passed his daylight hours in the company of Mother Toulouche, hobnobbing
with a hole-and-corner crew, cronies of the old receiver of stolen
goods.
Overheated with running, Cranajour unbuttoned his coat, opened his
shirt, sprinkled his face and the upper part of his body with cold
water, sponged the perspiration from his brow, and brushed the dust off
his big shoes.
It was a clear starlight night. To freshen himself up still more he put
his head and shoulders out of the half-opened window. He was gazing at
the roofs facing him; suddenly he started, and his eyes gleamed. They
were the roofs, outlined against the night sky, of the Palais de
Justice. There was a shadow on the roof of the great pile, a shadow
which moved to and fro, passing from one roof ridge to another, now
vanishing behind a chimney, now coming into view again. Anxiously
Cranajour followed the odd movements of the mysterious individual who
was making his lofty and lonely promenade up above there.
"What the devil does it mean?" soliloquised the watcher. Whoever could
have seen Cranajour at this moment would have been struck by the marked
change produced in his physiognomy. This was not the Cranajour of the
wandering eye, the silly smile, the stupid face, known to Mother
Toulouche and her cronies; it was a transformed Cranajour, mobile of
feature, lively of movement, a sharp, keen-witted Cranajour! Veritably
another man!
Puzzled by the vagaries of the promenader on the Palais roofs, Cranajour
followed his movements intently for a few minutes longer. He would have
remained at the window the whole night long had the unknown persisted in
his peregrinations; but Cranajour saw him climb to the top of a chimney,
a wide one, lower himself slowly into the opening of it, and then vanish
from view!
Cranajour waited a while in hopes that the unknown would not be long in
coming out of his mysterious hiding-place again. He waited and expected
in vain: the roofs of the Palais resumed their ordinary aspect: solitude
reigned there.
* * * * *
Not long afterwards Cranajour re-entered the back store.
"What a time you have been!" cried Mother Toulouche: "You've brought the
newspaper, haven't you?"
Cranajour looked at the little company with his most stupid expression
and then lowered his eyes:
"My goodness, I've forgotten to buy one!" he cried.
Nibet, who had paid but scant attention to the new arrival, continued
his conversation with big Ernestine: they were talking about her lover,
nicknamed the Beadle.
He was a terrible individual this Beadle! Though his nickname suggested
a peaceful occupation, he really owed it to the frightful reputation he
had won as a "_bell-ringer_"; but the bells big Ernestine's lover was in
the habit of ringing were unfortunate pedestrians whom he would rob and
half murder, beating them unmercifully about the head and body.
Sometimes he would beat them to within an ace of their last gasp:
occasionally he would beat the life out of them altogether if they tried
to resist his brutal attacks. The Beadle was an Apache[6] of the first
order of brutality.
[Footnote 6: Hooligan.]
Big Ernestine finished explaining to Nibet that he must not count on the
Beadle that evening, for things were so queer and uncertain, the outlook
was so gloomy that no one knew what bad business they might be in for.
Mother Toulouche asked if he had got mixed up in the Dollon affair.
Cranajour cocked his ear at that, whilst pretending to put a great
bundle of old clothes in order.
But Nibet replied:
"The Beadle has nothing whatever to do with that business.... I know
what I know about all that.... He's afraid of getting what the Cooper
got, so he keeps away. He's not far out either--you've got to be careful
these days--queer times!"
Ernestine and Mother Toulouche bewailed the Cooper's fate:
"Poor fellow! No sooner out of quod than back--only a fortnight's
liberty! And with a vile accusation fastened to him--smuggling and
coining!"
Nibet tried to relieve their minds:
"Haven't I told you," growled he, "that I'm going to get Maitre Henri
Robart to defend him? He knows how to get round juries: he'll get the
Cooper off with an easy sentence."
Nibet looked at his watch:
"It will soon be half-past two! Got to go down! The boatman will be
there before long, at the mouth of the sewer!"
Mother Toulouche, who was always in a flurry when smuggled goods were to
be unloaded in her cellars, tried to dissuade Nibet:
"You'll never be able to manage it by yourself!"
Nibet glanced at Cranajour. The warder hesitated, then said:
"Since there's no one else, couldn't I take Cranajour with me?"
At first objections were raised; there was a low-voiced discussion, so
that the simpleton might not catch what they were saying: Cranajour had
never been up to dodges of this kind: so far he had been kept out of
them; besides, he was such a senseless cove, he might give things away,
make a hash of it!
