STRANGE STORY OF THE DRAGON VOLANT.
These _fêtes_ were earlier in those days, and in France, than our
modern balls are in London. I consulted my watch. It was a little
past twelve.
It was a still and sultry night; the magnificent suite of rooms,
vast as some of them were, could not be kept at a temperature
less than oppressive, especially to people with masks on. In some
places the crowd was inconvenient, and the profusion of lights
added to the heat. I removed my mask, therefore, as I saw some
other people do, who were as careless of mystery as I. I had
hardly done so, and began to breathe more comfortably, when I
heard a friendly English voice call me by my name. It was Tom
Whistlewick, of the --th Dragoons. He had unmasked, with a very
flushed face, as I did. He was one of those Waterloo heroes, new
from the mint of glory, whom, as a body, all the world, except
France, revered; and the only thing I knew against him, was a
habit of allaying his thirst, which was excessive, at balls,
_fêtes_, musical parties, and all gatherings, where it was to be
had, with champagne; and, as he introduced me to his friend,
Monsieur Carmaignac, I observed that he spoke a little thick.
Monsieur Carmaignac was little, lean, and as straight as a
ramrod. He was bald, took snuff, and wore spectacles; and, as I
soon learned, held an official position.
Tom was facetious, sly, and rather difficult to understand, in
his present pleasant mood. He was elevating his eyebrows and
screwing his lips oddly, and fanning himself vaguely with his
mask.
After some agreeable conversation, I was glad to observe that he
preferred silence, and was satisfied with the _rôle_ of listener,
as I and Monsieur Carmaignac chatted; and he seated himself, with
extraordinary caution and indecision, upon a bench, beside us,
and seemed very soon to find a difficulty in keeping his eyes
open.
"I heard you mention," said the French gentleman, "that you had
engaged an apartment in the Dragon Volant, about half a league
from this. When I was in a different police department, about
four years ago, two very strange cases were connected with that
house. One was of a wealthy _émigré_, permitted to return to
France, by the Em--by Napoleon. He vanished. The other--equally
strange--was the case of a Russian of rank and wealth. He
disappeared just as mysteriously."
"My servant," I said, "gave me a confused account of some
occurrences, and, as well as I recollect he described the same
persons--I mean a returned French nobleman, and a Russian
gentleman. But he made the whole story so marvellous--I mean in
the supernatural sense--that, I confess, I did not believe a word
of it."
"No, there was nothing supernatural; but a great deal
inexplicable," said the French gentleman. "Of course there may be
theories; but the thing was never explained, nor, so far as I
know, was a ray of light ever thrown upon it."
"Pray let me hear the story," I said. "I think I have a claim, as
it affects my quarters. You don't suspect the people of the
house?"
"Oh! it has changed hands since then. But there seemed to be a
fatality about a particular room."
"Could you describe that room?"
"Certainly. It is a spacious, panelled bed-room, up one pair of
stairs, in the back of the house, and at the extreme right, as
you look from its windows."
"Ho! Really? Why, then, I have got the very room!" I said,
beginning to be more interested--perhaps the least bit in the
world, disagreeably. "Did the people die, or were they actually
spirited away?"
"No, they did not die--they disappeared very oddly. I'll tell you
the particulars--I happen to know them exactly, because I made an
official visit, on the first occasion, to the house, to collect
evidence; and although I did not go down there, upon the second,
the papers came before me, and I dictated the official letter
despatched to the relations of the people who had disappeared;
they had applied to the government to investigate, the affair. We
had letters from the same relations more than two years later,
from which we learned that the missing men had never turned up."
He took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily at me.
"Never! I shall relate all that happened, so far as we could
discover. The French noble, who was the Chevalier Chateau
Blassemare, unlike most _émigrés_, had taken the matter in time,
sold a large portion of his property before the revolution had
proceeded so far as to render that next to impossible, and
retired with a large sum. He brought with him about half a
million of francs, the greater part of which he invested in the
French funds; a much larger sum remained in Austrian land and
securities. You will observe then that this gentleman was rich,
and there was no allegation of his having lost money, or being,
in any way, embarrassed. You see?"
I assented.
"This gentleman's habits were not expensive in proportion to his
means. He had suitable lodgings in Paris; and for a time,
society, the theatres, and other reasonable amusements, engrossed
him. He did not play. He was a middle-aged man, affecting youth,
with the vanities which are usual in such persons; but, for the
rest, he was a gentle and polite person, who disturbed nobody--a
person, you see, not likely to provoke an enmity."
"Certainly not," I agreed.
"Early in the summer of 1811, he got an order permitting him to
copy a picture in one of these _salons_, and came down here, to
Versailles, for the purpose. His work was getting on slowly.
After a time he left his hotel, here, and went, by way of
change, to the Dragon Volant: there he took, by special choice,
the bed-room which has fallen to you by chance. From this time,
it appeared, he painted little; and seldom visited his apartments
in Paris. One night he saw the host of the Dragon Volant, and
told him that he was going into Paris, to remain for a day or
two, on very particular business; that his servant would
accompany him, but that he would retain his apartments at the
Dragon Volant, and return in a few days. He left some clothes
there, but packed a portmanteau, took his dressing-case, and the
rest, and, with his servant behind his carriage, drove into
Paris. You observe all this, Monsieur?"
"Most attentively," I answered.
"Well, Monsieur, as soon as they were approaching his lodgings,
he stopped the carriage on a sudden, told his servant that he had
changed his mind; that he would sleep elsewhere that night, that
he had very particular business in the north of France, not far
from Rouen, that he would set out before daylight on his journey,
and return in a fortnight. He called a _fiacre_, took in his hand
a leather bag which, the servant said, was just large enough to
hold a few shirts and a coat, but that it was enormously heavy,
as he could testify, for he held it in his hand, while his master
took out his purse to count thirty-six Napoleons, for which the
servant was to account when he should return. He then sent him
on, in the carriage; and he, with the bag I have mentioned, got
into the _fiacre_. Up to that, you see, the narrative is quite
clear."
