“Ah, M. le Moyne,” he said at last, looking up from a paper which he

held in his hand, “here is a report which will interest you. The name

of the concierge, it seems, is Mère Fouchon--at least, that is the

only name she has ever been known to have. She secured her place as

concierge in the Rue du Chantre nearly five years ago, by means of

recommendations which my agents have since discovered were forged. Of

her previous history we have as yet been able to ascertain nothing,

but we will in time. During the five years she was concierge she made

no friends--none, at least, to whom she told anything of her past

life. She seems to have emerged from the darkness, and the fact that

so little is known concerning her is in itself suspicious. No one,

especially no woman, covers up her past unless there is something to

conceal. Decidedly, I am interested in Mère Fouchon.”

“And you have not succeeded in finding her, I suppose, Monsieur?” I

inquired.

“No,” answered d’Argenson, “she seems to have disappeared completely.

She has descended into that darkness from which she emerged five years

ago, and she has done it in a way which shows that she has kept in

touch with the life of the sewers. But she cannot escape the eyes of

my agents, which are everywhere--especially in the Paris which lives

underground. We shall hear from her in a day or two, Monsieur, and

after that our course will be an easy one.”

There was nothing more to be said, and as d’Argenson turned to other

matters, I left the place and strolled moodily through the streets. I

stopped at the first cabaret I came to and ordered breakfast, and, as I

ate, endeavored to form some plan which held out at least a promise of

success.

I could think of nothing better than to take M. d’Argenson’s hint and

search those quarters of the town along the river and in the faubourgs

where the criminal classes congregated, in the chance of catching a

glimpse of Mère Fouchon, but I had little hope of success. To search

for a single human being in those swarming dens of vice was a task

which even the police found onerous--but I could not sit still with

folded hands while Nanette was in danger, and I set about my task

without delay.

CHAPTER IX

A DESCENT INTO A CESSPOOL

I TURNED first towards the quays, hoping that in the crowd of beggars,

thieves, and cut-throats which swarmed over them I might chance upon

the object of my search. The streets were crowded with carriages

and heavy carts, which went their way with a fine disregard of the

foot-passengers, who kept out of danger as best they could, seeking

shelter behind the protections thrown out at each corner, or dodging

back and forth under the noses of the horses.

As I crossed the river and turned into the Quai des Théatins, I heard

a shrill scream of terror, and witnessed an accident such as happened

many times daily in Paris. A child had been knocked down by a passing

horse, and lay sprawling on the pavement. In a moment the heavy wheels

of a cart would have crushed her, for the crowd regarded the accident

with a singular indifference, but I sprang forward with an oath at

their carelessness, and dragged her to her feet. With two strides I

gained the protection of a projecting flight of steps, and paused to

look at her.

I saw at a glance that she was a creature of the streets, one of those

unfortunate beings with no home but the ash-heaps, no food but that she

managed to rescue from the garbage-piles. She might have been ten years

old, or twenty, it was impossible to tell--or, rather, it would be more

correct to say that her body had the arrested development of a sickly

child of ten, her face the preternatural shrewdness and knowledge of

a street-woman twice that age. The rags in which she was clothed were

horribly dirty, and as I set her again on her feet I shuddered to see

that her legs were hideously bowed.

“There, my child,” I said, as I put her down, “you are quite safe now.

In future be more careful where you are going. Another time you may not

escape so fortunately.”

She looked at me with large eyes, in which there was a trace of tears.

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said. “You are very kind.”

“There, run along,” I answered, touched with pity as I looked at

her pinched face, which under other circumstances might have been

attractive--even pretty.

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said again. Still she did not move, but stood

looking wistfully up into my face.

“What is it, my dear?” I asked, stooping down beside her.

She hesitated a moment, looked down at the pavement, and then slowly

raised her eyes again to mine.

“I think--I should like you--very much, Monsieur,” she stammered, and

turned away into the street. I gazed after her in amazement, for I

could have sworn that she had blushed. I watched her until she was out

of sight, and then continued on my way, pondering over this new wonder,

until I plunged into the fetid quarter near the Halles, and found

plenty there to occupy my mind.

In an hour’s time my heart was sick of the task. The tottering

buildings, the filthy streets, the sore-eyed, half-naked children

swarming with vermin; the hideous creatures who had once been men and

women, but who now were merely monsters disguised in forms scarce

human; the sickening, penetrating stench which hung over everything;

the squalor, disease, corruption, vice, which were evident on every

hand--all these filled me with disgust and dismay, for I, reared under

the trees and the blue sky, had never dreamed of anything so terrible,

and I trembled at the thought that perhaps in one of those filthy

holes, reeking with crime and disease, Nanette--my Nanette, dainty,

beautiful, innocent--might be concealed. The thought turned my heart

sick within me, and I pushed on from street to street, looking to right

and left, mad with horror and despair.

My brain was reeling as I made my way back to the river’s edge for a

breath of pure air and a glimpse of God’s blue sky unsullied by the

miasma of disease and filth. Then I turned again to my work, peering

into reeking courts, along foul alleys, under noisome doorways,

my hand always on my sword, for I detected everywhere black looks

and threatening gestures which would have meant death had I been

unprepared. But nowhere did I catch a glimpse of Mère Fouchon, and

at last, sick at heart, and with every organ of my body in revolt, I

turned away and went slowly back to the Rue du Chantre.

As I entered the court, I saw the concierge beckoning to me eagerly

from his box, and I hastened to him.

“What is it?” I asked. “You have something to tell me?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” he answered, with a smile. “You were asking this

morning about my predecessor.”

“Well, what then?” and I endeavored to control my impatience.

“She sent this morning for some clothing she had left behind.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“She sent a girl, a gamine, only so high, all rags, all dirt, a

horrible sight.”

“Make haste!” I cried. “What then?”

“Well, I gave this girl the clothes, Monsieur. She took them and went

away.”

“And is that all?” I asked, my heart falling again.

“Not quite, Monsieur. It happened that my grandson was here at the

time, and I told him to follow the girl, believing that in this way we

might learn where her mistress is hiding.”

“Splendid!” I cried. “And he followed her?”

“Yes, he followed her, Monsieur--ah, such a distance! Along the Rue des

Poulies to the river, along the quays, across the Pont Neuf, through

the Rue de la Pelleterie, again along the quays, across the Rue St.

Croix, through the Rue Cocatrix, doubling back and forth like a rabbit,

doubtless to render pursuit impossible, until finally she turned

into the Rue du Chevet. When my grandson reached the corner she had

disappeared.”

“’Twas well done!” I cried. “Here is a crown for your grandson, who is

a brave boy,” and I turned away.

“Where do you go, Monsieur?” asked the concierge.

“To the Rue du Chevet, to be sure,” I answered. “Depend upon it, I

shall soon find her hiding-place.”

“Have a care, Monsieur,” he protested. “’Tis a dangerous place for

honest men.”

“I have my sword,” I answered, and hurried into the street.

Darkness had already come, but I traversed the quays and crossed the

Pont Neuf, with its queer little semicircular shops, its dentists and

quack doctors and its equestrian statue of our great Henri, without

pausing for breath. It was only when I plunged into the maze of streets

beyond that I was compelled to stop and inquire my way, and even then

it was with the greatest difficulty that I found the Rue du Chevet.

I should have given up the task as hopeless, but the thought of Nanette

a captive, suffering I knew not what indignities, spurred me on. The

quarter was plunged in absolute darkness, there being no pretence of

lighting the streets, and I could not see two paces before me, but

from the stench which assailed my nostrils--the vapor of crime and

disease--I knew I was again in one of those filthy quarters of the town

where I had spent the day.

Shadows passed me, leaving behind an impression of incredible foulness.

Strange shapes brushed against me. There was something terrible and

threatening in the very atmosphere. I felt that, although I could see

nothing, I was fully visible to these denizens of the night, whose eyes

had grown accustomed to its blackness. Here and there a feeble ray of

light penetrated the shutters of a window or fought its way through a

crevice in a doorway and faintly illumined a few inches of the dirty

pavement. Everywhere else was gloom, so thick, so heavy, so absolute,

that it seemed to press upon and suffocate me.

I put my hand to my face and found my forehead damp with perspiration.

“Come,” I said, “this will not do. You are frightening yourself, my

friend. There is really nothing here to fear,” and I continued on.

At the end of a moment, I ran against a wall. I felt along it with

my hands and found that it completely closed the end of the street.

Evidently it was a cul-de-sac and I must retrace my steps. I reflected

that it were folly to attempt anything more until daylight came to

my assistance, and that the wisest thing for me to do was to return

to the Rue du Chantre and secure a good night’s rest. Then in the

morning, with the help of M. d’Argenson’s men, I would soon unearth

Mère Fouchon. I shuddered to think that Nanette was condemned to spend

a second night in such a place, but plainly I was powerless to prevent

it.

As I turned away from the wall, I seemed to hear the sound of many

feet shuffling along the pavement, of many voices whispering together.