Nibet smiled:
"Why, it's just because he is such a simpleton, and because he hasn't a
mite of memory that we can use him safely!"
"That's true!" said Mother Toulouche, somewhat reassured.
She called to Cranajour:
"Come along, Cranajour, and just tell us where you dined this evening!"
The simpleton seemed to make a prodigious effort of memory, seized his
head between his hands, closed his eyes, and racked his brains: after
quite a long silence, he declared emphatically and with a distressed
air:
"Faith, I can't tell you now!"
Nibet, who had closely watched this performance, nodded:
"It's quite all right," he said.
The cellars below Mother Toulouche's store were extensive, dark, and
ill-smelling. The walls glistened with exuding damp, and the ground was
a sticky mass of foul mud, of all sorts of refuse, of putrefying matter.
Nibet, followed by his companion, made his way down to them: it was no
easy descent, for they had to climb over cases of all kinds, and over
bales and bundles that moved and rolled about. They passed into a
smaller cellar, around which were ranged long boxes of tin with rusty
covers.
Cranajour, who had been given the lantern to carry, was attracted to
these boxes: he lifted the cover of one of them and drew back
wonderstruck, for the box was full of shining gold pieces! Nibet, with a
jab and thrust in the back, interrupted Cranajour's contemplation of
this fortune:
"Nothing to faint over!" he growled. "You're not such a simpleton then!
You know the value of yellow boys? All right, then, I'll give you one or
two, if you do your job all right! But," continued the warder, leading
his companion to the further end of the second cellar, "you will have to
look out if you present your banker with one of those pieces, for the
little bits of shiny won't pass everywhere--you've got to keep your eye
open--and jolly wide, too!"
Cranajour nodded comprehension:
"False money! False money!" he murmured.
There was a very strong big door: an iron bar kept it closed. Nibet
raised it with Cranajour's help. Through the door the two men passed
into a long dark passage, swept by a sharp rush of air. The floor of it
was paved, and at the side of it flowed a pestilential stream, carrying
along in its slow-moving water a quantity of miscellaneous filth: it was
thick as soup with impurities.
"The little collecting sewer of the Cite," whispered Nibet. Pointing to
a grey patch in the distance he put his mouth to Cranajour's ear:
"See the daylight yonder? That's where the sewer discharges itself into
the Seine: it's there the boatman and his load will be waiting for us
presently."
Nibet stopped dead; drew Cranajour back by the sleeve, and stepped
stealthily backwards to the massive doors of the cellar. An unaccustomed
noise had alarmed the warder. In profound silence the two men stood
listening intently. There was no mistake! The sound of sharp regular
steps could be clearly heard coming from that part of the sewer opposite
the opening.
"Someone!" said Cranajour, who was all on the alert, as he had been in
his attic, watching the shadow and its vagaries on the roofs of the
Palais de Justice.
Nibet nodded.
The light from a dark lantern gleamed on the damp, slimy walls of the
subterranean passageway.
"Come inside," murmured Nibet, in an almost inaudible voice; and, with
infinite precaution, he closed the massive portal between the cellar and
the sewer-way.
In safe hiding the two men could watch the approaching intruder: they
had extinguished their lantern, and were peering through the badly
joined wood of the solid door. Friend or foe? An individual moved into
view. The reflected light of his lantern lit up the vaulting of the
sewer-way, and showed up his face. The man was young, fair, wore a
small moustache!
Hardly had he passed the cellar door when Nibet gripped Cranajour's arm
and growled--intense rage was expressed in grip and tone--"It's he!
Again! The journalist of the Dollon affair, of the Depot
business--Jerome Fandor! Ah.... This time we'll see!..."
Nibet's hand plunged into his trouser pocket.
Cranajour was eagerly watching the warder's every movement: he clearly
heard the sharp snap of a pocket-knife--a long sharp knife--a deadly
weapon!
Giving prudence the go-by, Nibet had opened the door, and dragging
Cranajour in his wake had rushed into the sewer-way, hard on the heels
of the journalist, who was slowly going in the direction of the Seine.
Nibet ground his teeth.
"I have had enough of that beast! Always on our track! Too good a chance
to miss! I'm going to make a hole in his skin for him!"
In the twilight of early dawn, which penetrated the sewer near the
opening, Cranajour shuddered.
