“What about the Marchioness?” fumed Chéri-Bibi.
“Oh, the Marchioness!... We didn’t hear her. She comes from a class that never makes a fuss, even if the house is on fire.”
“Was she injured?”
“How should I know? How can I tell? Certainly when I saw her being carried off by Jean Jean she looked more dead than alive.”
“If she is dead I’ll do the lot of you in,” growled Chéri-Bibi with clenched fists.
“But haven’t I told you Jean Jean saved her.
.. Hullo, there she is!”
Chéri-Bibi leapt through the window. He, too, could see the Marchioness, or rather her quivering body, still being carried by the faithful Jean Jean. Chased on the roofs by the civic guards, and realizing that his retreat was cut off, he had been forced to return to the tottering walls of the burning building.
It was a tense moment. Jean Jean, as a last resort, was making for the lane in which he knew the coal dealer lived. But how was he to reach this haunt?
Though the fire at this spot had been decreasing in intensity for some time, it was an act of great daring on Jean Jean’s part to risk bringing the Marchioness to the topmost floor window, for the flames were still reaching it from time to time.
Shots greeted Chéri-Bibi as he leapt out of the window, and civic guards rushed up from both ends of the lane, in spite of the intense heat. But the double rush saved our bandit. And indeed when the civic guards found themselves face to face they ceased firing lest they should shoot each other.
Chéri-Bibi seized the opportunity to finish his run and disappear into the inferno.
Then some of the guards made a dash for the coal dealer’s shop, where they knew that the rest of the company had taken refuge.
The place was empty, but they discovered the underground passage by which obviously the three men had escaped with Mlle de la Morlière and Marie Thérèse.
After firing their revolvers into the narrow passage they groped their way forward and came upon two bodies stretched on the ground. They dragged them into the shop. One of them was Polydore, who had received a bullet in his back and seemed at his last gasp, and the other Lydia. With great difficulty they wrested from his grasp the poor girl, whom he had endeavored to save.
Lydia, amid the confusion and the light of the fire, came to herself.
“Good business,” said the municipal officer. “Here is a prize! It’s Subdamoun’s fiancée.”
Content with their work on this side, they ran into the lane again, now filled with the public, firemen and soldiers. There was a great crush, and some were scorched with the heat.
A loud and varied clamor went up, for a shot had hit the man carrying the Marchioness, and some of the onlookers protested against the civic guards being called upon to carry out such orders.
Jean Jean was certainly wounded. He clung desperately to an iron bar, twisted by the flames, the heat of which wrung a cry of pain from him.
But though he still held his burden he was swaying, and it seemed as if he must crash to the pavement with the Marchioness, when a raging demon appeared in the framework of the same window. This amazing being, thrown up by the fire as though he were the attendant spirit of the fire, appeared just in time to snatch the poor Marchioness from Jean Jean’s arms as this victim of his devotion to the King of the Convict Settlement made his last pirouette and came smashing down into the fire, which sent up a veritable sheaf of fireworks under the impact.
Meantime the Man who had come out of the fire went back into it again. Flames and bullets whistled past his ears, a horde of civic guards above and around pursued him, a furnace was at his feet and an infernal canopy over his head — but Cecily lay on his heart.
Chéri-Bibi was in raptures.... Chéri-Bibi was in an earthly heaven.
In the midst of the furious battle that he was waging against men and the elements he thanked Heaven for sparing him for that great happiness.
To be sure that day meant something to him, an outcast from society, for on that day it was his lot to clasp in his arms those adored beings Jacques and Cecily.
Cecily his wife — his beloved wife whose unconscious form lay near his heart after so many years, so many years of mental torture spent in saying to himself: I will never go near her again!
He held her in his arms with the tenderness of a mother nursing her sleeping child. And his heart was burning for Cecily with an intenser fire than that conflagration — with a fire that would never be quenched!
Merciful heavens, the Man, with a sudden movement, availing himself of a curtain of fire, kissed her! Chéri-Bibi pressed his lips to the white forehead of that saintly woman in this temple of fire.
Chéri-Bibi shouted with delight, caught his breath, snorted, danced with joy on the burning bricks. He appeared, disappeared, reappeared, kissed his burden, held it heavenward, drew it back to his heart, and leapt with it into some hole of a garret into which the startled faces of his pursuers peered without seeing anything.
Which way had he gone? He alone, the King of the Convicts, knew every road that led to the underground haunt in the cul-de-sac where his dungeon lay.
* * * * * * * * *
Cecily swept her hand over her forehead as people do when they wish to collect their thoughts and, as the saying goes, return to life. She remembered the tragedy of the fire, and then her thoughts harked back still farther. Those eyes that wept behind their spectacles, those poor horrible eyes that pained and terrified her. She had seen them before. She knew them now and murmured: The peanut dealer!
It was the peanut dealer who had saved her life and brought her there. It was the peanut dealer who had promised to save her son’s life. Whenever difficulties arose the peanut dealer invariably appeared. A shudder passed through her. Why — ah why?
She could never think of this terrible rescuer without a shudder. She called out to him though she feared him.
She feared him though she did not know him, and she could not bring herself to thank him. Who was he? What was his motive? Why was he watching over her?
