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.