THE BOURBON PRINCE
I
"I don't see how I can be of any assistance to you, my good Monsieur
Moulin. I quite agree with you that it would be a real calamity if a
member of the ex-Royal family were to effect a landing in our
province, but----" And Monseigneur the Constitutional Bishop of
Alençon shrugged his shoulders in token of his inability to deal with
the matter.
He was sitting in a small room of his splendid private château, which
was situated near Granville. Through the tall window on his left,
the magnificent panorama of the rugged coast of Normandy and of the
turbulent English Channel beyond was displayed in its limitless
glory. The point of Carolles still gleamed beneath the last rays of
the cold, wintry sun, but the jagged Dog's Tooth rocks were already
wrapped in twilight gloom.
"And it is for our people themselves to realise," continued
Monseigneur, with his slow, somewhat pompous delivery, "how much
happier they would be if they discarded for ever their misguided
allegiance to those degenerate Bourbons, and became law-abiding
citizens like the rest of France."
"They'll have no chance to do that," growled the préfet moodily,
"once we get one of those Bourbons sowing rebellion and discontent
all over the place. The landing of the Comte d'Artois must be
prevented at all costs or we shall have the devil to pay. Those
Chouans have been difficult enough to deal with, God knows, but
hitherto their want of organisation, their lack of responsible
leadership and of co-ordination have been our salvation. With the
Comte d'Artois at their head, and a deal of fictitious enthusiasm
aroused by him for the exiled Royal family over the water, we shall
have bloodshed, misery, and civil war rife again in this corner of
France."
"Monsieur le Ministre," rejoined Monseigneur blandly, "has plenty of
spies here. Surely, even if the Comte d'Artois effect a landing, he
cannot escape capture at the hands of your well-organised police.
His death inside your circuit, my dear préfet, would be a fine
feather in your cap."
"Oh, we don't want another martyred Bourbon just yet!" retorted the
préfet gruffly. "He'd better die in England, or on the high seas
rather than in this part of Normandy. We should be accused of
murdering him."
M. le préfet was distinctly perturbed and irritable. A denunciation
from some anonymous quarter had reached him that morning: a number of
rough fellows--marauding Chouans--had, it appeared, halted at a
wayside inn somewhere on the Caen road, and openly boasted that M. le
Comte d'Artois, own brother to His Majesty the King, was about to
land on the shores of France, and that a numerous and enthusiastic
army was already prepared to rally round his flag, and to sweep the
upstart Emperor from his throne, and all the myrmidons of the
mushroom Empire from their comfortable seats.
The Bishop had listened to the story of the anonymous denunciation
and to the préfet's wails of woe most benignly and untiringly for
close upon an hour. But he was at last showing signs of growing
impatience.
"I think, my dear Monsieur Moulin," he said with some acerbity, "you
must yourself admit that this affair in no way concerns me.
Granville is not even my official residence. I came here for a
much-needed rest and, though my support and advice are always at your
disposal, I really must leave you and the chief commissary of police
to deal with these Chouans as best you can, and with any Bourbon
prince who thinks of paying France an unwelcome visit."
He put up his delicate, beringed hand to his mouth, politely
smothering a yawn. He appeared absent and thoughtful all of a
sudden, bored no doubt by the fussy man's volubility. He was gazing
out of the window, seemingly in rapt contemplation of the beautiful
picture before him--the setting sun over the Channel, the gorgeous
coast scenery, the glowing splendour of the winter twilight.
The préfet felt that he was dismissed. Respect for Monseigneur
warred with his latent irritability.
"I won't intrude any longer," he said ruefully, as he prepared to go.
The Bishop, much relieved, became at once more affable.
"I wish I could be of service to you," he said benignly; "but from
what I hear you have a very able man at your elbow in the newly
accredited agent of His Majesty's Minister. The préfet of Alençon
has spoken very highly about him to me, and though he was
unsuccessful in the matter of the burglary in my Palace at Alençon
last October, I believe he has rendered very able assistance to the
chief commissary of police in bringing some of those redoubtable
Chouans to justice."
"He may have done that," quoth the préfet drily, "but I have not much
faith in the little grey fellow myself. The problem confronting us
here is a deeper one than he can tackle."
