The next day Roland, who had been unable to sleep till about two in the
morning, woke about seven. Collecting his scattered wits, he recalled
what had passed between Sir John and himself the night before, and was
astonished that the Englishman had not wakened him. He dressed hastily
and went to Sir John’s room at the risk of rousing him from his first
sleep.
He knocked at the door. Sir John made no answer. Roland knocked again,
louder this time. The same silence. This time some uneasiness mingled
with Roland’s curiosity. The key was on the outside; the young officer
opened the door, and cast a rapid glance around the room. Sir John
was not there; he had not returned. The bed was undisturbed. What had
happened?
There was not an instant to lose, and we may be sure that, with that
rapidity of decision we know in Roland, he lost not an instant. He
rushed to his room, finished dressing, put his hunting knife into his
belt, slung his rifle over his shoulder and went out. No one was yet
awake except the chambermaid. Roland met her on the stairs.
“Tell Madame de Montrevel,” said he, “that I have gone into the forest
of Seillon with my gun. She must not worry if Sir John and I are not on
time for breakfast.”
Then he darted rapidly away. Ten minutes later he reached the window
where he had left Sir John the night before. He listened, not a sound
came from within; the huntsman’s ear could detect the morning woodland
sounds, but no others. Roland climbed through the window with his
customary agility, and rushed through the choir into the sacristy.
One look sufficed to show him that not only the choir but the entire
chapel was empty. Had the spectres led the Englishman along the reverse
of the way he had come himself? Possibly. Roland passed rapidly behind
the altar, into the vaults, where he found the gate open. He entered the
subterranean cemetery. Darkness hid its depths. He called Sir John three
times. No one answered.
He reached the second gate; it was open like the first. He entered the
vaulted passage; only, as it would be impossible to use his gun in such
darkness, he slung it over his shoulder and drew out his hunting-knife.
Feeling his way, he continued to advance without meeting anybody, but
the further he went the deeper became the darkness, which indicated that
the stone in the cistern was closed. He reached the steps, and mounted
them until his head touched the revolving stone; then he made an effort,
and the block turned. Roland saw daylight and leaped into the cistern.
The door into the orchard stood open. Roland passed through it, crossed
that portion of the orchard which lay between the cistern and the
corridor at the other end of which he had fired upon the phantom. He
passed along the corridor and entered the refectory. The refectory was
empty.
Again, as in the funereal passageway, Roland called three times. The
wondering echo, which seemed to have forgotten the tones of the human
voice, answered stammering. It was improbable that Sir John had come
this way; it was necessary to go back. Roland retraced his steps, and
found himself in the choir again. That was where Sir John had intended
to spend the night, and there some trace of him must be found.
Roland advanced only a short distance, and then a cry escaped him. A
large spot of blood lay at his feet, staining the pavement. On the other
side of the choir, a dozen feet from the blood, was another stain, not
less large, nor less red, nor less recent. It seemed to make a pendant
for the first.
One of these stains was to the right, the other to the left of that sort
of pedestal intended, as we have said, to support the eagle lectern--the
pedestal which Sir John had selected for his place of waiting. Roland
went up to it. It was drenched with blood! Evidently the drama had taken
place on that spot; a drama which, if all the signs were true, must have
been terrible.
Roland, in his double capacity of huntsman and soldier, was keen at
a quest. He could calculate the amount of blood lost by a man who was
dead, or by one who was only wounded. That night three men had fallen,
either dead or wounded. What were the probabilities?
The two stains in the choir to the right and left of the pedestal were
probably the blood of Sir John’s two antagonists. That on the pedestal
was probably his own. Attacked on both sides, right and left, he had
fired with both hands, killing or wounding a man with each shot. Hence
these two bloodstains which reddened the pavement. He himself must have
been struck down beside the pedestal, on which his blood had spurted.
After a few seconds of examination, Roland was as sure of this as if he
had witnessed the struggle with his own eyes. Now, what had been done
with the bodies? He cared little enough about two of them; but he was
determined to know what had become of that of Sir John.
A track of blood started from the pedestal and led straight to the door.
Sir John’s body had been carried outside. Roland shook the massive door.
It was only latched, and opened at the first pressure. Outside the
sill the tracks of blood still continued. Roland could see through
the underbrush the path by which the body had been carried. The broken
branches, the trampled grass, led Roland to the edge of the wood on the
road leading from Pont d’Ain to Bourg. There the body, living or dead,
seemed to have been laid on the bank of the ditch. Beyond that no traces
whatever.
