François and Amandine had contrived to convey Fleur-de-Marie near the fire, when M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon, who had crossed the river in Nicholas's boat, entered the house. Whilst the children were making the fire burn up, Doctor Griffon bestowed on the young girl his utmost care.
"The poor girl cannot be more than seventeen at most!" exclaimed the count, who was looking on. "What do you think of her, doctor?"
"Her pulse is scarcely perceptible; but, strange to say, the skin of the face is not livid in the subject, as is usually the case in asphyxia from submersion," replied the doctor, with professional calmness, and contemplating Fleur-de-Marie with a deeply meditative air.
Doctor Griffon was a tall, thin man, pallid and completely bald, except two tufts of thin black hair, carefully brushed back on the poll, and flattened on the temples. His countenance, wrinkled and furrowed by the fatigues of study, was calm, intelligent, and reflective. Profoundly learned, of great experience, and a skilful practitioner, first surgeon at a civil hospital, where we shall again encounter him, Doctor Griffon had but one defect, that of completely abstracting himself from the patient, and only considering the disease. Young or old, rich or poor, was no matter,—he only thought of medical fact, more or less remarkable, which the subject presented. For him there was nothing but subjects.
"What a lovely face! How beautiful she is in spite of this frightful paleness!" said M. de Saint-Remy. "Did you ever see milder or more expressive features, my dear doctor? And so young—so young!"
"Age is no consequence," said the doctor, abruptly, "no more than the presence of water in the lungs, which was formerly thought fatal. It was a gross error, which the admirable experiments of Goodwin—the famous Goodwin—incontestably detected and exposed."
"But doctor—"
"But it is a fact," replied M. Griffon, absorbed by the love of his art. "To detect the presence of any foreign liquid in the lungs, Goodwin plunged some cats and dogs several times into tubs filled with ink for some seconds, taking them out alive, and then, after a time, dissected the animals. Well, he was convinced from the dissection that the ink had penetrated the lungs, and that the presence of this liquid in the respiratory organs had not caused the death of the subject."
The count knew the doctor was a worthy creature at heart, but that his mad passion for science made him often appear harsh and cruel.
"Have you any hope?" inquired M. de Saint-Remy, impatiently.
"The extremities of the subject are very cold," said the doctor; "there is but very slight hope."
"Ah, poor child! To die at that age is indeed terrible!"
"Pupil fixed—dilated!" observed the doctor, impassive, and pushing up the frigid eyelid of Fleur-de-Marie with his forefinger.
"What a singular man!" exclaimed the comte, almost with indignation. "One would suppose you pitiless, and yet I have seen you watch by my bedside for nights together. Had I been your brother, you could not have been more generously devoted to me."
Doctor Griffon, still occupied in doing all that was requisite and possible for Fleur-de-Marie, replied to the comte without looking at him, and with imperturbable phlegm:
"Parbleu! Do you think one meets with an intermittent fever so wonderfully complicated as that you had! It was wonderful, my dear friend—astonishing! Stupor, delirium, muscular action of the tendons, syncopes,—that important fever combined the most varied symptoms. You were, indeed, affected by a partial and momentary attack of paralysis; and, if it had presented nothing else, why, your attack was entitled to all the attention in my power. You presented a magnificent study; and, truth to say, my dear friend, what I desire most in the world is to meet with such another glorious fever. But that is a piece of good fortune that never occurs twice!"
At this moment Martial descended, leaning on the arm of La Louve, who still retained over her wet clothes the plaid cloak which belonged to Calabash. Struck with the paleness of Martial, and remarking his hands covered with dried blood, the comte exclaimed, "Who is this man?"
"My husband!" replied La Louve, looking at Martial with an expression of happiness and noble pride impossible to describe.
"You have a good and intrepid wife, sir," said the comte to him. "I saw her save this unfortunate young girl with singular courage."
"Yes, sir, my wife is good and intrepid," replied Martial, with emphasis, and regarding La Louve with an air at once full of love and tenderness. "Yes, intrepid; for she has also come in time to save my life."
"Your life?" exclaimed the comte.
"Look at his hands—his poor hands!" said La Louve, wiping away the tears which softened the wild brightness of her eyes.
"Horrible!" cried the comte. "See, doctor, how his hands are hacked!"
Doctor Griffon, turning his head slightly, and looking over his shoulder at Martial's hands, said to him, "Open and shut your hand."
Martial did so with considerable pain. The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and continued his attentions to Fleur-de-Marie, saying merely, and as if with regret:
"There's nothing serious in those cuts,—there's no tendon injured. In a week the subject will be able to use his hands again."
"Then, sir, my husband will not be crippled?" said La Louve, with gratitude.
The doctor shook his head affirmatively.
"And La Goualeuse will recover—won't she, sir?" inquired La Louve. "Oh, she must live, for I and my husband owe her so much!" Then turning towards Martial, "Poor dear girl! There she is, as I told you,—she who will, perhaps, be the cause of our happiness; for it was she who gave me the idea of coming and saying to you all I have said. What a chance that I should save her—and here, too!"
"She is a providence," said Martial, struck by the beauty of La Goualeuse. "What an angel's face! Oh, she will recover, will she not, doctor?"
"I cannot say," replied the doctor. "But, in the first place, can she remain here? Will she have all necessary attention?"
"Here?" cried La Louve; "why, they commit murder here!"
"Silence—silence!" said Martial.
The comte and the doctor looked at La Louve with surprise.
"This house in the isle has a bad reputation hereabouts, and I am not astonished at it," observed the doctor, in a low tone, to M. de Saint-Remy.
"You have, then, been the victim of some violence?" observed the comte to Martial. "How did you come by those wounds?"
"They are nothing—nothing, sir. I had a quarrel—a struggle ensued, and I was wounded. But this young peasant girl cannot remain in this house," he added, with a gloomy air. "I cannot remain here myself—nor my wife, nor my brother, nor my sister, whom you see. We are going to leave the isle, never to return to it."
"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed the two children.
"Then what are we to do?" said the doctor, looking at Fleur-de-Marie. "It is impossible to think of conveying the subject to Paris in her present state of prostration. But then my house is quite close at hand, my gardener's wife and her daughter are capital nurses; and since this asphyxia by submersion interests you, my dear Saint-Remy, why, you can watch over the necessary attentions, and I will come and see her every day."
"And you assume the harsh and pitiless man," exclaimed the comte, "when, as your proposal proves, you have one of the noblest hearts in the world!"
"If the subject sinks under it, as is possible, there will be an opportunity for a most interesting dissection, which will allow me to confirm once again Goodwin's assertions."
"How horridly you talk!" cried the comte.
"For those who know how to read, the dead body is a book in which they learn to save the lives of the diseased!" replied Dr. Griffon, stoically.
"At last, then, you do good?" said M. de Saint-Remy, with bitterness; "and that is important. What consequence is the cause provided that benefit results? Poor child! The more I look at her the more she interests me."
