The Complete Brigadier Gerard Stories

by Doyle, Arthur Conan

  It was the greybeard who at last broke the silence.

  ‘Who is this man?’ he asked.

  ‘His name is Gerard,’ said the little steward at the door.

  ‘Colonel Gerard,’ said I. ‘I will not deceive you. I am Etienne Gerard, the Colonel Gerard, five times mentioned in despatches and recommended for the sword of honour. I am aide-de-camp to General Suchet, and I demand my instant release, together with that of my comrade in arms.’

  The same terrible silence fell upon the assembly, and the same twelve pairs of merciless eyes were bent upon my face. Again it was the greybeard who spoke.

  ‘He is out of his order. There are two names upon our list before him.’

  ‘He escaped from our hands and burst into the room.’

  ‘Let him await his turn. Take him down to the wooden cell.’

  ‘If he resist us, your excellency?’

  ‘Bury your knives in his body. The tribunal will uphold you. Remove him until we have dealt with the others.’

  They advanced upon me, and for an instant I thought of resistance. It would have been a heroic death, but who was there to see it or to chronicle it? I might be only postponing my fate, and yet I had been in so many bad places and come out unhurt that I had learned always to hope and to trust my star. I allowed these rascals to seize me, and I was led from the room, the gondolier walking at my side with a long naked knife in his hand. I could see in his brutal eyes the satisfaction which it would give him if he could find some excuse for plunging it into my body.

  They are wonderful places, these great Venetian houses, palaces and fortresses and prisons all in one. I was led along a passage and down a bare stone stair until we came to a short corridor from which three doors opened. Through one of these I was thrust and the spring lock closed behind me. The only light came dimly through a small grating which opened on the passage. Peering and feeling, I carefully examined the chamber in which I had been placed. I understood from what I had heard that I should soon have to leave it again in order to appear before this tribunal, but still it is not my nature to throw away any possible chances.

  The stone floor of the cell was so damp and the walls for some feet high were so slimy and foul that it was evident they were beneath the level of the water. A single slanting hole high up near the ceiling was the only aperture for light or air. Through it I saw one bright star shining down upon me, and the sight filled me with comfort and with hope. I have never been a man of religion, though I have always had a respect for those who were, but I remember that night that the star shining down the shaft seemed to be an all-seeing eye which was upon me, and I felt as a young and frightened recruit might feel in battle when he saw the calm gaze of his colonel turned upon him.

  Three of the sides of my prison were formed of stone, but the fourth was of wood, and I could see that it had only recently been erected. Evidently a partition had been thrown up to divide a single large cell into two smaller ones. There was no hope for me in the old walls, in the tiny window, or in the massive door. It was only in this one direction of the wooden screen that there was any possibility of exploring. My reason told me that if I should pierce it––which did not seem very difficult––it would only be to find myself in another cell as strong as that in which I then was. Yet I had always rather be doing something than doing nothing, so I bent all my attention and all my energies upon the wooden wall. Two planks were badly joined, and so loose that I was certain I could easily detach them. I searched about for some tool, and I found one in the leg of a small bed which stood in the corner. I forced the end of this into the chink of the planks, and I was about to twist them outwards when the sound of rapid footsteps caused me to pause and to listen.

  I wish I could forget what I heard. Many a hundred men have I seen die in battle, and I have slain more myself than I care to think of, but all that was fair fight and the duty of a soldier. It was a very different matter to listen to a murder in this den of assassins. They were pushing someone along the passage, someone who resisted and who clung to my door as he passed. They must have taken him into the third cell, the one which was farthest from me. ‘Help! Help!’ cried a voice, and then I heard a blow and a scream. ‘Help! Help!’ cried the voice again, and then ‘Gerard! Colonel Gerard!’ It was my poor captain of infantry whom they were slaughtering. ‘Murderers! Murderers!’ I yelled, and I kicked at my door, but again I heard him shout and then everything was silent. A minute later there was a heavy splash, and I knew that no human eye would ever see Auret again. He had gone as a hundred others had gone whose names were missing from the roll-calls of their regiments during that winter in Venice.

