THE SPANIARD
I
The man with the wooden leg was still at large, and M. le Procureur
Impérial had died a hero's death whilst helping to capture a gang of
desperate Chouans in the Cache-Renard woods. This was the public
version of the tragic epilogue to those three mysteries, which had
puzzled and terrified the countryside during the early days of
October, 1809--the robbery of the mail-coach, the burglary in the
Palace of Monseigneur the Constitutional Bishop of Alençon, and the
murder of Mme. Marquise de Plélan's valet, Maxence.
The intelligent section of the public was loud in its condemnation of
the ineptitude displayed by the police in the matter of those
abominable crimes, and chief commissary Lefèvre, bound by oath--not
to say terror--to hold his tongue as to the real facts of the case,
grumbled in his beard and muttered curses on the accredited
representative of the Minister of Police--ay, and on M. le Duc
d'Otrante himself.
On top of all the public unrest and dissatisfaction came the outrage
at the house of M. de Kerblay, a noted advocate of the Paris bar and
member of the Senate, who owned a small property in the neighbourhood
of Alençon, where he spent a couple of months every year with his
wife and family, entertaining a few friends during the shooting
season.
In the morning of November the 6th, the neighbourhood was horrified
to hear that on the previous night, shortly after ten o'clock, a
party of those ruffianly Chouans had made a descent on M. de
Kerblay's house, Les Ormeaux. They had demanded admittance in the
name of the law. All the servants had gone to bed with the exception
of Hector, M. de Kerblay's valet, and he was so scared that he
allowed the _scélérats_ to push their way into the house, before he
had realised who they were. Ere he could call for help he was set
upon, gagged, and locked up in his pantry. The Chouans then
proceeded noiselessly upstairs. Mme. de Kerblay was already in bed.
The Senator was in his dressing-room, half undressed. They took him
completely by surprise, held a pistol to his head, and demanded the
immediate payment of twenty-five thousand francs. Should the Senator
summon his servants, the rogues would shoot him and his wife and even
his children summarily, if they were stopped in their purpose or
hindered in their escape.
M. de Kerblay was considerably over sixty. Not too robust in health,
terrorised and subdued, he yielded, and with the muzzle of a pistol
held to his head and half a dozen swords gleaming around him, he
produced the keys of his secretaire and handed over to the Chouans
not only all the money he had in the house--something over twenty
thousand francs--but a diamond ring, valued at another twenty
thousand, which had been given to him by the Emperor in recognition
of signal services rendered in the matter of the affairs of the
ex-Empress.
Whereupon the wretches departed as silently as they had come, and by
the time the hue and cry was raised they had disappeared, leaving no
clue or trace.
The general consensus of opinion attributed the outrage to the man
with the wooden leg. M. Lefèvre, chief commissary of police, who
knew that that particular scoundrel was reposing in the honoured
vault of the Saint-Tropèze family, was severely nonplussed. Since
the sinister episode of the dual personality of M. de Saint-Tropèze
he realised more than ever how difficult it was to deal with these
Chouans. Here to-day, gone to-morrow, they were veritable masters in
the art of concealing their identity, and in this quiet corner of
Normandy it was impossible to shake a man by the hand without
wondering whether he did not perchance belong to that secret gang of
malefactors.
M. de Kerblay, more distressed at the loss of his ring than of his
money, offered a reward of five thousand francs for its recovery; but
while M. Lefèvre's zeal was greatly stimulated thereby, the Man in
Grey appeared disinclined to move in the matter, and his quiet,
impassive attitude grated unpleasantly on the chief commissary's
feelings.
About a week after the outrage, on a cold, wet morning in November,
M. Lefèvre made a tempestuous irruption into the apartments in the
Rue de France occupied by the secret agent of the Minister of Police.
"We hold the ruffians!" he cried, waving his arms excitedly. "That's
the best of those scoundrels! They are always quarrelling among
themselves! They lie and they cheat and betray one another into our
hands!"
The Man in Grey, as was his wont, waited patiently until the flood of
M. Lefèvre's impassioned eloquence had somewhat subsided, then he
said quietly:
"You have had the visit of an informer?"
"Yes," replied the commissary, as he sank, panting, into a chair.
"A man you know?"
"By sight. Oh, one knows those rogues vaguely. One sees them about
one day--they disappear the next--they have their lairs in the most
inaccessible corners of this cursed country. Yes! I know the man by
sight. He passed through my hands into the army a year ago. A
deserter, of course. Though his appearance does not tally with any
of the descriptions we have received from the Ministry of War, we
know that these fellows have a way of altering even their features on
occasions, and this man has 'deserter' written all over his ugly
countenance."
"Well! And what has he told you?"
"That he will deliver to us the leader of the gang who broke into
Monsieur de Kerblay's house the other night."
"On conditions, of course."
"Of course,"
"Immunity for himself?"
"Yes."