With stealthy step the two men drew near the journalist. Fandor walked
on unsuspicious at a slow regular pace, his head lowered. The two
bandits came up to within a yard of him. Noiselessly, savagely
determined, Nibet lifted his arm for a murderous stroke. At this precise
moment Fandor stopped at the verge of the exit, by which the sewer
discharged its burden steeply into the Seine.
Yet a moment: Nibet's knife was poised for the rapid and terrible
stroke; it was about to bury itself in the neck of the journalist up to
the hilt, when Cranajour lifted his foot, as if inspired by an idea on
the spur of the moment, gave the journalist a violent kick in the lower
part of the back, and sent him flying into space!
They heard his body fall heavily into the Seine.... So roughly sudden
had been Cranajour's movement that Nibet stood dumbfounded, arm in air,
and staring at Cranajour:
Cranajour smiled his most idiotic smile, nodded, but did not utter one
word!...
* * * * *
It was formidable, the rage of Nibet! Here had that crass fool,
Cranajour, kicked away the warder's chance of ridding himself of the
journalist for good and all! This hit-and-miss made Nibet foam with
rage. Of all the exasperating simpletons, this fool of a Cranajour took
the cake!
The two made their way back to the store, where Mother Toulouche and big
Ernestine anxiously awaited results; and now not only had the two men
returned stuttering over their statements and with no news of the
boatman, who was generally up to time, but they had missed a fine
opportunity chance had offered them!
Nibet hated the journalist like all the poisons. Taunts, jeers, abuse
were heaped on the silly head of Cranajour, who, all in vain, raised his
eyes to heaven, beat his chest, shrugged his shoulders, stammered,
mumbled vague excuses:
"He didn't know exactly why he had done it! He thought he was helping
Nibet!"
They disputed and contended for two hours. Suddenly Cranajour broke a
long silence and demanded, looking as stupid as a half-witted owl:
"What have I done then? What are you scolding me for?"
Mother Toulouche, big Ernestine, and the wrathful Nibet stared at one
another, taken aback--then they understood: two hours had gone by, and
Cranajour no longer remembered what had happened!
Decidedly he was more innocent than a new-born babe! There was nothing
whatever to be done with such an idiot, that was certain!
VI
IN THE OPPOSITE SENSE
When Jerome Fandor had been precipitated into the Seine so unexpectedly
and with such violence he kept control of his wits: he did not utter a
cry as he fell head foremost into the darkling river. He was an
excellent swimmer: all aching as he was, he let himself go with the
current and presently reached the sheltering arch of the Pont Neuf.
There he took breath for a minute:
"Queer!" was all he murmured. Then with regular strokes he made for the
steep bank of the Seine opposite. Quitting the river, he secreted
himself behind a heap of stones which lay on the quay. He took off his
soaked garments and wrung the water out of them. This done, and clad in
what looked like dry clothes, Fandor walked along the quay, hailed a
passing cabman half asleep on his seat, jumped inside, and gave his
address to the Jehu.
* * * * *
When he arrived at _La Capitale_ on the Friday morning a boy approached
him, and whispered mysteriously:
"Monsieur Fandor, there's a very nice little woman in the sitting-room,
who has been waiting for over an hour. She wishes to see you. She will
not give her name: she declares that you know who she is."
"What is she like?" Fandor asked. His curiosity was not much aroused.
"Pretty, fair, all in black," replied the boy.
"Good. I'll go in," interrupted Fandor.
He entered the sitting-room and stood face to face with Mademoiselle
Elizabeth Dollon. She came forward, her eyes shining, her face alight
with welcome:
"Ah, monsieur," she cried, taking his hands in hers, a movement of pure
gratitude: "Ah, monsieur, I knew you would come to my help! I have read
your article of yesterday. Thank you again and again! But, I implore
you, since my brother is alive, tell me where I can see him! For mercy's
sake don't keep me waiting!"
Surprise kept Fandor silent a moment.
_La Capitale_ had published the evening before a sensational article by
Fandor, in which, under the guise of suppositions and interrogations, he
had narrated the various adventures as they had happened to himself,
concluding with the question--really an ironical one: "If Jacques
Dollon, who had disappeared from his cell, where he had been left for
dead, had escaped from the Depot by way of the famous chimney of Marie
Antoinette, had reached the roof of the Palais, had redescended by
another passageway to the sewer opening on to the Seine, did it not seem
possible that Dollon had escaped alive from the Depot?"