"And well does she deserve it, I can tell you, sir," observed La Louve, with excitement, and approaching him.
"Do you know her?" inquired the comte.
"Do I know her, sir? Why, it is to her I owe the happiness of my life; and I have not done for her half what she has done for me." And La Louve looked passionately towards her husband,—she no longer called him her man!
"And who is she?" asked M. de Saint-Remy.
"An angel, sir,—all that is good in this world. Yes; and although she is dressed as a country girl, there is no merchant's wife, no great lady, who can discourse as well as she can, with her sweet little voice just like music. She is a noble girl, I say,—full of courage and goodness."
"By what accident did she fall into the water?"
"I do not know, sir."
"Then she is not a peasant girl?" asked the comte.
"A peasant girl,—look at her small white hands, sir!"
"True," observed M. de Saint-Remy; "what a strange mystery! But her name—her family?"
"Come along," said the doctor, breaking into the conversation; "we must convey the subject into the boat."
Half an hour after this, Fleur-de-Marie, who had not yet recovered her senses, was in the doctor's abode, lying in a good bed, and maternally watched by M. Griffon's gardener's wife, to whom was added La Louve. The doctor promised M. de Saint-Remy, who was more and more interested in La Goualeuse, to return to see her again in the evening. Martial went to Paris with François and Amandine, La Louve being unwilling to quit Fleur-de-Marie before she had been pronounced out of danger.
The Isle du Ravageur remained deserted. We shall presently find its sinister inhabitants at Bras-Rouge's, where they were to be joined by the Chouette for the murder of the diamond-matcher. In the meantime we will conduct the reader to the rendezvous which Tom, Sarah's brother, had with the horrible hag, the Schoolmaster's accomplice.
Thomas Seyton, the brother of the Countess Sarah Macgregor, was walking impatiently on the boulevards near the Observatory, when he saw the Chouette arrive. The horrible beldame had on a white cap and her usual plaid shawl. The point of a stiletto, as round as a thick swan's quill, and very sharp, having perforated a hole at the bottom of her large straw basket which she carried on her arm, the extremity of this murderous weapon, which had belonged to the Schoolmaster, might be seen projecting. Thomas Seyton did not perceive that the Chouette was armed.
"It has just struck three by the Luxembourg," said the old woman. "Here I am, like the hand of the clock."
"Come," replied Thomas Seyton. And, preceding her, he crossed some open fields; and turning down a deserted alley near the Rue Cassini, he stopped half way down the lane, which was barred by a turnstile, opened a small door, motioned to the Chouette to follow him; and, after having advanced with her a few steps down a path overgrown by thick trees, he said, "Wait here," and disappeared.
"That is, if you don't keep me on the 'waiting lay' too long," responded the Chouette; "for I must be at Bras Rouge's at five o'clock to meet the Martials, and help silence the diamond-matcher. It's very well I have my 'gulley' (poniard). Oh, the vagabond, he has got his nose out of window!" added the hag, as she saw the point of the stiletto coming through the seam in the basket. And taking the weapon, which had a wooden handle, from the basket, she replaced it so that it was completely concealed. "This is fourline's tool," she continued, "and he has asked me for it so many times to kill the rats who came skipping about him in his cellar. Poor things! They have no one but the old blind man to divert them and keep them company. They ought not to be hurt if they play about a bit; and so I will not let him hurt the dears, and I keep his tool to myself. Besides, I shall soon want it for this woman, perhaps. Thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds,—what a 'haul' for each of us! It'll be a good day's work, and not like that of the other day with that old notary whom I thought to squeeze. It was no use to threaten him if he would not 'stand some blunt' that I would lay information that it was his housekeeper who had sent La Goualeuse to me by Tournemine when she was a little brat. Nothing frightened the old brute, he called me an old hag, and shoved me out-of-doors. Well, well, I'll send an anonymous letter to these people at the farm where Pegriotte was, to inform them that it was the notary who formerly abandoned her to me. Perhaps they know her family; and when she gets out of St. Lazare, why, the matter will get too hot for that old brute, Jacques Ferrand. Some one comes,—ah, it is the pale lady who was dressed in men's clothes at the tapis-franc of the ogress, and with the tall fellow who just left me, the same that the fourline and I robbed by the excavations near Notre-Dame," added the Chouette, as she saw Sarah appear at the extremity of the walk. "Here's another job for me, I see; and this little lady must have something to do with our having carried off La Goualeuse from the farm. If she pays well for another job of work, why, that will be 'the ticket.'"
As Sarah approached the Chouette, whom she saw again for the first time since their rencontre at the tapis-franc, her countenance expressed the disdain, the disgust, which persons of a certain rank feel when they come in contact with low wretches whom they take as tools or accomplices.
Thomas Seyton, who, until now, had actively served the criminal machinations of his sister, although he considered them as all but futile, had refused any longer to continue this contemptible part, consenting, nevertheless, for the first and last time to put his sister in communication with the Chouette, without himself interfering in the fresh projects they might plan. The countess, unable to win back Rodolph to her by breaking the bonds or the affections which she believed so dear to him, hoped, as we have seen, to render him the dupe of a base deceit, the success of which might realise the vision of this obstinate, ambitious, and cruel woman. Her design was to persuade Rodolph that their daughter was not dead, and to substitute an orphan for the child.
We know that Jacques Ferrand—having formally refused to participate in this plot in spite of Sarah's menaces—had resolved to make away with Fleur-de-Marie, as much from the fear of the Chouette's disclosure, as from fear of the obstinate persistence of the countess. But the latter had by no means abandoned her design, feeling persuaded that she should corrupt or intimidate the notary when she should be assured of having obtained a young girl capable of filling the character which she desired her to assume.
After a moment's silence Sarah said to the Chouette, "You are adroit, discreet, and resolute?"
"Adroit as a monkey, resolute as a bulldog, and mute as a fish; such is the Chouette, and such the devil made her; at your service if you want her,—and you do," replied the old wretch, quickly. "I hope we have managed well with the young country wench who is now in St. Lazare for two good months."
"We are not talking of her, but of something else."
"Anything you please, my handsome lady, provided there's money at the end of what you mean to propose, and then we shall be as right as my fingers."
Sarah could not control a movement of disgust. "You must know," she resumed, "many people in the lower ranks of life,—persons who are in misfortune?"
"There are more of them than there are of millionaires; you may pick and choose. We have plentiful wretchedness in Paris."
"I want to meet with a poor orphan girl, and particularly if she lost her parents young. She must be good-looking, of gentle disposition, and not more than seventeen years of age."
The Chouette gazed at Sarah with amazement.
"Such an orphan girl must be by no means difficult to meet with," continued the countess; "there are so many foundling children!"
"Why, my good lady, you forget La Goualeuse. She is the very thing."