  The steps returned along the passage, and I thought that they were coming for me. Instead of that they opened the door of the cell next to mine and they took someone out of it. I heard the steps die away up the stair. At once I renewed my work upon the planks, and within a very few minutes I had loosened them in such a way that I could remove and replace them at pleasure. Passing through the aperture I found myself in the farther cell, which, as I expected, was the other half of the one in which I had been confined. I was not any nearer to escape than I had been before, for there was no other wooden wall which I could penetrate and the spring lock of the door had been closed. There were no traces to show who was my companion in misfortune. Closing the two loose planks behind me I returned to my own cell and waited there with all the courage which I could command for the summons which would probably be my death-knell.

  It was a long time in coming, but at last I heard the sound of feet once more in the passage, and I nerved myself to listen to some other odious deed and to hear the cries of the poor victim. Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the prisoner was placed in the cell without violence. I had no time to peep through my hole of communication, for next moment my own door was flung open and my rascally gondolier, with the other assassins, came into the cell.

  ‘Come, Frenchman,’ said he. He held his blood-stained knife in his great hairy hand, and I read in his fierce eyes that he only looked for some excuse in order to plunge it into my heart. Resistance was useless. I followed without a word. I was led up the stone stair and back into that gorgeous chamber in which I had left the secret tribunal. I was ushered in, but to my surprise it was not on me that their attention was fixed. One of their own number, a tall, dark young man, was standing before them and was pleading with them in low, earnest tones. His voice quivered with anxiety and his hands darted in and out or writhed together in an agony of entreaty. ‘You cannot do it! You cannot do it!’ he cried. ‘I implore the tribunal to reconsider this decision.’

  ‘Stand aside, brother,’ said the old man who presided. ‘The case is decided and another is up for judgment.’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake be merciful!’ cried the young man.

  ‘We have already been merciful,’ the other answered. ‘Death would have been a small penalty for such an offence. Be silent and let judgment take its course.’

  I saw the young man throw himself in an agony of grief into his chair. I had no time, however, to speculate as to what it was which was troubling him, for his eleven colleagues had already fixed their stern eyes upon me. The moment of fate had arrived.

  ‘You are Colonel Gerard?’ said the terrible old man.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Aide-de-camp to the robber who calls himself General Suchet, who in turn represents that arch-robber Buonaparte?’

  It was on my lips to tell him that he was a liar, but there is a time to argue and a time to be silent.

  ‘I am an honourable soldier,’ said I. ‘I have obeyed my orders and done my duty.’

  The blood flushed into the old man’s face and his eyes blazed through his mask.

  ‘You are thieves and murderers, every man of you,’ he cried. ‘What are you doing here? You are Frenchmen. Why are you not in France? Did we invite you to Venice? By what right are you here? Where are our pictures? Where are the horses of St Mark? Who are you that you s
hould pilfer those treasures which our fathers through so many centuries have collected? We were a great city when France was a desert. Your drunken, brawling, ignorant soldiers have undone the work of saints and heroes. What have you to say to it?’

  He was, indeed, a formidable old man, for his white beard bristled with fury and he barked out the little sentences like a savage hound. For my part I could have told him that his pictures would be safe in Paris, that his horses were really not worth making a fuss about, and that he could see heroes––I say nothing of saints––without going back to his ancestors or even moving out of his chair. All this I could have pointed out, but one might as well argue with a Mamaluke about religion. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.

  ‘The prisoner has no defence,’ said one of my masked judges.

  ‘Has anyone any observation to make before judgment is passed?’ The old man glared round him at the others.

  ‘There is one matter, your excellency,’ said another. ‘It can scarce be referred to without re-opening a brother’s wounds, but I would remind you that there is a very particular reason why an exemplary punishment should be inflicted in the case of this officer.’

