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THE MAN IN GREY





The Man in Grey
Being Episodes of the Chouan Conspiracies
in Normandy during the First Empire
BY
BARONESS ORCZY
Author of “ The Scarlet Pimpernel,” “Lady Molly of
Scotland Yard,” etc.
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne


First published x918


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CONTENTS
PROEM
. SILVER-LEG
. THE SPANIARD
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE VAILLANT
THE EMERALDS OF MADEMOISELLE PHILIPPA
THE BOURBON PRINCE . . . .
THE MYSTERY OF A WOMAN’S HEART
THE LEAGUE OF KNAVES . . . .
THE ARROW-POISON . Q
. THE LAST ADVENTURE
PAGE
73
107
I42
I70
198
227
256
284





THE MAN IN GREY
PROEM
IT has been a difficult task to piece together the frag-
mentary documents which alone throw a light—dim
and flickering at the best—upon that mysterious
personality known to the historians of the Napoleonic
era as the Man in Grey. So very little is known about
him. Age, appearance, domestic circumstances,
everything pertaining to him has remained a matter
of conjecture—even his name! In the reports sent
by the all-powerful Minister to the Emperor he is in-
variably spoken of as “The Man in Grey.” Once
only does Fouché refer to him as “Fernand.”
Strange and mysterious creature! Nevertheless,
he played an important part—the most important,
perhaps—in bringing to justice some of those reckless
criminals who, under the cloak of Royalist convictions
and religious and political aims, spent their time in
pillage, murder and arson.
Strange and mysterious creatures, too, these men
so aptly named Chouans—that is, “chats-huants ”;
screech-owls——since they were a terror by night and
disappeared within their burrows by day. A world of


Proem ' 3
With partisanship in those strangely obscure
though comparatively recent episodes of history we
have nothing to do. Facts alone—undeniable and
undenied—must be left to speak for themselyes. It
was but meet that these men—amongst whom were to
be found the bearers of some of the noblest names in
France—should be tracked down and brought to
justice by one whose personality has continued to be
as complete an enigma as their own.


I
SILVER-LEG
l
“FORWARD now! And at foot-pace, mind, to the
edge of the wood—or ”
The ominous click of a pistol completed the
peremptory command.
Old Gontran, the driver, shook his wide shoulders
beneath his heavy caped coat and gathered the reins
once more in his quivering hands; the door of the
coach was closed with a bang; the postilion
scrambled into the saddle; only the passenger who
had so peremptorin been ordered down from the
box-seat beside the driver had not yet climbed back
into his place. Well ! old Gontran was not in a mood
to fash about the passengers. His horses, worried
by the noise, the shouting, the click of firearms
and the rough handling meted out to them by strange
hands in the darkness, were very restive. They
would have liked to start off at once at a brisk pace
so as to leave these disturbers of their peace as far
behind them as possible, but Gontran was holding
them in with a firm hand and they had to walk—-
walk i—along this level bit of road, with the noisy
enemy still present in their rear.
4


Silver-Leg 5
The rickety old coach gave a lurch and started on
its way; the clanking of loose chains, the grinding of
the wheels in the muddy roads, the snorting and
travail of the horses as they finally settled again into
their collars, drowned the coachman’s muttered
imprecations.
“A fine state of things, forsoothl” he growled
to himself more dejectedly than savagely. “What
the Emperor’s police are up to no one knows. That
such things can happen is past belief. Not yet six
o’clock in the afternoon, and Alencon less than five
kilometres in front of us.”
But the passenger who, on the box-seat beside
him, had so patiently and silently listened to old
Gontran's- florid loquacity during the early part of
the journey, was no longer there to hear these well-
justified lamentations. No doubt he had taken refuge
with his fellow-sufferers down below.
There came no sound from the interior of the
coach. In the darkness, the passengers—huddled
up against one another, dumb with fright and
wearied with excitement—had not yet found vent for
their outraged feelings in whispered words or
smothered oaths. The coach lumbered on at foot-
pace. In the affray the head-light had been broken;
the two lanterns that remained lit up fitfully the tall
pine trees on either side of the road and gave
momentary glimpses of a mysterious, fairy-like world
beyond, through the curtain of dead branches and
the veil of tiny bare twigs.


6 Silver-Leg
Through the fast gathering gloom the circle of
light toyed with the haze of damp and steam which
rose from the cruppers of the horses, and issued from
their snorting nostrils. From far away came the cry
of a screech-owl and the call of some night beasts on
the prowl.
Instinctively, as the road widened out towards the
edge of the wood, Gontran gave a click with his
tongue and the horses broke into a leisurely trot.
Immediately from behind, not forty paces to the rear,
there came the sharp detonation of a pistol shot.
The horses, still quivering from past terrors, were
ready to plunge once more, the wheelers stumbled,
the leaders reared, and the team would again have
been thrown into confusion but for the presence of
mind of the driver and the coolness of the postilion.
“Oh! those accursed brigandsl” muttered
Gontran through his set teeth as soon as order was
restored. “That’s just to remind us that they are
on the watch. Keep the leaders well in hand,
Hector,” he shouted to the postilion; “don’t let them
trot till we are well out of the wood.”
Though he had sworn copiously and plentifully
at first, when one of those outlaws held a pistol to his
head whilst the others ransacked the coach of its
contents and terrorised the passengers, he seemed in-
clined to take the matter philosophically now. After
all, he himself had lost nothing; he was too wise a
man was old Gontran to carry his wages in his
.breeches pocket these days, when those accursed


8 Silver-Leg
impossible to keep count of time. Alencon was
reached before everyone had had a chance of saying
just what he or she thought of the whole affair,
or of consigning M. 1e Duc d’Otrante and all his
myrmidons to that particular chamber in Hades
which was most suitable for their crimes.
Outside the “ Adam et live," where Gontran fin-
ally drew rein, there was a gigantic clatter and din as
the passengers tumbled out of the coach, and by the
dim light of the nearest street lantern tried to
disentangle their own belongings from the pile of
ransacked valises which the ostlers had unceremoni-
ously tumbled out in a heap upon the cobble stones.
Everyone was talking—n0 one in especial seemed
inclined to listen—anecdotes of former outrages com-
mitted by the Chouans were bandied to and fro.
Gontran, leaning against the entrance of the inn,
a large mug of steaming wine in his hand, watched
with philosophic eye his former passengers strug-
gling with their luggage. One or two of them were
going to spend the night at the “ Adam et Eve " : they
had already filed past him into the narrow passage
beyond, where they were now deep in an altercation
with Gilles Blaise, the proprietor, on the subject of
the price and the situation of their rooms; others had
homes or friends in the city, and with their broken
valises and bundles in their hands could be seen
making their way up the narrow main street, still
gesticulating excitedly.
“ It’s a shocking business, friend Gontran,” quoth


Silver-Leg 9
Gilles Blaise as soon as he had settled with the last
of his customers. His gruff voice held a distinct
note of sarcasm, for he was a powerful fellow and
feared neither footpads nor midnight robbers, nor
any other species of those satané Chouans. “I
wonder you did not make a better fight for it. You
had three or four male passengers aboard "
" What could I do?” retorted Gontran irritably.
“I had my horses to attend to, and did it, let me tell
you, with the muzzle of a pistol pressing against my
temple.”
“You didn’t see anything of those miscreants? "
“Nothing. That is——"
“What ? ”
“Just when I was free once more to gather the
reins in my hands and the order ‘ Forward ' was given
by those impudent rascals, he who had spoken
the order stood for a moment below one of my
lanterns.”
“And you saw him ? ”
“As plainly as I see you—except his face, for that
was hidden by the wide brim of his hat and by a
shaggy beard. But there is one thing I should know
him by, if the police ever succeed in laying hands on
the rogue.”
“What is that ? ”
“He had only one leg, the other was a wooden
one.”

Gilles Blaise gave a loud guffaw. He had never
heard of a highwayman with a wooden leg before.
B


IO Silver-Leg
“The rascal cannot run far if the police ever do
get after him,” was his final comment on the
situati0n.
Thereupon Gontran suddenly bethought himself of
the passenger who had sat on the box-seat beside him
until those abominable footpads had ordered the pom
man to get out of their way.
“Have you seen anything of him, Hector?” he
queried of the postilion.
“Well, now you mention him,” replied the young
man slowly, “I don’t remember that I have.”
“ He was not among the lot that came out of the
coach.”
“He certainly was not.”
“I thought when he did not get back to his seat
beside me, he had lost his nerve and gone inside.”
“So did I.”
“Well, then? ” concluded Gontran.
But the puzzle thus propounded was beyond
Hector's powers of solution. He scratched the back
of his head by way of trying to extract thence a key
to the enigma.
“ We must have left him behind,” he suggested.
“He would have shouted after us if we had," com-
mented Gontran. “Unless—” he added with
graphic significance.
Hector shook himself like a dog who has come out
of the water. The terror of those footpads and of
those pistols clicking in the dark, unpleasantly close
to his head, was still upon him.


Silver-Leg 11
“You don’t think—” he murmured through
chattering teeth.
Gontran shrugged his shoulders.
“It won’t be the first time,” he said sententiously,
“that those miscreants have added murder to their
other crimes.”
“Lost one of your passengers, Gontran ? ” queried
Gilles Blaise blandly.
“If those rogues have murdered him—-—” quoth
Gontran with an oath.
“Then you’d have to make a special declaration
before the chief commissary of police, and that within
an hour. Who was your passenger, Gontran ? ”
“I don’t know. A quiet, well-mannered fellow.
Good company he was, too, during the first part of
the way.” _
“What was his name? ”
“I can’t tell. I picked him up at Argentan. The
box-seat was empty. No one wanted it, for it was
raining then. He paid me his fare and scrambled
up beside me. That’s all I know about him.”
“What was he like? Young or old? ”
“I didn’t see him very well. It was already get-
ting dark,” rejoined Gontran impatiently. “I
couldn’t look him under the nose, could I? ”
“But sac'rebleu! Monsieur le Commissaire de
Police will want to know something more than that.
Did you at least see how he was dressed ? ”
“Yes,” replied Gontran, “as far as I can recollect
he was dressed in grey.”


12 Silver-Leg
“Well then, friend Gontran,” concluded Gilles
Blaise with a jovial laugh, “ you can go at once to
Monsieur 1e Commissaire de Police, and you can tell
him that an industrious Chouan, who has a wooden
leg and a shaggy beard but whose face you did not
see, has to the best of your belief murdered an un-
known passenger whose name, age and appearance
you know nothing about, but who, as far as you can
recollect, was dressed in grey— And we’ll see," he
added with a touch of grim humour, “what Monsieur
le Commissaire will make out of this valuable
information.”
2
The men were cowering together in a burrow con-
structed of dead branches and caked mud, with a
covering of heath and dried twigs. Their heads were
close to one another and the dim light of a dark
lantern placed upon the floor threw weird, sharp
shadows across their eager faces, making them
appear grotesque and almost ghoulish—the only
bright spots in the surrounding gloom.
One man on hands and knees was crouching by the
narrow entrance, his keen eyes trying to pierce the
density of the forest beyond.
The booty was all there, spread out upon the damp
earth—small coins and bundles of notes all smeared
with grease and mud; there were some trinkets, too,
but of obviously little value : a pair of showy gold ear-


I4 Silver-Leg
peremptory command from the man whom they had
called “Silver-Leg.”
“Silence! ” he whispered hoarsely. “There’s
someone moving out there among the trees.”
At once the others obeyed, every other thought
lulled to rest by the sense of sudden danger. For a
minute or so every sound was hushed in the narrow
confines of the lair save the stertorous breathing
which came from panting throats. Then the look-out
man at the entrance whispered under his breath :
“I heard nothing.”
“Something moved, I tell you,’ rejoined Silver-
Leg curtly. “It may only have been a beast on the
arpath .” '
But the brief incident had given him the oppor-
tunity which he required; he had shaken off his
companion’s hold upon his wrist and had slung the
wallet over his shoulder. Now he stumped out of
the burrow.
“Friend Hare-Lip,” he said before he went, in the
same commanding tone wherewith he had imposed
silence awhile ago on his turbulent mates, “tell Mon-
seigneur that it will be ‘ Corinne ’ this time, and you,
Mole-Skin, ask Madame to send Red-Poll over on
Friday night for the key.”
The others growled in assent and followed him out
of their hiding-place. One of the men had extin-
guished the lantern, and another was hastily
collecting the trinkets which had so contemptuously
been swept aside.


Silver-Leg IS
“ Hold on, Silver-Leg ! ” shouted the man who had
been called Hare-Lip; “short reckonings make long
friends. I’ll have a couple of hundred francs now,”
he continued roughly. “It may be days and weeks
ere I see Madame again, and by that time God knows
where the money will be.”
But Silver-Leg stumped on in the gloom, paying
no heed to the peremptory calls of his mates. It was
marvellous how fast he contrived to hobble along,
winding his way in and out in the darkness, among
the trees, on the slippery carpet of pine needles and
carrying that heavy wallet—six thousand two hundred
francs, most of it in small coin—upon his back. The
others, however, were swift and determined, too.
Within the next minute or two they had overtaken
him, and he could no longer evade them; they held
him tightly, surrounding him on every side and
clamouring for their share of the spoils.
“We’ll settle here and now, friend Silver-Leg,"
said Hare-Lip, who appeared to be the acknowledged
spokesman of the malcontents. “Two hundred francs
for me out of that wallet, if you please, ere you move
another step, and two hundred for each one of us
here, or ”
The man with the wooden leg had come to a halt,
but somehow it seemed that he had not done so be-
cause the others held and compelled him, but because
he himself had a desire to stand still. Now when
Hare-Lip paused, a world of menace in every line of
his gaunt, quivering body, Silver-Leg laughed with


16 Silver-Leg
gentle irony, as a man would laugh at the impotent
vapourings of a child.
“Or what, my good Hare-Lip?” be queried
slowly.
Then as the other instinctively lowered his gaze
and mumbled something between his teeth, Silver-
Leg shrugged his shoulders and said with kind
indulgence, still as if he were speaking to a child :
“ Madame will settle, my friend. Do not worry.
It is bad to worry. You remember Fear-Nought: he
took to worrying—just as you are doing now—wanted
to be paid out of his turn, or more than his share, I
forget which. But you remember him ? ”
“I do,” muttered Hare-Lip with a savage oath.
“Fear-Nought was tracked down by the police and
dragged to Vincennes, or Force, or Bicétre—we never
knew."
“To the guillotine, my good Hare-Lip,” rejoined
Silver-Leg blandly, “along with some other very
brave Chouans like yourselves, who also had given
their leaders some considerable trouble.”
“Betrayed by you,” growled Hare-Lip menac-
ingly.
“Punished—that’s all,” concluded Silver-Leg as
he once more turned to go.
“Treachery is a game at which more than one can
play.”
“The stakes are high. And only one man can
win,” remarked Silver-Leg dryly.
“And one man must lose,” shouted Hare-Lip,


Silver-Leg 17
now beside himself with rage, “and that one shall be
you this time, my fine Silver-Leg. A moi, my
mates ! ” he called to his companions.
And in a moment the men fell on Silver-Leg with
the vigour born of terror and greed, and for the first
moment or two of their desperate tussle it seemed as
if the man with the wooden leg must succumb to the
fury of his assailants. Darkness encompassed them
all round, and the deep silence which dwells in the
heart of the woods. And in the darkness and the
silence these men fought—and fought desperately—
‘ for the possession of a few hundred francs just filched
at the muzzle of a pistol from a few peaceable
travellers.
Pistols of course could not be used; the police
patrols might not be far away, and so they fought on
in silence, grim and determined, one man against half
a dozen, and that one halt, and weighted with the
spoils. But he had the strength of a giant, and with
his back against a stately fir tree he used the heavy
wallet as a flail, keeping his assailants at arm’s
length with the menace of death-dealing blows.
Then, suddenly, from far away, even through the
dull thuds of this weird and grim struggle, there came
the sound of men approaching—~the click of sabres,
the tramp and snorting of horses, the sense of men
moving rapidly even if cautiously through the gloom.
Silver-Leg was the first to hear it.
“Hush! ” he cried suddenly, and as loudly as he
dared, “the police! ”


18 Silver-Leg
Again, with that blind instinct born of terror and
ever-present danger, the others obeyed. The common
peril had as swiftly extinguished the quarrel as greed
of gain had fanned it into flame.
The cavalcade was manifestly drawing nearer.
“Disperse! ” commanded Silver-Leg under his
breath. “Clear out of the wood, but avoid the
tracks which lead out of it, lest it is surrounded.
Remember ‘ Corinne ’ for Monseigneur, and that
Red-Poll can have the key for Madame on Friday.”
Once again he had made use of his opportunity.
Before the others had recovered from their sudden
fright he had quietly stumped away, and in less than
five seconds was lost in the gloom among the trees.
For a moment or two longer an ear, attuned by terror
or the constant sense of danger, might have perceived
the dull, uneven thud of his wooden leg against the
soft carpet of pine needles, but even this soon died
away in the distance, and over the kingdom of dark-
ness which held sway within the forest there fell once
more the pall of deathlike silence. The posse of
police in search of human quarry had come and gone,
the stealthy footsteps of tracked criminals had ceased
to resound from tree to tree; all that could be heard
was the occasional call of a night-bird, or the furtive
movement of tiny creatures of the wild.
Silence hung over the forest for close upon an
hour. Then from behind a noble fir a dark figure
detached itself and, more stealthily, more furtively
than any tiny beast, it stole along the track which


Silver-Leg I9
leads to the main road. The figure, wrapped in a
dark mantle, glided determinedly along despite the
difficulties of the narrow track, complicated now by
absolute darkness. Hours went by ere it reached
the main road, on the very spot where some few
hours ago the mail-coach had been held up and
robbed by a pack of impudent thieves. Here the
figure halted for awhile, and just then the heavy
rain clouds, which had hung over the sky the whole
evening, slowly parted and revealed the pale waning
moon. A soft light gradually suffused the sky and
vanquished the impenetrable darkness.
Not a living soul was in sight save that solitary
figure by the roadside—a man, to all appearances,
wearing a broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow
over his face; the waning moon threw a cold light
upon the grey mantle which he wore. On ahead the
exquisite tower of the church of Notre Dame ap-
peared vague and fairylike against the deep
sapphire of the horizon far away. Then the solitary
figure started to walk briskly in the direction of the
city.
3
M. le Procureur Imperial, sitting in his com-
fortable armchair in the well-furnished apartment
which he occupied in the Rue St. Blaise at Aleneon,
was surveying his visitor with a quizzical and
questioning gaze.
On the desk before him lay the letter which that


20 Silver-Leg
same visitor had presented to him the previous even-
ing—a letter penned by no less a hand than that of
M. le Duc d’Otrante himself, Minister of Police, and
recommending the bearer of this august autograph to
the good will of M. de Saint-Trapeze, Procureur Im-
périal at the tribunal of Alencon. Nay, more ! M. le
Ministre in that same autograph letter gave orders,
in no grudging terms, that the bearer was to be
trusted implicitly, and that every facility was to be
given him in the execution of his duty: said duty
consisting in the tracking down and helping to bring
to justice of as many as possible of those saucy
Chouans who, not content with terrorising the coun-
tryside, were up in arms against the Government of
His Imperial Majesty.
A direct encroachment this on the rights and
duties of M. 1e Procureur Impérial; no wonder he
surveyed the quiet, insignificant-looking individual
before him, with a not altogether benevolent air.
M. 1e pre'fet sitting on the opposite side of the
high mantelpiece was discreetly silent until his chief
chose to speak.
After a brief while the Procureur Impérial
addressed his visitor.
“Monsieur le Duc d’Otrante,” he said in that dry,
supercilious tone which he was wont to affect when
addressing his subordinates, “speaks very highly of
you, Monsieur—Monsieur— By the way, the
Minister, I perceive, does not mention your name.
What is your name, Monsieur?”


Silver-Leg zr
“Fernand, Monsieur le Procureur,” replied the
man.
“Fernand? Fernand what? ”
“Nothing, Monsieur le Procureur. Only
Fernand.”
The little Man in Grey spoke very quietly in a
dull, colourless tone which harmonised with the
neutral tone of his whole appearance. For a moment
it seemed as if a peremptory or sarcastic retort
hovered on M. le Procureur’s lips. The man’s
quietude appeared like an impertinence.
M. de Saint-Tropeze belonged to the old Noblesse.
He had emigrated at the time of the Revolution and
spent a certain number of years in England, during
which time a faithful and obscure steward adminis-
tered his property and saved it from confiscation.
The blandishments of the newly-crowned
Emperor had lured M. de Saint-Tropeze back to
France. Common sense and ambition had seemingly
got the better of his antiquated ideals, whilst
Napoleon was only too ready to surround himself
with as many scions of the ancient nobility as were
willing to swear allegiance to him. He welcomed
Henri de Saint-Tropeze and showered dignities upon
him with a lavish hand; but the latter never forgot
that the Government he now served was an upstart
one, and he never departed from that air of con-
descension and high breeding which kept him aloof
from his more plebeian subordinates and which
gave him an authority and an influence in the


22 Silver-Leg
province which they themselves could never hope
to attain.
M. le préfet had coughed discreetly. The warn-
ing was well-timed. He knew every word of the
Minister’s letter by heart, and one phrase in it might,
he feared, have escaped M. 1e Procureur’s notice. It
ordered that the bearer of the Ministerial credentials
was to be taken entirely on trust—no questions were
to be pressed on him save those to which he desired
to make reply. To disregard even the vaguest hint
given by the all-powerful Minister of Police was, to
say the least, hazardous. Fortunately M. de Saint-
Tropeze understood the warning. He pressed his
thin lips tightly together and did not pursue the
subject of his visitor’s name any farther.
“You propose setting to work immediately, Mon-
sieur—er—Fernand?” he asked with frigid hauteur.
“With your permission, Monsieur 1e Procureur,”
replied the Man in Grey.‘
“In the matter of the highway robbery the other
night, for instance?”
“ In that and other matters, Monsieur le
Procureur.”
“You were on the coach which was attacked by
those damnable Chouans, I believe?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Procureur. I picked up the
coach at Argentan and sat next to the driver until
the vehicle was ordered to halt."
“Then what happened? ”
“A man scrambled up on the box-seat beside me,


Silver-Leg 23
and holding a pistol to my head commanded me to
descend.”
“And you descended? ”
“Yes,” replied the man quietly. He paused a
moment and then added by way of an explanation:
“I hurt my knee coming down; the pain caused me
to lose Some measure of consciousness. When I
returned to my senses, I found myself on the roadside
—-all alone—there was no sign either of the coach or
of the footpads.”
“An unfortunate beginning,” said M. de Saint-
Tropeze with a distinct note of sarcasm in his voice,
“for a secret agent of His Majesty’s Police sent down
to track some of the most astute rascals known in the
history of crime.”
“I hope to do better in the future, Monsieur le
Procureur,” rejoined the Man in Grey simply.
M. de Saint-Tropeze made no further remark, and
for a moment or two there was silence in the room.
The massive Louis XIV clock ticked monotonously;
M. de Saint-Trapeze seemed to be dissociating his
well-bred person from the sordid and tortuous affairs
of the Police. The Man in Grey appeared to be
waiting until he was spoken to again, and M. 1e préfet
had a vague feeling that the silence was becoming
oppressive, as if some unspoken enmity lurked be-
tween the plebeian and obscure police agent and the
highly connected and influential Procurator of His
Majesty the Emperor. He threw himself blandly
into the breach.


24 Silver-Leg
“Of course, of course,” he said genially. “You,
Monsieur—er—Fernand, are lucky to have escaped
with your life. Those rascals stick at nothing
nowadays. The driver of the coach fully believed
that you had been murdered. I suppose you saw
nothing of the rogue? ”
But this was evidently not one of the questions
which the Man in Grey had any desire to answer, and
M. Vimars did not insist. He turned obsequiously
to M. 1e Procureur.
“The driver,” he said, “spoke of one having a
wooden leg. But the worthy Gontran was very vague
in all his statements. I imagine that he and all the
male passengers must have behaved like cowards
or the rascals would never have got so clean
away.”
“The night was very dark, Monsieur le Préfet,"
observed the Man in Grey dryly, “and the Chouans
were well armed.” .
“Quite so,” here broke in M. le Procureur
impatiently, “and no object can be served now in
recriminations. See to it, my good Vimars,” he con-
tinued in a tone that was still slightly sarcastic but
entirely peremptory, “that the Minister’s orders are
obeyed to the last letter. Place yourself and all your
personnel and the whole of the local police at Monsieur
—er—Fernand’s disposal, and’ do not let me hear any
more complaints of inefficiency or want of good will
on your part until those scoundrels have been laid
by the heel.”


Silver-Leg 25
4
M. de Saint-Tropeze paused after his peroration.
With an almost imperceptible nod of his handsome
head be indicated both to his visitor and to his subord-
inate that the audience was at an end. But M. le
Préfet, though he knew himself to be dismissed,
appeared reluctant to go. There was something which
M. le Procureur had forgotten, and the worthy préfet
was trying to gather up courage to jog his memory.
He had a mightily wholesome respect for his chief,
had M. Vimars, for the Procureur was not only a man
of vast erudition and of the bluest blood, but one who
was held in high consideration by His Majesty’s
government in Paris, ay, and, so ’twas said, by His
Majesty himself.
So M. Vimars hummed and hawed and gave one
or two discreet little coughs, whilst M. le Procureur
with obvious impatience was drumming his well-
manicured nails against the arm of his chair. At last
he said testily:
“You have something you wish to say to me,
my good Monsieur Vimars?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Procureur,” hazarded the pre-
fet in reply, “that is—there is the matter of the bur-
glary—and—-and the murder last night—that is——”
M. le Procureur frowned: “Those are local
matters,” he said loftily, “which concern the com-
missary of police, my good Vimars, and are beneath
the notice of Monsieur le Ministre’s secret agent.”
c


26 Silver-Leg
The préfet, conscious of a reprimand, blushed to
the very roots of his scanty hair. He rose with some
haste and the obvious desire to conceal his discomfitu re
in a precipitate retreat, when the Man in Grey inter-
posed in his quiet, even monotone:
“Nothing is beneath the notice of a secret agent,
Monsieur 1e Procureur,” he said; “and everything
which is within the province of the commissary of
police concerns the representative of the Minister.”
M. Vimars literally gasped at this presumption.
How anyone dared thus to run counter to M. le
Procureur’s orders simply passed his comprehension.
He looked with positive horror on the meagre, in-
significant personage who even now was meeting
M. le Procureur’s haughty, supercilious glance with-
out any sign of contrition or of shame.
M. de Saint~Tropeze had raised his aristocratic
eyebrows, and tried to wither the audacious malapert
with his scornful glance, but the little Man in Grey
appeared quite unconscious of the enormity of his
offence; he stood by—as was his wont—quietly and
silently, his eyes fixed inquiringly on the préfet, who
was indeed hoping that the floor would open con-
veniently and swallow him up ere he was called upon
to decide whether he should obey the orders of his
official chief, or pay heed to the commands of the
accredited agent of M. the Minister of Police.
But M. le Procureur decided the question himself
and in the only way possible. The Minister’s letter
with its peremptory commands lay there before him—


Silver-’Leg 27
the secret agent of His Majesty’s Police was to be
aided and obeyed implicitly in all matters relating
to his work; there was nothing to be done save to
comply with those orders as graciously as he could,
and without further loss of dignity.
“You have heard the wishes of Monsieur le
Ministre’s agent, my good Vimars,” he said coldly;
“so I pray you speak to him of the matter which
exercises your mind, for of a truth I am not well
acquainted with all the details.”
Whereupon he fell to contemplating the exquisite
polish on his almond-shaped nails. Though the over-
bearing little upstart in the grey coat could command
the obsequiousness of such men as that fool Vimars,
he must be shown at the outset that his insolence
would find no weak spot in the armour of M. de Saint-
Tropeze’s lofty self-respect.
“Oh! it is very obvious,” quoth the préfet, whose
only desire was to conciliate both parties, “that the
matter is not one which affects the graver question of
those satané Chouans. 'At the same time both the
aflairs of last night are certainly mysterious and
present some unusual features which have greatly
puzzled our exceedingly able commissary of police.
It seems that in the early hours of this morning the
library of Monseigneur the Constitutional Bishop of
'Aleneon was broken into by thieves. Fortunately
nothing of any value was stolen, and this part of the
affair appeared simple enough, until an hour or two
later a couple of peasants, who were walking from


28 Silver-Leg
Lonrai towards the city, came across the body of a
man lying face upwards by the roadside. The man
was quite dead—had been dead some time apparently.
The two louts hurried at once to the commissariat of
police and made their depositions. Monsieur Lefevre,
our chief commissary, proceeded to the scene of the
crime; he has now the affair in hand.”
The préfet had perforce to pause in his narra-
tive for lack of breath. He had been talking volubly
and uninterruptedly, and indeed he had no cause to
complain of lack of attention on the part of his hearer.
M. le Ministre’s secret agent sat absolutely still, his
deep-set eyes fixed intently upon the narrator. Alone
M. le Procureur Impérial maintained his attitude of
calm disdain. He still appeared deeply absorbed in
the contemplation of his finger-nails.
“ At first,” resumed the préfet after his dramatic
pause, “these two crimes, the greater and the less,
seemed in no way connected, and personally I am not
sure even now that they are. A certain air of
similarity and mystery, however, clings to them both,
for in both cases the crimes appear at the outset so
very purposeless. In the case of the burglary in
Monseigneur’s palace the thieves were obviously
scared before they could lay hands on any valuables,
but even so there were some small pieces of silver
lying about which they might have snatched up, even
if they were in a vast hurry to get away; whilst in
the case of the murder, though the victim’s silver
watch was stolen and his pockets ransacked, the


Silver-Leg 29
man was obviously poor and not worth knocking
down."
“And is the identity of the victim known to the
police '1’” here asked the Man in Grey in his dull,
colourless voice.
“Indeed it is,” replied the préfet; “the man was
well known throughout the neighbourhood. He was
valet to Madame la Marquise de Plélan.”
M. le Procureur looked up suddenly from his en-
grossing occupation.
“Ah ?” he said, “I did not know that. Lefevre
did not tell me that he had established the identity
of the victim.”
He sighed and once more gazed meditatively upon
his finger-nails.
“Poor Maxence! I have often seen him at
Plélan. There never was a more inoffensive creature.
What motive could the brute have for such a
villainous murder ?”
The préfet shrugged his shoulders.
“Some private quarrel, I imagine,” he said.
“A love affair ?” queried the Man in Grey.
“Oh no, Monsieur. Maxence was the wrong side
of fifty."
“A smart man P”
“Anything but smart—a curious, shock-headed,
slouch-looking person with hair as red as a fox’s.”
Just for the space of one second the colourless
eyes of the Man in Grey lit up with a quick and in-
tense light; it seemed for the moment as if an ex-


30 Silver-Leg
clamation difficult to suppress would escape his thin,
bloodless lips, and his whole insignificant figure
appeared to 'be quivering with a sudden, uncontrol-
lable eagerness. But this departure from his usual
quietude was so momentary that M. le Préfet failed
to notice it, whilst M. le Procureur remained as usual
uninterested and detached.
“ Poor Maxence l” resumed M. Vimars after
awhile. “He had, as far as is known, not a single
enemy in the world. He was devoted to Madame la
Marquise and enjoyed her complete confidence; he
was not possessed of any savings, nor was he of a
quarrelsome disposition. He can’t have had more
than a few francs about his person when he was so
foully waylaid and murdered. Indeed, it is because
the crime is ostensibly so wanton that the police at
once dismissed the idea that those abominable
Chouans had anything to do with it.”
“Is the road where the body was found very
lonely of nights? " asked the Man in Grey.
“ It is a lonely road,” replied the préfet, “and never
considered very safe, as it is a favourite haunt of the
Chouans—but it is the direct road between Alencon
and Mayenne, through Lonrai and Plélan.”
“Is it known what business took the confidential
valet of Madame la Marquise de Plélan on that lonely
road in the middle of the night ?”
" It has not been definitely established,” here broke
in M. le Procureur curtly, “that the murder was com-
mitted in the middle of the night.”


Silver-Leg 31
"I thought—-—”
“The body was found in the early morning,” con-
tinued M. de Saint-Tropéze with an air of cold con-
descension; “the man had been dead some hours—the
leech has not pronounced how many. Maxence had
no doubt many friends or relations in Alencon : it is
presumed that he spent the afternoon in the city and
was on his way back to Plélan in the evening when
he was waylaid and murdered.”
“That presumption is wrong," said the Man in
Grey quietly.
“Wrong?” retorted M. le Procureur frigidly.
“What do you mean ?”
“I was walking home from Plélan towards
Alencon in the small hours of the morning. There
was no dead body lying in the road then.”
“T he body lay by the roadside, half in the ditch,"
said M. le Procureur dryly, “you may have missed
seeing it.”
“Possibly,” rejoined the Man in Grey equally
dryly, “but unlikely.”
“.Were you looking out for it then ?” riposted the
Procureur. But no sooner were the words out of his
mouth than he realised his mistake. The Man in
Grey made no reply; he literally appeared to with-
draw himself into an invisible shell, to efface himself
yet further within a colourless atmosphere, out of
which it was obviously unwise to try to drag him.
M. le Procureur pressed his thin lips together, im-
patient with himself at an unnecessary loss of dignity.


32 Silver-Leg
As usual M. le préfet was ready to throw himself into
the breach.
“I am sure,” he said with 'his usual volubility,
“that we are wasting Monsieur le Procureur’s valuable
time now. I can assure you Monsieur—er—Fernand,
that our chief commissary of police can give you all
the details of the crime—if, indeed, they interest you.
Shall we go now ?—that is,” he added, with that same
feeling of hesitation which overcame him every
time he encountered the secret agent’s calm, inquiring
look, “that is—er—unless there’s anything else you
wish to ask of Monsieur 1e Procureur."
“I wish to know with regard to the murder, what
was the cause of death,” said the Man in Grey quietly.
“A pistol shot, sir,” replied M. de Saint-Tropeze
coldly, “right between the shoulder blades, delivered
at short range apparently, seeing that the man’s coat
was charred and blackened with powder. The leech
avers that he must have fallen instantly.”
“Shot between the shoulders, and yet found lying
on his back,” murmured the Man in Grey. “And
was nothing at all found upon the body that would
give a clue to the motive of the crime? ”
“Nothing, my dear sir,” broke in the préfet glibly,
“nothing at all. In his breeches pocket there was a
greasy and crumpled sheet of letter-paper, which on
examination was found to be covered with a row
of numerals all at random—like a child’s exercise-
book.”
“Could I see the paper?”