"Who is La Goualeuse?"
"The young thing we carried off from Bouqueval."
"We are not talking of her now, I tell you."
"But hear me, and be sure you pay me well for my advice. You want an orphan girl, as quiet as a lamb, as handsome as daylight, and who is only seventeen, you say?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then, take La Goualeuse when she leaves St. Lazare; she is the very thing for you, as if we had made her on purpose. For she was about six years of age when that scamp, Jacques Ferrand (and it's now ten years ago), gave her to me with a thousand francs, in order to get rid of her,—that is to say, it was Tournemine, who is now at the galleys at Rochefort, who brought her to me, saying there was no doubt she was some child they wanted to get rid of or pass off for dead."
"Jacques Ferrand, do you say?" exclaimed Sarah, in a voice so choked that the Chouette receded several paces. "The notary, Jacques Ferrand, gave you this child—and—?" She could not finish, her emotion was too violent; and with her two clasped hands extended towards the Chouette, she trembled convulsively, surprise and joy agitating her features.
"I don't know what it is that makes you so much in earnest, my good lady," replied the old hag; "but it is a very simple story. Ten years ago Tournemine, an old pal of mine, said to me: 'Have you a mind to take charge of a little girl that they want to get out of the way? No matter whether she slips her wind or not. There's a thousand francs for the job, and do what you like with the 'kinchin.'"
"Ten years ago?" cried Sarah.
"Ten years."
"A little fair girl?"
"A little fair girl."
"With blue eyes?"
"Blue eyes—as blue as blue bells."
"And it was she who was at the farm?"
"And we packed her up and carted her off to St. Lazare. I must say, though, that I didn't expect to find her—Pegriotte—in the country as I did, though."
"Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" exclaimed Sarah, falling on her knees, and elevating her hands and eyes to heaven, "Thy ways are inscrutable, and I bow down before thy providence! Oh, if such happiness be possible! But, no, I cannot yet believe it; it would be too fortunate! No!" Then rising suddenly she said to the Chouette, who was gazing at her with the utmost astonishment, "Follow me!" And Sarah walked before her with hasty steps.
At the end of the alley she ascended several steps that led by a glass door to a small room sumptuously furnished. At the moment when the Chouette was about to enter, Sarah made a sign to her to remain outside, and then rang the bell violently. A servant appeared.
"I am not at home to anybody, and let no one enter here,—no one, do you hear?"
The servant bowed and retired. Sarah, for the sake of greater security, pushed to the bolt. The Chouette heard the order given to the servant, and saw Sarah fasten the bolt. The countess then turning towards her, said: "Come in quickly, and shut the door."
The Chouette did as she was bidden.
Hastily opening a secrétaire, Sarah took from it an ebony coffer, which she placed on a writing-table in the centre of the room, and beckoned the Chouette towards her. The coffer was filled with small caskets lying one upon the other, and containing splendid jewelry. Sarah was in so much haste to arrive at the bottom of the coffer, that she hastily scattered over the table these jewel-cases, splendidly filled with necklaces, bracelets, tiaras of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, which sparkled with a thousand fires.
The Chouette was dazzled. She was armed, was alone with the countess; escape was easy—certain. An infernal idea shot through the brain of this monster. But to put this new crime into execution it was necessary to extricate her stiletto from her basket, and approach Sarah without exciting her suspicions.
With the craft of the tiger-cat, who grovels along treacherously towards its prey, the beldame profited by the countess's preoccupation to move imperceptibly around the table which separated her from her victim. The Chouette had already begun her perfidious movement, when she was compelled suddenly to stop short. Sarah took a locket from the bottom of the box, leaned over the table, and, handing it to the Chouette with a trembling hand, said:
"Look at this portrait."
"It is Pegriotte!" exclaimed the Chouette, struck with the strong resemblance; "it is the little girl who was handed to me! I think I see her just as she was when Tournemine brought her to me. That's just like her long curling hair, which I cut off and sold directly, ma foi!"
"You recognise her; it is really she? Oh, I conjure you, do not deceive me—do not deceive me!"
"I tell you, my good lady, it is Pegriotte, as if I saw herself there," said the Chouette, trying to draw nearer to Sarah without being remarked. "And even now she is very like this portrait; if you saw her you would be struck by the likeness."
Sarah had not uttered one cry of pain or alarm when she learned that her daughter had been for ten years leading a wretched existence, forsaken as she was. Not one feeling of remorse was there when she reflected that she herself had snatched her away disastrously from the peaceful retreat in which Rodolph had placed her. This unnatural mother did not eagerly question the Chouette with terrible anxiety as to the past life of the child. No! In her heart ambition had long since stifled every sentiment of maternal tenderness. It was not joy at again being restored to a lost daughter that transported her,—it was the hope of seeing at length realised the vain dream of her whole existence. Rodolph had felt deeply interested in this unfortunate girl, had protected her without knowing her; what would then be his feelings when he discovered that she was—his daughter? He was free—the countess was a widow! Sarah already saw the sovereign crown sparkling on her brow.
The Chouette, still stealing on with slow steps, had at length reached one end of the table, and had her stiletto perpendicularly in her basket, its handle on a level with the opening, and within her clutch. She was but a step or two from the countess.
"Do you know how to write?" inquired Sarah of her; and, pushing from her the casket and gems, she opened a blotting-book, which was by an inkstand.
"No, madame; I do not!" replied the Chouette, at all risks.
"I will write, then, at your dictation. Tell me all the circumstances of the abandonment of this little girl."
And Sarah, sitting in an armchair before the writing-table, took up a pen, and made a sign to the Chouette to come close to her. The old wretch's one eye sparkled. At last she was standing up, close to the seat on which Sarah was sitting, and, stooping over a table, was preparing to write.
"I will read aloud, and then," said the countess, "you can correct any mistakes."
"Yes, madame," replied the Chouette, narrowly watching every motion of Sarah; and she furtively introduced her hand into her basket, that she might be able to grasp the poniard without being observed.
The countess commenced writing.
"I declare that—"
Then interrupting herself, and turning towards the Chouette, who was at the moment touching the handle of her poniard, Sarah added:
"At what period was the child brought to you?"
"In the month of February, 1827."
"And by whom?" continued Sarah, turning towards the Chouette.
"By Pierre Tournemine, now at the galleys at Rochefort. It was Madame Séraphin, the notary's housekeeper, who brought the young girl to him."
The countess continued writing, and then read aloud:
"I declare that, in the month of February, 1827, a person named—"
The Chouette had drawn the poniard; already had she raised her arm to strike her victim between the shoulders; Sarah turned again. The Chouette, that she might not be off her guard, leaned her right hand, armed as it was, on the back of Sarah's armchair, and then stooped towards her, as if in attitude to reply to her question.
"Tell me again the name of the man who handed the child to you?" said the countess.