A few minutes later the préfet had finally bowed himself out of
Monseigneur's presence.
The Bishop remained seated at his desk, absorbed and almost
motionless, for some time after his visitor had departed. He
appeared to be still wrapped up in the contemplation of the sunset.
The hurried footsteps of the préfet resounded on the great flagged
hall below; there had been the usual commotion attendant on the
departure of a guest: lackeys opening and closing the entrance doors,
a call for Monsieur le Préfet's horse, the clatter of hoofs upon the
stone-paved courtyard, then nothing more.
The dignified quietude of a well-ordered, richly appointed household
again reigned in the sumptuous château. After a while, as the shades
of evening drew in, a footman entered with a lighted lamp, which he
set upon the table. But still Monseigneur waited, until through the
tall window by his side there appeared nothing but an impenetrable
veil of blackness. Then he rose, carefully re-adjusted the crimson
shade over the lamp and threw a couple of logs upon the cheerful
fire. He went up to the window and opened it and, stepping out on to
the terrace, peered intently into the night.
The north-westerly wind was soughing through the trees of the park,
and not half a kilomètre away the breakers were roaring against the
Dog's Tooth rocks; but, even through these manifold sounds,
Monseigneur's keen ear had detected a soft and furtive footfall upon
the terrace steps. The next moment a man emerged out of the gloom.
Breathless and panting, he ran rapidly across the intervening
forecourt and, almost colliding with the Bishop, staggered and fell
forward into the room.
Monseigneur received him in his arms, and with a swiftly murmured,
"Thank God!" led him to a chair beside the hearth. Then he closed
the window, drew the heavy damask curtains closely together and
finally came up to the newcomer who, shivering with cold and terror,
wet to the skin and scant of breath, was stooping to the fire, trying
to infuse warmth into his numbed fingers.
"Someone is on my track," were the first words which fell from his
quivering lips.
He was a man verging on middle age, short and stout of build, with a
white, flabby skin and prominent, weak-looking eyes. His clothes had
almost been torn off his back by the frolic of the gale; he was
hatless, and his hair, matted and dank, clung to his moist forehead.
The Bishop had remained standing before him in an attitude of
profound respect. "Will your Highness deign to come up to my room?"
he said. "Dry clothes and a warm bath have been prepared."
"I'll go in a moment," replied His Highness. He had still some
difficulty in recovering his breath, and spoke irritably like a
wayward sick child. "But let me tell you at once that our movements
have been watched from the moment that we set foot on these shores.
The crossing was very rough. The gale is raging furiously. The
skipper has put into Avranches. He put me off at the Goat's Creek
and left me there with de Verthamont and du Roy. As soon as we
started to come hither we realised that there was someone on our
track. We consulted together and decided that it would be best to
separate. De Verthamont went one way and du Roy another, and I ran
all the way here."
"Was your Highness shadowed after that?" asked the Bishop.
"I think not. I heard no one. But then the wind kept up an
incessant din."
"And did Sébastien meet your Highness?"
"Yes! In the Devil's Bowl. He followed me at a distance as far as
your gates. He thought that he, too, had been shadowed all day.
Early this morning he reconnoitred as far as Coutances, and there he
heard that a couple of regiments of cavalry and a battery of
artillery had arrived from St. Lô."
The Bishop made no further comment. His enthusiasm and excitement of
a moment ago appeared to have fallen away from him; his finely
chiselled face had become serene and pale; only in his deep-set eyes
there seemed to smoulder a dull fire, as if with the prescience of
impending doom.
A moment or two later he persuaded the Comte d'Artois to come up to
his own private apartments. Here a warm bath, dry clothes and a
well-cooked supper restored to the unfortunate Prince a certain
measure of courage.
"What's to be done?" he asked with a querulous tone in his hoarse
voice.
"For the moment," replied the Bishop earnestly, "I would respectfully
beg of your Highness to remain in these apartments, which have the
infinite advantage of a secret hiding-place which no police agent
will ever discover."
"A hiding-place?" muttered the Prince petulantly. "I loathe the very
idea of lurking behind dusty panels like a sick fox."