"And a reward?"
"Yes."
"You did not agree to that, I hope," said the Man in Grey sternly.
M. Lefèvre hummed and hawed.
"There must be no question of bribing these men to betray one
another," resumed the secret agent firmly, "or you'll be falling into
one baited trap after another."
"But there's Monsieur de Kerblay's offer of a reward for the recovery
of the ring, and in this case----" protested Lefèvre sullenly.
"In no case," broke in the Man in Grey.
"Then what shall I do with the man?"
"Promise him a free pardon for himself and permission to rejoin his
regiment if his information proves to be correct. Keep him in the
police-cells, and come and report to me directly you have extracted
from him all he knows, or is willing to tell."
The chief commissary of police was well aware that when the
Minister's secret agent assumed that quiet air of authority, neither
argument nor resistance was advisable. He muttered something between
his teeth, but receiving no further response from the Man in Grey he
turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out of the room, murmuring
inaudible things about "officiousness" and "incompetence."
II
The man who had presented himself that morning at the commissariat of
police offering valuable information as to the whereabouts of the
leaders of his own gang, appeared as the regular type of the unkempt,
out-at-elbows, down-at-heels, unwashed Chouan who had of a truth
become the pest and terror of the countryside. He wore a long shaggy
beard, his hair was matted and tousled, his blouse and breeches were
in rags, and his bare feet were thrust into a pair of heavy leather
shoes. During his brief sojourn in the army, or in the course of his
subsequent lawless life, he had lost one eye, and the terrible gash
across that part of his face gave his countenance a peculiarly
sinister expression.
He stood before the commissary of police, twirling a woollen cap
between his grimy fingers, taciturn, sullen and defiant.
"I'll say nothing," he repeated for the third time, "unless I am paid
to speak."
"You are amenable to the law, my man," said the chief commissary
dryly. "You'll be shot, unless you choose to earn a free pardon for
yourself by making a frank confession of your misdeeds."
"And what's a free pardon to me," retorted the Chouan roughly, "if I
am to starve on it?"
"You will be allowed to at once rejoin your regiment."
"Bah!"
The man spat on the ground, by way of expressing his contempt at the
prospect.
"I'd as lief be shot at once," he declared emphatically.
M. Lefèvre could have torn his scanty hair with rage. He was furious
with the Chouan and his obstinacy, and furious with that tiresome man
in the grey coat who lorded it over every official in the district,
and assumed an authority which he ought never to have been allowed to
wield.
The one-eyed Chouan was taken back to the police-cells, and M.
Lefèvre gave himself over to his gloomy meditations. Success and a
goodly amount of credit--not to mention the five thousand francs'
reward for the recovery of the ring--appeared just within his reach.
A couple of thousand francs out of the municipal funds to that
wretched informer, and the chiefs of one of the most desperate gangs
of Chouans would fall into M. Lefèvre's hands, together with no small
measure of glory for the brilliant capture. It was positively
maddening!
It was not till late in the afternoon that the worthy commissary had
an inspiration--such a grand one that he smacked his high forehead,
marvelling it had not come to him before. What were two thousand
francs out of his own pocket beside the meed of praise which would
fall to his share, if he succeeded in laying one or two of those
Chouan leaders by the heels? He need not touch the municipal funds.
He had a couple of thousand francs put by and more; and, surely, that
sum would be a sound investment for future advancement and the
recognition of his services on the part of the Minister himself, in
addition to which there would be his share in M. de Kerblay's reward.
So M. Lefèvre sent for the one-eyed Chouan and once more interrogated
him, cajoling and threatening alternately, with a view to obtaining
gratis the information which the man was only prepared to sell.
"I'll say nothing," reiterated the Chouan obstinately, "unless I am
paid to speak."
"Well! What will you take?" said the commissary at last.
"Five thousand francs," replied the man glibly.
"I'll give you one," rejoined M. Lefèvre. "But mind," he added with
uncompromising severity, "you remain here in the cells as hostage for
your own good faith. If you lie to me, you will be shot--summarily
and without trial."
"Give me three thousand and I'll speak," said the Chouan.
"Two thousand," rejoined the commissary, "and that is my last word."
For a second or two the man appeared to hesitate; with his one eye he
tried to fathom the strength of M. le Commissaire's determination.
Then he said abruptly:
"Very well, I'll take two thousand francs. Give me the money now and
I'll speak."
Without another superfluous word M. Lefèvre counted out twenty
one-hundred franc notes, and gave them into the Chouan's grimy hand.
He thought it best to appear open-handed and to pay cash down; the
man would be taken straight back to the cells presently, and if he
played a double game he would anyhow forfeit the money together with
his life.
"Now," said Lefèvre as soon as the man had thrust the notes into the
pocket of his breeches, "tell me who is your chief, and where a posse
of my police can lay hands upon him."