Silver-Leg 33
“It is at the commissariat of police,” explained the
Procureur curtly.
“Where I can easily find it, of course,” concluded
the Man in Grey with calm decision. “In the mean-
while perhaps Monsieur le Préfet will be kind enough
to tell me something more about the burglary at the
Archbishop’s palace.”
“There’s very little to tell, my good Monsieur
Fernand,” said M. Vimars, who, far more conscious
than was the stranger of the Procureur’s growing
impatience, would have given a month’s salary for
the privilege of making himself scarce.
“With what booty did the burglars make off ?”
“ With nothing of any value; and what they did
get they dropped in their flight. The police found a
small silver candlestick and a brass paper weight in
the street close to the gate of Monseigneur’s palace,
also one or two books which no doubt the burglars
had seized in the hope that they were valuable
editions.”
“Nothing, then, has actually been stolen P”
“Nothing. I believe that Monseigneur told the
chief commissary that one or two of his books are
still missing, but none of any value. So you see, my
good Monsieur—er—Fernand,” concluded M. Vimars
blandly, “that the whole matter is quite beneath your
consideration. It is a case of a vulgar murder with
only a private grudge by way of motive—and
an equally vulgar attempt at burglary, fortunately
with no evil results. Our local police—though none


34 Silver-Leg
too efficient, alas! in these strenuous days, when His
Majesty’s army claims the flower of our manhood—is
well able to cope with these simple matters, which,
of course, must occur in every district from time to
time. You may take it from me—and I have plenty
of experience, remember—that the matter has no con-
cern whatever with the Chouans and with your
mission here. You can, quite conscientiously, devote
the whole of your time to the case of the highway
robbery the other night, and the recovery of the sixty-
two hundred francs which were stolen from the coach,
as well as the tracking of that daring rascal with the
wooden leg.”
Satisfied with his peroration, M. Vimars at last felt
justified in moving towards the door.
“I don’t think,” he concluded with suave
obsequiousness, “that we need take up any more
of Monsieur le Procureur's valuable time, and with
his gracious permission—”
To his intense relief, M. Vimars perceived that
the Man in Grey was at last prepared to take his
leave.
M. de Saint-Tropeze, plainly at the end of his
patience, delighted to be rid of his tiresome visitors,
at once become pleasantly condescending. To the
secret agent of His Majesty’s Police he gave a quite
gracious nod, and made the worthy préfet proud and
happy by whispering in his ear:
“Do not allow that little busybody to interfere
with you too much, my dear Monsieur Vimars. I


Silver-Leg 35
am prepared to back your skill and experience in such
matters against any young shrimp from Paris.”
The nod of understanding which accompanied this
affable speech sent M. Vimars into an empyrean of
delight. After which M. 1e Procureur finally bowed
his visitors out of the room.
The little Man in Grey walked in silence beside
M. Vimars along the narrow network of streets which
lead to the Hotel de Ville. The préfet had a suite
of apartments assigned to him in the building, and
once he was installed in his own well-furnished library,
untrammelled by the presence of his chief, and with
the accredited agent of His Majesty’s Minister sitting
opposite to him, he gave full rein to his own desire
for perfect amity with so important a personage.
He began by a lengthy disquisition on the merits
of M. le Procureur Imperial. Never had there been
a man of such consideration and of such high culture
in the city. M. de Saint-Tropeze was respected alike
by the municipal officials, by the townspeople and by
the landed aristocracy of the neighbourhood—and he
was a veritable terror to the light-fingered gentry, as
well as to the gangs of Chouans that infested the
district.
The Man in Grey listened to the fulsome panegyric
with his accustomed deep attention. He asked a few
questions as to M. de Saint-Tropeze’s domestic
circumstances. “Was he married? ” “.Was he
wealthy?” “Did he keep up a luxurious mode of
‘ life ? ”


36 Silver-Leg
To all these questions M. Vimars was only too
ready to give reply. No, Monsieur 1e Procureur
was not married. He was presumably wealthy, for
he kept up a very elegant bachelor establishment in
the Rue St. Blaise with just a few old and confidential
servants. The sources of his income were not known,
as Monsieur de Saint-Tropeze was very proud and re-
served, and would not condescend to speak of his
affairs with anyone.
Next the worthy préfet harked back, with wonted
volubility, to the double outrage of the previous night,
and rehearsed at copious length every circumstance
connected with it. Strangely enough, the secret
agent, who had been sent by the Minister all the way
from Paris in order to track down that particular
band of Chouans, appeared far more interested in the
murder of Mme. de Plélan’s valet and the theft of a
few books out of Monseigneur the Bishop’s library
than he was in the daring robbery of the mail-coach.
“ You knew the unfortunate Maxence, did you not,
Monsieur 1e Préfet ?” he asked.
“ Why, yes,” replied M. Vimars, “for I have often
paid my respects to Madame la Marquise de Plélan.”
“What was he like ?”
“ You can go over to the commissariat of police
and see what's left of the poor man,” rejoined the
préfet, with a feeble attempt at grim humour. “ The
most remarkable feature about him was his red hair—
an unusual colour among our Normandy peasantry.”
Later M. Vimars put the finishing touch to his


Silver-Leg 37
amiability by placing his services unreservedly at the
disposal of M. 1e Ministre’s agent.
“ Is there anything that I can do for you, my good
Monsieur Fernand? ” he asked urbanely.
“ Not for the moment, I thank you,” replied Fern-
and. “I will send to you if I require any assistance
from the police. But in the meanwhile,” he added, “I
see that you are something of a scholar. I should
be greatly obliged if you could lend me a book to
while away some of my idle hours.”
“A book? With pleasure! ” quoth M. Vimars,
not a little puzzled. “But how did you know ? ”
“That you were a scholar? ” rejoined the other
with a vague smile. “It was a fairly simple guess,
seeing your well-stocked cases of books around me,
and that a well-fingered volume protrudes even now
from your coat-pocket.”
“Ah! Ah! ” retorted the préfet ingenuously, “I
see that truly you are a great deal sharper, Monsieur
Fernand, than you appear to be. But in any
case,” he added, “I shall be charmed to be of
service to you in the matter of my small library. I
flatter myself that it is both comprehensive and select
—so if there is anything you especially desire to
read—”
“I thank you, sir,” said the Man in Grey; “as
a matter of fact I have never had the opportunity
of reading Madame de Stae'l’s latest work, Corinne,
and if you happen to possess a copy—”
“With the greatest of pleasure, my dear sir,”


38 Silver-Leg
exclaimed the préfet. He went at once to one of his
well-filled bookcases, and after a brief search found
the volume and handed it with a smile to his visitor.
“ It seems a grave pity,” he added, “that no new
edition of this remarkable work has ever been printed.
But Madame de Staél is not in favour with His
Majesty, which no doubt accounts for the publisher’s
lack of enterprise.”
A few more words of polite farewell: after which
M. Vimars took final leave of the Minister’s agent.
The little Man in Grey glided out of the stately apart-
ment like a ghost, even his footsteps failing to
resound along the polished floor.
5
Buried in a capacious armchair, beside a cheerfully
blazing fire, M. 1e Procureur Impérial had allowed
the copy of the Mom'teur which he had been reading
to drop from his shapely hands on to the floor. He
had closed his eyes and half an hour had gone by in
peaceful somnolence, even while M. Lefevre, chief
commissary of police, was cooling his heels in the
antechamber, preparatory to being received in
audience on most urgent business.
M. le Procureur Impérial never did anything in
a hurry, and, on principle, always kept a subordinate
waiting until any ofiiciousness or impertinence which
might have been lurking in the latter’s mind had been
duly squelched by weariness and sore feet.


Silver-Leg 39
So it was only after he had indulged in a short
and refreshing nap that M. de Saint-Tropeze rang
for his servant, and ordered him to introduce M.
Lefevre, chief commissary of police. The latter, a
choleric, apoplectic, loud-voiced official, entered the
audience chamber in a distinctly chastened spirit. He
had been shown the original letter of credentials sent
to M. le Procureur by the Minister, and yesterday he
had caught sight of the small grey-clad figure as it
flitted noiselessly along the narrow streets of the city.
And inwardly the brave commissary of police had then
and there perpetrated an act of high treason, for he
had sworn at the ineptitude of the grand Ministries
in Paris, which sent a pack of incompetent agents to
interfere with those who were capable of dealing with
their own local affairs.
Monsieur le Procureur Impe'rial, who no doubt
sympathised with the worthy man’s grievances, was
inclined to be gracious.
“Well? And what is it now, my good Monsieur
Lefevre? ” he asked as soon as the commissary was
seated.
“ In one moment, Monsieur le Procureur,” growled
Lefevre. “ First of all, will you tell me what I am to
do about that secret agent who has come here, I
suppose, to poke his ugly nose into my affairs? ”
“What you are to do about him ? ” rejoined M. de
Saint-Tropeze with a smile. “I have shown you the
Minister’s letter: he says that we must leave all
matters in the hands of his accredited agent.”


4o Silver-Leg
“By your leave," quoth Lefevre wrathfully, “that
accredited agent might as well be polishing the flag-
stones of the Paris boulevards, for all the good that he
will do down here.”
“You think so?” queried M. le Procureur, and
with a detached air, he fell into his customary contem-
plation of his nails.
“And with your permission,” continued the com-
missary, “I will proceed with my own investigations
of the outrages committed by those abominable
Chouans, for that bundle of conceit will never get the
hang of the affair.”
“But the Minister says that we must not interfere.
We must render all the assistance that we can.”
“Bah l we’ll render assistance when it is needed,”
retorted Lefevre captiously. “But in the meantime I
am not going to let that wooden-legged scoundrel slip
through my fingers, to please any grey-coated mar-
moset who thinks he can lord it over me in my own
district.”
M. de Saint-Tropeze appeared interested.
“You have a clue ? ” he asked.
“ More than that. -I know who killed Maxence.”
“Ah! You have got the man? Well done,
my brave Lefevre," exclaimed M. le Procureur, with-
out, however, a very great show of enthusiasm.
“I haven’t got him yet,” parried Lefevre. “But
I have the description of the rascal. A little patience
and I can lay my hands on him—provided that busy-
body does not interfere.”


Silver-Leg 41
“Who is he, then ? ” queried M. de Saint-Tropeze.
“One of those damned Chouans.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely. All day yesterday ,1 was busy in-
terrogating witnesses, who I knew must have been
along the road between Lonrai and the city in the
small hours of the morning—workpeople and so on,
who go to and from their work every morning of
their lives. Well ! after a good deal of trouble we have
been able to establish that the murder was actually
committed between the hours of five and half-past,
because although no one appears actually to have
heard the pistol shot, the people who were on the
road before five saw nothing suspicious, whilst the
two louts who subsequently discovered the body
actually heard the tower clock of Notre Dame striking
the half-hour at the very time.”
“Well? 7 And—”
“No fewer than three of the witnesses state that
they saw a man with a queer-shaped lip, dressed in
a ragged coat and breeches, and with stockingless
feet thrust into sabots, hanging about the road shortly
before five o’clock. They gave him a wide berth,
for they took him to be a Chouan.”
“Why should a Chouan trouble to kill a wretched
man who has not a five-franc piece to bless himself
with ? ”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” rejoined the
commissary of police, “and we will find it out, too,
as soon as we’ve got the ruffian and the rest of the
n


42 Silver-Leg
gang. I know the rogue, mind you—Abe man with
the queer lip. I have had my eye on him for some
time. Oh! he belongs to the gang, I’ll stake mine
oath on it: a youngish man who should be in the
army and is obviously a deserter—a ne’er-do-well who
never does a day’s honest work and disappears 0’
nights. \Vhat his name is and where he comes
from I do not know. But through him we’ll get
the others, including the chief of the gang—the man
with the wooden leg."
“God grant you may succeed l” ejaculated M. 10.
Procureur sententiously. “These perpetual outrages
in one's district are a fearful strain on one’s nerves.
By the way,” he added, as he passed his shapely hand
over a number of miscellaneous papers which lay in
a heap upon his desk, “I don’t usually take heed of
anonymous letters, but one came to me this morning
which might be worth your consideration.”
He selected a tattered, greasy paper from the heap,
fingering it gingerly, and having carefully unfolded
it passed it across the table to the chief commissary
of police. Lefevre smoothed the paper out: the
writing was almost illegible, and grease and dirt had
helped further to confuse the characters, but the
commissary had had some experience of such com-
munications, and contrived slowly to decipher the
scrawl. -
“It is a denunciation, of course,” he said. “The
rogues appear to be quarrelling amongst themselves.
‘ If,’ says the writer of the epistle, ‘ M. le Procureur


Silver-Leg 43
will send his police to-night between the hours of ten
and twelve to the Cache-Renard woods and they follow
the directions given below, they will come across the
money and valuables which were taken from the mail-
coach last Wednesday, and also those who robbed the
coach and murdered Mme. de Plélan’s valet. Strike
the first bridle-path on the right after entering the
wood by the main road, until you come to a fallen
fir tree lying across another narrow path; dismount
here and follow this track for a further three hundred
metres, till you come to a group of five larches in
the midst of a thicket of birch and oak. Stand with
your back to the larch that is farthest from you, and
face the thicket ; there you will perceive another track
which runs straight into the depths of the wood, follow
it until you come to a tiny clearing, at the bottom of
which the thicket will seem so dense that you would
deem it impenetrable. Plunge into it boldly to where
a nest of broken branches reveals the presence of
human footsteps, and in front of you you will see
a kind of but composed of dead branches and caked
mud and covered with a rough thatch of heather. In
that hut you will find that for which you seek.’ ”
“Do you think it worth while to act upon this
anonymous denunciation ? ” queried M. d'e Saint-
Tropeze when Lefevre had finished reading.
“I certainly do,” replied the commissary. “In
any case it can do no harm.”
“You must take plenty of men with you.”
“Leave that to me, Monsieur le Procureur,” re-


44 Silver-Leg
joined Lefevre, “and I'll see that they are well armed,
too."
“What about the secret agent ?”
Lefevre swore.
“That worm ?" was his sole but very expressive
comment.
“Will you see him about the matter? ”
“ What do you think? "
“I suppose you must."
“ And if he gives me orders? ”
“You must obey them, of course. Have you seen
him this morning?”
“ Yes. He had ordered me to come to his lodgings
in the Rue de France.”
“What did he want ?”
“The scrap of paper which we had found in the
breeches pocket of Maxence.”
“You gave it to him?"
“Of course," growled Lefevre savagely. “Haven’t
we all got to obey him ? ”
“ You left him in his lodgings, then?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what? ”
“Reading a book.”
“Reading a book?” exclaimed M. de Saint-
Tropeze with a harsh laugh. “What book?”
“I just noticed the title,” replied Lefevre, “though
I’m nothing of a scholar and books don’t interest
me."
“What was the title? ”


Silver-Leg 45
" Corinne,” said the commissary of police.
Apparently M. le Procureur Impe'rial had come
to the end of the questions which he desired to put
to the worthy M. Lefevre, for he said nothing more,
but remained leaning back in his chair and gazing
straight out of the window beside him. His pale,
aristocratic profile looked almost like chiselled marble
against the purple damask of the cushions. He
seemed absorbed in thought, or else supremely bored;
M. Lefevre—mothing of a psychologist, despite his
calling—could not have said which. .
The ticking of the massive Louis XIV clock upon
the mantelpiece and the sizzling of damp wood on the
hearth alone broke the silence which reigned in the
stately apartment. Through the closed window the
manifold sounds which emanate from a busy city came
discreet and subdued.
Instinctively M. Lefevre’s glance followed that of
his chief: he, too, fell, to gazing out of the window
where only a few passers-by were seen hurrying home-
wards on this late dreary October afternoon. Sud-
denly he perceived the narrow, shrinking figure of the
little Man in Grey gliding swiftly. down the narrow
street. The commissary of police smothered the
savage oath which had risen to his lips: he turned to
his chief, and even his obtuse perceptions were
aroused by what he saw. M. le Procureur Imperial
was no longer leaning back listlessly against the
damask cushions: he was leaning forward, his fine,
white hands clutching the arms of his chair. He,


46 Silver-Leg
too, had apparently caught sight of the grey-clad
figure, for his eyes, wide open and resentful, followed
it as it glided along, and on his whole face there was
such an expression of hatred and savagery that the
worthy commissary felt unaccountably awed and
subdued. Next moment, however, he thought he must
have been dreaming, for M. de Saint-Tropeze had once
more turned to him with that frigid urbanity which
became his aristocratic personality so well.
“Well, my good Lefévre,” he said, “I don’t really
think that I can help you further in any way. I quite
appreciate your mistrust of the obtrusive stranger, and
personally I cannot avoid a suspicion that he will
hamper you by interfering at a critical moment to—
night during your expedition against the Chouans.
He may just be the cause of their slipping through
your fingers, which would be such a terrible pity now
that you have gathered the net so skilfully around
them.”
Lefevre rose, and with firm, deliberate movements
tightened the belt around his portly waist, re-adjusted
the set of his tunic, and generally contrived to give
himself an air of determination and energy.
“I’ll say nothing to the shrimp about our expedi-
tion to-night,"»he said with sullen resolution. “That
is, unless you, Monsieur le Procureur, give me orders
to do so.”
“Oh, I i’ ” rejoined M. de Saint-Tropeze carelessly.
“I won’t say anything one way or the other. The
whole matter is out of my hands and you must act


Silver-Leg . 47
as you think best. Whatever happens,” he added
slowly and emphatically, “you will get no blame from
me.”
\Vhich was such an extraordinary thing for M. 1e
Procureur to say—-—who was one of the most pedantic,
most censorious and most autocratic of men—that
Lefevre spoke of it afterwards to M. le préfet and to
one or two of his friends. He could not understand
this attitude of humility and obedience on the part
of his chief: but everyone agreed that it was small
wonder M. le Procureur Impérial was upset, seeing
that the presence of that secret police agent in Alencon
was a direct snub to all the municipal and depart-
mental authoritiés throughout the district, and M. de
Saint-Tropeze was sure to resent it more than anyone
else, for he was very proud, and acknowledged to be
one of the most capable of highly-placed officials in
the whole of France.
6
The night that followed was unusually dark. Out
in the Cache-Renard woods the patter of the rain on
the tall crests of the pines and the soughing of the
wind through the branches of the trees drowned every
other sound. In the burrow built of dead branches,
caked mud and dried heather, five men sat waiting,
their ears strained to the crackling of every twig,
to the fall of every drop of moisture from the overladen
boughs. Among them the dark lantern threw a dim,
flickering light on their sullen, glowering faces. De-
ans-#1: —__-_..._..-., g


48 Silver-Leg
spite the cold and the damp outside, the atmosphere
within was hot to suffocation; the men’s breath came
panting and laboured, and now and again they ex-
changed a few whispered words.
“In any case,” declared one of them, “if we feel
that he is playing us false we shall have to do for him
to-night, eh, mates ?”
A kind of mufiled assent went round the circle, and
one man murmured :
“Do you really mistrust him, Hare-Lip ?”
“I should,” replied Hare-Lip curtly, “if I thought
he knew about Red-Poll.”
“You don’t think that he suspects?” queried
another.
“I don’t see how he can. He can’t have shown
his face, or rather his wooden leg, inside Alencon
since the mail-coach episode. The police are keen
after him. But if he did hear rumours of the death of
Red-Poll he will also have heard that the murder was
only an ordinary case of robbery—watch and money
stolen—and that a sheet of letter-paper covered with
random numerals was found in the breeches pocket
of the murdered man.”
One of the men swore lustily in the dark.
“The paper covered with numerals ! ” he muttered
savagely under his breath. “You clumsy fool to have
left that behind! " .
“ What was the use—” began another.
But Hare-Lip laughed, and broke in quietly :
“Do ye take me for a fool, mates? I was not


Silver-Leg 49
going to take away that original sheet of paper and
proclaim to our chiefs that it was one of us who
killed Red-Poll. N0 ! I took the sheet of letter-paper
with me when I went to meet Red-Poll. After he
fell—I shot him between the shoulders—I turned him
over on his back and ransacked his pockets; that was
a blind. Then I found the paper with the figures and
copied them out carefully—that was another blind——
in case Silver-Leg heard of the affair and suspected
us.” ‘
One or two of the others gave a growl of dissent.
“You might have been caught while you were
playing that silly game,” said one of the men, “which
would not deceive a child.”
“Silver-Leg is no gaby,” murmured another.
“Well, he’ll be here anon,” concluded Hare-Lip
lightly. “If you think he means to play a dirty trick,
he can go and join Red-Poll, that’s all.”
“He may not come, after all.”
“He must come. I had his message to meet him
here to-night without fail. The chiefs have planned
another attack: on the Orleans coach this time.
Silver-Leg wants us to be of the party.”
“We ought to have got hold of the last booty
before now i ”
“Impossible! Mole-Skin and I have not figured
out all the directions from the book and the numerals
yet. It is not an easy task, I tell you, but it shall be
done soon, and we can take you straight to the spot
as soon as we have the directions before us.”


5o Silver-Leg
“ Unless Silver-Leg and Madame remove the
booty in the meanwhile,” grunted one of the party
caustically.
“I sometimes wonder said another. But he
got no further. A peremptory “Hush ! " from Hare-
Lip suddenly silenced them all.
\Vith a swift movement one of them extinguished
the lantern, and now they cowered in absolute dark-
ness within their burrow like so many wild beasts
tracked to earth by the hunters. The heat was suffo-
cating: the men vainly tried to subdue the sound of
their breath as it came panting from their parched
throats.
“The police ! ” Hare-Lip muttered hoarsely.
But they did not need to be told. Just like tracked
beasts they knew every sound which portended
danger, and already from afar off, even from the very
edge of the wood, more than a kilometre away, their
ears, attuned to every sound, had perceived the
measured tramp of horses upon the soft, muddy road.
They cowered there, rigid and silent. The darkness
encompassed them, and they felt safe enough in their
shelter in the very heart of the woods, in this secret
hiding-place which was known to no living soul save
to them. The police on patrol duty had often passed
them by: the nearest track practicable on horseback
was four hundred metres away, the nearest footpath
made a wide detour round the thicket, wherein these
skulking miscreants had contrived to build their lair.
As a rule, it meant cowering, silent and motionless,


Silver-Leg 5r
inside the burrow whilst perhaps one posse of police,
more venturesome than most, had dismounted at the
end of the bridle-path and plunged afoot into the
narrower track, scouring the thicket on either side for
human quarry. It involved only an elementary
amount of danger, distant and intangible, not worth
an accelerated heart-beat, or even a gripping of knife
or pistol wherewith to sell life and liberty at a price.
And so, for the first five minutes, while the tramp
of horses’ hoofs drew nearer, the men waited in placid
silence.
“I hope Silver-Leg has found shelter,” one of the
men murmured under his breath. '
“He should have been here by now,” whispered
another.
Then they perceived the usual sound of men dis-
mounting, the rattle of chains, the champing of bits,
peremptory words of command. Even then they felt
that they had nothing to fear: these were all sounds
they had heard before. The thicket and the darkness
were their allies; they crouched in silence, but they
felt that they were safe. Their ears and senses, how-
ever, were keenly on the alert : they heard the crack-
ling of dried twigs under the heavy footsteps of the
men, the muttered curses that accompanied the
struggle against the density of the thicket, the clash-
ing of metal tools against dead branches of inter-
vening trees. Still they did not move. They were not
afraid—mot yet ! But somehow in the obscurity which
held them as in a pall their attitude had become more
M
1mierch G? “Livia


52 Silver-Leg
tense, their breathing more laboured, and one or two
strong quivering hands went out instinctively to
clutch a neighbouring one.
Then suddenly Hare-Lip drew in his breath with
a hissing sound like that of an angry snake. He
suppressed an imprecation which had forced itself to
his lips. Through the almost imperceptible aperture
_ of the burrow he had perceived the flicker of lan-
terns: and sounds of broken twigs, of trampling
feet, of moving, advancing humanity appeared sud-
denly to be strangely near.
“By Satan!” he said almost inaudibly; “they
are in the clearing l ”
“They are attacking the thicket,” added Mole-Skin
in a hoarse whisper.
Never before had the scouring posse of police come
so near to the stronghold of these brigands. It was
impossible to see how many of them there were, but
that they were both numerous and determined could
not for a moment be disputed. Voices now became
more distinct. .
“This way! " “No—that ! ” “Here, Marcel,
where’s your pick?” “Lend us your knife, Jules
Marie; the bramble has got into my boots.”
Some of the men were joking, others swearing
lustily. But there were a great number of them, and
they were now desperately near.
“ They are on us 1 ” came in a husky murmur from
Hare-Lip. “They know their way.”
“We are betrayed l ” was the stifled response.


Silver-Leg 53
“By Silver-Leg!” ejaculated Hare-Lip hoarsely,
and with such an intensity of vengeful hatred as
would have made even the autocratic wooden-legged
chief of this band of brigands quake. “The accursed
informer ! By all the demons in hell he shall pay for
his treachery ! ”
Indeed, there was no longer any doubt that it was
not mere chance which was guiding the posse of police
to this secret spot. They were making their way un-
hesitatingly by the dim light of the dark lanterns
which their leaders carried before them. One of the
men suddenly hit upon the almost imperceptible track
which led straight to the burrow. There was no mis-
taking the call which he gave to his comrades.
“I have it now, mates!” he shouted. “ Follow
me! ”
The sharp report of a pistol came by way of a
reply from the lurking-hole of the Chouans, and the
man who had just uttered the call to his mates fell
forward on his face. '
“Attention, my men ! ” commanded the oflicer in
charge. “Close the lanterns and put a charge of
powder into the brigands’ den .”
Once more the report of a pistol rang out through
the night. But the men of the police, though obviously
scared by the mysterious foe who struck at them out
of the darkness, were sufficiently disciplined not to
give ground : they fought their way into line, and the
next moment a terrific volley of gunfire rent the
echoes of the wood from end to end. In front of the


54 Silver-Leg

men now there was a wide clearing, where the under-
growth had been repeatedly broken and trampled
uppn. This they had seen, just before the lanterns
were closed, and beyond it the burrow with its thatch
of heather and its narrow aperture which revealed the
muzzle of two or three muskets, and through the
aperture several pairs of glowing eyes and shadowy
forms vaguely discernible in the gloom.
“ Up with the lights and charge ! ” commanded the
officer.
The lanterns were opened, and three sharp reports
came in immediate answer from the lair.
One or two men of the police fell amidst the bed of
brambles; but the others, maddened by this resistance
and by the fall of their comrades, rushed forward in
force.
Dividing their line in the centre, they circled round
the clearing, attacking the stronghold from two sides.
The commissary of police, leaving nothing to chance,
had sent half a company to do the work. In a few
seconds the men were all over the burrow, scrambling
up the thatch, kicking aside the loose walls of dead
branches, and within two minutes they had trampled
every fragment of the construction under foot.
But of the gang of Chouans there remained only
a few traces, and two or three muskets abandoned in
their hasty flight : they had succeeded in making good
their escape under cover of the darkness. The ser-
geant in command of the squad of police ordered the
débris of the den to be carefully searched. Very little


Silver-Leg 55
of importance was found beyond a few proofs that the
robbery of the mail-coach the other night, the murder
of Maxence, and the abortive burglary in Mon-
seilgneur's palace were the work of the same gang.
One or two watches and pocket-lmoks were subse-
quently identified by the passengers of the coach that
had been held up; there was the silver watch which
had belonged to the murdered valet, and a couple of
books which bore Monseigneur the Bishop of Alen-
con’s book-plate.
But of the man with the wooden leg and his
rascally henchmen, or of the sixty-two hundred francs
stolen from the coach, there was not a sign.
The chief commissary of police swore lustily when
his men returned to the bridle-path where he had been
waiting for them, and the sergeant reported to him
that the rogues had made good their escape. But
even his wrath—violent and wordy as it was—was as
nothing to the white heat of anger wherewith M. le
Procureur Imperial received the news of the dire
failure of the midnight raid in the Cache-Renard
woods.
Indeed, he appeared so extraordinarily upset at
the time that his subsequent illness was directly at-
tributable to this cause. The leech vowed that his
august patient was suffering from a severe shock to
his nerves. Be that as it may, M. de Saint-Tropeze,
who was usually in such vigorous health, was con-
fined to his room for some days after the raid. It was
a fortnight and more ere he again took his walks


56 Silver-Leg
abroad, as had been his wont in the past, and his
friends, when they saw him, could not help but remark
that something of M. le Procureur‘s elasticity and
proud bearing had gone. 'He who used to be so up-
right now walked with a decided stoop; his face looked
at times the colour of ashes; and now and again, when
he was out in the streets, he would throw a look
around him almost as if he were afraid.
On the other hand, the secret agent of His Imperial
Majesty’s Police had received the news of the escape
of the Chouans with his habitual quietude and
equanimity.
He did not make any comment on the commissary’s
report of the affair, nor did he offer the slightest re-
monstrance to M. le Procureur Impérial for having
permitted the expedition without direct instructions
from the official representative of the Minister.
Nothing was seen of the little Man in Grey for the
next two or three weeks : he appeared absorbed in the
books which M. le préfet so graciously lent him, and
he did not trouble either the latter, or M. le Procureur,
or the commissary of police with many visits.
The matter of the highway robbery, as well as
that of the murdered valet Maxence, appeared to be
already relegated to the growing list of the mysterious
crimes perpetrated by those atrocious Chouans,
with which the police of His Imperial Majesty were
unable to cope. The appearance of the enigmatic
person in grey had had no deterrent effect on the
rascals, nor was it likely to have any, if he proved as


Silver-Leg 57
inept as the local officials had been in dealing with
such flagrant and outrageous felony.
7
And once again the silence of the forest was broken
in the night by the sound of human creatures on the
prowl. Through the undergrowth which lies thickest
at the Lonrai end of the woods, to the left of the inter-
secting main road, the measured tread of a footfall
could be faintly perceived—it was a strange and
halting footfall, as of a man walking with a stump.
Behind the secular willow, which stands in the
centre of the small clearing beside the stagnant pool
in the very heart of this dense portion of the forest,
a lonely watcher crouched, waiting. He had lain there
and waited night after night, and for hours at a
stretch the surrounding gloom held him in its close
embrace: his ears and senses were strained to hear
that uneven footfall, whenever its faint thud broke the
absolute silence. To no other sound, no other sight,
did he pay any attention, or no doubt he would have
noticed that in the thicket behind him another watcher
cowered. The stalker was stalked in his turn: the
watcher was watched. Someone else was waiting in
this dense corner for the man with the wooden leg-—
a small figure wrapped in a dark mantle, a silent,
furtive creature, more motionless, more noiseless than
any beast in its lair.
At last, to-night, that faint, uneven thud of a
a


58 Silver-Leg


wooden stump against the soft carpet of the woods
reached the straining ears of the two watchers. Anon
the feeble flicker of a dark lantern was vaguely dis-
cernible in the undergrowth.
The man who was crouching behind the willow
drew in his breath with a faint, hissing sound; his
hand grasped more convulsively the pistol which it
held. He was lying flat upon his stomach, like a
creeping reptile watching for its prey; his eyes were
fixed upon the tiny flickering light as it slowly drew
near towards the stagnant pool.
In the thicket behind him the other watcher also
lay in wait : his hand, too, closed upon a pistol with a
firm and determined grip; the dark mantle slid noise-
lessly down from his shoulders. But he did not move,
and not a twig that helped to give him cover, quivered
at his touch.
The next moment a man dressed in a rough blouse
and coarse breeches and with a woollen cap pulled
over his shaggy hair came out into the clearing. He
walked deliberately up to the willow tree. In addition
to the small dark lantern which he held in one hand,
he carried a spade upon his shoulder. Presently he
threw down the spade and then proceeded so to
arrange the lantern that its light fell full upon one
particular spot, where the dry moss appeared to have
been recently disturbed. The man crouching behind
the willow watched his every movement; the other
behind the thicket hardly dared to breathe.
Then the newcomer did a very curious thing.


Silver-Leg 59
Sitting down upon the soft, sodden earth, he stretched
his wooden stump out before him: it was fastened
with straps to the leg which was bent at the knee, the
shin and foot beyond appearing like a thick and shape-
less mass, swathed with bandages. The supposed
maimed man, however, now set to work to undo the
straps which bound the wooden stump to his leg, then
he removed the stump, straightened out his knee, un-
wound the few metres of bandages which concealed
the shape of his shin and foot, and finally stood up on
both legs, as straight and hale as nature had originally
made him. The watcher behind the willow had viewed
all his movements with tense attention. Now he could
scarcely repress a gasp of mingled astonishment and
rage, or the vengeful curse which had risen to his lips.
The newcomer took up his spade and, selecting the
spot where the moss and the earth bore traces of
having been disturbed, he bent to his task and started
to dig. The man behind the tree raised his pistol
and fired : the other staggered backwards with a groan
—partly of terror and partly of pain and his left hand
went up to his right shoulder with a quick, convul-
sive gesture. 'But already the assassin, casting his
still smoking pistol aside, had fallen upon his victim;
there was a struggle, brief and grim, a smothered call
for help, a savage exclamation of rage and satisfied
vengeance, and the wounded man fell at last with a
final cry of horror, as his enemy’s grip fastened
around his throat.
For a second or two the murderer stood quite still


Silver-Leg 61
“What about the money ? ”
“ We’d best get that now. Didn’t I tell you that
Silver-Leg would come here sooner or later ? We lost
nothing by lying in wait for him.”
Without another word Mole-Skin picked up the
spade, and in his turn began to dig at the spot where
Silver-Leg had toiled when the bullet of his betrayed
comrade laid him low. There was only the one spade,
and Hare-Lip kept watch while his comrade dug.
The light from the dark lantern revealed the two
miscreants at their work.
While Hare-Lip had thus taken the law into his
own hands against the informer, the watcher in the
thicket had not stirred. But now he, also, began to
crawl slowly and cautiously out of his hiding-place.
No snake, or lizard, or crawling, furtive beast could
have been more noiseless than he was; the moss be-
neath him dulled the sound of every movement, till
he, too, had reached the willow tree.
The two Chouans were less than thirty paces away
from him. Intent upon their work they had been
oblivious of every other sound. Now when the
tracker of his human quarry raised his arm to fire,
Hare-Lip suddenly turned and at once gave a warning
call to his mate. But the call broke upon his lips,
there came a sharp report, immediately. followed by
another—the two brigands, illumined by the lantern,
had been an easy target, and the hand which wielded
the pistol was steady and unerring.
And now stillness more absolute than before


62 Silver-Leg
reigned in the heart of the forest. Summary justice
had been meted out to a base informer by the venge-
ful arm of the comrades whom he had betrayed, and
to the two determined criminals by an equally
relentless and retributive hand.
The man who had so inexorably accomplished this
last act of unfaltering justice waited for a moment
or two until the last lingering echo of the double
pistol shot had ceased to resound through the woods.
Then he put two fingers to his lips and gave a
shrill prolonged whistle; after which he came out
from behind the willow. He was small and insignifi-
cant-looking, with a pale face and colourless eyes.
He was dressed in grey and a grey cap was pulled
low down over his forehead. He went up to where
the two miscreants whom he had shot were lying, and
with a practised eye and hand assured himself that
they were indeed dead. He turned the light of the
dark lantern first on the man with the queer-shaped
lip and then on the latter’s companion. The two
Chouans had at any rate paid for some of their crimes
with their lives; it remained for the 'Almighty judge
to pardon or to punish as they deserved. The third
man lay, stark and rigid, where a kick from the other
man had roughly cast him aside. His eyes, wide
open and inscrutable, had still around them a strange
look of authority and pride; the features appeared
calm and marble-like; the mouth under the obviously
false heard was tightly closed, 'as if it strove even in
death to suppress every sound which might betray


Silver-Leg 63
the secret that had been so jealously guarded through-
out life. Near by lay the wooden stump which had
thrown such a cloud of dust into the eyes of good M.
Lefevre and his local police.
With slow deliberation the Man in Grey picked up
the wooden stump, and so replaced it against the dead
man’s leg that in the feeble light and dense black
shadows it looked as real as it had done in life—a
support for an amputated limb. A moment or
two later, the flickering light of a lantern showed
through the thicket, and soon the lusty voice of the
commissary of police broke in on the watcher's
loneliness.
“We heard three distinct shots," explained M.
Lefévre, as soon as he reached the clearing and caught
sight of the secret agent.
“Three acts of justice,” replied the Man in Grey
quietly, as he pointed to the bodies of the three
Chouans.
“The man with the wooden leg! ” exclaimed the
commissary in tones wherein astonishment and unmis-
takable elation struggled with a momentary feeling of
horror. “You have got him? ”
“Yes,” answered the Man in Grey simply.
“Where are your men? ”
“I left them at the junction of the bridle-path, as
you ordered me to do,” growled the commissary sul-
lenly, for he still felt sore and aggrieved at the
peremptory commands which had been given to him
by the secret agent earlier on that day.


