The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures)

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  So the German Atreids sat until they entered Royal Street. Here the omnibus came across rattling fire engines and a troop of firemen running right across the street in such a mass that it had to stand still for a moment. The delays continued. The mules shied at the loud screaming, pounding, and crowding, and they jumped onto the sidewalk, pulling the wheels of the omnibus to a standstill in the gutter at the side of the road. Melanie, who feared that the mules would run away with the wagon—an unlikely possibility because the present position of the omnibus made for so much resistance—jumped decisively onto the sidewalk and helped the old count dismount. Then she went to the door and literally pulled each of her children off the wagon. Hugo appeared to have forgotten his illness for an instant in the general upset, and he now stood between Constanze and Gertrude, who held his hands.

  “Our apartment cannot be very far from here,” Melanie remarked as she looked at her children to be sure they were all there.

  “I don’t know, Melanie,” responded the count, who always had trouble orienting himself.

  “I know, Mother,” little Amelie interjected, “there—the next corner is Orleans Street—we live there, I’m sure!” Amelie was that sure because she had noticed the large shop that displayed so many dolls and other pretty toys.

  “Come, children—come, let’s hurry,” Melanie was saying, as she prepared to pass through a troop of firemen built like athletes, when she hesitated due to a loud “Stop, stop!” This warning came from the puffed lips of an Irish mule-driver, who, owing to his obligations to the owner of the Bayou Bridge Omnibus Line, could not allow his passengers to leave without having paid their fares.

  “My God, we forgot to pay the man,” Melanie said to her husband as she reached into his vest pocket. The count, quite confused by his forgetfulness, reached into his pocket at the same instant, so that their hands hindered each other. His wallet fell on the ground, and when they leaned down to pick it up, they were crudely shoved away by the crowd. They lost the place where the wallet fell, and the omnibus driver, who had been irritated enough at the outset, now began to curse. The old count, Melanie, and the children were prevented from searching by the press of the crowd, and they were also concerned about losing one another. So it came to pass that, without wishing it, they were pushed from their place and found themselves in front of the fire—and their own apartment.

  Amelie saw it and was the first to cry out: “Mother, Father, our place is burning!” There was no chance to get through, since fire hoses and firemen blocked the street. Besides, it would have done no good.

  For the few days they were to stay in New Orleans—as they had planned—the family had chosen only a simple boardinghouse, to save money. Fire had broken out there while they were gone, and the other boarders had retrieved their possessions from the voracious fire only at peril of their lives. No one had concerned themselves about the room the count’s family occupied. Each saved their own in such a situation, and only thieves were interested in other people’s belongings.

  But here—look how Melanie is wringing her hands! Listen to her scream! Is it joy or pain that is expressed by this cry? This scream is so extraordinary that everyone who hears it must ask this question.

  “Save him, save my Emil!” she called out, and the old count and the children all cried out as well. Even Hugo, who had great difficulty even keeping himself erect, joined in. A young fireman wearing the dark blue uniform of the American No. 2 Company had just emerged from the window, surrounded by flames and holding the large picture in his extended arms, oblivious to the calls from below that he come down from the upper rungs of the ladder. But the warning was in vain. The young fireman was looking only at the picture, and he seemed to mock the flames that stormed around him. If they had asked him, implored him to flee before, now his company swore at their comrade’s rashness. Part of the wall on which the ladder propped was already leaning forward. Who wished to mount the ladder to haul the stubborn man down by force? Who still could do it?

  “Save my Emil—” then suddenly, as Melanie saw the dreadful peril the young man was in, she screamed even louder: “Save yourself!”

  A suppressed cry of terror passed through the colorful crowd—the firemen scattered, then regathered around the ruins of the collapsed wall.

  The young fireman with the picture lay far beneath it—a glowing heap of stone and snapping flames remained atop him.

  Albert’s last thoughts were, “My Emil, you were with your Jenny without knowing it.”