He wore an expression of such terrible misery when he looked at her! Who could he be?
She wondered if he were not merely the presentment of her sick brain. He was perhaps the figment of her imagination.
She raised herself and stole from the wretched bed. A table bore a number of phials and basins, giving the place the appearance of a chemist’s shop. She went beyond the table. She came to a passage, and at the end of the passage beheld a light in the distance.
Though the light did not allay her fears it attracted her. She went down a few steps and walked on. The light came from under a door.
The door was not closed. She pushed it open. Did she know what she was doing?
She uttered a cry of surprise. She found herself in a small cellar resplendent with light. A number of candles were burning in a magnificent candelabrum. And their light fell upon the portraits of a woman and child. But such wonderful portraits! Not even on the walls of Byzantine churches had so many jewels, pearls, necklaces been suspended with such loving care round the sacred ikons.
She drew nearer. Then she saw the portraits clearly and recognized them. They were pictures of herself in the happiest days of her beauty and motherhood, and of Jacques from babyhood onwards.
On a table resembling an altar an open casket stood. A cross lay in the casket, a wonderful cross of the Legion of Honor, set with pearls and diamonds.
Cecily recognized it. It was the cross which she received one day as an offering to Jacques from some unknown admirer but which she returned, unwilling to accept a gift of such value without knowing the donor.
Little by little Cecily allowed herself to sink on the steps of the altar where she and her son were, so to speak, deified. She was more bewildered than ever. More than ever she wondered why she should be the object of such devotion. A strange feeling of anguish came over her. She had never felt so great a fear of she knew not what.
Suddenly
her eyes alighted on a photograph, and she dragged herself towards it. And she could not restrain a cry: “The Villa de la Falaise!” And indeed it was a photograph of the Bourreliers’ villa on the cliffs at Puys, near Dieppe, the house of her parents, where she had spent her girlhood. The photograph was taken from the garden.
She recognized the picture of herself standing at the entrance of the garden talking to a butcher’s boy carrying a basket on his arm and obviously taking orders from the young mistress of the house.
She remembered seeing this snapshot long ago in the hands of Jacqueline, who later on became Sister St. Mary of the Angels.... Cecily remembered it quite well. Yes, that was it! Jacqueline had taken a snapshot of Cecily Bourrelier and Chéri-Bibi.... Yes.... Yes.... the butcher’s boy was Chéri-Bibi! Chéri-Bibi!
She uttered the name aloud as the frightful truth flashed through her mind.
She remembered that Chéri-Bibi loved her when she was a young girl, though he had never spoken of his love. She had seen him more than once with tears in his eyes. Mercy of God, the eyes that wept behind the spectacles of her rescuer were Chéri-Bibi’s eyes!... Chéri-Bibi the convict, the King of Convicts.... She and her son owed their protection to Chéri-Bibi!
The Marchioness de Touchais swooned once more. She believed that she had fathomed the mystery. Poor Cecily! She had scarcely crossed the threshold of it.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE LAST TUMBRIL
FLORENT AND BARKIMEL, who spent their time in confessing their sins to each other and mutually repeating the prayers for the dead, were greatly surprised when the door of their cell was opened and the warder flung into it with some violence the Inspector-General of Prisons himself.
“M. Hilaire!” they exclaimed simultaneously, uttering a hollow groan expressive of their united misfortune, and offering him a hand.
M. Hilaire, recognized Florent and Barkimel, and thanked Heaven for allowing him to spend his last moments with such distinguished friends.
After indulging in sundry reflections on the truism that death makes all men equal, M. Hilaire thought it well to introduce a note of moderation into such gloomy philosophy by informing them that, for his part, he had not lost all hope of some improvement taking place in their prospects before long.
Expressing a severe condemnation of the Commune, he informed his friends that honest folk were rising in every part of the country to come to their assistance.
M. Florent did not wait for these encouraging words to be repeated before giving vent to a sigh of satisfaction. On the other hand, M. Barkimel lowered his head and remained silent so that his disconsolate attitude at last impressed M. Florent, and he asked the reason for it.
“M. Hilaire has spoken of ‘honest folk’ and I know what he means by that. After playing the part which devolved on me in these evil days can I with any decency include myself among these ‘honest folk’?”
“Of course, I understand your embarrassment,” said M. Hilaire. “You have greatly distinguished yourself at the Revolutionary Tribunal!”
“Not more than you have in the Arsenal Club,” returned M. Barkimel sadly but firmly, for he had possessed an innate sense of justice before he was appointed a judge. “And you must allow me to express surprise, M. Hilaire, that after making such violent speeches against the enemies of the revolution you should now rely on them to get you out of your troubles.”
“That is because you are not aware,” returned M. Hilaire calmly, “that while I made those violent speeches openly I was working secretly for the counter-revolutionaries and have rendered them very conspicuous services.”
“And you boast about it! What a shame!” exclaimed M. Barkimel, incensed by such cynicism.
“I am not boasting about it. I am merely telling you what I did, and what I did was not so very foolish. You served the revolutionaries because you considered it was in your interests to do so. I personally thought that two precautions were better than one, and that I should have more chance of saving myself by working for both sides.”
