by Maurus Jokai
“What is there to fear from an innocent prattler who cannot even remember her mother’s name?”
“We might take her to the conciergerie,” suggested the elder gentleman.
“I think we had better not disturb the police when they are asleep,” in a significant tone responded his companion.
“That is true; but we can’t take the child to our apartments. You know that we—”
“I have an idea!” suddenly interposed the young man. “This innocent child has been placed in our way by Providence; by aiding her we may accomplish more easily the task we have undertaken.”
“I understand,” assented the elder; “we can accomplish two good deeds at one and the same time. Allow me to go up-stairs first; while you are locking the door I will arrange matters up there so that you may bring this poor little half-frozen creature directly with you.” Then, to the child: “Don’t be afraid, little countess; nothing shall harm you. Tomorrow morning perhaps you will remember your mama’s name, or else she will send some one in search of you.”
He opened the door, and ran hastily up the worn staircase.
When the young man, with the little girl in his arms, reached the door at the head of the stairs, his companion met him, and, with a meaning glance, announced that everything was ready for the reception of their small guest. They entered a dingy anteroom, which led, through heavily curved antique sliding-doors, into a vaulted saloon hung with faded tapestry.
Here the child exhibited the first signs of alarm. “Are you going to kill me?” she cried out in terror.
The old gentleman laughed merrily, and said:
“Why, surely you don’t take us to be croquemitaines who devour little children; do you?”
“Have you got a little girl of your own?” queried the little one, suddenly.
“No, my dear,” replied the old gentleman, visibly affected by the question. “I have no wife; therefore I cannot have a little girl.”
“But my mama has no husband, and she’s got me,” prattled the child.
“That is different, my dear. But if I have not got a little girl, I know very well what to do for one.”
As he spoke he drew off the child’s wet slippers and stockings, rubbed her feet with a flannel cloth, then laid her on the bed which stood in the alcove.
“Why, how warm this bed is!” cried the child; “just as if some one had been sleeping here.”
The old man’s face betrayed some confusion as he responded:
“Might I not have warmed it with a warming-pan?”
“But where did you get hot coals?”
“Well, well, what an inquisitive little creature it is!” muttered the old man. Then, aloud: “My dear, don’t you say your prayers before going to sleep?”
“No, indeed! Mama says we shall have plenty of time for that when we grow old.”
“An enlightened woman, truly! Well, I dare say, my little maid, your convictions will not prevent you from drinking a cup of egg-punch, and partaking of a bit of pasty or a small biscuit?”
At mention of these dainties the child’s countenance brightened; and while she was eating the repast with evident relish, the younger man rummaged from somewhere a large, beautifully dressed doll. All thought of fear now vanished from the small guest’s mind. She clasped the toy in her arms, and, having finished her light meal, began to sing a lullaby, to which she very soon fell asleep herself.
“She is sleeping soundly,” whispered the elder man, softly drawing together the faded damask bed-curtains, and walking on tiptoe back to the fireplace, where his companion had fanned the fire into a fresh blaze.
“It is high time,” was the low and rather impatient response. “We can’t stop here much longer. Do you know what has happened to the duke?”
“Yes, I know. He has been sentenced to death. Tomorrow he will be executed. What have you discovered?”
“A fox on the trail of a lion!” harshly replied the young man. “He who aroused so many hopes is, after all, nothing more than an impostor—Leon Maria Hervagault, the son of a tailor at St. Leu. The true dauphin, the son of Louis XVI., really died a natural death, after he had served a three years’ apprenticeship as shoemaker under Master Simho; and in order that a later generation might not be able to secure his ashes, he was buried in quick-lime in the Chapel of St. Margarethe.”
“They were not so scrupulous concerning monsieur,”[1] observed the old man, restlessly pacing the floor. “I received a letter from my agent to-day; he writes that monsieur was secretly shot at Dillingen.”
“What! He, too? Then—”
“Hush!” cautiously interposed the elder man. “That child might not be asleep.”
“And if she were awake, what could she understand?”
“True; but we must be cautious.” He ceased his restless promenade, and came close to the young man’s side. “Everything is at an end here,” he added in a lower tone. “We must remove our treasure to a more secure hiding-place—this very night, indeed, if it be possible.”
“It is possible,” assented his companion. “The plan of flight was arranged two days ago. The most difficult part was to get away from this house. It is watched day and night. Chance, however, has come to our aid.”
“I understand,” nodded the old gentleman, glancing significantly toward the bed.
“The most serious question now is, where shall we find a secure hiding-place? Even England is not safe. The bullets of Dillingen can reach to that country! Indeed, wherever there are police no secret is safe.”
“I’ll tell you something,” after a moment’s deliberation observed the elder man. “I know of a country in Europe where order prevails, and where there are no police spies; and, what is more, the place of which I speak is beyond the range of a gunshot!”
“I confess I am curious to learn where such a place may be found,” with an incredulous smile returned the young man.
“Fetch the map, and I will point it out to you. Afterward we will arrange your route toward it.” The two men spread a large map of Europe on the table, and, bending over it, were soon deeply absorbed in examining it, the while exchanging whispered remarks.