Fandor had indulged in a gentle irony, despite the gravity of the
circumstances, in order to complicate the already complicated affair,
and so plunge the police into a confusion worse confounded: this, in
spite of his conviction that Dollon was dead, dead as dead could be!
Now the cruelty of this professional game was brought home to him. His
article had raised fresh hopes in Dollon's poor sister! At sight of this
charming girl, brightened with hope, Fandor felt all pity and guilt. He
pressed her hands; he hesitated; he was troubled. He did not know how to
explain. At last he murmured:
"It was wrong of me, mademoiselle, very wrong to write that article in
such a way without warning you beforehand. Alas! You must not cherish
illusions, illusions which this unfortunate article has given rise to,
illusions I cannot believe in myself. I speak with all the sincerity of
which I am capable, with the keenest desire to be of service to you: I
dare not let you buoy yourself up with false hopes.... I assure you
then, that from what I have been able to learn, to see, to know, I am
convinced that your unfortunate brother is no more!... If there have
been moments when I have doubted this, I am now morally certain that he
is dead. Take courage, mademoiselle! Try, try to forget--to--to ..."
Fandor was trembling with emotion: he could not continue. Elizabeth bent
her head, her eyes full of tears. She could not speak. She was overcome
by this cruel dashing to the ground of her hopes. Never, never, to see
her brother again!
An agonising silence reigned.
Fandor was profoundly troubled by this mute grief. He sought in vain for
some word of comfort, of encouragement.
Elizabeth rose to go. The poor girl realised that nothing could be
gained by prolonging the interview. Her one need now was to be alone,
for then she could weep.
Fandor was about to accompany her to the door, when a boy entered:
"Monsieur Fandor, there's a man wishes to speak to you!"
"Say I am not here," replied our journalist: he had no wish to see
strangers just then.
"But Monsieur Fandor, he says he is the keeper of the landing stage of
the passenger boat service, and he comes with reference to the Dollon
affair!"
Both Elizabeth Dollon and Jerome Fandor started. She was trembling. Our
journalist said at once:
"Bring him in then!"
The boy went off, and Fandor turned to the trembling girl.
"Tell me, Mademoiselle Elizabeth, do you feel equal to hearing what
this man has to tell us? It is not improbable that he has seen
something--something it would be best you should not hear--had you not
better avoid it?"
Elizabeth shook her head in the negative. She was collecting all her
forces: she would not remain ignorant of any detail of the terrible
tragedy which had cost her brother so dear:
"I shall be strong enough," she announced firmly.
The boy ushered in the visitor. He looked a good specimen of his class,
a man about forty. On his cap were the gold anchors of those in the
employ of the Paris boat service.
"Monsieur!... Madame!... At your service!" The good fellow was very much
embarrassed:
"Monsieur Fandor," he went on, "you do not know me, but I know you very
well, that I do!... I read your articles every day in _La Capitale_.
They're jolly good! What I say is ..."
Fandor cut short his admirer: "Now tell me what brings you here!"
"Oh, well, here goes! I was reading your article yesterday, about how
Jacques Dollon, no more dead than you or I, had escaped over the roofs
of the Palais de Justice. That made me laugh, because I am the keeper of
the landing stage at the Pont Neuf Station. This affair is supposed to
have happened in my parts, don't you see?... Well, I had just come to
the bit where you also suppose that the corpse might easily have been
devoured by rats inside the sewer.... Well, Monsieur Fandor, I can
assure you that it was nothing of the sort...."
The journalist was all eyes and ears. He signed to Elizabeth that she
must keep quiet, so as not to intimidate the good fellow.
"Come now, what is it you have seen?"
"What I've seen?... Why, I saw Dollon break bounds!"
At this statement Elizabeth grew white as a sheet. She jumped up, and
with clasped hands rushed towards the keeper:
"Speak, speak quickly, I implore you!" she cried.
Fandor drew Elizabeth back gently, and whispered a few words to her. He
turned to the keeper:
"Mademoiselle has also come to make a statement regarding this affair,"
he explained. "That is why she is so interested in what you have just
told us.... But tell us how you saw Jacques Dollon escape!"
"Well, I had got up a bit earlier than usual to see that the anchors and
mooring were all right, and I thought I saw what looked like a big
bundle fall into the river from the sewer opening--only I was half
asleep and didn't take much notice; for, what with all the rain we've
been having, there's no end of filthy stuff tumbling out of the mouth of
the sewers. But, a few minutes after that, I noticed that the bundle,
instead of going with the flow of the current, was drifting across the
Seine, plainly making for the bank. There could be no mistake about
that!"
