FRANZ FRANCOISE BELLIGERENT.
After the departure of the Sister of Mercy, an unnatural silence brooded
over the room; a silence, not a stillness, for Mamma Francoise, uttering
no word, dragged the unfortunate Nance to one of the pallets, forced the
remainder of the warm liquor down her throat, and then pushed her back
upon the pallet, where she lay a dirty, moveless, stupid heap of
wretched humanity.
Then Mamma seated herself upon the one unoccupied stool, and glared
alternately at the two men.
Papa Francoise was evidently both disturbed and alarmed at this visit
from the Sister of Mercy, and he seemed intent upon solving some new
problem propounded to him by the scene just ended.
Franz leered and lounged, with seeming indifference to all his
surroundings. His recent potations were evidently taking effect, for
after a few moments, during which he made very visible efforts to look
alert, and interested in the discussion which, as he seemed vaguely to
realize, was impending, he brought himself unsteadily to his feet,
staggered across the room, and flinging himself upon the unoccupied
pallet, muttered some incoherent words and subsided into stillness and
slumber.
The eyes of the old woman followed his movements with anxious interest,
and when he seemed at last lost to all ordinary sound, she arose and
carried her stool across to where Papa, leaning against the table, still
meditated.
"Sit down," she said, in low, peremptory tones, and pushing the stool
lately vacated by Franz toward her spouse; "sit down. We're in a pretty
mess, ain't we?"
Papa seated himself and favored her with a vacant stare.
"Eh!" he said, absently; "what's to be done?"
Mamma cast a quick look toward her recumbent Prodigal, and leaned
forward until her lips touched the old man's ear.
"Mind this," she hissed; "_he_ ain't to know too much. He's got the
devil in him; it won't do to put ourselves under his thumb."
"Don't you worry," retorted Papa, in the same sharp whisper, "I ain't
anxious to be rode by the two of ye; Franzy's too much like his ma. It
won't do to let him know everything."
Mamma gave a derisive sniff, a sort of acknowledgment of the
compliment--one of the only kind ever paid her by her worser half,--and
then said:
"Franzy'll be a big help to us, if we can keep him away from the cops.
But you an' me has planned too long to let him step in now an' take
things out of our hands. He's too reckless; we wouldn't move fast enough
to suit him, an'--he'd make us trouble."
"Yes," assented the old man, "he'd have things his own way, or he'd make
us trouble; he always did."
Mamma arose, stirred the smouldering fire, and resuming her seat, began
afresh:
"Now, then, we've got to decide about that gal. She can't go to no
hospital?"
"No; she can't."
"And she can't stay with us. It was a big risk before; now that Franzy
is back, it's a bigger risk."
"That's so." Papa wrinkled his brows for a moment and then said: "See
here, old woman, Franz'll be bound ter know something about that gal
when he gits his head clear."
"I s'pose so."
"Well, s'pose we tell him about her."
"What for?"
"Ter satisfy him, an' ter git his help."
"His help?" muttered Mamma. "That might do."
Suddenly Papa lifted a warning finger. "Hush," he whispered; "there's
somebody outside o' that door."
A low, firm knock put a period to his sentence. Mamma made a sign which
meant caution, and then creeping noiselessly to the door, listened. No
sound could be heard from without, and after another moment of waiting
she called sharply:
"Who's there?"
"Open de do'; I's got a message fo' yo'."
The voice, and the unmistakable African dialect, reassured the pair,
whose only dread was the police; and to barricade their doors against
chance visitors was no part of the Francoise policy.
Mamma glided toward the pallet where lay her returned Prodigal, and bent
above him.
His face was turned outward toward the door, and putting two strong
hands beneath his shoulders, she applied her strength to the task of
rolling him over, drew a ragged blanket well up about him, and left him
lying thus, his face to the wall and completely hidden from whoever
might enter.
Then she went boldly to the door, and opening it wide, stood face to
face with a tall African, black as ebony, and wearing a fine suit of
broadcloth, poorly concealed underneath a shabby outer garment. He bowed
to Mamma as obsequiously as if she were a duchess, and this garret her
drawing-room, and stepping inside, closed the door behind him.
"You will excuse me," he said, politely, "but my business is private,
and some one might come up the stairs."
"What do you want?"
The incautious words were uttered by Papa Francoise, who, noting the
entire absence of his negro accent, arose hastily, his face full of
alarm.
The African smiled blandly.
"I assumed my accent in order to reassure you, sir," he said, coolly.
