GASCONISM.
The summer waned, the autumn came, and poor, gentle Douglas lay in his
grave, but still his murderer had never been discovered.
Yet in connection with that murderer, or rather in connection with the
murder itself, some extraordinary facts had been forthcoming which,
after all, but served to surround it more and more with mystery. These
you shall hear.
When that white-faced woman, whose threatening finger had pointed at
the assassin as he fled, recovered from her horror--she was but a poor
concierge who had happened to be seeking her bed--she rushed forth
into the open place where Douglas's body lay, and there, with wild and
piercing shrieks, awakened all who dwelt round the cathedral. At first
she conveyed to those who hurried to the spot the idea that it was she
who was the shedder of blood, for, as she threw herself down by the
victim's side to see if any spark of life remained, her own white
night garments became stained with the dreadful fluid, so that those
hurrying to the scene imagined that they saw a guilty woman screaming
over her own evil deed.
But as she grew more composed she was able to tell her tale
coherently; to relate how, in curiosity, she had stood watching those
two conversing there; how she had seen the blow struck, and the
murderer flee into the darkness. She was very poor, she said, every
sou was worth taking account of; therefore, on moonlight nights, she
sought her bed without candlelight. Yet now she bemoaned her thrift,
for had she but burnt a light it might have alarmed the assassin--have
saved the unhappy victim.
"But _mort de ma vie!_" exclaimed the chief of the watch, who by this
time had arrived with two or three of his subordinates, "why not rush
out and follow the man; why not at least open the window and scream?
_Peste!_ you women can do that if a mouse scampers across the floor or
your husband reproves you, yet, behold! when a man is done to death
you hold your tongue."
The poor affrighted creature, still whimpering and shivering,
explained that she had no thought of murder being about to be done;
she had supposed they were two friends parting for the night; there
was no sign of argument or quarrel, and, when the deed was done, she
thought she had swooned for a moment or so. She could say no more.
"_Peste!_" again exclaimed the chief of the watch--a tetchy man given
to examining all kinds of characters from midnight revellers and
wassailers to housebreakers and worse, "why not do something better
than swoon? And I'll be sworn, too, that you would not know the fellow
again even though he came back this instant itself."
But to this the woman protested her dissent. She would know him again
anywhere, at once or at a long interval, adding with a shudder that
"for ever and as long as she should live, his features were stamped
into her memory."
"What was he like, then?" asked the chief, "how clad?"
"Fairly tall," she replied, "though not so tall, I think, as _that_,"
and she glanced at poor Douglas's body lying in the centre of the
crowd that surrounded it. The chief of the watch, and a doctor who had
come from out a house near, had examined it at once on their arrival,
and, alas! there was no life left in it. The gentle spirit had flown.
"Also," she went on, "the assassin was very dark, his eyes of a
piercing nature, his face white as a corpse--as _that_," and again she
glanced at the dead man; "but the whiteness might be from horror, _mon
Dieu!_ it was a terrible face, the face of a devil, terror-stricken;
the face of a fiend. But no remorse, oh, no! only fear--it might be of
himself."
"And his clothes?" asked the chief. "What of them?"
"Sombre, dark. All dark. Scarce any lace at sleeves or breast, neither
aigrette nor cockade, nor galloon to his hat; no sword."
"Not a bully, then, nor _filou?_ No appearance of a knight of the
road? Hein?"
"No," the woman replied, "no." Then, reflectively, she said, "It was,
I think, no murder for gain nor greed. Nay, could not have been. He
stooped not, went not near the--the body after it fell. More like, I
think, a deed of hate, of bitter, hot rage. Who knows? Perhaps a wife
stolen, a daughter wronged. All is possible. For see, _it_," and again
she glanced down, "was young, and--and, _mon Dieu, il était beau!_"
So they all said who gazed upon the handsome features now setting
rigidly in the blaze of the moon. "_Il était beau!_"
"Well," said the chief, "we must not stay here. He must be removed.
Meanwhile, I must to the officers of the guard; none must pass the
gates at daybreak except under strict scrutiny. And the body must be
searched to see if we can gather who and what he is. Alas! alas! The
woman speaks well. He was handsome."
But now an exclamation arose from the crowd, while one or two stooped
hurriedly to the earth, and the first picked up something that, as he
held it out, glistened in his hand. It was an unset stone, a ruby.
"_Tiens_," said the chief, turning it over in his hand, "what's this?
A ruby, and unset," he repeated. Then meditatively, "It may have
fallen from a setting worn by one or other, victim or murderer--from,
say, a ring, a collar, a brooch for cravat, or ruffle. Has he upon his
body," he said to his attendant, "any setting to which it might by
chance belong?"