"Pierre Tournemine," repeated Sarah, as she wrote it down, "at this time at the galleys of Rochefort, brought me a child, which had been confided to him by the housekeeper of—"
The countess could not finish. The Chouette having got rid of her basket by allowing it to slide from her arm onto the floor, threw herself on the countess with equal fury and rapidity; and having grasped the back of her neck with her left hand, forced her face down on the table, and then with her right hand drove the stiletto in between her two shoulders.
This atrocious assassination was so promptly effected that the countess did not utter a cry—a moan. Still sitting, she remained with her head and the front of her body on the table. Her pen fell from her fingers.
"Just the very blow which fourline gave the little old man in the Rue du Roule!" said the monster. "One more who will never wag tongue again! Her account is settled!" And the Chouette, gathering up the jewels together, huddled them into her basket, not perceiving that her victim still breathed.
The murder and robbery effected, the horrid old devil opened the glass door, ran swiftly along the tree-covered path, went out by the small side door, and reached the lone tract of ground. Near the Observatory she took a hackney-coach, which drove her to Bras-Rouge's in the Champs Elysées.
The widow Martial, Nicholas, Calabash, and Barbillon had, as we know, an appointment with the Chouette in this den of infamy, in order to rob and murder the diamond-matcher.
The reader already knows the Bleeding Heart in the Champs Elysées, near the Court de la Reine, in one of the deep ditches which, a few years since, were close to this promenade. The inhabitants of the Isle du Ravageur had not yet arrived.
After the departure of Bradamanti, who had, as we know, accompanied Madame d'Harville's stepmother into Normandy, Tortillard had returned to his father. Placed as a sentinel at the top of the staircase, the little cripple was to announce the arrival of the Martials by a certain cry, Bras-Rouge being at this moment in secret conference with an agent-de-sûreté named Narcisse Borel, whom the reader may perchance remember to have seen at the tapis-franc of the ogress, when he came there to arrest two miscreants accused of murder.
This agent, a man about forty years of age, was thickset and powerful, with a high colour, a keen, quick eye, his face entirely shaven, in order that he might better assume the various disguises necessary for his dangerous expeditions; for it was frequently necessary for him to unite the transformations of the actor to the courage and energy of the soldier, in order to seize on certain ruffians with whom he had to contend in cunning and determination. Narcisse Borel was, in a word, one of the most useful and most active instruments of that providence on a small scale which is modestly and commonly termed the police.
We will return to the conversation between Narcisse Borel and Bras-Rouge, which appeared to be very animated.
"Yes," said the agent of safety; "you are accused of profiting by your double-faced position, and of taking with impunity a share in the booty of a band of most dangerous malefactors, and then giving false information respecting them to the protective police. Take care, Bras-Rouge; for if you are detected no mercy will be shown you!"
"Alas! I know I am accused of this; and it is very distressing for me, my good M. Narcisse," replied Bras-Rouge, whilst his weasel's face assumed a hypocritical air of vexation. "But I hope that this day will at last do me justice, and my good faith will be recognised."
"That remains to be proved."
"How can I be distrusted—have I not given proofs? Was it I or was it not who, at the time, enabled you to apprehend Ambroise Martial, one of the most dangerous malefactors in Paris, in the very fact?"
"All this is very fine and good; but Ambroise was warned they were going to arrest him, and if I had not been earlier than the hour you told me of, he would have escaped."
"Do you think me capable, M. Narcisse, of having secretly told him of your coming?"
"I only know that I received from the scoundrel a pistol-shot aimed full at me, but which, fortunately, only grazed my arm."
"Why, to be sure, M. Narcisse, in your profession you must be occasionally exposed to such mistakes!"
"Ah, you call these mistakes, eh?"
"Certainly; for, no doubt, the wicked fellow intended to lodge the ball in your body."
"In the arm, body, or head, no matter, I don't complain of that; every profession has its disagreeables."
"And its pleasures, too, M. Narcisse, and its pleasures. For instance, when a man as cunning, as skilful, and as courageous as you, has been for a long time on the track of a gang of villains, whom he follows from quarter to quarter, from lurking-place to lurking-place, with a good bloodhound like your poor servant to command, Bras-Rouge, and, finally, marks them down and comes upon them in a trap from which not one of them can escape, why, then, you must say, M. Narcisse, that there is great pleasure in it,—the joy of a sportsman,—not including the service he renders to justice!" added the host of the Bleeding Heart, with a grave air.
"I should fully agree with you if the bloodhound were faithful, but I fear it is not."
"Ah, M. Narcisse, you think—"
"I think that, instead of putting us on the track, you amuse yourself with setting us on a false scent, and abuse the confidence placed in you. Every day you promise to aid us to lay hands on the gang, and that day never arrives."
"What if the day arrives to-day, M. Narcisse, as I am sure it will? What if I bring together in a parcel Barbillon, Nicholas Martial, the widow, her daughter, and the Chouette? Will that or will it not be a good sweep of the net? Will you then mistrust me any longer?"
"No; and you will have rendered a real service; for there are very strong presumptive facts against this gang,—suspicions almost assured, but, unfortunately, no proofs."
"So, then, a small fag-end of actual crime, which would allow of their being apprehended, would help amazingly to unravel the difficult skein,—eh, M. Narcisse?"
"Most decidedly. And you assure me that there has not been the slightest incitement on your part towards the coup which they are now going to attempt?"
"No, on my honour! It is the Chouette, who came to me to propose inveigling the diamond-matcher here when that infernal hag learned from my son that Morel, the lapidary, who lives in the Rue du Temple, was a workman in real stones, and not in false, and that Mother Mathieu had frequently considerable value about her person, I acceded to the proposition, and suggested to the Chouette that the Martials and Barbillon should join her, so that I might be able to put the whole party into your hands."
"And the Schoolmaster,—that fellow who is so dangerous, so powerful, and so ferocious, and who was always with the Chouette,—one of the frequenters of the tapis-franc?"
"The Schoolmaster?" said Bras-Rouge, feigning astonishment.
"Yes, a convict escaped from the galleys at Rochefort, Anselm Duresnel by name, sentenced for life. We know now that he disfigured himself on purpose, that he might not be recognised. Have you no trace of him?"
"None," replied Bras-Rouge, boldly, for he had his reasons for the lie, the Schoolmaster being at this very moment shut up in one of the cellars of the cabaret.
"There is every reason to believe that the Schoolmaster is the author of fresh murders. He would be an important capture."
"No one knows what has become of him for the last six weeks."
"And that's the reason you are reproached with having lost all trace of him."
"Always reproaches, M. Narcisse, always!"
"Not for want of ample cause! And how goes on the smuggling?"
"Is it not necessary that I should know something of all kinds of persons—smugglers as well as others—in order to put you on the scent? I disclosed to you that pipe to introduce liquids, established outside the Barrière du Trône, and coming into a house in the street."
