To Receive Letters dated respectively July 28th, 31st, August 4th,
11th, 26th, Sept. 5th, 19th, from:
ONE WHO HAD VANISHED
SWALLOWED ALIVE
BY THE ROARING WHIRLPOOL OF WAR.
THEY ARE SLAP-UP AND NO MISTAKE!
ROBUST TO BRUTALITY!
THEY HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED
PUBLISHED AND PAID FOR!
BY THREE SUBURBAN EDITORS
SIMULTANEOUSLY.
A NEW IDEA
LONG CHERISHED
BY SOLOMON KNEWBIT.
A MAN BORN BEFORE HIS AGE!
THE BOSS OF A FLEET ST. WEEKLY
IS NOW NIBBLING AT
'BANG!
A DOG'S TALE.'
I Have Recovered My Fifteen Shiners And Have
Cash in Hand
For My Young Swell
WHEN HE COMES MARCHING HOME!
MARIA SAYS
YOU HAD BETTER LOOK SHARP!
AN IMPORTANT CLUE
DISCOVERED!
MYSTERY OF LOST FORTUNE
ABOUT TO BE CLEARED UP!
ABSCONDING TRUSTEE
HAS BEEN IDENTIFIED IN ECCENTRIC LODGER
BY THE LANDLADY!
PROOFS IN A SEALSKIN WAISTCOAT!
BE READY!
AT ANY MOMENT THE SUMMONS MAY COME!
I remain,
My dear young man,
Truly and faithfully yours,
SOLOMON KNEWBIT."
At the bottom of the last page was written in a curious up-and-down
handwriting:
"Dr mr Breagh,
"yu kno How mr Knewbit Has a Way of Puting Things queer but it Wold
be Best For you To Come Home it Realy Wold. There Is a Pore Siner
only Wating To maik Amens wich Is Mind must alwais Have Bean weak and
People Puting There Afares in the Hands of sutch a Trustea Can ixpect
Nothing but Truble, mr Chown of Furnival's Inn is To Be let kno If He
Gives Warning to Leeve the House wich i think never will Drink being
got Hold of him to sutch an xtent dear mr Breagh you have thought you
were Pore. But your Fortune of 7,000 lbs was only took awai by the
Almighty Goodness to Be Given back again, trust and beleive. I am Dr
mr Breagh,
"Respectfully and afexnly
"Maria Ling."
P. C. Breagh folded up the pregnant pages--owing to Mr. Knewbit's
professional predilection for capitals and spacings, the double
letter covered a good number--and put them away and began to think.
Would it not be best that Juliette should return to her husband in
Belgium, since M. Tessier gave no sign of returning? And whether she
agreed with the notion of leaving Versailles or not, was it wise of
P. C. Breagh to stay?
He loved her. He would love her always. There were times when her
eyes had tenderness in them for him. Those unforgettable days passed
together ... those strange and dreadful sights seen in common, those
perils mutually encountered had made a bond between them that might
never be broken now.
But was it wise to remain near her, breathing her atmosphere,
drinking in her rare, delicate, exquisite beauty, and growing more
besotted in his worship of it with every day? He knew that it was
not. By the anguish the mere thought of leaving her cost him, he
realized how deeply the love of Juliette Tessier had taken root in
his heart.
His nature, as simple as hers was complex, made it easy to hold her
blameless in all. She had not led him on. They had been flung
together by force of circumstances. That there was something
guileful in her very guilelessness never suggested itself to Breagh.
The gate bell pealed as he sat ruminating, causing him nearly to leap
out of his skin. That M. Tessier had returned was the possibility
that instantly suggested itself. He knelt by the window of the
low-ceiled cottage chamber and leaned out into the deepening dusk.
German voices at the gate, the stamping of horses, and the clinking
of bridles.... The grinding of heavy boots on gravel, the jingle of
spurs and the sound of scabbards scraping against the ground, rapping
against the steps. A pause and a voice he knew said clearly and
resonantly:
"The Herr Intendant General may spare himself the trouble. I will
interview the people of the house myself!"
A loud voice barked out something unintelligible to the listener,
ending with "insolence." The voice of the Man of Iron returned:
"In that case, my Excellency will take the risk. There are only
women in the house, and, should they offer violence, I have Count
Hatzfeldt and Count Bismarck-Böhlen here."
If there were any further words, the listener missed them, so
deafeningly loud was the drumming of the blood in his ears.... The
door was opened. There was a gleam of something white in the dusky
hail place. And _He_ entered and the other men followed him....
What did they there? What was it best to do?...