The Bishop did not venture on a reply. He went up to the fine
mantelpiece at the opposite end of the room, and his hand wandered
over the elaborate carving which adorned the high wainscoting. He
pressed with one finger on a portion of the carving, and at once some
of the woodwork moved silently upon unseen hinges, and disclosed a
cavity large enough for a man to pass through.
"It would only be an hour or so at a time, your Highness," he said
with respectful apology; "in case a posse of police makes a descent
upon the house."
He explained to his august visitor the mechanism of the secret panel.
M. le Comte d'Artois, weary after a long sea journey, fretful and
irritable, kept up a constant stream of mutterings _sotto voce_:
"You and the party wished me to come. I never thought that it would
be safe, and if I have to remain in hiding in this rat hole, I might
just as well be sitting comfortably in England."
Monseigneur, however, never departed for a moment from his attitude
of almost reverential deference. With his own hands he ministered to
every bodily comfort of the exalted personage who had found refuge
under his roof and only left him when he saw the prince comfortably
stretched out upon the bed, and was fully assured that he understood
the working of the secret panel.
Then after a deep obeisance he finally bowed himself out of the room.
Slowly he descended the dimly lighted stairs which led to his study
on the floor below. The pallor of his face appeared more marked than
before. A vague feeling of anxiety, not unmixed with disappointment,
caused a deep frown to settle between his brows.
The situation, though tense always, had become well-nigh desperate
now. With M. le Comte d'Artois under his roof and his movements
known to a spy of the Impérial police, every hour, every minute, had
become fraught with deadly danger, not only to him but to every one
of his adherents.
Hundreds of men and women around the neighbourhood at this hour were
preparing to meet the Prince--the brother of their uncrowned
King--for whose sake they were willing to risk their lives. One
false move, one act of cowardice or carelessness, and the death of a
Bourbon prince would once more sully the honour of France, whilst
countless adherents of the Royal cause would again fall victims to
their hot-headed loyalty.
And as the Bishop re-entered his study he gave a short bitter sigh,
for memory had swiftly conjured up the vision of that unheroic figure
which slept contentedly in the room above, and on whose energy and
courage depended the lives of those who still believed in him, and
who saw in him only the ideal of a monarchy, the traditions of old
France and of the glorious days that were gone.
II
Monseigneur, on entering the study, saw a man standing there waiting
for him.
"Sébastien!" he exclaimed eagerly.
The man had the bearing and appearance of a good-class domestic
servant--one of those who enjoy many privileges as well as the
confidence of their employer. But to a keen psychologist it would
soon become obvious that the sombre, well-cut clothes and stiff,
conventional demeanour cloaked a more vigorous and more individual
personality. The face appeared rugged even beneath the solid mask,
and the eyes had a keen, searching, at times furtive expression in
them. They were the eyes of a man accustomed to feel danger dogging
his footsteps, to hold his life in his own hands and to take risks
which would make the pusillanimous quake.
"How long have you been here?" asked the Bishop quickly.
"Half an hour, Monseigneur. I did not dare follow His Highness too
closely. The town and its neighbourhood are bristling with spies. I
have had the greatest difficulty throughout the day in giving at
least two prowlers the slip and drawing them off His Highness's
tracks."
Monseigneur uttered an exclamation of horror.
"I thought I had one at my heels a moment ago," continued Sébastien;
"just inside the gates. Someone, I felt, was dogging my footsteps.
I fired a random shot into the night, and as luck would have it, I
brought down my man."
"Brought down your man?" exclaimed Monseigneur eagerly. "Then----"
"Unfortunately it was not a police spy whom I shot," said Sébastien
carelessly, "but Grand-Cerf, one of your keepers."
Monseigneur uttered a cry of horror.
"Grand-Cerf! I had posted him just inside the gates to watch for
possible prowlers."
"I didn't know that, and I shot him," repeated Sébastien grimly.
"You killed him?"
Sébastien nodded. The matter did not appear to him to have any
importance.
"Now if it had been that accursed spy----" he murmured. Then he
added more earnestly: "You will have a posse of police over from
Granville to-morrow, Monseigneur--they'll search this house. Somehow
or other someone has got wind of the affair--I'd stake my life on it."
"Let them come," retorted the Bishop shortly. "Monsieur le Comte
d'Artois will be safe behind the secret panel."
Sébastien shrugged his shoulders.