"I know that," said Narcisse, interrupting Bras-Rouge; "but for one that you denounce, you allow ten to escape, and continue your traffic with impunity. I am sure you eat at two mangers, as the saying is."
"Oh, M. Narcisse, I am incapable of an appetite so dishonest!"
"That is not all: in the Rue du Temple, No. 17, there lives a woman named Burette, who lends money on deposit, who, they say, is a private receiver of stolen goods on your account."
"What would you have me do, M. Narcisse? The world is so slanderous,—says so many wicked things! Once again, I say, it is necessary for me to mix with as many rogues as possible, that I even seem one of themselves—so much the worse for them—in order that they may not have any suspicions; but it cuts me to the heart to imitate them,—cuts me to the heart. I must, indeed, be devoted to the service, to give myself up to such a thing as that."
"Poor, dear man! I pity you with all my soul!"
"You are laughing at me, M. Narcisse; but, if that was believed, why has there not been a search made at Mother Burette's and in my house?"
"You know well enough,—that we might not alarm the ruffians, whom, for so long a time, you have promised to deliver into our hands."
"And I am now about to deliver them, M. Narcisse; before an hour you will have them all handcuffed, and that without much trouble, for there are three women. As to Barbillon and Nicholas Martial, they are as savage as tigers, but as cowardly as pullets."
"Tigers or pullets," said Narcisse, half opening his long frock coat, and showing the butts of two pistols in the pockets of his trousers, "I have wherewithal here for them."
"You will do well to have two of your men with you, M. Narcisse. When they see themselves caught, the most cowardly sometimes show fight."
"I shall station two of my men in the small parlour at the entrance, by the side of the room into which you are to introduce the jewel-matcher. At the first cry, I shall appear at one door, and my two men at the other."
"You must be speedy, then, for I expect the gang here every moment, M. Narcisse."
"Very well, I will go at once and place my men, provided that all this is not another humbug."
The conversation was cut short by the peculiar whistle intended as a signal. Bras-Rouge looked out of a window to see whom it was that Tortillard announced.
"Ah, ha! It is the Chouette already. Well, do you believe me now, M. Narcisse?"
"Why, this looks something like; but it is not all. But we shall see. And now to station my men."
And the agent of safety disappeared at a side door.
The precipitation of the Chouette's step, the fierce throbbings of a fever of rapine and murder which still animated her, had suffused her hideous features with a deep purple, whilst her green eye sparkled with savage joy. Tortillard followed her, hopping and skipping. At the moment when she descended the last steps of the stairs, Bras-Rouge's son, from pure mischief, put his foot on the long and dragging skirts of the Chouette's gown. This sudden stoppage made the old woman stumble, and, unable to catch hold of the baluster, she fell on her knees, her two hands extended, and dropping her precious basket, whence escaped a gold bracelet set with emeralds and pearls. The Chouette having, in her fall, somewhat excoriated her fingers, picked up the bracelet, which had not escaped the keen sight of Tortillard, and, recovering her feet, turned furiously to the little cripple, who approached her with a hypocritical air, saying to her:
"Oh, dear me! Did your foot slip?"
Without making any reply, the Chouette seized Tortillard by the hair, and, stooping to a level with his cheek, she bit it with such fury that the blood spurted out beneath her teeth. Strange, however, Tortillard, in spite of his usual vindictiveness, in spite of feeling such intense pain, did not utter a murmur or a cry. He only wiped his bleeding cheek, and said, with a forced laugh:
"I hope next time you will not kiss me so hard,—eh, La Chouette?"
"Wicked little brat! Why did you tread on my gown on purpose to make me fall?"
"Me? Oh! How could you think so? I swear I didn't do it on purpose, my dear Chouette! Don't think your little Tortillard would do you any harm; he loves you too well for that. You should never beat him, or scold him, or bite him, for he is as fond of you as if he were a poor little dog, and you were his mistress!" said the boy, in a gentle and insinuating tone.
Deceived by Tortillard's hypocrisy, the Chouette believed him, and replied:
"Well, well, if I was wrong to bite you, why, let it go for all the other times you have deserved it, you little villain! But, vive la joie! To-day I bear no malice. Where is your old rogue of a father?"
"In the house. Shall I go and find him for you?"
"No; are the Martials here?"
"Not yet."
"Then I have time to go down and visit fourline. I want to speak to old No-Eyes."
"Will you go into the Schoolmaster's cellar?" inquired Tortillard, scarcely concealing his diabolical delight.
"What's that to you?"
"To me?"
"Yes, you ask me the question with such an odd air."
"Because I was thinking of something odd."
"What?"
"Why, that you ought, at least, to have brought him a pack of cards to pass away his time," replied Tortillard, with a cunning look; "that would divert him a little; now he has nothing to play at but not to be bitten by the rats; and he always wins at that game, and after awhile it becomes tiresome."
The Chouette laughed heartily at Tortillard's wit, and said to the cripple:
"Love of a baby boy to his mammy! I do not know any chap who has more vice than this scamp. Go and get me a candle, that you may light me down to see fourline, and you can help me to open his door. You know that I can hardly push it by myself."
"Well, no, it is so very dark in the cellar," said Tortillard, shaking his head.
"What! What! You who are as wicked as devil to be a coward? I like to see that, indeed! Go directly, and tell your father that I shall be with him almost immediately; that I am with fourline; and that we are talking of putting up the banns for our marriage. He, he, he!" added the disgusting wretch, grinning. "So make haste, and you shall be bridesman, and, if you are a good boy, you shall have my garter."
Tortillard went, with a sulky air, to fetch a light. Whilst she was waiting for him, the Chouette, perfectly intoxicated with the success of her robbery, put her hand into her basket to feel the precious jewels it enclosed. It was for the purpose of temporarily concealing this treasure that she desired to descend into the Schoolmaster's cellar, and not, according to her habit, to enjoy the torments of her new victim.
We will presently explain why, with Bras-Rouge's connivance, the Chouette had immured the Schoolmaster in the very subterranean cave into which this miscreant had formerly precipitated Rodolph.
Tortillard, holding a light, now appeared at the door of the cabaret. The Chouette followed him into the lower room, in which opened the trap with the folding-doors, with which we are already acquainted. Bras-Rouge's son, sheltering the light in the hollow of his hand, and preceding the old woman, slowly descended a stone staircase, which led to a sharp declivity, at the end of which was the thick door of the cellar which had so nearly proved Rodolph's grave. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, Tortillard pretended to hesitate in following the Chouette.
"Well, now, you little vagabond, go on!" she said.
"Why, it is so dark; and you go so fast, Chouette! And, indeed, I'd rather go back again, and leave you the light."
"And then, foolish imp, how am I to open the cellar door by myself? Will you come on?"
"No, I am so frightened!"
"If I begin with you! Mind—"
"If you threaten me, I'll go back again!" and Tortillard retreated several paces.