  So Melanie had brought the sole surviving picture of her son from her farm to New Orleans only to lose this, too.

  What remained to the count’s family but to get back to their farm as quickly as possible? But Hugo’s condition did not permit that.

  How could they take an expensive apartment if they did not want to make debts? And they needed what little money they had left to take care of the costs of a physician, for Hugo was by now seriously ill. They could tell at once that he had yellow fever. So the old count chose the old, weathered tenement for his family, since they would still be able to pay the small rent even in an emergency.

  But we already know how it turned out.

  Hugo did not tell his parents or his sisters about the baleful death notice. He took that horrid image with him to the grave. This image lay down with him and taunted him in his painful fever, and it closed his eyes for the eternal slumber.

  Hugo, the old count, and Suzie were the first to lay down, and they were the first to die.

  Their spirits certainly stretched out an arm to their farm in Covington, where they had not been happy but where they had lived comfortably. They wrote, but in vain. Since the prince of Württemberg had vanished in such a mysterious manner, who owned the farm?

  The demons resume their dance about the funeral pyre of the Atreids, and we have returned to where we were at the close of the second chapter.

  Chapter 4

  THE REUNION

  Recall that, at the instant Lorie let the basin fall, awakening Melanie and Constanze from their fevered sleep, two men quickly entered, one calling to the other, “Close the door, abbé—we are safe here!”

  Lorie trembled all over her body when she saw these intruders yelling so noisily. But she was in no condition to say a word to them. She held her head in her two hands as if she feared the fever would break out and set her on fire. She was having one of those dreadful attacks from which even physicians turn away with horror, since they know that it precedes death by a few hours.

  “We’ve reached the right hole, abbé—you can see, there, here—over there! There—don’t have such a dumb expression—what is it? Plague! Thunder and lightning, if only the police weren’t on our heels.”

  “Lajos, let’s get out of here, I’d rather—”

  “You’re staying, abbé—I’ll crush your Adam’s apple—”

  “Let me loose, Lajos—you’re choking me—”

  “So—march on in!”

  With these words the Hungarian pushed Abbé Dubreuil into the interior of the tenement, where the corpses of the old count, Hugo, and Suzie lay, and where it was quite dark, since Constanze had put out the light.

  And here is an explanation, before we proceed, of how the two came together, since we have not seen the Hungarian since Hiram came that night and we thought Abbé Dubreuil had left town.

  On the very night Hiram brought that dreadful tragedy to a conclusion in Lady Evans-Stuart’s mansion, the Hungarian rushed hatless, covered with blood from head to toe, down Tchoupitoulas Street to Delord, turning there toward the bank of the Mississippi. It was a marvel that no one stopped him because of his blood-stained face, his disordered hair, his clothing torn in several places, the haste with which he made his way—all of it would have aroused suspicions even in the most indifferent. Indeed, as he went down the wharfs, he noted that he was being followed by two men who doubled their own pace when he hurried up. The Hungarian, growing tired of being chased, suddenly stopped, turning to
await his pursuers. They were two privates in the night watch, and he recognized them at once.

  “You are too hasty, sirs,” he said to them rather rudely. “You are all too conscientious in fulfilling your duties.”

  The watchmen hardly heard two words before they lowered the billies they had held at the ready. One of them, with full, impertinent red hair and a short, squat stature, extended his hand to the Hungarian and said: “Good times are past, Count—you see that we have to go back to work and chase fellows who look dangerous.”

  “About the burning of the mill—no question, count, that one of the subordinate clubmen set the fire,” remarked the other watchman, a bald, scrawny man who said he was a Creole although every child knew he was a Prussian, that is to say, a German. He was called Tall Jacques in the mill. While the mill was still in operation, he had drawn a lovely salary of five hundred dollars a month from the college of clubmen. In return, he’d been as sharp-eyed as a lynx when it came to guiding the attention of other, more honest watchmen away from the activities of the mill.