Silver-Leg 65
dead Chouans, “are the men who wreaked their
vengeance upon their chief.”
“But how ” interjected Lefevre, who was too
bewildered to speak or even to think coherently, “how
did you find out—how—”
“Later I may tell you,” broke in the Man in Grey
shortly, “now we must see to the removal of the
bodies. But remember,” he added peremptorily and
with solemn earnestness, “that everything you have
seen and heard to-night must remain for ever a secret
within your breast. For the honour of our adminis-
tration, for the honour of our newly-founded Empire,
the dual personality and countless crimes of such a
highly placed official as Monsieur de Saint-Tropeze
must never be known to the public. I saved the
hangman’s work when I killed these two men—there
is no one living now, save you and I, who can tell the
tale of Monsieur de Saint-Tropeze’s double entity.
Remember that to the public who knew him, to his
servants, to your men who will carry his body in all
respect and reverence, he has died‘ here by my side in
the execution of his duty—disguised in rough clothes
in order to help me track these infernal Chouans to
their lair. 1 shall never speak of what I know, and
as for you ”
The Man in Grey paused and, even through the
gloom, the commissary felt the strength and menace
of those colourless eyes fixed steadfastly upon him.
“Your oath, Monsieur le Commissaire de Police,”
concluded the secret agent in firm, commanding tones.


66 Silver-Leg
Awed and subdued-not to say terrified—the chief
commissary gave the required oath of absolute
secrecy.
“Now go and fetch your men, my good Lefevre,"
enjoined the Man in Grey quietly.
Mechanically the commissary turned to go. He
felt as if he were in a dream from which he would
presently awake. The man whom he had respected
and feared, the Procurator of His Majesty the
Emperor, whose authority the whole countryside
acknowledged, was identical with that nefarious
Chouan with the wooden leg whom the entire prov-
ince loathed and feared.
Indeed, the curious enigma of that dual personality
was enough' to addle even a clearer intellect than that
of the worthy commissary of police. Guided by the
light of the lantern he carried he made his way back
through the thicket whence he had come.
Alone in the forest, the Man in Grey watched over
the dead. He looked down meditatively on the pale,
aristocratic face of the man who had lied and schemed
and planned, robbed and murdered, who had risked
so much and committed such villainies, for a purpose
which would henceforth and for ever remain an
unfathomable mystery.
Was passionate loyalty for the decadent Royalist
Cause at the root of all the crimes perpetrated by this
man of culture and position—or was it merely vulgar
greed, vulgar and insatiable worship of money, that
drove him to mean and sordid crimes? To what


Silver-Leg 67
uses did he put the money wrung from peaceable
citizens? Did it go to swell the coffers of a hopeless
Cause, or to contribute to M. de Saint-Tropeze’s own
love of luxury '1’
The Man in Grey pondered these things in the
loneliness and silence of the night. All such ques-
tions must henceforth be left unanswered. For the
sake of officialdom, of the government of the new
Empire, the memory of such a man as M. de Saint-
'l‘ropéze must remain for ever untarnished.
Anon the posse of police under the command of a
sergeant arrivedtupon the scene. They had impro-
vised three stretchers; one of these was reverently
covered with a mantle, upon which they laid the body
of M. le Procureur Imperial, killed in the discharge
of his duty whilst aiding to track a gang of desperate
Chouans.
8
In the forenoon of the following day the chief com-
missary of police, having seen M. le Préfet on the
subject of the arrangements for the public funeral of
M. de Saint-Tropeze, called at the lodgings of the
secret agent of His Imperial Majesty’s Police.
After the usual polite formalities, Lefevre plunged
boldly into the subject of his visit.
“How did you find out P ” he asked, trying to carry
off the situation with his accustomed bluff. “You
owe me an explanation, you know, Monsieur—er—
Fernand. I am chief commissary of this district, and


Silver-Leg 69
the man with the wooden leg say something about a
book named ‘ Corinne ’ which was to be mentioned to
‘ Monseigneur,’ and a key which would be sent to
‘ Madame ’ by the intermediary of Red-Poll.
“Within two days of this I learned that a man
who had red hair and was valet to Madame la
Marquise de Plélan had been murdered, and that a
sheet of note-paper covered with random numerals
was found upon his person; at the same time a bur-
glary had been committed in the house of Mon-
seigneur the Bishop of Alencon and all that had been
stolen were some books. At once I recognised the
hand of Hare-Lip and his gang. They had obviously
stolen the book from Monseigneur’s library and then
murdered Red-Poll, in order to possess themselves
of the cipher, which I felt sure would prove to be
the indication of the secret hiding-place of the stolen
booty. It was easy enough to work out the problem
of the book and the key. The numerals 0n the sheet
of note-paper referred to pages, lines and words in
the book—a clumsy enough cipher at best. It gave
me—just as I expected—clear indications of the very
place, beside the willow tree and the pool. Also—just
as I anticipated—Silver-Leg, the autocratic chief, had
in the meanwhile put his threat into execution and
punished his rebellious followers by betraying them
to the police.”
“Great God ! ” exclaimed Lefévre, recollecting the
anonymous letter which M. le Procureur had handed
to him.


70 Silver-Leg
“I dare say you recollect this phase of the episode,”
continued the Man in Grey. “ Your expedition
against the Chouans nearly upset all my plans. It
had the effect of allowing three of them to escape.
However, let that pass for the moment. I could not
help but guess, when I heard of the attack, that Hare-
Lip and his mates would wish to be revenged on the
informer. Their burrow was now known to the police,
but there was still the hiding-place of the booty, to
which sooner or later I knew that Silver-Leg must
return.
“You remember the orders I gave you a full
month ago; to be prepared to go on any day and at
an instant’s notice with a dozen of your men to a
certain point on the main road at the Lonrai end of
the wood which I had indicated to you, whenever I
sent you a peremptory message to do so, and there to
wait in silence and on the alert until a shrilf‘ whistle
from me brought you to my side. Well! in this
matter you did your duty well, and the Minister shall
hear of it.
“As for me, I was content to bide my time. With
the faithful henchman whom you placed at my disposal
I lay in wait for Monsieur de Saint-Tropeze in the
Rue St. Blaise during all those weary days and nights
when he was supposed to be too ill to venture out of
his house. At last he could refrain no longer; greed
or perhaps sheer curiosity, or that wild adventurous
spirit which made him what he was, drove him to
lend a deaf ear to the dictates of prudence and to


Silver-Leg _ 71
don once again the shaggy beard, the rough clothes
and wooden stump of his lawless and shady life.
“ I had so placed your man that from where he was
he could not see Monsieur le Procureur, whenever the
latter came out of his house, nor did he know whom or
what it was that I was watching; but as soon as I saw
Monsieur de Saint—Tropeze emerging stealthily from
his side gate, I dispatched your man to you with the
peremptory message to go at once to the appointed
place, and then I started in the wake of my quarry.
“You, my good Lefevre, have no conception what
it means to track—unseen and unheard—one of those
reckless Chouans who are more alert than any wild
beast. But I tracked my man; he came out of his
house when the night was at its darkest and first made
his way to that small derelict den which no doubt
you know and which stands just off the main road, on
the fringe of the Cache-Renard wood. This he
entered and came out about a quarter of an hour later,
dressed in his Chouan rig-out. I must own that for
a few seconds he almost deceived me, so marvellous
was his disguise; the way he contrived that wooden
leg was positively amazing.
“After that he plunged into the woods. But I
no longer followed him; I knew whither he was going
and was afraid lest, in the depths and silence of the
forest, he would hear my footfall and manage to give
me the slip. Whilst he worked his way laboriously
with his wooden stump through the thicket and the
undergrowth, I struck boldly along the main road,
‘7_ _\_ “g; __ __\__.~ ~.» ~'~—
W— “W—


72 . Silver-Leg
and plunged into the wood at the point which had
been revealed to me by the cipher. I had explored
the place many a time during the past month, and had
no difficulty in finding the stagnant pool and the
Willow tree. Hare-Lip and his mate were as usual on
the watch. No sooner had Silver-Leg appeared on
the scene than the others meted out to him the full
measure of their vengeful justice. But I could not
allow them to be taken alive. I did not know how
much they knew or guessed of their leader’s secret, or
how much they might reveal at their first interroga-
tion. The gallows had already claimed them for its
own; for me they were a facile prey. I shot them
both deliberately and will answer to His Majesty’s
Minister of Police alone for my actions.”
The Man in Grey paused. As he completed his
narrative Lefévre stared at him, dumbfounded at the
courage, the determination, the dogged perseverance
which alone could have brought this amazing under-
taking to its grim and gruesome issue.
“After this, my good Lefevre,” remarked the
secret agent more lightly, “we shall have to find out
something about ‘ Madame ’ and quite a good deal
about ‘ Monseigneur.’ ”


II
THE SPANIARD
1
THE man with the wooden leg was still at large, and
M. le Procureur Imperial had died a hero’s death
whilst helping to capture a gang of desperate Chouans
in the Cache-Renard woods. This was the public
version of the tragic epilogue to those three mysteries,
which had puzzled and terrified the countryside during
the early days of October, rSro—the robbery of the
mail-coach, the burglary in the Palace of Monseigneur
the Constitutional Bishop of Alencon, and the murder
of Mme. la Marquise de Plélan’s valet, Maxence.
The intelligent section of the public was loud in its
condemnation of the ineptitude displayed by the police
in the matter of those abominable crimes, and chief
commissary Lefevre, bound by oath—not to say terror
—to hold his tongue as to the real facts of the case,
grumbled in his beard and muttered curses on the ac-
credited representative of the Minister of Police—ay,
and on M. le Duc d’Otrante himself.
On top of all the public unrest and dissatisfaction
came the outrage at the house of M. de Kerblay, a
noted advocate of the Paris bar and member of the
Senate, who owned a small property in the neighbour-
F 73


74 The Spaniard
hood of Alencon, where he spent a couple of months
every year with his wife and family, entertaining a few
friends during the shooting season.
In the morning of November the 6th, the neigh-
bourhood was horrified to hear that on the previous
night, shortly after ten o’clock, a party of those
ruffianly Chouans had made a descent on M. de Kerb-
lay’s house, Les Ormeaux. They had demanded ad-
mittance in the name of the law. All the servants
had gone to bed with the exception of Hector, M. de
Kerblay’s valet, and he was so scared that he allowed
the scélérats to push their way into the house before
he had realised who they were. Ere he could call
for help he was set upon, gagged, and locked up in his
pantry. The Chouans then proceeded noiselessly up-
stairs. Mme. de Kerblay was already in bed. The
Senator was in his dressing-room, half undressed.
They took him completely by surprise, held a pistol
to his head, and demanded the immediate payment of
twenty-five thousand francs. Should the Senator
summon his servants, the rogues would shoot him
and his wife and even his children summarily, if they
were stopped in their purpose or hindered in their
escape.
M. de Kerblay was considerably over sixty. Not
too robust in health, terrorised and subdued, he
yielded, and with the muzzle of a pistol held to his
head and half a dozen swords gleaming around him,
he produced the keys of his secrétaire and handed
over to the Chouans not only all the money he had in


The Spaniard 75
the house—something over twenty thousand francs-—
but a diamond ring, valued at another twenty thou-
sand, which had been given to him by the Emperor
in recognition of signal services rendered in the
matter of the affairs of the ex-Empress.
Whereupon the wretches departed as silently as
they had come, and by the time the hue and cry was
raised they had disappeared, leaving no clue or trace.
The general consensus of opinion attributed the
outrage to the man with the wooden leg. M. Lefevre,
chief commissary of police, who knew that that par-
v ticular scoundrel was reposing in the honoured vault
of the Saint-Tropeze family, was severely nonplussed.
Since the sinister episode of the dual personality of M.
de Saint-Tropeze he realised more than ever how diffi-
cult it was to deal with these Chouans. Here to-day,
gone to-morrow, they were veritable masters in the
art of concealing their identity, and in this quiet corner
of Normandy it was impossible to shake a man by the
hand without wondering whether he did not perchance
belong to that secret gang of malefactors.
M. de Kerblay, more distressed at the loss of his
ring than of his money, ofl'ered a reward of five thou-
sand francs for its recovery; but while M. Lefevre’s
zeal was greatly stimulated thereby, the Man in Grey
appeared disinclined to move in the matter, and his
quiet, impassive attitude grated unpleasantly on the
chief commissary’s feelings.
About a week after the outrage, on a cold, wet
morning in November, M. Lefevre made a tempestu-


The Spaniard 77
“Of course.”
“Immunity for himself? ”
“Yes.”
“And a reward? ”
“Yes.”
“You did not agree to that, I hope,” said the Man
in Grey sternly.
M. Lefevre bummed and hawed.
“There must be no question of bribing these men
to betray one another,” resumed the secret agent
firmly, “or you’ll be falling into one baited
trap after another.”
“But there’s Monsieur de Kerblay's offer of a
reward for the recovery of the ring, and in this
case——” protested Lefevre sullenly.
“In no case,” broke in the Man in Grey.
“Then what shall I do with the man P ” _
“ Promise him a free pardon for himself and per-
mission to rejoin his regiment if his information
proves to be correct. Keep him in the police-cells,
and come and report to me directly you have extracted
from him all he knows, or is welling to tell.”
The chief commissary of police was well aware that
when the Minister’s secret agent assumed that quiet
air of authority, neither argument nor resistance was
advisable. He muttered something between his teeth,
but receiving no further response from the Man in
Grey he turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out
of the room, murmuring inaudible things about
“ofliciousness” and “incompetence.”


The Spaniard 79
The man spat on the ground, by way of express-
ing his contempt at the prospect.
“I’d as lief be shot at once,” he declared
emphatically.
M. Lefevre could have torn his scanty hair with
rage. He was furious with the Chouan and his ob-
stinacy, and furious with that tiresome man in the
grey coat who lorded it over every official in the
district, and assumed an authority which he ought
never to have been allowed to wield.
The one-eyed Chouan was taken back' to the police-
cells, and M. Lefevre gave himself over to his gloomy
meditations. Success and a goodly amount of credit
-—-not to mention the five thousand francs’ reward for
the recovery of the ring—appeared just within his
reach. A couple of thousand francs out of the muni-
cipal funds to that wretched informer, and the chiefs
of one of the most desperate gangs of Chouans would
fall into M. Lefevre’s hands, together with no small
measure of glory for the brilliant capture. It was
positively maddening!
It was not till late in the afternoon that the worthy
commissary had an inspiration—such a grand one
that he smacked his high forehead, marvelling it had
not come to him before. What were two thousand
francs out of his own pocket beside the meed of
praise which would fall to his share, if he succeeded
in laying one or two of those Chouan leaders by the
heels? He need not touch the municipal funds. He
had a couple of thousand francs put by and more;


80 The Spaniard
and, surely, that sum would be a sound investment
for future advancement and the recognition of his
services on the part of the Minister himself, in addi-
tion to which there would be his share in M. de
Kerblay’s reward.
So M. Lefevre sent for the one-eyed Chouan and
once more interrogated him, cajoling and threatening
alternately, with a view to obtaining gratis the in-
formation which the man was only prepared to sell.
“I’ll say nothing,” reiterated the Chouan obstin-
ately, “unless I am paid to speak.”
“Well! What will you take? ” said the
commissary at last.
“Five thousand francs," replied the man glibly.
“I’ll give you one," rejoined M. Lefevre. “But
mind," he added with uncompromising severity, “you
remain here in the cells as hostage for your own good
faith. If you lie to me, you will be shot—summarily
and without trial .”
“Give me three thousand and I’ll speak,” said the
Chouan.
“Two thousand,” rejoined the commissary, “and
that is my last word."
For a second or two the man appeared to hesitate;
with his one eye he tried to fathom the strength of
M. le Commissaire’s determination. Then he said
abruptly:
“Very well, I’ll take two thousand francs. Give
me the money now and I’ll speak."
Without another superfluous word M. Lefevre


The Spaniard 81
counted out twenty one-hundred franc notes, and gave
them into the Chouan’s grimy hand. He thought it
best to appear open-handed and to pay cash down;
the man would be taken straight back to the cells
presently, and if he played a double game he would
anyhow forfeit the money together with his life.
“Now,” said Lefevre as soon as the man had thrust
the notes into the pocket of his breeches, “tell me who
is your chief, and where a posse of my police can lay
hands upon him.”
“The chief of my gang,” rejoined the Chouan, “is
called ‘ the Spaniard ’ amongst us; his real name is
Carrera and he comes from Madrid. We don’t often
see him, but it was he who led the expedition to the
house of Monsieur de Kerblay.”
“What is he like? ”
“A short man with dark, swarthy skin, small
features, keen, jet-black eyes, no lashes, and very little
eyebrow, a shock of coal-black hair and a square black
beard and moustache; he speaks French with a
Spanish accent.”
“Very good! Now tell me where we can find
him.”
“At Chéron’s farm on the Chartres road between
la Mesle and Montague. You know it? ”
“I know the farm. I don’t know Chéron.
Well? ”
“The Spaniard has arranged to meet a man there
—a German Jew—while Chéron himself is away from
home. The idea is to dispose of the ring.”


82 ' The Spaniard
“I understand. When is the meeting to take
place? ”
“To-night! It is market day at Chartres and
Chéron will be absent two days. It was all arranged
yesterday. The Spaniard and his gang will sleep
at the farm; the following morning they will leave for
Paris, en route some of them, so ’tis said, for Spain .”
“And the farmer—Chéron? What has he to do
with it all? "
“Nothing,” replied the Chouan curtly. “He is
just a fool. His house stands isolated in a lonely part
of the country, and his two farm hands are stupid
louts. So, whenever the Spaniard wants to meet any
of his accomplices privately, he selects a day when
Chéron is from home, and makes use of the farm for
his own schemes.”
“You owe him a grudge, I suppose,” sneered
Lefevre, who had taken rapid notes of all the man
had told him.
“No,” replied the Chouan slowly, “but those of us
who helped to work the coup at Monsieur de Kerblay’s
the other night were each to receive twenty francs as
our share of the spoils. It was not enough ! ”
The commissary of police nodded complacently.
He was vastly satisfied with the morning’s work. He
had before now heard vague hints about this
Spaniard, one of those mysterious and redoubtable
Chouan leaders who had given the police of the entire
province no end of trouble and grave cause for un-
easiness. Now by his—Lefevre’s—own astuteness he


The Spaniard 83
stood not only to lay the villain by the heels and earn
commendation for his zeal from the Minister himself,
but, if this one-eyed scoundrel spoke the truth, also
to capture some of his more prominent accomplices,
not to mention the ring and M. de Kerblay’s generous
reward.
Incidentally he also stood to put a spoke in the
wheel of that over-masterful and interfering man in
the grey coat, which would be a triumph not by any
means to be depreciated.
So the Chouan was taken back to the cells and the
chief commissary of police was left free to make his
arrangements for the night’s expedition, without
referring the matter to the accredited agent of His
Majesty’s Police.
3
Lefevre knew that he was taking a grave risk when,
shortly after eight o’clock on that same evening, he
ordered a squadron of his police to follow him to
Chéron’s farm on the Chartres road. At the last
moment he even had a few misgivings as to the wis-
dom of his action. If the expedition did not meet
with the measure of success which be anticipated, and
the accredited agent of the Minister came to hear of it,
something exceedingly unpleasant to the over-
zealous commissary might be the result. However,
after a few very brief moments of this unworthy hesi-
tation, M. Lefevre chid himself for his cowardice and
started on his way.


84 The Spaniard
Since his interview with the one-eyed Chouan he
had been over to the farm in order to get a
thorough knowledge of the topography of the build-
ings and of their surroundings. Disguised as a
labourer he had hung about the neighbourhood in
the wet and cold until he felt quite sure that
he could find his way anywhere around the place in
the dark.
The farm stood a couple of kilometres or so from
the road, on the bank of a tiny tributary of the May-
enne, surrounded by weeping willows, now stripped
of their leaves, and flanked by a couple of tumble-
down heather-thatched sheds. It was a square
building, devoid of any outstanding architectural
features, and looking inexpressibly lonely and for-
lorn. There was not another human habitation in
sight, and the wooded heights which dominated the
valley appeared to shut the inhabitants of the little
farm away from the rest of mankind. As he looked
at the vast and mournful solitude around, Lefevre
easily recognised how an astute leader, such as the
Spaniard appeared to be, would choose it as head-
quarters for his schemes. Whenever the house itself
became unsafe the thicket of willow and chestnut
close by, and the dense undergrowth on the heights
above, would afford perfect shelter for fugitive
marauders.
It was close on ten o’clock of an exceptionally dark
night when the posse of police, under the command
of the chief commissary, dismounted at the “ Grand


The Spaniard 87
The men obeyed as quickly as the darkness would
allow, and again two musket shots rang out from
among the trees; this time the sergeant fell forward
on his face.
“Corporal Crosnier, are you there? ” called Com-
missary Lefevre.
“Present, my commandant l ” was the quick reply.
“ Take jean Marie and Dominique and two or three
others with you, and put up the game that is lurking
under those willows.”
Crosnier obeyed; he called half a dozen men to
him and marched them up towards the thicket. The
cowering enemy lay low; only from time to time
shots rang out simultaneously out of the darkness.
Sometimes they made a hit, but not often; one or two
of the men received a stray bullet in shoulder or
leg—a random shot which came from out of the
gloom and to which they could nOt reply, for it was
impossible to see whence it had come. Presently
even that intermittent fire ceased. It seemed as if the
thicket had finally swallowed up the lurking quarry.
In the meantime Lefevre had ordered two or three
of his picked men to use the butt-end of their muskets
against the door.
“Batter it in, my men,” he commanded, “and
arrest everyone you find inside the house."
Strangely enough, considering the usually des-
perate tactics of these Chouan gangs when brought to
bay, no resistance was offered from the interior of
their stronghold. Whether the rascals were short of


88 The Spaniard
ammunition and were saving it for a hand-to-hand
fight later, or whether they were preparing some bold
coup, it was impossible to say. Certain it is that the
vigorous attacks against the front door were met by
absolute silence—so absolute, indeed, as vaguely t0
disconcert the commissary of police.
Still the men continued to pound away with their
muskets against the panels of the door; but the latter
was extraordinarily massive in comparison with the
want of solidity of the rest of the house. It resisted
every onslaught for some time, until at last it fell in
with a terrific crash, and Lefévre, leaving half a dozen
men on guard outside, took another half-dozen with
him and entered.
He had picked his men from among those whom
he knew to be most intrepid, for he had expected a
desperate resistance on the part of the Chouans; he
was prepared to be greeted with a volley of musket-
fire as he and his men crossed the threshold; he had
anticipated a hand-to-hand fight across that battered
door. In fact, M. Lefevre, chief commissary of police,
had made ready for everything excepting the death-
like stillness which he encountered by way of
welcome.
Darkness and silence held undisputed sway every-
where. The men, with dark lanterns fixed to their
belts and holding loaded mUskets in their hands,
paused for one moment irresolute. Then they started
to make a thorough search of the place; first the
ground floor, then the entrance hall and staircase,


The Spaniard 89
then the cellars. They explored every nook and
cranny where human quarry might find shelter, but
there was not a sign, hardly a trace of any Chouans,
save in one small room on the ground floor which
certainly appeared as if it had been recently occupied;
the chairs had been hastily pushed aside, on the centre
table were half a dozen mugs and two or three jugs,
one of which was still half filled with wine, a handful
of ashes smouldered on the hearth, and the lamp which
hung from the ceiling above was alight. But for this,
Lefevre might have thought that he must have been
dreaming when he stood by the front door and saw
the narrow stream of light through the chink of a
shutter.
Indeed, there was something unspeakably dreary
and desolate in this dark and empty house, in which
undoubtedly a gang of malefactors had lately held
revel; and when the men went upstairs in order
to explore the floor above, they were, every one of
them, conscious of the quick sense of unreasoning
terror when a weird and intermittent sound suddenly
reached their ears.
The sound came from over their heads—it was like
a wail, and was piteous and disconcerting in the
extreme.
“Like someone groaning,” said one of the men in
a hoarse whisper.
Soon their momentary feeling of dread passed
away, and two or three of the men had already scaled
the narrow, ladder-like stairs which led to a loft that
o


90 The Spaniard
ran the whole length and breadth of the house under
the sloping roof.
But here an extraordinary sight met their gaze.
Huddled up against a large supporting beam were an
old man, a woman and two young girls. They had
been tied together by ropes to the beam. Each of the
unfortunates was in acute distress or bodily pain.
The atmosphere of the place was both stuffy and bit-
terly cold. Incessant moaning came from the woman,
sobbing from the girls; the man appeared stunned and
dazed. When the light from one of the dark lan-
terns fell upon him, he blinked his eyes and gazed
vacantly on the men who were already busy with the
ropes, freeing him and the woman from their bonds.
They all appeared in the last stage of exhaustion
and clung to one another for support and warmth,
when Lefevre with kindly authority ordered them to
move. Fortunately one of the men recollected the jug
of wine which had been left in the room on the
ground floor. He ran to fetch it, and returned very
soon, jug and glasses in hand. In the meanwhile
Lefevre had remained staring at the wretched people
and trying to extract a few words of explanation from
them.
So far he had only been able to elicit the informal-
tion that four members of the farmer Chéron’s family,
his father, his wife and his two daughters, stood before
him in this pitiable plight. It was only after they had
drunk a little wine that they were able to speak
coherently. In short, jerky sentences and with teeth


92 The Spaniard
posed the woman woefully. “ Gone ! They caroused
all day, and left about a couple of hours ago; since
then the house has been as silent as the grave."
Lefevre said nothing very coherent for the
moment; he was mentally embracing the Chouans,
the lying informer and his own folly in one
comprehensive curse.
“ But my men were fired on from behind the trees,”
he urged feebly after a while. '
“I heard the firing, too, Monsieur le Commis-
saire,” rejoined the old man. “It terrified us, for the
Chouans had threatened to shoot us all if they were
attacked by the police; and these two young girls—
think of it, Monsieur le Commissaire—at the mercy of
those brutes. I suppose,” he added with a shudder,
“that while the leaders of the gang made good their
escape, they left a couple of men behind to cover their
retreat.”
Nothing more could be got out of these poor
people. They had been set upon quite early in the
day by the Chouans, and knew little or nothing of
what had gone on in the house while they were
prisoners in the loft. They did not know how many
of the ruffians there were—six or eight they thought.
The chief was a man with swarthy skin and a long
black beard, who spoke French with a strange foreign
accent.
The commissary of police went nearly mad with
rage. He set his best men to search the farm-house
through and through, in the hope that some of the


The Spaniard 93
rascals might still be lurking about the place. But
the men ransacked the house in vain. They found
neither trap-door nor secret panel, nor slinking
quarry, and after a couple of hours’ hunt were forced
to own themselves defeated. '
4
M. Lefevre returned to Alencon with his posse of
police in the small hours of the morning. He dis-
missed the men at the commissariat, and sought his
own lodgings in the Rue Notre Dame, his mind a
prey to the bitterest feeling of disappointment—not
unmixed with misgivings at thought of M. le
Ministre’s agent, should he get wind of the
miscarriage.
To his terror and amazement, no sooner had he
entered the house than the concierge came out of his
lodge to tell him that a gentleman was upstairs in his
rooms, waiting for him.
“Who is it?” he asked sharply. “You have no
right to admit anyone to my rooms at this hour of
the night.”
“I could not help myself,” retorted the concierge
sullenly. “He exhibited some sort of order from the
Ministry of Police, and was so high-handed and
peremptory that I dared not refuse.”
Filled with vague apprehension M. Lefevre ran
quickly up to his rooms. He was greeted in the ante-
chamber by the Man in Grey.


94 The Spaniard
“I was unfortunately too late to catch you before
you started,” said the latter as soon as Lefevre had
closed the door. He spoke in his even monotone—his
face was calm and expressionless, but there was some-
thing about his attitude which jarred unpleasantly on
the commissary’s nerves.
“I—that is——” he stammered, despite his stern
effort to appear confident and at his ease.
“You have disobeyed the Minister’s orders," in-
terposed the secret agent quietly. “But there is no
time now to discuss your conduct. The blunder which
you have just committed is mayhap beyond repair;
in which case—”
He broke off abruptly and M. Lefevre felt a cold
shiver running down his spine.
“There was no time to consult you—" he began.
“I said that I would not discuss that,” interposed
the Man in Grey quietly. “Tell me where you have
been."
“To Chéron’s farm on the Chartres road," replied
the commissary.
“The informer gave you directions? "
“Yes.”
“That you would find his leader there?”
“Yes, the man whom they call ‘the Spaniard,’
and some of his accomplices. The informer—"
“The informer escaped from the cells during your
absence this evening,” said the Man in Grey curtly.
“Malediction ! ”
“Do not curse, my good man,” advised the other


The Spaniard 95
dryly. “The rascal’s escape may be the means of
retrieving your blunder, since it gave me the know-
ledge of the whole affair.”
“But how did it happen ? ”
“Surveillance slackened while you went ofi on
your wild-goose chase. Your prisoner used some of
the money wherewith you had bribed him—against
my express command, remember—to bribe his warder
in his turn. Your sergeant-in-charge came to me in
his distress when he found that his bird had flown.”
Lefevre had no longer the strength to argue or
even to curse. He hung his head in silent dejection.
“I sent for you," continued the Man in Grey
mercilessly. “When I found that you had gone no
one knew whither, and that you had taken a posse of
your men with you, I guessed the whole extent of
your damnable blunder. I have waited here for you
ever since."
“What can I do now? ” murmured Lefevre
gloomily.
“Collect ten or twelve of the men whom you can
most confidently trust, and then pick me up at my
lodgings in the Rue de France. We'll go back to
Chéron’s farm—~together."
“But there is no one there,” said Lefevre with a
dejected sigh, “only Chéron’s father, his wife and two
daughters.”
“I know that well enough, you fool l ” exclaimed
the Man in Grey, departing for the first time from his
habitual calm, and starting to pace up and down the


96 The Spaniard
narrow room like a caged and fretting animal; “and
that every proof against the villains who robbed Mon-
sieur de Kerblay has no doubt vanished whilst you
were getting the wrong sow by the ear. To bring the
crime home to them now will be very difficult. ’Tis
red-handed we ought to have caught them, with the
Jew there, and the ring, and the Spaniard bargaining,

whereas now
Suddenly he paused and stood quite still; the
anger and impatience died out of his face, leaving it
pale and expressionless as was its wont; only to
Lefevre who was watching him with keen anxiety it
seemed as if for one fraction of a second a curious
glitter had lit up his colourless eyes.
“In Heaven’s name !” he resumed impatiently
after a while, “let us get to horse, or I may be tempted
to tell you what I think of your folly.”
The commissary, trounced like a recalcitrant
schoolboy and not a little terrified at the consequences
of his blunder, was only too ready to obey. Within
half an hour he was in the saddle. He had Corporal
Crosnier with him and half a dozen picked men, and
together they went to the Rue de France where the
Minister’s agent was waiting for them.
5
It was close upon five o’clock of a raw, damp morn-
ing when the little party drew rein once more at the
wayside inn on the Chartres road. The men appeared

l
\i


The Spaniard 97
tired out and were grateful for the hot coffee which a
sleepy ostler hastily prepared for them; but the Man
in Grey seemed indefatigable. Wrapped to the chin
in a long, dark mantle, he had ridden the whole way
by the side of the commissary, plying him with ques-
tions the while. Bit by bit he had extracted from him
the full history of the futile expedition, the descrip-
tion of the house, its situation and structure, and of the
members of the Chéron family. Now, whilst sipping
his coffee, he made Lefevre give him final and minute
directions how to reach the farm-house.
Ten minutes later he started on his way—alone and
on foot.
“ Follow me in about five minutes,” were his last
commands to the commissary. “Then lie low under
the trees. When you hear a pistol shot from inside
the house rush in and seize every man, woman, or
child whom you find; if you meet with any resistance
order your men to use their muskets. Leave the
corporal with a strong guard outside the house, both
back and front, and bid him shoot on sight anyone
who attempts to escape.”
After he had walked on through the darkness for
a couple of metres or so, he threw off his mantle and
hat and kicked off his shoes. The commissary of
police, had he been near him now, would of a truth
have been staggered at his appearance. He wore a
pair of ragged breeches and a stained and tattered
blouse; his hair was unkempt, and his feet and legs
were bare to the knees.


98 The Spaniard
“Now for a little bit of luck,” he murmured as he
started to run. His bare feet squelched through the
wet earth and spattered him with mud from head to
foot, and as he ran the perspiration streamed down his
face and mingled with the grime. Indeed, it seemed
as if he took a special delight in tiring himself out, in
getting breathless and hot, and by his active exercise
making himself look even dirtier and more disreput-
able than he had been before.
When he reached the river side and the row of
willow trees, be halted; the house, he knew, must be
quite close now on the right, and as he peered into the
darkness he perceived a tiny streak of light glimmer-
ing feebly through the gloom some way off. Throw-
ing himself flat upon his stomach, be bent his ear to
the ground; it was attuned to the slightest sound,
like that of the Indian trackers, and he heard at a
distance of four hundred metres behind him the
measured tramp of Lefevre’s men. Then he rose to
his feet and, stealthily as a cat, crept up to the
house.
The slender streak of light guided him and, as
he drew nearer, he heard a confused murmur of voices
raised in merriment. The occupants of the house
were apparently astir; the light came through a half-
open shutter on the ground floor as did the sound of
the voices, through which presently there rang a loud
and prolonged peal of laughter. The secret agent
drew a deep sigh of satisfaction; the birds—thank
goodness—had not yet flown. Noiselessly he ap-


The Spaniard 99
proached the front door, the battered and broken
appearance of which bore testimony to Lefevre’s
zeal.
A bright patch of light striking through an open
door on the right illumined a portion of the narrow
hall beyond, leaving the rest in complete darkness.
The Man in Grey stepped furtively over the threshold.
Immediately he was challenged : “Who goes there ?”
and he felt rather than saw a gun levelled at his
head.
“A friend,” he murmured timidly.
At the instant the challenge had resounded through
the house the light in the inner room on the right was
suddenly extinguished; deathly silence had succeeded
the debauch.
“What’s your business ?” queried a muffled voice
peremptorily.
Before the Man in Grey could reply there was a
commotion in the inner room as of chairs hastily
thrust aside, and presently another voice—one both
gruff and commanding—called out: “What is it,
Pierre ?”
A dark lantern was flashed about, its light fell
full on the miserable apparition of the Man in Grey.
“What do you want ?” queried the commanding
voice out of the partial gloom. “Speak, or I
fire! ”
“A friend i” reiterated the Man in Grey timidly.
“Your name ?”
“Nicaise, sir, from Mauger’s farm on the Mayenne


100 The Spaniard
road. I was asleep under a haystack, when a stranger
comes to me and shakes me roughly by the shoulder.
‘ Run,’ he says to me, ‘to Chéron’s up by the
Chartres road. Run as fast as your legs will take
you. Walk in boldly; the door is open. You will
find company inside the farm. Tell them the police
are coming back in force. Someone will give you a
silver franc for your pains if you get there in time.’
So I took to my heels and ran.”
While he spoke another man and a woman had
entered. Their vague forms were faintly discernible
through the darkness; the light from the lantern still
struck full on the Man in Grey, who looked the picture
of woebegone imbecility.
From the group in the doorway there came a
murmur: “The police ! ”
“A stranger, you say ?” queried the man with the
commanding voice. “What was he like?”
“I could not say," replied the secret agent humbly.
“It was very dark. But he said I should get a silver
franc for my pains, and I am a poor man. I thought
at first it was a hoax, but when I crossed the meadow
just now I saw a lot of men in hiding under the willow
trees.”
“Malediction l ” muttered the man, as he turned,
undecided, towards his companions. “Oh, that I had
that one-eyed traitor in my power!” he added with a
savage oath.
“Did you speak to the men of the police?” asked
a woman’s voice out of the darkness.