  ‘I had not forgotten it,’ the old man answered. ‘Brother, if the tribunal has injured you in one direction, it will give you ample satisfaction in another.’

  The young man who had been pleading when I entered the room staggered to his feet.

  ‘I cannot endure it,’ he cried. ‘Your excellency must forgive me. The tribunal can act without me. I am ill. I am mad.’ He flung his hands out with a furious gesture and rushed from the room.

  ‘Let him go! Let him go!’ said the president. ‘It is, indeed, more than can be asked of flesh and blood that he should remain under this roof. But he is a true Venetian, and when the first agony is over he will understand that it could not be otherwise.’

  I had been forgotten during this episode, and though I am not a man who is accustomed to being overlooked I should have been all the happier had they continued to neglect me. But now the old president glared at me again like a tiger who comes back to his victim.

  ‘You shall pay for it all, and it is but justice that you should,’ said he. ‘You, an upstart adventurer and foreigner, have dared to raise your eyes in love to the grand-daughter of a Doge of Venice who was already betrothed to the heir of the Loredans. He who enjoys such privileges must pay a price for them.’

  ‘It cannot be higher than they are worth,’ said I.

  ‘You will tell us that when you have made a part payment,’ said he. ‘Perhaps your spirit may not be so proud by that time. Matteo, you will lead this prisoner to the wooden cell. To-night is Monday. Let him have no food or water, and let him be led before the tribunal again on Wednesday night. We shall then decide upon the death which he is to die.’

  It was not a pleasant prospect, and yet it was a reprieve. One is thankful for small mercies when a hairy savage with a blood-stained knife is standing at one’s elbow. He dragged me from the room and I was thrust down the stairs and back into my cell. The door was locked and I was left to my reflections.

  My first thought was to establish connection with my neighbour in misfortune. I waited until the steps had died away, and then I cautiously drew aside the two boards and peeped through. The light was very dim, so dim that I could only just discern a figure huddled in the corner, and I could hear the low whisper of a voice which prayed as one prays who is in deadly fear. The boards must have made a creaking. There was a sharp exclamation of surprise.

  ‘Courage, friend, courage!’ I cried. ‘All is not lost. Keep a stout heart, for Etienne Gerard is by your side.’

  ‘Etienne!’ It was a woman’s voice which spoke––a voice which was always music to my ears. I sprang through the gap and I flung my arms round her. ‘Lucia! Lucia!’ I cried.

  It was ‘Etienne!’ and ‘Lucia!’ for some minutes, for one does not make speeches at moments like that. It was she who came to her senses first.

  ‘Oh, Etienne, they will kill you. How came you into their hands?’

  ‘In answer to your letter.’

  ‘I wrote no letter.’

  ‘The cunning demons! But you?’

  ‘I came also in answer to your letter.’

  ‘Lucia, I wrote no letter.’

  ‘They have trapped us both with the same bait.’

  ‘I care nothing about myself, Lucia. Besides, there is no pressing danger with me. They have simply returned me to my cell.’

  ‘Oh, Etienne, Etienne, they will kill you. Lorenzo is there.’

  ‘The old greybeard?’

  ‘No, no, a young dark man. He loved me, and I thought I loved him until … until I learned what love is, Etienne. He will never forgive you. He has a heart of stone.’

  ‘Let them do what they like. They cannot rob me of the past, Lucia. But you––what about you?’

  ‘It will be nothing, Etienne. Only a pang for an instant and then all over. They mean it as a badge of infamy, dear, but I will carry it like a crown of honour since it was through you that I gained it.’

  Her words froze my blood with horror. All my adventures were insignificant compared to this terrible shadow which was creeping over my soul.

  ‘Lucia! Lucia!’ I cried. ‘For pity’s sake tell me what these butchers are about to do. Tell me, Lucia! Tell me!’

  ‘I will not tell you, Etienne, for it would hurt you far more than it would me. Well, well, I will tell you lest you should fear it was something worse. The president has ordered that my ear be cut off, that I may be marked for ever as having loved a Frenchman.’