  “If only I knew where the abbé is hiding,” the Hungarian said, “I have heard in various places that he stole money from the bishop and fled on a ship for Rio—that sounds rather improbable, since bishops don’t let people steal their money, although the abbé would be bold enough—”

  “Count, you don’t even know,” Tall Jacques declared, still speaking French, “that he’s still here?”

  “What? That rounder is here? Really? Don’t lie to me, Jacques, or I’ll arrest you,” the Hungarian responded, shifting from a tense to a casual tone.

  “To be sure, Count,” the redhead confirmed, “he spread the rumor to protect himself from pursuit by the prince of Württemberg.”

  “Pah, the ass!” the Hungarian cried, “I wouldn’t take the effort—he should kill the prince if he knows he is pursuing him. That’s a senseless reticence on the abbé’s part—he reduces his good reputation through such stupidity,” he added ironically. “Still, where is the rounder? He has surely crawled into a hole and is living off his own fat like a marmot.”

  “He is staying with the Hotoohs,” Tall Jacques replied, “he is incredibly upset over the mill being burned down, and since he is always drunk these days he says the dumbest stuff—”

  “For example?” asked the Hungarian, who had always been irritated at the abbé’s loose lips.

  “Oh pah, silly, dumb stuff,” Tall Jacques answered, in such an altered tone that the Hungarian knew he was hiding something behind his monosyllabic words.

  “What sort of stupidity? Out with it, sirs—I will not take it badly, whatever it is.”

  Tall Jacques kept his peace, but the redhead answered the Hungarian’s question.

  “The abbé often says—naturally only when he is drunk—that you, Count, took the treasure of the mill and burned down the whole place. Naturally, when he is drunk, he says perfectly awful things about you.”

  “That dumb rounder!” the Hungarian declaimed, “if he saw me in this suit he would hesitate to blame such a coup de main on me.”

  “I think so too,” Tall Jacques finally spoke. “If you had the treasure of the mill, you would never need to commit a murder again.”

  “Why do you think that?” the Hungarian calmly asked.

  “Count, I was thinking that because you are covered with blood—”

  “Damned! Do I appear to be covered with blood? Hell yes—you’re right, Jacques—thanks for telling me!” the Hungarian grumbled, for he appeared to have noticed for the first time that he had any blood on him at all.

  “Well, farewell, sirs—you may not care for my unappetizing appearance, but tell me, will I be able to get to Canal Street without problem?”

  “Yes, certainly,” the redhead replied, “everyone along the way knows you, except for one you could silence if you deal with him as you just did with us.”

  “Mill and garrotte!” the Hungarian called as they parted. That was the password from the old days when the gang had dealt with the watch.

  When the Hungarian had departed, the redhead said to Tall Jacques, “He certainly doesn’t have the treasure of the mill.”

  “I believe we should give the count a few dollars more—he would certainly not reject it,” Tall Jacques added.

  But our pen is pursuing the Hungarian.

  He continued right along the riverbank and only made small detours to avoid particular precincts. Numbers 15, 16, and 17 were passed without challenge. At precinct 18 he noticed a man, soon joined by a second, who had stepped down to the riverbank before coming back up. They had seen him approaching rapidly from a long way off, and when he came near one of them went around the precinct to block the suspicious man’s way. The Hungarian appeared already to have recognized his own people, for he called out to them openly.

  “Mill and garotte!” he called in a lowered tone, rushing past the watch without stopping.

  “In such a rush, Count? And so decorated?” the one watchman called to him—but the Hungarian could no longer hear it.

  He had already passed precinct 20 with honors.

  Then came the precinct about which the redhead and Tall Jacques had warned him.

  The Hungarian stood still.

  But the watchman did not leave his post, just as they had said. The watchman reached for his weapon in case he needed it.

  The Hungarian at first intended to have the watchman come near and then beat him down with his fists—his revolver lay on the blood-smeared carpet of Lady Evans-Stuart’s salon. But he suddenly adopted another tactic.