Now one by one the upper rooms were illuminated. The house door was
opening. Two men came out and descended the steps. One who walked
lightly and hummed a tune between the whiffs of his cigar passed
away, still humming, toward the Avenue St. Cloud. The second who
trailed a clanking sword gave harsh-voiced orders in the staccato
tone of Prussian military authority to some persons in the street
outside, mounted a charger held by an orderly, and rode jingling away
toward the Boulevard de la Reine. His helmet and his orderly's could
be seen bobbing over the top of the wall that screened the Tessier
house from the Rue de Provence, and the dark silhouettes of the heads
and bodies of men who crowded the double box seats of two private
luggage vans that waited beyond the _porte cochère_ under an escort
of cavalry. No doubt they were _fourgons_ sacred to the traveling
Foreign Office of the Minister, bearing, besides the material of
diplomatic labor, a working staff of Chancery clerks. Other vehicles
were waiting, and videttes of cavalry were posted at each end of the
quiet street. The trampling of their horses could be heard
distinctly, with certain gruff admonitions, presumably addressed to
pedestrians desirous of using the thoroughfare.
Now the leaves of the _porte cochère_ were being opened and hooked
back by the dusky silhouettes of a couple of men. Liveried grooms,
because of stray gleams of light flashed back from buttons and
cockades. Light thrown by the blazing yellow lamps of a large,
empty, traveling landau that rolled in under the lozenged archway, at
the heels of a splendid pair. The horses smelt of dust and sweat,
and whinnied as they whiffed the stables. They were driven by a huge
coachman, and a second carriage followed, piled with luggage, and
containing three persons, who might have been secretaries or body
servants, one could not decide. Four led horses followed, guided by
orderlies of Cuirassiers. These did not follow the carriages, as
they turned up the short avenue and pulled up at the hall door. The
orderlies, quite as though they knew the place, rode down the longer
gravel drive that ended at the gates of the stable yard. One trooper
got down and opened the gates, and the eager horses were conducted in.
_Tramp, tramp, tramp!..._
A detachment of infantry, marching down the Rue de Provence. Turning
in under the archway of the carriage entrance, an eighth company
belonging to a regiment impossible to specify, because of the
enfolding, deepening dusk. They also smelt hot and dusty and
tallowy. A subaltern was in command of them, and an under officer.
They halted, marked time while they posted a sentry at each of the
gates, then tramped on toward the gardener's cottage, and turned into
the Tessier stable yard. They were going to bivouac there. It was
all clear and plain and simple. It was as fascinating as a shadow
play--but for the tragic element that mingled in. Now the servants
and grooms were unloading the luggage from the carriages and
marvelously deft and noiseless they seemed at the work. A little
later--and both carriages turned from the house, and were driven into
the stable yard. You could hear the grooms and the big coachman
hissing as they unharnessed the weary horses, and the horses snorting
recognition as they scented their stable mates. And then P. C.
Breagh became aware that the venerable pair of ponies that drew
Madame Tessier's basket carriage were not to be permitted to remain
in their comfortable loose boxes.... He could hear the elderly man
who groomed and fed and exercised the ponies vainly protesting at the
summary eviction of his charges, and the officer who commanded the
detachment of infantry--Green Rifles, as it turned out--answering his
complaints:
"Find the beasts another stable, and the rent and forage will be paid
for. But remember!--if you grumble, His Excellency will have you
shot!"
And the ponies were led away in search of new quarters, as the
Foreign Office _fourgon_, with its escort of Uhlans, ground over the
trampled gravel and pulled up at the terrace steps. One could hear
the voice of Madame Potier and the creaking of the Venetian shutters.
Then the billiard-room windows threw broad stripes of light across
the terrace toward the wall. They were going to carry in the
dispatch boxes and light traveling safes, the copying presses and
letter books and the rest of the Foreign Office impedimenta by way of
the long windows.... One guessed whose idea that had been.
A dominating, transforming spirit had invaded the quiet house in the
Rue de Provence, bringing with it this purposeful, orderly bustle,
this disciplined irruption of elements strange and new.
Of all these servants and attendants, some would certainly take up
their abode at the gardener's cottage. Would P. C. Breagh, like the
Tessier ponies, be presently turned out to seek cover elsewhere?
And Juliette.... The thought of her roused all his stinging
apprehensions. He told himself that presently, when the house should
have resumed something of its normal quiet, he would steal across the
lawn in the shadow of the trees and borders, and lie in wait for a
glance ... for a word....
He would force her to leave at once for Belgium. She must not remain
in the house with all these men.... The time crept by with maddening
slowness as he waited. Dark shadows moved in lighted rooms, passing
across the blinded windows.... The whole house was flaring with
gaslight now.
How long.... The slatted Venetian shutters of the dining-room were
now unbarred and thrown open. He could not see into the room by
reason that it faced east toward the pleasance, while the window from
which he watched looked southward, immediately commanding the hall
door. But broad beams of light were thrown down the steps and across
the grass plot. Tall shadows moved across the streaks at intervals.
There was the clatter of china, glass, and cutlery, a smell of
cooking delectably savory. The Man of Iron was dining, and Hate had
spread the board.
A shudder went through Breagh, and a cold perspiration bathed him.