"The chief of my gang," rejoined the Chouan, "is called 'the
Spaniard' amongst us; his real name is Carrera and he comes from
Madrid. We don't often see him, but it was he who led the expedition
to the house of Monsieur de Kerblay."
"What is he like?"
"A short man with dark, swarthy skin, small features, keen, jet-black
eyes, no lashes, and very little eyebrow, a shock of coal-black hair
and a square black beard and moustache; he speaks French with a
Spanish accent."
"Very good! Now tell me where we can find him."
"At Chéron's farm on the Chartres road between la Mesle and Montagne.
You know it?"
"I know the farm. I don't know Chéron. Well?"
"The Spaniard has arranged to meet a man there--a German Jew--while
Chéron himself is away from home. The idea is to dispose of the
ring."
"I understand. When is the meeting to take place?"
"To-night! It is market day at Chartres and Chéron will be absent
two days. It was all arranged yesterday. The Spaniard and his gang
will sleep at the farm; the following morning they will leave for
Paris, en route some of them, so 'tis said, for Spain."
"And the farmer--Chéron? What has he to do with it all?"
"Nothing," replied the Chouan curtly. "He is just a fool. His house
stands isolated in a lonely part of the country, and his two farm
hands are stupid louts. So, whenever the Spaniard wants to meet any
of his accomplices privately, he selects a day when Chéron is from
home, and makes use of the farm for his own schemes."
"You owe him a grudge, I suppose," sneered Lefèvre, who had taken
rapid notes of all the man had told him.
"No," replied the Chouan slowly, "but those of us who helped to work
the coup at Monsieur de Kerblay's the other night, were each to
receive twenty francs as our share of the spoils. It was not enough!"
The commissary of police nodded complacently. He was vastly
satisfied with the morning's work. He had before now heard vague
hints about this Spaniard, one of those mysterious and redoubtable
Chouan leaders, who had given the police of the entire province no
end of trouble and grave cause for uneasiness. Now by
his--Lefèvre's--own astuteness he stood not only to lay the villain
by the heels and earn commendation for his zeal from the Minister
himself, but, if this one-eyed scoundrel spoke the truth, also to
capture some of his more prominent accomplices, not to mention the
ring and M. de Kerblay's generous reward.
Incidentally he also stood to put a spoke in the wheel of that
over-masterful and interfering man in the grey coat, which would be a
triumph not by any means to be depreciated.
So the Chouan was taken back to the cells and the chief commissary of
police was left free to make his arrangements for the night's
expedition, without referring the matter to the accredited agent of
His Majesty's Police.
III
Lefèvre knew that he was taking a grave risk when, shortly after
eight o'clock on that same evening, he ordered a squadron of his
police to follow him to Chéron's farm on the Chartres road. At the
last moment he even had a few misgivings as to the wisdom of his
action. If the expedition did not meet with the measure of success
which he anticipated, and the accredited agent of the Minister came
to hear of it, something exceedingly unpleasant to the over-zealous
commissary might be the result. However, after a few very brief
moments of this unworthy hesitation, M. Lefèvre chid himself for his
cowardice and started on his way.
Since his interview with the one-eyed Chouan he had been over to the
farm in order to get a thorough knowledge of the topography of the
buildings and of their surroundings. Disguised as a labourer he had
hung about the neighbourhood, in the wet and cold until he felt quite
sure that he could find his way anywhere around the place in the dark.
The farm stood a couple of kilomètres or so from the road, on the
bank of a tiny tributary of the Mayenne, surrounded by weeping
willows, now stripped of their leaves, and flanked by a couple of
tumble-down heather-thatched sheds. It was a square building, devoid
of any outstanding architectural features, and looking inexpressibly
lonely and forlorn. There was not another human habitation in sight,
and the wooded heights which dominated the valley appeared to shut
the inhabitants of the little farm away from the rest of mankind. As
he looked at the vast and mournful solitude around, Lefèvre easily
recognised how an astute leader, such as the Spaniard appeared to be,
would choose it as headquarters for his schemes. Whenever the house
itself became unsafe the thicket of willow and chestnut close by, and
the dense undergrowth on the heights above, would afford perfect
shelter for fugitive marauders.
It was close on ten o'clock of an exceptionally dark night when the
posse of police, under the command of the chief commissary,
dismounted at the "Grand Duc," a small wayside inn on the Chartres
road, and, having stabled their horses, started on foot across
country at the heels of their chief. The earth was sodden with
recent rains and the little troop moved along in silence, their feet,
encased in shoes of soft leather, making no sound as they stealthily
advanced.
The little rivulet wound its sluggish course between flat banks
bordered by waste land on either side. Far ahead a tiny light
gleamed intermittently, like a will-o'-the-wisp, as intervening
groups of trees alternately screened it and displayed it to view.
After half an hour of heavy walking the commissary called a halt.