A man passed just then, coming from the direction of the Château des
Noires-Fontaines. Roland went up to him.
“Have you seen anything on the road? Did you meet any one?” he inquired.
“Yes,” replied the man, “I saw two peasants carrying a body on a
litter.”
“Ah!” cried Roland, “was it that of a living man?”
“The man was pale and motionless; he looked as if he were dead.”
“Was the blood flowing?”
“I saw some drops on the road.”
“In that case, he is living.”
Then taking a louis from his pocket he said: “There’s a louis for you.
Run for Dr. Milliet at Bourg; tell him to get a horse and come at full
speed to the Château des Noires-Fontaines. You can add that there is a
man there in danger of dying.”
While the peasant, stimulated by the reward, made all haste to Bourg,
Roland, leaping along on his vigorous legs, was hurrying to the château.
And now, as our readers are, in all probability, as curious as Roland
to know what had happened to Sir John, we shall give an account of the
events of the night.
A few minutes before eleven, Sir John, as we have seen, entered what was
usually known as La Correrie, or the pavilion of the Chartreuse, which
was nothing more than a chapel erected in the woods. From the sacristy
he entered the choir. It was empty and seemed solitary. A rather
brilliant moon, veiled from time to time by a cloud, sent its bluish
rays through the stained glass, cracked and broken, of the pointed
windows. Sir John advanced to the middle of the choir, where he paused
and remained standing beside the pedestal.
The minutes slipped away. But this time it was not the convent clock
which marked the time, it was the church at Péronnaz; that is to say,
the nearest village to the chapel where Sir John was watching.
Everything happened up to midnight just as it had to Roland. Sir John
heard only the vague rustling and passing noises of the night.
Midnight sounded; it was the moment he awaited with impatience, for it
was then that something would happen, if anything was to happen. As the
last stroke died away he thought he heard footsteps underground, and saw
a light appear behind the iron gate leading to the mortuary vault. His
whole attention was fixed on that spot.
A monk emerged from the passage, his hood brought low over his eyes, and
carrying a torch in his hand. He wore the dress of a Chartreux. A second
one followed, then a third. Sir John counted twelve. They separated
before the altar. There were twelve stalls in the choir; six to the
right of Sir John, six to his left. The twelve monks silently took their
places in the twelve stalls. Each one placed his torch in a hole made
for that purpose in the oaken desk, and waited.
A thirteenth monk appeared and took his stand before the altar.
None of the monks affected the fantastic behavior of ghosts or shades;
they all belonged undoubtedly to the earth, and were living men.
Sir John, a pistol in each hand, stood leaning against the pedestal
in the middle of the choir, and watched with the utmost coolness this
manoeuvre which tended to surround him. The monks were standing, like
him, erect and silent.
The monk at the altar broke the silence.
“Brothers,” he asked, “why are the Avengers assembled?”
“To judge a blasphemer!” replied the monks.
“What crime has this blasphemer committed?” continued the interlocutor.
“He has tried to discover the secrets of the Companions of Jehu.”
“What penalty has he incurred?”
“Death.”
The monk at the altar waited, apparently, to give time for the sentence
which had just been pronounced to reach the heart of him whom it
concerned. Then turning to the Englishman, who continued as calm as if
he were at a comedy, he said: “Sir John Tanlay, you are a foreigner and
an Englishman--a double reason why you should leave the Companions of
Jehu to fight their own battles with the government, whose downfall they
have sworn. You failed in wisdom, you yielded to idle curiosity; instead
of keeping away, you have entered the lion’s den, and the lion will rend
you.”
Then after an instant’s silence, during which he seemed to await the
Englishman’s reply, he resumed, seeing that he remained silent: “Sir
John Tanlay, you are condemned to death. Prepare to die!”
“Ah! I see that I have fallen into the hands of a band of thieves. If
so, I can buy myself off with a ransom.” Then turning to the monk at the
altar he asked, “How much do you demand, captain?”
A threatening murmur greeted these insolent words. The monk at the altar
stretched out his hand.
“You are mistaken, Sir John. We are not a band of thieves,” said he in a
tone as calm and composed as Sir John’s, “and the proof is, that if you
have money or jewels upon you, you need only give me your instructions,
and they will be remitted either to your family or the person whom you
designate.”