"You might not have admitted me if you had thought me a white man, and I
am sent by your patron."
"By our patron!" Mamma echoed his words in skeptical surprise.
"Yes; I am his servant."
Papa and Mamma gazed at each other blankly and drew nearer together.
"He has sent you this note," pursued the nonchalant fellow, keeping his
eyes fixed upon Mamma's face while he drew from his pocket a folded
paper. "And I am to take your answer."
Papa took the proffered note reluctantly, glanced at the superscription,
and suddenly changed his manner.
"That is not directed to me," he cried, sharply. "You have made a
mistake."
"It is directed to Papa Francoise."
Papa peered closer at the superscription. "Yes; I think that's it. It's
not my name; it's not for me."
"My dear sir, I know you too well. You need not fear me; I am Mr.
Warburton's body servant."
"Oh!" Mamma uttered the syllable sharply, then suddenly restrained
herself, and coming toward the messenger with cat-like tread, she said,
coaxingly: "And who may this Mr. War--war, this master of yours be?"
The man looked from one to the other, and then turned his gaze upon the
occupants of the two pallets. "Who are these?" he asked, briefly.
Mamma's answer came very promptly.
"Only two poor people we knew in another part of the city. They have
been turned out by their landlord, poor things, and last night they
slept in the street."
A smile crossed the face of the wily African, and he turned toward Papa.
"Read my master's note, if you please," he said. "It was written to
_you_."
Slowly Papa unfolded the note, and his eyes seemed bursting from their
sockets as he read.
Name your price, but keep your whereabouts from the police. If
you are called upon to identify me, _you do not know me_.
* * * * *
While Papa reads, the slumbering Franz begins to move and to mutter.
"Give me the file, Jim," he says, in a low, cautious tone. "Curse the
darbies--I--"
The sudden overturning of a stool, caused by a quick backward movement
on the part of Mamma, drowns the rest of this muttered speech.
But the words have caught the ear of the colored gentleman, who moves a
pace nearer the sleeper, and seems anxious to hear more.
While Papa still stares at the note in his hand, Mamma stoops and
restores the stool to its upright position, making even more noise than
in the overturning. And Franz turns, yawns, stretches, and slowly brings
himself to a sitting posture.
Something like a frown crosses the dark face of Papa Francoise's
visitor. To bring himself face to face with Papa, and to satisfy himself
on certain doubtful points, he has paused for neither food nor rest, but
has followed up his discovery of the morning, by an evening's visit to
the new lurking-place of the Francoises,--for the sable gentleman, who
would fain win the confidence of Papa in the character of body servant
to Alan Warburton, is none other than Van Vernet.
Fertile in construction, daring in execution, he has hoped by a bold
stroke to make a most important discovery. Viewing the events of the
morning from a perfectly natural standpoint, he has rapidly reached the
following conclusion:
If the fugitive Sailor and Alan Warburton are one and the same, then,
undoubtedly, the message left by Mamma at the door of the Warburtons was
intended for Alan. What was the purport of that message, he may find it
difficult to discover,--but may he not be able to surprise from Papa an
acknowledgment of his connection with the aristocrat of Warburton place?
To arrest the Francoises was, at present, no part of his plan. This
would be to alarm Alan Warburton, and to lessen his own chances for
making discoveries. He had found Papa Francoise, and it would be strange
if he again escaped from his surveillance.
He had not counted upon the presence of a third, and even a fourth
party, in paying his visit to the Francoises. And now, as the recumbent
Franz began to move and to mutter, Van Vernet turned toward the pallet a
keen and suspicious glance.
But never was there a more manifest combination of drowsiness and
drunken stupidity than that displayed upon the face of Franz, as he
raised himself upon the pallet and stared stupidly at the ebonied
stranger.
Then a look of abject terror crept into his face, and he seemed making a
powerful effort to rouse his drunken faculties. Slowly he rose from the
pallet, and staggered to his feet, muttering some unintelligible words.
Then, after a stealthy glance about the room, he turned and reeled
toward the door.
As he approached, Van Vernet, still gazing steadfastly into his face,
stepped aside, and at the instant Franz made a lurch in the same
direction.
In another moment,--neither Papa nor Mamma could have told how it came
about,--the two were upon the floor, Franz Francoise uppermost, his
knees upon the breast of his antagonist!
As Van Vernet, who had fallen with one arm underneath him, made his
first movement in self-defence, his ears were greeted by a warning hiss,
and he felt the pressure of a keen-edged knife against his throat!