A thousand eyes seemed glaring at me through the darkness. There was

something inexpressibly chilling and menacing in this murmur, which

continually receded as I advanced, only to close in behind me. I felt

that I had but to stretch out my hand to touch a wall of living bodies,

and yet I dared not do so.

Suddenly a door right beside me was thrown open and a flood of light

poured out into the street. For a moment I was blinded, and then,

framed in the doorway, I saw the shrivelled form and leering face of

Mère Fouchon.

“Oh, oh!” she cried, in a shrill voice, “so it is M. le Moyne--the

chivalrous M. le Moyne, who prefers a bed on the floor to his own couch

when a pretty girl occupies it!”

My sword was out of its sheath in a breath.

“Hellcat!” I cried, and sprang towards her.

She vanished from the doorway like a shadow, but I was after her. Even

as I passed the threshold, I heard a clear, piercing cry.

“Pierre!” screamed the voice. “Oh, Pierre! This way!”

“Nanette!” I cried. “Nanette! In a moment, my darling!” and I hurled

myself across the room and down the hallway whence the cry seemed to

come.

In that instant, I saw a huge shadow quivering on the wall above me

and before I could turn, a crushing blow fell upon my head. There was

a burst of flame before my eyes, my sword slipped from my hand, I felt

myself falling, falling, and all was black.

CHAPTER X

MÈRE FOUCHON SCORES

I AWOKE with a great pain in my eyes, and when I raised my hand to my

head, I found that my hair was clotted with blood. A weight of iron

seemed to burden every limb, and I groaned aloud as I tried to rise,

and fell back again, palsied by the agony the movement cost me. I felt

the wall behind me, and dragging myself to it with infinite suffering,

I propped my back against it and looked about me. I could see nothing,

for a veil of impenetrable darkness shut me in, and no single crevice

admitted a ray of light. The wall against which I leaned was cold and

slimy, and once or twice a drop of water fell upon my head.

How long I sat there I do not know, but finally, by a supreme effort, I

got to my knees and then to my feet. Feeling along the wall, I advanced

a step, two steps, three. And then something seemed to seize me by the

waist and hurl me backward. I lay still for a moment, half-dazed, not

understanding what had happened. I put my hands to my waist and in an

instant I comprehended. Around my waist, just above the hips, an iron

band was clamped. At the back of the band was a hasp, through which a

chain passed. I ran my hands along the chain. It was perhaps three feet

in length, and the other end was fastened to the wall.

I suppose I must have fainted, for I remember nothing more until I was

torn from the merciful grasp of sleep by a burning thirst, a thirst

which tortured and maddened me. I could feel my throat contracting; my

tongue swelling in my throbbing mouth--my blood seemed to be aflame.

I scraped my fingers over the reeking wall and sucked them for a bit

of moisture. I held my mouth open, upward, in the hope that a drop of

water might fall into it. I cursed aloud and jerked at my chain in an

agony of desperation. At last, I fell exhausted against the wall, and

sank into a troubled sleep, disturbed by hideous dreams.

When I opened my eyes again, I seemed stronger. The pain in my head was

less intense, but my throat was still dry and parched and I felt hot

and feverish. A chance motion of my hand brought it into contact with

something on the floor beside me. I felt it cautiously. It seemed to

be a vessel of some kind. I placed my fingers within it and found it

full of water. With a gasp of thankfulness, I placed it to my lips and

drank, trembling at the thought that had I turned in my sleep I might

have upset it and spilled its precious contents.

Ah, how I drank! I swallowed in great gulps. I filled my mouth to

bursting and allowed the blessed liquid to trickle slowly down my

throat. I turned my head from side to side, that every portion of my

gullet might be reached. I gloated over it as a miser over his gold,

and at last with a sigh of utter content, set down the vessel empty.

The water ran through my veins like wine, and I arose to my feet,

strong and invigorated. My eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the

darkness, and I could dimly perceive the wall stretching away on

either side. And for the first time, I remembered--the search through

the night, the opening of the door, Nanette’s scream for help, the

shadow on the wall--it flashed through my brain like lightning through

a summer sky--I must escape, I must keep cool--and with set teeth I

choked back the trembling that would have seized me.

The spasm passed, and with my fingers I carefully examined the iron

belt about my waist. It was, I judged, three inches wide by half an

inch in thickness. The ends, which overlapped, were provided with a

series of teeth, which fitted together and were clamped into place by

a lock. The ends had been pushed past each other until the belt was

fitted close to my waist. I tried to work it down over my hips, but

soon perceived that this could not be done. Clearly, if I ever left the

place, it would be with the belt about me.

I turned my attention to the hasp at the back. It was heavy and riveted

through the belt. I examined the chain link by link, but found none

that showed a sign of weakness. A heavy iron ring held it to the

wall. How the ring was secured I could not tell, but I exerted all my

strength against it and found I could not move it a hair’s-breadth.

Certainly my captors had overlooked no detail that would tend to make

me more secure. What fiendish ingenuity had devised this place of

torture!

As I sat down again with a sigh of discouragement, I heard a sharp

click as of a spring released, a heavy door creaked back, and a woman

appeared carrying a lantern. At a glance I recognized Mère Fouchon. Her

face was illumined by a devilish joy as she looked about and saw me

sitting there.

“Ho, ho,” she laughed, “can this be the gallant who was going to spit

me on his sword only the other morning?”

I did not answer, and she placed her lantern on the ground and sat

down on a heap of dirt opposite me, but well out of reach, and rocked

herself back and forth, and chuckled. I felt myself choking with rage.

“And the girl, too,” she continued, after a moment, “the girl with the

dark eyes and little red mouth. She is called Nanette, is she not?

What a shame that she should be crying her eyes out in the room just

overhead!”

I ground my teeth together at the thought of my own impotence.

“Ah, curse!” she cried, “curse your heart out! Christ, how it gladdens

my soul! Ho, ho!” and she rocked back and forth in a paroxysm of mirth.

“Come,” I said at last, mastering my anger as best I could. “Why are

you doing all this?”

“For money,” she answered gayly. “Ten thousand crowns, at the very

least, Monsieur. It is a pretty sum, is it not?”

“Very pretty,” I said. “Who is fool enough to part with it?”

“Who but M. Jacques Ribaut, of the Rue des Moulins?” and the hag

laughed more than ever.

“Ribaut?” I murmured, a great fear at my heart.

“Assuredly, Ribaut,” and she leered at me horribly. “Perhaps M. Jean

Briquet may pay a portion of it. ’Tis worth it to get such a bride, do

you not think so, Monsieur?--such a sweet bride, so soft, so young, so

innocent--a jewel of a bride!”

“A bride?” I groaned. “Speak out, woman, and tell me what you mean.”

I thought she would choke with laughing.

“In two words, Monsieur,” she gasped, so soon as she had regained her

breath. “When once the terms are settled, which will be to-morrow, or

perhaps even yet to-day, the girl will be delivered to her anxious and

loving uncle, none the worse for her little visit here, where she is

quite as safe as in your bed in the Rue du Chantre,” and she paused

again to catch her breath. “A day or two after that, M. Briquet will

have the honor of leading her to the altar, whither, since she believes

you dead, she will accompany him without resistance. And what a bride

she will make--so plump, so warm, so rosy, so adorable! Ah, how I envy

that happy man!” and she smacked her lips, like a glutton over a

choice morsel.

I was pacing up and down the wall. I tore at my chain. In that moment,

I would have sold my soul to get my fingers about her neck--scraggy,

yellow, seamed--God, how I would have twisted it!

“You hag!” I said between my teeth. “You shall burn in hell for this.

Pray God it may be I who send you there!”

She was screaming with laughter.

“Oh, oh,” she gasped, “that I should have lived to see this! And he was

going to kill me with that sword of his!”

Again she was forced to stop, and sat for some minutes rocking back and

forth, shaking with laughter.

I glared at her and cursed her. If there be merit in curses that come

from the very bottom of the soul, then is she damned eternally.

CHAPTER XI

TORTURE

BUT this devil did not heed my curses. Perhaps she knew herself damned

already, and so feared God nor man. So, seeing her squatting laughing

there, my wrath choked itself out, and I stood silent, hot with hate.

“Go on, Monsieur,” she screamed. “Do not stop, I beg of you. Oh, the

delight of this moment!”

I bit my lips to keep them silent. That I, Pierre le Moyne, should be

here, a dupe, a gull, a puppet, a fool, a make-sport for this creature!

“It is sublime,” she gasped, “this jest! Everything has played into

my hands so nicely, and at last it is to be my turn. I have waited

fifteen years for my turn, Monsieur, and now it has come. I think I

shall tell you. It is too good to keep to myself; and then, too, I know

the secret will be as safe with you as in the tomb,” and she paused to

laugh again. “Those two creatures of d’Argenson endeavored to learn

something about me, I’ll wager.”

“Yes,” I said, “but they found very little.”

