached Madame and conveyed her into the
house.
While they did so she apparently gave them some directions about
myself, for anon the concierge returned, and with extreme politeness
told me that Madame Fournier greatly hoped that I would stay in St.
Claude a day or two as she had the desire to see me again very soon.
She also honoured me with an invitation to dine with her that same
evening at seven of the clock. This was the first time, I noticed, that
the name Fournier was actually used in connexion with any of the people
with whom I had become so dramatically involved. Not that I had ever
doubted the identity of the ruffianly Ernest Berty; still it was very
satisfactory to have my surmises confirmed. I concluded that the fine
house in the Avenue du Jura belonged to Mme. Fournier’s brother, and I
vaguely wondered who he was. The invitation to dinner had certainly
been given in her name, and the servants had received her with a show
of respect which suggested that she was more than a guest in her
brother’s house.
Be that as it may, I betook myself for the nonce to the Hôtel des
Moines in the centre of the town and killed time for the rest of the
day as best I could. For one thing I needed rest after the emotions and
the fatigue of the past forty-eight hours. Remember, Sir, I had not
slept for two nights and had spent the last eight hours on the narrow
front seat of a jolting chaise. So I had a good rest in the afternoon,
and at seven o’clock I presented myself once more at the house in the
Avenue du Jura.
My intention was to retire early to bed after spending an agreeable
evening with the family, who would no doubt overwhelm me with their
gratitude, and at daybreak I would drive back to Gex after I had heard
all the latest news from Leroux.
I confess that it was with a pardonable feeling of agitation that I
tugged at the wrought-iron bell-pull on the perron of the magnificent
mansion in the Avenue du Jura. To begin with I felt somewhat rueful at
having to appear before ladies at this hour in my travelling clothes,
and then, you will admit, Sir, that it was a somewhat awkward
predicament for a man of highly sensitive temperament to meet on terms
of equality a refined if stout lady whose son he had just helped to
send to the gallows. Fortunately there was no likelihood of Mme.
Fournier being as yet aware of this unpleasant fact: even if she did
know at this hour that her son’s illicit adventure had come to grief,
she could not possibly in her mind connect me with his ill-fortune. So
I allowed the sumptuous valet to take my hat and coat and I followed
him with as calm a demeanour as I could assume up the richly carpeted
stairs. Obviously the relatives of Mme. Fournier were more than well to
do. Everything in the house showed evidences of luxury, not to say
wealth. I was ushered into an elegant salon wherein every corner showed
traces of dainty feminine hands. There were embroidered silk cushions
upon the sofa, lace covers upon the tables, whilst a work basket,
filled with a riot of many coloured silks, stood invitingly open. And
through the apartment, Sir, a scent of violets lingered and caressed my
nostrils, reminding me of a beauteous creature in distress whom it had
been my good fortune to succour.
I had waited less than five minutes when I heard a swift, elastic step
approaching through the next room, and a second or so later, before I
had time to take up an appropriate posture, the door was thrown open
and the exquisite vision of my waking dreams—the beautiful Angèle—
stood smiling before me.
“Mademoiselle,” I stammered somewhat clumsily, for of a truth I was
hardly able to recover my breath, and surprise had well nigh robbed me
of speech, “how comes it that you are here?”
She only smiled in reply, the most adorable smile I had ever seen on
any human face, so full of joy, of mischief—aye, of triumph, was it. I
asked after Madame. Again she smiled, and said Madame was in her room,
resting from the fatigues of her journey. I had scarce recovered from
my initial surprise when another—more complete still—confronted me.
This was the appearance of Monsieur Aristide Fournier, whom I had
fondly imagined already expiating his crimes in a frontier prison, but
who now entered, also smiling, also extremely pleasant, who greeted me
as if we were lifelong friends, and who then—I scarce could believe my
eyes—placed his arm affectionately round his sister’s waist, while she
turned her sweet face up to his and gave him a fond—nay, a loving look.
A loving look to him who was a brute and a bully and a miscreant
amenable to the gallows! True his appearance was completely changed:
his eyes were bright and kindly, his mouth continued to smile, his
manner was urbane in the extreme when he finally introduced himself to
me as: “Aristide Fournier, my dear Monsieur Ratichon, at your service.”
He knew my name, he knew who I was! whilst I . . . I had to pass my
hand once or twice over my forehead and to close and reopen my eyes
several times, for, of a truth, it all seemed like a dream. I tried to
stammer out a question or two, but I could only gasp, and the lovely
Angèle appeared highly amused at my distress.