At last they seemed to have agreed on something. The map was folded up and thrust into the younger man’s pocket.
“I shall start at once,” he said, with an air of decision.
“That is well,” with evident satisfaction assented his companion. “And take with you also the steel casket. In it are all the necessary documents, some articles of clothing on which the mother with her own hands embroidered the well-known symbol, and a million of francs in English bank-notes. These, however, you will not use unless compelled to do so by extreme necessity. You will receive annually a sufficient sum from a certain banking-house which will supply all your wants. Have our two trusty friends been apprised?”
“Yes; they await me hourly.”
“So soon as you are beyond the French boundary you may communicate with me in the way we have agreed upon. Until I hear from you I shall be in a terror of anxiety. I am sorry I cannot accompany you, but I am already suspected. You are, as yet, free from suspicion—are not yet registered in the black book!”
“You may trust my skill to evade pursuit,” said the young man, producing from a secret cupboard a casket richly ornamented with gold.
“I do not doubt your skill, or your ability to accomplish the undertaking; but the task is not a suitable one for so young a man. Have you considered the fate which awaits you?”
“I have considered everything.”
“You will be buried; and, what is worse, you will be the keeper of your own prison.”
“I shall be a severe jailer, I promise you,” with a grim smile responded the young man.
“Jester! You forget your twenty-six years! And who can tell how long you may be buried alive?”
“Have no fear for me. I do not dread the task. Those in power now will one day be overthrown.”
“But when the child, who is o
nly twelve years old now, becomes in three or four years a blooming maiden—what then? Already she is fond of you; then she will love you. You cannot hinder it; and yet, you will not even dare to dream of returning her love. Have you thought of this also?”
“I shall look upon myself as the inhabitant of a different planet,” answered the young man.
“Your hand, my friend! You have undertaken a noble task—one that is greater than that of the captive knight who cut off his own foot, that his sovereign, who was chained to him, might escape—”
“Pray say no more about me,” interposed his companion. “Is the child asleep?”
“This one is; the one in the other room is awake.”
“Then let us go to her and tell her what we have decided.” He lifted the two-branched candlestick from the table; his companion carefully closed the iron doors of the fireplace; then the two went into the adjoining chamber, leaving the room they had quitted in darkness.
The elder gentleman had made a mistake: “this” child was not asleep. She had listened attentively, half sitting up in bed, to as much of the conversation as she could hear.
A ray of light penetrated through the keyhole. The little girl sprang nimbly from the bed, ran to the door, and peered through the tiny aperture. Suddenly footsteps came toward the door. When it opened, however, the little eavesdropper was back underneath the covers of the bed. The old gentleman entered the room. He had no candle. He left the door open, walked noiselessly to the bed, and drew aside the curtains to see if “this” child was still asleep. The long-drawn, regular breathing convinced him. Then he took something from the chair beside the bed, and went back into the other room. The object he had taken from the chair was the faded red shawl in which the stray child had been wrapped. He did not close the door of the adjoining chamber, for the candles had been extinguished and both rooms were now dark.
To the listening child in the bed, however, it seemed as if voices were whispering near her—as if she heard a stifled sob. Then cautious footsteps crossed the floor, and after an interval of silence the street door opened and closed.
Very soon afterward a light was struck in the adjoining room, and the elder man came through the doorway—alone.
He flung back the doors of the fireplace, and stirred the embers; then he proceeded to perform a singular task. First he tossed a number of letters and papers into the flames, then several dainty articles of girls’ clothing. He watched them until they had burned to ashes; then he flung himself into an arm-chair; his head sank forward on his breast, in which position he sat motionless for several hours.
CHAPTER II
When the younger of the two men stepped into the street he carried in his arms a little girl wrapped in a faded red shawl, to whom he was speaking encouragingly, in tones loud enough for any passer-by to hear:
“I know the little countess will be able to find her mama’s palace; for there is a fountain in front of it in which there is a stone man with a three-pronged fork, and a stone lady with a fish-tail! Oh, yes; we shall be sure to find it; and very soon we shall be with mama.”
Here the child in his arms began to sob bitterly.
“For heaven’s sake, do not weep; do not let your voice be heard,” whispered the young man in her ear.
At this moment a man wearing a coarse blouse, with his cap drawn over his eyes and a short pipe between his lips, came staggering toward them. The young man, in order to make room for him, pressed close to the wall, whereupon the new-comer, who seemed intoxicated, began in drunken tones:
“Hello, citizen! What do you mean? Do you want me to walk in the gutter?—because you have got on fine boots, and I have only wooden sabots! I am a citizen like yourself, and as good as you. We are alike, aren’t we?”
The young man now knew with whom he had to deal—a police spy whose duty it was to watch him. He therefore replied quietly:
“No, we are not alike, citizen; for I have in my arms an unfortunate child who has strayed from its mother. Every Frenchman respects a child and misfortune. Is not that so, citizen?”
“Yes, that is so, citizen. Let’s have a little conversation about it”; and the pretended drunkard seized hold of the young man’s mantle to detain him.
“It is very cold,” returned the young man. “Instead of talking here, suppose you help me get this child to its home. Go to the nearest corner and fetch a coach. I will wait here for you.”