The massive block of the farmhouse stood out like a dense and dark
mass in the midst of the surrounding gloom. M. Lefèvre called softly
to his sergeant.
"Steal along, Hippolyte," he whispered, "under cover of those willow
trees, and when you hear me give the first command to open, surround
the house so that the rascals cannot escape either by the door or the
windows."
Silently and noiselessly these orders were executed; whilst the
commissary himself stole up to the house. He came to a halt before
the front door and paused a moment, peering anxiously round about him
and listening for any sound which might come from within. The house
appeared dark and deserted; only from one of the windows on the
ground floor a feeble light filtered through the chinks of an
ill-fitting shutter, and a mingled murmur of voices seemed to travel
thence intermittently. But of this the eager watcher could not be
sure. The north-westerly wind, soughing through the bare branches of
the trees behind him, also caused the shutters to creak on their
hinges and effectually confused every other sound.
The chief commissary then rapped vigorously against the door with the
hilt of his sword.
"Open!" he called peremptorily, "in the name of the law!"
Already he could hear the sergeant and his men stealing out from
under the trees; but from the stronghold of the Chouans there came no
answer to his summons; absolute silence reigned inside the farmhouse;
the dismal creaking of a half-broken shutter and the murmur of the
wind in the leafless willows alone roused the dormant echoes of the
old walls.
Lefèvre rapped once more against the massive panels.
"Open!" he called again, "in the name of the law!"
The men following their sergeant had now reached the open. In an
instant, from somewhere in the gloom behind them, there came the
report of two musket shots in rapid succession. Someone was hit, for
there was the sound of a groan and a curse; but in the darkness it
was impossible to see who it was.
The men halted irresolute.
"Run to the back of the house, some of you!" commanded the
commissary, "and in Heaven's name do not allow a single ruffian to
escape."
The men obeyed as quickly as the darkness would allow, and again two
musket shots rang out from among the trees; this time the sergeant
fell forward on his face.
"Corporal Crosnier, are you there?" cried Commissary Lefèvre.
"Present, my commandant!" was the quick reply.
"Take Jean Marie and Dominique and two or three others with you, and
put up the game that is lurking under those willows."
Crosnier obeyed; he called half a dozen men to him and marched them
up towards the thicket. The cowering enemy lay low; only from time
to time shots rang out simultaneously out of the darkness. Sometimes
they made a hit, but not often--one or two of the men received a
stray bullet in their shoulder or their leg--a random shot which came
from out of the gloom and to which they could not reply, for it was
impossible to see whence it had come. Presently even that
intermittent fire ceased. It seemed as if the thicket had finally
swallowed up the lurking quarry.
In the meantime Lefèvre had ordered two or three of his picked men to
use the butt-end of their muskets against the door.
"Batter it in, my men," he commanded, "and arrest everyone you find
inside the house."
Strangely enough, considering the usually desperate tactics of these
Chouan gangs when brought to bay, no resistance was offered from the
interior of their stronghold. Whether the rascals were short of
ammunition and were saving it for a hand-to-hand fight later, or
whether they were preparing some bold coup, it was impossible to say.
Certain it is that the vigorous attacks against the front door were
met by absolute silence--so absolute, indeed, as vaguely to
disconcert the commissary of police.
Still the men continued to pound away with their muskets against the
panels of the door; but the latter was extraordinarily massive in
comparison with the want of solidity of the rest of the house. It
resisted every onslaught for some time, until at last it fell in with
a terrific crash, and Lefèvre, leaving half a dozen men on guard
outside, took another half-dozen with him and entered.
He had picked his men from among those whom he knew to be most
intrepid, for he had expected a desperate resistance on the part of
the Chouans; he was prepared to be greeted with a volley of
musket-fire as he and his men crossed the threshold; he was prepared
for a hand-to-hand fight across that battered door. In fact, M.
Lefèvre, chief commissary of police, had been prepared for everything
excepting the death-like stillness which he encountered by way of
welcome.
Darkness and silence held undisputed sway everywhere. The men, with
dark lanterns fixed to their belts and holding loaded muskets in
their hands, paused for one moment irresolute. Then they started to
make a thorough search of the place; first the ground floor, then the
entrance hall and staircase, then the cellars. They explored every
nook and cranny where human quarry might find shelter, but there was
not a sign, hardly a trace of any Chouans, save in one small room on
the ground floor which certainly appeared as if it had been recently
occupied; the chairs had been hastily pushed aside, on the centre
table were half a dozen mugs and two or three jugs, one of which was
still half filled with wine, a handful of ashes smouldered in the
hearth, and the lamp which hung from the ceiling above was alight.
But for this, Lefèvre might have thought that he must have been
dreaming when he stood by the front door and saw the narrow stream of
light through the chink of a shutter.