The Spaniard IOI
“No, madame,” replied the secret agent. “ They
did not see me. I was crawling on my hands and
knees. But they are all round the house, and I heard
one man calling to the sergeant and giving him orders
to watch the doors and windows lest anyone tried to
escape.”
The group in the doorway was silent; the man
who had been on guard appeared to have joined them,
and they all went back into the room and held a
hurried consultation.
“There is nothing for it,” said one man, “but to
resume our former roles as members of the Chéron
family, and to do it as naturally as before.”
“They suspect us now,” said another, “or they
would not be here again so soon.”
“Even so; but if we play our parts well they can
only take us back to the commissariat and question
us; they must release us in the end; they have no
proof.”
In the meanwhile someone had relighted the lamp.
There appeared to be a good deal of scurrying and
scrambling inside the room; the Man in Grey tiptoed
up to the doorway to see what was going on.
Evidently, disguises which had hastily been put aside
had been resumed; the group stood before him now
just as Lefevre had originally described them : the old
man, the woman, the two young girls; the latter were
striding about the room and holding their skirts up
clumsily with both hands, as men are wont to do when
they don women’s clothes; the old man, on whom


102 The Spaniard
grey locks and well-stencilled wrinkles were the only
signs of age, was hastily putting these to rights before
a mirror on the wall.
But it was the woman’s doings which compelled
the attention of the Man in Grey. She was standing
on a chair with her back to him, intent on mani—
pulating something up the huge open chimney.
“It will be quite safe there,” she said.
She appeared to be closing some heavy iron door
which fell in its place with a snap. Then she turned
to her companions and slowly descended from the
chair. “When the present storm has blown over,”
she said, “we’ll come and fetch it. Chéron will never
guess; at any rate, we are sure the police cannot dis-
cover this most excellent hiding-place.”
She was a short, square-built woman, with a dark,
almost swarthy skin, keen jet-black eyes which ap-
peared peculiarly hard and glittering owing to the
absence of lashes, a firm, thin-lipped mouth, square
chin, and low forehead crowned by a shock of thick,
black hair cut short like a boy’s. The secret agent
kept his eyes fixed upon her while she spoke to her
friends. He noted the head so full of character, and
the strength and determination expressed in every
line of the face; he marvelled why the features—es-
pecially those glittering jet-black eyes—appeared
familiar, as something he had known and heard of
before. And, suddenly, it all came to him in a flash;
he remembered the informer’s description of the
leader named “the Spaniard ” : a dark, swarthy skin,


The Spaniard 103
jet-black hair, keen dark eyes with no lashes to soften
their glitter, the beard, the man’s attire, the foreign
accent. Sohl these marauding Chouans slipped in
and~out of their disguises and changed even their sex
outwardly as easily as men change their coats; whilst
the very identity of their leader was more often un-
known to them than known!
As the secret agent’s practised glance took in
during these few seconds the whole personality of the
woman before him, he knew that his surmises—based
on intuition and on reasoning—were correct. It was
the Spaniard who stood before him now, but the
Spaniard was a woman. And as he gazed on her,
half in pity because of her sex, and half in admiration
for her intrepidity, she turned, and their glances met.
She looked at him across the narrow room, and each
knew that the other had guessed.
The woman never flinched; she held the agent’s
glance and did not utter either word or cry whilst
with a slow, deliberate movement, she drew a pistol
from beneath her kerchief. But he, as quick and
resourceful, had instantly stepped back into the
hall. He seized the door, and, with a loud bang,
closed it to between himself and the Chouans.
Then, with lightning rapidity, he pushed the heavy
bolt home.
The report of a pistol rang out. It came from
inside the room. The Man in Grey was leaning his
full weight against the door, wondering whether
Lefevre and his men would come to his assistance


104 The Spaniard
before the trapped Chouans had time to burst the
panels.
He heard Lefevre’s call outside and the heavy
tramp of the men. A few seconds of agonising sus-
pense, whilst he literally felt the massive door heaving
behind him under the furious onslaught of the im-
prisoned Chouans, and the commissary with the men
of the police burst into the hall. The door fell in with
a terrific crash.
The Chouans, caught like foxes run to earth,
offered a desperate resistance. But the odds were too
great; after a grim struggle across the threshold,
which lasted close on ten minutes and left several men
of the police bleeding or dead upon the floor, the
gang were captured, securely bound and locked in one
of the cellars underneath the house, where they were
left in charge of half a dozen men until such time as
they could be conveyed to Alencon and thence to
Bicétre to await their trial.
6
It has been impossible, owing to the maze of
records, to disentangle the subsequent history of three
of these Chouans. The Spaniard, however, was, we
know, kept in prison for over five years until, after
the Restoration, her friends succeeded in laying her
petition for release before the King and she was
granted a free pardon and a small pension from the
privy purse, “in consideration of the services she had


The Spaniard 105
rendered to His Majesty and the martyrdom she had
suffered in his cause.” On the official list of pensioners
in the year 1816 her name appears as “Caroline Mer-
cier, commonly called the Spaniard.”
But at Chéron’s farm, when all was still, the men
of the police gone and the prisoners safely under lock
and key, the Man in Grey and the commissary re-
turned to the little room which had been the scene of
the Chouans’ final stand. A broken chair was lying
by the side of the tall, open chimney wherein the
woman with the swarthy skin and jet-black eyes had
concealed the stolen treasure. The accredited agent
had no difficulty in finding the secret hiding-place;
about a foot up the chimney an iron door was let into
the solid wall. A little manipulation of his deft fingers
soon released the secret spring, and the metal panel
glided gently in its grooves.
M. de Kerblay’s precious ring and some twenty
thousand francs in money gladdened the sight of the
worthy commissary of police.
“ But how did you guess?” he asked of the Man
in Grey, when, half an hour later, the pair were
ambling along the road back towards Alencon.
“While you were getting ready for our second
expedition, my dear Monsieur~Lefévre,” replied the
Man in Grey, “I took the simple precaution of ascer-
taining whether the farmer Chéron had a wife, a
father, and two daughters. Your own records at the
commissariat furnished me with this information.
From them I learned that though he had a wife, he
H


III
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE VAILLANT
l
AFTER the capture of the Spaniard at Chéron’s farm
on that dark night, M. Lefevre realised that when M.
le Duc d’Otrante sent down that insignificant-looking
little man in the grey coat to help in the hunt after the
astute but infamous Chouans, he had acted—as he
always did—with foresight and unerring knowledge
of human nature and human capacity.
Henceforward M. Lefevre became the faithful pane-
gyrist and henchman of the Minister’s anonymous
agent. He haunted the latter’s apartments in the Rue
de France, he was significantly silent when the Man
in Grey was sneered and jeered at in the higher
official circles, and, what is more, when M. Leblanc,
sous-préfet of Bourg-le-Roi, had such grave mis-
givings about his children’s governess, it was the
commissary who advised him to go for counsel and
assistance to the mysterious personage who enjoyed
the special confidence and favour of M. 1e Duc
d’Otrante himself.
M. Leblanc, who had an inordinate belief in his
own perspicacity, fought for some time against the
suggestion ; but, after a while, the mystery which sur-
1°?


108 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
rounded Mademoiselle Vaillant reached such a be-
wildering stage, whilst remaining outside the scope of
police interference, that he finally decided to take his
friend’s advice, and one morning, about the end of
November, he presented himself at the lodgings in
Alencon occupied by the accredited agent of His
Majesty’s Minister of Police.
Of a truth M. Leblanc was singularly agitated.
His usually correct, official attitude had given place
to a kind of febrile excitement which he was at great
pains to conceal. He had just left Madame Leblanc
in a state of grave anxiety, and he himself, though he
would not have owned to it for the world, did not
know what to make of the whole affair. But he did
not intend that his own agitation should betray him
into a loss of dignity in the presence of the little up-
start from Paris; 50, after the formal greetings, he
sat down and plunged into a maze of conversational
subjects—books, the theatres, the war, the victories
of the Emperor and the rumoured alliance_with the
Austrian Archduchess—until the Man in Grey’s quiet
monotone broke in on the flow of his eloquence with
a perfectly polite query :
“Has Monsieur le Sous-Préfet, then, honoured me
with a visit at this early hour for the purpose of dis-
cussing the politics of the day?”
“ Partly, my good Monsieur Fernand, partly,” re-
replied the sous-préfet airily. “I desired that we
should become more closely acquainted—and," he
added, as if with an after-thought, “I desired to put


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 109
before you a small domestic matter which has greatly
perturbed Madame Leblanc, and which, I confess,
does appear even to me as something of a mystery.”
“I am entirely at Monsieur 1e Sous-Préfet’s ser-
vice,” rejoined the Man in Grey without the ghost of
a smile.
“Oh! I dare say,” continued M. Leblanc in that
offhand manner which had become the rule among
the officials of the district when dealing with the
secret agent, “I dare say that when I think the matter
over I shall be quite able to deal with it myself. At
the same time, the facts are certainly mysterious, and
I doubt not but that they will interest you, even if
they do not come absolutely within the sphere of your
province.” ‘
This time the Man in Grey offered no remark.
He waited for M. 1e Sous-Préfet to proceed.
“As no doubt you know, Monsieur Fernand,”
resumed M. Leblanc after a slight pause, “I own a
small house and property near Bourg-le-Roi, some
eight kilometres from this city, where my wife and
children live all the year round and where I spend as
much of my leisure as I can spare from my onerous
duties here. The house is called Les Colombiers. It
is an old manor, which belonged to the Comtes de
Mamers, a Royalist family who emigrated at the outset
of the Revolution and whose properties were sold for
the benefit of the State. The Mamers have remained
-—as perhaps you know—among the irreconcilables.
His Majesty the Emperor’s clemency did not succeed


110 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
in luring them away from England, where they have
settled; and I, on the other hand, have continued in
undisputed possession of a charming domain. The
old moated house is of great archaeological and his-
torical interest. It stands in the midst of a well-
timbered park, is well secluded from the road by
several acres of dense coppice, and it is said that,
during the religious persecutions instituted by Charles
IX at the instigation of his abominable mother, Les
Colombiers was often the refuge of Huguenots, and
the rallying-point for the followers of the proscribed
faith. As I myself," continued M. Leblanc with con-
scious pride, “belong to an old Huguenot family,
you will readily understand, my good Monsieur
Fernand, that I feel an additional interest in Les
Colombiers.”
Pausing for a moment, the sous-préfet readjusted
the set of his neckcloth, crossed one shapely leg over
the other and added with an affable air of condescen-
sion: .
“I trust that I am not trespassing upon your valu4
able time, my dear friend, by recounting these seem-
ingly irrelevant but quite necessary details.”
“On the contrary, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,” re-
joined the Man in Grey quietly, “I am vastly and,
I may say, respectfully interested.”
Thus encouraged, M. Leblanc boldly continued
his narrative.
“My household,” he said, “consists, I must tell
you, of my wife and myself and my two children—a


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant III
boy and a girl—Adele, aged fourteen, and Ernest,
just over twelve. I keep a couple of men and two
maids indoors, and three or four men in the garden.
Finally, there is my children’s governess, Marie
Vaillant. She came to us last summer warmly
recommended by Monseigneur the Constitutional
Bishop of Alencon, and it is her conduct which of
late has so gravely disquieted Madame Leblanc and
myself.
“But you shall judge.
“At first my wife and I had every reason to con-
gratulate ourselves on having secured such a com-
petent, refined and charming woman to preside over
the education of our children. Marie Vaillant was
gay, pretty and full of spirits. The children loved
her, especially Ernest, who set his entire childish
affections upon his young and attractive governess.
During the summer lessons were done out of doors,
and long expeditions were undertaken in the woods,
whence Ernest and Adele would return, hot, tired and
happy. They had played at being explorers in virgin
forests, so they told their mother.
“It was only when the evenings waxed longer,” con-
tinued the sous-préfet, in a tone of growing embarrass-
ment, now that he was nearing the climax of his story,
“that Mademoiselle Vaillant suddenly changed. She
developed a curious proclivity for promiscuous
coquetry.”
“Coquetry?” broke in the secret agent with a
smile.


112 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
“Yes! Marie began to flirt—shamelessly, openly,
with every man she came across,; visitors, shop-
keepers, friends and gardeners. She exercised an
almost weird fascination over them; one and all would
anticipate her slightest wish; in fact, the men about
the house and grounds of Les Colombiers appeared
to be more her servants than ours. Moreover, she
made an absolute fool of our butler, Lavernay—a
middle-aged man who ought to have known better.
He has not only pursued Mademoiselle Vaillant with
his attentions but also with his jealousy, until Madame
Leblanc felt that her whole household was becoming
the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood.”
“And have you or Madame Leblanc done anything
in the matter? ” asked the Man in Grey, while M. le
Sous-Préfet paused to draw breath.
“Oh, yes! Madame spoke to the girl and I
trounced Lavernay. Marie was humble and apolo-
getic and Lavernay very contrite. Both promised to
be discreet and sensible in future. At the same time
I confess that I was not at all reassured. Within a
fortnight we heard through the gossip of a busy-
body that Marie Vaillant was in the habit of stealing
out of the house in the evenings, at an hour when
respectable people should be in bed, and after five
minutes’ start she was usually followed on these pere-
grinations by the butler. There was no doubt about
the whole thing : even our sergeant of police had wit-
nessed these clandestine meetings and had reported
the matter to the local commissary.


The'Mystery of Marie Vaillant 113
“There was nothing for it now but to dismiss the
flirtatious governess as quickly as possible. I may
say that Madame Leblanc, who had been genuinely
fond of the girl, acquitted herself of the task with re-
markable tact and gentleness. Marie Vaillant, indeed,
belied her name when she received the news of her
dismissal. She begged and implored my wife's for-
giveness, swore by all she could think of that she had
only erred from ignorance; she had no thought of
doing wrong; she was innocent of anything but the
merest flirtation. Fond of breathing the midnight
air which was so balmy and sweet in the woods, she
had lately got into the habit of strolling out when she
could not sleep and sitting for an hour or so dreaming
among the trees. She admitted that once or twice
she had been followed by Lavernay, had been very
angry with him, and had seriously rebuked him; but
it should never, never happen again—she vowed and
swore it should not—if only Madame would forgive
her and not send her away from Les Colombiers which
was like a home to her, and from Ernest and Adele
whom she loved as if they were her brother and
sister.
“But Madame Leblanc was inexorable. Perhaps
she felt that quite so much ignorance of the ways of
the world and the decorum prescribed to every well-
educated woman was not altogether credible; perhaps
she thought that the lady did protest too much.
Certain it is that though she went back on her original
pronouncement that the girl must leave the house


116 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
gossips of the neighbourhood are set talking. Ad-
monished by her mistress, the girl is almost broken-
hearted; she begs for forgiveness and at once sets to
work to re-establish herself in the good graces of her
employers. I dare say you are surprised that I
should have been at such pains to recount to you a
series of commonplace occurrences. But what to an
ordinary person would appear in the natural order of
things, strikes me as not altogether normal. I mis-
trust the girl. I do not believe in her contrition,
still less in her reformation. Moreover, what worries
me, and worries Madame Leblanc still more,
is the amazing ascendency which Marie Vaillant
exercises over our boy Ernest. She seems to
be putting forth her fullest powers of fascina-
tion—I own that they are great—to cementing the
child’s affection for her. For the last few weeks the
boy has become strangely nervy, irritable and jealous.
He follows Marie wherever she goes, and hangs upon
her lips when she speaks—so much so that my wife
and I look forward now with dread to the day of Part-
ing. When Marie goes I do verily believe that Ernest,
who is a very highly-strung child, will fall seriously
ill with grief.”
Again M. Leblanc paused. A look of genuine
alarm had overspread his otherwise vapid face. Clearly
he was a man deeply attached to his children and,
despite his fatuous officiousness, was not prepared to
take any risks where their welfare was concerned. He
mopped his face with his handkerchief, and for the


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 117
first time since the beginning of the interview he
threw a look of almost pathetic appeal at the agent
of the Minister of Police.
“Otherwise, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,” said the
latter, meeting that look of appeal with a quiet smile,
“has nothing occurred to justify your mistrust of
Mademoiselle Vaillant’s good intentions? ”
“Nothing at all,” replied M. Leblanc with a ner-
vous hesitation which belied his emphatic words,
“except a vague sense of uneasiness—the unnatural
quiet which came so quickly in the wake of the storm
of a fortnight ago; and, as I say, the extraordinary
pains which the girl has taken to captivate the boy:
to such an extent that, thinking perhaps Marie still
entertained hopes of our complete forgiveness and
thought of using the child as an intermediary
with us to allow her to remain, Madame Leblanc at
my suggestion spoke yesterday very firmly to the girl,
and told her that whatever happened our determina-
tion was irrevocable. We felt that we could trust her
no longer and go she must.”
“And how did Mademoiselle Vaillant take this
final decision ? ” asked the police agent.
“With extraordinary self-possession. Beyond a
humble ‘ Very well, Madame,’ she never spoke a word
during the brief interview. But in the evening, long
after the children should have been in bed, Anne——
my wife’s confidential maid—happened to be in the
passage outside Mademoiselle’s room, the door of
which was ajar. She distinctly heard Marie’s voice


118 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
raised in. almost passionate supplication: ‘ Ernest,
my darling little Ernest! ’ she was saying, ' will you
always love me as you do now? ’ And the child
answered fervently: ‘ I will always love you, my
darling Marie. I would do anything for you—I would
gladly die for you—’ and so on—just the sort of
exalté nonsense which a highly-strung, irresponsible
child would talk. Anne did not hear any more then,
but remained on the watch in a dark corner of the
passage. Quite half an hour later, if not more, she
saw Ernest slipping out of the governess’s room clad
only in his little nightgown and slippers and going
back to his own room. This incident, which Anne re-
ported faithfully to her mistress and to me, has caused
my wife such anxiety that I determined to consult some-
one whom I could trust, and see whether the whole
affair struck an impartial mind with the like ominous
significance which it bears for me. My choice fell
upon you, my dear Monsieur Fernand," concluded the
sous-préfet with a return to his former lofty con-
descension. “I don’t like to introduce gossiping
neighbours into my private affairs, and I know enough
about you to be convinced of your absolute discretion,
as well as of your undoubted merits.”
The Man in Grey accepted M. Leblanc’s careless
affability with the same unconcern that he had dis-
played under the latter’s somewhat contemptuous
patronage. He said nothing for a moment or two,
remaining apparently absorbed in his own thoughts.
Then he turned to his visitor and in a quiet, profes~


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 119
sional manner, which nevertheless carried with it an
unmistakable air of authority, intimated to him, by
rising from his chair, that the interview was now at an
end.
“I thank you, Monsieur 1e Sous-Préfet,” he said,
“both for the confidence which you have reposed in
me, and for your clear expose of the present situation
in your household. For the moment I should advise
you to leave all your work in the city which is not
of national importance and go straight back to Les
Colombiers. Madame Leblanc should not be left to
face alone any difficulties which may arise. At the
same time, should any fresh development occur, I beg
that you will either send for me or come to me at once.
I place myself entirely at your disposal.”
He did not hold out his hand, only stood quietly
beside his desk; but there was no mistaking the
attitude, or the almost imperceptible inclination of the
head. M. Leblanc was dismissed, and he was not
accustomed to seeing himself and his affairs set aside
so summarily. A sharp retort almost escaped him;
but a glance from those enigmatic eyes checked the
haughty words upon his lips. He became suddenly
and unaccountably embarrassed, seeking for a phrase
which would disguise the confusion he felt.
“My good Monsieur Fernand ” he began
haltingly.
“My time is valuable, Monsieur le SousPréfet,”
interposed the Man in Grey; “and at Les Colombiers
your son’s welfare is perhaps even now at stake.”


120 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
M. Leblanc—awed and subdued despite himself—
had no choice but to make as dignified an exit as was
possible in the circumstances.
3
It was barely eight o’clock the next morning when
M. Leblanc made an excited and noisy irruption into
the apartments of the secret agent of the Minister of
Police. The Man in Grey had risen betimes; had
brewed himself a cup of coffee and partaken of break-
fast. The tray stood on a table beside him, and he
was at the moment engaged in the perusal of the
newest copy of the M om'teur.
At sight of his visitor he quietly folded and put
down his paper. M. Leblanc had literally staggered
into the room. He wore riding breeches and boots
and his clothes were covered with mud; he had ridden
hard and fast, and though his face was deathly pale it
was covered with perspiration. His lips were quiver-
ing and his eyes had a look of horror and fear which
almost resembled madness.
The Man in Grey led him, firmly and gently, to
a seat. Without a word he went to a cupboard, took
out a flask and a mug and forced a few drops of
brandy down the sous-préfet’s throat. The latter’s
teeth were chattering, and through his trembling lips
there came a few hoarsely whispered words :
“My son—my child—he has gone! Oh, my
God i”


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 121
After he had drunk the brandy, he became a little
more composed. He lay back in his chair, with eyes
closed, and for a moment it seemed as if he had lost
consciousness, for his lips were bloodless and his face
was the colour of dead ashes. Presently he opened
his eyes and rested them on the small grey figure
which stood, quietly expectant, before him.
“My son,” he murmured more distinctly. “ Ernest
——he has gone !”
“Try to tell me coherently what has happened,”
said the Man in Grey in a quiet tone, which had the
effect of further soothing M. Leblanc’s overstrung
nerves.
After a great effort of will the unfortunate man was
able to pull himself together. He was half demented
with grief, and it was blind, unreasoning instinct that
had led him to seek out the one man who might help
him in his trouble. With exemplary patience, the
police agent dragged from the unfortunate man, bit
by bit, a more or less intelligible account of the ex-
traordinary sequence of events which had culminated
a few hours ago in such a mysterious and appalling
tragedy. '
Matters, it seemed, had been brought to a climax
through the agency of feminine gossip, and it'was
Ma’ame Margot, the wife of one of the labourers, who
did the washing for the household at Les Colombiers,
who precipitated the catastrophe.
Ma’ame Margot had brought the washing home
on the previous afternoon and stopped to have a cup
I


122 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
of coffee and a chat in the kitchen of the house. In
the course of conversation she drew the attention of
Anne, Madame Leblanc’s maid, to the condition of
Monsieur Ernest’s underclothes.
“I have done my best with it," she said, “but I told
Mademoiselle Vaillant that I was afraid the stains
would never come out. She had tried to wash the
things herself before she thought of sending them to
me. Whoever heard," added the worthy soul indig-
nantly, “of letting a child of Monsieur Ernest’s age go
running about like that in the wet and the mud?
Why, he must have been soaked through to his waist
to get his things in that state.”-
Later Anne spoke to Mme. Leblanc of what the
laundrywoman had said. Madame frowned, greatly
puzzled. She had positively forbidden the children
to go out while the heavy rains lasted. She sent for
Ma’ame Margot, who was bold enough to laugh out-
right when Madame told her that she did not under-
stand about Monsieur Ernest’s things being so stained
with wet and mud, as the children had not been out
since the heavy rains had started.
“ Not been out ! " ejaculated“ Ma’ame Margot, quite
as puzzled as her lady. “Why! my man, when he
Was looking after the sick cow the other night, saw
Monsieur Ernest out with the governess. It was past
midnight then and the rain coming down in torrents,
and my man, he says to me——”
“Thank you, Ma’ame Margot," broke in Madame
Leblanc, “that will do.”


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 125
Leblanc reached the hall he could hear her tear-
ing helter-skelter up the uncarpeted service stairs. No
one so far had attempted to stop her. M. Leblanc
now called loudly to the servants to arrest this mad
woman in her flight; there was a general scrimmage,
but before anyone could reach the top landing, Marie
had darted straight into her employers’ bedroom and
had locked and bolted the heavy door.
“You may imagine,” concluded the unfortunate
sous-préfet, who had been at great pains to give his
narrative some semblance of coherence, “that I was
the first to bang against the bedroom door and to
demand admittance of the wretched creature. At
first there was no reply, but through the solid panel-
ling we could hear a distinct and steady hammering
which seemed to come from the farther end of the
room. All the doors in the old house are extra-
ordinarily heavy, but the one that gives on my wife’s
and my bedroom is of unusually massive oak with
enormous locks and bars of iron and huge iron
hinges. I felt that it would be futile to try to break
it open, and, frankly, I was not a little doubtful as to
what the wretched woman might do if brought to bay.
The windows of the bedroom as well as those of the
dressing-room adjoining give directly on the moat,
which at this point is over three metres deep. Placing
two of the men-servants on guard outside the door,
with strict orders not to allow the woman to escape,
I made my way into the garden and took my stand
opposite the bedroom windows. I had the width of


126 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
the moat between me and the house. The waters
lapped the solid grey walls and for the first time since
I have lived at Les Colombiers the thought of the old
Manor, with its lurking holes for unfortunate
Huguenots, struck my heart with a sense of coldness
and gloom. Up above Marie Vaillant had already
taken the precaution of fastening the shutters; it was
impossible to imagine what she could be doing, locked
up in that room, or why she should refuse to come
out, unless—"
The stricken father closed his eyes as he hinted at
this awful possibility; a shiver went through him.
“A ladder——-J’ suggested the Man in Grey.
“Impossible!” replied M. Leblanc. “The moat
on that side is over eight metres wide. I had thought
of that. I thought of everything; I racked my brains.
Think of it, sir! My boy Ernest gone, and his
whereabouts probably only known to that mad
woman up there! ”
“ Your butler Lavernay?" queried the Man in
Grey.
“It was when I realised my helplessness that I
suddenly thought of him,” replied the sous-préfet;
“but no one had seen him. He too had disappeared.”
Then suddenly the full force of his misery rushed
upon him. He jumped to his feet and seized the
police agent by the coat sleeve.
“I entreat you, Monsieur Fernand,” he exclaimed
in tones of pitiable entreaty, “do not let us waste any
more time. \Ve’ll call at the commissariat of police


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 127
first and get Lefevre to follow hard on our heels with
a posse of police. I beg of you to come at once! ”
Gently the Man in Grey disengaged his arm from
the convulsive grasp of the other. “ By your leave,"
he said, “we will not call in a posse of police just yet.
Remember your own fears! Brought to bay, Marie
Vaillant, if indeed she has some desperate deed to
conceal, might jump into the moat and take the secret
of your boy’s whereabouts with her to her grave.”
“My God, you are right! " moaned the unfor-
tunate man. “What can I do? In Heaven’s name
tell me what to do."
“For the moment we'll just go quietly to Les
Colombiers together. I always keep a horse ready
saddled for emergencies at the ‘ Trois Rois ’ inn close
by. Do you get to horse and accompany me thither."
I‘ But—’)
“I pray you, sir, do not argue,” broke in the police
agent curtly. “ Every minute has become precious.’I
And silently M. Leblanc obeyed. He had all at
once grown as tractable as a child. The dominating
personality of that little Man in Grey had entire pos-
session of him now, of his will and understanding.
4
The first part of the cross-country ride was accom-
plished in silence. M. Leblanc was in a desperate
hurry to get on; he pushed his horse along with the
eagerness of intense anxiety. For awhile the police


128 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
agent kept up with him in silence, then suddenly he
called a peremptory “Halt! ”
“Your horse will give out, Monsieur le Sous-
Préfet,” he said. “Allow him to walk for awhile.
There are two or three questions I must put to you
before we arrive at Les Colombiers.”
M. Leblanc obeyed and set his horse to a walk.
Of a truth he was more worn-out than his steed.
“Firstly, tell me what kind of fireplace you have in
your bedroom,” said the other abruptly, and with such
strange irrelevance that the sous-préfet stared at him.
“Why,” he replied submissively, “there is a fine
old chimney, as there is in every room in the house.”
“You have had a fire in it lately? ”
“Oh, every day. The weather has been very
cold.”
“And what sort of bed do you sleep in? "
“An old-fashioned fourpost bedstead,” replied M.
Leblanc, more and more puzzled at these extraordin-
ary questions, “which I believe has been in the house
for two or three hundred years. It is the only piece
of the original furniture left; everything else was sold
by Monsieur de Mamers’ agent before the State confis-
cated the house. I don’t know why the bedstead was
allowed to remain; probably because it is so uncom-
monly heavy and is also screwed to the floor.”
“Thank you. That is interesting,” rejoined the
police agent dryly. “And now, tell me, what is the
nearest house to yours that is of similar historical
interest ? ”


I»


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 129
“An old sixteenth-century house, you mean? ”
“Yes.”
“There is none at Bourg-le-Roi. If you remem-
ber, the town itself is comparatively modern, and every
traveller will tell you that Les Colombiers is the only
interesting piece of mediaeval architecture in the
neighbourhood. Of course, there are the ruins at
Saut-de-Biche.”
“The ruins at Saut-de-Biche? ”
“Yes; in the woods, about half a kilometre from
Les Colombiers. They are supposed to be the
remains of the old farmhouse belonging to the Manor;
but only two or three walls are left standing. A
devastating fire razed the place to the ground some ten
years ago; since then the roof has fallen in, and the
town council of Bourg-le-Roi has been using some of
the stone for building the new town hall. The whole
thing is just a mass of debris and charred wood.”
While the two men were talking the time had gone
by swiftly enough. Alencon was soon left far behind;
ahead, close by, lay the coppice which sheltered Les
Colombiers. Some twenty minutes later the two men
drew rein in the fine old courtyard of the ancient
Manor. At a call from M. Leblanc one of his men
rushed out of the house to hold the horses and to aid
his master to dismount. The Man in Grey was
already on his feet.
“ What news? ” he asked of the man.
The latter shrugged his shoulders. There was no
change at Les Colombiers. The two labourers were


130 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
still on sentry guard outside the bedroom door, whilst
the indoor servants, with the head gardener, had
remained down below by the side of the moat, staring
up at the shuttered windows, and revelling in all the
horrors which the aspect of the dark waters and of
the windows above, behind which no doubt the mad
woman was crouching, helped to conjure up before
their sluggish minds.
Madame Leblanc was still lying on a couch in the
hall, prostrate with grief. No one had caught sight
of Marie Vaillant within her stronghold, and there was
no sign either of M. Ernest or of the butler Lavernay.
Without protest or opposition on the part of the
master of the house, the Man in Grey had taken
command of the small army of scared domestics.
" Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,” he said, “before I can
help you in this matter, I must make a hurried in-
spection of your domain. I shall require three of
your men to come with me. They must come armed
with a stout joist, with pickaxes and a few heavy tools.
You yourself and your women servants must remain
on guard outside the bedroom door. Should Marie
Vaillant attempt a sortie, seize her and, above all, see
she does not do herself an injury. Your head
gardener and indoor man must remain by the moat.
I presume they can swim.”
“Swim ?” queried M. Leblanc vaguely.
“Why, yes! There is still the possibility of the
girl trying to drown herself and her secret in the
moat.”


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 131
M. Leblanc promised most earnestly that he would
obey the police agent’s commands to the letter, and
the Man in Grey, followed by the three labourers who
carried their picks, a bag of tools and a stout joist,
started on his way. Swiftly crossing the bridge over
the moat, he strode rapidly across the park and
plunged into the coppice. Then only did he ask the
men to precede him.
“ Take me straight to the ruins at Saut-de-Biche,”
he said.
The men obeyed, not pausing to reflect what
could be the object of this little man in the grey coat
in going to look at a pile of broken stone walls, while
M. le Sous-Préfet was half demented with anxrety, and
a mad woman might either set fire to the whole house
or do herself some terrible injury. They walked on in
silence, closely followed by the accredited representa-
tive of His Imperial Majesty’s Minister of Police.
Within ten minutes the ruined farmhouse came in
sight. It stood in the midst of a wide clearing; the
woods which stretched all round it were so dense that
even in mid-winter they screened it from the road.
There was but little of the original structure left; a
piece of wall like a tall arm stretching upwards to the
skies, another forming an angle, some loose pieces of
stone lying about in the midst of a medley of broken
and charred wood, cracked tiles and twisted pieces of
metal. The whole place had an aspect of unspeakable
desolation. All round the ruined walls a forest of
brambles, dead gorse and broom had sprung up, ren-


132 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
dering access to the house very difficult. For a
moment or two the Man in Grey paused, surveying
the surroundings with a keen, experienced eye. At a
slight distance from him on the right, the gorse and
bramble had apparently been hacked away in order
to make a passage practicable to human feet. With-
out hesitation Fernand, ordering the three men to fol-
low him, struck into this narrow track, which, as he
surmised, led straight to the ruins. He skirted the
upstanding wall, until an opening in the midst of the
big masses of stone enabled him to reach what was
once the interior of the house. Here progress became
very diflicult; the débris from the fallen roof littered
the ground and there was grave danger of a hidden
chasm below, where the cellars may have been.
The Man in Grey peered round him anxiously.
Presently an exclamation of satisfaction rose to his
lips. He called to the men. A few feet away from
where he was standing the whole débris seemed to
have been lately considerably augmented. Right in
the midst of a pile of burned wood, tiles and metal,
a large stone was embedded. It had evidently been
very recently detached from the high upstanding wall,
and had fallen down amidst a shower of the decayed
mortar, wet eafth, and torn lichen and moss, which
littered the place.
In obedience to the commands of the Man in Grey,
the labourers took up their picks, and set to work to
clear the débris around the fallen stone, the police
agent standing close by, watching them. They had


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 133
not done more than bury their tools once in the litter
of earth and mortar, when their picks encountered
something soft.
“Drop your tools,” commanded the Man in Grey.
“Your hands will suffice to unearth what lies below.”
It was the body of a man crushed almost past
recognition by the weight of the fallen masonry.
The labourers extricated it from the fragments
of wood and metal and dragged it into the open.
“By his clothes,” said one of the men, in answer
to a peremptory query from the Man in Grey, “I guess
he must be the butler, Francois Lavernay.”
The secret agent made no comment. Not a line
of his pale, colourless face betrayed the emotion he
felt—the emotion of the sleuth-bound which knows
that it is on the track of its quarry. He ordered the
body to be decorously put on one side and took off his
own loose mantle to throw over it. Then he bade the
men resume their work. They picked up their tools
again and tried to clear the rubbish all round the
fallen stone.
“We must move that stone from its place,” the
man in the grey coat had said, and the labourers, im-
pelled by that air of assurance and authority which
emanated from the insignificant little figure, set to
with a will. Having cleared the debris, they put
their shoulders to the stone, helped by the secret agent,
whose strength appeared out of all proportion to his
slender frame. By and by the stone became dis-
lodged and, with another effort, rolled over on its flat


:34 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
side. After that it was easy to move it some three or
four feet farther on.
“That will do! ” commanded the Man in Grey.
Underneath the stone there now appeared a square
flat slab of granite embedded in the soil with cement
and concrete. One piece of this slab had seemingly
been cut or chiselled away and then removed, display-
ing a cavity about a foot and a half square. In the
centre of the slab was an iron ring to which a rope
was attached, the other end being lost within the
cavity.
The labourers were staring at their find open-
mouthed; but the secret agent was already busy
hauling up the rope. The 'end of it was formed into
a loop not large enough to pass over a man’s
shoulders.
“just as I thought,” he muttered between his
teeth.
Then he lay down on his stomach and with his
head just over the small cavity he shouted a loud
“ Hallo! ” From down below there came no answer
save a dull, resounding echo. Again and again the
Man in Grey shouted his loud “Hallo! ” into the
depths, but, eliciting no reply, at last he struggled to
his feet.
“Now then, my men,” he said, “I am going to
leave you here to work away at this slab. It has got to
be removed within an hour.”
The men examined the cement which held the
heavy stone in its place.


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 135
“It will take time,” one of them said. “This
cement is terribly hard; we shall have to chip every
bit of it away.”
“You must do your best,” said the Man in Grey
earnestly. “A human life may depend on your toil.
You will have no cause to grumble at the reward when
your work is done. For reasons which I cannot ex-
plain, I may not bring any strangers to help you. So
work away as hard as you can. I will return in about
an hour with Monsieur 1e Sous-Préfet."
He waited to see the men swing their picks, then
turned on his heel and started to walk back the way
he came.
It was nearly two hours before the slab of granite
was finally removed from its place. M. le Sous-
Préfet was standing by with the Man in Grey when
the stone was hoisted up and turned over. It dis-
closed a large cavity with, at one end of it, a flight of
stone steps leading downwards.
“ Now then, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,” said the
police agent quietly, “will you follow me? ”
M. Leblanc’s face was ghastly in its pallor. The
sudden hope held out to him by the Man in Grey had
completely unnerved him. “Are you sure_—” he
murmured.
“T hat we shall find Monsieur Ernest down
there?" broke in the other, as he pointed to the hol-
low. “Well, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet, I wish I were
equally sure of a fortune ! ”
He had a lighted lantern in his hand and began


136 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
to descend the stone stairs, closely followed by the
sous-préfet. The labourers above were resting after
their heavy toil. They could not understand all they
had seen, and their slow wits would probably never
grasp the full significance of their strange adventure.
While in the depths below the Man in Grey, holding
M. le Sous-Préfet by the arm and swinging the lan-
tern in front, was exploring the mediaeval lurking-
holes of the Huguenots, the three labourers were
calmly munching their bread and cheese.
5
The searchers found the boy lying unconscious not
very far from the stairs. A dark lantern had fallen
from his hand and been extinguished. A large heavy
box with metal handles stood close behind him; a
long trail behind the box showed that the plucky child
had dragged it along by its handle for a considerable
distance. How he had managed to do so remained a
marvel. Love and enthusiasm had lent the puny
youngster remarkable strength. The broken-hearted
father lifted his unconscious child in his arms.
Obviously he had only fainted—probably from fright
—and together the little procession now worked its
way back into the open.
“Can you carry yohr boy home, Monsieur 1e Sous-
Préfet,” asked the Man in Grey, “while we attend
to your unfortunate butler?”
But he had no need to ask. Already M. Leblanc,


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 137
closely hugging his precious b'urden, was striding
bravely and manfully through the coppice beyond.
The Man in Grey arrived at Les Colombiers a
quarter of an hour after the sous-préfet had seen his
boy snugly laid in his mother’s arms. The child was
far too weak and too highly strung to give a clear
account of the events which had landed him alone
and unconscious inside the disused hiding-place, with
his only means of exit cut off. But the first words he
spoke after he had returned to consciousness were:
“Tell my darling Marie that I did my best.”
Afterwards the Man in Grey graphically recounted
to the sous-préfet how he came to seek for Ernest
beneath the ruins of Saut-de-Biche.
“I followed Marie Vaillant’s machinations in my
mind,” he said, “from the moment that she entered
your service. Not a word of your narrative escaped
me, remember! Recommended by the Bishop of
Alencon, I guessed her to be a Royalist who had been
placed in your house for some purpose connected with
the Cause. What that purpose was it became my
business to learn. It was a case of putting the pro-
verbial two and two together. There was, on the
one hand, an old moated Manor, once the refuge of
persecuted Huguenots and therefore full of secret
corners and hiding-places, and, on the other, an
émigré Royalist family who had fled the country, no
doubt leaving hidden treasures which they could not
take away in their flight. Add to these facts a young
girl recommended by the Bishop of Alencon, one of
J


138 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
the most inveterate Royalist intriguers in the land,
and you have as fine a solution of all that has puzzled
you, Monsieur, as you could wish. Marie Vaillant
had been sent to your house by the Royalist faction to
secure the treasure hidden by the Comte de Mamers in
one of the lurking-holes of Les Colombiers.
“With this certainty firmly fixed in my mind, I
was soon able to explain her every action. The open-
air life in the summer meant that she could not gain
access to the hiding-place inside the house and she
must seek an entrance outside. This manoeuvre sug-
gested to me that the secret place was perhaps a
subterranean passage which led from some distant
portion of the domain to the house itself. There are
a number of such passages in France, of mediaeval
structure. Often they run under a moat.
“Then came the second phase: Marie Vaillant’s
coquetry. She either could not find or could not open
the hiding-place; she needed a man’s help. Lavernay,
your butler, appeared susceptible—her choice fell on
him. Night after night they stole out together in
order to work away at the obstacle which blocked the
entrance to the secret passage. Then they were dis-
covered. Marie was threatened with dismissal, even
before she had found the hidden treasure. She
changed her tactics and inveigled your boy into her
service. Why? Because she and Lavernay were
too weak and clumsy. They had only succeeded in
disclosing one small portion of the entrance to the
secret lair; a portion not large enough to allow of the


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 139
passage of an adult. So your boy was cajoled, en-
deared, fascinated. Highly strung and nervous, he
was ready to dare all for the sake of the girl whom he
loved with the ardour of unawakened manhood. He
is dragged through the woods and shown the place;
he is gradually familiarised with the task which lies
before him. Then once more discovery falls on Marie
Vaillant like a thunderbolt.
“There is only one more night wherein she can
effect her purpose. Can you see them—she and
Lavernay and your boy—stealing out at dead of night
to the ruins; the boy primed in what he has to do,
lowered by-a cord into the secret passage, dark lantern
in hand? Truly the heroism of so young a child
passes belief! Lavernay and Marie Vaillant wait
above, straining their ears to hear what is going on
below. The underground passage, remember, is over
half a kilometre in length. I explored it as far as I
could. It goes under the moat and I imagine has its
other entrance in your bedroom at Les Colombiers.
Ernest had to go some way along it ere he discovered
the box which contained the treasure. With truly
superhuman strength he seizes the metal handle and
drags his burden wearily along. At last he has
reached the spot where the cord still dangles from
above. He gives the preconcerted signal but receives
no reply. Distracted and terror-stricken, he calls
again and again until the horror of his position causes
him to lose consciousness.
“Above the tragedy is being consummated.


140 The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
Loosened by recent heavy rains, a large piece of
masonry comes crashing down, burying in its fall the
unfortunate Lavernay and hopelessly blocking the
entrance to the secret passage. Picture to yourself
Marie Vaillant pitting her feeble strength against the
relentless stone, half-crazed with the thought of the
child buried alive beneath her feet. An oath to her
party binds her to secrecy! She dares not call for
help. Almost demented, blind instinct drives her to
the one spot whence she might yet be able to render
assistance to the child—your bedroom, where I’ll
wager that either inside the chimney or behind the
head of the old-fashioned bedstead you will find the
panel which masks the other entrance to the secret
passage.”
The Man in Grey suspended his story and, guided
by his host, made his way upstairs to the landing
outside the bedroom door.
“Call to the poor woman, Monsieur le Sous-
Préfet,” he commanded. “Tell her that the child is
safe and well. Perhaps she will come out of her own
accord. It were a pity to break this magnificent door.”
Presently Marie Vaillant, summoned by her
employer, who assured her repeatedly that Ernest was
safe and well, was heard to unlock the door and to
draw the bolts. Next moment she stood under the
heavy oak lintel, her face as white as a shroud, her
eyes staring wildly before her, her gown stained, her
hands bleeding. She had bruised herself sorely in
a vain endeavour to move the massive bedstead which


The Mystery of Marie Vaillant 141
concealed the secret entrance to the underground
passage.
One glance at M. Leblanc’s face assured her that
all was well with her valiant little helpmeet and that
the two men before her were moved more by pity than
by wrath. She broke down completely, but the violent
fit of weeping eased her overburdened heart. Soon
she became comforted with the kindly assurance that
she would be allowed to depart in peace. Even the
sous-préfet felt that the wretched girl had suffered
enough through the tortuous intrigues of her fanatic
loyalty to the cause of her party, whilst the Man in
Grey saw to it that in the matter of the death of Laver-
nay His Majesty’s Police were fully satisfied.


IV
THE EMERALDS OF MADEMOISELLE
PHILIPPA
1
AT first there was a good deal of talk in the neigh-
bourhood when the de Romaines returned from
England and made their home in the tumbledown
Lodge just outside St. L6. The Lodge, surrounded
by a small garden, marked the boundary of the
beautiful domain of Torteron, which had been the
property of the de Romaines and their ancestors for
many generations. M. le Comte de Romaine had
left France with his family at the very outset of the
Revolution and, in accordance with the decree of
February, 1792, directed against the Emigrants, his
estates were confiscated and sold for the benefit of the
State. The chateau of Torteron, being so con-
veniently situated near the town of St. L6, was con-
verted into a general hospital, and the farms and
agricultural lands were bought up by various local
cultivators. Only the little Lodge at the park gates
had remained unsold, and when the Emigrés were
granted a general amnesty, the de Romaines ob-
tained permission to settle in it. Although it was
greatly neglected and dilapidated, it was weather-
proof, and by the clemency of the Emperor it was
declared to be indisputably their own. '
I42


Mdlle. Philippa’s Emeralds 143
M. 1e Comte de Romaine, worn out by sorrow
and the miseries of exile, had died in England. It
was Mme. la Comtesse, now a widow, who came back
to Torteron along with M. le Comte Jacques, her son,
who had never set foot on his native soil since, as a
tiny lad, he had been taken by his parents into exile,
and Mademoiselle Mariette, her daughter, who, born
in England, had never been in France at all.
People who had known Madame la Comtesse in
the past thought her greatly aged, more so in fact
than her years warranted. She had gone away in ’91
a young and handsome woman well on the right side
of thirty, fond of society and show; now, nineteen
years later, she reappeared the wreck of her former
self. Crippled with rheumatism, for ever wrapped
up in shawls, with weak sight and impaired hearing,
she at once settled down to a very secluded life at the
Lodge, waited on only by her daughter, a silent,
stately girl, who filled the duties of maid of all work,
companion and nurse to her mother, and her brother.
On the other hand, young M. le Comte de
Romaine was a regular “gadabout.” Something of
a rogue and a ne’er-do-well, he seemed to have no
defined occupation, and soon not a café or dancing
hall in St. Lo but had some story to tell of his
escapades and merry living.
M. Moulin, the préfet, had received an order from
the accredited agent of the Minister of Police to keep
an eye on the doings of these returned Emigrants,
but until now their conduct had been above suspicion.


144 The Emeralds of
Mme. la Comtesse and Mlle. Mariette went nowhere
except now and again to the church of Notre Dame;
they saw no one; and for the nonce the young Comte
de Romaine devoted his entire attention to Mademoi-
selle Philippa, the charming dancer who was delight-
ing the audiences of St. Lo with her inimitable art,
and dazzling their eyes with her showy dresses, her
magnificent equipage and her diamonds.
The préfet, in his latest report to the secret agent,
had jocularly added that the lovely dancer did not
appear a“ all averse from the idea of being styled
Mme. la Comtesse one of these days, or of regilding
the faded escutcheon of the de Romaines with her
plebeian gold.
There certainly was no hint of Chouannerie about
the doings of any member of the family, no communi-
cation with any of the well-known Chouan leaders,
no visits from questionable personages.
Great therefore was the astonishment of M.
Moulin when, three days later, he received a sum-
mons to present himself at No. I 5 Rue Notre Dame,
where the agent of His Majesty’s Minister of Police
had arrived less than an hour ago.
“I am here in strict incognito, my dear Monsieur
Moulin,” said the Man in Grey as soon as he had
greeted the préfet, “and I have brought three of my
men with me whom I know I can trust, as I am not
satisfied that you are carrying out my orders.”
“Your orders, Monsieur—er—Fernand? ” queried
the préfet blandly.


Mademoiselle Philippa 145
“Yes! I said my orders," retorted the other
quietly. “Did I not bid you keep a strict eye on
the doings of the Romaine family?”
“But, Monsieur Fernand—”
“ From now onwards my men and I will watch
Jacques de Romaine,” broke in the secret agent in
that even tone of his which admitted of no argument.
“But we cannot have our eyes everywhere. I must
leave the women to you."
“The old Comtesse only goes to church, and
Mademoiselle Mariette goes sometimes to market.”
“ So much the better for you. Your men will have
an easy time.”
“ But ”
“I pray you do not argue, my good Monsieur
Moulin. Mademoiselle Mariette may be out shopping
at this very moment.”
And when the accredited agent said “I pray you,”
non-compliance was out of the question.
Later in the day the préfet talked the matter over
with M. Cognard, chief commissary of police, who
had had similar orders in the matter of the Romaines.
The two cronies had had their tempers sorely ruflied
by the dictatorial ways of the secret agent, whom
they bated with all the venom that indolent natures
direct against an energetic one.
“The little busybody,” vowed M. Moulin, “sees
conspirators in every harmless citizen and interferes
in matters which of a truth have nothing whatever to
do with him.”


146 The Emeralds of
2
Then in the very midst of the complacency of
these two worthies came the memorable day which,
in their opinion, was the most turbulent one they had
ever known during their long and otiose careers.
It was the day following the arrival of the secret
agent at St. Lo, and he had come to the commissariat
that morning for the sole purpose—so M. Cognard
averred—of making matters uncomfortable for every-
body, when Mademoiselle de Romaine was an-
nounced. Mademoiselle had sent in word that she
desired to speak with M. le Commissaire immediately,
and a minute or two later she entered, looking like a
pale ghost in a worn grey gown, and with a cape
round her shoulders which was far too thin to keep
out the cold on this winter’s morning.
M. Cognard, fussy and chivalrous, offered her a
chair. She seemed to be in a terrible state of mental
agitation and on the verge of tears, which, however,
with characteristic pride she held resolutely in check.
“I have come, Monsieur le Commissaire,” she
began in a voice hoarse with emotion, “because my
mother—Madame la Comtesse de Romaine—and I
are desperately anxious—we don’t know—we—-—"
She was trembling so that she appeared almost
unable to speak. M. Cognard, with great kindness
and courtesy, poured out a glass of water for her.
She drank a little of it, and threwhim a grateful look,
after which she seemed more tranquil.


Mademoiselle Philippa 147
“I beg you to compose yourself, Mademoiselle,”
said the commissaire. “I am entirely at your
service.”
“ It is about my brother, Monsieur 1e Commis-
saire," rejoined Mademoiselle more calmly, “Mon-
sieur le Comte Jacques de Romaine. He has disap-
peared. For three days we have seen and heard
nothing of him—and my mother fears—fears—J’
Her eyes became dilated with that fear which she
dared not put into words. M. Cognard interposed at
once, both decisively and sympathetically.
“There is no occasion to fear the worst, Mademoi-
selle,” he said kindly. “Young men often leave
home for days without letting their mother and
sisters know where they are.”
“Ah, but, Monsieur le Commissaire,” resumed
Mademoiselle with a pathetic break in her voice, “the
circumstances in this case are exceptional. My
mother is a great invalid, and though my brother
leads rather a gay life he is devoted to her and he
always would come home of nights. Sometimes,”
she continued, as a slight flush rose to her pale
cheeks, “Mademoiselle Philippa would drive him
home in her barouche from the theatre. This she did
on Tuesday night, for I heard the carriage draw up
at our door. I saw the lights of the lanterns; I
also heard my brother’s voice bidding Mademoiselle
good night and the barouche driving off again. I
was in bed, for it was long past midnight, and I
remember just before I fell asleep again thinking how


148 The Emeralds of
very quietly my dear brother must have come in, for
I had not heard the opening and shutting of the front
door, nor his step upon the stairs or in his room.
Next morning I saw that his bed had not been slept
in, and that he had not come into the house at all—
as I had imagined—but had driven off again, no
doubt, with Mademoiselle Philippa. But we have
not seen him since, and—”
“And—h’m—er——have you communicated with
Mademoiselle Philippa?” asked the commissary with
some hesitation.
“No, Monsieur,” replied Mariette de Romaine
gravely. “You are the first stranger whom I have
consulted. I thought you would advise me what to
do.”
“ Exactly, exactly 1 ” rejoined M. Cognard, highly
gratified at this tribute to his sagacity. “You may
rely on me, Mademoiselle, to carry on investigations
with the utmost discretion. Perhaps you will furnish
me with a few details regarding this—er—regrettable
occurrence.”
There ensued a lengthy period of questioning and
cross-questioning. M. Cognard was impressively
ofiicial. Mademoiselle de Romaine, obviously
wearied, told and retold her simple story with ex-
emplary patience. The Man in Grey, ensconced in
a dark corner of the room, took no part in the pro-
ceedings; only once did he interpose with an abrupt
question :
“Are you quite sure, Mademoiselle,” he asked,


150 The Emeralds of
“ Had you not better send at once for this dancer—-
Philippa?” added- the Man in Grey.
“Of course—of course—” stammered the com-
missary, much relieved.
3
Mademoiselle Philippa duly arrived, in the early
afternoon, in her barouche drawn by two magnificent
English horses. She appeared dressed in the latest
Paris fashion and was greeted by M. Cognard with
the gallantry due to her beauty and talent.
“You have sent for me, Monsieur le Commis-
saire?” she asked somewhat tartly, as soon as she
had settled herself down in as becoming an attitude
as the office chair would allow. ,
“Oh, Mademoiselle,” said the commissary depre-
catingly, “I did so with deep regret at having to
trouble you .”
“ Well? And what is it?”
“I only desired to ask you, Mademoiselle, if you
have seen the Comte de Romaine recently."
She laughed and shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“The young scamp ! ” she said lightly. “No, I
haven’t seen him for two days. Why do you ask?”
“Because the young scamp, as you so pertinently
call him, has disappeared, and neither his mother nor
his sister knows what has become of him.”
“Disappeared?” exclaimed Mademoiselle Phi-
lippa. “With my emeralds! ”
_ Her nonchalance and habitual gaiety suddenly left


Mademoiselle Philippa 151
her. She sat bolt upright, her small hands clutching
the arms of her chair, her face pale and almost hag-
gard beneath the delicate layer of rouge.
“ Your emeralds, Mademoiselle?" queried M.
Cognard in dismay.
“My emeralds!” she reiterated with a catch in
her voice. “A necklace, tiara and earrings——a gift
to me from the Emperor of Russia when I danced
before him at St. Petersburg. They are worth the
best part of a million francs, Monsieur le Commis-
saire. Oh! Monsieur de Romaine cannot have
disappeared—not like that—and not with my
emeralds! ”
She burst into tears, and M. Cognard had much
ado to reassure her. Everything would be done, he
declared, to trace the young scapegrace. He could
not dispose of the emeralds, avowedE the commissary,
without being apprehended and his booty being taken
from him.
“He can dispose of them abroad,” declared
Mademoiselle Philippa, who would not be consoled.
“He may be on the high seas by now—the detest-
able young rogue."
“But how came Mademoiselle Philippa’s price-
less emeralds in the hands of that detestable young
rogue?” here interjected a quiet, even voice.
Mademoiselle turned upon the Man in Grey like
a young tiger-cat that has been teased.
“VVhat’s that to you?" she queried.
He smiled.


Mademoiselle Philippa 153
young man had been waylaid and robbed and after-
wards murdered by some malefactor who knew that
he had the jewels in his possession.
“Well!” commented the dancer with a shrug of
the shoulders, “’tis for you, my good Commissaire,
to find either my emeralds for me or the murdered
body of Monsieur le Comte de Romaine.”
After which parting shot Mademoiselle took her
departure, leaving an atmosphere of cosmetics and
the lingering echo of the frou-frou of silken skirts.
4
The commissary accompanied Mademoiselle
Philippa to the door. He was not looking forward
with unadulterated pleasure to the next half-hour,
when of a surety that fussy functionary from Paris
would set the municipal authorities by the ears for
the sake of an affair which, after all, was not so very
uncommon in these days—a handsome rogue, a
foolish, trusting woman, valuable jewellery. The
whole thing was very simple and the capture of the
miscreant a certainty. “ How was he going to dispose
of the emeralds,” argued M. Cognard to himself,
“without getting caught?” As for connecting such
a mild affair with any of those daring Chouans, the
idea was preposterous. '
But when M. Cognard returned to his oflice, these
specious arguments froze upon his lips. The Man in
Grey was looking unusually stern and uncompro-
mising.
K


154 The Emeralds of
“Let me have your last reports about Mademoi-
selle de Romaine,” he said peremptorily. “What did
she do all day yesterday P ”
The commissary, grumbling in his beard, found
the necessary papers.
“She only went to church in the morning," he
said in an injured tone of voice, “with Madame la
Comtesse. It was the feast of St. Andrew—”
“Did either of the women speak to anyone P ”
“Not on the way. But the church was very
crowded—both ladies went to confession—"
The Man in Grey uttered an impatient exclama-
tion.
“I fear we have lost the emeralds," he said, “but
in Heaven’s name do not let us lose the rogue. When
brought to bay he may give up the booty yet.”
“But, Monsieur Fernand—” protested the
commissary.
The other waved aside these protestations with a
quick gesture of his slender hand. _
“I know, I know,” he said. “You are not at
fault. The rascal has been too clever for us, that is
all. But we have not done with him yet. Send over
to the Lodge at once,” added the secret agent firmly,
“men whom you can trust, and order them to appre~
hend Monsieur 1e Comte jacques de Romaine and
convey him hither.”
“To the Lodge?”
“Yes! Mariette de Romaine lied when she said
that her brother had not been in the house since


Mademoiselle Philippa I 55
Tuesday. He is in the house now. I had only been
in St. L6 a few hours, but I had taken up my stand
outside the Lodge that night, when Mademoiselle
Philippa’s barouche drew up there and Jacques de
Romaine stepped out of it. I saw him wave his hand
and then turn to go into the house. The next
moment the door of the Lodge was opened and he
disappeared within it. Since then he has not been
outside the house. I was there the whole of that
night with one of my men, two others have been on
the watch ever since-—one in front, the other at the
back. The sister or the mother may have passed the
emeralds on to a confederate in church yesterday—
we don’t know. But this I do know,” he concluded
emphatically, “that Jacques de Romaine is in the
Lodge at this moment unless the devil has spirited
him away up the chimney."
“There’s no devil that will get the better of my
men,” retorted the commissary, carried away despite
himself by the other’s energy and sense of power.
“We’ll have the rogue here within the hour, Mon-
sieur Fernand, I pledge you the honour of the
municipality of St. L6! And the emeralds, too,” he
added complacently, “if the robbers have not yet
disposed of them.”
“That’s brave!” rejoined the Man in Grey in a
tone of kindly encouragement. “My own men are
still on the spot and will lend you a hand. They
have at their fingers’ ends all that there is to know
on the subject of secret burrows and hiding-places.


156 The Emeralds of
All that you have to remember is that Jacques de
Romaine is inside the Lodge and that you must
bring him here. Now go and make your arrange~
ments; I will be at the Lodge myself within the
hour."
5
It was quite dark when the Minister’s agent
arrived at the Lodge. M. Cognard met him outside
the small garden gate. As soon as he caught sight
of the slender, grey-clad figure he ran to meet it as
fast as his portliness would allow.
“Nothing!” he said breathlessly.
“How do you mean—nothing?” retorted the
secret agent.
“Just what I say,” replied the commissaire. “We
have searched this tumbledown barrack through and
through. The women are there—in charge of my
men. They did not protest; they did not hinder us
in any way. But I tell you,” added M. Cognard, as
he mopped his streaming forehead, “there’s not a cat
or a mouse concealed in that place. We have searched
every hole and corner.”
“Bah!” said the Man in Grey with a frown.
“Some secret hiding-place has escaped you l ”
“Ask your own trusted men,” retorted the com-
missaire. “They have worked with ours.”
“Have you questioned the women ?”
“Yes! They adhere to Mademoiselle’s story in
every point.”


Mademoiselle Philippa 157
“ Do they know that I—a member of His Majesty’s
secret police force—saw Jacques de Romaine enter
this house on Tuesday night, and that I swear he did
not leave it the whole of that night; whilst my own
men are equally ready to swear that he has not left it
since ? ”
“They know that.”
“And what is their answer?”
“That we must demand an explanation from the
man who was lurking round here in the dark when
Jacques de Romaine had priceless jewels in his pos-
session,” replied the chief commissary.
The stern features of the Man in Grey relaxed into
a smile.
“The rogues are cleverer than I thought,” he said
simply.
“Rogues?” growled M. Cognard. “I for one do
not believe that they are rogues. If Jacques de
Romaine entered this house on Tuesday night and
has not left it since, where is he now? Answer me
that, Monsieur Fernand l ”
“Do you think I have murdered him?” retorted
the secret agent calmly.
Then he went into the house.
He found Mme. la Comtesse de Romaine en-
trenched within that barrier of lofty incredulity which
she had set up the moment that she heard of the grave
suspicion which rested upon her son.
“A Comte de Romaine, Monsieur,” she said in
her thin, cracked voice in answer to every query put


158 The Emeralds of
to her by the Man in Grey, “who is also Seigneur de
Mazaire and a peer of France, does not steal the jewels
of a dancer. If, as that wench asserts, my son had
her trinkets that night about his person, then 0b-
viously it is for you who were lurking round my house
like a thief in the night to give an account of what
became of him.”
“Your son entered this house last Tuesday night,
Madame,” answered Fernand firmly, “and has not
been out of it since.”
“Then I pray you find him, sir,” was Madame de
Romaine’s rejoinder.
Mademoiselle Mariette’s attitude was equally un-
compromising. She bore every question and cross-
question unflinchingly. But when the secret agent
finally left her in peace to initiate a thorough search
inside that house which so bafflingly refused to give
up its secret, she turned to the chief commissary of
police.
“Who is that anonymous creature,” she queried
with passionate indignation, “who heaps insults and
tortures upon my dear mother and me? .Why is he
not being questioned? Whose is the hidden hand
that shields him when retribution should be marking
him for its own P”
Whose indeed ? The commissary of police was at
his wits’ end. Even the Man in Grey—resolute,
systematic and untiring—failed to discover anything
suspicious in the Lodge. It had often been said of
him that no secret hiding-place, no hidden panel or


Mademoiselle Philippa 159
lurking-hole could escape his eagle eye, and yet, to-
day, after three hours’ persistent search, he was forced
to confess he had been baffled.
Either his men had relaxed their vigilance at some
time since that fateful Tuesday night, and had allowed
the rogue to escape, or the devil had indeed spirited
the young Comte de Romaine up the chimney.
Public opinion at once went dead against the
authorities. Mademoiselle de Romaine had taken
good care that the story of the man lurking round the
Lodge on the night her brother disappeared should be
known far and wide. That that man happened to be
a mysterious and anonymous member of His Majesty’s
secret police did not in any way allay the popular
feeling. The worthy citizens of St. Lo loudly de-
manded to know why he was not brought to justice.
The préfet, the commissary, the procureur, were all
bombarded with correspondence. Indignation meet-
ings were held in every parish of the neighbourhood.
Indeed, so tense, had the situation become that the
chief departmental and municipal officials were tender-
ing their resignations wholesale, for their position,
which already was well-nigh intolerable, threatened
to become literally dangerous. Sooner or later the
public would have to be told that the Man in Grey,
on whom so grave a suspicion now rested, had
mysteriously vanished, no one knew whither, and
that no one dared to interfere with his movements, on
pain of having to deal with M. le Duc d’Otrante, His
Majesty’s Minister of Police, himself.


Mademoiselle Philippa 161
the look of a frightened hare, when it lies low within
its form, fearful lest it should be seen.
It was a bitterly cold morning, and Mariette wore
’ a long, full cape, which she kept closely wrapped
round her shoulders. Anon a verger came round
with foot-warmers which he distributed, in exchange
for a few coppers, to those who asked for them. One
of these he brought to Mariette and placed it under
her feet. As he did so an imperceptible look of under-
standing passed from her to him. Then the priests
followed in, the choir intoned the Introit, the smoke
of incense rose to the exquisitely carved roof, and
everyone became absorbed in prayer.
Mariette de Romaine, ensconced behind the pillar,
sat still, until, during the Confiteor, when all heads
were buried between clasped hands, she stooped and
apparently rearranged the position of her foot—warmer.
Anyone who had been closely watching her would
have thought that she had lifted it from the ground
and was hugging it tightly under her cloak. No
doubt her hands were cold.
Just before the Elevation a man dressed in a rough
workman’s blouse, his bare feet thrust into shabby
shoes of soft leather, came and knelt beside her. She
tried to edge away from him, but the pillar was in the
way and she could not retreat any farther. Then sud-
denly she caught the man’s glance, and he—very
slowly—put his grimy hand up to the collar of his
blouse and, just for an instant, turned it back: on
the reverse side of the collar was sewn a piece of white


I62 The Emeralds of
ribbon with a fleur-de-lys roughly embroidered upon
it—the device of the exiled Bourbon princes. A look
of understanding, immediately followed by one of
anxious inquiry, spread over Mariette de Romaine’s
face, but the man put a finger to his lips and gave her
a scarcely noticeable reassuring nod.
After the conclusion of the service and during the
usual noise and bustle of the departing congregation
the man drew a little nearer to Mariette and whispered
hurriedly :
“Do not go yet—there are police spies outside.”
Mariette de Romaine was brave, at times even
reckless, but at this warning her pale cheeks became
nearly livid. She hugged the bulky thing which she
held under her cloak almost convulsively to her breast.
“What am I to do?” she whispered in response.
“ Wait here quietly,” rejoined the man, “till the
people have left. I can take you through the belfry
and out by a postern gate I know of.”
“But,” she gasped hoarsely, for her throat felt
dry and parched, “afterwards?”
“You can come to my lodgings,” he replied.
“We’ll let Madame know—and then we shall have to
think what best to do.”
“Can you find White-Beak?” she asked.
“What for ? ”
“I could give him the—’
“Hush!” he broke in quickly.
“I should like Monsieur le Chanoine to keep them
again; we shall have to make fresh arrangements—”
’


Mademoiselle Philippa 163
“Hush ! ” he reiterated more peremptorily. “We
can do nothing for the moment except arrange for
your safety.”
The man spoke with such calm and authority that
instinctively Mariette felt reassured. The bustle round
them, people coming and going, chairs creaking
against the flagstones, had effectually drowned the
whispered colloquy. Now the crowd was thinning:
the man caught hold of Mariette’s cloak, and she,
obediently, allowed him to lead her. He seemed to
know his way about the sacred edifice perfectly, and
presently, after they had crossed the belfry and gone
along a flagged corridor, he opened a low door, and
she found herself in the open in the narrow passage
behind the east end of the church. Her guide was
supporting her by the elbow, and she, still hugging
her precious burden, walked beside him without
further question. He led her to a house in a street
close by, where he appeared to be at home. After
climbing three flights of steps, he knocked vigorously
at a door, which was immediately opened by a man
also dressed in a rough blouse, and ushered Mariette
de Romaine into an apartment of the type usually
inhabited by well-to-do artisans. After crossing a
narrow hall she entered a sitting-room wherein the
first sight that greeted her tired eyes was a bunch of
crudely fashioned artificial white lilies in the centre
of a large round table. Fully reassured, though
thoroughly worn out with the excitement of the past
few minutes, the girl sank into a chair and threw


164 The Emeralds of
open the fastening of her cloak. The bulky parcel,
cleverly contrived to look like a foot-warmer, lay
upon her lap.
“Now we must let Madame la Comtesse know,”
said the man who had been her guide, in a quiet,
matter-of-fact tone. “Oh, it will be quite safe,” he
added, seeing a look of terror had spread over
Mariette de Romaine’s face. “I have a comrade here,
Hare’s-Foot—you know him, Mademoiselle?”
She shook her head.
“He is well known in St. Lo,” continued the man
simply. “Supposed to be harmless. His real name
is Pierre Legrand. The police spies have never sus-
pected him—the fools. But he is one of us—and as
intrepid as he is cunning. So if you will write a few
words, Mademoiselle, Hare’s-Foot will take them at
once to Madame la Comtesse.”
“What shall I say?” asked Mariette, as she took
up pen and paper which her unknown friend was
placing before her.
“Only that you became faint in church,” he sug-
gested, “and are at a friend’s house. Then request
that Madame la Comtesse should come to you at
once : the bearer of your note will guide her.”
Obediently the girl wrote as he advised, the man
watching her the while. Had Mariette de Romaine
looked up she might have seen a strange look in his
face—a look that was almost of pity.
The letter was duly signed and sealed and handed
over to Hare’s-Foot—the man who had opened the


Mademoiselle Philippa 165
door of the apartment—and he at once went away
with it.
After that perfect quietude reigned in the small
room. Mariette leaned her head against the back of
her chair. She felt very tired.
“ Let me relieve you of this,” said her companion
quietly, and without waiting for hei- acquiescence he
took the bulky parcel from her and put it on the table.
Then Mariette de Romaine fell into a light sleep.
7
She was aroused by the sound of her mother’s
voice. Madame la Comtesse de Romaine was in her
turn being ushered into the apartment, and was al-
ready being put in possession of the facts connected
with her daughter’s letter which had summoned her
hither.
“I guessed at once that something of the sort had
happened,” was Madame’s dry and unperturbed com-
ment. “Mariette was not likely to faint while she had
those emeralds in her charge. You, my men,” she
added, turning to her two interlocutors, “ have done
well by us. I don’t yet know how you came to render
us and our King’s cause this signal service, but you
may be sure that it will not go unrewarded. His
Majesty himself shall hear of it—on the faith of a de
Romaine.”
“And now, Madame la Comtesse,” rejoined the
man in the rough blouse quietly, “I would suggest


166 The Emeralds of
that Mademoiselle and yourself don a suitable dis-
guise, while Hare’s-Foot and I arrange for a safe
conveyance to take you out of St. L6 at once. We
have most effectually given the police spies the slip,
and while they are still searching the city for you,
you will be half way on the road to Caen, and there
is no reason why the original plans for your journey
to Rome should be in any way modified.”
“Perfect! Perfect ! " exclaimed Madame enthusi-
astically. “You are a jewel, my friend.”
There was nothing of the senile invalid about her
now. She had cast off her shawl and her bonnet, and
with them the lank, white wig which concealed her
own dark hair. The man in the rough blouse smiled
as he looked on her.
“My mate and I have a number of excellent dis-
guises in this wardrobe here, Madame la Comtesse,”
he said, as he pointed to a large piece of furniture
which stood in a corner of the room, “and all are at
your service. I would suggest a peasant’s dress for
Mademoiselle, and,” he added significantly, “a man’s
attire for Madame, since she is so very much at home
in it.”
“You are right, my man,” rejoined Madame
lightly. “I was perfectly at home in my son’s
breeches, and I shall never cease to regret that
jacques de Romaine must remain now as he is—
vanished or dead—for as long as I live.”
The two men then took their leave, and the ladies
proceeded to select suitable disguises. Silently and


Mademoiselle Philippa 167
methodically they proceeded in their task, Mariette
de Romaine making herself look as like a labourer’s
wench as she could, whilst Mme. la Comtesse slipped
into a rough garb of coat and breeches with the ease
born of constant habit. Her short dark hair she tied
into a knot at the nape of her neck and placed a
shabby three-cornered hat jauntily upon it. Her
broad, unfeminine figure, her somewhat hard-marked
features and firm mouth and chin made her look a
handsome and clashing cavalier.
When a few moments later the sound of voices in
the hall proclaimed the return of the men, Mme. la
Comtesse was standing expectant and triumphant
facing the door, ready for adventure as she had always
been, a light of daring and of recklessness in her
eyes, love of intrigue and of tortuous paths, of dark
conspiracies and even of unavowable crimes glowing
in her heart—all for the sake of a King whom France
with one voice had ejected from her shores, and a
régime which the whole of France abhorred.
The door was opened: a woman’s cry of joy and
astonishment rang out.
“Why, jacques, you young scamp ! ” exclaimed
Mademoiselle Philippa, who, dressed in a brilliant
dark green silk, with feathered hat and well-rouged
cheeks, was standing under the lintel of the narrow
door like a being from another world. “Where have
you been hiding all this while? "
But her cry of mingled pleasure and petulance had
already been followed by a double cry of terror. Mme.