Elizabeth Dollon cried:
"And then? And then?"
"Then, my little lady, what if this surprise packet didn't turn off
behind an arch of the Pont-Neuf! I didn't see what became of it--but no
one will get it out of my head that it isn't some jolly dog who had no
wish to show himself--that's what I think!"
The keeper paused, then went on:
"That's all I have to tell you, Monsieur Fandor ... it might serve for
one of your articles some time or other ... only you mustn't say that I
told you. I might get into trouble with my chiefs about it!"
Elizabeth Dollon was no longer listening. She had turned to Fandor, and
with shining eyes murmured:
"He lives!... He lives!..."
Fandor thanked the keeper, and got rid of him. Directly the door closed
on him he darted to Elizabeth:
"Poor child!" he cried, full of pity for her.
"Ah! Don't pity me! I don't need your pity now!... My brother is
alive!... That man has seen him!"
Fandor had to undeceive her:
"Your brother is certainly dead," he declared. "If he were the
individual in question, it would not have been yesterday morning,
but the morning before that, when the keeper saw him; and I do
assure you ..."
"But this good fellow is telling the truth then?"
"I assure you that I have good reasons, the best of reasons, for
believing, for being certain, that the swimmer who crossed the Seine was
not your brother!"
"Great Heaven! Who was it then?"
Fandor hesitated a moment.... Should he divulge his secret? All he said
was:
"It was not your brother--I know that!"
So decisive was his tone, so great the sympathy vibrating through his
words, that Elizabeth Dollon, once more convinced that Fandor was not
speaking at random, bent her head and shed tears of deepest grief and
bitter disappointment.
Fandor allowed the sorrow-stricken girl to give way to her grief for a
few minutes; then he gently asked her:
"Mademoiselle Elizabeth, shall we have a little talk?... You see I
simply cannot tell you everything, yet I would gladly help you!... But
first and foremost, I beg of you to put quite out of your mind this hope
that your brother is still alive!..."
Sadly Elizabeth wiped away her tears, and in a voice which she tried to
steady, said:
"Oh, what is to become of me! I thought I had found in you a support, a
help, and now you abandon me! And I had put my faith in your goodness of
heart!... There are your articles on the one hand, and your attitude on
the other--what am I to make of it? It is driving me to despair! And if
you only knew how much I need to be supported, encouraged; I feel as if
I should go out of my senses--out of my mind ... and I am alone, so
terribly alone!"
The poor girl's voice was broken by sobs, her whole body was shaken by
them. Fandor went up to her, and spoke to her in a low tone
affectionately: he felt great sympathy and an immense pity for this
unhappy young creature, who charmed and attracted him. He tried to
console her, and to change the current of her thoughts:
"Come now, Mademoiselle, do try to control yourself a little! I have
promised to help you, and I certainly shall--you may be sure of it. But
consider now--if I am to be of real use to you, I must know a little
about you: you, yourself, your family, your brother; who your friends
are, and who are your enemies! I must enter into your existence, not as
a judge, but as a comrade who is interested in all that concerns you.
Will you not confide in me? Once I know what there is to know we might
then unite our efforts to some purpose, and find out what really has
happened, since the mystery remains inexplicable."
Elizabeth Dollon felt the young man was sincere, and that what he said
in such a gentle voice was true.
This poor human waif asked no more than to be allowed to cling to
whoever would take pity on her and be kind. She now spoke to Jerome
Fandor of her childhood without suspecting in the least that the same
Jerome Fandor--Charles Rambert--used to play with her in those days.[7]
[Footnote 7: See _Fantomas_.]
She mentioned the assassination of the Marquise de Langrune--the first
tragic episode of her life; then had come the horrible death of her
father, old Steward Dollon, who had passed from the service of the
Marquise to that of the Baroness de Vibray, and then perished, the
victim of a criminal.
She explained how Jacques Dollon and she had come to settle in Paris,
feeling themselves rich on the savings they had inherited from their
parents. Elizabeth had become a dressmaker, and Jacques had become an
artist-craftsman. Gradually the young man's talent and industry had
enabled his sister to leave her workroom and come to live with him. His
reputation was a growing one, and the two young people looked forward to
an existence of honest comfort in the near future. They got to know some
people, one or two of whom were rich, and had shown their interest in
the brother and sister.
Jerome Fandor interrupted her: