The porter who let me into the house where Monkton lived directed me to
the floor on which his rooms were situated. On getting upstairs, I
found his door on the landing ajar. He heard my footsteps, I suppose,
for he called to me to come in before I could knock.
I entered, and found him sitting by the table, with some loose letters
in his hand, which he was just tying together into a packet. I noticed,
as he asked me to sit down, that his expression looked more composed,
though the paleness had not yet left his face. He thanked me for
coming; repeated that he had something very important to say to me; and
then stopped short, apparently too much embarrassed to proceed. I tried
to set him at his ease by assuring him that, if my assistance or advice
could be of any use, I was ready to place myself and my time heartily
and unreservedly at his service.
As I said this I saw his eyes beginning to wander away from my face—to
wander slowly, inch by inch, as it were, until they stopped at a
certain point, with the same fixed stare into vacancy which had so
often startled me on former occasions. The whole expression of his face
altered as I had never yet seen it alter; he sat before me looking like
a man in a death-trance.
“You are very kind,” he said, slowly and faintly, speaking, not to me,
but in the direction in which his eyes were still fixed. “I know you
can help me; but—”
He stopped; his face whitened horribly, and the perspiration broke out
all over it. He tried to continue—said a word or two—then stopped
again. Seriously alarmed about him, I rose from my chair with the
intention of getting him some water from a jug which I saw standing on
a side-table.
He sprang up at the same moment. All the suspicions I had ever heard
whispered against his sanity flashed over my mind in an instant, and I
involuntarily stepped back a pace or two.
“Stop,” he said, seating himself again; “don’t mind me; and don’t leave
your chair. I want—I wish, if you please, to make a little alteration,
before we say anything more. Do you mind sitting in a strong light?”
“Not in the least.”
I had hitherto been seated in the shade of his reading-lamp, the only
light in the room.
As I answered him he rose again, and, going into another apartment,
returned with a large lamp in his hand; then took two candles from the
side-table, and two others from the chimney piece; placed them all, to
my amazement, together, so as to stand exactly between us, and then
tried to light them. His hand trembled so that he was obliged to give
up the attempt, and allow me to come to his assistance. By his
direction, I took the shade off the reading-lamp after I had lit the
other lamp and the four candles. When we sat down again, with this
concentration of light between us, his better and gentler manner began
to return, and while he now addressed me he spoke without the slightest
hesitation.
“It is useless to ask whether you have heard the reports about me,” he
said; “I know that you have. My purpose to-night is to give you some
reasonable explanation of the conduct which has produced those reports.
My secret has been hitherto confided to one person only; I am now about
to trust it to your keeping, with a special object which will appear as
I go on. First, however, I must begin by telling you exactly what the
great difficulty is which obliges me to be still absent from England. I
want your advice and your help; and, to conceal nothing from you, I
want also to test your forbearance and your friendly sympathy, before I
can venture on thrusting my miserable secret into your keeping. Will
you pardon this apparent distrust of your frank and open character—this
apparent ingratitude for your kindness toward me ever since we first
met?”
I begged him not to speak of these things, but to go on.
“You know,” he proceeded, “that I am here to recover the body of my
Uncle Stephen, and to carry it back with me to our family burial-place
in England, and you must also be aware that I have not yet succeeded in
discovering his remains. Try to pass over, for the present, whatever
may seem extraordinary and incomprehensible in such a purpose as mine
is, and read this newspaper article where the ink-line is traced. It is
the only evidence hitherto obtained on the subject of the fatal duel in
which my uncle fell, and I want to hear what course of proceeding the
perusal of it may suggest to you as likely to be best on my part.”
He handed me an old French newspaper. The substance of what I read
there is still so firmly impressed on my memory that I am certain of
being able to repeat correctly at this distance of time all the facts
which it is necessary for me to communicate to the reader.
The article began, I remember, with editorial remarks on the great
curiosity then felt in regard to the fatal duel between the Count St.
Lo and Mr. Stephen Monkton, an English gentleman. The writer proceeded
to dwell at great length on the extraordinary secrecy in which the
whole affair had been involved from first to last, and to express a
hope that the publication of a certain manuscript, to which his
introductory observations referred, might lead to the production of
fresh evidence from other and better-informed quarters. The manuscript
had been found among the papers of Monsieur Foulon, Mr. Monkton’s
second, who had died at Paris of a rapid decline shortly after
returning to his home in that city from the scene of the duel. The
document was unfinished, having been left incomplete at the very place
where the reader would most wish to find it continued. No reason could
be discovered for this, and no second manuscript bearing on the
all-important subject had been found, after the strictest search among
the papers left by the deceased.
The document itself then followed.
It purported to be an agreement privately drawn up between Mr.