168 The Emeralds of
la Comtesse, white now to the lips, had fallen back
against the table, to which she clung, whilst Mariette
de Romaine, wide-eyed like a tracked beast at bay,
was gazing in horror straight before her, where, be-
hind Philippa’s flaring skirts, appeared the stern,
colourless face of a small man in a grey coat.
“It was for the mean spies of that Corsican Up-
start,” she exclaimed with passionate indignation, “to
have devised such an abominable trick.”
Already the Man in Grey had entered the room.
Behind him, in the dark, narrow hall, could be seen
vaguely the silhouettes of three or four men in plain
clothes.
“Trick for trick, Mademoiselle, and disguise for
disguise,” said the secret agent quietly. “I prefer
mine to the one which deceived and defrauded Made-
moiselle Philippa here of close on a million francs’
worth of jewels.”
“A trick?” exclaimed the dancer, who was look-
ing the picture of utter confusion and bewilderment.
“My jewels ?-—I don’t understand—”
“ Madame la Comtesse de Romaine, otherwise
Jacques, your fiance and admirer, Mademoiselle, has
time to explain. The private coach which will convey
her to Rennes will not be here for half an hour. In
the meanwhile,” he added, as he took up the parcel of
jewels which still lay upon the table, “you will find
these at the commissariat of police whenever you care
to call for them. Monsieur Cognard will have the
privilege of returning them to you .”


Mademoiselle Philippa 169
But Mademoiselle Philippa was far too much upset
to wait for explanations. At the invitation of the
Minister’s accredited agent, she had followed him
hither, for he had told her that she would see Jacques
de Romaine once more. The disappointment and
mingled horror and excitement when she realised
what an amazing trick had been played upon her
literally swept her off her nimble feet. It was a month
or more before she was well enough to fulfil her out-
standing engagements.
The de Romaines—mother and daughter—offered
no resistance. Indeed, resistance would have been
futile, and theirs was not the temperament to allow
of hysterics or undignified protestations. Every
courtesy was shown to them on their way to Rennes,
where they were tried and condemned to five years’
imprisonment. But twelve months later the Imperial
clemency was exercised in their favour, and they were
released; after the Restoration they were handsomely
rewarded for their zeal in the service of the King.
The Comte Jacques de Romaine, who, as a little
lad, had been taken over to England, never came to
France till after Waterloo had been fought and won.
At the time that his mother impersonated him so
daringly and with such sinister results, he was serving
in the Prussian Army. Mariette de Romaine subse-
quently married the Vicomte de Saint-Vaast. She
and her husband emigrated with Charles X in 1830,
and their son married an Englishwoman, and died in
a house at Hampstead in the early ’seventies.
L


.Vi
THE BOURBON PRINCE
l
“I DON’T see how I can be of any assistance to you,
my good Monsieur Moulin. I quite agree with you
that it would be a real calamity if a member of the
ex-Royal family were to effect a landing in our pro-
vince, but—” And Monseigneur the Constitutional
Bishop of Alencon shrugged his shoulders in token
of his inability to deal with the matter.
He was sitting in a small room of his splendid
private chateau, which was situated near Granville.
Through the tall window on his left, the magnificent
panorama of the rugged coast of Normandy and of
the turbulent English Channel beyond was displayed
in its limitless glory. The point of Carolles still
gleamed beneath the last rays of the cold, wintry sun,
but the jagged Dog’s Tooth rocks were already
wrapped in twilight gloom.
“And it is for our people themselves to realise,”
continued Monseigneur, with his slow, somewhat pom-
pous delivery, “how much happier they would be if
they discarded for ever their misguided allegiance to
those degenerate Bourbons, and became law-abiding
citizens like the rest of France.”
170


The Bourbon Prince 171
“They’ll have no chance to do that,” growled the
préfet moodily, “once we get one of those Bourbons
sowing rebellion and discontent all over the place.
The landing of the Comte d’Artois must be prevented
at all costs or we shall have the devil to pay. Those
Chouans have been difficult enough to deal with, God
knows, but hitherto their want of organisation, their
lack of responsible leadership and of co-ordination
have been our salvation. With the Comte d’Artois
at their head, and a deal of fictitious enthusiasm
aroused by him for the exiled Royal family over the
water, we shall have bloodshed, misery, and civil war
rife again in this corner of France.”
“Monsieur le Ministre,” rejoined Monseigneur
blandly, “has plenty of spies here. Surely, even if
the Comte d’Artois effect a landing, he cannot escape
capture at the hands of your well-organised police.
His death within your circuit, my dear préfet, would
be a fine feather in your cap.”
“Oh, we don’t want another martyred Bourbon
just yet!” retorted the préfet gruffly. “He’d better
die in England, or on the high seas rather than in this
part of Normandy. We should be accused of murder-
ing him.”
M. le préfet was distinctly perturbed and irritable.
A denunciation from some anonymous quarter had
reached him that morning : a number of rough fellows
-marauding Chouans—had, it appeared, halted at a
wayside inn somewhere on the Caen road, and openly
boasted that M. le Comte d’Artois, own brother to


172 The Bourbon Prince
His Majesty the King, was about to land on the shores
of France, and that a numerous and enthusiastic army
was already prepared to rally round his flag, and to
sweep the upstart Emperor from his throne, and all
the myrmidons of the mushroom Empire from their
comfortable seats.
The Bishop had listened to the story of the anony-
mous denunciation and to the préfet’s walls of woe
most suavely and untiringly for close upon an hour.
But he was at last showing signs of growing
impatience.
“I think, my dear Monsieur Moulin,” he said with
some acerbity, “you must yourself admit that this
affair in no way concerns me. Granville is not even
my official residence. I came here for a much-needed
rest and, though my support and advice are always
at your disposal, I really must leave you and the chief
commissary of police to deal with these Chouans as
best you can, and with any Bourbon prince who thinks
of paying France an unwelcome visit."
He put up his delicate, beringed hand to his
mouth, politely smothering a yawn. He appeared
absent and thoughtful all of a sudden, bored no doubt
by the fussy man’s volubility. He was gazing out
of the window, seemingly in rapt contemplation of
the beautiful picture before him—the setting sun over
the Channel, the gorgeous coast scenery, the glowing
splendour of the winter twilight.
The préfet felt that he was dismissed. Respect
for Monseigneur warred with his latent irritability.


The Bourbon Prince 173
“I won’t intrude any longer,” be said ruefully, as
he prepared to go.
The Bishop, much relieved, became at once more
affable.
“I wish I could be of service to you,” he said
benignly; “but from what I hear you have a very able
man at your elbow in the newly accredited agent of
His Majesty’s Minister. The préfet of Alencon has
spoken very highly about him to me, and though he
was unsuccessful in the matter of the burglary in my
Palace at Alencon last October, I believe he has
rendered very able assistance to the chief commissary
of police in bringing some of those redoubtable
Chouans to justice.”
“He may have done that,” quoth the préfet dryly,
“but I have not much faith in the little grey fellow
myself. The problem confronting us here is a deeper
one than he can tackle.”
A few minutes later the préfet had finally bowed
himself out of Monseigneur’s presence.
The Bishop remained seated at his desk, absorbed
and almost motionless, for some time after his visitor
had departed. He appeared to be still wrapped up
in the contemplation of the sunset. The hurried foot-
steps of the préfet resounded on the great flagged hall
below; there had been the usual commotion attendant
on the departure of a guest : lackeys opening and clos-
ing the entrance doors, a call for M. le préfet’s
horse, the clatter of hoofs upon the stone-paved court-
yard, then nothing more.


174 The Bourbon Prince
The dignified quietude of a well-ordered, richly
appointed household again reigned in the sumptuous
chateau. After a while, as the shades of evening drew
in, a footman entered with a lighted lamp, which he
set upon the table. But still Monseigneur waited,
until through the tall window by his side there
appeared nothing but an impenetrable veil of black-
ness. Then he rose, carefully re-adjusted the crimson
shade over the lamp, and threw a couple of logs upon
the cheerful fire. He went up to the window and
opened it and, stepping out on to the terrace, peered
intently into the night.
The north-westerly wind was soughing through
the trees of the park, and not half a kilometre away
the breakers were roaring against the Dog’s Tooth
rocks; but, even through these manifold sounds, Mon-
seigneur’s keen ear had detected a soft and furtive
footfall upon the terrace steps. The next moment a
man emerged out of the gloom. Breathless and pant-
ing, he ran rapidly across the intervening forecourt
and, almost colliding with the Bishop, staggered and
fell forward into the room.
Monseigneur received him in his arms, and with
a swiftly murmured, “Thank God! ” led him to a
chair beside the hearth. Then he closed the window,
drew the heavy damask curtains closely together, and
finally came up to the newcomer who, shivering with
cold and terror, wet to the skin and scant of breath,
was stooping to the fire, trying to infuse warmth into
his numbed fingers.


The Bourbon Prince 175
"Someone is on my track," were the first words
which fell from his quivering lips.
He was a man verging on middle age, short and
stout of build, with a white, flabby skin and pro-
minent, weak-looking eyes. His clothes had almost
been torn off his back by the frolic of the gale; he
was hatless, and his hair, matted and dank, clung
to his moist forehead.
The Bishop had remained standing before him in
an attitude of profound respect. “ Will your Highness
deign to come up to my room? ” he said. “ Dry
clothes and a warm bath have been prepared.”
“I’ll go in a moment,” replied His Highness. He
had still some difficulty in recovering his breath, and
spoke irritably like a wayward sick child. “But let
me tell you at once that our movements have been
watched from the moment that we set foot on these
shores. The crossing was very rough. The gale is
raging furiously. The skipper has put into Avranches.
He dropped me at the Goat’s Creek and left me there
with de Verthamont and du Roy. 'As soon as we
started to come hither we realised that there was
someone on our track. We consulted together and
decided that it would be best to separate. De Vertha-
mont went one way and du Roy another, and I ran
all the way here.”
“‘Was' your Highness shadowed after that?”
asked the Bishop.
“I think not. I heard no one. But then the
wind kept up an incessant din."


176 The Bourbon Prince
“And did Sébastien meet your Highness? ”
“Yes! In the Devil’s Bowl. He followed me at
a distance as far as your gates. He thought that he,
too, had been shadowed all day. Early this morning
he reconnoitred as far as Coutances, and there he
heard that a couple of regiments of cavalry and a
battery of artillery had arrived from St. L6.”
The Bishop made no further comment. His
enthusiasm and excitement of a moment ago appeared
to have fallen away from him; his finely chiselled face
had become serene and pale; only in his deep-set eyes
there seemed to smoulder a dull fire, as if with the
prescience of impending doom.
A moment or two later he persuaded the Comte
d’Artois to come up to his own private apartments.
Here a warm bath, dry clothes and a well-cooked
supper restored to the unfortunate Prince a certain
measure of courage.
“What’s to be done? ” he asked with a querulous
tone in his hoarse voice.
“For the moment,” replied the Bishop earnestly,
“I would respectfully beg of your Highness to remain
in these apartments, which have the infinite advantage
of a secret hiding-place which no police agent will
ever discover.”
“ A hiding-place ?” muttered the Prince petulantly.
“I loathe the very idea of lurking behind dusty panels
like a sick fox.”
The Bishop did not venture on a reply. He went
up to the fine mantelpiece at the opposite end of


The Bourbon Prince 177
the room, and his hand wandered over the elaborate
carving which adorned the high wainscoting. He
pressed with one finger on a portion of the carving,
and at once some of the woodwork moved silently
upon unseen hinges, and disclosed a cavity large
enough for a man to pass through.
i “It would only be an hour or so at a time, your
Highness,” he said with respectful apology; “in case
a posse of police makes a descent upon the house.”
He explained to his august visitor the mechanism
of the secret panel. M. le Comte d’Artois, weary after
a long sea journey, fretful and irritable, kept up a
constant stream of mutterings sotto 'voce :
“You and the party wished me to come. I never
thought that it would be safe, and if I have to remain
in hiding‘in this rat hole, I might just as well be
sitting comfortably in England.”
Monseigneur, however, never departed for a
moment from his attitude of almost reverential defer-
ence. With his own hands he ministered to every
bodily comfort of the exalted personage who had
found refuge under his roof, and only left him when
he saw the Prince comfortably stretched out upon the
bed, and was fully assured that he understood the
working of the secret panel.
Then after a deep obeisance he finally bowed him-
self out of the room. Slowly he descended the dimly
lighted stairs which led to his study on the floor
below. The pallor of his face appeared more marked
than before. A vague feeling of anxiety, not un-


The Bourbon Prince I79
The man had the bearing and appearance of a
good-class domestic servant—one of those who enjoy
many privileges as well as the confidence of their
employer. But to a keen psychologist it would soon
become obvious that the sombre, well-cut clothes and
stiff, conventional demeanour cloaked a more vigor-
ous and more individual personality. The face
appeared rugged even beneath the solid mask, and the
eyes had a keen, searching, at times furtive expression
in them. They were the eyes of a man accustomed to
feel danger dogging his footsteps, to hold his life in
his own hands, and to take risks which would make
the pusillanimous quake.
“How long have you been here?” asked the
Bishop quickly.
“Half an hour, Monseigneur. I did not dare
follow His Highness too closely. The town and its
neighbourhood are bristling with spies. I have had
the greatest difficulty throughout the day in giving at
least two prowlers the slip and drawing them off His
Highness’s tracks.”
Monseigneur uttered an exclamation of horror.
“I thought I had one at my heels a moment ago,”
continued Sébastien; “just inside the gates. Some-
one, I felt, was dogging my footsteps. I fired a
random shot into the night, and as luck would have
it, I brought down my man.”
“Brought down your man ?” exclaimed Mon-
seigneur eagerly. “Then~———-”
“Unfortunately it was not a police spy whom I


180 The Bourbon Prince
shot,” said Sébastien carelessly, “but Grand-Cerf, one
of your keepers.” -
Monseigneur gave a cry of dismay.
“Grand-Cerf! I had posted him just inside the
gates to watch for possible prowlers.”
“I didn’t know that, and I shot him,” repeated
Sebastien grimly.
“You killed him? ”
Sébastien nodded. The matter did not appear to
him to have any importance.
“Now if it had been that accursed spy——” he
murmured. Then he added more earnestly: “You
will have a posse of police over from Granville to-
morrow, Monseigneur—they’ll search this house.
Somehow or other someone has got wind of the affair
——-I’d stake my life on it.”
“Let them come,” retorted the Bishop shortly.
“Monsieur le Comte d’Artois will be safe behind the
secret panel.”
Sebastien shrugged his shoulders.
“For half an hour, yes! But if, as I-believe, it is
that confounded grey chap from Paris who has
shadowed us, then no hiding-place or secret panel
will screen us from his prying eyes. It is he who
tracked down the Spaniard last November, who laid
Monsieur de Saint-Tropeze low, who thwarted Made-
moiselle Vaillant. Oh!” added the old Chouan,
“if I only had him here between my hands—”
His powerful fingers twitched convulsively. Mon-
seigneur shrugged his shoulders.


The Bourbon Prince 181
“That miserable little Man in Grey,” he said dryly,
“has had the luck so far, I own, but it was because
his wits were only opposed to brute force. Monsieur
de Saint-Tropeze was clumsy, the Spaniard reckless,
the girl Vaillant hysterical. Now we have to defend
Monsieur le Comte d’Artois himself—but not with our
lives, my good Sebastien—’tis our wits which are
going to win the day, right under the very nose of
the Man in Grey.”
3
An hour or two later, in a small dingy room in one
of the most squalid portions of the town, the accredited
agent of His Imperial Majesty’s Minister of Police
was hastily demolishing the remnants of a meagre,
cold supper. He appeared footsore and cold.
M. Moulin, préfect of St. L6, sat opposite to him
at the table. He seemed gravely agitated and
anxious.
“We have done all we really could, Monsieur
Fernand,” he said fretfully, “with the material at our
command. Monsieur le Duc d’Otrante’s spies have
been very active, and I don’t think that we have any
cause to complain of the results.”
“Well, let’s hear the results,” said the Man in
Grey curtly.
A sharp retort hovered on the préfet’s tongue. He
did not like the dictatorial ways of this emissary from
Paris, and had it not been for M. le Duc d’Otrante’s


182 The Bourbon Prince
express orders, the Minister’s secret agent would have
fared ill at the hands of this hidebound official.
“There has been,” he resumed with some bitter-
ness, “great activity among the Chouans that are
known to us in this neighbourhood. Our spies have
discovered that the Comte d’Artois landed on this
coast in the early dawn this morning. Unfortunately,
they cannot be everywhere, and up to half an hour
ago we had found no trace of him that we can rely
oh; at the same time we have intercepted a letter ”
“Pshaw ! ” ejaculated the Man in Grey im-
patiently. “And did your spies inform you by any
chance that three strangers were lauded by the brig
Delphine in the Goat’s Creek at dawn this morning 'r’ ”
“Our informant did not say,” remarked the préfet
dryly.
“I dare say not,” rejoined the Man in Grey. “ Nor
did he tell you, perhaps, that the three strangers were
met at the Devil’s Bowl by Sébastien, who is, if I mis-
take not, confidential valet to the Constitutional
Bishop of Aleneon."
“That is false!” broke in M. le Préfet em-
phatically. “The loyalty of Monseigneur is beyond
question.”
“Perhaps,” retorted the other with a grim smile.
“At any rate, Sébastien guided the three strangers
through intricate passes among the cliffs as far as the
Dog’s Tooth. Here the party separated: one man
went one way, another the other. Sébastien and one
of the strangers waited about the cliffs until dusk,


The _ Bourbon Prince 183
then they made their way along as far as the outskirts
of Monseigneur’s property—”
"I protest! ” ejaculated the préfet hotly.
But the Man in Grey put up his slender hand with
a commanding gesture.
“One moment, I beg,” he said quietly. “The
stranger lurked about on the outskirts of the park
until it was quite dark, then he slipped in through
the gates, with Sébastien close at his heels. The gates
were at once drawn to and closed. The stranger dis-
appeared in the night. A few minutes later the report
of a musket rang out through the darkness, then the
soughing of the gale drowned every other sound.”
“Some thief,” exclaimed the préfet grufily, “lurk-
ing round the chateau. No doubt Sébastien suspected
him, dogged his footsteps and shot him. It is all as
clear as daylight—"
“So clear, indeed," observed the Man in Grey
calmly, “that you, Monsieur 1e Préfet, will at once
communicate with the chief commissary of police. I
want a squadron of mounted men to surround Mon-
seigneur’s chateau and a vigorous search made both
inside and outside the house.”
“What! Now?” gasped M. Moulin.
“Yes; now 2 "
“ But it is past ten o’clock ! ” he protested.
“A better hour could not be found.”
“ But Monseigneur will look upon this as an
insult ! ” exclaimed the préfet, who was deadly pale
with agitation.


184 The Bourbon Prince
“For which we’ll apologise if we have wronged
him,” retorted the secret agent quietly. “Stay l” he
added, after a moment’s reflection. “I pray you at
the same time to tell Monsieur le Commissaire that I
shall require a closed barouche, with a strong pair of
horses and a mounted guard of half a dozen men, to
be ready for me in the stable-yard of Monseigneur’s
chateau. Is that understood? ”
It was. To have even thought of disobedience
would have been madness. The very way in which
the Man in Grey uttered his “I pray you ” sent a cold
shiver down M. Moulin’s spine, and he still had in
the inner pocket of his coat the letter written in the
all-powerful Minister’s own hand. In this letter M.
1e Duc d’Otrante gave orders that his agent was to be
obeyed—blindly, implicitly, unquestioningly—what-
ever he might command, whomsoever he might bid
to execute his orders. One look in that pale, colour-
less face sufficed to show that he knew the power
which had been placed in his hands and would use it
to punish those who strove to defy his might.
4.
M. Fantin, commissary of police of Granville,
was preparing to execute the agent’s orders as trans-
mitted by the préfet. The whole matter was unutter-
ably distasteful to him. Monseigneur the Constitu-
tional Bishop of Alencon was a prelate of such high
integrity and proven loyalty, that to put such an


The Bourbon Prince 185
insult upon him was, in the opinion of the commis-
sary, nothing short of an outrage. He was pacing up
and down the uncarpeted floor of his office in a state
of great agitation. In a corner of the room, beside
the small iron stove, sat the secret agent of His
Majesty’s Minister. Calm, unperturbed by the mut-
terings of the commissary, he only exhibited a slight
sign of impatience when he glanced at the clock and
noted the rapid flight of time. The squadron of
mounted police requisitioned by him was making
ready to get to horse. It was then close on eleven
o’clock.
A moment later one of the police sergeants entered
the oflice with the news that a mounted courier had
just arrived from the chateau, with a message from
Monseigneur to the commissary of police.
“I’ll see him. at once,” said the latter, half hoping
that this fresh incident would even now prevent the
abominable insult to the Bishop.
“What is it, Gustave?” he asked, for he knew
the man as one of the grooms in Monseigneur’s
service.
“An attempt at impudent robbery, Monsieur le
Commissaire,” replied the man, “which has resulted
in a man’s death. Monseigneur has. sent me over to
notify you at once and to ask what he should do in
the matter.”
M. Fantin threw a look of triumph at the little
figure in grey that sat huddled beside the iron stove.
The commissary had also advanced the theory of an
M


186 The Bourbon Prince
attempted burglary at the chateau, and was highly
elated to see his deductions justified.
“A robbery ? ” he exclaimed. “How? When? ”
“An hour or two ago, Monsieur le Commissaire,”
replied Gustave. “Monseigneur.will explain. I know
nothing of the details except that the rascal overturned
a lamp. He was burned to death and nearly set fire
to the chateau. I was sent hither post-haste to see
Monsieur le Commissaire—”
“Very good,” rejoined the commissary. “Ride
straight back to the chateau and tell Monseigneur that
I will be there anon.”
As soon as the man had gone, M. Fantin turned
complacently to the Man in Grey.
“As you see, my dear Monsieur Fernand,” he
began, “there is no need to——"
“As your squadron is ready, Monsieur le Com-
missaire,” quoth the agent quietly, “ ’twere a pity not
to give them the exercise. And remember the
barouche,” he added sharply, “and the mounted
guard. Do not on any account leave them behind.
My orders are in no way modified.”
The commissary swallowed the retort which was
hovering on his lips; but he threw a look that was
almost vicious at the meagre grey-clad figure.
“Do you accompany us?” he asked with a sneer.
“I will meet you at the chateau,” replied the secret
agent simply. '
Half an hour later Monseigneur was making the
commissary of police welcome at the chateau. He


The Bourbon Prince 187
appeared more upset than he cared to admit by the
tragedy enacted inside his house. He was not a
young man, and his nerves were severely shaken.
When his visitors entered, he was sitting in a large
armchair beside the fire in his bedroom; he had a
glass in his hand, half filled with some sweet-smelling
restorative. One of his male servants was in attend-
ance upon him, bathing his master’s forehead with
vinegar and water.
Preceded by Sébastien and accompanied by the
secret agent and two men of the police, M. Fantin
then went to view the scene of the tragedy. The
two men remained on guard outside the dining-room,
where the drama had taken place. The room still
presented a disordered appearance; nothing had been
touched, Sébastien declared, in view of M. le Com-
missaire’s visit. But the lamp which hung from the
ceiling had been lighted, and by its light the whole
extent of what might have been a measureless disaster
was revealed to M. Fantin’s horrified gaze.
In the centre of the room on the floor, close to
the large dining-table, there lay a shapeless mass,
obviously a human body, charred beyond identifica-
tion. Only the lower part, the heavy cloth breeches
and high leather boots, though badly scorched, were
still recognisable. Beside the body, the rich damask
table-cloth lay in a burned and tangled heap, where
the wretched man had dragged it down in his fall;
and a foot or so away was the heavy lamp which had
caused the conflagration. It was lying on its side,


188 The Bourbon Prince
with bowl, shade and chimney broken, just as it had
rolled out of the man’s hand. A narrow streak of oil
ran from it to the edge of the mantel-kerb. The rich
Oriental carpet was burned in several places, and the
table itself was severely scorched, while heat and
smoke had begun their work of destruction everywhere
on the priceless furniture, until water had rendered
their work complete.
Sébastien’s account of the tragedy was brief and
clear. He had had his suspicions aroused during the
day by seeing an ill-clad ruffian sneaking around the
park gates, and in the evening, feeling anxious, he
made a special tour of the chateau to see that every-
thing was safe. On entering the dining-room he saw
a man standing beside the open window, through
which he had evidently just made his way. He—
Sébastien—at once drew his pistol, and the man
turned to fly; but the aim was good and the map ap-
peared to be hit. He gave a snarl like a wild animal,
sprang back into the room, apparently with a view
to throwing himself upon his assailant, when his
strength failed him. With one hand he clutched at
the table, but he tottered and fell, dragging with him
both the cloth and the table-lamp, which came down
with a crash on the top of him, scattering the oil all
over his body. His clothing at once caught fire, and
Sébastien, realising the danger to the entire house,
instantly ran for the buckets of water, which were
always kept in the passage for the purpose, and
shouted for assistance.


The Bourbon Prince 189
Within a few moments he and another lackey got
the fire under, and no great harm was done, save the
shock to Monseigneur’s nerves, damage to valuable
furniture, and the complete obliteration of the felon’s
identity.
The commissary of police asked Sébastien a few
questions for form’s sake. He also took some per-
functory notes. He felt irritable and gravely annoyed
with the secret agent for having placed him in such
an awkward position with regard to Monseigneur.
“A squadron of police to investigate a common
attempt at burglary,” he growled savagely, as Sébas-
tien was showing him out of the room. “We shall
be the laughing-stock of the countryside! ”
Sébastien laughed.
“ ’Tis the Chouans who will be pleased, Monsieur
le Commissaire,” he said. “They have you safely
occupied to-night and can go about their nefarious
business unmolested, I am thinking.”
The Man in Grey was about to follow, but turned
for a moment on his heel.
“By the way, my good Sébastien,” he said, “at
what time did the tragedy take place which you have
so graphically described to us ?”
For a second or two Sébastien appeared to hesi-
tate.
“Oh,” he replied, “somewhere about six or seven
o’clock, Monsieur. I couldn’t say exactly.” I
“What made you wait so long, then, before you
sent to Monsieur le Commissaire ? ”


190 The Bourbon Prince
“There was a little confusion in the house, Mon-
sieur will understand. Monseigneur had given orders
at once to send a courier over, but the grooms were at
their supper, and it took a little time—we meant to
send at once—the delay was unintentional.”
“I am sure it was,” broke in the commissary,
who was still within earshot. “And now, Monsieur
Fernand,” he added, “I pray you excuse me. The
hour is getting late, and I must make my apologies
to Monseigneur.”
“ One moment, Monsieur le Commissaire,” rejoined
the Man in Grey. “ Will you not at least question
the other servants who came to Monsieur Sébastien’s
assistance ? ”
“ N 0 one came to my assistance,” Sebastien assured
him. “The whole affair was over in a moment.”
“But when the shot was fired—~”
“ By the time some of the domestics arrived upon
the scene I had put out the fire. Then I locked the
dining-room door. I knew Monsieur le Commissaire
would not wish anything touched.”
“Quite right l—quite right ! ” said M. Fantin
querulously. “Now, Monsieur Fernand, will you
come ? ”
“One moment, Monsieur 1e Commissaire,” said
the secret agent, and suddenly his whole manner
changed to one of commanding authority. “ There
will be plenty of time for excuses presently. For the
nonce you will order your captain to make a thorough
search of this chateau and of the grounds around.


The Bourbon Prince 1.91
You will question every one of the domestics; and
remember that I shall be about somewhere—probably
unseen—but present, nevertheless, to see that the in-
vestigation is minute and thorough. Sébastien will
remain in the meanwhile in the custody of these two
men here, until I have need of him again.”
“By Heaven ! ” protested the commissary roughly.
“By Heaven! ” retorted the Man in Grey loudly,
“you’ll obey my orders now, Monsieur le Com-
missaire, or I shall send you straight to
Monsieur 1e Ministre to report upon your own
misconduct! ”
M. Fantin, at the threat and at the manner in which
it was uttered, became as white as a sheet. But he
obeyed—at once and without another word. Sébas-
tien’s rugged face had shown no sign of emotion as,
at a curt word from the secret agent, the two men of
the police closed up, one on each side, and marched
him into an adjoining room. '
The commissary had taken the threat of the
Minister’s all-powerful agent very much to heart. His
men searched the chAteau through and through, just
as if it had been the stronghold of some irreconcilable
rebel. The secret agent himself appeared and disap-
peared, while the search was going on, like some grey
will-o’-the-wisp—now in one room, now in another,
now in a passage, now half-way upstairs, just where
least expected. The search took over three hours.
During that time Monseigneur himself sat in his room
in front of the fire, the very picture of silent and


192 The Bourbon Prince
offended dignity. He listened—motionless and digni-
fied—to the commissary’s profuse apologies, only now
and then accepting the ministrations of the lackey who
remained with him throughout, bathing his forehead
with vinegar, or mixing a fresh glass of orange-flower
water. Of the grey-clad figure which flitted uncere-
moniously in and out of his private apartments, he
took no more notice than if he were a fly.
When presently the police actually invaded his
own bedroom, Monseigneur’s attitude remained one
of unapproachable reserve. Even when the agent
passed his hands over the wainscoting and presently
found the button that worked the secret spring, Mon-
seigneur showed neither interest nor emotion. The
hiding-place itself was found to be empty; the Man in
Grey walked into it and out again, in a matter-of-fact,
impassive manner, as if he were performing a
mechanical and useless job. Neither here nor inside
the house, nor in the grounds, nor in any other
hiding-place was anyone or anything found to im-
peach Monseigneur’s well-known loyalty.
The unfortunate commissary was covered with con-
fusion. He would gladly have strangled the meddle-
some oflicial who had placed him in such an awkward
position, or even have relieved his feelings by hurling
anathema upon him. But the secret agent appeared
indifferent both to the wrath of M. Fantin and to the
silent disapprobation of the Bishop. When he was
satisfied that the search was done, and well done, he
took his leave, but not before.


The Bourbon Prince 193
Monseigneur did not vouchsafe him even a look.
But he was quite affable with M. le Commissaire,
when the latter finally was allowed to depart.
“Have you any further orders, Monsieur Fer-
nand?” queried M. Fantin with bitter sarcasm, when
he had bowed his way out of the presence of the out-
raged prelate.
“Yes,” replied the other; “but I will give them to
you outside. And stay,” he added as the commissary
turned on his heel, silent with pent-up rage, “take
Sébastien with you and keep him at the commissariat
until further orders.”
No chronicler could make a faithful record of all
that M. Fantin said to himself and to his sergeant
even whilst he executed these orders punctually. For-
tunately for his feelings on the way home, the Man in
Grey did not elect to accompany him. After he had
given his final orders he disappeared in the darkness,
and M. Fantin was only too thankful to be rid of that
unpleasant presence.
5
In and around the chateau again reigned that per-
fect silence and orderliness which pertain to an aristo-
cratic household. The squadron of police had long
since departed : even the sound of their horses’ hoofs,
the clang of metal and rattle of swords and muskets
had ceased to echo through the night. For a little
while longer soft murmurings and stealthy movements
were still heard inside the house as the servants went


194 The Bourbon Prince
to bed, and, whilst they undressed, indulged in com-
ments and surmises about the curious happenings of
the night. Then, even these sounds were stilled.
Monseigneur, however, did not go to bed. He had
risen from the armchair, and in it he had installed
the man who for several hours had been diligently
ministering to him with vinegar and orange-flower
water.
“Your Highness is none the worse for the ex-
perience, I trust,” he said, as he stooped and threw
a log or two into the blaze.
“Tired and anxious,” replied the Comte d’Artois
querulously.
“A night’s rest will soon restore your Royal High-
ness,” rejoined the Bishop with deep respect.
“It was a dangerous game to play,” continued the
prince peevishly. “At any moment one of those
men might have suspected.”
“ It was the only possible game to play, your Royal
Highness,” rejoined the Bishop earnestly. “The
moment those spies were on your track and mine, the
search was bound to follow. Think if the police had
come here whilst you were in hiding in this room or
even behind the secret panel! Nay! ’twas a mercy
Sébastien shot Grand-Cerf in mistake for a spy. It
enabled us to invent that marvellous comedy which so
effectually hoodwinked not only the police but even
that astute agent of the Minister himself. And now,”
added Monseigneur, as a deep sigh of exultation and
triumph rose from his breast, “we can Work with a


The Bourbon Prince 197
this one, so I’m told. You are free to go thither for
an indefinite period, for the benefit of your health.”
“ Exile l ” said the Bishop bitterly.
“ Do you not deserve worse?” retorted the Man in
Grey coldly.
“I nearly outwitted you, though,” exclaimed the
Bishop.
“Very nearly, I admit. Unfortunately for your
clever comedy, I happened to know that your valet
Sébastien shot a man just outside your gates early in
the afternoon. When he told me the elaborate story
of the attempted burglary I knew that he lied, and,
with that knowledge, I was able to destroy the whole
fabric of your machinations. As you see, I bided my
time. And the moment that you, thinking that you
were alone with the Comte d’Artois, threw down your
mask I was ready to strike. Let me bid you farewell,
Monseigneur,” he added in conclusion, and without
a touch of irony. “You can have twenty-fourhours
to prepare for your journey south, and you will re-
main in your chateau there awaiting His Majesty’s
pleasure.”
The next moment the Man in Grey was gone, even
as the Bishop’s parting words struck upon his un-
heeding ear :
“Awaiting the return of His Majesty Louis
XVIII, by the Grace of God, King of France,” Mon-
seigneur called out at the top of his voice.