“Mère Fouchon knows how to cover her steps,” and the woman chuckled

grimly. “The gendarmerie think themselves very acute, but there are

others who are sharper. How could they suspect that Mère Fouchon,

twenty years ago, was Madame Basarge, housekeeper for M. and Mme.

Charles Ribaut, and their brother, that very respectable M. Jacques

Ribaut, whom we both love so dearly?”

She saw my look of dazed astonishment, and smiled again, still more

grimly.

“It seems you do not understand,” she continued after a moment,

during which she seemed to be debating how much she should tell me.

Caution warned her to be silent; but the spirit of bravado held her

in its grip; a silence of many years clamored to be broken; the devil

in her urged her on, not to be denied. “After all,” she said, “what

harm in talking to a dead man? Listen attentively, then, Monsieur. It

was sixteen years ago, while I was employed in the Ribaut household,

that Madame Ribaut gave birth to a girl--that adorable Nanette whom

you already know. The mother died a week later, and the father soon

followed her. He was a good man, and so adored his wife that he found

life not worth living without her--just the opposite of most men! Ah, I

remember her so well--picture to yourself, Monsieur, a woman twice as

beautiful as this Nanette and with a soul like the Virgin’s--well, that

would be she. I have never seen another like her--if she had lived,

there might, perhaps, have been another story to tell.”

She paused for a moment, and I gazed at her astounded. Her mouth was

working and her fingers clutching at the bosom of her dress--could it

be, after all, that this hell-hag had a heart? But she caught my eyes

and threw her emotion from her.

“But she did not live,” she said, with an ugly laugh. “I am what I

am--there is no going back. Let me get on with the story. Charles

Ribaut was a good man, but his brother, Jacques--well, that they could

have been moulded in the same womb was a miracle--they were like black

and white, like night and day, like hell and heaven. His brother

was left to take care of the baby and to look after her fortune for

her--for her father was rich, oh, tremendously rich. She was sent off

to a convent for the good sisters to care for. The name on the sign

in front of the shop in the Rue des Moulins was altered from Charles

Ribaut to Jacques Ribaut. I was discharged, for it seems that he did

not wish to have any one near him who had known his brother. In ten

years no one remembered that such a man as Charles Ribaut had ever

existed. His brother was still taking care of his fortune, and as the

moment drew near when he knew he must part with it, the thought came to

him, why part with it at all? Clearly, there was only one thing which

could disturb his possession--that was the girl’s marriage. Her husband

would, of course, demand an accounting of her affairs.”

She paused for a moment and looked at me.

“Yes,” I nodded. “I begin to see.”

“You will understand, then,” she continued, “that it was necessary for

Ribaut to find for the girl a husband who would not be too curious--who

would be satisfied with a dowry of twenty or thirty thousand crowns and

who would ask no questions. Such a husband was found in the person of a

certain M. Jean Briquet.”

I shuddered as I recalled that hideous face.

“I see you know him,” she chuckled. “He is beautiful, is he not?”

“But how do you know all this?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment--but the temptation was too strong. And,

after all, what harm in talking to a dead man?

“You have perhaps noticed, Monsieur,” she said at last, “that I do not

speak the argot of the sewers, and yet for ten years I was a part of

them. After leaving Ribaut, I made a mistake, a false step--no matter

what. It was necessary for me to remain concealed from the police. I

was no longer Mme. Basarge. I became Mère Fouchon, a consort of thieves

and drabs--a receiver of stolen goods--a thing of the night. Do you

fancy I relished it, Monsieur? At the end of ten years, I thought it

safe to emerge from the darkness. I became concierge of the house in

the Rue du Chantre, and dreamed of a day when I might regain my old

place in the world. I had been in hell, but I fancied I could drag

myself out.”

Again she paused, and I looked at her with something like pity in my

heart. I could see what those ten years in the sewers of Paris had done

for her. D’Argenson’s theory, then, had been correct.

“It was at that time I thought of applying to M. Ribaut,” she

continued. “I thought perhaps he might be willing to assist me. I did

not then suspect what a dog he was. But he raved at me like a madman,

and threatened to denounce me to the police should I ever again appear

before him. I began to suspect something. I made inquiries, but I could

find out nothing. His niece, they said, was at the Sacré Cœur getting

her education. Had she been home? No, no one had ever seen her. But I

saw her--the scrub-woman at the convent pointed her out to me. Indeed,

I did not need to have her pointed out--she was so like her mother, I

thought for a moment I was looking at a ghost, and grew quite faint.

But it passed, and I looked at her well and saw she was not happy. What

girl could be in that gray, cold, silent place? Ugh, it makes me shiver

to think of it! Even the sewers were better, for, after all, there

is life in the sewers, not always and always silence! But I did not

rest there. I made a friend of a concierge just across from the Ribaut

house, but she could tell me nothing. Was the girl coming home? She did

not know. Had she been betrothed? Well, there was a rumor that she was

destined for a certain M. Briquet, a great friend of her uncle’s. Then

in a flash I understood, Monsieur, for I had known M. Briquet, having

met him during those ten years spent in the darkness,” and she laughed

harshly. “His is not a pleasant character, though he has raised himself

out of the abyss.”

I said nothing, fearing to interrupt this remarkable story.

“But though I knew everything,” she went on after a moment, “I could do

nothing, as I had no wish to make the acquaintance of M. d’Argenson’s

men. It was not until I saw you enter the court of the Epée Flamboyante

with Mlle. Ribaut on your arm that I found a plan. Now, M. le Moyne, my

plan is working admirably. I hold the key to the situation. In a day or

two, Ribaut will come to terms. I will take my ten thousand crowns and

pouf!--there will no longer be a Mère Fouchon. I will go to Marseilles,

Bordeaux, Nice--anywhere away from this execrable Paris. I shall have

money--I shall live well--I shall no longer fear the police or a return

to the life of the Rue des Marmosets. I shall escape from hell, after

all.”

“And what do you propose doing with me?” I asked.

She looked at me a moment with glittering eyes, all her venom in her

face.

“Ah, you, M. le Moyne. It is most unfortunate for you that you did not

remain contentedly in the Rue du Chantre instead of following the girl

here. You have put your head in the trap, and in the trap you stay. Out

of it, you would trouble me. You are too intimate with M. d’Argenson.

So, when I am ready to leave Paris, I shall close the outer door,

swing into place a certain slab of stone, and go away. That will be

the end. A century from now, perhaps, workmen will find a cavern under

the street. In the cavern will be a skeleton chained to the wall. They

can wonder as they please, but I’ll wager they’ll not guess the story.

Perhaps some one will make a very pretty romance of it. Think what an

honor, Monsieur! The hero of a romance!”

Honor! Ah, well, this devil should not see I feared her. Besides,

was not the lieutenant of police my friend? He would learn from the

concierge whither I had gone. Doubtless he was already searching for me.

So I laughed in her face.

“You deceive yourself, Madame,” I said. “I have friends who know that

I came here. They will turn this whole quarter upside down but they

find me, and then you will be sent to ornament a gibbet at Bicetre.”

She rocked back and forth, clasping her knees and leering into my face.

“Find you?” she echoed. “Not soon, Monsieur; certainly not in time

to save you, unless the earth opens. The police have been this way,

and they have passed without finding a trace of you or of me. You

would never have discovered me, never have found a trace of me, had

I not opened the door that you might walk in. I saw my chance to be

revenged--and revenge is very sweet--so I opened the trap and in you

came! For you had not behaved nicely to me, Monsieur; you had looked

at me in a way that any woman would resent; you had spoken words to me

that were not to be forgiven. Well, you are in the trap, and you will

never get out. Do you fancy I would have taken the risk of sending for

that clothing had I not been certain I could laugh at the police?”

She paused for breath. Now that the gates were opened, that silence of

fifteen years was being broken with a vengeance!

“Nevertheless, they will find me,” I repeated resolutely. “You do not

know Monsieur d’Argenson.”

“Do I not!” and she laughed horribly, with contorted face. “For fifteen

years has he been seeking me, yet he has never found me. Nor will he

ever find you, for you are well hidden, Monsieur; so well that Christ

may not find you at Judgment. That would be horrible--not to get your

reward for sleeping on the hard floor the other night, and leaving that

pretty girl to go, pucelle, to our friend, Bri----”

But she did not finish, for, mad with rage, I caught from the floor the

vessel that had held the water, and dashed it full at her face. But

quick as a flash, she bent aside, and the dish crashed against the wall

behind her.

She sat for a moment looking at me, a queer light in her eyes.

“You love her, do you not, Monsieur?” she said quietly, at last. “Too

bad your fate should bring you here, for there is no way out.”

No way out! There was a finality in her tone that chilled me. I sat

down again trembling, against the wall.

“I bought the secret of this place at a price”--she paused, and

her features became frightful, “at a price of body and soul,” she

continued, hoarsely. “I had to have it--to save my life--I did not

hesitate. Now, it is serving me once more, Monsieur. When I leave it

to-morrow, for the last time, it will never again be opened.”

I felt myself gazing, fascinated, over the edge of an abyss.

“It is a very interesting place,” she went on, sneeringly. “The man of

whom I--bought it--had been a scholar before he became a brute--I think

it is your men of genius who fall the lowest when they fall--and he

told me about it one day. He said that at one time this little island

was all Paris, and that this cavern was hewn in the rock by some tyrant

who ruled here then--a queer name he had--I have forgotten. Its very

existence had been unknown for I know not how many centuries, until

this beast I tell you of chanced upon the secret of the entrance there.

A hundred men have eaten their hearts out, bound in that belt, sitting

just where you are sitting.”

I shuddered at the thought. I felt that my blood was chilled, that my

manhood was slipping from me.

“You will leave me here to starve, then?” I asked at last.

“No, I will be merciful, Monsieur,” she answered. “I have no wish to

torture you. I am, in a way, sorry for you. Before I go I will place

by your side a cup of wine. You will drink the wine, and you will fall

into a pleasant sleep from which you will never awaken.”

“Oh, you fiend!” I groaned, sick at the thought. “You fiend!”

“I think you understand the situation now,” and she laughed harshly as

she arose to go. “Do you suppose for a moment that I will allow the

life of one man or of twenty men to stand between me and success? Do

you suppose I would go back to the Rue des Marmosets--to the life that

was a living hell--for anything on earth? I was so sure that you must

die--that I could not with safety spare you, even if I so desired--that

I have thrown into the Seine the key of the lock at your belt. That

belt is there to stay, Monsieur, until it rots away.”

She picked up her lantern and took a step towards the door.

“I will tell you one thing more, Monsieur,” she added, pausing, “that

you may guess what my life has been. The drink which I will give you

is one that I have kept by me for fifteen years. I preferred that death

to the wheel--yes, a thousand times. But I shall no longer have need of

it, Monsieur, so I give it to you. You see that I am generous.”

She laughed again, and in a moment the door swung shut behind her and I

was left alone in the darkness.

CHAPTER XII

A CHILD OF THE NIGHT

I SAT for a long time, dazed and desperate, my head in my hands, my

heart cold within me. It seemed that the last shred of my courage had

been stripped from me. I was never again to see the trees nor the blue

sky, or bare my head to the good sunshine. I was never again to lie in

the grass and gaze up, up, through the heavens at the bright stars. I

was never again to feel on my face the sweet breath of the south wind.

I thought of the deep, placid Midouze, of the wide fields, of the dark

forest, with the wild-flowers nestling in its depths. I thought of my

mother, of my sister, of Nanette--I was never again to see Nanette--to

hold her hand--to gaze into her eyes--she was to become prey to a

monstrous appetite--ah, Christ!--my very soul trembled within me. She

had called me--in terror and despair, she had called me--and I had not

come! Instead, I had rushed headlong into this trap. I had played the

fool! If I, alone, were to suffer I might endure it, but that she

should suffer too----

But the mood passed, the throbbing in my brain subsided, stark fear hid

its face. I shook myself together. After all, I was not yet dead, and

so might yet escape. Still, the more I pondered the situation, the more

remote did any chance of escape appear. I saw no way of accomplishing

even the first step towards freedom, that of loosening myself from the

chain which held me to the wall, and even were that done, I dared not

think of the difficulties I must still encounter before I should be

free. And yet I could not believe it was to be my fate to die here,

chained to the wall, like a rat in a trap.

I heard the door opening again, and I stared in amazement at the queer

figure that entered, carrying in one hand a candle and in the other a

plate of food. It was a girl with legs grotesquely bowed, and in an

instant I recognized the child I had rescued on the Quai des Théatins.

At the same moment, the light from the candle fell upon my face, and

she knew me.

“You!” she cried. “You! Oh, my God!” and she let fall the candle and

plate upon the floor, her legs seemed to give way beneath her, and she

sat rocking herself helplessly, despair writ large upon her face.

I stared at her a moment astounded, understanding nothing of her

emotion. Then the words she had uttered, blushing, on the quay, came

back to me--words called forth, perhaps, by the first touch of kindness

she had ever known----

“I think--I should like you--very much, Monsieur!”

I looked at her again, and a ray of hope came to me. Perhaps in this

unfortunate creature I might find an ally.

“Come,” I said, “this is not the way to help me, to spill my supper. I

assure you, Mademoiselle, that I am very hungry.”

She gathered up the bread and meat without a word and gave them to

me. I went at them vigorously and without minding the fact that

some particles of dirt from the floor still clung to them. She set

the candle upright beside her and watched me with eyes dark with

apprehension. As I looked at her a thought suddenly occurred to me.

“Was it you,” I asked, “who went to the house in the Rue du Chantre to

get Mère Fouchon’s clothing?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said.

“And you were on your way there when I picked you up on the quay?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

I smiled grimly as I reflected on the extraordinary chance which had

taken me there just in time to save her life.

Suddenly she burst into a flood of tears.

“Oh, you smile!” she sobbed. “You do not understand, then. You do not

know that you are to be left here, after we are gone, and that no one

will ever find you.”

“Oh, yes, I have been told so,” I answered, “but I do not believe it.”

She raised her head and looked at me fixedly.

“You mean you will escape?” she asked, after a moment.

I nodded and smiled again.

“Oh, but you do not know,” she cried. “A man could not escape from here

if he had the strength of a hundred men.”

“Nevertheless,” I began, but the hoarse voice of Mère Fouchon

interrupted me.

“La Bancale,” she cried, “come here at once, and be sure to bolt the

door after you.”

“I must go,” she said. “I will do what I can, Monsieur.”

I watched her as she went. So she was called La Bancale, the

bandy-legged, and my eyes were wet with tears as I thought of what her

life had been--of what it yet must be. She would do all she could, she

had said, and yet what could she accomplish? She was so frail, so weak.

Still, for a moment, I felt more hopeful. To a drowning man, even a

straw is welcome. Besides, she was not without her shrewdness--witness

how she had doubled on her tracks to prevent pursuit, and had finally

evaded her pursuer. Or was it really a trap that had been set for me,

and into which I had walked blindly?

The problem was too great a one for my wit to solve, for my head was

paining me again severely. It was no light blow that had been given me,

and I wondered that it had not crushed my skull. I could feel that the

blood had soaked through my hair and dried about my face, but I had no

way of removing it. The air of the cellar seemed foul and close; I was

shivering with the cold and damp. At last, in sheer exhaustion, my head

fell forward and I slept.

A touch on the arm awakened me. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing.

“Are you here, Monsieur?” a voice whispered. “Speak to me.”

“I was asleep,” I said. “Is it thou, La Bancale?”

“Oh, do not call me by that hideous name,” she sobbed.

“What shall I call you, then, my dear?”

“Anything, anything you like, Monsieur, only not that.”

“But have you no other name? Surely, you were not always called that!”

“Always, Monsieur,” she sobbed. “Ever since I can remember.”

Poor child! And she might have been a girl, happy like any other!

“Let me see,” I said, “I will call you Ninon. I have a sister named

Ninon. I am sure you would love her.”

“I am sure of it also, if she is your sister, Monsieur,” she answered

softly.

“How does it happen that you are here?” I asked, vaguely troubled by

the tone of her voice. “Where is Mère Fouchon?”

“She went away just now, and as she said she was going to the Rue des

Moulins she cannot be back for an hour at least.”

“To the Rue des Moulins?” I cried. “Oh, I must escape!” and I sprang to

my feet and tugged at my chain in an ecstasy of rage. “Ninon,” I said

suddenly, “could you not step into the street and say two words to a

gendarme about my being here?”

“Alas, Monsieur,” she answered, “I am as much a prisoner as yourself.

Mère Fouchon always locks me in when she leaves the house.”

I groaned aloud and could hear her sobbing.

“Come,” I said, mastering myself at the end of a moment, “this will not

do. We must be brave. Cease crying, Ninon, and sit here beside me.”

She did as I bade, and as I passed my arm about her and drew her to me,

I felt her body trembling and shaken by sobs. My lips quivered with

pity as I perceived how thin she was.

“Now,” I said, “we are comfortable. Place your head against my

shoulder--so. How old are you, Ninon?”

“I do not know, Monsieur.”

“Pierre is my name,” I said.

“I do not know how old I am, M. Pierre,” and it seemed to me that her

voice dwelt lovingly on the word.

“And is Mère Fouchon your mother?”

“I do not know that, either, M. Pierre. Only----” and she hesitated.

“Only what, Ninon? Tell me; do not be afraid.”

“Only I hope that she is not my mother, because I hate her.”

“She has not been kind to you then, Ninon?”

“Kind to me!” and I felt her shudder. “Ah, if you knew, Monsieur! The

beatings--the nights and days spent here in this cavern--sometimes I

thought she would kill me. If she were my mother, she would not hate me

so, would she, Monsieur?”

I held her closer to me with aching heart.

“No, she would not hate you if she were your mother, Ninon; she would

love you. I am sure she is not your mother. Have you always lived here?”

“Always, Monsieur. After she became concierge, I remained here, and she

came home every night.”

“She did not sleep at the Rue du Chantre, then?”

“No, never, Monsieur. Always here.”

I smiled grimly to myself at this proof that the hag had been lying to

me on the night she tripped over my legs in the hallway.

“And she has never told you anything about yourself?” I continued after

a moment.

“Never, Monsieur.”

“But you have asked her to tell you, have you not, Ninon?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur, many times.”

“And how did she answer?”

“With a beating, M. Pierre.”

I drew her closer to me and gathered both her hands into my own.

“Perhaps it will not be always so,” I said gently. “Perhaps some day

there will be people who will love you and who will try to make you

happy.”

She was sobbing against my shoulder, her hands clutching at me

nervously.

“You would go with me, Ninon, would you not,” I asked, “if I escaped

from here?”

“Oh, yes, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “I would go with you anywhere.”

“That is right,” I said, and I bent and kissed her forehead. “But

first, I must escape, and in order to escape, I must be rid of this

chain. Do you think you could find me a file, Ninon?”

“A file? I do not know, Monsieur. I will try. But I must go. She will

soon be returning,” and she drew herself away. “If I can find a file, I

will bring it to you, M. Pierre,” and a moment later, I heard the door

close behind her.

CHAPTER XIII

A NIGHT OF AGONY

I SAT for a long time pondering over the unhappy fate of this child.

What her story had been I could only guess. Stolen, doubtless, by this

devil in whose care she was--brought up, certainly, in the midst of

filth and shame; stunted, tortured, misshapen--until she had become a

mere fungus of humanity, growing only in the dark, without blood or

healthy vigor--a hideous travesty upon girlhood and womanhood. The

horror and sadness of the thing moved me strangely--yet had I not seen

a thousand such during those hours I had spent in the slums?

But Ninon--would she bear transplanting into other soil? I doubted it,

yet it seemed to me that death itself were preferable a thousand times

to such a life as this. At least, God willing, I would make the trial.

So the hours dragged on. Sometimes I dozed; more often I sat plunged in

gloomy thought, trying in vain to work out the problem of escape. At

last the door opened again, and Ninon brought me another plate of meat

and a can of water.

“I know where there is a file, M. Pierre,” she whispered, as she set

them down. “I will try to get it when Mère Fouchon goes out again.”

I pressed her hand for answer, and was glad that I had said nothing,

for at that moment the woman herself appeared at the door with her

lantern. She motioned the girl to leave, and herself sat down on the

dirt-heap opposite me.

I looked at her with astonishment, for her eyes were gleaming and her

withered face was distorted with a malignant joy.

“Well, Monsieur,” she said after a moment, “it seems that I must take

leave of you sooner than I had thought.”

“And why?” I asked, with a sinking heart.

“My business is finished,” she answered. “Ribaut was more reasonable

than I had hoped. I regret that I did not ask for twenty thousand

crowns instead of ten. Ah, there was a pretty scene! You should have

seen him--you who love him no more than I. It warmed my heart. He

raved; he swore. He foamed at the mouth, his face grew purple, just as

though he were about to have a fit. But he calmed down when he found

me inexorable. The girl was cheap at the price, and he knew it. So we

soon came to terms.”

“He has paid you the money, then?”

“He will do so in the morning.”

“And you have given him back his niece?”

She laughed harshly.

“What do you take me for, Monsieur?” she asked. “A fool? No, no. M.

Ribaut will get his niece ten minutes after he has given me the money!”

I could find nothing to say, but sat looking at her in dazed

bewilderment and despair.

“It is all arranged,” she continued. “At six o’clock I am to receive

ten thousand crowns, in return for which I turn over to him this pretty

Nanette. Then I say good-by to Paris and to Mère Fouchon. Ah, do not

fear; I shall not forget you, Monsieur. I have the dose here,” and she

drew a little vial from the bosom of her dress. “When the door has

closed for the last time, Monsieur, I should advise you to drink it at

once. It is the easiest way, much pleasanter than starving.”

Still I said nothing.

“Ah, I forgot one thing,” she added, pausing as she turned to go. “At

nine o’clock to-morrow morning at the church of St. Landry there will

be a ceremony, Monsieur--such a charming ceremony. Can you not guess

what? Well, I will tell you. At this ceremony, that pretty little

Nanette, whom you love so much, will be transformed into Mme. Jean

Briquet.”

I dashed at her with an oath, but the chain jerked me back against the

wall. She stood for a moment and laughed at me.

“You see now, Monsieur, do you not, how much wiser it will be to drain

that little vial without delay? Suppose you play the coward--suppose

you are alive at nine o’clock--you here in this hole, looking death in

the face--this enchanting Nanette before the altar looking into the

face of her husband! Bah!” and she made a sudden grimace. “I think I

should prefer your part, Monsieur. Death itself must be less hideous

than Jean Briquet. All the same,” she added, “you will do well to drink

with a steady hand--you will find it a pleasant death--a dropping to

sleep, sweet dreams, and then--darkness. I know. I have seen others,

happy, smiling, sink into the abyss. I will have La Bancale give it to

you in the morning,” and she was gone.

I sank down against the wall, dazed at this new stroke of fortune. Give

me a day, two days, and escape might be possible--but the bargain had

been made; in a few hours it would be too late.

How long I lay there in a half-stupor I do not know, but at last I

heard the door open again and Ninon’s voice whispering my name. I

groaned for reply.

“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered, bending over me, “I have the file. Here

is the file.”

“The file!” I cried. “Oh, give it me, Ninon! There is not a moment to

lose.”

She placed her trembling hand in mine and gave me the file. I ran my

fingers over it. It was old, rusty, dull--but it had been a good file,

once; doubtless part of some long-dead burglar’s kit--would it do the

work? In an agony of haste I ran my hand along the chain until I found

what seemed the weakest link, and set to work upon it. At the end of a

few minutes I found I had made a scratch in the iron, and hope began to

revive in my heart. The sound of sobbing startled me.

“Is it you, Ninon?” I whispered. “Forgive me, my dear; I had forgot to

thank you.”

“Oh, it is not that, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “It is not that!”

“Here, sit beside me,” I said. “Let me put my arm around you--so. Now,

tell me what it is.”

She was silent a moment, and I could feel her little body quivering.

“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered at last, “I heard all that Mère Fouchon

said this afternoon,” and I raised my hand to her face to find it wet

with tears.

“Well,” I said, “what then, Ninon?”

“And do you love her so very much, this Nanette?”

“Yes, very much, Ninon.”

“Enough to die for her, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes,” I answered. “To die for her were nothing, Ninon.”

“That is right, M. Pierre,” she whispered, and her voice was shaking.

“That is the way to love. I have seen her. She is pretty, oh, so

pretty, even though her eyes were red with weeping. Tell me, M. Pierre,

must one be pretty to be loved?”

“Oh, no, Ninon,” I said. “One needs only to be good. You are good,

Ninon, and there will be somebody some day who will love you and who

will make you happy.”

She said nothing for a moment, as though pondering this answer.

“No, there never will be any one, M. Pierre,” she said at last, with

a little sigh. “But this Nanette--ah, she is adorable. She heard your

voice when you came in that night, calling her name. She thinks you

dead, M. Pierre. They have told her that you are dead, that you were

killed that night. I believe she loves you also, she has wept so much.”

“Oh, if I am only in time,” I said, trembling with apprehension, and I

picked up my chain again.

“Yes, I will go,” said the girl; and then, “will you do something for

me, M. Pierre?”

“You have only to name it, Ninon.”

“Kiss me good-by, Monsieur. You may not have time in the morning.”

“But I am coming back for you, Ninon,” I cried. “It is not good-by. You

are to live with us always.”

“No, no,” and she was sobbing again. “That cannot be. I am not of your

world, Monsieur. I am of the darkness. I could not bear the light. I

am hideous, Monsieur--I know it.”

“Come here, Ninon,” I whispered. “I will kiss you good-night, not

good-by. You shall be pretty, Ninon, when you live surrounded by our

love, as you are going to live.”

She pressed her lips to mine, and then went away, still sobbing softly.

As the door closed, I set to work again at my chain, knowing that no

sound I might make could penetrate those massive walls. The hours

passed, my hands were torn and bleeding, but still I urged the file

back and forth across the iron. The cut in the link was slowly growing

deeper--but, oh, so slowly. At last it was almost through, and I paused

from sheer exhaustion. My brain was reeling and my hands were shaking

like those of a man with palsy. I laid my head back against the wall

and closed my eyes. Tired nature conquered and I fell asleep.

“Oh, M. Pierre,” cried a voice in my ear, “you have slept!”

I opened my eyes with a start. It was Ninon, this time with a lantern.

“You have slept!” she cried again. “You have not severed the chain. It

is morning, and you will be too late!”

“Too late, yes, too late!” I cried. “And all because of my accursed

weakness!” and I picked up my chain and tore at it like a madman.

“She has gone away,” cried Ninon. “She said she would be back in an

hour. She took Nanette with her. When she returns we are to leave

Paris.”

I groaned. My hands were trembling so I could not control them. I tried

to pick up the file and found that I could not hold it.

“It is too late,” I groaned. “Did she tell you to give me a vial,

Ninon?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Here it is,” and she held it up.

“Give it to me,” I said, and reached for it.

“What is it, M. Pierre?” she asked, springing back, her eyes large with

terror.

“No matter,” I answered. “Give it me, Ninon. It is the easiest way.”

“No, no! Be a man, Monsieur! Oh, you are a man--such a brave man!” and

she raised the vial and dashed it against the wall. It broke with a

little crash. The liquid trickled down over the stones and filled the

cell with a pleasant, sweetish odor.

“Give me the file,” she said, and took it from my palsied hand. “Do not

despair, Monsieur, there is yet time,” and she was filing away at the

chain with all her little strength. “Oh, I was wrong to say you slept.

See, it is almost through. In half an hour it will be quite through,

and you will be free.”

Back and forth the file went. I watched her stupidly, and saw without

understanding it that her hands turned red and that the chain was wet

with blood.

“Think of Nanette, M. Pierre,” she said, looking up for a moment into

my eyes. “Think of Nanette, that dear Nanette, whom you are going to

rescue presently--whom you are going to make so happy.”

I was sobbing wildly, out of sheer weakness.

“Hasten!” I whispered. “Oh, hasten, Ninon!”

She sprang to her feet with a little cry of triumph.

“It is done!” she cried. “The chain is through. Take hold here,

Monsieur. Now pull. Pull with all your might. Ah!”

The chain was broken, I staggered towards the outer door like a drunken

man.

“Free!” I muttered to myself. “Free!” and I reeled through the door

into the outer room.

Ninon was beside me, her finger on her lips, her face white with fear.

“Hush,” she whispered. “I hear footsteps. She is returning. Perhaps

there are others with her. In here, quick,” and before I could resist,

even if in my great weakness I had thought of resistance, she pushed me

into a little closet, just as Mère Fouchon unlocked the outer door and

entered.

CHAPTER XIV

GREATER LOVE THAN MINE

I LEANED against the wall of the little closet in which I was, and

looked out through the half-opened door into the room. I saw that Mère

Fouchon carried in her arms a leathern bag, which she placed upon the

table with a sigh of relief at being rid of its weight.

“Come, make ready,” she said to the girl, “the wagon will be here in a

moment. Did you give our friend the bottle?”

As she turned, she perceived that the door of my cell was open. She

sprang to it, cast one look within and saw by the light of the lantern

that it was empty.

“He is gone!” she screamed, and turned her glaring eyes and working

face upon the girl. “You drab, it was with your help!”

Doubtless in that instant she saw her plans crumbling about her, she

felt the meshes of the law tightening, at the end of the path loomed

the black gibbet. This time she would not escape! Small wonder that

the blood leaped to her eyes, as she stood there trembling, strangled

by rage, unable to speak!

Then the bonds loosened and she sprung upon the girl like a cat upon

its prey.

“Curse you!” she screamed. “You shall pay for it--you!” and she

snatched a knife from the table.

In an instant, my strength and manhood came back to me, and I dashed

open the door.

“You devil!” I said between my teeth. “You devil!” and I was upon her.

Even as I grasped her hair, she raised the knife and plunged it deep

into the girl’s breast. I dragged back her head, dashed my fist into

her face and threw her against the wall with all my strength. She

struck with a dull crash, rebounded to the floor and lay there with

closed eyes, the blood oozing from her nose and mouth, her red knife

still in her hand.

“Pray heaven, I have killed you!” I said, and stooped and raised Ninon

in my arms.

She opened her eyes and gazed at me with a smile of ineffable

sweetness.

“It is better so,” she whispered. “I was not of your world, M. Pierre,

and now I shall not have to live when you are gone.”

The hot tears were on my cheeks as I looked at her, and she raised her

hand to my face with a gesture of tenderness inexpressible.

“Are those tears for me?” she asked. “Oh, how glad I am that you care

enough to weep! I am not sorry to die. I had never dreamed that I

should have the joy of dying in your arms like this, with your dear

eyes looking down upon me. And you will soon dry your tears, M. Pierre,

when you look upon another face more beautiful--oh, a thousand times

more beautiful than mine.”

I opened my mouth, but could not speak. I felt her body stiffening in

my arms.

“You told me,” she whispered, “that you loved her enough to die for

her, M. Pierre. But I love you more than that--oh, so much more than

that! I love you enough to give you to another, M. Pierre--to die that

she may possess you.”

She gazed at me a moment longer, then her eyes slowly closed, her lips

parted in a sigh that bore her spirit with it. I was sobbing wildly as

I laid the little form reverently upon the pallet in one corner and

turned to go. As I did so I fancied I saw Mère Fouchon move.

“So you are not dead,” I said, speaking aloud as though she could

hear me. “Well, you shall not escape,” and catching her by the arm,

I dragged her within the cell and shut the door. As I pushed it into

place, I saw that by swinging back two slabs of stone, the door was

masked, and the wall of the cellar was apparently unbroken. I trembled

as I thought what my fate would have been had Mère Fouchon thrown those

stones into place and gone away.

As I turned again into the outer room my eyes fell upon the bag which

she had placed on the table. I opened it and was astonished to find it

full of gold. I understood in a moment. It was the price Ribaut had

paid for Nanette.

“Come,” I said, “I will take this with me. It will be proof of my

story.”

I left the room and found myself at the foot of a flight of stairs

which led to a hallway above. Following this, I came to a room which I

recognized as that which I had entered sword in hand in pursuit of Mère

Fouchon. As I stepped into it, I heard some one knocking at the outer

door. I flung it open, and saw outside a man who shrank back in alarm

as his eyes fell upon me. A cart was standing in the street.

“Ah, it is the driver,” I cried. “Come, my friend, you are to take me

to the Palais Royal as quickly as possible.”

“I came for a woman, not for a madman!” he protested.

“I am no madman,” I said. “Come,” and I opened my bag and gave him a

louis. “This will pay you for your trouble.”

“Where is the woman?” he asked.

“She no longer has need of you.”

He looked at me a moment with staring eyes.

“Monsieur,” he said at last, “a crime has been committed here.”

“I do not deny it,” I answered, “only it is not I who have committed

it. Why, man, I want you to take me to M. d’Argenson at the Palais

Royal. Do you think I should go there, if I had committed a crime?”

“To M. d’Argenson?” he repeated. “Ah, ah--that is different. Come,

Monsieur, I will take you,” and he sprang into his cart. I was beside

him ere the words were spoken.

“Make haste!” I cried, and leaned against the side of the cart, sick

with apprehension. If I should be too late!

He whipped his horse into a run and we bumped rapidly along the street

and across the river to the quays. Here the crowd delayed us and we

could proceed but slowly. At last we reached a side-street and turned

into it at a gallop. In a moment we had crossed the Rue St. Honoré and

were at the Palais Royal. I sprang from the wagon and up the steps into

the ante-chamber just as the clocks were striking eight. I ran straight

to the man who stood at the inner door.

“Tell M. d’Argenson that M. le Moyne is here to make his report and

that it is important,” I panted.

He stared at me a moment in amazement and then disappeared through the

door. In an instant he was back.

“You are to enter, Monsieur,” he said, and closed the door behind me.

D’Argenson was seated at his table, and he gazed at me in astonishment.

“Good God, M. le Moyne,” he cried, “what has happened to you?”

Not until that moment did I realize the strangeness of my

appearance--my hair matted with blood, my clothing torn and filthy, an

iron belt around my waist from which dangled a chain a foot long, my

doublet red with Ninon’s blood. I did not wonder that the carter had

believed me a madman, or that he had scented a crime.

Briefly as possible I told my story, d’Argenson listening in silence

to the end. As I finished, he struck a bell at his elbow. The usher

entered instantly.

“My carriage at once,” he said, “and send two men to a house in the Rue

du Chevet of which they will see the street door open. They will find

an old woman lying in the inner portion of the cellar, and will lodge

her at once in the conciergerie.”

The man bowed and withdrew. D’Argenson picked up the bag of money

which I had placed on the table before him, and after a glance at its

contents, threw it into a drawer, which he locked.

“The wedding, you say, is to take place at nine o’clock?” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur, at the Church of St. Landry.”

“Ah, well, we shall be there,” and d’Argenson smiled, “and I fancy we

shall have a little surprise for M. Ribaut and M. Briquet. I do not

think that Mère Fouchon, or Mme. Basarge, will ever trouble you again,

Monsieur. Her hour has struck.”

CHAPTER XV

TO THE CHURCH OF ST. LANDRY

THERE was a tone in his voice that made me tremble. I realized that

this man could be terrible, inexorable upon occasion. I had good cause

to hate the woman, but, God knows, I pitied her now.

“Her hour has struck,” repeated d’Argenson. “She has lived fifteen

years too long already. She has cheated the gallows, but the gallows

will claim its own.”

I questioned him with my eyes.

“She called it a mistake, you told me--that was a gentle name for it. I

remember it very well, for this mistake was one of the most horrible of

the first year of my administration. The police was not organized then

as it is now, or she would not have escaped us.”

“And what was this mistake, Monsieur?” I questioned.

“It is a pretty story,” he said musingly. “There is not time to tell

it now as it should be told--but, in a word, this woman, after she

left Ribaut, secured a place with a pastry-cook named Durand, in the

Rue Auxerois. He was wealthy and she seems to have conceived a passion

for him. One morning his wife was found dead in bed. He welcomed the

release, perhaps, but he did not look twice at Madame Basarge. Instead,

he married again, this time a pretty girl from Orleans, which had

been his home. One day, the pastry-shop did not open. The neighbors

became alarmed and burst in the door. They found Durand and his wife

in bed. They had been dead for hours, and their purple flesh proved

they had been poisoned. Madame Basarge was missing. So was Durand’s

little daughter. We found out afterwards that the woman had learned her

infamous art from one of the disciples of the Widow Montvoisin.”

He paused, and his face grew stern.

“You can conceive, Monsieur, how I searched for that woman. I had just

come to the office. I felt personally responsible--my reputation seemed

at stake. But we found not a trace of her. She descended into depths

from which even the police recoiled. But I have waited. I knew that

fate would deliver her to me. I am prepared.”

He turned to a case of papers at his side, and after a moment’s search,

drew out one, opened it, and glanced over it.

“There was no question of her guilt,” he continued, after a moment,

“and a decree of death was issued against her. I hold it here in my

hand. There need be no further delay in its execution.”

He folded the paper again, and sat for a time, tapping it against the

table.

“That woman is a genius,” he said, at last. “I admire her. She baffled

us so completely. Your concierge told my men he had sent you to the Rue

du Chevet, and we scoured the quarter from top to bottom, but could

find no trace of you. It is not often my men fail, M. le Moyne, but how

were they to suspect the existence of a cavern thirty feet underground?

I must see it for myself, some day. And the girl--well, we found no

trace of the girl, either, nor of Madame Basarge, nor of this gamine

you say she had with her--they must have had another hiding-place.”

But my brain was busy with another problem.

“You said, M. le Comte,” I began, “that a daughter of the confectioner

Durand was missing. Was she ever found?”

“She was never found. Ah, I see,” and he looked at me suddenly. “This

gamine--how old was she?”

I shook my head.

“I do not know, Monsieur. She might have been

fifteen--twenty--twenty-five--she was old enough to love.”

“Well,” he cried, “I venture the guess that it was Durand’s daughter.

The woman’s object in stealing the child always puzzled me, but now I

understand--she wanted some one upon whom she might wreak her hatred.”

That was it--in a flash I saw it. Some one upon whom to wreak her

hatred--some one to torture! Ah, Ninon, what a fate was yours!

The opening of the door brought me from my thoughts, and I turned to

see an attendant enter.

“Your carriage is waiting, M. le Comte,” he announced.

“Very well,” cried d’Argenson, springing to his feet and seizing his

cloak and hat. “I am going with you myself, M. le Moyne, for I am

curious to witness this little coup de théâtre. It is not often that

I give myself a treat of this kind,” and he led the way into the

ante-chamber. “Here, Bernin,” he called to an officer who was standing

there, “you will deliver this order to the jailer of the conciergerie

at once,” and he handed him the paper containing the sentence of Mère

Fouchon. Her hour had struck, indeed! “Come with me, Monsieur,” he

added to me and led the way rapidly down the steps and to the carriage.

“We have ample time,” he said, as the carriage started. “It is yet

twenty minutes of nine o’clock. I imagine that these good people whom

we are going to surprise will believe they see a ghost when you appear

before them,” he added, with a smile. “Upon my word, I doubt if even

the charming Nanette will know you. You are enough to frighten a woman

half to death.”

“There was no time,” I said, “or I should have changed my garments.”

“No, no,” cried d’Argenson, “I would not have one speck of dirt less.

Believe me, with that bloody head, those torn hands, those filthy

clothes, those haggard eyes--and above everything, with that belt of

iron about your waist--you are admirable!”

He looked at me in silence for a moment, as the carriage rolled along

the Rue St. Honoré.

“M. le Moyne,” he said suddenly, “I need not tell you we have no proof

that there is really a conspiracy between Ribaut and Briquet?”

“No proof, Monsieur?” I stammered, for I had believed the way quite

clear.

“No proof whatever,” repeated d’Argenson. “Nothing but the suspicions

of an old woman, which there is little chance of confirming. There

are, of course, many things which point in the same direction--the

pertinacity of Ribaut, his willingness to sacrifice ten thousand crowns

in order that the marriage might take place, his terror when you

threatened a police investigation, the apparent unfitness of Briquet,

the hint that he was once a thief or worse--all these indicate that

Mère Fouchon’s theory is the right one. Still there is no proof. Not a

single suspicious circumstance has been unearthed by my agents.”

“You will permit the wedding to take place, then?” I cried in despair.

“You will do nothing to prevent it?”

“Rest assured, Monsieur,” said d’Argenson, kindly, “that I will do

everything in my power to prevent it. For I believe that a conspiracy

does exist, even though I have no proof of it. The facts stated by Mère

Fouchon had already been ascertained by my agents. Charles Ribaut left

a very large fortune; his daughter Anne is the only heir, her uncle has

had absolute control of the estate for fifteen years. But in all of

this there is nothing which resembles a conspiracy, even in the least

degree. It is quite possible that he intends turning the whole fortune

over to Briquet.”

“What then will you do, Monsieur?” I questioned anxiously.

“There is only one thing to be done,” he answered. “We will assume a

bold front. We will act as though we held great forces in reserve. We

will endeavor to frighten them. It is an old trick, but one which is

often successful with the guilty. Let us hope it will be so in this

case.”

We were crossing the Pont au Change, and I looked out upon the river

with eyes that saw nothing. I had thought success so certain, and

now, it seemed, I might yet lose! I raised my eyes to find d’Argenson

looking at me with a smile whose meaning I did not understand.

“M. le Moyne,” he said, “I am going to ask you a question which you

need not answer if you do not choose.”

“What is it, Monsieur?” I asked.

“It is concerning Mlle. Ribaut. I have reason to believe that you love

her. Is it not so, Monsieur?”

“That is so, M. le Comte,” I replied, and my hands were trembling.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, and fell into a reverie, smiling to

himself. It was not until we stopped before the church that he spoke

again.

“Here we are,” he cried, “and with still ten minutes to spare. Come

with me,” and we left the carriage and entered the church. An old man

met us at the door and cast an astonished glance at me.

“Are you the sacristan?” asked d’Argenson.

“Yes, Monsieur,” answered the fellow.

“There is to be a wedding here at nine o’clock, is there not?”

“I do not know, Monsieur. There has already been one wedding here at

eight o’clock.”

My heart fell within me. Could it be that the hour had been changed?

“What were their names?” asked d’Argenson sharply.

“The man was named Brujon,” answered the sacristan. “I do not remember

the woman’s name.”

I breathed again. We were still in time.

“Very well,” said d’Argenson. “I will see the curé and find out about

this other marriage.”

“Pardon, Monsieur,” protested the man, “but the curé is very busy.”

“You will tell him,” said d’Argenson grimly, “that the Comte

d’Argenson, lieutenant of police, wishes to speak to him and at once.”

The fellow’s face turned livid and he bowed to the ground.

“Oh, M. d’Argenson,” he stammered, “that is another matter. Follow me,

Messieurs, and I will conduct you to the curé.”

He led the way along a side aisle to the sacristy at the rear. He

tapped at the door, and a voice bidding us enter, he opened it and

ushered us in. The curé was sitting at a table writing.

“This is M. le Comte d’Argenson, M. le Curé,” said the sacristan, and

went out, closing the door after him.

The curé looked at us with alarmed and astonished eyes.

“This is an honor,” he said, at last. “Will you not sit down,

Messieurs?”

“M. le Curé,” began d’Argenson abruptly, “you are to celebrate a

marriage here at nine o’clock, are you not?”

“Yes, Monsieur. A M. Briquet and a niece of M. Ribaut. It was to have

taken place a week ago, but was postponed by the illness of the bride.”

“That is it. Well, M. le Curé, this wedding must not take place, since

it is believed to be a conspiracy to defraud the girl.”

“A conspiracy, Monsieur?” gasped the curé.

“Yes, a conspiracy. Will you require any further proof of it?”

“Not if I have your word, M. d’Argenson,” answered the curé, readily.

D’Argenson hesitated a moment.

“M. le Curé,” he said, at last, “I will tell you candidly that we have

no absolute proof of this conspiracy. For myself I do not doubt that it

exists. In any event, I will assume all responsibility in the matter.”