The man bent down and inspected poor Douglas's form, then he rose and
shook his head.
"Neither ring nor chain that I can see. Nought that is likely to have
held such as that stone."
"Humph!" mused the chief, "humph!" Then he whispered to himself, "If
anyone pass the gate to-morrow with an unfilled setting--bah! _Non!
non! non!_ He that has the setting belonging to the ruby will scarcely
show it. Yet, that the murderer owns it is most likely. If it had been
lost by anyone who has lately worshipped here," and he glanced up at
the cathedral over which the daffodil dawn was coming now from the
east, "there would have been hue and cry enough. _Allons_," he said
aloud. "To the watch house. And, _bonne femme_, come you with us to
testify." Then, turning to his underlings, he said, "Bring him with
you--find a plank or door. And--and--be gentle with him. _Pauvre
garçon!_ Has he a mother, I wonder?"
For three or four days the search went on, those whom he had loved so
aiding it in every way. Archibald, stern, silent, inwardly crushed;
Bertie mad with grief and despair; Kate broken-hearted. The lower
parts of the city were ransacked and received visits from the watch
and the exempts, but nothing came of it except great discomfort to the
denizens thereof. Nothing! And--which perhaps was not strange--never
to one of those who had so loved him came the veriest shadow of a
thought as to who the murderer was. It was not possible, indeed, that
such a thought should come. He, they imagined--if ever in their sorrow
they let his foul memory enter their mind--was in England. No, they
never dreamt of him. They began, therefore, at last to think, as all
the world which went to make up Amiens thought, that some of the
outcasts, the thieves and scoundrels who had visited the city at
fair-time, had taken his bright young life. Yet, strange to say, if
such were the case, he had not been robbed. His pocketbook was on him,
his purse untouched. There was little enough in either, it was true,
yet, the night-birds would have had them had they been his slayers!
Then, at last, it seemed that the murderers were caught.
There rode up to the south gate, on the fifth day, a sergeant and
three troopers of the Regiment Picardy, and with them they had--bound
with rope;--two villainous-looking scoundrels, fellows in stained and
tawdry riding coats, with brandy-inflamed faces, one having a broken
leg, so that as he sat on his horse he groaned with every movement it
made.
The sergeant's story was brief and soon told to the captain of the
guard, while Bertie Elphinston, summoned to hear it, stood by
hollow-eyed and sad, wondering if he was to learn that in these
swashbucklers he saw the assassins of his poor friend.
"_Monsieur le capitaine_," said the sergeant, "by orders received from
you we have scoured the roads for the last few days. Then, last night,
we put up at the _Dragon Volant_, outside of Poix, and here we found
these two _larrons_. This one--this creature here--who calls himself
Jacques Potin, was abed with his broken leg, his horse having thrown
him; the other one, who names himself Adolphe d'Aunay, was nursing
him. _Ma foi!_ a strange patient and a strange nursing. From the room
they occupied came forth howlings and singings and songs of the
vilest, mixed with oaths and laughter sufficient to have awakened
their grandfathers in their prison graves. 'Twas this drew my
attention to them, _Monsieur le capitaine_. Passing their door,
attracted by their roars and singings, I was also led to stop and
listen, because, the uproar over, I next heard this conversation:
'Curse you and your leg too!' said he who calls himself D'Aunay; 'if
'twere not for your accident we should have been in Paris now, safe
and free with our prize disposed of. Your drunkenness, whereby you got
your fall, has ruined all.' '_Mon petit choux_,' said the other,
'bemoan not; here we are snug and comfortable. Our _logement_ is good,
the food of the best, the wine of the most superior. What would you
more? And we have the jewels, which are a small fortune, and the
money--_bonnes pieces fortes et trebuchantes_--for our immediate
wherewithal. As for the bills and bonds--well, we have destroyed them,
so they can tell no tales. _Mon enfant_, be gay.'
"Upon this," went on the sergeant, "I arrested them and found these."
Whereupon the man produced from his pockets numerous gold coins,
French and English, Louis d'ors and double Louis d'ors, some gold
quadruple pistoles, and a handful of English guineas. And also he
brought forth, wrapped in a filthy handkerchief, a considerable
quantity of pieces of jewellery containing superb precious stones.
There were two necklaces, innumerable rings and bracelets, and a
woman's tiara of rubies and diamonds. And from this latter--the rubies
and diamonds being set alternately--one of the former was missing.
"Alas!" said Bertie aside to his brother captain, "that proves nothing
as regards my poor friend. He possessed no jewels, nor, in the world,
one-half of that money. He had nought but his pay and a little allowed
him by the Scot's Fund. These men may be his murderers, but all this
is the result of another robbery--perhaps another murder."
"Nevertheless," said the captain of the guard, "we will hear their
story. Observe, a stone is missing from the tiara, and such a stone
was found where your friend was slain." Then turning to the two
fellows before them, he said curtly, "Now, your account of yourselves.
And explain your possession of all this," and he swept his hand over
the plain guardroom table, whereupon the money and the jewellery had
been temporarily placed.
"Explain!" exclaimed the man who was called D'Aunay and who appeared
to be the boldest of the two--while he regarded the captain with an
assumed air of fierceness and disdain. "Explain! What shall I explain?
That we are two gentlemen of Gascony."
"_Sans doute_," the captain muttered under his teeth.
"_Oui, monsieur, sans doute_," repeated the fellow, who had overheard
his whisper. "Of Gascony, I repeat. From Tarbes, and resident at
Paris."
"Amiens scarcely lies on the route between those places," the captain
remarked quietly.
"Permit that I make myself clear. We had been to your great fair in
this fine city, and, by St. Firmin, had much enjoyed ourselves and
were riding back to Paris when, by great misfortune, my friend, who
suffers much from a painful and distracting vertigo, fell from his
horse. Naturally, I remained to solace and console him, and 'twas
there that your sergeant--who, you will pardon me for saying,
possesses not manners of the highest refinement and appears to combine
the calling of a _mouchard_ with that of a soldier--burst in upon our
privacy, and has added to his insults by dragging us back here."
"You have your papers, doubtless?" the captain asked.
"Doubtless--at Paris. They are there."
"Is it usual for gentlemen of--of Gascony to travel with such
jewellery and gems as these?"
"_Monsieur le capitaine_," said the man named D'Aunay, "you will
pardon me if I say that it is usual for gentlemen of Gascony to do
precisely whatever it seems best to them. At the same time they are
respecters most profound of the law. Therefore, monsieur, if you have
had any complaint of jewellery stolen, I am willing to give a more
full account of that which is in our possession."
He was a bold villain--yet, perhaps, more of a crafty one. On the road
from Paris to Amiens his sharpness had gathered something from the
troopers, chatting among themselves, of what they were being brought
back for, and he knew that it was for murder, and not robbery, that
they were wanted. Therefore, being innocent of the former, he brazened
it out as regards the latter, though all the while thinking that there
was, probably, as great a hue and cry after those who had robbed the
man near the cathedral as those who had murdered the other one.
That the captain of the guard was nonplussed his equally sharp eyes
saw at once; and he drew himself up a little more to his full height
and regarded the other with a still more assured air of haughty
disdain. However, the captain went on:
"There was a murder committed five nights ago in the Place de la
Cathédrale----"
"_Nom d'un chien!_" interrupted D'Aunay, "is it murder we are accused
of next? Excellent! Go on, monsieur. There are still other crimes in
the decalogue."
"No, you are not accused of it. But circumstances require explanation.
First to me, afterwards, perhaps, to the law. One circumstance is that
in your jewellery," and he emphasised the "your" very strongly, "there
is a stone, a ruby, missing from the tiara. Now----"
"It is found?" exclaimed the cunning vagabond, with an admirable
assumption of gladness. "Ha! that is well, monsieur; these are joyous
tidings. That tiara was my mother's, La Marquise d'Aunay. I am indeed
thankful."
"It was found on the spot where the murder took place--the spot where
the victim's body was also found."
"_Vraiment!_ And that spot was----?" he asked, with still greater
coolness.
"I shall not tell you. Indeed, it would be best for you to say what
spots you were in on that night."
"On that night; monsieur speaks of which night?"
"The 28th. The last night of the fair."
"The 28th! Jacques, _mon ami_," to his friend, "correct me if I forget
to mention any place we visited. _Vonons_. We supped at nine--_tiens_,
the _paté de canard_ was excellent; we must instruct our cook in Paris
to attempt one. Then we visited the theatre, a vile representation of
'_Les Précieuses_,' I assure you, monsieur. Next, because in Gascony we
never forget, amidst all our troubles of after years, our early
religious instruction, we decided to attend the evening service at La
Cathédrale; there was a large and reverent crowd, monsieur----"
"_Dame!_" exclaimed the captain, turning to Bertie; "I can do nothing
with the fellow." Then, re-addressing D'Aunay, he said:
"I have finished with you, sir. Your next examination will be before
the Procureur du Roi," and he ordered the two "gentlemen of Gascony"
to be confined in the guardhouse until that official should
interrogate them.