VI
THE MYSTERY OF A WOMAN’S HEART
I
THE letter dropped from Mme. de Plélan’s thin, white
hand. She looked across at her daughter with eyes
full of tears.
“And now that Monseigneur has gone,” she said
mournfully, “I feel as if I had lost the very mainstay
of our valiant little party.”
The girl sighed, somewhat impatiently.
“Monseigneur,” she said, “would be the first to bid
you smother your regrets for the past, maman, and to
concentrate your thoughts on the dangers that still lie
ahead.”
She was busy at a desk that stood open before her,
glancing, at a number of papers, classifying some,
throwing a great number into the fire which crackled
cheerfully in the hearth, whilst others she tied together
and put into a small tin box that stood close to her
hand. I
“It was kind and gracious of Monseigneur,” con-
tinued Madame la Marquise dolefully, “to think‘of
sending me a courier when he must have been so busy
with his preparations for his sudden departure. Oh,
that departure!” she added, as once again tears, of
198


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 199
wrath as well as of sorrow welled up to her eyes. “The
shame of it! The humiliation as well as the bitter,
bitter disappointment l ”
Constance de Plélan made no comment this time
on her mother’s lamentations. She had apparently
completed the work on which she had been engaged,
for now she rose, closed the desk, and locking the
small tin box with a key which she selected from a
bunch at her belt she took it up under her arm. Then
she turned to her mother:
“Will you tell me, maman,” she said, “just what
Monseigneur says in his letter?"
Constance stood there in the grey light of the
winter afternoon, with the flicker of the firelight
playing on her tall, graceful figure, her arm extended,
holding the metal box, her small head carried with the
stately dignity of a goddess.
“Those devils will be here directly,” continued
the girl; and as she spoke the delicate lines of her face
were distorted by an expression of intense and pas-
sionate hatred. “But we are ready for them. I have
only this box to put away in its usual hiding-place—
after which, let them come ! ”
Mme. de Plélan again took up the letter, the
perusal of which had caused her so much sorrow.
It had arrived by courier a few minutes ago; now, at
her daughter’s request, she began to read it aloud.
“This is what Monseigneur the Bishop writes,"
she said. “‘ My dear friend, immediately on receipt
of this missive, set to work at once to destroy any


200 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
compromising papers you may have in the house. I
have no doubt that the posse of police which has just
ransacked my place will pay you a visit also. My
friendship for you is well known, and your name may
appear in one or two of the letters which those brutes
have confiscated. Alas! the landing of Monsieur 1e
Comte d’Artois on these shores has ended in disaster.
The spies of the Corsican Upstart were on his track
from the first. They followed His Royal Highness
to my palace, kidnapped him as if he were a bale of
goods and shipped him straight back to England.
My life and liberty are, it seems, to be spared, but I
have been ordered into exile at my chateau in the
Dauphiné. God guard and preserve you all! We
must wait for happier times! ’ ”
Constance said nothing for a moment or two.
She stood staring into the fire, her lips tightly
pressed.
“And all,” she mused after a while, speaking
slowly and dreamily, “through the machinations of
that extraordinary man, who is said to be a secret
agent of Bonaparte’s most powerful Minister.”
“A man without a name! ” added the Marquise,
bitter scorn ringing through every word she spoke.
“A meagre, insignificant creature, grey and colour-
less as his coat.”
“But clever—and relentless,” said the girl. “That
Man in Grey is killing our hopes one by one.”
“I loathe the brute ! ” ejaculated Madame
fervently.


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 201
“Monsieur de Saint-Tropeze is dead,” continued
Constance in the same dreary, monotonous voice.
“The Spaniard is a prisoner; Marie Vaillant a
failure; Monseigneur an exile; and still that Man in
Grey is allowed to live. Oh, it is monstrous ! ” she
said, her whole body suddenly quivering with passion.
“Monstrous and cowardly! Are there no men
amongst us who will rid the King of such a pestilen-
tial foe ? ” _
Mme. de Plélan started as if she had been struck.
She stared at her daughter, trying to fathom all that
was going on behind that smooth young brow and
within the depths of those passion-filled eyes.
“You mean———?” she murmured.
The girl nodded. “Why not?” she retorted quite
calmly.
“Oh, if we could i ” replied Madame. “But he is
so cautious, so wary—and lately he has always had
two or three spies at his heels.”
“There are ways—”
“Oh, as to that, there are a number of our own
men who would willingly take every risk in order to
rid us of the brute. But in cases of that kind,” she
added slowly, “failure always means such terrible
reprisals—the death of two or three more of our
leaders on the guillotine—and we can ill spare them
just now.”
“I did not mean anything so clumsy,” explained
Constance quietly. “An attempted murder from be-
hind a hedge is, as you say, foredoomed to failure.
N


202 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
From what one knows of the Man in Grey he is not
likely to fall a victim to such an artless trap.”
“Then what did you mean, Constance?" asked
Madame coldly. .
“Men have been decoyed before now,” replied the
girl, as she looked her mother straight between the
eyes; “and have of their own will walked into traps
from which there was no escape. The man in the
grey coat may be surrounded by spies, his precious
life may be watched over by an army of myr-
midons, but he is the most astute as well as the
most relentless enemy of our King—and what
some women have done before now, surely others can
do again.” '
Mme. la Marquise made no immediate reply. She
was gazing almost with awe upon her daughter, who,
flushed with ardour, quivering with excitement, ap-
peared the very embodiment of that reckless patriot-
ism which had already sent Charlotte Corday to the
scafi’old.
“Constance, in God’s name," she murmured, “tell
me what you mean—”
But before the girl could reply, the words died
upon her lips. From the other side of the chateau
there had come the sound of a great commotion, the
clatter of horses’ hoofs upon the flagged forecourt,
the clanging of metal, the champing of bits, and
finally loud and peremptory words of command.
“The police! " exclaimed Madame la Marquise in
a hoarse whisper.


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 203
“Those devils l " ejaculated the girl with savage
intensity of hate.
But neither of the women showed the slightest
sign of fear, or even of agitation. They were made of
that firm nerve which is always ready to meet danger
in whatever form, at whatever hour it may present
itself. Conspiracy and intrigue were in their blood.
They had never become reconciled to the new regime
that had sent their King and Queen to the guillotine
and kept their present uncrowned King in exile.
They had never bowed their necks to the democratic
or the military yoke. They still fought tooth and nail
for the restoration of a system which they believed
was based upon divine right—caring little that that
system had been rejected by the entire people of
France. And since they could no longerv fight in the
open—for their party had dwindled to vanishing-
point and lacked both men and materials—they
plotted in the dark, in secret, but with unswerving
loyalty to their King and unbounded belief in ultimate
victory.
So now with a posse of police at their gates they
did not lose their heads. On the contrary, Madame
la Marquise de Plélan’s attitude became if anything
more dignified and more calm. She arranged her
silk dress in prim folds around her, readjusting the
set of her lace coif, and took up a piece of knitting
wherewith she busied her perfectly steady fingers.
Constance, still carrying the metal box, turned to go
out of the room.


204 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
“I will return,” she said, “when I have disposed
of this box.”
“What have you kept in it?” asked Madame
rather anxiously. “ From what I hear, secret hiding-
places stand but little chance when that grey-coated
ferret is about.”
Apparently, however, the young girl had not
heard her mother’s query, for even as the usual
ominous “Open, in the name of the law!” rang out
through the silence of the chateau, she had run out of
the room and was speeding down the long corridor
towards her own apartments.
2
The Man in Grey, quiet and perfectly deferential,
stood before Mme. la Marquise de Plélan and in a
few words explained the duty that lay before him.
“ By order of His Majesty’s Minister of Police,”
he added firmly.
Mme. la Marquise waved aside his explanations
with a quick gesture of her slender, aristocratic hand.
“I know, Monsieur, I know,” she said calmly.
“French men and women now are little better than
slaves. Their very homes, their privacy, have ceased
to be sacred in the eyes of the State which should be
their protector, rather than their tyrant.”
A search in a private house in those days was no
small matter. Ordered by the Minister of Police or
his accredited representative, it consisted in a


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 205
thorough and rigid examination of every nook and
cranny, of every corner wherein compromising papers
might be hidden. The high-born gentlemen and
ladies, suspected of furthering the Cause of the exiled
Bourbon princes by aiding and abetting the Chouans
in their nefarious practices, were known to be past
masters in the art of concealing every proof of their
own guilt or that of their friends; the women especi-
ally, who reckoned on a certain amount of chivalry
on the part of police officers, were the chief custodians
of the papers and records belonging to those organ-
ised bands of marauding freebooters.
Madame la Marquise had only thrown one glance
at the hated enemy when first he entered the room,
but already she had appraised him in her mind:
“Relentless in the exercise of duty,” she thought.
“Cold and dispassionate; no mercy or consideration
could be expected from him. If only Constance has
burned everything that was compromising—there was
the tin box and papers which related to the agency
at Jersey—and many more records which might mean
the guillotine for some of us if they were found—”
Madame noticed that the moment the agent
entered the room be cast one rapid look in the direc-
tion of the hearth, where the fire was half-smothered
beneath a heap of burned paper. On this, however,
he made no comment; only his glance appeared to
harden and the orders to his men became more per-
emptory and more sharp. He asked Madame for her
keys. She took a bunch from her basket and gave


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 207
as a bird’s and exquisitely trained, singing an old
French chanson. The next moment the door was
opened and Constance stood under the lintel. She
had changed her plain morning dress for a clinging
gown of soft silk, embroidered in tiny, coloured rose-
buds; her neck and arms were bare, and round her
shoulders she had wound a diaphanous scarf of old
lace. Her golden hair was dressed high in the
prevailing fashion of the day; her cheeks and lips
were slightly rouged, her eyes shone with intense
excitement. It was obvious that she had been at
pains to enhance her great personal attraction. Even
the perfume of sweet peas which emanated from her
was intended to intoxicate, and of a truth she pre-
sented an altogether adorable picture of youth and
beauty, as well as of gay and childlike spirits.
Madame smothered the exclamation of astonish-
ment which at sight of her daughter had risen to her
lips, whilst the Man in Grey turned from his engross-
ing occupation and was gazing at the exquisite ap-
parition in the doorway, offering it that tribute of
silent admiration which no man—however hidebound
—will ever grudge to a beautiful woman.
“Ah, Monsieur!” said Constance gaily, as with
perfect unconcern she stepped into the room and
turned a pair of appealing blue eyes to the impassive
secret agent, “I entreat you, come to the rescue!
Your sergeant insists that he must turn out all the
things in my bedroom. Oh, he is a very worthy
man ! ” she a-dded,_and a light of saucy mischief be-


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 209
After all, she was not asking very much. Only that
he should himself perform a duty which the clumsy
sergeant might perhaps not have performed quite
tactfully.
She was still clinging to his arm, still pleading
with her eyes. After a brief hesitation, more assumed
than real, he assented coldly.
“I am at Mademoiselle’s service.”
She gave a cry of pleasure, and he followed her
out of the room.
Madame la Marquise was left bewildered, half-
thinking that she must have been asleep and dream-
ing when she saw that dainty and puzzling apparition
just now—Constance, her daughter, putting forth her
powers of fascination to please that odious and vulgar
creature! It was unbelievable!
Charles, the footman, entered with the lamp.
Madame did not speak; she was wrapt in moody
contemplation. Gradually a strange expression of
disquietude and then of weird misgiving spread over
her pale face, and once or twice she put a handker-
chief to her lips as if to crush a cry.
Gradually the commotion in the house became
stilled. A while ago Madame had heard the tramp
of those hateful police creatures going down the
stairs in the direction of the offices and servants’
quarters; then for a time all was still in that part of
the chateau. But presently, as Madame sat ponder-
ing and listening, she heard a sound which—though
familiar and reassuring enough—caused her to jump


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 211
was the tin box, with its lid thrown open. Only a
few papers remained at the bottom of the box; the
others he had in his hand.
Mme. de Plélan tottered as if ready to fall. An
extraordinary emotion, born of a nameless terror, was
paralysing her limbs. In trying to cross the landing
she felt faint and all but measured her length on the
ground. A weak cry escaped her lips. In an instant
Constance ceased playing and, seeing her mother,
ran to her side. The next moment her arms were
round Madame’s shoulders, and she almost carried
her back into the room.
The Man in Grey had also made a movement as if
to run to Madame’s assistance; then he stood by,
looking confused and awkward, as men are apt to do
when women are ill. However, he helped Constance
presently to lead Madame to a chair, and the girl
immediately threw him a grateful look.
“Maman is over-fatigued,” she said softly. “She
has gone through a great deal this afternoon."
Her tone of tender reproach and the glance which
she cast him from the depths of her blue eyes com-
pleted the confusion of the Man in Grey. He stam-
mered an apology, feeling that he was an unmitigated
brute. At once Constance stretched out her hand to
him.
“I did not mean to complain,” she said gently.
“You have been so kind—so consi-derate—I—”
Her voice broke in a sob. The secret agent,
deeply moved, took her hand and pressed it to his


212 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
lips. Then, hurriedly, he gathered up the remaining
papers out of the tin box, slipped them into his pocket
and left the room.
By and by his firm voice was heard giving orders
to his men to mount.
But as soon as his slim, grey-clad figure had dis-
appeared across the landing, Constance ran to the
door and closed it with a bang. For a moment she
stood quite still, gazing in the direction whence came
the sound of the enemy’s retreating footsteps. An
unmistakable look of triumph and satisfaction filled
her eyes. The next instant, however, she was down
on her knees beside her mother, half-sobbing, half-
laughing, her cheeks flushed even beneath the rouge.
“There was nothing in the tin box, maman,” she
cried somewhat wildly. “Only a few worthless letters,
with nothing in them to compromise any of us seri-
ously. Oh, but I have got him, maman! I have got
him as surely as he got Monsieur de Saint-Tropeze.
In a month from now I shall be able to twist him
round my little finger—and then—and then——”
But Mme. de Plélan did not hear the girl’s
strange, half-hysterical ravings. She was lying un-
conscious, her pale face looking ghostlike against the
silk cushion of her chair.
3
Less than a month later, on a clear, cold afternoon
early in February, a woman, wrapped from head to
foot in a dark mantle, was making her way along the


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 213
main road which cuts straight through the Cache-
Renard woods between Alencon and Plélan. She
came from the direction of the chateau and walked
briskly, holding her mantle closely round her
shoulders.
When she arrived at the clearing where cross-
roads met and intersected the main one, she paused
for a moment, listened intently for a second or two,
then struck into the wood along a side track on
her left. She followed this track for two hundred
metres or so, then suddenly plunged into the
thicket.
The undergrowth here was very dense. Overhead
the grey light of the late winter’s afternoon filtered
through the branches of the trees, guiding the woman
on her way. Suddenly, out of the thicket, a gruff
voice called out, “Who goes there?” and the woman
without hesitation replied, “One who has courage
and courts success.”
Immediately a dark form detached itself from out
the undergrowth.
“Is it you,‘ Blue-Heart?" asked the woman
sharply.
“At your service, Mademoiselle,
voice which first had challenged her.
“ It is all right,” said Mademoiselle. “Are you
prepared?”
“ Oh, I am prepared right enough l ” retorted the
man whom she had called Blue-Heart. “ My musket
has been ready for that vermin this past fortnight.
9!
said the rough


214 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
I’ve been here every afternoon,” he continued, “since
first I had my orders.”-
“It couldn’t be managed sooner, my friend,"
answered Mademoiselle. “ The fox was wary; he
would not walk into the trap.”
“It was baited often enough for him.”
“Oh, yes! He met me in the town. He walked
with me through the streets or along the river bank.
He even came to church with me once or twice,” she
added with a strained laugh. “But, unlike a beast of
prey, he would not come out of nights.”
“Did he suspect you, Mademoiselle?" asked
Blue-Heart; “or Madame?”
“Oh, no I ” replied the girl. “Instinctive caution
has saved him so far; nothing more."
"Think you he will come ? ”
“I am sure,” she replied decisively. “ You’ll hear
our voices—mine you will recognise. You’ll not
miss him '3” she added with a strange quiver in her
voice.
“Miss him ?” retorted the man with a savage oath.
“Ever since he killed Hare-Lip and Mole-Skin last
November not a hundred metres from this very spot,
I have prayed that a bullet from my musket might
lay him low.”
The girl said nothing more. The man grasped
his musket more firmly and cowered into the thicket,
and she turned and went back towards the cross roads.
At this very moment a man was walking rapidly
towards the same cross roads, but from the opposite


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 215
direction. He, too, held his cloak wrapped closely
up to his chin, for the air was cold. But soon he
paused, threw back his mantle and unfolded a scrap
of paper he had been holding tightly squeezed in his
hand. Once again he read the lines which were so
familiar to him, and when he had finished reading he
pressed the precious scrap of paper once or twice to
his lips. Then he continued on his way.
Some time before he reached the cross roads, he
saw Constance de Plélan coming towards him. A
moment or two later he was by her side, confused and
shy, hardly able to speak owing to the overwhelming
sense of happiness.
He tried to take her in his arms, but she evaded
him, slipping away from him like a mischievous elf of
the woods.
“Let us walk a little," she said.
He was ready to do anything she wished. His
calm, reserved demeanour appeared in strange con-
trast to her exuberant vitality. He hardly could be-
lieve in the reality of this supreme moment, and he
moved along beside her like a Sleepwalker in a dream.
He tried to lead the way towards the cross roads.
“There is a side-track there,” he said, “sheltered
against the wind and carpeted with moss. We should
be more lonely there.”
But she demurred and, with a laugh, clung to
his arm and made him turn back towards the city.
She talked at randoln, almost wildly, about irrelevant
things, whilst he wished to speak of nothing but of


216 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
his love for her—born on that afternoon when she had
sung to him and with her own white hands had given
him the tin box. The papers it contained were worth-
less, perhaps; but he had been deeply moved by her
trust in him and his admiration had quickened into
love. Since then he had dreamed of the happy time
when she would trust him more fully and allow him
to walk by her side and to sit with her, untrammelled
by the presence of strangers. Hitherto she had been
very shy and reticent, though at times she met him in
the town when she was up for a day’s shopping or to
see her friends. Once or twice she had sent him a
treasured little note, telling him that she wOuld be
going to church alone.
These had been happy times, and his love had
grown in intensity with every meeting. But still he
longed to have her all to himself. Timidly he ven-
tured to suggest a walk in the woods or in the park of
the chateau. And this morning the measure of his
happiness appeared complete. She sent him word
that she would walk in the woods as far as the cross
roads close to the chateau, and would meet him there
in the late afternoon. He was too unsophisticated
and unversed in the usages of Society to marvel at
Mademoiselle de Plélan’s agreeing to a clandestine
meeting with a man far beneath her in station and at
an hour when only flirts were wont to walk abroad.
He was far too infatuated by this time to see in this
unconventional act aught but graciousness on her
part.


218 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
Whereupon she turned and left him standing
alone and disconsolate, his longing eyes watching
her graceful figure as she moved swiftly along
and soon diSappeared round a sharp bend in the
- road.
Then, with another bitter sigh, he, too, turned on
his heel and started to walk back through the wood.
4
Constance de Plélan had walked on very rapidly,
only looking back now and again to see whether the
police agent had followed her. The road was now
quite lonely; not even a belated passer-by was in
sight. After a few minutes, the girl halted where a
side-track, inches deep in mud, struck at right angles,
and, cutting across an intervening meadow, plunged
into a dense part of the wood at some distance from
the road. For a few seconds Constance appeared to
hesitate; she pressed her trembling hands against her
heart, which was beating so furiously that she felt
sick and faint. Next moment, however, she started
to run down the side-track as fast as the muddy ooze
would allow her. A few minutes later she had reached
the margin of the wood and, no longer hesitating,
boldly entered the thicket.
The road along which the police agent was strid-
ing with his habitual quick and firm step wound in
and out of thick masses of coppice; the footpath
which Constance de Plélan followed so unerringly


220 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
spot where he crouched, on the alert, holding his
breath now that his keen ear had detected the sound
of approaching footsteps.
Soon these footsteps drew nearer and Blue-Heart
muttered an imprecation: “Malediction ! ” came be-
tween his clenched teeth. “ Mademoiselle said that
the devil would come alone i ”
But his rough, nervy hands grasped the musket
with undiminished vigour. If that hated police agent
came escorted with a whole posse of his own men,
Blue-Heart was not going to be done out of his
vengeance.
Then suddenly the footsteps stopped and the
melancholy call of a screech-owl pierced the silence of
the night. I
“White-Beak!” muttered the crouching Chouan
as he lowered his musket. “What is he doing here
at this hour?”
He, too, raised his fingers to his mouth, and the
cry of a screech-owl rang shrilly through the wood.
Next moment three or four men pushed their way
cautiously through the thicket.
“Well, is it done ? ” queried the foremost amongst
them, as soon as he had become conscious of Blue-
Heart’s presence close by.
“Done? No l " growled the latter. “What have
you come for?”
“To lend you a hand,” replied W bite-Beak, “with '
the body of the vermin.”
“Too soon! I haven’t got him yet.”


222 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
ing right in front of them, at a distance of less than
-twenty paces. Blue-Heart thought that he would
wait and take no risks and only pull the trigger when
the victim was quite near, the aim sure, and the fast
gathering darkness not likely to play him any
illusive trick. Not a Sound, not the flutter of a dead
leaf nor the crackling of a twig would have revealed
to an untrained ear the presence of a band of assassins,
and for another minute or so the police agent walked
along, wary and alert as was his wont but as yet un-
suspicious. His footstep sounded unhesitating and
firm.
Then suddenly he paused and threw a quick,
searching look around him.
' “Who goes there? ” he called in a loud and firm
voice.
His ear, attuned to the faintest breath which
might be drawn around him, had warned him, all at
once, of the danger which awaited him if he con-
tinued on his path; it had betrayed to his keen con-
sciousness the presence of human beings, living,
breathing, close by—somewhere in the thicket—
hiding and crouching in the darkness; obviously with
evil intent.
Next moment something definite stirred in the
thicket not twenty paces from where he stood; there
was a faint click which to a trained ear was unmistak-
' able. In a twinkling Fernand had drawn a pistol
from his pocket and, with a swift and sudden spring,
he threw himself against a tall beech which bordered


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart 223
the road; and here he stood, with his back against
the massive trunk, pistol in hand and his keen eyes
searching the darkness around him.
There was a moment of tense suspense and of
absolute silence, and in an instant the Man in Grey
felt his arm seized from behind, the pistol was
knocked out of his hand, a rough fist was thrust into
his face, and he found himself pinioned against the
tree, whilst a hoarse voice shouted lustily:
“You can shoot now, friend Blue-Heart. No
chance of missing the vermin in the dark. We’ve
got him tight.”
_ Then it all happened in a second. A musket-shot
rang through the evening air; its sharp report came
simultaneously with a loud and piercing cry which
rang right through and above it. The cry proceeded
from a woman’s lips; it was immediately followed by
a violent imprecation from one of the Chouans. The
Man in Grey, dazed, bewildered, not understanding,
had only heard that cry, straight in front of him,
right from out the thicket whence had come the report
and flash of the assassin’s musket. The rough hands
that held him relaxed, and there was a wild confusion
of cries and oaths and a scrambling and scrimmage
in the undergrowth behind him.
"What had happened within the depths of the
shadows in front of him he did not know, but at a
bound he cleared the intervening width of the road,
and Constance de Plélan fell staggering in his
arms.


224 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
“Constance!” he exclaimed, still mystified by the
turn of events, “you are hurt! ”
“No, no ! ” she said in a strange, hoarse whisper.
“I am not hurt. Only save yourself— Go, in
God’s name, ere I forget that I am a woman and
again think of you only as the enemy ,of my King.”
“You have saved my life ! ” he said, as the horror
of the situation rose with staggering vividness before
his mind, “and at risk of your own."
But already she had disengaged herself from his
arms. She struggled to her feet and, as he tried to
assist her, pushed him with amazing strength away
from her.
“Go, I tell you ! " she said, and she tried to steady
her voice, which came feeble and panting from her
throat. “The hand that fired the first shot might fire
another ere I could prevent it—and the others might
come back.” .
“I'll not go," he rejoined firmly, “until I am sure
that you are not hurt.”
“Hush ! ” she retorted hurriedly. “I am not hurt,
I say. And even if I were, you must go now—at
once. Have I not said that I might repent? Behind
that thicket lurks the man whom I employed to kill
you—I came back here to gloat over his work. Yet,
somehow, when the time came, ‘and I saw you in the
grip of those asSassins, I could not bear to see you
die—not like that—five against one—it was too hor-
rible, too cowardly. But you must go. And you and
I must never meet again, unless indeed you set your


Mystery of a Woman’s Heart _ 225
spies on us to-morrow and send us all to the
guillotine."
“How you hate me, Constance!” he protested
with passionate reproach.
“Perhaps I do,” she rejoined softly. “I do not
know. But believe me that the guillotine would have
no terror for me. I have betrayed a great trust, for >
you are the enemy of my kindred and my King, and
I ought not to have failed when the choice lay betwixt
your life and theirs."
She tottered, and he thought she would fall.
“You are hurt ! ” he cried hoarsely.
“Even if I were dying,” she parried feebly, “I
would not have you help me now. If we did not part
at this hour, perhaps—who knows ?—I might be-
come even a blacker traitor than I am. You and I,
Fernand, can have nothing in common. Our ways
must for ever lie as far apart as are our ideals. The
man who at my bidding would have been your mur-
derer will carry me home and minister to my needs.
He and I have everything in common—faith, friend-
ship, community of ideals and disappointments of
hopes and of sorrows. He is rough, uncultured, a
potential assassin; but he and I strive for the same
Cause and weep over the same failures. In thought
he is- my friend—you can never be aught but an
enemy.”
And suddenly, without giving him another look,
she plunged into the thicket... For a few seconds only
it seemed to the Man in Grey that he could see her


226 Mystery of a Woman’s Heart
Q
sfender form moving among the undergrowth and
that he heard the crackling of dead twigs beneath her
feet. She had gone for comfort and protection to the
assassin who was still in hiding. She went to him
because, as she had said, with those savage Chouans
she, the irreconcilable Royalist, hadverything in
common. -
Whereas with him, the stranger, the plebeian
police agent, the obscure adherent of the newly-
founded Empire, she could have nothing to do. Nay,
she had actually persuaded an assassin to shoot him——
vilely—in the back, when, at the fateful minute of
crisis, a thought of womanly compassion had
prompted her to save him from his doom. And, on
his part, what was there for him to do but mourn the
only illusion of his life? It served him right for
being a visionary and a fool l _ ,
And with a bitter sigh of enduring regret, the
police agent turned on his heel and went back the
way he came.


228 The League of Knaves
For obvious reasons the Man in Grey did not
communicate the actual contents of the letter to the
préfet of Caen, M. Laurens, a typical official of not
too assured loyalty, or toi‘M. Carteret, chief commis-
sary of the district. 'But both these worthies had had
news, through police spies, of the arrival of de
Livardot in Jersey, and were alive to the fact that the
wily Chouan leader was probably meditating a secret
landing on the shores of France. ‘
Everyone was on tenter-hooks, with nerves on
edge at the prospect of the visit of the Emperor, who
in less than a month would be spending half a day
and a whole night at the house of Marshal Cormier,
lately created Duc de Gisors in recognition of mag-
nificent services rendered during the last Austrian
campaign.
The Man in Grey, as was his wont, listened un-
moved and in silence to the many expressions of loyal
fears, anxieties and unswerving resolutions which
‘ flowed so freely from the lips of the various official
personages who visited M. le Préfet that morning.
But when the last caller had departed, and only he
and the commissary were left to take their leave, he
said quietly but significantly:
“I shall leave you a free hand for a few days,
Monsieur le Préfet. You have the- list of persons on
whom I have enjoined you and Monsieur 1e Com-
missaire to keep a watchful eye. I pray you do not
slacken your vigilance during my absence.”
“You are going away, Monsieur Fernand?"


The League of Knaves 229
queried the préfet, who tried to show some concern,
even though in his heart he could not but rejoice at
' the prospect of being so soon rid of this interfering
and dictatorial nincompoop from Paris.
“I am going to meet de Livardot when he lands,"
'replied the Man in Grey simply.
“But you don’t know where to find him!” ex-
claimed the commissary with a complacent laugh.
“I daresay I shall contrive to find that out,” re-
joined the secret agent with a smile. “ In any case,”
he added with deliberate solemnity, “remember while
I am gone to double the number of your spies and
not to slacken your vigilance either day or night.
The most precious life in the whole world will be in
your keeping for close on twenty-four hours, and
France will hold you answerable for its safety.”
There was something curiously impressive about
the small, colourless, grey-clad figure while this
solemn warning crossed his usually silent lips. Both
the préfet and the commissary, despite their covert
antagonism to this obscure personage who had so
authoritatively been placed above their heads, were
conscious of a sense of respect and awe.
“ But you will be back here in time for the
Emperor’s visit, Monsieur Fernand?” rejoined the
commissary, trying to speak lightly.
“Such is my intention,” repjliedathe secret agent.
“But we are all going to be at grips with a man who
is both resourceful and utterly unscrupulous—and
‘one never knows. If I do not return, you must take


230 The League of Knaves
it that de Livardot has proved the stronger of us
two."
“But you are not going alone?” interjected the
préfet, throwing a quick glance at the slender form
and delicate hands of this mysterious creature who, of
a truth, appeared more of a dreamer than a man of
action.
The Man in Grey laughed.
“The last time,” he said carelessly, “that de
Livardot landed in France, our friend Carteret here
had a whole squadron of police ready to arrest him—
we all know with what results. Murder, pillage,
robbery, endless intrigues went on for three whole
months, after which our crafty brigand disappeared
as cunningly as he had come. Well, we are not going
to repeat that blunder, are we, Monsieur le Préfet P "
He added more seriously, “This time I go to meet
de Livardot—and I go alone.”
The next moment he was gone, leaving the two
worthies puzzled, wrathful and contemptuous.
“ And de Livardot will do for you,” growled the
commissary after him with an oath. “And serve
you right, too, you interfering, impudent shrimp,
you i ” -
I
2
In the narrow, sparsely furnished room, dimly
lighted by tallow candles fixed in pewter sconces, the
men sat waiting.
It was a cold but brilliant night; a small fire



The League of Knaves 231
smouldered in the little iron stove in one corner of the
room. The window beyond was open, as was the
communicating door, and from time to time violent
gusts of wind would blow the flame of the candles
about and cause the grease to trickle and splutter
upon the unpolished table-top. Every now and
again one of the men would get up, go through to
the other room, and, leaning out of the window, peer
up and down the dark and narrow street. Then he
w0uld rejoin his comrades, 'who sat listlessly round
the table, sipping wine out of pewter mugs.
“I think we had best make up our minds,” said
one of them after a while.
"I’ve feared it all along,” said another.
“The moment White-Beak returned with the news
that that accursed grey-coated ferret was lurking in
the neighbourhood of the Goat’s Creek,” continued
he who had first spoken, “I for one———” He
shrugged his shoulders, leaving the sentence unfin-
ished. But the others understood. There was no
need to. put into words the fear that was uppermost
in their minds.
One of the men took up the metal snuffers and
with studied care cut the wick of the smoking
candle.
“Why White-Beak did not put a bullet through
the grey fox, I cannot imagine,” he said slowly.
“I would have done so if I could,” retorted he who
was called White-Beak because his lips appeared
absolutely bloodless; “but he never came within


232 The League of Knaves
range of my gun. And when I tried to creep closer
he disappeare .”
“That cursed spy bears a charmed life,” growled
the other.
“Methought de Livardot should have broken the
spell,” here interposed a third.
“ De Livardot may have been detained in Jersey,”
suggested another. “ And the weather in the Chan-
nel has been very dirty of late.”
“Bah! From what I hear, Livardot is not like to
be detained by bad weather.‘ By all accounts he is a
regular daredevil,” assented White-Beak with a
laugh.
“Blue-Heart here says that, even as a lad, he had
the pluck of Satan .”
“Tell us some more about him, Blue-Heart,”
added White-Beak. “The chiefs say we’ve got to do
as he tells us, and we’ve all got a mighty lot at stake
now. We ought to know something of the man who
is going to lord it over us. What is he like ? ”
“Well,” replied Blue-Heart after a moment’s
thought, “I used to see him when he was a lad and
Monsieur le Chevalier his father lived in the house
yonder, which now belongs to Marshal C0rmier. It’s
because de Livardot comes from these parts, and
knows the house so well, that the chiefs are sending
him over from England to help us in our work.”
“ But if he hasn’t seen the place since he was a
lad ”
“ Even so ! There are plans of the house and——”


The League of Knaves 233
“Hush!” broke in \Vhite-Beak peremptorily.
A sudden silence fell upon them. From away
down the narrow street had come the weird and mys-
terious hooting of a screech-owl calling through the
night.
Blue-Heart jumped to his feet and in a trice was
over the threshold in the other room. He strode
across to the window and, leaning out, peered up and
down the street.
Before him, about a kilometre outside the city, the
pointed roofs and tall chimneys of Les Acacias peeped
above the low houses opposite. It was the residence
of Marshal Cormier, Duc de Gisors, and here the
Emperor and his suite would sleep on the following
night. The wintry moon picked out the metal orna-
ments of the roofs and the crests of the tall, encircling
trees with shimmering lines cf silver.
Blue-Heart uttered a comprehensive curse.
“Without de Livardot,” he muttered between his
teeth, “we shall fail l ”
He was about to close the window, thinking that
once again his comrades’ ears and his own had been
deceived, when a solitary pedestrian at the far end of
the street arrested his attention—a man walking very
slowly, as if he were infinitely weary. He wore an
old-fashioned three-cornered hat, and a voluminous
mantle was wrapped closely round his shoulders.
Blue-Heart waited, breathless, while the pedestrian
came leisurely down the street. Presently he paused
and, with nose in the air, studied the outside aspect of
P


The League of Knaves 235
mured hoarsely; “and haven’t tasted food for two
days.”
He dragged his chair to the table and they allowed
him to eat and drink in peace, after which he felt
better and answered the inquiring glances of the men
with an encouraging nod.
“That cursed police-spy nearly did for me,” he
said.
“We thought something of the sort had hap-
pened,” muttered Blue-Heart with a savage oath.
“The Captain of the Foam put me off at the
Goat’s Creek,” continued de Livardot in a steadier
voice. “Then he left me there to make my way
inland, as I intended to do. I knew my way well
enough, and my intention was to walk by night and
to lie hidden by day where and how I could. I had
no misgivings, but nevertheless my eyes and ears
were on the watch for spies. I had climbed to the top
of the Dog’s Tooth; the coast seemed deserted—not a
soul was in sight and the night had set in dark and
stormy. I was standing on the edge of the cliff and
at my feet the breakers were dashing themselves
against the rocks two hundred feet below. All at
once something sprang on me from behind a boulder.
The attack was so violent and so sudden that, even as
I veered round and closed with my assailant, I felt I
was doomed. He was small and spare like myself,
but he had unusual strength. We fought desperately
——both of us—for our lives. Fortunately,” continued
de Livardot lightly, “I have spent my best years in


The League of Knaves 237
has awakened from her nightmare and that her lawful
King sits upon his throne again.”
He sat down amidst loud applause from the group
of ill-kempt, unwashed, surly-looking brigands
around him. Mugs were re-filled and deep draughts
of wine drunk to do honour to the toast.
“And now to work, my friends! ” continued de
Livardot briskly.
“To work! ” exclaimed White-Beak. “I thought
you were dog-tired.”
“So I was,” he replied gaily, “till we drank that
toast.”
He took out a bundle of papers from the pocket of
his coat and glanced rapidly through them.
“I shan’t want all these in future,” he said. “And
the less of this sort of thing one has about one the
safer for the rest of us.” >
He turned to the iron stove which was close to his
hand and, selecting some of the papers, dropped them
into the fire one by one, keeping up a running com-
ment on their contents the while.
“Here goes the list of your names, you fellows,”
he said. “Blue-Heart, whom I haven’t seen since I
was five; White-Beak, I knew you at once; Great-
Fang, Green-Eye—I recognised you all. The chiefs
spoke to me about you. And here goes our pass-
phrase. I had such trouble to commit it to memory.
But now I feel that I shall never forget it again!
Would you fellows have admitted me if I had made a
mistake ? ” he added with a light-hearted laugh.


