THE BLACK BROTHERS.
Paris at night, three days later.
Frank Merriwell was strolling along the Avenue de l’Opera, which was
lighted as brightly as a ballroom. On either hand were rows and clusters
of tables, where men and women were sitting in the open air, sipping
their cool drinks and chatting animatedly. It was like walking the floor
of a long dining-room. This, Frank told himself, was one of the
pleasures of Paris at night. Nowhere else in the world could such a
spectacle be seen. The promenaders of the boulevards were patrolling the
avenue. They were men whose main ambition in life seemed to be to
acquire reputations as _boulevardiers_, reputations easily obtained by
persistently patrolling certain streets at certain hours day after day,
week after week, month after month.
About it all there was something strictly and solely Parisian. In Paris
alone could one so quickly imbibe the feeling of utter freedom and so
quickly fling aside all sensation of restraint and unfamiliarity. At
least, so thought Frank just then, as he swung along the avenue,
light-hearted, buoyant, careless. To Merry it seemed that he had not a
care in the world. It seemed that he would never again have a care.
The appearance of the women sitting out of doors under the trees, with
their heads bare, made the city so homelike and friendly that it was as
if everybody knew everybody else.
Frank came to the Boulevard des Capucines and paused a moment in front
of the Café de la Paix. Now at his back were the cafés, blazing with
electric lights, blushing in gorgeous upholstery, glittering with
magnificent mirrors, and thronged by well-dressed men and women. Across
the square the Grand Opera-House rose, beautiful, artistic, majestic.
“I will sit down a few moments,” thought Merry, as he started toward the
table.
Just then a man stumbled and fell against him quite heavily. His first
thought was that the man must be intoxicated, but he remembered he was
in Paris, and, turning quickly, he saw a refined-looking gentleman, past
middle age, with gray mustache and imperial, pressing his hand to his
heart, while there was a look of distress on his pale face.
Quick as thought, Frank grasped the man gently and firmly, politely
saying:
“Permit me, monsieur. Can I be of assistance to you?”
The stranger gasped as he attempted to reply, and the only word Merry
understood was “Rest.” The young American assisted the stranger to a
seat by the table, and then bent over him solicitously, again asking how
he could be of assistance.
“You have done all you can, thank you, my friend,” murmured the
gentleman, as his unsteady hand placed his jewel-decorated cane on the
table. “I was seized by a pain in my heart, but it is passing now. You
were about to sit down here. Do not let me prevent.”
Frank took a chair at the table, and the man looked at him searchingly.
“If the curiosity is pardonable, may I ask if you are English?” inquired
the stranger, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and using it to
absorb a tiny drop of blood that had appeared on his wrist.
“I am an American, monsieur.”
The man showed fresh interest.
“An American!” he exclaimed, his face still remaining pale. “I might
have guessed it! I have been in America. Americans love justice and
liberty.”
“You have hurt yourself, monsieur?” said Frank, as the man continued to
press the handkerchief to his wrist.
“It is nothing—a slight scratch. But I received it in a peculiar manner
a few moments ago. A woman spoke to me. I attempted to pass on, and she
became angry, and struck at me with a hatpin. She barely touched my
wrist here—enough to draw blood.”
“I had no idea women were so vicious in Paris—at this early hour of the
night.”
“It’s seldom they are. In London it would not be strange. This woman
spoke French imperfectly. I do not think she was French. At least, I
hope not.”
“She seemed Spanish in her readiness to strike with a weapon,” said
Frank. “But you are very pale, monsieur, I fear you are harmed in some
other manner.”
“Your solicitation speaks well for you, and is further proof that you
are American, not English. An Englishman would not take such interest in
a stranger.”
“Perhaps it is a proof of my freshness,” smiled Merry.
“Freshness? What do you mean by that?”
“In English that is slang. It means that a person is too forward, too
presuming, lacking in reserve and discretion.”
“The American is impulsive, but to me that is his charm. Having been in
America, I know the Americans who come to France do not fairly represent
the people of the country.”
Frank glowed.
“I am glad to hear you say that, monsieur!” he cried. “In England,
America is judged by the Americans who come to London, much to the
misfortune of my native land. The newly rich, the uncultured, the bores
and the snobs of America rush to England and France as soon as possible,
and they are taken to be representative Americans.”
“I know this is true, and I am glad to meet in France a representative
American—outside the Latin Quarter. Monsieur, my card.”
Frank accepted the white bit of cardboard, on which was engraved:
“M. Edmond Laforce.”
“The Duke of Benoit du Sault!” exclaimed Merry, in surprise, looking up.
“Yes, monsieur,” bowed the Frenchman, lifting his eyebrows. “But how is
it you know that?”