"For half an hour, yes! But if, as I believe, it is that confounded
grey chap from Paris who has shadowed us, then no hiding-place or
secret panel will screen us from his prying eyes. It is he who
tracked down the Spaniard last November, who laid Monsieur de
Saint-Tropèze low, who thwarted Mademoiselle Vaillant. Oh!" added
the old Chouan, "if I only had him here between my hands----"
His powerful fingers twitched convulsively. Monseigneur shrugged his
shoulders.
"That miserable little Man in Grey," he said drily, "has had the luck
so far, I own, but it was because his wits were only opposed to brute
force. Monsieur de Saint-Tropèze was clumsy, the Spaniard reckless,
the girl Vaillant hysterical. Now we have to defend Monsieur le
Comte d'Artois himself--but not with our lives, my good
Sébastien--'tis our wits which are going to win the day, right under
the very nose of the confounded Man in Grey."
III
An hour or two later, in a small dingy room in one of the most
squalid portions of the town, the accredited agent of His Impérial
Majesty's Minister of Police was hastily demolishing the remnants of
a meagre, cold supper. He appeared footsore and cold. M. Moulin,
préfet of St. Lô, sat opposite to him at the table. He seemed
gravely agitated and anxious.
"We have done all we really could, Monsieur Fernand," he said
fretfully, "with the material at our command. Monsieur le Duc
d'Otrante's spies have been very active, and I don't think that we
have any cause to complain of the results."
"Well, let's hear the results," said the Man in Grey curtly.
A sharp retort hovered on the préfet's tongue. He did not like the
dictatorial ways of this emissary from Paris, and had it not been for
M. le Duc d'Otrante's express orders, the Minister's secret agent
would have fared ill at the hands of this hidebound official.
"There has been," he resumed with some bitterness, "great activity
among the Chouans that are known to us in this neighbourhood. Our
spies have discovered that the Comte d'Artois landed on this coast in
the early dawn this morning. Unfortunately, they cannot be
everywhere, and up to half an hour ago we had found no trace of him
that we can rely on: at the same time we have intercepted a
letter----"
"Pshaw!" ejaculated the Man in Grey impatiently. "And did your spies
inform you by any chance that three strangers were landed by the brig
_Delphine_ in the Goat's Creek at dawn this morning?"
"Our informant did not say," remarked the préfet drily.
"I dare say not," rejoined the Man in Grey. "Nor did he tell you,
perhaps, that the three strangers were met at the Devil's Bowl by
Sébastien, who is, if I mistake not, confidential valet to the
Constitutional Bishop of Alençon."
"That is false!" broke in Monsieur le Préfet emphatically. "The
loyalty of Monseigneur is beyond question."
"Perhaps," retorted the other with a grim smile. "At any rate,
Sébastien guided the three strangers through intricate passes among
the cliffs as far as the Dog's Tooth. Here the party separated: one
man went one way, another the other. Sébastien and one of the
strangers waited about the cliffs until dusk, then they made their
way along as far as the outskirts of Monseigneur's property----"
"I protest!" ejaculated the préfet hotly.
But the Man in Grey put up his slender hand with a commanding gesture.
"One moment, I beg," he said quietly. "The stranger lurked about on
the outskirts of the park until it was quite dark, then he slipped in
through the gates, with Sébastien close at his heels. The gates were
at once drawn to and closed. The stranger disappeared in the night.
A few minutes later the report of a musket rang out through the
darkness, then the soughing of the gale drowned every other sound."
"Some thief," exclaimed the préfet gruffly, "lurking round the
château. No doubt Sebastian suspected him, dogged his footsteps and
shot him. It is all as clear as daylight----"
"So clear, indeed," observed the Man in Grey calmly, "that you,
Monsieur le Préfet, will at once communicate with the chief
commissary of police. I want a squadron of mounted men to surround
Monseigneur's château and a vigorous search made both inside and
outside the house."
"What! Now?" gasped Monsieur Moulin.
"Yes; now!"
"But it is past ten o'clock!" he protested.
"A better hour could not be found."
"But Monseigneur will look upon this as an insult!" exclaimed the
préfet, who was deadly pale with agitation.
