NUMBER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN.
Müller, when he so confidently proposed to visit Bras de Fer in his
future retirement at Toulon, believed that he had only to lodge his
information with the proper authorities, and see the whole affair
settled out of hand. He had not taken the bureaucratic system into
consideration; and he had forgotten how little positive evidence he had
to offer. It was no easier then than now to inspire the official mind
with either insight or decision; and the police of Paris, inasmuch as
they in no wise differed from the police of to-day, yesterday, or
to-morrow, were slow to understand, slow to believe, and slower still
to act.
An escaped convict? Monsieur le Chef du Bureau, upon whom we took the
liberty of waiting the next morning, could scarcely take in the bare
possibility of such a fact. An escaped convict? Bah! no convict could
possibly escape under the present admirable system. _Comment_! He
effected his escape some years ago? How many years ago? In what yard, in
what ward, under what number was he entered in the official books? For
what offence was he convicted? Had Monsieur seen him at Toulon?--and was
Monsieur prepared to swear that Lenoir and Bras de Fer were one and the
same person? How! Monsieur proposed to identify a certain individual,
and yet was incapable of replying to these questions! Would Monsieur be
pleased to state upon what grounds he undertook to denounce the said
individual, and what proof he was prepared to produce in confirmation
of the same?
To all which official catechizing, Müller, who (wanting Guichet's
testimony) had nothing but his intense personal conviction to put
forward, could only reply that he was ready to pledge himself to the
accuracy of his information; and that if Monsieur the Chef du Bureau
would be at the pains to call in any Toulon official of a few years'
standing, he would undoubtedly find that the person now described as
calling himself Lenoir, and the person commonly known in the Bagnes as
Bras de Fer, were indeed "one and the same."
Whereupon Monsieur le Chef--a pompous personage, with a bald head and a
white moustache--shrugged his shoulders, smiled incredulously, had the
honor to point out to Monsieur that the Government could by no means be
at the expense of conveying an inspector from Toulon to Paris on so
shadowy and unsupported a statement, and politely bowed us out.
Thus rebuffed, Müller began to despair of present success; whilst I, in
default of any brighter idea, proposed that he should take legal advice
on the subject. So we went to a certain avocat, in a little street
adjoining the École de Droit, and there purchased as much wisdom as
might be bought for the sum of five francs sterling.
The avocat, happily, was fertile in suggestions. This, he said, was not
a case for a witness. Here was no question of appearing before a court.
With the foregone offences of either Lenoir or Bras de Fer, we had
nothing to do; and to convict them of such offences formed no part of
our plan. We only sought to show that Lenoir and Bras de Fer were in
truth "one and the same person," and we could only do so upon the
authority of some third party who had seen both. Now Monsieur Müller had
seen Lenoir, but not Bras de Fer; and Guichet had seen Bras de Fer, but
not Lenoir. Here, then, was the real difficulty; and here, he hoped, its
obvious solution. Let Guichet be taken to some place where, being
himself unseen, he may obtain a glimpse of Lenoir. This done, he can, in
a private interview of two minutes, state his conviction to Monsieur the
Chef de Bureau--_voilà tout_! If, however, the said Guichet can be
persuaded by no considerations either of interest or justice, then
another very simple course remains open. Every newly-arrived convict in
every penal establishment throughout France is photographed on his
entrance into the Bagne, and these photographs are duly preserved for
purposes of identification like the present. Supposing therefore Bras de
Fer had not escaped from Toulon before the introduction of this system,
his portrait would exist in the official books to this day, and might
doubtless be obtained, if proper application were made through an
official channel.
Armed with this information, and knowing that any attempt to induce
Guichet to move further in the matter would be useless, we then went
back to the Bureau, and with much difficulty succeeded in persuading M.
le Chef to send to Toulon for the photograph. This done, we could only
wait and be patient.
Briefly, then, we did wait and were patient--though the last condition
was not easy; for even I, who was by no means disposed to sympathize
with Müller in his solicitude for the fair Marie, could not but feel a
strange contagion of excitement in this _chasse au forçat_. And so a
week or ten days went by, till one memorable afternoon, when Müller came
rushing round to my rooms in hot haste, about an hour before the time
when we usually met to go to dinner, and greeted me with--
"Good news, _mon vieux_! good news! The photograph has come--and I have
been to the Bureau to see it--and I have identified my man--and he will
be arrested to-night, as surely as that he carries T.F. on his
shoulder!"