“Why, you know all America takes a great interest in the Dreyfus case,
with which you have been concerned, or, at least, with which newspaper
reports have connected you.”
The Duke of Benoit du Sault frowned a little.
“The newspapers! the newspapers!” he exclaimed. “They have given me the
publicity I shunned. I have sought to do quietly what I could for that
unfortunate man on——Pardon me, monsieur; what do you think of Dreyfus?”
“I think as think nine Americans out of ten, if not ninety-nine out of a
hundred.”
“And that is—what?”
“That Dreyfus is innocent!”
The face of the duke seemed to clear, although it remained strangely
pale, while there seemed to be something of a hunted look in his
piercing eyes.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” he spoke in a low tone. “I have known
that America sympathized with him.”
“My card, monsieur.”
Frank took his card from a morocco case and passed it across the table,
adding:
“A friendly exchange, that may serve as an introduction, if you care to
have it so.”
“Of course I care to have it so, Monsieur Merriwell,” said the duke,
immediately extending his hand, which Frank accepted.
The young American noticed that the hand of the man was cold as ice, and
it trembled the least bit in his grasp.
“I am sure, monsieur, that you are not feeling well,” he said.
“I am feeling strangely,” admitted the Frenchman, with a shrug of his
shoulders. “I do not understand what it is, unless——”
He shivered again, glancing around with that hunted look. Then he tried
to force a laugh, saying:
“It cannot be so. For all of the sign, I will not believe my time has
come. I have a work to do, a great work—for the honor of France!”
Frank had read in the newspapers—Frank’s trip occurred some years
ago—how the Duke of Benoit du Sault had taken up the work for Dreyfus
just where Monsieur Zola had been forced to abandon it, and how by doing
so he had aroused an army of rabid and howling enemies about his ears.
To escape imprisonment, Zola, the great novelist, had fled from France,
and it was more than hinted that the Duke of Benoit du Sault might have
to do likewise.
Frank was confident of the innocence of Dreyfus, the unfortunate Jew,
who had once been an officer in the French Army, but had been accused of
betraying the army’s secrets to rival powers, had been publicly
disgraced and condemned to life imprisonment on Devil’s Island, a barren
bit of rock and sand, far from France, on the burning bosom of a torrid
sea.
Merry had read with great interest about the case, and, being a lover of
justice, it was but natural that his soul should be stirred when he
thought how Dreyfus had been convicted and condemned on evidence of
which he knew absolutely nothing. The trial had been conducted in
secret, and the public at large, like the condemned man, knew nothing of
the proofs which established Dreyfus’ guilt.
The story of Madame Dreyfus’ devotion, and her unceasing efforts in
behalf of her husband had touched Merry. He read how she had appealed to
power after power, but all her appeals had seemed in vain till Monsieur
Zola had cast himself into the arena, like a gladiator, and taken up the
battle. But even Zola, great novelist and political factor as he was,
was unable to stand against the army, and in France “the army can do no
wrong,” so it was claimed that Dreyfus had been justly judged, and all
who sought to show otherwise were enemies of France. The agitation
aroused a terrible sentiment against the Jews, and there were repeated
riots in the courts and on the streets. Zola and his friends contended
against public sentiment and prejudice, and the whole affair which
followed was a travesty of justice.
Even though the daring novelist was forced to flee from France to escape
imprisonment, the agitation accomplished something. The one man who had
done more than all others to convict Dreyfus was likewise forced to
leave the country. In England he confessed that he, under instructions
of others, had forged the document which had mainly served to convict
the Jew. However, this man Esterhazy had told so many stories about the
case that it was easy now to claim that this was but another lie, and,
strangely enough, in a short time, he retracted the statement.
When the chief of police was forced to confess that he had forged
certain documents which seemed to establish the guilt of the prisoner of
Devil’s Island, there was a terrible commotion in Paris. The chief of
police committed suicide without delay, or was murdered. The friends of
Dreyfus made another mighty effort to have him brought back to France
and given a fair trial. For a time it looked as if they must succeed,
but all the power of the army was brought against them, and effort after
effort was frustrated. One after another those officers who had been
concerned in the conviction of Dreyfus resigned; but their places were
filled by men who expressed themselves as fully confident that the Jew
had been justly judged. The reversal of the verdict would mean the
disgrace of men high in power, who had been instrumental in certain ways
in bringing about the conviction, and so an innocent man was doomed to
languish out his life in an iron cage on the burning rock of Devil’s
Island, afar in the brassy bosom of a sun-scorched sea.