"For which we'll apologise if we have wronged him," retorted the
secret agent quietly. "Stay!" he added, after a moment's reflection.
"I pray you at the same time to tell Monsieur le Commissaire that I
shall require a closed barouche, with a strong pair of horses and a
mounted guard of half a dozen men, to be ready for me in the
stable-yard of Monseigneur's château. Is that understood?"
It was. To have even thought of disobedience would have been
madness. The very way in which the Man in Grey uttered his "I pray
you" sent a cold shiver down M. Moulin's spine, and he still had in
the inner pocket of his coat the letter written in the all-powerful
Minister's own hand. In this letter M. le Duc d'Otrante gave orders
that his agent was to be obeyed--blindly, implicitly,
unquestioningly--whatever he might command, whomsoever he might bid
to execute his orders. One look in that pale, colourless face
sufficed to show that he knew the power which had been placed in his
hands and would use it to punish those who strove to defy his might.
IV
M. Fantin, commissary of police of Granville, was preparing to
execute the agent's orders as transmitted by the préfet. The whole
matter was unutterably distasteful to him. Monseigneur the
Constitutional Bishop of Alençon was a prelate of such high integrity
and proven loyalty, that to put such an insult upon him was, in the
opinion of the commissary, nothing short of an outrage. He was
pacing up and down the uncarpeted floor of his office in a state of
great agitation. In a corner of the room, beside the small iron
stove, sat the secret agent of His Majesty's Minister. Calm,
unperturbed by the mutterings of the commissary, he only exhibited a
slight sign of impatience when he glanced at the clock and noted the
rapid flight of time. The squadron of mounted police requisitioned
by him was making ready to get to horse. It was then close on eleven
o'clock.
A moment later one of the police sergeants entered the office with
the news that a mounted courier had just arrived from the château,
with a message from Monseigneur to the commissary of police.
"I'll see him at once," said the latter, half hoping that this fresh
incident would even now prevent the abominable insult to the Bishop.
"What is it, Gustave?" he asked, for he knew the man as one of the
grooms in Monseigneur's service.
"An attempt at impudent robbery, Monsieur le Commissaire," replied
the man, "which has resulted in a man's death. Monseigneur has sent
me over to notify you at once and to ask what he should do in the
matter."
M. Fantin threw a look of triumph at the little figure in grey that
sat huddled beside the iron stove. The commissary had also advanced
the theory of an attempted burglary at the château, and was highly
elated to see his deductions justified.
"A robbery?" he exclaimed. "How? When?"
"An hour or two ago, Monsieur le Commissaire," replied Gustave.
"Monseigneur will explain. I know nothing of the details except that
the rascal overturned a lamp. He was burned to death and nearly set
fire to the château. I was sent hither post-haste to see Monsieur le
Commissaire----"
"Very good," rejoined the commissary. "Ride straight back to the
château and tell Monseigneur that I will be there anon."
As soon as the man had gone, M. Fantin turned complacently to the Man
in Grey.
"As you see, my dear Monsieur Fernand," he began, "there is no need
to----"
"As your squadron is ready, Monsieur le Commissaire," quoth the agent
quietly, "'twere a pity not to give them the exercise. And remember
the barouche," he added sharply, "and the mounted guard. Do not on
any account leave them behind. My orders are in no way modified."
The commissary swallowed the retort which was hovering on his lips;
but he threw a look that was almost vicious at the meagre grey-clad
figure.
"Do you accompany us?" he asked with a sneer.
"I will meet you at the château," replied the secret agent simply.
Half an hour later Monseigneur was making the commissary of police
welcome at the château. He appeared more upset than he cared to
admit by the tragedy enacted inside his house. He was not a young
man, and his nerves were severely shaken. When his visitors entered,
he was sitting in a large armchair beside the fire in his bedroom; he
had a glass in his hand, half filled with some sweet-smelling
restorative. One of his male servants was in attendance upon him,
bathing his master's forehead with vinegar and water.
Preceded by Sébastien and accompanied by the secret agent and two men
of the police, M. Fantin then went to view the scene of the tragedy.
The two men remained on guard outside the dining-room, where the
drama had taken place. The room still presented a disordered
appearance; nothing had been touched, Sébastien declared, in view of
M. le Commissaire's visit. But the lamp which hung from the ceiling
had been lighted, and by its light the whole extent of what might
have been a measureless disaster was revealed to M. Fantin's
horrified gaze.