“And what guarantee shall I have that my last wishes will be carried
out?”
“My word.”
“The word of the leader of assassins! I don’t trust it.”
“This time, as before, you are mistaken, Sir John. I am no more the
leader of assassins than I am a captain of thieves.”
“Who are you, then?”
“The elect of celestial vengeance. I am the envoy of Jehu, King of
Israel, who was anointed by the prophet Elisha to destroy the house of
Ahab.”
“If you are what you say, why do you veil your faces? Why do you wear
armor under your robes? The elect strike openly; they risk death in
giving death. Throw back your hoods, show me your naked breasts, and I
will admit that you are what you pretend to be.”
“Brothers, you have heard him,” said the monk at the altar.
Then, stripping off his gown, he opened his coat, waistcoat and even
his shirt. Each monk did the same, and stood with face exposed and
bared breast. They were all handsome young men, of whom the eldest was
apparently not more than thirty-five. Their dress was elegant, but,
strange fact, none was armed. They were judges and nothing more.
“Be satisfied, Sir John Tanlay,” said the monk at the altar. “You will
die, but in dying, you can, as you wished just now, recognize and kill
your judges. Sir John, you have five minutes to prepare your soul for
death!”
Sir John, instead of profiting by this permission to think of his
eternal salvation, coolly cocked his pistols to see that the triggers
were all right, and passed a ramrod down the barrels to make sure that
the balls were there. Then, without waiting for the five minutes to
expire, he said: “Gentlemen, I am ready. Are you?”
The young men looked at each other; then, on a sign from their chief,
they walked straight to Sir John, and surrounded him on all sides. The
monk at the altar stood immovable, commanding with his eye the scene
that was about to take place.
Sir John had only two pistols, consequently he could only kill two men.
He selected his victims and fired. Two Companions of Jehu rolled upon
the pavement, which they reddened with their blood. The others, as if
nothing had happened, still advanced with outstretched hands upon
Sir John. Sir John seized his pistols by the muzzle, using them like
hammers. He was vigorous and the struggle was long. For ten minutes,
a confused group tussled in the centre of the choir; then this violent
commotion ceased, and the Companions of Jehu drew away to right and
left, and regained their stalls, leaving Sir John bound with their
girdles and lying upon the pedestal in the choir.
“Have you commended your soul to God?” asked the monk at the altar.
“Yes, assassin,” answered Sir John; “you may strike.”
The monk took a dagger from the altar, advanced with uplifted arm, and,
standing over Sir John, levelled the dagger at his breast: “Sir John
Tanlay,” he said, “you are a brave man, and doubtless a man of honor.
Swear that you will never breathe a syllable of what you have seen;
swear that under no circumstances, whatever they may be, you will
recognize us, and we will spare your life.”
“As soon as I leave here,” replied Sir John, “I shall denounce you. The
moment I am free I will trail you down.”
“Swear,” repeated the monk a second time.
“No,” said Sir John.
“Swear,” said the monk for the third time.
“Never,” replied Sir John.
“Then die, since you will it!”
And he drove his dagger up to the hilt in Sir John’s breast; who,
whether by force of will, or because the blow killed him at once,
did not even sigh. Then the monk in a loud sonorous voice, like a man
conscious of having done his duty, exclaimed: “Justice is done!”
Then he returned to the altar, leaving the dagger in the wound and said:
“Brothers, you are invited to the ball of the Victims, which takes place
in Paris on the 21st of January next, at No. 35 Rue du Bac, in memory of
the death of King Louis XVI.”
So saying, he re-entered the subterranean passage, followed by the
remaining ten monks, each bearing his torch in his hand. Two torches
remained to light the three bodies.
A moment later four serving brothers entered, and raised first the
bodies of the two monks, which they carried into the vault. Then they
returned, lifted that of Sir John, placed it on a stretcher, and carried
it out of the chapel by the entrance door, which they closed after them.
Two of the monks walked in front of the stretcher, carrying the two
torches left in the chapel.
And now, if our readers ask why there was this difference between the
treatment received by Roland and that administered to Sir John, why
this mansuetude toward one and this rigor toward the other, we reply:
Remember that Morgan enjoined on his brethren the safety of Amélie’s
brother, and thus safeguarded, under no circumstances could Roland die
by the hand of a Companion of Jehu.