Indeed, there was something unspeakably dreary and desolate in this
dark and empty house, in which undoubtedly a gang of malefactors had
lately held revel; and when the men went upstairs in order to explore
the floor above, they were, every one of them, conscious of the quick
sense of unreasoning terror when a weird and intermittent sound
suddenly reached their ear.
The sound came from over their heads--it was like a wail, and was
piteous and disconcerting in the extreme.
"Like someone groaning," said one of the men in a hoarse whisper.
Soon their momentary feeling of dread passed away, and two or three
of the men had already scaled the narrow, ladder-like stairs which
led to a loft that ran the whole length and breadth of the house
under the sloping roof.
But here an extraordinary sight met their gaze. Huddled up against a
large supporting beam were an old man, a woman and two young girls.
They had been tied together by ropes to the beam. Each of the
unfortunates was in acute distress or bodily pain. The atmosphere of
the place was both stuffy and bitterly cold. Incessant moaning came
from the woman, sobbing from the girls; the man appeared stunned and
dazed. When the light from one of the dark lanterns fell upon him,
he blinked his eyes and gazed vacantly on the men who were already
busy with the ropes, freeing him and the woman from their bonds.
They all appeared in the last stage of exhaustion and clung to one
another for support and warmth, when Lefèvre with kindly authority
ordered them to move. Fortunately one of the men recollected the jug
of wine which had been left in the room on the ground floor. He ran
to fetch it, and returned very soon jug and glasses in hand. In the
meanwhile Lefèvre had remained staring at the wretched people and
trying to extract a few words of explanation from them.
So far he had only been able to elicit the information that four
members of the farmer Chéron's family, his father, his wife and his
two daughters stood before him in this pitiable plight. It was only
after they had drunk a little wine that they were able to speak
coherently. In short, jerky sentences and with teeth still
chattering with cold and terror, the old man tried to reply to the
commissary's questions.
"How in the world came you to be up here," M. Lefèvre asked, "tied
like cattle to a beam in your son's house?"
"My son is away at Chartres, Monsieur le Commissaire," replied the
old man; "he won't return till to-morrow. We should have perished of
hunger and cold if you had not come to our rescue."
"But where are those blackguardly Chouans? And who in the devil's
name fired on us from under your trees?"
"Those execrable Chouans took possession of my son's house this
morning, Monsieur le Commissaire, soon after his departure," answered
the old man dolefully. "They seized me and my daughter-in-law and my
two grandchildren, forced us to give up the little bit of money which
my son had left for our use, stole food from the larder and wine from
the cellar; and when we protested they dragged us up here--as you
say--like cattle, tied us to a beam and left us to perish unless my
son should chance to come home."
Lefèvre would have liked to say that twenty-four hours spent in a
draughty loft does not necessarily mean starvation, but on the whole
he refrained from badgering the poor people, who had suffered quite
enough, with further expostulation.
"But what has happened to the Chouans?" he reiterated with a hearty
curse.
"Gone, Monsieur le Commissaire," here interposed the woman woefully.
"Gone! They caroused all day, and left about a couple of hours ago;
since then the house has been as silent as the grave."
Lefèvre said nothing very coherent for the moment; he was mentally
embracing the Chouans, the lying informer and his own folly in one
comprehensive curse.
"But my men were fired on from behind the trees," he urged feebly
after a while.
"I heard the firing, too, Monsieur le Commissaire," rejoined the old
man. "It terrified us, for the Chouans had threatened to shoot us
all if they were attacked by the police; and these two young
girls--think of it, Monsieur le Commissaire--at the mercy of those
brutes. I suppose," he added with a shudder, "that while the leaders
of the gang made good their escape, they left a couple of men behind
to cover their retreat."
Nothing more could be got out of these poor people. They had been
set upon quite early in the day by the Chouans, and knew little or
nothing of what had gone on in the house while they were prisoners in
the loft. They did not know how many of the ruffians there were--six
or eight they thought. The chief was a man with swarthy skin and a
long black beard, who spoke French with a strange foreign accent.
The commissary of police went nearly mad with rage. He set his best
men to search the farm-house through and through, in the hope that
some of the rascals might still be lurking about the place. But the
men ransacked the house in vain. They found neither trap-door nor
secret panel, nor slinking quarry, and after a couple of hours' hunt
were forced to own themselves defeated.
IV
M. Lefèvre returned to Alençon with his posse of police in the small
hours of the morning. He dismissed the men at the commissariat, and
sought his own lodgings in the Rue Notre Dame, his mind a prey to the
bitterest feeling of disappointment--not unmixed with misgivings at
thought of M. le Ministre's agent, should he get wind of the
miscarriage.
To his terror and amazement, no sooner had he entered the house than
the concierge came out of his lodge to tell him that a gentleman was
upstairs in his rooms, waiting for him.
"Who is it?" he asked sharply. "You have no right to admit anyone to
my rooms at this hour of the night."