"Well, listen to me, now,—be a good boy," said the Chouette, repressing her anger, "and I'll give you something."
"Well, what?" said Tortillard, coming up to her. "Speak to me so always, and I'll do anything you wish me, Mother Chouette."
"Come, come, I'm in a hurry!"
"Yes; but promise me that I may have some fun with the Schoolmaster."
"Another time; I haven't time to-day."
"Only a little bit,—just let me tease him for five minutes?"
"Another time; I tell you that I want to return up-stairs as quickly as possible."
"Why, then, do you want to open the door of his apartment?"
"That's no affair of yours. Come, now, have done with this. Perhaps the Martials are come by this time, and I must have some talk with them. So be a good boy, and you sha'n't be sorry for it. Come along."
"I must love you very much, Chouette, for you make me do just what you like," said Tortillard, slowly advancing.
The dim, wavering light of the candle, which but imperfectly lighted this gloomy way, reflected the black profile of this hideous brat on the slimy walls, which were full of crevices and reeking with damp. At the end of this passage, through the half obscurity, might be seen the low and crumbling arch of the entrance to the cellar, the thick door strengthened with iron bars, and, standing out in the shade, the red shawl and white cap of the Chouette.
By the united exertions of the two, the door opened harshly on its rusty hinges; a puff of humid vapour escaped from this den, as dark as midnight. The light, placed on the ground, threw its faint beams on the first steps of the stone staircase, the bottom of which was completely lost in the darkness. A cry, or, rather, a savage roar, came from the depths of the cave.
"Ah, there's fourline wishing his mamma good-morning!" said the Chouette, with a sneer.
And she descended several steps, in order to conceal her basket in some hole.
"I'm hungry!" exclaimed the Schoolmaster, in a voice that shook with rage; "do you wish to kill me like a mad dog?"
"What's the deary lovey hungry?" said the Chouette, with a laugh of mockery; "then smell its thumb."
There was a sound like that of a chain twisted violently; then a groan of mute, repressed passion.
"Take care! Take care, or you'll have a bump in your leg, as you had at Bouqueval farm, poor dear pa!" said Tortillard.
"He's right, the boy is,—keep yourself quiet, fourline," continued the hag; "the ring and chain are solid, old No-Eyes, for they came from Father Micou's, and he sells nothing but the best goods. It is your fault, too; why did you allow yourself to be bound whilst you were asleep? We only had then to put the ring and chain in this place, and bring you down here in the cool to preserve you, old darling."
"That's a pity! He'll grow mouldy," said Tortillard.
Again the clank of the chain was heard.
"He, he, fourline! Why, he's dancing like a cockchafer tied by the claw," said the beldame, "I think I see him!"
"Cockchafer, cockchafer, fly away home! Fly, fly, fly! Your husband is the Schoolmaster!" sung Tortillard.
This increased the Chouette's hilarity. Having deposited her basket in a hole formed by the lowering of the wall of the staircase, she stood erect, and said:
"You see, fourline—"
"He don't see," said Tortillard.
"The brat's right. Will you hear, fourline? There was no occasion, when we came away from the farm, to be such a booby as to turn compassionate, and prevent me from marking Pegriotte's face with my vitriol; and then, too, you talked of your conscience, which was getting troubled. I saw you were growing lily-livered, and meant to come the 'honest dodge;' and so, some of these odd-come-shortlies, you would have turned 'nose' (informer), and have 'made a meal' of us, old No-Eyes; and then—"
"Then old No-Eyes will make a meal of you, for he is hungry, Chouette," said Tortillard, suddenly, and with all his strength pushing the old woman by her back.
The Chouette fell forward with a horrible imprecation. She might have been distinctly heard as she rolled from the top to the bottom of the staircase.
"Bump, bump, bump, bump! There's the Chouette for you—there she is! Why don't you jump upon her, old buffer?" added Tortillard.
Then, seizing the basket from under the stone where he had seen the old woman place it, he scampered up the stairs, exclaiming, with a shout of savage joy:
"Here's a pull worth more than that you had before,—eh, Chouette? This time you won't bite me till the blood comes,—eh? Ah, you thought I bore no spite—much obliged—my cheek bleeds still!"
"Oh, I have her! I have her!" cried the Schoolmaster, from the depth of the cave.
"If you have her, old lad, I cry snacks," said Tortillard, with a laugh.
And he stopped on the top step of the stairs.
"Help!" shrieked the Chouette, in a strangling voice.
"Thanks, Tortillard!" said the Schoolmaster, "thanks. And, to reward you, you shall hear the night-bird (Chouette) shriek! Listen, boy,—listen to the bird of death!"
"Bravo! Here I am in the dress-boxes!" said Tortillard, seating himself on the top of the stairs.
As he said this, he raised the light to endeavour to see the fearful scene which was going on in the depths of the cavern; but the darkness was too thick, so faint a light could not disperse it: Bras-Rouge's son could not see anything. The struggle with the Schoolmaster and the Chouette was mute, deadly, without a word, without a cry; only from time to time was heard the hard breathing, or the stifled groan, which always accompanies violent and desperate efforts. Tortillard, seated on the step, began to stamp his feet with that cadence peculiar to an audience impatient to see the beginning of a play; then he uttered the cry so familiar to the frequenters of the gallery of the minor theatres:
"Music! Music! Play up! Up with the curtain!"
"Oh, now I have hold of you, as I desired," murmured the Schoolmaster, from the recess of the cellar; "and you were going—"
A desperate movement of the Chouette interrupted him; she struggled with all the energy which the fear of death inspires.
"Louder! Can't hear!" bawled Tortillard.
"It is in vain you try to gnaw my hand, I will hold you as I like," said the Schoolmaster. Then, having, no doubt, succeeded in keeping the Chouette down, he added, "That's it! Now listen—"
"Tortillard, call your father!" shrieked the Chouette, with a faltering, exhausted voice. "Help! Help!"
"Turn her out, the old thing! She won't let us hear," said the little cripple, with a shout of laughter; "put her out!"
The Chouette's cries were not audible from this cavern, low as it was. The wretched creature, seeing that there was no chance of help from Bras-Rouge's son, resolved to try a last effort.
"Tortillard, go and fetch help, and I will give you my basket; it is full of jewels. There it is, under a stone."
"How generous! Thank ye, madame. Why, haven't I got it already? Hark! Don't you hear how it rattles?" said Tortillard, shaking it. "But now, if you'll give us half a pound of gingerbread nuts, I'll go and fetch pa."
"Have pity on me, and I will—"
The Chouette was unable to conclude. Again there was a profound silence. The little cripple again began to beat time on the stone staircase on which he was seated, accompanying the noise of his feet with the repeated cry:
"Why don't you begin? Up with the curtain! Music! Music!"