His hair seemed to rise and stiffen upon his creeping scalp. A sound
broke from him ... perhaps a groan, perhaps an exclamation. There
was a soft step in the darkness under his window and a whisper like a
sigh.
"Monsieur Breagh.... Do not descend! It will be better that I mount
the stairs to you!"
His first impulse was to reassume the discarded coat and waistcoat.
Then he remembered that it was dark. The floor creaked under his
stealthy footsteps as he reached the landing and crept on stockinged
feet down the narrow stairway. She had pushed back the unlatched
door and passed into the tiny passage. He met her almost on the
threshold, felt for and seized her little hands. How feverishly hot
they were! He pressed them as he whispered:
"I guessed what had happened!... I know who has come here!... For
hours I have been waiting my chance to get a word alone with you. I
was just coming when I heard you under the window!"
She whispered--and, although her hands burned in his, they trembled
and her teeth chattered:
"Monseigneur de Bismarck desired to dine here. Every day one does
not entertain a guest so noble. See you well! I have cooked for
Monseigneur with my own hands a dinner worthy of--himself! He has
devoured like an ogre the trout _à la sauce Tartare_, and the
cutlets, and is now engaged upon a _ragoût_ of partridges. When it
is time to fry the savory omelette that follows, Madame Potier will
ring the little bell, and I shall run back to the house."
The sentence ended in a stifled titter. An ugly sound that sickened
Breagh as he heard it. He pressed the small hands, whispering
entreatingly:
"Don't laugh! You must not laugh. Go back and get what you need for
a journey. Tell Madame Potier I am taking you to Belgium. Back to
your husband! ... your place is where he is! You shall not stay here
... you must not, I forbid you!..."
She ceased to laugh and pulled her hands away from his. Her answer
came: an inflexible utterance to be breathed so softly:
"I remain here, Monsieur, until my husband comes!"
He panted the old prayer:
"Juliette, for the love of God...! You don't know what terrible
danger you are risking!..."
The reply fanned past his cheek like the velvety wing of some great
night moth:
"Monsieur, I remain here, until the arrival of M. Charles Tessier.
Although you will do wisely to depart while you may--unseen!"
He said between his gritted teeth, while the pounding of his heart
choked him:
"I shall stay here! ... I decline to be sent away!..."
She seemed to cogitate. Then came the mere breath of an utterance.
"Will you swear to be secret and faithful?"
He said hoarsely:
"Juliette, I must first know what you intend to do."
She whispered, and her voice set his blood rushing and the fragrance
of her maddened him.
"Stoop!... Why are you so tall? Bend down your head!"
He stooped from his majestic altitude of five feet nine inches and a
bittock, and two little hands that scorched him clasped his neck
about. Light and soft as the touch of a flower was the contact of
the mouth that whispered:
"I will tell you.... There is a line of one of your English poets--I
forget his name--but the words run like this....
"'_Throw but a stone--the giant dies!_'
He gasped:
"I hear you!"
She whispered, still with her mouth against his cheek:
"See you well!--for the deliverance of my country, it is I who am
going to throw that stone!"
He panted through the shuddering that had seized him:
"Do you know what will happen, whether you succeed or fail? You will
be led out--placed with your back against--this wall perhaps--and
shot!"
He felt her lips smile against his cheek as she answered:
"And what of that! It will be the fortune of War! But you..." She
sharply drew her face away, and the slight hands thrust him from her.
"I will have you leave this place to-night!"
A weakness seized him. He sank down upon his knees and stretched his
arms out, in the darkness, to the dimly outlined silhouette of the
slight elfin creature standing on the threshold, and the scents of
rose and jasmine came to him in gusts from the night-veiled garden
with another fragrance that had no name. He whispered, driven beyond
himself:
"I will not go! I love you!"
She said:
"I have nothing to do with Love--who have consecrated myself to
vengeance. And your presence here might ruin all.... He knows M.
Breagh, the Englishman.... Have you not told me over and over that
once he..."
She broke off there. But the intolerable stab brought Breagh to his
feet. He snarled at her through his clenched teeth.
"He may know Breagh, the Englishman, but he doesn't know Jean Jacques
Potier. Tell Madame that I shall wear her nephew's clothes and take
his name, and do his work about the house and garden. All his duds
are in the cupboard up in my room there, and his apron and clogs and
so forth...."
Appalling triviality of the sex feminine. The conjured picture
evoked a titter. She breathed, and he was stung with rage to know
her shaken with irresistible mirth:
"But you do not know how to sweep and clean, and how can you conceal
your very red and curly hair? French servant men have not such hair!
You will be betrayed by it, Monsieur!..."
His blood boiled, and he thundered in a whisper:
"I shan't!... Call it what color you like to-night. It won't be
there to-morrow! There are clippers in the cupboard, and I shall
have it off."
A distant bell rang. She was gone like a bat in the darkness. His
word was given. He was pledged now to follow her wherever fate
should lead.