"I could not help myself," retorted the concierge sullenly. "He
exhibited some sort of order from the Ministry of Police, and was so
high-handed and peremptory that I dared not refuse."
Filled with vague apprehension M. Lefèvre ran quickly up to his
rooms. He was greeted in the ante-chamber by the Man in Grey.
"I was unfortunately too late to catch you before you started," said
the latter as soon as Lefèvre had closed the door. He spoke in his
even monotone--his face was calm and expressionless, but there was
something about his attitude which jarred unpleasantly on the
commissary's nerves.
"I--that is----" he stammered, despite his stern effort to appear
confident and at his ease.
"You have disobeyed the Minister's orders," interposed the secret
agent quietly. "But there is no time now to discuss your conduct.
The blunder which you have just committed is mayhap beyond repair; in
which case----"
He broke off abruptly and M. Lefèvre felt a cold shiver running down
his spine.
"There was no time to consult you----" he began.
"I said that I would not discuss that," interposed the Man in Grey
quietly. "Tell me where you have been."
"To Chéron's farm on the Chartres road," replied the commissary
sullenly.
"The informer gave you directions?"
"Yes."
"That you would find his leader there?"
"Yes, the man whom they call 'the Spaniard,' and some of his
accomplices. The informer----"
"The informer escaped from the cells during your absence this
evening," said the Man in Grey curtly.
"Malediction!"
"Do not curse, my good man," advised the other dryly. "The rascal's
escape may be the means of retrieving your blunder, since it gave me
the knowledge of the whole affair."
"But how did it happen?"
"Surveillance slackened while you went off on your wild-goose chase.
Your prisoner used some of the money wherewith you had bribed
him--against my express command, remember--to bribe his warder in his
turn. Your sergeant-in-charge came to me in his distress when he
found that his bird had flown."
Lefèvre had no longer the strength to argue or even to curse. He
hung his head in silent dejection.
"I sent for you," continued the Man in Grey mercilessly. "When I
found that you had gone no one knew whither, and that you had taken a
posse of your men with you, I guessed the whole extent of your
damnable blunder. I have waited here for you ever since.
"What can I do now?" murmured Lefèvre gloomily.
"Collect ten or twelve of the men whom you can most confidently
trust, and then pick me up at my lodgings in the Rue de France.
We'll go back to Chéron's farm--together."
"But there is no one there," said Lefèvre with a dejected sigh, "only
Chéron's father, his wife and two daughters."
"I know that well enough, you fool," exclaimed the Man in Grey,
departing for the first time from his habitual calm, and starting to
pace up and down the narrow room like a caged and fretting animal;
"and that every proof against the villains who robbed Monsieur de
Kerblay has no doubt vanished whilst you were getting the wrong sow
by the ear. To bring the crime home to them now will be very
difficult. 'Tis red-handed we ought to have caught them, with the
Jew there and the ring and the Spaniard bargaining, whereas now----"
Suddenly he paused and stood quite still; the anger and impatience
died out of his face, leaving it pale and expressionless as was its
wont; only to Lefèvre who was watching him with keen anxiety it
seemed as if for one fraction of a second a curious glitter had lit
up his colourless eyes.
"In Heaven's name!" he resumed impatiently after a while, "let us get
to horse, or I may be tempted to tell you what I think of your folly."
The commissary, trounced like a recalcitrant schoolboy and not a
little terrified at the consequences of his blunder, was only too
ready to obey. Within half an hour he was in the saddle. He had
Corporal Crosnier with him and half a dozen picked men, and together
they went to the Rue de France where the Minister's agent was waiting
for them.
V
It was close upon five o'clock of a raw, damp morning when the little
party drew rein once more at the wayside inn on the Chartres road.
The men appeared tired out and were grateful for the hot coffee which
a sleepy ostler hastily prepared for them; but the Man in Grey seemed
indefatigable. Wrapped to the chin in a long, dark mantle, he had
ridden the whole way by the side of the commissary, plying him with
questions the while. Bit by bit he had extracted from him the full
history of the futile expedition, the description of the house, its
situation and structure, and of the members of the Chéron family.
Now, whilst sipping his coffee, he made Lefèvre give him final and
minute directions how to reach the farm-house.
Ten minutes later he started on his way--alone and on foot.
"Follow me in about five minutes," were his last commands to the
commissary. "Then lie low under the trees. When you hear a pistol
shot from inside the house rush in and seize every man, woman, or
child whom you find; if you meet with any resistance order your men
to use their muskets. Leave the Corporal with a strong guard outside
the house, both back and front, and bid him shoot on sight anyone who
attempts to escape."
After he had walked on through the darkness for a couple of mètres or
so, he threw off his mantle and hat and kicked off his shoes. The
commissary of police, had he been near him now, would of a truth have
been staggered at his appearance. He wore a pair of ragged breeches
and a stained and tattered blouse; his hair was unkempt, and his feet
and legs were bare to the knees.