“History will pass its judgment on you,” retorted M. Barkimel, folding his arms.
“Don’t let us waste our last few hours in argument,” begged M. Florent.
The three friends had reached this stage when the door of the cell was opened and the warder called out their names. At that late hour they might at least have been allowed to have a last sleep in peace. What was happening?
The truth was that Subdamoun’s escape had thrown the Communal authorities in disorder, and the Vigilance Committee determined that the trial of his accomplices should be proceeded with then and there so that their execution at dawn might to some extent conciliate their supporters ever ready to cry out that they were being betrayed.
The Vigilance Committee were so infuriated that no half measures would satisfy them. Nearly every cell was cleared. And so M. Barkimel was sent before the Tribunal a second time to be sentenced to death a second time.
“If I escape this time I shall be in luck’s way,” he said dolefully.
The large room used by the Revolutionary Tribunal was overcrowded with prisoners, closely guarded by men of the division with fixed bayonets. Some sixty victims named in advance were waiting the good pleasure of the judges.
Nevertheless, Baron d’Askof put a bold face on it. He knew the price the prisoners would have to pay for his treachery, and he rejoiced at the prospect in anticipation while gazing at Sonia Liskinne, who, for that matter, paid no attention to his airs and graces and proud bearing.
She was charitably devoting herself to the task of supporting and consoling an unhappy and beautiful young girl who had been thrown into her cell at the last moment.
The young girl was no other than Mlle de la Morlière.
Baron d’Askof’s tortuous mind found matter for amusement in the uncommon sight formed by the two women, Sonia and Lydia. With what unholy joy he observed Lydia’s pallor and despair, and with what a look of triumph he regarded Sonia, who could not fail soon to be his!
The trial passed quickly. All the prisoners were condemned to death except three. First, Mlle Sonia Liskinne, who could not believe her ears, and asked in a ringing voice to whom she owed “such a dishonor.” She learned the truth when the Tribunal next acquitted d’Askof.
It was obvious that the Baron had acted the traitor and that it was to him that she owed such an outrageous act of clemency. The Baron grinned, but he stopped laughing when the Tribunal acquitted the Baroness d’Askof.
He had no wish to save her. He had, indeed, completely forgotten her, and in his plans for the future his wife found no place. Her acquittal was an act of “grace” on the part of the Public Prosecutor, desirous of placating a man who promised to make sensational revelations after the trial.
The Baroness had been sent for and brought into Court unobserved by the Baron, nor did he see her until her acquittal was announced, when she broke into a fit of hysterical sobbing, such as she usually reserved for grand occasions. As she was being carried out of Court the Baron swore like a trooper.
No further incident occurred, and the prisoners were escorted back to their cells again to remain there until the early morning.
Sonia continued to lavish attention on Mlle de la Morlière. At last her tears began to flow freely, and her paroxysm of emotion over her fate in itself afforded her some relief.
The two women exchanged a few friendly words over their terrible misfortune. In the hour of sorrow nothing can bring two women nearer to one another than the fact that they love the same man and fear for his safety. They fell into each other’s arms. Jealousy was of no avail and fled at that supreme moment, and instead of rending they sought to console each other.
Lydia, reeling under the blow of her own sentence, had failed to hear Sonia’s acquittal and believed that she was to suffer the same fate as herself. Sonia, on the other hand, refrained from telling her the cruel truth. Moreover, she sincerely regretted her own acquittal, for the presence in Court of M. Hilaire an
d his trial and sentence seemed to indicate that Subdamoun’s attempt at escape had failed. It was rumored in prison that he had been killed by the bayonets of the civic guards.
After a silence, as Lydia was still weeping, Sonia said:
“Why are you crying? It was you that he loved.”
Lydia gave a start, raised her eyes and shook her head.
“No. You are too beautiful. When he came to know you he never left you, and now that I have seen you I can understand that.”
She gave way to another fit of sobbing, and Sonia, distraught, held her in her arms.
“Why, you are crazy, my dear. It was his ambition that led him to me, but he would have sacrificed even his ambition for you. We were friends — friends for a day that was destined to know no morrow, the morrow that belonged entirely to you.”
“Alas, I shall die without knowing that morrow. Why did I not die on that wretched morning when I tried to take my own life!”
“That morning, you poor girl, he tried to save the country and failed because of your attempt to die by your own hand,” returned Sonia. “He gave up everything to come to you. And the delay meant the destruction of all his wonderful efforts. He did not hesitate for a moment. You are an ungrateful girl to forget....”
“That’s true,” said Lydia in a weak voice. “That morning he came to me. He gave up everything for me. I came to myself in his arms — in his arms.”
She fell asleep at last murmuring “in his arms.”
Sonia held her clasped for some minutes, listening to the breathing and the throbbing heart of that adored being condemned to die so young; then with infinite care she laid her on her pallet. She could hear footsteps in the corridor. She feared lest those sounds drawing nearer should awaken her. Anxiously she leant forward, but Lydia was sleeping, was sleeping now so soundly that she did not wake when the door of the cell opened and a police officer shouted: “Mlle de la Morlière.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 234