In the centre of the room on the floor, close to the large
dining-table, there lay a shapeless mass, obviously a human body,
charred beyond identification. Only the lower part, the heavy cloth
breeches and high leather boots, though badly scorched, were still
recognisable. Beside the body, the rich damask table-cloth lay in a
burned and tangled heap, where the wretched man had dragged it down
in his fall; and a foot or so away was the heavy lamp which had
caused the conflagration. It was lying on its side, with bowl, shade
and chimney broken, just as it had rolled out of the man's hand. A
narrow streak of oil ran from it to the edge of the mantel-kerb. The
rich Oriental carpet was burned in several places, and the table
itself was severely scorched, while heat and smoke had begun their
work of destruction everywhere on the priceless furniture, until
water had rendered their work complete.
Sébastien's account of the tragedy was brief and clear. He had had
his suspicions aroused during the day by seeing an ill-clad ruffian
sneaking around the park gates, and in the evening, feeling anxious,
he made a special tour of the château to see that everything was
safe. On entering the dining-room he saw a man standing beside the
open window, through which he had evidently just made his way.
He--Sébastien--at once drew his pistol, and the man turned to fly;
but the aim was good and the man appeared to be hit. He gave a snarl
like a wild animal, sprang back into the room, apparently with a view
to throwing himself upon his assailant, when his strength failed him.
With one hand he clutched at the table, but he tottered and fell,
dragging with him both the cloth and the table-lamp, which came down
with a crash on the top of him, scattering the oil all over his body.
His clothing at once caught fire, and Sébastien, realising the danger
to the entire house, instantly ran for the buckets of water, which
were always kept in the passage for the purpose, and shouted for
assistance.
Within a few moments he and another lackey got the fire under, and no
great harm was done, save the shock to Monseigneur's nerves, damage
to valuable furniture, and the complete obliteration of the felon's
identity.
The commissary of police asked Sébastien a few questions for form's
sake. He also took some perfunctory notes. He felt irritable and
gravely annoyed with the secret agent for having placed him in such
an awkward position vis-à-vis of Monseigneur.
"A squadron of police to investigate a common attempt at burglary,"
he growled savagely, as Sébastien finally showed him out of the room.
"We shall be the laughing-stock of the countryside!"
Sébastien laughed.
"'Tis the Chouans who will be pleased, Monsieur le Commissaire," he
said. "They have you safely occupied to-night and can go about their
nefarious business unmolested, I am thinking."
The Man in Grey was about to follow, but turned for a moment on his
heel.
"By the way, my good Sébastien," he said, "at what time did the
tragedy take place which you have so graphically described to us?"
For a second or two Sébastien appeared to hesitate.
"Oh," he replied, "somewhere about six or seven o'clock, Monsieur. I
couldn't say exactly."
"What made you wait so long, then, before you sent to Monsieur le
Commissaire?"
"There was a little confusion in the house, Monsieur will understand.
Monseigneur had given orders at once to send a courier over, but the
grooms were at their supper, and it took a little time--we meant to
send at once--the delay was unintentional."
"I am sure it was," broke in the commissary, who was still within
earshot. "And now, Monsieur Fernand," he added, "I pray you excuse
me. The hour is getting late, and I must make my apologies to
Monseigneur."
"One moment, Monsieur le Commissaire," rejoined the Man in Grey.
"Will you not at least question the other servants who came to
Monsieur Sébastien's assistance?"
"No one came to my assistance," Sébastien assured him. "The whole
affair was over in a moment."
"But when the shot was fired----"
"By the time some of the domestics arrived upon the scene, I had put
out the fire. Then I locked the dining-room door. I knew Monsieur
le Commissaire would not wish anything touched."
"Quite right!--quite right!" said M. Fantin querulously. "Now,
Monsieur Fernand, will you come?"
"One moment, Monsieur le Commissaire," said the secret agent, and
suddenly his whole manner changed to one of commanding authority.