Yet they were too much even for this astute old lawyer, who had
learned his craft in Paris in the Law Courts of the Grand Monarch, as
they had learned theirs in half the gaols of France.
D'Aunay insisted first on knowing who charged them with having stolen
the jewellery; where the person was who had lost it or had it stolen;
and if the unhappy young man who had been so monstrously and cruelly
done to death was known, or even supposed, to have been possessed of
any similar jewellery? Having achieved victory over the Procureur in
this respect, in the doing of which he exhibited such virtuous
indignation, accompanied by strange exclamations and shrugs and
hangings of the bench in front of him, as to nearly terrify the
representative of the law into releasing him, he began on a new tack.
"Summon the good woman," he exclaimed, "who saw the murder done. By
St. Firmin, if she says one of us is the man, then to the wheel with
us! Also call the watch at the southern gate; if he in turn says that
we did not pass through ere midnight--I hear the excellent female
places the assassination after the first quarter past the hour had
struck--then, I say, to the wheel with us! _Sacré nom d'un chien!_
were ever gentlemen treated thus before? _Sacré mille tonnerres_, is
this France in which we are?"
The woman was summoned, and instantly replied, "No, neither of the
messieurs before her was the man. No resemblance whatever. She was
certain. That face she could never forget. It was a devil's. On her
most sacred oath, neither were concerned in the awful scene."
The watchmen at the gate affirmed that both men passed out before
midnight struck--the hour for the gate to close on _fête_-days. There
was no possibility of his being mistaken--one, the big man, swore at
him for having half closed the gate, thinking the last person had gone
through for that night; the other insulted him and jeered at him, and
flung a sou at his feet.
"So," said the old Procureur du Roi, "you seem free of this crime.
Yet, I misdoubt me but you are the lawful prey of the gibbet. The
sergeant heard you speaking of your plunder. That you have stolen the
jewellery no one can doubt----"
"Produce the owner," interrupted D'Aunay, on whom a clear light had
now dawned. "We ask nothing but that."
"Also you swear by St. Firmin. He is a saint of Picardy, not of the
south of France."
"It would be strange if I did not swear by him. In the few hours we
were here we heard everyone we met swear terribly by him. He must,
indeed, be a saint of Picardy--_surtôut_ of Amiens."
"Also," went on the judge, "you spoke truth when you said you had been
to the theatre and to the Cathedral----"
"Naturally, monsieur. It is ever my habit. To shun the truth is
impossible to me."
"But your actions were suspicious. Both at the theatre and the
cathedral you were observed to place yourselves, to force yourselves,
nearest to those who presented the appearance of greatest wealth----"
"_Finissons!_" roared D'Aunay now in virtuous indignation. "Enough.
Produce more tangible reasons for this detention, these insults, or
release us. Your charges have all fallen to the ground; you now begin
a fresh one equally baseless. Yet, because I love justice and respect
the law--its administrators I cannot always respect--if anyone has
been robbed at either theatre or church, bring them forward, and we
will meet that charge too."
"You will be released," said the Procureur; "you are now free. But the
jewellery will be retained for the present. Later on it may be
returned to you."
So, not without many protestations, the fellows went away from Amiens,
D'Aunay breathing maledictions against the barbarous laws which
permitted honest gentlemen to be arrested and their property
confiscated. Yet, he swore, the end was not yet arrived at; when they
reached Paris they would soon set the highest legal authorities at
work. Also he edified the good people of Amiens by the tenderness and
care with which he assisted his suffering friend to mount his horse.
Later in that day they halted for an evening meal on the cool grass at
the wayside, and, as D'Aunay helped his comrade from his wallet, he
said:
"Jacques, _mon ami_, observe always the advantage of truth. Had I not
mentioned our visit to the cathedral in the earlier part of the
evening that cursed ruby would almost have sunk us." Then he wagged
his head and took a drink of wine.
"Yet," he continued, "I understand it not. Let us consider. We took
the plunder close by the cathedral. In front of the cathedral that
other one was slain. None claim the jewels---_peste!_ 'tis hard to
lose them. What do you make of it?"
"A fool can see," replied Jacques, as he shifted his wounded leg into
an easier position. "Any fool can see that. It was our friend who----"
"Precisely," said D'Aunay. "Precisely. _Allons!_ To Paris."
"And the ruby fell out when we were examining the spoil!"
"Again, precisely. And remember, Jacques, that if we ever meet our
friend who once owned the jewels it would be worth while attacking
him. Also, above all, Jacques, remember the truth is best. _Allons!_
To Paris!"