“Let us dine,” she said gaily, “after which you may ask as many
questions as you like.”
In very truth I was in no mood for dinner. Puzzlement and anxiety
appeared to grip me by the throat and to choke me. It was all very well
for the beautiful creature to laugh and to make merry. She had cruelly
deceived me, played upon the chords of my sensitive heart for purposes
which no doubt would presently be made clear, but in the meanwhile
since the smuggling of the English files had been successful—as it
apparently was—what had become of Leroux and his gendarmes?
What tragedy had been enacted in the narrow gorge of St. Cergues, and
what, oh! what had become of my hopes of that five thousand francs for
the apprehension of the smugglers, promised me by Leroux? Can you
wonder that for the moment the very thought of dinner was abhorrent to
me? But only for the moment. The next a sumptuous valet had thrown open
the folding-doors, and down the vista of the stately apartment I
perceived a table richly laden with china and glass and silver, whilst
a distinctly savoury odour was wafted to my nostrils.
“We will not answer a single question,” the fair Angèle reiterated with
adorable determination, “until after we have dined.”
What, Sir, would you have done in my place? I believe that never until
this hour had Hector Ratichon reached to such a sublimity of manner. I
bowed with perfect dignity in token of obedience to the fair creature,
Sir; then without a word I offered her my arm. She placed her hand upon
it, and I conducted her to the dining-room, whilst Aristide Fournier,
who at this hour should have been on a fair way to being hanged,
followed in our wake.
Ah! it seemed indeed a lovely dream: one that lasted through an
excellent and copious dinner, and which turned to delightful reality
when, over a final glass of succulent Madeira, Monsieur Aristide
Fournier slowly counted out one hundred notes, worth one hundred francs
each, and presented these to me with a gracious nod.
“Your fee, Monsieur,” he said, “and allow me to say that never have I
paid out so large a sum with such a willing hand.”
“But I have done nothing,” I murmured from out the depths of my
bewilderment.
Mademoiselle Angèle and Monsieur Fournier looked at one another, and,
no doubt, I presented a very comical spectacle; for both of them burst
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Indeed, Monsieur,” quoth Monsieur Fournier as soon as he could speak
coherently, “you have done everything that you set out to do and done
it with perfect chivalry. You conveyed ‘the toys’ safely over the
frontier as far as St. Claude.”
“But how?” I stammered, “how?”
Again Mademoiselle Angèle laughed, and through the ripples of her
laughter came her merry words:
“Maman was very fat, was she not, my good Monsieur Ratichon? Did you
not think she was extraordinarily like me?”
I caught the glance in her eyes, and they were literally glowing with
mischief. Then all of a sudden I understood. She had impersonated a fat
mother, covered her lovely face with lines, worn a disfiguring wig and
an antiquated bonnet, and round her slender figure she had tucked away
thousands of packages of English files. I could only gasp.
Astonishment, not to say admiration, at her pluck literally took my
breath away.
“But, Monsieur Berty?” I murmured, my mind in a turmoil, my thoughts
running riot through my brain. “The Englishmen, the mules, the packs?”
“Monsieur Berty, as you see, stands before you now in the person of
Monsieur Fournier,” she replied. “The Englishmen were three faithful
servants who threw dust not only in your eyes, my dear M. Ratichon, but
in those of the customs officials, while the packs contained harmless
personal luggage which was taken by your friend and his gendarmes to
the customs station at Mijoux, and there, after much swearing, equally
solemnly released with many apologies to M. Fournier, who was allowed
to proceed unmolested on his way, and who arrived here safely this
afternoon, whilst Maman divested herself of her fat and once more
became the slender Mme. Aristide Fournier, at your service.”
She bobbed me a dainty curtsy, and I could only try and hide the pain
which this last cruel stab had inflicted on my heart. So she was not
“Mademoiselle” after all, and henceforth it would even be wrong to
indulge in dreams of her.
But the ten thousand francs crackled pleasantly in my breast pocket,
and when I finally took leave of Monsieur Aristide Fournier and his
charming wife, I was an exceedingly happy man.
But Leroux never forgave me. Of what he suspected me I do not know, or
if he suspected me at all. He certainly must have known about fat Maman
from the customs officials who had given us coffee at Mijoux.
But he never mentioned the subject to me at all, nor has he spoken to
me since that memorable night. To one of his colleagues he once said
that no words in his vocabulary could possibly be adequate to express
his feelings.