  Her ear! The dear little ear which I had kissed so often. I put my hand to each little velvet shell to make certain that this sacrilege had not yet been committed. Only over my dead body should they reach them. I swore it to her between my clenched teeth.

  ‘You must not care, Etienne. And yet I love that you should care all the same.’

  ‘They shall not hurt you––the fiends!’

  ‘I have hopes, Etienne. Lorenzo is there. He was silent while I was judged, but he may have pleaded for me after I was gone.’

  ‘He did. I heard him.’

  ‘Then he may have softened their hearts.’

  I knew that it was not so, but how could I bring myself to tell her? I might as well have done so, for with the quick instinct of woman my silence was speech to her.

  ‘They would not listen to him! You need not fear to tell me, dear, for you will find that I am worthy to be loved by such a soldier. Where is Lorenzo now?’

  ‘He left the hall.’

  ‘Then he may have left the house as well.’

  ‘I believe that he did.’

  ‘He has abandoned me to my fate. Etienne, Etienne, they are coming!’

  Afar off I heard those fateful steps and the jingle of distant keys. What were they coming for now, since there were no other prisoners to drag to judgment? It could only be to carry out the sentence upon my darling. I stood between her and the door, with the strength of a lion in my limbs. I would tear the house down before they should touch her.

  ‘Go back! Go back!’ she cried. ‘They will murder you, Etienne. My life, at least, is safe. For the love you bear me, Etienne, go back. It is nothing. I will make no sound. You will not hear that it is done.’

  She wrestled with me, this delicate creature, and by main force she dragged me to the opening between the cells. But a sudden thought had crossed my mind.

  ‘We may yet be saved,’ I whispered. ‘Do what I tell you at once and without argument. Go into my cell. Quick!’

  I pushed her through the gap and helped her to replace the planks. I had retained her cloak in my hands, and with this wrapped round me I crept into the darkest corner of her cell. There I lay when the door was opened and several men came in. I had reckoned that they would bring no lantern, for they had none with them before. To their eyes I was only a dark blur in the corner.

  ‘Bring a light,’ said one
of them.

  ‘No, no; curse it!’ cried a rough voice, which I knew to be that of the ruffan Matteo. ‘It is not a job that I like, and the more I saw it the less I should like it. I am sorry, signora, but the order of the tribunal has to be obeyed.’

  My impulse was to spring to my feet and to rush through them all and out by the open door. But how would that help Lucia? Suppose that I got clear away, she would be in their hands until I could come back with help, for single-handed I could not hope to clear a way for her. All this flashed through my mind in an instant, and I saw that the only course for me was to lie still, take what came, and wait my chance. The fellow’s coarse hand felt about among my curls––those curls in which only a woman’s fingers had ever wandered. The next instant he gripped my ear and a pain shot through me as if I had been touched with a hot iron. I bit my lip to stifle a cry, and I felt the blood run warm down my neck and back.

  ‘There, thank Heaven, that’s over,’ said the fellow, giving me a friendly pat on the head. ‘You’re a brave girl, signora, I’ll say that for you, and I only wish you’d have better taste than to love a Frenchman. You can blame him and not me for what I have done.’

  What could I do save to lie still and grind my teeth at my own helplessness? At the same time my pain and my rage were always soothed by the reflection that I had suffered for the woman whom I loved. It is the custom of men to say to ladies that they would willingly endure any pain for their sake, but it was my privilege to show that I had said no more than I meant. I thought also how nobly I would seem to have acted if ever the story came to be told, and how proud the regiment of Conflans might well be of their colonel. These thoughts helped me to suffer in silence while the blood still trickled over my neck and dripped upon the stone floor. It was that sound which nearly led to my destruction.

  ‘She’s bleeding fast,’ said one of the valets. ‘You had best fetch a surgeon or you will find her dead in the morning.’

  ‘She lies very still and she has never opened her mouth,’ said another. ‘The shock has killed her.’