HOW A DREADFUL CRIME PLUNGES PARIS INTO A STATE OF TERROR
The city was asleep. Their footsteps rang loudly on the deserted
pavement. Having reached the corner of the Rue Feutrier, half-way up
Montmartre, the little company halted before the dwelling of the
beautiful angel. Arcade was talking about the Thrones and Dominations
with Zita, who, her finger on the bell, could not make up her mind to
ring. Prince Istar was tracing the mechanism of a new sort of bomb on
the pavement with the end of his stick, and bellowed so loudly that he
woke the sleeping citizens and stirred into activity the amatory
passions of the neighbouring Pasiphaës. Théophile was singing the
barcarole from the second act of _Aline, Queen of Golconda_ at the top
of his voice. Maurice, his arm in a sling, was fencing left-handed with
the Japanese, striking sparks from the pavement, and crying "A hit! a
hit!" in a piercing voice.
Meanwhile Inspector Grolle at the corner of the next street was
dreaming. He had the bearing of a Roman legionary and displayed all the
characteristics of that proudly servile race, who, ever since men first
took to building cities, have been the mainstay of Empires and the
support of ruling houses. Inspector Grolle was very strong, but very
tired. He suffered from an arduous profession and from lack of food. He
was a man devoted to duty, but still a man, and he was unable to resist
the wiles, the charms, and the blandishments of the gay ladies whom he
met in swarms in the shadows along the empty streets and round about
pieces of waste ground; he loved them. He loved like a soldier under
arms. It tired him, but courage conquered fatigue. Though he had not yet
reached the middle of Life's way, he longed for sweet repose and
peaceful country pursuits. At the corner of the Rue Muller, on this mild
night, he stood lost in thought. He was dreaming of the house where he
was born, of the little olive wood, of his father's bit of ground, of
his old mother, bent with long and heavy labour, whom he would never see
again. Roused from his reverie by the nocturnal tumult, Inspector Grolle
turned the corner of the street, and looked rather unfavourably at the
band of loiterers, wherein his social instinct suspected enemies of law
and order. He was patient and resolute. After a lengthy silence, he
said, with awe-inspiring calm:
"Move on, there!"
But Maurice and the Japanese angel were fencing and heard nothing. The
musician heard nothing but his own melodies. Prince Istar was absorbed
in the explanation of explosive formulæ. Zita was discussing with Arcade
the greatest enterprise that had ever been conceived since the solar
system issued from its original nebula,--and thus they all remained
unconscious of their surroundings.
"Move on, I tell you!" repeated Inspector Grolle.
This time the angels heard the solemn word of warning, but either
through indifference or contempt, they neglected to obey, and continued
their talk, their songs, and their cries.
"So you want to be taken up, do you?" shouted Inspector Grolle, clapping
his great hand on Prince Istar's shoulder.
The Kerûb was indignant at this vile contact, and with one blow from his
formidable fist sent the Inspector flying into the gutter. But Constable
Fesandet was already running to his comrade's aid, and they both fell
upon the Prince, whom they belaboured with mechanic fury, and whom,
notwithstanding his strength and weight, they would perchance have
dragged all bleeding to the police station, had not the Japanese angel
overset them one after the other without effort, and reduced them to
writhing and shrieking in the mud, before Maurice, Arcade, and Zita had
time to intervene. As to the angelic musician, he stood apart trembling,
and invoked the heavens.
At this moment two bakers who were kneading their dough in a
neighbouring cellar ran out at the noise, in their white aprons,
stripped to the waist. With an instinctive feeling for social solidarity
they took the side of the downfallen police. Théophile conceived a just
fear at the sight of them, and fled away; they caught him and were about
to hand him over to the guardians of the peace, when Arcade and Zita
tore him from their hands. The fight continued, unequal and terrible,
between the two angels and the two bakers. Like an athlete of Lysippus
in strength and beauty, Arcade smothered his heavy adversary in his
arms. The beautiful archangel drove her dagger into the baker who had
attacked her. A dark stream of blood flowed down over his hairy chest,
and the two white-capped supporters of the law sank to the ground.
Constable Fesandet had fainted face downwards in the gutter. But
Inspector Grolle, who had got up, blew a blast on his whistle loud
enough to be heard at the neighbouring police-station, and sprang upon
young Maurice, who, having but one arm with which to defend himself,
fired his revolver with his left hand at the inspector, who put his hand
to his heart, staggered, and dropped down. He gave a long sigh, and the
shadows of eternity darkened his eyes.