"In this way, Chouette, you can no longer disturb me with your cries," said the Schoolmaster, after a few minutes, during which he had, no doubt, gagged the old woman. "You know very well," he continued, in a slow, hollow voice, "that I do not wish to end this all at once; torture for torture! You have made me suffer enough, and I must speak at length to you before I kill you,—yes, at length. It will be very terrible for you, agonising!"
"Come, no stuff and nonsense, old parson," said Tortillard, raising himself half up from his seat; "punish her, but don't do her any harm. You say you'll kill her,—that's only a hum; I am very fond of my Chouette; I have only lent her to you, and you must give her back again. Don't spoil her,—I won't have my Chouette spoiled,—if you do, I'll go and fetch pa!"
"Be quiet, and she shall only have what she deserves, a profitable lesson," said the Schoolmaster, in order to assure Tortillard, and for fear the cripple should go and fetch assistance.
"All right! Bravo! Now the play's going to begin!" said Bras-Rouge's son, who did not seriously believe that the Schoolmaster intended to kill the Chouette.
"Let us discourse a little, Chouette," continued the Schoolmaster, in a calm voice. "In the first place, you see, since that dream at the Bouqueval farm, which brought all my crimes before my eyes, since that dream, which did all but drive me mad,—which will drive me mad, for, in my solitude, in the deep isolation in which I live, all my thoughts dwell on this dream, in spite of myself,—a strange change has come over me; yes, I have a horror of my past ferocity. In the first place, I would not allow you to make a martyr of La Goualeuse, though that was nothing. Chaining me here in the cellar, making me suffer from cold and hunger, and detaining me for your wicked suggestions, you have left me to all the fear of my own reflections. Oh, you do not know what it is to be left alone,—always alone,—with a dark veil over your eyes, as the pitiless man said who punished me. Oh, it is horrid! It was in this very cavern that I flung him, in order to kill him; and this cavern is the place of my punishment, it may be my grave. I repeat that this is horrid! All that that man predicted to me has come to pass; he said to me, 'You have abused your strength,—you will be the plaything, the sport of the most weak.' And it has been so. He said to me, 'Henceforward separated from the exterior world, face to face with the eternal remembrance of your crimes, one day you will repent those crimes.' And that day has come; the loneliness has purified me; I could not have believed it possible. Another proof that I am perhaps less wicked than formerly, is that I feel inexpressible joy in holding you here, monster! Not to avenge myself, but to avenge your victims,—yes, I shall have accomplished a duty when, with my own hands, I shall have punished my accomplice. A voice says to me, that, if you had fallen into my power earlier, much blood, much blood would have been spared. I have now a horror of my past murders; and yet, is it not strange? It is without fear, it is even with security, that I am now about to perpetrate on you a fearful murder, with most fearful refinements. Say, say! Do you understand that?"
"Bravo! Well played, old No-Eyes! He gets on," exclaimed Tortillard, applauding. "It is really something to laugh at."
"To laugh at?" continued the Schoolmaster, in a hollow voice. "Keep still, Chouette; I must complete my explanation as to how I gradually came to repentance. This revelation will be hateful to you, heart of stone, and will prove to you also how remorseless I ought to be in the vengeance which I should wreak on you in the name of our victims. I must be quick. My delight at grasping you thus makes my blood throb in my veins,—my temples beat with violence, just as when, by thinking of my dream, my reason wanders. Perhaps one of my crises will come on; but I shall have time to make the approaches of death frightful to you by compelling you to hear me."
"At him, Chouette!" cried Tortillard. "At him! And reply boldly! Why, you don't know your part. Tell the 'old one' to prompt you, my worthy elderly damsel."
"It is useless for you to struggle and bite me," said the Schoolmaster, after another pause. "You shall not escape me,—you have bitten my fingers to the bone; but I will pull your tongue out, if you stir. Let us continue our discourse. When I have been alone—alone in the night and silence—I have begun to experience fits of furious, impotent rage; and, for the first time, my senses wandered. Oh! though I was awake, I again dreamed the dream—you know—the dream. The little old man in the Rue du Roule, the drowned woman, the cattle-dealer, and you—soaring over these phantoms! I tell you it was horrible! I am blind, and my thoughts assume a form, a body, in order to represent to me incessantly, and in a visible, palpable manner, the features of my victims. I should not have dreamed this fearful vision, had not my mind, continually absorbed by the remembrance of my past crimes, been troubled with the same fantasies. Unquestionably, when one is deprived of sight, the ideas that beset us form themselves into images in the brain. Yet sometimes, by dint of viewing them with resigned terror, it would appear that these menacing spectres have pity on me,—they grow dim—fade away—vanish. Then I feel myself awakened from my horrid dream, but so weak—cast down—prostrated—that—would you believe it? ah, how you will laugh, Chouette!—that I weep! Do you hear? I weep! You don't laugh? Laugh! Laugh! Laugh, I say!"
The Chouette gave a dull and stifled groan.
"Louder," said Tortillard; "can't hear."
"Yes," continued the Schoolmaster, "I weep, for I suffer and rage in vain. I say to myself, 'To-morrow, next day, for ever, I shall be a prey to the same attacks of delirium and gloomy desolation. 'What a life! Oh, what a life! And I would not choose death rather than be buried alive in this abyss which incessantly pervades my thoughts! Blind, alone, and a prisoner,—what can relieve me from my remorse? Nothing, nothing! When the fantasies disappear for a moment, and do not pass and repass the black veil constantly before my eyes, there are other tortures,—other overwhelming reflections. I say to myself, 'If I had remained an honest man, I should be at this moment free, tranquil, happy, beloved, and honoured by my connections, instead of being blind and chained in this dungeon at the mercy of my accomplices.' Alas! the regret of happiness lost from crime is the first step towards repentance; and when to repentance is joined an expiation of fearful severity,—an expiation which changes life into a long, sleepless night, filled with avenging hallucinations or despairing reflections,—perhaps then man's pardon succeeds to remorse and expiation."
"I say, old chap," exclaimed Tortillard, "you are borrowing a bit from M. Moissard's part! Come, no cribbing—gammon!"
The Schoolmaster did not hear Bras-Rouge's son.
"You are astonished to hear me speak thus, Chouette? If I had continued to imbrue myself either in bloody crimes or the fierce drunkenness of the life of the galleys, this salutary change would never have come over me I know full well. But alone, blind, stung with remorse, which eats into me, of what else could I think? Of new crimes,—how to commit them? Escape,—how to escape? And, if I escaped, whither should I go? What should I do with my liberty? No; I must henceforth live in eternal night, between the anguish of repentance and the fear of formidable apparitions which pursue me. Sometimes, however, a faint ray of hope comes to lighten the depth of my darkness, a moment of calm succeeds to my torments,—yes, for sometimes I am able to drive away the spectres which beset me by opposing to them the recollections of an honest and peaceable past, by ascending in thought to my youthful days, to my hours of infancy. Happily, the greatest wretches have, at least, some years of peace and innocence to oppose to their criminal and blood-stained years. None are born wicked; the most infamous have had the lovely candour of infancy,—have tasted the sweet joys of that delightful age. And thus, I again say, I sometimes find a bitter consolation in saying to myself, 'I am, at this hour, doomed to universal execration, but there was a time when I was beloved, protected, because I was inoffensive and good. Alas! I must, indeed, take refuge in the past, when I can, for it is there only that I can find calm.'"
