Cadets of Gascony: Two stories of old France

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.