  He extended both arms in the air and let loose a dreadful whinny.

  The watchman, terrified, turned around and ran as fast as he could, right across the levee into the city.

  The watchman would not have run away at an ordinary shout, but he was terrified by the Hungarian’s yell. Lajos had learned it from the Hotoohs, who used it as a means of discouraging pursuers; they threw a poisoned knife at the same instant. And this was precisely what had sent the watchman away with the speed of an arrow.

  The Hungarian had performed his whinny with great care, and he played his role so well that, as he galloped away, he was the very image of a horse—his long, black hair, which whipped back and forth on his neck, was not that different from a mane. It was just too bad that he had such a problem with Lydia Prairiefire—they would have made a happy couple, such as should appear at least once in every novel.

  Having arrived at the foot of Canal Street near the Algiers Steam Ferry Landing, the Hungarian halted for a few moments.

  It must have been about midnight, if one assumes that Hiram’s projector was at work only an hour before and that the tragedy that followed reached its culmination in the next half-hour.

  The Hungarian now unbuttoned his trousers and stuffed the flaps of his frock coat into them on both sides. Then he jumped into the flood and beat at the waves with his powerful arms. A practiced swimmer, he did not stamp and push with his feet, which would have tired him out before he reached the Algiers shore. Reaching that goal was no small accomplishment, since the Mississippi is extraordinarily broad at this point; taking into account the diagonal distance, as it must be swum, crossing it would at first seem impossible.

  The Hungarian now rushed straightaway to the lovable cottage.

  Everything in Algiers appeared dead. The authorities closed the grog shops as early as eight o’clock, since they feared the tumult of rowdies. And when the grog shops are closed, Algiers is as quiet as a cemetery.

  Since the two sisters, before leaving for Lady Evans-Stuart’s, had ordered the saucy cook to remain up until they returned, she did not risk lying down—although her eyelids had already fallen several times from sheer tiredness. Besides this, she wanted to see the handsome gentleman again; she believed he would return with Lajos and the ladies.

  One should recall that Emil had appeared at the lovable cottage the afternoon before Hiram’s presentation.

  The saucy cook wa
s about to rush out to the garden to watch for her masters. Although the last ferry had run long ago, she thought they might have reserved a boat to take them across. It was about the time Lajos arrived. Urschl raised her masked lantern high and illuminated the Hungarian’s face. It was very dark, as the moon had set while the Hungarian was swimming, taking a few favorite little stars with it on its way to bed.

  The first thought the saucy cook had on seeing the count soaked to the skin was that the boat had overturned on the crossing and all of them except him had gone to their deaths in the waves. The saucy cook, who had always feared the Hungarian and never dared to direct a word to him unless spoken to, remained entirely quiet, mastering her unspeakable anxiety over the nonappearance of the ladies.

  The Hungarian did not appear to be in any sort of a hurry now. He passed down the long garden path with slow, almost hesitant paces.

  The saucy cook followed him with the lantern. Her heart beat loudly.

  The Hungarian halted in front of the main entry to the cottage.

  So did the saucy cook. She thought she should stop—she did not feel she could go ahead of him.

  Now the Hungarian went a few steps further.

  So did the saucy cook. This was unusual, since she knew that the count no longer had any need of her. He stepped at once into the corridor, where a weak multicolored lamp had been weakly burning the whole night through.

  The saucy cook was the last thing on the Hungarian’s mind, and he was amazed to see a second shadow beside his on the carpet of the stairway. He quickly turned about, so quickly that the cook jumped and trembled all over her body. The Hungarian’s appearance was really hair-raising.

  “Dumb troll, roll up in your nest!” he called out in irritation. “I don’t need you any more.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said quietly, but she remained standing where she was.

  “Didn’t you hear? Into your nest!” the Hungarian repeated, looking at the saucy cook.

  “Yes, sir!” she said, but she remained where she was.