Monkton’s second, Monsieur Foulon, and the Count St. Lo’s second,
Monsieur Dalville, and contained a statement of all the arrangements
for conducting the duel. The paper was dated “Naples, February 22d,”
and was divided into some seven or eight clauses. The first clause
described the origin and nature of the quarrel—a very disgraceful
affair on both sides, worth neither remembering nor repeating. The
second clause stated that, the challenged man having chosen the pistol
as his weapon, and the challenger (an excellent swordsman), having, on
his side, thereupon insisted that the duel should be fought in such a
manner as to make the first fire decisive in its results, the seconds,
seeing that fatal consequences must inevitably follow the hostile
meeting, determined, first of all, that the duel should be kept a
profound secret from everybody, and that the place where it was to be
fought should not be made known beforehand, even to the principals
themselves. It was added that this excess of precaution had been
rendered absolutely necessary in consequence of a recent address from
the Pope to the ruling powers in Italy commenting on the scandalous
frequency of the practice of dueling, and urgently desiring that the
laws against duelists should be enforced for the future with the utmost
rigor.
The third clause detailed the manner in which it had been arranged that
the duel should be fought.
The pistols having been loaded by the seconds on the ground, the
combatants were to be placed thirty paces apart, and were to toss up
for the first fire. The man who won was to advance ten paces marked out
for him beforehand—and was then to discharge his pistol. If he missed,
or failed to disable his opponent, the latter was free to advance, if
he chose, the whole remaining twenty paces before he fired in his turn.
This arrangement insured the decisive termination of the duel at the
first discharge of the pistols, and both principals and seconds pledged
themselves on either side to abide by it.
The fourth clause stated that the seconds had agreed that the duel
should be fought out of the Neapolitan States, but left themselves to
be guided by circumstances as to the exact locality in which it should
take place. The remaining clauses, so far as I remember them, were
devoted to detailing the different precautions to be adopted for
avoiding discovery. The duelists and their seconds were to leave Naples
in separate parties; were to change carriages several times; were to
meet at a certain town, or, failing that, at a certain post-house on
the high road from Naples to Rome; were to carry drawing-books, color
boxes, and camp-stools, as if they had been artists out on a
sketching-tour; and were to proceed to the place of the duel on foot,
employing no guides, for fear of treachery. Such general arrangements
as these, and others for facilitating the flight of the survivors after
the affair was over, formed the conclusion of this extraordinary
document, which was signed, in initials only, by both the seconds.
Just below the initials appeared the beginning of a narrative, dated
“Paris,” and evidently intended to describe the duel itself with
extreme minuteness. The hand-writing was that of the deceased second.
Monsieur Foulon, the gentleman in question, stated his belief that
circumstances might transpire which would render an account by an
eyewitness of the hostile meeting between St. Lo and Mr. Monkton an
important document. He proposed, therefore, as one of the seconds, to
testify that the duel had been fought in exact accordance with the
terms of the agreement, both the principals conducting themselves like
men of gallantry and honor (!). And he further announced that, in order
not to compromise any one, he should place the paper containing his
testimony in safe hands, with strict directions that it was on no
account to be opened except in a case of the last emergency.
After thus preamble, Monsieur Foulon related that the duel had been
fought two days after the drawing up of the agreement, in a locality to
which accident had conducted the dueling party. (The name of the place
was not mentioned, nor even the neighborhood in which it was situated.)
The men having been placed according to previous arrangement, the Count
St. Lo had won the toss for the first fire, had advanced his ten paces,
and had shot his opponent in the body. Mr. Monkton did not immediately
fall, but staggered forward some six or seven paces, discharged his
pistol ineffectually at the count, and dropped to the ground a dead
man. Monsieur Foulon then stated that he tore a leaf from his
pocketbook, wrote on it a brief description of the manner in which Mr.
Monkton had died, and pinned the paper to his clothes; this proceeding
having been rendered necessary by the peculiar nature of the plan
organized on the spot for safely disposing of the dead body. What this
plan was, or what was done with the corpse, did not appear, for at this
important point the narrative abruptly broke off.
A foot-note in the newspaper merely stated the manner in which the
document had been obtained for publication, and repeated the
announcement contained in the editor’s introductory remarks, that no
continuation had been found by the persons intrusted with the care of
Monsieur Foulon’s papers. I have now given the whole substance of what
I read, and have mentioned all that was then known of Mr. Stephen
Monkton’s death.
When I gave the newspaper back to Alfred he was too much agitated to
speak, but he reminded me by a sign that he was anxiously waiting to
hear what I had to say. My position was a very trying and a very
painful one. I could hardly tell what consequences might not follow any
want of caution on my part, and could think at first of no safer plan
than questioning him carefully before I committed myself either one way
or the other.
“Will you excuse me if I ask you a question or two before I give you my
advice?” said I.
He nodded impatiently.
“Yes, yes—any questions you like.”
“Were you at any time in the habit of seeing your uncle frequently?”
“I never saw him more than twice in my life—on each occasion when I was
a mere child.”
“Then you could have had no very strong personal regard for him?”
“Regard for him! I should have been ashamed to feel any regard for him.
He disgraced us wherever he went.”
“May I ask if any family motive is involved in your anxiety to recover
his remains?”
“Family motives may enter into it among others—but why do you ask?”
“Because, having heard that you employ the police to assist your
search, I was anxious to know whether you had stimulated their
superiors to make them do their best in your service by giving some
strong personal reasons at headquarters for the very unusual project
which has brought you here.”