"Now for a little bit of luck," he murmured as he started to run.
His bare feet squelched through the wet earth and spattered him with
mud from head to foot, and as he ran the perspiration streamed down
his face and mingled with the grime. Indeed, it seemed as if he took
a special delight in tiring himself out, in getting breathless and
hot, and by his active exercise making himself look even dirtier and
more disreputable than he had been before.
When he reached the river side and the row of willow trees, he
halted; the house, he knew, must be quite close now on the right, and
as he peered into the darkness he perceived a tiny streak of light
glimmering feebly through the gloom some way off. Throwing himself
flat upon his stomach, he bent his ear to the ground; it was attuned
to the slightest sound, like that of the Indian trackers, and he
heard at a distance of four hundred mètres behind him the measured
tramp of Lefèvre's men. Then he rose to his feet and, stealthily as
a cat, crept up to the house.
The slender streak of light guided him and, as he drew nearer, he
heard a confused murmur of voices raised in merriment. The occupants
of the house were apparently astir; the light came through a
half-open shutter on the ground floor as did the sound of the voices,
through which presently there rang a loud and prolonged peal of
laughter. The secret agent drew a deep sigh of satisfaction; the
birds--thank goodness--had not yet flown. Noiselessly he approached
the front door, the battered and broken appearance of which bore
testimony to Lefèvre's zeal.
A bright patch of light striking through an open door on the right
illumined a portion of the narrow hall beyond, leaving the rest in
complete darkness. The Man in Grey stepped furtively over the
threshold. Immediately he was challenged: "Who goes there?" and he
felt rather than saw a gun levelled at his head.
"A friend," he murmured timidly.
At the instant the challenge had resounded through the house the
light in the inner room on the right was suddenly extinguished;
deathly silence had succeeded the debauch.
"What's your business?" queried a muffled voice peremptorily.
Before the Man in Grey could reply there was a commotion in the inner
room as of chairs hastily thrust aside, and presently another
voice--one both gruff and commanding--called out: "What is it,
Pierre?"
A dark lantern was flashed about, its light fell full on the
miserable apparition of the Man in Grey.
"What do you want?" queried the commanding voice out of the partial
gloom. "Speak, or I fire!"
"A friend!" reiterated the Man in Grey timidly.
"Your name?"
"Nicaise, sir, from Mauger's farm on the Mayenne road. I was asleep
under a haystack, when a stranger comes to me and shakes me roughly
by the shoulder. 'Run,' he says to me, 'to Chéron's up by the
Chartres road. Run as fast as your legs will take you. Walk in
boldly; the door is open. You will find company inside the farm.
Tell them the police are coming back in force. Someone will give you
a silver franc for your pains if you get there in time.' So I took
to my heels and ran."
While he spoke another man and a woman had entered. Their vague
forms were faintly discernible through the darkness; the light from
the lantern still struck full on the Man in Grey, who looked the
picture of woebegone imbecility.
From the group in the doorway there came a murmur: "The police!"
"A stranger, you say?" queried the man with the commanding voice.
"What was he like?"
"I could not say," replied the secret agent humbly. "It was very
dark. But he said I should get a silver franc for my pains, and I am
a poor man. I thought at first it was a hoax, but when I crossed the
meadow just now I saw a lot of men in hiding under the willow trees."
"Malediction!" muttered the man, as he turned, undecided, towards his
companions. "Oh, that I had that one-eyed traitor in my power!" he
added with a savage oath.
"Did you speak to the men of the police?" asked a woman's voice out
of the darkness.
"No, madame," replied the secret agent. "They did not see me. I was
crawling on my hands and knees. But they are all round the house,
and I heard one man calling to the sergeant and giving him orders to
watch the doors and windows lest anyone tried to escape."
The group in the doorway was silent; the man who had been on guard
appeared to have joined them, and they all went back into the room
and held a hurried consultation.
"There is nothing for it," said one man, "but to resume our former
roles as members of the Chéron family, and to do it as naturally as
before."
"They suspect us now," said another, "or they would not be here again
so soon."
"Even so; but if we play our parts well they can only take us back to
the commissariat and question us; they must release us in the end;
they have no proof."
In the meanwhile someone had relighted the lamp. There appeared to
be a good deal of scurrying and scrambling inside the room; the Man
in Grey tiptoed up to the doorway to see what was going on.
Evidently, disguises which had hastily been put aside had been
resumed; the group stood before him now just as Lefèvre had
originally described them: the old man, the woman, the two young
girls; the latter were striding about the room and holding their
skirts up clumsily with both hands, as men are wont to do when they
don women's clothes; the old man, on whom grey locks and
well-stencilled wrinkles were the only signs of age, was hastily
putting these to rights before a mirror on the wall.
But it was the woman's doings which compelled the attention of the
Man in Grey. She was standing on a chair with her back to him,
intent on manipulating something up the huge open chimney.