The curé bowed.

“I will also assume full responsibility for anything that follows,”

added d’Argenson. “What I may ask you to do will be somewhat irregular,

Monsieur, but, believe me, it will be just.”

“M. d’Argenson’s assurance is more than sufficient,” and the curé

bowed again. “His passion for justice is well known.”

Who could think of opposing the Lieutenant of Police--this man who

carried all before him? Certainly not the curé of a small church!

“I will tell you one thing more, Monsieur,” he added. “This girl has

not been ill--she has been imprisoned. She will come to the altar faint

and trembling, not from illness, but from horror. We are here to save

her. I do not wish the parties to be forewarned. We will challenge them

at the altar. A great deal will depend upon the completeness of the

surprise.”

“Very well, Monsieur.”

“Is there any place in which we could remain concealed?”

“You could pause behind the tapestry at the doorway, Monsieur. From

there you could hear and see everything.”

A tap at the door interrupted him and, at his bidding, the sacristan

entered.

“A wedding-party waiting for you, Monsieur,” he announced to the curé.

“Very well,” said the latter, “I will be there in a moment.” The

sacristan withdrew and the curé donned his stole and surplice. “Now,

follow me, Messieurs,” and he led the way to the door opening into the

church, before which hung a tapestry. “You will be concealed here,” he

said, and raising the tapestry, he entered the church and stood before

the altar.

CHAPTER XVI

M. D’ARGENSON’S COUP

MY head was singing strangely as I stared out into the church, and a

great trembling seized me, for I was faint from loss of sleep, of food,

of blood--of everything, in a word, that makes life. I heard myself

praying wildly to the Virgin, the building seemed to rock before my

eyes--and then I felt a strong and kindly hand upon my shoulder.

“Be brave, M. le Moyne,” said d’Argenson’s voice. “Be strong. You have

need of your strength now, if ever.”

The voice--the clasp of the hand--nerved and steadied me. I felt that

with this man beside me I could vanquish fate itself.

Once more I looked out into the church. I saw the acolyte arrange the

altar-cloth and light the candles. Then the priest raised his hand,

and the wedding-party advanced from the vestibule. It consisted only

of Nanette, her uncle, and the hideous Briquet. The men held the girl

between them and were almost carrying her. Her face was white as

death, and she turned her eyes appealingly from one to the other, but

saw only ferocity in those two savage countenances. At last they were

at the altar-rail, and she dropped to her knees and buried her face in

her hands. I knew that she was praying.

“M. le Curé,” said Ribaut, “in case the bride cannot answer, her legal

guardian is permitted to answer for her, is he not?”

“Yes, M. Ribaut,” replied the curé in a low voice, “that is permitted.”

“Very well, Monsieur, proceed,” and the men dropped to their knees

beside the girl.

I could see her form shaken with sobs.

“Oh, come,” I whispered to d’Argenson, “hasten. Monsieur. This is more

than I can bear.”

“It will be but a moment longer,” and he pressed my hand.

“Is there any one here present,” asked the priest, “who knows of any

reason why these two should not be man and wife?”

D’Argenson put the tapestry back and advanced slowly to the altar-rail.

Ribaut and Briquet saw him, and the eyes of the latter dilated with

terror, for he had seen d’Argenson as you know, and knew him now.

Nanette did not raise her head, but continued sobbing softly. Plainly

she had abandoned hope.

“I forbid the marriage, M. le Curé,” said d’Argenson.

As she heard these words, Nanette raised her head with a start. She saw

d’Argenson standing there. She fixed her eyes on his and what she read

there seemed to reassure her, for she smiled and her weeping ceased.

Ribaut was on his feet in an instant, but Briquet remained kneeling,

seemingly paralyzed by d’Argenson’s words. His mouth was working

convulsively and his face was livid.

“Who is this fellow?” asked Ribaut, looking from d’Argenson to the

priest, purple with rage.

“I forbid the marriage,” continued d’Argenson, before the priest could

answer, “because it is a conspiracy between these two men to defraud

Anne Ribaut of her property.”

“It is a lie!” screamed Ribaut, and he shook his fist in his accuser’s

face. D’Argenson merely looked at him and smiled. He read guilt in his

eyes.

[Illustration: “I forbid the marriage”]

“Come, M. Ribaut,” he said coolly, “how about those ten thousand

crowns you parted with this morning?”

Ribaut stared in astonishment, and his blood shot to his eyes, as he

realized his danger.

“M. le Curé,” he protested at last, with an effort at composure, “one

does not believe the ranting of every madman who happens in from the

street. Let him bring forward his proof of this ridiculous charge.”

“I have my proof,” said d’Argenson, with a calmness I was far from

sharing. “Come forward, my friend,” he added, turning towards the place

where I stood.

I lifted the tapestry and stepped into the church. Ribaut and Briquet

stared at me in amazement. Evidently they did not know me, but the eyes

of love were keener.

“Pierre!” cried Nanette. “Oh, Pierre! And they told me you were dead!”

“Really, M. le Curé,” sneered Ribaut, “one would say this was a theatre

and not a church. What comedy is this? From what gutter did you drag

that scoundrel?”

“You have a short memory, it seems, M. Ribaut,” I retorted. “I did not

think you would forget our last interview so quickly. I see that you

still have the marks of it on your face.”

He stared at me with eyes starting from his head.

“So,” he murmured at last, “it is the lover!” and his eyes glittered

with passion. “M. le Curé, you will not heed the ravings of such

scoundrels?”

The curé smiled dryly.

“It appears you do not know this gentleman,” said he, glancing at

d’Argenson.

“No,” snarled Ribaut, “nor do I wish to know him.”

“You may be interested, nevertheless,” went on the curé, “in knowing

that it is M. le Comte d’Argenson, lieutenant of police.”

“D’Argenson!” cried Ribaut, and I saw the blood struck from his face as

by a blow. “D’Argenson! Very well,” he continued after a moment, vainly

trying to steady his voice, as he saw that the game was lost. “This

wedding, then, will not take place. I yield. But I am still this girl’s

guardian, am I not, Monsieur?”

“Yes, you are still her guardian,” assented d’Argenson.

“And she is still under my control?”

“In all things save that of this marriage.”

“Very well,” cried Ribaut in a ferocious voice. “She will return home

with me. Come, Mademoiselle,” and he grasped her by the arm and turned

away.

My brain was whirling as I saw Nanette look piteously at me. I started

after them to commit I know not what act of violence, but d’Argenson

waved me back.

“Stop a moment, M. Ribaut,” he called. “There is only one thing which

can release your niece from the duty of obedience to you. That is her

marriage. You have lost your right to exact obedience in that.”

He descended to Nanette’s side and took her hands. He smiled into her

eyes, and her face brightened as she looked at him.

“I repeat, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that your marriage is the only

thing which can make you independent of your uncle. It seems a pity

that all these preparations should go for naught--that these candies

should burn uselessly. Perhaps there is some one else present whom

you would be willing to marry. The curé has assured me that he will

overlook any little irregularity in the proceedings.”

His face was smiling and tender, all its ugliness vanished. I heard as

in a dream.

“Oh, yes,” cried Nanette. “There is some one, Monsieur,” and she turned

and looked at me.

For a moment I did not understand.

“Me?” I stammered. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” cried d’Argenson gayly. “Come, M. le Moyne, wake up!”

A mist seemed to fall from before me, and I saw Nanette gazing at me

with eyes wet with tears and lips quivering with tenderness.

“My darling!” I cried. “My life!” and I stretched wide my arms to

receive her.

ENVOY

SO the cottage at St. Cloud became a reality, after all, for with

M. d’Argenson’s willing help we choked Nanette’s fortune from out

her uncle’s hungry maw, nor did he dare make much resistance. More

punishment for him we did not seek--we were too happy to think of

vengeance.

And here, too, came my sister--our sister, rather--the same sweet,

strong, noble girl. The others dwell yet in the southland which they

love; but, thank God, they no longer struggle hand to hand with want.

We have visited them, Nanette and I, and how I joyed in showing her the

places where my youth was spent--the river, the great wood, the little

bed-room, whence I peeped out at my uncle’s ruffians! Then back again

to our home, here, at St. Cloud.

It is a pleasant place, nestling amid a grove of trees, with a vineyard

at the right and the river gleaming in the distance. Sometimes, on

summer afternoons, we set our table out of doors and dine with all this

beauty close about us.

And sometimes, too, our dearest friend puts the cares of his great

office from him and comes alone to spend an hour with us. Need I say

with what joy we welcome him? And I trust that in our love he finds

some slight recompense for his great kindness to us.

In one corner of the little burial ground of the Théatins there is a

grave which Nanette and I visit often. We love to sit beside it and

talk over the days of our meeting. And as I tell for the hundredth time

the story of my escape from Mère Fouchon, my wife rises with brimming

eyes and kisses the little white shaft which bears the single word

“Ninon.”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.