Meanwhile, windows opened one by one, and heads looked out on the
street. A sound of heavy steps approached. Two policemen on bicycles
debouched upon the street. Thereupon Prince Istar flung a bomb which
shook the ground, put out the gas, shattered some of the houses, and
enveloped the flight of young Maurice and the angels in a dense smoke.
Arcade and Maurice came to the conclusion that the safest thing to do
after this adventure was to return to the little flat in the Rue de
Rome. They would certainly not be sought for immediately and probably
not at all, the bomb thrown by the Kerûb having fortunately wiped out
all witnesses of the affair. They fell asleep towards dawn, and they had
not yet awoke at ten o'clock in the morning when the concierge brought
their tea. While eating his toast and butter and slice of ham, young
d'Esparvieu remarked to the angel:
"I used to think that a murder was something very extraordinary. Well, I
was mistaken. It is the simplest, the most natural action in the world."
"And of most ancient tradition," replied the angel. "For long centuries
it was both usual and necessary for man to kill and despoil his fellows.
It is still recommended in warfare. It is also honourable to attempt
human life in certain definite circumstances, and people approved when
you wanted to assassinate me, Maurice, because it appeared to you that I
had been intimate with your mistress. But killing a police-inspector is
not the action of a man of fashion."
"Be silent," exclaimed Maurice, "be silent, scoundrel! I killed the poor
Inspector instinctively, not knowing what I was doing. I am grieved to
my heart about it. But it is not I, it is you who are the guilty one;
you who are the murderer. It was you who lured me along this path of
revolt and violence which leads to the pit. You have been my undoing.
You have sacrificed my peace of mind, my happiness, to your pride and
your wickedness, and all in vain; for I warn you, Arcade, you will not
succeed in what you are undertaking."
The concierge brought in the newspapers. On seeing them Maurice grew
pale. They announced the outrage in the Rue de Ramey in huge headlines:
"An Inspector killed--Two cyclist policemen and two bakers seriously
wounded--Three houses blown up, numerous victims."
Maurice let the paper drop, and said in a weak, plaintive voice:
"Arcade, why did you not slay me in the little garden at Versailles
amidst the roses, to the song of the blackbirds?"
Meanwhile terror reigned in Paris. In the public squares, and in the
crowded streets, house-wives, string-bag in hand, grew pale as they
listened to the story of the crime, and consigned the perpetrators to
the most dreadful punishment. Shop-keepers, standing at the doors of
their shops, put it all down to the anarchists, syndicalists,
socialists, and radicals, and demanded that special measures should be
taken against them.
The more thoughtful people recognized the handiwork of the Jew and the
German, and demanded the expulsion of all aliens. Many vaunted the ways
of America and advocated lynching. In addition to the printed news
sinister rumours became current. Explosions had been heard at various
places; everywhere bombs had been discovered; everywhere individuals,
taken for malefactors, had been struck down by the popular arm and given
up to justice, torn to ribbons. On the Place de la République a drunkard
who was crying "Down with the police" was torn to pieces by the crowd.
The President of the Council and Minister of Justice held long
conferences with the Prefect of Police, and they agreed to take
immediate action. In order to allay the excitement of the Parisians,
they arrested five or six hooligans out of the thirty thousand which the
Capital contains. The chief of the Russian police, believing he
recognised in this attack the methods of the Nihilists, demanded, on
behalf of his Government, that a dozen refugees should be given up. The
demand was immediately granted. Proceedings were also taken for certain
individuals to be extradited to ensure the safety of the King of Spain.
On learning of these energetic measures, Paris breathed once more, and
the evening papers congratulated the Government. There was excellent
news of the wounded. They were out of danger and identified as their
assailants all who were brought before them.
True, Inspector Grolle was dead; but two Sisters of Mercy kept vigil at
his side, and the President of the Council came and laid the Cross of
Honour on the breast of this victim of duty.
At night there were panics. In the Avenue de la Révolte the police,
noticing a travelling acrobat's caravan on a piece of waste ground, took
it for the retreat of a band of robbers. They whistled for help, and
when they were a goodly number, attacked the caravan. Some worthy
citizens joined them; fifteen thousand revolver-shots were fired, the
caravan was blown up with dynamite, and among the débris they found the
corpse of a monkey.