There were Frenchmen who believed Dreyfus innocent and who loved justice
enough to desire his innocence proven, even though it rent the republic
in twain. Edmond Laforce, the Duke of Benoit du Sault, was one of these.
He placed his wealth and his life at the disposal of the friends of
Dreyfus, and he set about devoting himself to the mighty task of forcing
France to bring the prisoner back and give him a fair trial. The duke
had tried to do his work quietly, but the newspapers had found out about
him, and Frank Merriwell had read of him. Thus it came about that Merry
knew the man’s title the moment he read his name on the card.
“You have my sympathy, sir,” assured Frank. “To me it does not seem
possible that fate will permit poor Dreyfus to die on that desolate
island without being brought back and having a fair trial.”
“The ways of God may not be measured by man,” said the duke solemnly;
“but, like you, I believe that Dreyfus must be brought back, no matter
what may come of it. They say to show him innocent means a revolution in
France—means that the streets of Paris must again run with blood. Let it
come! Better that than to have him die in Devil’s Island and afterward
to have his innocence established. If he is truly guilty, it will be
established beyond a doubt by another trial. That will end it forever.
If he is innocent, it will mean the everlasting disgrace of France to
have him die on that island!”
For a single moment a flush came into the duke’s cheeks, faint, indeed,
but still perceptible. It faded quickly, and then, of a sudden, he
pressed his hand to his heart once more, uttering a smothered cry of
pain.
Frank leaned across the table in instant solicitation, a strange feeling
of dread assailing him.
“What is it, monsieur?” he asked.
“The pain——”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Shall I order something?”
“A little brandy, please.”
Frank gave the order quickly, and the brandy was brought at once by a
waiter. With trembling hand the duke lifted the glass and sipped the
liquor.
“Are you subject to such attacks?” asked Merry.
The gentleman shook his head.
“No,” he asserted, “never before a few moments ago have I felt one. I do
not understand it.”
He stopped speaking, his eyes fastened on the slight scratch on his
wrist, which he had received from the hatpin in the hands of the vicious
woman who had accosted him. He trembled as he looked.
“Strange!” he murmured, as if speaking to himself. “The pain seems to
shoot from that scratch to my heart. Can it be——No, no! I will not
believe it! The sign was given to frighten me. This is nothing. It will
pass away.”
Despite his attempt to assure himself, however, it became plain that a
great terror had seized upon him. He fought against it, trying to throw
it off.
Frank noticed this agitation, and he observed that the duke again looked
round in a hunted manner. No one seemed paying any attention to them.
The duke’s hand fell from his heart to the table, and he leaned toward
Merry. There was a peculiar gleam in his eyes.
“I have made enemies by the stand I have taken,” he said. “It has proved
fatal for more than one man who espoused the cause of Dreyfus.”
“It has proved fatal?” questioned the young American. “What do you
mean?”
“What I have said. More than one has given up his life because he dared
proclaim the innocence of Dreyfus and work to establish it.”
“I have not heard of such cases.”
“Of course not. Why should you? The Black Brothers do their work in
silence.”
“Who are the Black Brothers?”
“A band of men sworn to keep Dreyfus on Devil’s Island at any cost.”
“Do you mean to tell me there is such an organization of men in France?”
gasped Frank, in horror.
“There is.”
“It does not seem possible!”
“There are said to be seven of the Black Brothers,” said the duke,
speaking in guarded tones. “They are seven of the most desperate
creatures in all France, and they are the hired assassins of the enemies
of Dreyfus. They are paid to destroy such friends of the condemned man
as may seem dangerous, and they are guaranteed protection by the men who
employ them.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Merry. “It’s like a grisly conception of some
romancist. But I think the law would be able to reach the murderers.”
“Not yet, for as yet there is no proof that they have committed murder.”
“The victims——”
“Have died suddenly and strangely, one and all, and yet no man knows the
cause of their death.”
“How is that?”
“Each one has been warned to leave France within ten days. One alone has
heeded the warning. The others are dead.”
“They were murdered?”
“Of that there can be no doubt, yet on none of them was found a mark to
tell how they died. It seemed that heart trouble cut short their lives.”
Frank started a bit, thinking how strangely the duke had been seized by
pains in his heart. The Frenchman seemed to read the thoughts of his
companion, and his face appeared to turn yet a shade paler than it had
been.
“I have fancied that I might be able to detect the manner in which the
Black Brothers do their work,” he said; “but now I fear I shall fail.
The pains at my heart are terrible symptoms, and I fear I am to be the
next victim.”
“Oh, no! That cannot be!”
“I have been given the sign.”
“What sign?”
“The sign of the Black Brothers! the sign of death!”
“When?”
“This is the tenth day since I received it!” whispered the duke.
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