The blouse-wearer hesitated a moment, then walked toward the street-corner, managing, however, to keep an eye on the young man and his charge. At the corner he whistled in a peculiar manner, whereupon the rumbling of wheels was heard. In a few moments the leather-covered vehicle drew up beside the curb where the young man was waiting.
“I am very much obliged to you for your kindness, citizen,” he said to the blouse-wearer, who had returned with the coach. “Here,” pressing a twenty-sou piece into the man’s palm, “is something for your trouble. I wish you would come with me to help hunt for this little girl’s home. If you have time, and will come with me, you shall be paid for your trouble.”
“Can’t do it, citizen; my wife is expecting me at home. Just you trust this coachman; he will help you find the place. He’s a clever youth—aren’t you, Peroquin? You have made many a night journey about Paris, haven’t you? See that you earn your twenty francs to-night, too!”
That the coachman was also in the service of the secret police the young man knew very well; but he did not betray his knowledge by word or mien.
The blouse-wearer now shook hands cordially with the young man, and said:
“Adieu, citizen. I beg your pardon if I offended you. I’ll leave you now. I am going to my wife, or to the tavern; who can tell the future?”
He waited until the young man had entered the coach with his charge; then, instead of betaking himself to his wife or to the tavern, he crossed the street, and took up his station in the recess of a doorway opposite the house with the swinging lantern. . . .
“Where to?” asked the coachman of the young man.
“Well, citizen,” was the smiling response, “if I knew that, all would be well. But that is just what I don’t know; and the little countess, here, who has strayed from her home, can’t remember the street, nor the number of the house, in which she lives. She can only remember that her mama’s palace is on a square in which there is a fountain. We must therefore visit all the fountains in turn until we find the right one.”
The coachman made no further inquiries, but climbed to the box, and drove off in quest of the fountains of Paris.
Two fountains were visited, but neither of them proved to be the right one. The young man now bade the coachman drive through a certain street to a third fountain. It was a narrow, winding street—the Rue des Blancs Manteaux.
When the coach was opposite a low, one-storied house, the young man drew the strap, and told the driver he wished to stop for a few moments. As the vehicle drew up in front of the house, the door opened, and a tall, stalwart man in top-boots came forth, accompanied by a sturdy dame who held a candle, which she protected from the wind with the palm of her hand.
“Is that you, Raoul?” called the young man from the coach window.
There was no response from the giant, who, instead, sprang nimbly to the box, and, flinging one arm around the astonished coachman, thrust a gag into his mouth. Before the captive could make a move to defend himself, his fare was out of the coach, and had pinioned his arms behind his back. The giant and the young man now lifted the coachman from the box and carried him into the house, the woman followed with the trembling child, whom she had carefully lifted from the coach.
In the house, the two men bound their captive securely, first removing his coat. Then they seated him on the couch, and placed a mirror in front of him.
“You need not be alarmed, citizen,” said the man in the top-boots. “No harm shall come to you. We are only going to copy your face—because of its beauty, you know!”
The y
oung man also seated himself in front of the mirror, and proceeded, with various brushes and colors, to paint his cheeks and nose a copper hue, exactly like that of the coachman’s reflection in the glass. Then he exchanged his own peruke and hat for the shabby ones of the coachman. Lastly, he flung around his shoulders the mantle with its seven collars, and the resemblance was complete.
“And now,” observed the giant, addressing the captive, “you can rest without the least fear. At the latest, tomorrow about this time your coach, your horses, your mantle, and whatever else belongs to you will be returned. For the use of the things we have borrowed from you we shall leave in the pocket of your coat twenty francs for every hour, and an extra twenty francs as a pourboire; don’t forget to look for it! Tomorrow at eleven o’clock a girl will fetch milk; she will release you, and you can tell her what a singular dream you had! If you can’t go to sleep, just repeat the multiplication table. I always do when I can’t sleep, and I never have to go beyond seven times seven. Good night, citizen!”
The door of the adjoining room opened, and the woman appeared, leading by the hand a pretty little boy.
“We are ready,” she announced.
The two men thrust pistols into their pockets. Then the woman and the little boy entered the coach, the two men took seats on the box, and the coach rolled away.
CHAPTER III
At ten o’clock the next morning the old gentleman paid a visit to his little guest. This time the child was really asleep, and opened her eyes only when the curtains were drawn back and the light from the window fell on her face.
“How kind of you to waken me, monsieur!” she said, smiling; she was in a good humor, as children are who have slept well. “I have slept splendidly. This bed is as good as my own at home. And how delightful not to hear my governess scolding! You never scold, do you, monsieur? I deserve to be scolded, though, for I was very naughty last night, and you were so kind to me—gave me such nice egg-punch; see, there is a glass of it left over; it will do for my breakfast. I love cold punch, so you need not trouble to bring me any chocolate.” With these words, the little maid sprang nimbly from the bed, ran with the naïveté of an eight-year-old child to the table, where she settled herself in the corner of the sofa, drew her bare feet up under her, and proceeded to breakfast on the left-over punch and biscuits.