As he uttered these last words, the tones of the Schoolmaster lost their harshness; this man of iron appeared deeply moved, and he added:
"But now the salutary influence of these thoughts is such that my fury is appeased; courage, power will fail me to punish you. No, it is not I who will shed your blood."
"Well said, old buck! So, you see, Chouette, it was only a lark," cried Tortillard, applauding.
"No, it is not I who will shed your blood," continued the Schoolmaster; "it would be a murder, excusable perhaps, but still a murder; and I have enough with three spectres; and then—who knows?—perhaps one day you will repent also?"
And, as he spake thus, the Schoolmaster had mechanically given the Chouette some liberty of movement. She took advantage of it to seize the stiletto which she had thrust into her stays after Sarah's murder, and aimed a violent blow with this weapon at the ruffian, in order to disengage herself from him. He uttered a cry of extreme pain.
The ferocity of his hatred, his vengeance, his rage, his bloody instincts, suddenly aroused and exasperated by this attack, now all burst forth suddenly, terribly, and carried with it his reason, already so strongly shaken by so many shocks.
"Ah, viper, I feel your teeth!" he exclaimed in a voice that shook with passion, and seizing, with all his might, the Chouette, who had thought thus to escape him. "You are in this dungeon, then?" he added, with an air of madness. "But I will crush the viper or screech-owl. No doubt you were waiting for the coming of the phantoms. Yes; for the blood beats in my temples,—? my ears ring,—my head turns—as when they are about to appear! Yes; I was not deceived; here they are,—they advance from the depths of darkness,—they advance! How pale they are; and their blood, how it flows,—red and smoking! It frightens you,—you struggle. Well, be still, you shall not see the phantoms,—no, you shall not see them. I have pity on you; I will make you blind. You shall be, like me,—eyeless!"
Here the Schoolmaster paused. The Chouette uttered a cry so horrible that Tortillard, alarmed, bounded off the step, and stood up. The horrid shrieks of the Chouette served to place the copestone on the fury of the Schoolmaster.
"Sing," he said, in a low voice, "sing, Chouette,—night-bird! Sing your song of death! You are happy; you do not see three phantoms of those we have assassinated,—the little old man in the Rue du Roule, the drowned woman, the cattle-dealer. I see them; they approach; they touch me. Ah, so cold,—so cold! Ah!"
The last gleam of sense of this unhappy wretch was lost in this cry of condemnation. He could no longer reason, but acted and roared like a wild beast, and only obeyed the savage instinct of destruction for destruction. A hurried trampling was now heard, interrupted frequently at intervals with a heavy sound, which appeared like a box of bones bounding against a stone, upon which it was intended to be broken. Sharp, convulsive shrieks, and a burst of hellish laughter accompanied each of these blows. Then there was a gasp of agony. Then—nothing.
Suddenly a distant noise of steps and voices reached the depths of the subterranean vault. Tortillard, frozen with terror by the fearful scene at which he had been present without seeing it, perceived several persons holding lights, who descended the staircase rapidly. In a moment the cave was full of agents of safety, led by Narcisse Borel. The Municipal Guards followed. Tortillard was seized on the first steps of the cellar, with the Chouette's basket still in his hand.
Narcisse Borel, with some of his men, descended into the Schoolmaster's cavern. They all paused, struck by the appalling sight. Chained by the leg to an enormous stone placed in the middle of the cave, the Schoolmaster, with his hair on end, his long beard, foaming mouth, was moving like a wild beast about his den, drawing after him by the two legs the dead carcase of the Chouette, whose head was horribly fractured. It required desperate exertions to snatch her from his grasp and manacle him. After a determined resistance they at length conveyed him into the low parlour of the cabaret, a large dark room, lighted by a solitary window. There, handcuffed and guarded, were Barbillon, Nicholas Martial, his mother and sister. They had been apprehended at the very moment when laying violent hands on the jewel-matcher to cut her throat. She was recovering herself in another room. Stretched on the ground, and hardly restrained by two men, the Schoolmaster, slightly wounded, but quite deranged, was roaring like a wild bull.
Barbillon, with his head hanging down, his face ghastly, lead-coloured, his lips colourless, eye fixed and savage, his long and straight hair falling on the collar of his blouse, torn in the struggle, was seated on a bench, his wrists, enclosed in handcuffs, resting on his knees. The juvenile appearance of this fellow (he was scarcely eighteen years of age), the regularity of his beardless features, already emaciated and withered, were rendered still more deplorable by the hideous stamp which debauchery and crime had imprinted on his physiognomy. Impassive, he did not say a word. It could not be determined whether this apparent insensibility was owing to stupor or to a calm energy; his breathing was rapid, and, at times, he wiped away the perspiration from his pale brow with his fettered hands.
By his side was Calabash, whose cap had been torn off, and her yellowish hair, tied behind with a piece of tape, hung down in several scanty and tangled meshes. More savage than subdued, her thin and bilious cheeks were somewhat suffused, as she looked disdainfully at her brother, Nicholas, who was in a chair in front of her. Anticipating the fate that awaited him, this scoundrel was dejected. With drooping head and trembling knees he was overcome with fright; his teeth chattered convulsively, and he heaved heavy groans.
The Mother Martial, the only one unmoved, exhibited every proof that she had lost nothing of her accustomed audacity. With head erect, she looked unshrinkingly around her. However, at the sight of Bras-Rouge,—whom they brought into the low room, after having made him accompany the commissary and his clerk in the minute search they had made all over the place,—the widow's features contracted, in spite of herself, and her small and usually dull eyes lighted up like those of an infuriated viper; her pinched-up lips became livid, and she twisted her manacled arms. Then, as if sorry she had made this mute display of impotent rage, she subdued her emotion, and became cold and calm again.
Whilst the commissary and his clerk were writing their depositions, Narcisse Borel, rubbing his hands, cast a satisfied look on the important capture he had made, and which freed Paris from a band of dangerous criminals; but, confessing to himself how useful Bras-Rouge had really been in the affair, he could not help casting on him an expressive and grateful look.
Tortillard's father was to share until after trial the confinement and lot of those he had informed against, and, like them, he was handcuffed; and even more than them did he assume a trembling air of consternation, twisting his weasel's features with all his might, in order to give them a despairing expression, and heaving tremendous sighs. He embraced Tortillard, as if he should find some consolation in his paternal caresses.