"Perfectly," I agreed.
"Now comes the mystery," said Monsieur Carmaignac. "After that,
the Count Chateau Blassemare was never more seen, so far as we
can make out, by acquaintance or friend. We learned that the day
before the Count's stockbroker had, by his direction, sold all
his stock in the French funds, and handed him the cash it
realized. The reason he gave him for this measure tallied with
what he said to his servant. He told him that he was going to the
north of France to settle some claims, and did not know exactly
how much might be required. The bag, which had puzzled the
servant by its weight, contained, no doubt, a large sum in gold.
Will Monsieur try my snuff?"
He politely tendered his open snuff-box, of which I partook,
experimentally.
"A reward was offered," he continued, "when the inquiry was instituted,
for any information tending to throw a light upon the mystery, which
might be afforded by the driver of the _fiacre_ 'employed on the night
of' (so-and-so), 'at about the hour of half-past ten, by a gentleman,
with a black-leather travelling-bag in his hand, who descended from a
private carriage, and gave his servant some money, which he counted
twice over.' About a hundred-and-fifty drivers applied, but not one of
them was the right man. We did, however, elicit a curious and unexpected
piece of evidence in quite another quarter. What a racket that plaguey
harlequin makes with his sword!"
"Intolerable!" I chimed in.
The harlequin was soon gone, and he resumed.
"The evidence I speak of, came from a boy, about twelve years
old, who knew the appearance of the Count perfectly, having been
often employed by him as a messenger. He stated that about
half-past twelve o'clock, on the same night--upon which you are
to observe, there was a brilliant moon--he was sent, his mother
having been suddenly taken ill, for the _sage femme_ who lived
within a stone's throw of the Dragon Volant. His father's house,
from which he started, was a mile away, or more, from that inn,
in order to reach which he had to pass round the park of the
Château de la Carque, at the site most remote from the point to
which he was going. It passes the old churchyard of St. Aubin,
which is separated from the road only by a very low fence, and
two or three enormous old trees. The boy was a little nervous as
he approached this ancient cemetery; and, under the bright
moonlight, he saw a man whom he distinctly recognised as the
Count, whom they designated by a soubriquet which means 'the man
of smiles.' He was looking rueful enough now, and was seated on
the side of a tombstone, on which he had laid a pistol, while he
was ramming home the charge of another.
"The boy got cautiously by, on tip-toe, with his eyes all the
time on the Count Chateau Blassemare, or the man he mistook for
him; his dress was not what he usually wore, but the witness
swore that he could not be mistaken as to his identity. He said
his face looked grave and stern; but though he did not smile, it
was the same face he knew so well. Nothing would make him swerve
from that. If that were he, it was the last time he was seen. He
has never been heard of since. Nothing could be heard of him in
the neighbourhood of Rouen. There has been no evidence of his
death; and there is no sign that he is living."
"That certainly is a most singular case," I replied; and was
about to ask a question or two, when Tom Whistlewick who, without
my observing it, had been taking a ramble, returned, a great deal
more awake, and a great deal less tipsy.
"I say, Carmaignac, it is getting late, and I must go; I really
must, for the reason I told you--and, Beckett, we must soon meet
again."
"I regret very much, Monsieur, my not being able at present to
relate to you the other case, that of another tenant of the very
same room--a case more mysterious and sinister than the last--and
which occurred in the autumn of the same year."
"Will you both do a very good-natured thing, and come and dine
with me at the Dragon Volant to-morrow?"
So, as we pursued our way along the Galerie des Glaces, I
extracted their promise.
"By Jove!" said Whistlewick, when this was done; "look at that
pagoda, or sedan chair, or whatever it is, just where those
fellows set it down, and not one of them near it! I can't imagine
how they tell fortunes so devilish well. Jack Nuffles--I met him
here to-night--says they are gipsies--where are they, I wonder?
I'll go over and have a peep at the prophet."
I saw him plucking at the blinds, which were constructed
something on the principle of Venetian blinds; the red curtains
were inside; but they did not yield, and he could only peep under
one that did not come quite down.
When he rejoined us, he related: "I could scarcely see the old
fellow, it's so dark. He is covered with gold and red, and has an
embroidered hat on like a mandarin's; he's fast asleep; and, by
Jove, he smells like a pole-cat! It's worth going over only to
have it to say. Fiew! pooh! oh! It _is_ a perfume. Faugh!"
Not caring to accept this tempting invitation, we got along
slowly toward the door. I bid them good-night, reminding them of
their promise. And so found my way at last to my carriage; and
was soon rolling slowly toward the Dragon Volant, on the
loneliest of roads, under old trees, and the soft moonlight.
What a number of things had happened within the last two hours!
what a variety of strange and vivid pictures were crowded
together in that brief space! What an adventure was before me!
The silent, moonlighted, solitary road, how it contrasted with
the many-eddied whirl of pleasure from whose roar and music,
lights, diamonds and colours, I had just extricated myself.
The sight of lonely Nature at such an hour, acts like a sudden
sedative. The madness and guilt of my pursuit struck me with a
momentary compunction and horror. I wished I had never entered
the labyrinth which was leading me, I knew not whither. It was
too late to think of that now; but the bitter was already
stealing into my cup; and vague anticipations lay, for a few
minutes, heavy on my heart. It would not have taken much to make
me disclose my unmanly state of mind to my lively friend, Alfred
Ogle, nor even to the milder ridicule of the agreeable Tom
Whistlewick.