"There will be plenty of time for excuses presently. For the nonce
you will order your captain to make a thorough search of this château
and of the grounds around. You will question every one of the
domestics; and remember that I shall be about somewhere--probably
unseen--but present, nevertheless, to see that the investigation is
minute and thorough. Sébastien will remain in the meanwhile in the
custody of these two men here, until I have need of him again."
"By Heaven!" protested the Commissaire roughly.
"By Heaven!" retorted the Man in Grey loudly, "you'll obey my orders
now, Monsieur le Commissaire, or I shall send you straight to
Monsieur the Minister to report upon your own misconduct!"
M. Fantin, at the threat and at the manner in which it was uttered,
became as white as a sheet. But he obeyed--at once and without
another word. Sébastien's rugged face had shown no sign of emotion
as, at a curt word from the secret agent, the two men of the police
closed up on either side and marched him into an adjoining room.
The commissary had taken the threat of the Minister's all-powerful
agent very much to heart. His men searched the château through and
through, just as if it had been the stronghold of some irreconcilable
rebel. The secret agent himself appeared and disappeared, while the
search was going on, like some grey will-o'-the-wisp--now in one
room, now in another, now a passage, now half-way upstairs, just
where least expected. The search took over three hours. During that
time Monseigneur himself sat in his room in front of the fire, the
very picture of silent and offended dignity. He listened--motionless
and dignified--to the commissary's profuse apologies, only now and
then accepting the ministrations of the lackey who remained with him
throughout, bathing his forehead with vinegar, or mixing a fresh
glass of orange-flower water. Of the grey-clad figure which
flittered unceremoniously in and out of his private apartments, he
took no more notice than if he were a fly.
When presently the police actually invaded his own bedroom,
Monseigneur's attitude remained one of unapproachable reserve. Even
when the agent passed his hands over the wainscoting and presently
found the button that worked the secret spring, Monseigneur showed
neither interest nor emotion. The hiding-place itself was found to
be empty; the Man in Grey walked into it and out again, in a
matter-of-fact, impassive manner, as if he were performing a
mechanical and useless job. Neither here nor inside the house, nor
in the grounds, nor in any other hiding-place was anyone or anything
found to impeach Monseigneur's well-known loyalty.
The unfortunate commissary was covered with confusion. He would
gladly have strangled the meddlesome official who had placed him in
such an awkward position, or even have relieved his feelings by
hurling anathema upon him. But the secret agent appeared indifferent
both to the wrath of M. Fantin and to the silent disapprobation of
the Bishop. When he was satisfied that the search was done, and well
done, he took his leave, but not before.
Monseigneur did not vouchsafe him even a look. But he was quite
affable with M. le Commissaire, when the latter finally was allowed
to depart.
"Have you any further orders, Monsieur Fernand?" queried M. Fantin
with bitter sarcasm, when he had bowed his way out of the presence of
the outraged prelate.
"Yes," replied the other; "but I will give them to you outside. And
stay," he added as the commissary turned on his heel, silent with
pent-up rage, "take Sébastien with you and keep him at the
commissariat until further orders."
No chronicler could make a faithful record of all that M. Fantin said
to himself and to his sergeant even whilst he executed these orders
punctually. Fortunately for his feelings on the way home, the Man in
Grey did not elect to accompany him. After he had given his final
orders he disappeared in the darkness, and M. Fantin was only too
thankful to be rid of that unpleasant presence.
V
In and around the château again reigned that perfect silence and
orderliness which pertain to an aristocratic household. The squadron
of police had long since departed: even the sound of their horses'
hoofs, the clang of metal and rattle of swords and muskets had ceased
to echo through the night. For a little while longer soft murmurings
and stealthy movements were still heard inside the house as the
servants went to bed, and, whilst they undressed, indulged in
comments and surmises about the curious happenings of the night.
Then, even these sounds were stilled. Monseigneur, however, did not
go to bed. He had risen from the armchair, and in it he had
installed the man who, for several hours had been diligently
ministering to him with vinegar and orange-flower water.
"Your Highness is none the worse for the experience, I trust," he
said, as he stooped and threw a log or two into the blaze.
"Tired and anxious," replied the Comte d'Artois querulously.
"A night's rest will soon restore your Royal Highness," rejoined the
Bishop with deep respect.
"It was a dangerous game to play," continued the prince peevishly.