“I give no reasons. I pay for the work I want done, and, in return for
my liberality, I am treated with the most infamous indifference on all
sides. A stranger in the country, and badly acquainted with the
language, I can do nothing to help myself. The authorities, both at
Rome and in this place, pretend to assist me, pretend to search and
inquire as I would have them search and inquire, and do nothing more. I
am insulted, laughed at, almost to my face.”
“Do you not think it possible—mind, I have no wish to excuse the
misconduct of the authorities, and do not share in any such opinion
myself—but do you not think it likely that the police may doubt whether
you are in earnest?”
“Not in earnest!” he cried, starting up and confronting me fiercely,
with wild eyes and quickened breath. “Not in earnest! _You_ think I’m
not in earnest too. I know you think it, though you tell me you don’t.
Stop; before we say another word, your own eyes shall convince you.
Come here—only for a minute—only for one minute!”
I followed him into his bedroom, which opened out of the sitting-room.
At one side of his bed stood a large packing-case of plain wood, upward
of seven feet in length.
“Open the lid and look in,” he said, “while I hold the candle so that
you can see.”
I obeyed his directions, and discovered to my astonishment that the
packing-case contained a leaden coffin, magnificently emblazoned with
the arms of the Monkton family, and inscribed in old-fashioned letters
with the name of “Stephen Monkton,” his age and the manner of his death
being added underneath.
“I keep his coffin ready for him,” whispered Alfred, close at my ear.
“Does that look like earnest?”
It looked more like insanity—so like that I shrank from answering him.
“Yes! yes! I see you are convinced,” he continued quickly; “we may go
back into the next room, and may talk without restraint on either side
now.”
On returning to our places, I mechanically moved my chair away from the
table. My mind was by this time in such a state of confusion and
uncertainty about what it would be best for me to say or do next, that
I forgot for the moment the position he had assigned to me when we lit
the candles. He reminded me of this directly.
“Don’t move away,” he said, very earnestly; “keep on sitting in the
light; pray do! I’ll soon tell you why I am so particular about that.
But first give me your advice; help me in my great distress and
suspense. Remember, you promised me you would.”
I made an effort to collect my thoughts, and succeeded. It was useless
to treat the affair otherwise than seriously in his presence; it would
have been cruel not to have advised him as I best could.
“You know,” I said, “that two days after the drawing up of the
agreement at Naples, the duel was fought out of the Neapolitan States.
This fact has of course led you to the conclusion that all inquiries
about localities had better be confined to the Roman territory?”
“Certainly; the search, such as it is, has been made there, and there
only. If I can believe the police, they and their agents have inquired
for the place where the duel was fought (offering a large reward in my
name to the person who can discover it) all along the high road from
Naples to Rome. They have also circulated—at least so they tell
me—descriptions of the duelists and their seconds; have left an agent
to superintend investigations at the post-house, and another at the
town mentioned as meeting-points in the agreement; and have endeavored,
by correspondence with foreign authorities, to trace the Count St. Lo
and Monsieur Dalville to their place or places of refuge. All these
efforts, supposing them to have been really made, have hitherto proved
utterly fruitless.”
“My impression is,” said I, after a moment’s consideration, “that all
inquiries made along the high road, or anywhere near Rome, are likely
to be made in vain. As to the discovery of your uncle’s remains, that
is, I think, identical with the discovery of the place where he was
shot; for those engaged in the duel would certainly not risk detection
by carrying a corpse any distance with them in their flight. The place,
then, is all that we want to find out. Now let us consider for a
moment. The dueling-party changed carriages; traveled separately, two
and two; doubtless took roundabout roads; stopped at the post-house and
the town as a blind; walked, perhaps, a considerable distance unguided.
Depend upon it, such precautions as these (which we know they must have
employed) left them very little time out of the two days—though they
might start at sunrise and not stop at night-fall—for straightforward
traveling. My belief therefore is, that the duel was fought somewhere
near the Neapolitan frontier; and, if I had been the police agent who
conducted the search, I should only have pursued it parallel with the
frontier, starting from west to east till I got up among the lonely
places in the mountains. That is my idea; do you think it worth
anything?”
His face flushed all over in an instant. “I think it an inspiration!”
he cried. “Not a day is to be lost in carrying out our plan. The police
are not to be trusted with it. I must start myself to-morrow morning;
and you—”
He stopped; his face grew suddenly pale; he sighed heavily; his eyes
wandered once more into the fixed look at vacancy; and the rigid,
deathly expression fastened again upon all his features.
“I must tell you my secret before I talk of to-morrow,” he proceeded,
faintly. “If I hesitated any longer at confessing everything, I should
be unworthy of your past kindness, unworthy of the help which it is my
last hope that you will gladly give me when you have heard all.”
I begged him to wait until he was more composed, until he was better
able to speak; but he did not appear to notice what I said. Slowly, and
struggling as it seemed against himself, he turned a little away from
me, and, bending his head over the table, supported it on his hand. The
packet of letters with which I had seen him occupied when I came in lay
just beneath his eyes. He looked down on it steadfastly when he next
spoke to me.