"It will be quite safe there," she said.
She appeared to be closing some heavy iron door which fell in its
place with a snap. Then she turned to her companions and slowly
descended from the chair. "When the present storm has blown over,"
she said, "we'll come and fetch it. Chéron will never guess; at any
rate, we are sure the police cannot discover this most excellent
hiding-place."
She was a short, square-built woman, with a dark, almost swarthy
skin, keen jet-black eyes which appeared peculiarly hard and
glittering owing to the absence of lashes, a firm, thin-lipped mouth,
square chin, and low forehead crowned by a shock of thick, black hair
cut short like a boy's. The secret agent kept his eyes fixed upon
her while she spoke to her friends. He noted the head so full of
character, and the strength and determination expressed in every line
of the face; he marvelled why the features--especially those
glittering jet-black eyes--appeared familiar, as something he had
known and heard of before. And, suddenly, it all came to him in a
flash; he remembered the informer's description of the leader named
"the Spaniard": a dark, swarthy skin, jet-black hair, keen dark eyes
with no lashes to soften their glitter, the beard, the man's attire,
the foreign accent. Soh! these marauding Chouans slipped in and out
of their disguises and changed even their sex outwardly as easily as
men change their coats; whilst the very identity of their leader was
more often unknown to them than known.
As the secret agent's practised glance took in during these few
seconds the whole personality of the woman before him, he knew that
his surmises--based on intuition and on reasoning--were correct. It
was the Spaniard who stood before him now, but the Spaniard was a
woman. And as he gazed on her, half in pity because of her sex, and
half in admiration for her intrepidity, she turned, and their glances
met. She looked at him across the narrow room, and each knew that
the other had guessed.
The woman never flinched; she held the agent's glance and did not
utter either word or cry whilst with a slow, deliberate movement, she
drew a pistol from beneath her kerchief. But he, as quick and
resourceful, had instantly stepped back into the hall. He seized the
door, and, with a loud bang, closed it to between himself and the
Chouans. Then, with lightning rapidity, he pushed the heavy bolt
home.
The report of a pistol rang out. It came from inside the room. The
Man in Grey was leaning his full weight against the door, wondering
whether Lefèvre and his men would come to his assistance before the
trapped Chouans had time to burst the panels.
He heard Lefèvre's call outside and the heavy tramp of the men. A
few seconds of agonising suspense, whilst he literally felt the
massive door heaving behind him under the furious onslaught of the
imprisoned Chouans, and the commissary with the men of the police
burst into the hall. The door fell in with a terrific crash.
The Chouans, caught like foxes run to earth, offered a desperate
resistance. But the odds were too great; after a grim struggle
across the threshold, which lasted close on ten minutes and left
several men of the police bleeding or dead upon the floor, the gang
was captured, securely bound and locked in one of the cellars
underneath the house, where they were left in charge of half a dozen
men until such time as they could be conveyed to Alençon and thence
to Bicêtre to await their trial.
VI
It has been impossible, owing to the maze of records, to disentangle
the subsequent history of three of these Chouans. The Spaniard,
however, was, we know, kept in prison for over five years until,
after the Restoration, her friends succeeded in laying her petition
of release before the King and she was granted a free pardon and a
small pension from the privy purse, "in consideration of the services
she had rendered to His Majesty and the martyrdom she had suffered in
his cause." On the official list of pensioners in the year 1816 her
name appears as "Caroline Mercier, commonly called the Spaniard."
But at Chéron's farm, when all was still, the men of the police gone
and the prisoners safely under lock and key, the Man in Grey and the
commissary returned to the little room which had been the scene of
the Chouans' final stand. A broken chair was lying by the side of
the tall, open chimney, wherein the woman with the swarthy skin and
jet-black eyes had concealed the stolen treasure. The accredited
agent had no difficulty in finding the secret hiding-place; about a
foot up the chimney an iron door was let into the solid wall. A
little manipulation of his deft fingers soon released the secret
spring, and the metal panel glided gently in its grooves.
M. de Kerblay's precious ring and some twenty thousand francs in
money gladdened the sight of the worthy commissary of police.
"But how did you guess?" he asked of the Man in Grey, when, half an
hour later, the pair were ambling along the road back towards Alençon.
"While you were getting ready for our second expedition, my dear
Monsieur Lefèvre," replied the Man in Grey, "I took the simple
precaution of ascertaining whether the farmer Chéron had a wife, a
father, and two daughters. Your own records at the commissariat
furnished me with this information. From them I learned that though
he had a wife, he had no father living, and that he had three
grown-up sons, long ago started out into the world. After that,
everything became very simple."
"I suppose," quoth the commissary ruefully, "that I ought to have
found out about the man Chéron and his family before I went off on
that fool's errand."
"You ought, above all, to have consulted me," was the Man in Grey's
calm reproof.