"At any moment one of those men might have suspected."
"It was the only possible game to play, your Royal Highness,"
rejoined the Bishop earnestly. "The moment those spies were on your
track and mine, the search was bound to follow. Think if the police
had come here whilst you were in hiding in this room or even behind
the secret panel! Nay! 'twas a mercy Sébastien shot Grand-Cerf in
mistake for a spy. It enabled us to invent that marvellous comedy
which so effectually hoodwinked not only the police but even that
astute agent of the Minister himself. And now," added Monseigneur,
as a deep sigh of exultation and triumph rose from his breast, "we
can work with a free hand. After to-night's work, this house will
never again be suspected. We can make it the headquarters of your
Highness's staff. It shall be the stepping-stone to your royal
brother's reconquered throne."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when, in an instant, he
paused, his whole attitude one of rigid and terror-filled expectancy.
Loud and firm footsteps had resounded upon the flagged terrace,
though muffled by the heavy damask curtain which hung before the
window. A second or two later the footsteps halted, the mullion was
struck with something that clanked, and a voice called out loudly and
peremptorily:
"Open, in the name of the law!"
The Comte d'Artois had smothered a cry of horror. He clung to his
chair with hands that trembled as if with ague, his face became
deathly white, and he stared with wild, wide-open eyes in the
direction of the window, whence that peremptory call had come. He
was in a state of acute physical terror bordering on collapse.
Monseigneur, however, had not lost his presence of mind: "Quick, the
secret panel!" he said, and already the slender hand was manipulating
the hidden spring. The Comte d'Artois tottered to his feet; the next
moment there was a terrific crash of broken glass, the damask curtain
was roughly torn aside, and the agent stepped into the room.
"Resistance were futile, Monseigneur," he said quietly, for with a
rapid movement the Bishop had reached the bell-pull. "I have half a
squadron of police outside, and six men at my heels."
He came further into the room, and as he did so he called to two of
his men to stand on either side of Monseigneur. Then he turned to
Monsieur le Comte d'Artois:
"I have a barouche and a mounted guard ready to convey your Highness
to Avranches, where the brig _Delphine_ with her new skipper is at
your disposal for an immediate return trip to England. His Majesty
the Emperor deprecates revenge and bloodshed. He might punish, but
he prefers to put the culprit out of the way. If Monsieur le Comte
d'Artois will offer no resistance, every respect will be shown to his
person."
Resistance would, indeed, have been worse than useless. Even
Monseigneur replied to his Highness's look of appeal with one of
resignation. He picked up a mantle which lay upon the bed and
silently put it round the Prince's shoulders, then he took the hand
which His Highness held out to him and kissed it fervently. Half a
dozen men closed in around the Prince, and the latter walked with a
firm step over the threshold of the window, his footsteps and those
of his escort soon ceasing to echo through the night.
"You have won, Monsieur," said the Bishop coldly, when he found
himself alone with the Man in Grey. "I am in your hands."
"Did I not say, Monseigneur, that His Majesty deprecated revenge?"
said the secret agent quietly. "You have an estate in the South, a
château finer than this one, so I'm told. You are free to go thither
for an indefinite period, for the benefit of your health."
"Exile!" said the Bishop bitterly.
"Do you not deserve worse?" retorted the Man in Grey coldly.
"I nearly outwitted you, though," exclaimed the Bishop.
"Very nearly, I admit. Unfortunately for your clever comedy, I
happened to know that your valet Sébastien shot a man just outside
your gates early in the afternoon. When he told me the elaborate
story of the attempted burglary I knew that he lied, and, with that
knowledge, I was able to destroy the whole fabric of your
machinations. As you see, I bided my time. And the moment that you,
thinking that you were alone with the Comte d'Artois, threw down your
mask I was ready to strike. Let me bid you farewell, Monseigneur,"
he added in conclusion, and, without a touch of irony. "You can have
twenty-four hours to prepare for your journey South, and you will
remain in your château there awaiting His Majesty's pleasure."
The next moment the Man in Grey was gone, even as the Bishop's
parting words struck upon his unheeding ear:
"Awaiting the return of His Majesty Louis XVIII, by the Grace of God,
King of France," Monseigneur called out at the top of his voice.