"You are certain he is the same?" I said.
"As certain as I am of my own face when I see it in the looking-glass."
And then he went on to say that a party of soldiers were to be in
readiness a couple of hours hence, in a shop commanding Madame Marôt's
door; that he, Müller, was to be there to watch with them till Lenoir
either came out from or went into the house; and that as soon as he
pointed him out to the sergeant in command, he was to be arrested, put
into a cab waiting for the purpose, and conveyed to La Roquette.
Behold us, then, at the time prescribed, lounging in the doorway of a
small shop adjoining the private entrance to Madame Marôt's house; our
hands in our pockets; our cigars in our mouths; our whole attitude
expressive of idleness and unconcern. The wintry evening has closed in
rapidly. The street is bright with lamps, and busy with passers-by. The
shop behind us is quite dark--so dark that not the keenest observer
passing by could detect the dusky group of soldiers sitting on the
counter within, or the gleaming of the musket-barrels which rest between
their knees. The sergeant in command, a restless, black-eyed,
intelligent little Gascon, about five feet four in height, with a
revolver stuck in his belt, paces impatiently to and fro, and whistles
softly between his teeth. The men, four in number, whisper together from
time to time, or swing their feet in silence.
Thus the minutes go by heavily; for it is weary work waiting in this
way, uncertain how long the watch may last, and not daring to relax the
vigilance of eye and ear for a single moment. It may be for an hour, or
for many hours, or it may be for only a few minutes-who can tell? Of
Lenoir's daily haunts and habits we know nothing. All we do know is that
he is wont to be out all day, sometimes returning only to dress and go
out again; sometimes not coming home till very late at night; sometimes
absenting himself for a day and a night, or two days and two nights
together. With this uncertain prospect before us, therefore, we wait and
watch, and watch and wait, counting the hours as they strike, and
scanning every face that gleams past in the lamplight.
So the first hour goes by, and the second. Ten o'clock strikes. The
traffic in the street begins perceptibly to diminish. Shops close here
and there (Madame Marôt's shutters have been put up by the boy in the
oilskin apron more than an hour ago), and the _chiffonnier_, sure herald
of the quieter hours of the night, flits by with rake and lanthorn,
observant of the gutters.
The soldiers on' the counter yawn audibly from time to time; and the
sergeant, who is naturally of an impatient disposition, exclaims, for
the twentieth time, with an inexhaustible variety, however, in the
choice of expletives:--
"_Mais; nom de deux cent mille petards_! will this man of ours never
come?"
To which inquiry, though not directly addressed to myself, I reply, as I
have already replied once or twice before, that he may come immediately,
or that he may not come for hours; and that all we can do is to wait and
be patient. In the midst of which explanation, Müller suddenly lays his
hand on my arm, makes a sign to the sergeant, and peers eagerly down
the street.
There is a man coming up quickly on the opposite side of the way. For
myself, I could recognise no one at such a distance, especially by
night; but Müller's keener eye, made keener still by jealousy,
identifies him at a glance.
It is Lenoir.
He wears a frock coat closely buttoned, and comes on with a light, rapid
step, suspecting nothing. The sergeant gives the word--the soldiers
spring to their feet--I draw back into the gloom of the shop-and only
Müller remains, smoking his cigarette and lounging against the
door-post.
Then Lenoir crosses over, and Müller, affecting to observe him for the
first time, looks up, and without lifting his hat, says loudly:--
"_Comment_! have I the honor of saluting Monsieur Lenoir?"
Whereupon Lenoir, thrown off his guard by the suddenness of the address,
hesitates--seems about to reply--checks himself--quickens his pace, and
passes without a word.
The next instant he is surrounded. The butt ends of four muskets rattle
on the pavement--the sergeant's hand is on his shoulder--the sergeant's
voice rings in his ear.
"Number two hundred and seven, you are my prisoner!"