The League of ' Knaves 239
the shaft which gave directly on the cellars underneath
the house, and when we had removed that our work
was practically done.”
“Now we’ve got two kilogrammes of gunpowder
stored down there,” added the man who was called
Green-Eye.
“We carried it over, keg by keg, of nights,” inter-
posed Blue-Heart.
“Our time-fuse is set,” quoth White-Beak.
“Even if you hadn’t come, we should have fired
it,” concluded another. “We were not going to have
our work for nothing.”
They all spoke at once, eager to have their say,
anxious that the leader lately come from England
should know the share everyone had had in the work
which was to rid France of her Emperor.
“Thank Heaven I am in time, then,” concluded de
Livardot fervently. “When ,does the Corsican
arrive ? ”
“To-morrow afternoon,” replied Blue-Heart.
“And he sleeps at Les Acacias? ”
“For the one night.”
“There is to be a big féte in the evening. Marshal
Cormier has issued hundreds of invitations,” added
White-Beak.
“Nothing could be better! ” exclaimed de
Livardot. “And of course we wait till the guests
have departed, and everyone in Les Acacias, including
the Upstart, has gone to bed. Yours, Blue-Heart,”
he continued, “will be the honour of firing the time-


240 The League of Knaves
fuse, which will send Napoleon Bonaparte to a tea-
party among the stars. In the meanwhile all of you
men must spend the best part of to-morrow in seeking
out the friends you know of, who are at one with us
in this great undertaking, and convene them in my
name to a meeting in this house directly after the
event. In fact, the explosion itself shall be the signal
by which we’ll all rally together for that glorious pro-
clamation of our lawful King and our triumphal
march to the Hotel de Ville. Is that understood? ”
“Perfectly! ” they cried with one accord.
The next half-hour was devoted to the discussion
and copying out of the names of various personages,
whom the Chouans suggested as having been chiefly
concerned in the present affair—men and women in
and around the city who were ardent Royalists and
would not shrink from a direct attack on the man
whom they deemed a usurper; men and women for
the most part who had countenanced, if they had not
directly participated in many of those hideous crimes
which had already sullied the Cause they professed to
uphold, and who would see in the base murder of the
Emperor whom they hated nothing but an act of
lofty patriotism.
Wary and cunning, they had hitherto escaped
apprehension; though many of them were suspected,
few had ever been confronted with proofs of actual
conspiracy. They were wise enough to employ men
like Blue-Heart or White-Beak to do their dirtiest
work for them, men who had neither scruples nor


The League of Knaves 241
conscience, and who hid their deeds of darkness
behind weird masks of anonymity.
It was long past midnight ere the party round that
table was broken up. De Livardot was the first to
go; he had given his orders and he knew he would
be obeyed.
“You will see nothing of me all day,” he said
when he finally took leave of his comrades. “I am
too well known in these parts to dare show my face in
the open. At dusk we shall meet here for a final
word. Until then let our password be as before:
‘ The fearful wild-fowl is abroad,’ and the counter-
pass: ‘ And the wild duck comes with a feather in
her mouth.’ I have not forgotten it this time! ” he
concluded with a hearty laugh, which found its echo
in the grim chuckle of his men.
4
The visit of the Emperor had sent Caen wild with
enthusiasm. All day the streets leading towards Les
Acacias were thronged with people eager to keep in
sight the roofs and chimneys of the house which shel-
tered the Emperor. The town itself was magnifi-
cently befiagged, and all day the cheering was both
constant and deafening. In the evening there was a
popular féte with display of fireworks in the grounds
of the Old Chateau on the north side of the town,
whilst the rout given at Les Acacias by the Duc de
Gisors to the notabilities of the neighbourhood, at


242 The League of Knaves
which His Majesty himself was graciously pleased to
be present, was the most brilliant affair the province
had ever known. People had journeyed from far and
wide to attend the rout; many who came from a dis-
tance had taken lodgings in the town for the occasion.
Never had Caen been so full of strangers of quality.
On the great night the stream of equipages which
set down the guests at Les 'Acacias extended for close
on a kilometre from the park gates to the confines of
the city, and those who were not watching the fire-
works at the Old Chateau stood about on the road,
in spite of the cold, to see the gorgeous liveries, the
painted coaches and caparisoned horses which were a
regular feast for the eyes. For hours the streets were
thronged. Only the narrow little Rue aux Juifs in
the outskirts of the city appeared dark, solitary and
unfestive. It consisted for the most part of tumble-
down, half-derelict houses, the owners of which had
been out of France for many years. ’And to-night,
when the rest of Caen was out to make merry, only
one of the low, grim-faced houses showed any sign
of life. Here a feeble light shone dimly through the
cracks of an ill-fitting shutter on one of the floors
above, and anyone who had taken the trouble to be
on the watch would have seen dark forms, wrapped
to the chin, gliding furtively in and out of the door.
But the military, the police and the municipal ser-
vants were alike engaged in keeping watch over Les
Acacias, the stately residence which sheltered the most
precious life in Europe.


244 The League of Knaves
from the skies like death-dealing projectiles, crashing
through the roofs of some houses on the confines of
the city and causing much damage, fortunately with-
out any loss of life.
There was hardly a citizen inside the town who did
not immediately jump out of bed, with beating heart
and blanched cheeks and lips that quivered with
horror, as he murmured the ominous words:
“Les Acacias! The Emperor! My God! ”
Within a few minutes the garrison was astir. The
whole sky was now suffused with a weird and lurid
glow. In the direction of St. Martin, where stood Les
Acacias, vivid tongues of flame were seen to leap inter-
mittently into the night. The streets leading thither
soon became crowded with people, clad in promis-
cuous garments, all running in the one direction, and
headed by a company of infantry and a squadron of
cavalry, rushing along with buckets, pumps and
ladders, in the wake of the hastily summoned official
fire-brigade. The confusion threatened to grow
serious. The city police were quite unable to cope
with it, and the military alone were in a measure able
to enforce some semblance of order.
Only the Rue aux Juifs, with its crazy houses,
remained as before, silent and comparatively deserted.
The distant conflagration lit up with a weird glow the
ramshackle facades which lined the narrow thorough-
fare. Neither the police, nor the military, nor yet the
few sightseers who drifted down the street in search
of a short cut to the scene of excitement, had a mind


246 The League of Knaves
ately excited as was the one which shouted itself
hoarse in the streets; but the men and women assem-
bled here only spoke in whispers, even though the
query which was on everyone’s lips was not a whit
less eager: “De Livardot! Is he here ? ”
“He and Blue-Heart fired the fuse,” said White-
Beak in reply. “No doubt they are held up by the
crowd. They will be here soon.”
A score or so of men and women wandered about
aimlessly from room to room, or sat on the gimcrack
chairs and the steps of the rickety stairs. They
talked in whispers, communicating their excitement
to one another. Only now and then a young voice
would be raised in sudden, half-hysterical laughter.
The shutters were hermetically closed so that no
sound should filter through. The usurper was dead,
but his sycophants were still abroad and his paid
minions still in power, and the populace was still
intoxicated with the glamour which Austerlitz and
Wagram, jena and Rivoli had cast over the hated
Corsican’s name. Therefore the conspirators,
though certain of victory, still went about with bated
breath, whilst an air of mystery still clung to the
shabby, tumbledown house in the Rue aux Juifs.
White-Beak and his mates, who had prepared the
foul crime which had just achieved its grim culmina-
tion, stood apart from the rest of the company, in the
narrow hall below—at respectful distance from the
noble ladies and gentlemen who had paid them to do
their cowardly task.


The League of Knaves 247
But, noble and peasant alike, all these Chouans
to-night—a veritable league of knaves—were here
assembled in order to proclaim their triumphant
exultation at the cold-blooded murder of the
Emperor, and to hail the return of their rightful
King.
Despite the cold outside, the rooms and staircase
felt overpoweringly hot. The tallow candles flickered
and guttered in their sconces; weariness warring with
excitement was depicted on every face.
Then suddenly a woman’s voice rang out
buoyantly:
“Why should we wait for de Livardot ere we
drink the health of His Majesty the King? ”
“Why, indeed? ” came in lusty response from
every side.
The effect of the suggestion was electrical. In a
moment mugs and flagons were produced. The
gentlemen poured out the wine, whilst everyone
crowded round the table in the centre of the room. It
seemed as if a load of anxiety had been lifted from
every shoulder; the younger people began to laugh
aloud; weariness fled as if by magic. The shutters
were flung wide open. Of a truth, what need was
there now for fear or mystery ? Perish the last mis-
givings, that unshakable sense of impending doom!
Let there be noise and revelry and gaiety! The
usurper is dead! Long live the King! And let
every passer-by, an he would, pause to hear the
rousing, loyal toast :‘


248 The League of Knaves
“The usurper is dead. Long live His Majesty
Louis XVIII, by the grace of God, King of
France! ”
And the echo of the enthusiastic cry reverberated
from attic to cellar of the old house. White-Beak
and his mates in the hall below joined in the acclama-
tion with a rollicking shout. The veil and gloom of
doubt had lifted; spirits ran high, laughter rang from
end to end of the narrow, fusty rooms.
It was when these transports of delight were at
their highest that the street door was suddenly thrown
open, and Blue-Heart, panting, half-exhausted, with
shaking knees and trembling hands, staggered into
the narrow hall and fell headlong in the arms of his
comrades.
“We are betrayed! ” he gasped. “They are on
us! Sauve qui peut! ”
“We are betrayed! ” The awful, ever-recurring
cry of the conspirator, of the man who concocts deeds
of evil under cover of darkness, and who mistrusts
every hand he grasps! All these men, accustomed
as they were to this ever-present danger—a danger
which hung over them, even when they felt most
secure—paused neither to question nor to reflect;
they scarcely paused to warn the noble ladies and
gentlemen above, who were still engaged in toasting
the triumph of their Cause.
“We are betrayed! Sauve qui peut! ” they
shouted and, not waiting to hear whether the warning
were heeded, scrambled for the door.


The League of Knaves. 249
“Too late! ” gasped Blue-Heart, as with tremb-
ling hands he strove to detain his struggling mates.
“They were on my heels! ”
“They? Who? ” queried the others hoarsely.
“The police! ”
“Bah! The police! ” exclaimed White-Beak in
a feeble attempt at swagger. “The Corsican .is dead.
We have no cause to fear his police l ”
But already a nameless terror, like a pale, mys-
terious ghost, had floated upwards through the
house. It had reached a small group of young men
and women gaily chattering at the head of the stairs.
“We are betrayed! ”
“Did you hear that? ” asked someone, and sud-
denly excitement died away as if stricken down by a
poisonous breath, and within a second or two the
whisper was on every lip: “We are ‘betrayedl ”
“Who said it? ”
“The men below! ”
There was a swift rush for the stairs, while one
man hastily re-closed the shutters. Another was
leaning over the banisters, trying to learn the truth.
“White-Beak! ” he called. “Is that you ? What
does it mean P ”
“That the ‘police are on us! ” was the gruff reply.
“The police! ” shouted those above. “Why, the
Corsican is dead and—”
“Hark ! ” came peremptorily from the men.
And all the conspirators held their breath, listen-
ing. The sound was unmistakable; a number of
Q


250 The League of Knaves
men were outside the door. Quick words of com-
mand could be heard; the clanging of steel and the
snorting and pawing of horses.
"But the usurper is dead! ” glided as a reassuring
cry from a woman’s lips.
“He is not dead! ” retorted Blue-Heart firmly.
“Not dead? But the explosion—the fire—3’
As if to confirm theSe words, a gigantic sheet of
flame in the direction of Les Acacias suddenly lit up
the whole sky again, with such brilliancy that, despite
the closed shutters, a lurid glow penetrated into the
house, throwing for an instant into bold relief the
pale, haggard faces, and illumining them with a light
which was the colour of blood.
'At the same moment, in the distance was heard
the sound of prolonged cheering. Louder and louder
it grew as it seemed to spread to every corner of the
town, till it became absolutely deafening. A wild
medley of sounds filled the air with 'clamorous din;
people rushed excitedly to and fro, shouting “Vive
l’Empereur ! ” and singing the “Marseillaise.”
Horses galloped by at breakneck speed; the roll of
coach-wheels went thundering along the cobble
stones; from the chateau close by came the echo of
bugle calls. '
And in the derelict house of the Rue aux Juifs
there reigned silence as if of the dead, though well
nigh two score men and women were there, huddled
together in one common and agonising fear. What
had happened no one could as yet even conjecture;
W“. __.\__,__ _V___,_ _
c m ~1-


The League of Knaves 251
all they knew was that Napoleon had escaped by a
miracle and that the police were at‘the d00r.
“And de Livardot? Where is he? ” was one of .
the many questions on trembling lips.
But to this query even Blue-Heart could give no
conclusive reply. He had been with de Livardot
until after they had fired the time-fuse together, then
de Livardot ordered him to go back to the Rue aux
Juifs and there to wait for him till he arrived, and in
the meanwhile to tell all the friends to drink and
make merry. He—Blue-Heart—had walked rapidly
for a time, then curiosity had mastered him and he
waited until the terrifying explosion rent the air
and gave him assurance that his task was indeed ac-
complished. Then he turned back towards the city.
When he reached the Rue aux Juifs he saw that it
swarmed with police-spies. He heard words and
whispered commands which left no doubt in his mind
that somehow or other the conspiracy had been be-
trayed, and that a descent on the Chouan meeting-
place was in contemplation. At first he made light
of the affair. Was not the Corsican dead ? And he
—Blue-Heart—and his friends, were they not
triumphant? What cause had they to fear the
minions of an Empire that was now defunct? Never-
theless, he hung. about the street under the shadows
of doorways, on the qm' 'v-i'ue. Then suddenly the
rumour spread throughout the town that the Emperor
was safe. He had left Marshal Cormier’s house
along with his host and the latter’s family and entire


252 The League of Knaves
staff of servants and retainers, directly after the last
guest had departed.
Not a soul was left at Les Acacias when the ex-
plosion occurred. Blue-Heart, realising that the plot
must have been discovered and that the deadliest
danger now threatened all his friends, contrived to
reach the door of the meeting-place undetected, and
to sound the note of warning which, alas! had
already come too late.
The house was surrounded. The police were
swarming everywhere. The Chouans—save for a
few of the gentlemen who wore their swords and one
or two who carried pistols—were practically unarmed.
They put up a certain measure of resistance, how-
'ever; some of the men fired pistol shots through the
windows, and there was a mélée on the stairs, in the
course of which several of the police were wounded;
but these were armed with swords and muskets, and
from the first the Chouans knew that they were
doomed. After a struggle which lasted less than a
quarter of an hour, they were forced to surrender;
they were doing neither themselves, nor their Cause,
nor the women who were with them, any good by
senseless resistance.
When the last of them was disarmed and men and
women alike were marched as prisoners down the
stairs, a whisper went round among them which was
not destined for the ears of their captors:
“Thank God,” they said, “that at any rate de
Livardot has escaped! ”


254 The League of Knaves
police~spy, as you call him, arrived safely in the Rue
aux Juifs, just in time to learn the details of the plot
which you and these gentlemen and ladies were so
confidently hatching. Your friend de Livardot,
whom I certainly met face to face on the Dog’s Tooth
rocks, is quietly awaiting his friends in Bicétre.”
Then, while a string of muttered imprecations fell
from the lips of the miscreants whom he had so cun-
ningly outwitted, he gave the final word of command.
“Forward! March! The carriages for the ladies
are in the front; those for the men in the rear. Guard
your prisoners well, myv men! ” he added. “They
are as crafty as a tribe of foxes. Forward now, and
may God always protect the Emperor! ”
5
Napoleon thanked the Man in Grey personally for
the superb way in which he had not only saved his
Emperor’s life, but had also succeeded in gathering
so many Chouans into his net.
“How was it done, my good Monsieur Fer-
nand ? ” His Majesty asked graciously.
“Quite easily, sire,” replied the Man' in Grey.
“Your Majesty’s spies in Jersey gave us warning
some time ago that de Livardot was making‘prepara-
tions to embark for France. My business then was
to find out where he would land. This I did by
watching the best-known Chouans in the district.
One of them led me to the Goat’s Creek, which I then


The League of Knaves 255
kept in observation. A week later de Livardot did 9
land there. I had him waylaid and arrested, and took
possession of his papers. One of these gave me a pass
phrase and the address in the Rue aux Juifs, another
was a map of the house and grounds of Les Acacias.
“It was not difficult to imagine a connection be-
tween that map and your Majesty’s visit; nor would
it, I hoped, be difficult to assume the personality
of a man whom, presumably, they had not seen for
years (I mean de Livardot), and to learn the whole
of the plot against your Majesty’s life. At any
rate I chose to take the risk. From one or two
of the papers I had! gathered that he Was
being recommended by certain Chouan chiefs to
a number of their followers who did not know
him by sight. I went to the address in the Rue
aux Juifs and there obtained full details of the in-
famous plot. My hope, of course, was not only to
frustrate that plot, but also to bring the conspirators
to justice. This I was able to do through your
Majesty’s gracious co-operation in leaving Les Aca-
cias secretly at my suggestion, together with your
host and retinue; and also through Monsieur 1e Due
de Gisors’ lofty patriotism in allowing his magnifi-
cent mansion to be sacrificed. The explosion I knew
was to be the signal for the rallying of the infdmes
who schemed in secret, while they left their humbler ~
followers to do the poisonous work for them. Now
the trap has closed on them all and your Majesty’s
clemency alone can save them from the gallows.”


The VArrow Poison 257
side breast pocket of his coat. Then he was ready for
the journey. ‘
In those days the Paris diligence started from the
Hotel du Portugal in Caen every morning at eight
o’clock, reaching Lisieux—the first stage—at five in
the afternoon. Darnier had secured his seat on the
banquette by the side of the driver, for although the
day was cold, he felt that‘ he would be safer there
than huddled up between other passengers inside the
coach, some of whom might be unpleasantly light-
fingered. There was a fair number of travellers that
morning. 'An elderly pair of bourgeois on their way
to Evreux and a well-to-do shopkeeper’s wife going to
Paris to visit her son, who was employed in the new
aerial telegraphs, had secured the coupé in front.
Two or three commercial travellers, a couple of
young officers on leave from the war, a portly fish-
wife from Caen, and a round-cheeked country wench
occupied the interior. 'At the small posting inn of
the “Mouton Ngir,” just outside the city, another
woman got in. She had no luggage and apparently
she had not booked her place, for she had to be con-
tent with one on the narrow back seat of the inside,
wedged in between the round-faced country wench
and the fishwife from Caen. However, the new-
comer seemed quite satisfied with her surroundings;
she sat down placidly and, pulling her hood well
over her face, took up a book and thereafter remained
absorbed in reading, looking neither to right nor left,
and taking no part in the vapid. conversation, en-


258 The Arrow Poison
gendered by boredom, which was carried on around
her. Her fellow-travellers put her down as belonging
to some sort of religious community, for she wore a
voluminous black cloak with a hood which only
allowed the point of her chin to peep out below it.
At Mézidon, where halt was made for dinner,
everyone trooped into the coffee-room of the _“Cheval
Blane.” Hippolyte Darnier asked to have his meal
served in a private room, and as he was provided
with special credentials bearing the seal of the Minis-
try of Police, his wishes were at once acceded to, and
he was served both promptly and obsequiously, in
a small room adjoining the one where the other pas-
sengers Were dining together.
The woman in the black cloak had been the last
to leave the diligence. She had remained in her seat,
immersed in her book till everyone had scrambled
out of the coach. Then she, too, got out, and walked
very slowly in the wake of the jovial party ahead.
But she did not appear to be in‘ any hurry to join her
fellow-travellers, for while they settled down with
noise and bustle at the well-spread table, she strolled
away in the direction of the river.
The dinner was over and coffee had been handed
round when she entered the coffee-room. The wine
had been good, and everyone was hilarious. As she
closed the door behind her, she was greeted with jovial
calls.
“Here, reverend sister, come and sit down.”
“You must be famished!”


260 The Arrow Poison
The well-to-do farmer’s wife, conscious of undis-
puted respectability, added with some acidity:
“Strange that aprofessed nun should be travelling
alone in a man’s company.” '
After that comments on the occurrence became
freer and more ribald, and very soon the absentee had
not a shred of reputation left in the minds of the
worthy but intensely bored people congregated around
the festive board of the “Cheval Blane.”
At two o’clock the ostler in charge announced that
the diligence was ready to start. Jean Baptiste, the
jocund host of the “Cheval Blane,” was going rotind
the table, collecting payment for the good déjeuner
which had been served to his well-satisfied clients.
“What shall I do about the gentleman in there? ”
asked the serving-maid, pointing to the door of the
private room. “He was asleep the last time I went
in.” .
“Wake him up,” replied Jean Baptiste.
“I have done all I could to wake him,” answered
the wench. “ He doesn’t seem inclined to move.”
“He’ll have to move,” rejoined Jean Baptiste with
a laugh; “or the diligence will go without him.”
With that he strode across to the door of the
private room, kicked it open with his foot, and called
out in his lusty voice, which, as someone remarked,
was loud enough to wake the dead :'
“Now then, Monsieur, ’tis time to wake up ! The
diligence is about to start. You’ll never get to Paris
at this rate.”


264 The Arrow Poison
feeble attempt at swagger. “What in the world
makes you think that Darnier has been murdered?
Why, the leech—”
“ Because an ignorant country apothecary finds no
sign of violence upon a dead body,” retorted the Man
in Grey coldly, “unanswerable logic must not be
deemed at fault.”
“But what motive could anyone have for murder-
ing poor Darnier? ” argued the commissary with a
shrug of his wide shoulders.
“You forget that he was the bearer of an important
report from me to the Minister,” replied the Man in
Grey.
The commissary gave a long, low whistle. He
certainly had forgotten that all-important fact for the
moment. -
“And you think,” he said, “that the woman in
the black cloak was an emissary of those cursed
Chouans, and that she murdered Darnier in order to
steal that report ”
“Together with the autograph letter of Monsieur
le Marquis de Trévargan, which implicates him and
his family in the plot against the Emperor,” broke in
the secret agent. “I should have thought it was self-
evident.”
He wasted no further argument on the com-
missary, who, bewildered and helpless, solemnly
scratched his head, as if to extract therefrom a solu-
tion of the weird mystery.
An hour or so later Madame Darnier, the widow of

M“


268 The Arrow Poison‘
in the Rue aux Juifs and arrested the Chouan con-
spirators red-handed. The letter was seized, together
with every other paper which happened to be in the
possession of the prisoners, and it was that same
highly compromising letter which Hippolyte Darnier
was taking to Paris when he died so mysteriously in
the private room of the “Cheval Blanc ” at Mézidon.
Investigation at the chateau on the day following
the discovery of the plot had led to no result. M. le
Marquis watched with lofty indifference and disdain
the turning over of his private papers and belongings
by the heedless hands of the police. Except for that
one letter, he had never committed an indiscretion or
written an unguarded word in his life. But there was
the letter ! And it was this very search which, coming
as a bolt from the blue, had assured him that he was
no longer immune from suspicion.
The day following the death of Hippolyte Darnier,
M. le Marquis de Trévargan received another visit
from the police, this time in the person of M.
Carteret, the commissary, whom he knew personally,
and who came accompanied by a small, insignificant-
looking personage dressed in grey. Once more,
secure in the knowledge that nothing that could in any
way compromise him would be found inside his
chateau, the Marquis received his visitors with con-
descending hauteur.
“Ah, ca, my good Carteret,” he said to the com-
missary somewhat tartly, “when am I and Madame
la Marquise to be free from this insolent interference ?


276 The Arrow Poison
“A pretty story indeed! ” she said harshly. “A
monstrous accusation hurled at Monsieur le Marquis
de Trévarganl And when he demands to be con-
fronted with proofs of his guilt, these proofs are said
to be destroyed, whilst a vague hint of murder goes
to swell the iniquitous charge. A pretty pass,
indeed! ” she continued, as with stately steps she ad-
vanced into the room. “ Fortunately His Majesty has
some friendship for Monsieur le Marquis and myself,
and we can appeal to him to punish those who have
put this affront upon us.”
“Your pardon, Madame la Marquise,” answered
the Man in Grey, as soon as she had finished her im-
passioned tirade. “ Monsieur le Commissaire said that
the letter had been stolen; he did not say that it had
been destroyed."-
An almost imperceptible shadow seemed to pass
as in a flash over the Marquise’s handsome face; but
the very next second she shrugged her handsome
shoulders and said flippantly: ’
“The same thing, my good man.”
“I trust not, Madame la Marquise,” rejoined the
Man in Grey. .
“Oh, we all know,” here interrupted M. le Mar-i
quis with a sneer, “that in your unmentionable pro-
fession, Monsieur, you are bound to send a certain
number of unfortunates to what you call justice,
whether they are guilty or not, or you would
lose your highly lucrative employment. Isn’t
that so"? " '


The Arromeoison 271
“Our employment, Monsieur le Marquis,” replied
the Man in Grey imperturbably, “is not likely to
find favour in your sight.”
“Well! ” rejoined Madame with'a harsh laugh,
“so long as you don’t trump up a charge of murder
against some poor innocent this time—-—”
“Murder, Madame la Marquise!” queried the
secret agent with a look of mild astonishment in his
colourless eyes. “Who spoke of murder? ”
“I thought,” parried the Marquise airily, “that
some spy or other of yours was murdered and robbed
of the forged letter, which was supposed to convict
Monsieur le Marquis de Trévargan and myself of dis-
loyalty.”
“One of our men was certainly robbed of a letter
written by Monsieur le Marquis de Trévargan to Mon-
sieur de Romorantin on the eve of the conspiracy
against the Emperor,” said the Man in Grey, “but
I am happy to say that he is alive at the present
moment—” ,
A terrific crash of broken china drowned the rest
of his speech. The table against which Madame la
Marquise had been leaning’ fell over, scattering
precious bibelots in every direction. .,
“How clumsy of me! ” exclaimed Madame in
some confusion, whilst the commissary of police,
agitated and obsequious, crawled about on his hands
and knees, trying to collect the fragments of priceless
china which littered the carpet. “Do not trouble, I
pray you, Monsieur le Commissaire,” said the 'Mar-


The Arrow Poison 273
Madame had regained her composure. She rose from
her chair, tall, dignified, unspeakably haughty.
“So much the better for your friend, Monsieur—
er—LI forget your name,” she said coldly. “And now,"
she added as she walked majestically towards the door,
“if you or Monsieur le Commissaire have any more
senseless questions to ask, you must be content with
the information Monsieur le Marquis con'descends to
give you. I confess to being weary of this folly.”
She pushed open the door and sailed out of the
room, as arr0gant as any queen of the old régime
dismissing an importunate courtier. Then the door
fell to behind her and her firm step soon died away
along the marble corridor.
4 \
The commissary of police was pining to take his
leave, and much to his relief the Man in Grey put no
further questions to M. 1e Marquis, and after a few
seconds declared himself ready to go. M. de Trévargan
was quite pleasant to poor M. Carteret, who obviously
greatly disapproved of this intrusion on the privacy
of the stately chateau.
“The man is a veritable pest! ” he contrived to
whisper in the Marquis’s ear, behind the back of the
secret agent. “I would wish to assure Monsieur le
Marquis—”
“Do not trouble to do that, my good Monsieur
Carteret,” interrupted M. de Trévargan impatiently.



The Arrow Poison 275
“This would be a pretty story, Monsieur,” here
broke in the majordomo impatiently, “if it were based
on some semblance of truth. Madame la Marquise
did not happen to be away all day yesterday.”
“But surely ” protested the Man in Grey.
“Madame la Marquise was indeed very much at
home,” continued the othpr with becoming sternness,
“seeing that she entertained the children of the Con-
vent School here to déjeuner at midday and games
all the afternoon.”
The secret agent now appeared overwhelmed with
confusion at his stupid blunder.
“I am very sorry,” he murmured haltingly.
“ There’s some mistake on my part—I understood my
sister to say that she was here yesterday—it must
have been some other day—"V"
“Very likely! ” retorted the majordomo with a
sneer; and giving the plebeian police agent the super-
cilious stare which so much impertinence deserved, he
finally closed the imposing .doors of the chateau
upon the unwelcome visitors.
“Another snub! ” remarked the commissary of
police as he descended the steps beside his silent col-
league. “ And why you trumped up that story about
your sister and a maid, I cannot imagine ! " he added
with withering contempt. .
But the Man in Grey apparently did not hear him.
He was murmuring undef his breath:
“Clever enough to have secured an alibi ! I might
have guessed it! 'And such an actress! But, then,


278 The Arrow Poison
“What are you doing here in Trévargan?” he
asked sternly. ,
“Help me to get up,” she replied almost fiercely,
“and I may tell you.”
More puzzled than before, he raised her to her
feet.
“You remember me? ” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “How could I forget
the man who first held the cup of such bitter sorrow
to my lips? ”
“Someone had to tell you,” he rejoined more
gently, “and your husband was in my employ.”
“ And died in your employ,” she answered roughly.
“Will you believe me,” he retorted, “that, had I
known of the terrible risk which he was running, I
would have undertaken the errand myself? ”
“Yes,” she said dully, “I know that you are not a
coward.”
“Will you tell me why you are here?” he re-
iterated firmly. .
She looked round her, right into the gloom in the
direction where the lights of the chateau glimmered
feebly through the trees. Then, turqing to the Man
in Grey, she said calmly:
“There was a suspicion gnawing at my heart. I
came to see if I could confirm it, or lull it for ever to
rest.” <
“You suspect the Trévarg'a‘ns of having had a
hand inthe outrage against your husband ? "I
“Don’t you? ” she retorted.


The Arrow Poison 279
He made no reply, and even through the darkness
she could see that he appeared deeply buried in
thought. He had turned ofi the light of his lantern,
and by the dim light of the moon, partly hidden
behind a veil of clouds, they could only distinguish
one another’s outline against the dense background
of the shrubberies.
“Will you allow me to escort you home? ” he
asked abruptly.
She nodded in assent, and he, knowing the way,
guided her along the less frequented paths of the park
till he came to a locked postem gate. Asking her to
wait a moment and, drawing a small tool from his
pocket, he coolly picked the lock, and a moment or
two later he and Mme. Darnier were walking rapidly
down the main road in the direction of the city.
'
6
Next morning, when the Man in Grey arrived at
the commissariat of police, he was greeted with sneers
and acid reproaches by M. Carteret and M. le Préfet.
“I must say,” said the latter with becoming pom-
posity, “that your attitude with regard to Monsieur
and Madame de Trévargan is exceedingly reprehen-
sible. You have placed my colleague and myself in
a very awkward position. Monsieur le Marquis is one
of the most influential, as he has always been one
of the most loyal, personages in the province, and I
have no doubt that he will visit his displeasure upon


280 The Arrow Poison
us both, though, Heaven knows ! we have done noth-
ing but follow your foolish lead in the matter.”
“I pray you have patience, my good Monsieur
Laurens,” said the Man in Grey with unruffled calm.
“The matter to which you refer is onithe point of
reaching its culmination.”
“I was alluding to the affair of Hippolyte
Darnier,” said the préfet.
“So was I,” retorted the Man in Grey.
“Are you about to discover who murdered him ? ”
queried M. Carteret, with a touch of taunt.
“Yes,” replied the secret agent. “With the
help of Madame Darnier, whom I have summoned
hither.”
The préfet shrugged his shoulders with marked
impatience.
“And I must ask you,” added the Man in Grey
in his blandest tones which admitted of no argument,
"not to interfere in anything I may say to Madame
Darnier in the course of our interview; to express no
surprise and, above all, not to attempt to contradict.
And you know, Monsieur Laurens, and you, too,
Monsieur le Commissaire,” he added sternly, “that
when I give an order I intend it to be obeyed.”
Hardly had this peremptory command fallen from
his lips than Madame Darnier was announced.
She came in, looking even more fragile and more
delicate in her deep mourning than she had done
before. Her large, melancholy eyes sought, as if
appealingly, those of the three men who had half-


282 The Arrow ' Poison
deadly arrow poison, which a murderous hand had
injected with the aid of a pin, was either stale or
ineffectual. Certain it is that my dear friend Darnier
rallied, that he is alive at this moment, and that I
shall have the pleasure of conducting you to his bed-
side immediately.” '
While he spoke the Man in Grey had kept his
eyes fixed steadily upon the woman. She was still
standing as rigid as before and clinging with one
hand to the back of the chair, whilst with the other
she continued to press her handkerchief to her lips.
Nor could the other two men detach their eyes from
her face, which appeared like a petrified presentation
of abject and nameless horror. ‘
“ Darnier,” continued the Man in Grey relentlessly,
“is slowly regaining consciousness now. The leech
desires that the first sight which greets his eyes should
be that of his beloved wife. Come, Madame, it is a
short walk to my lodgings. Let me conduct you——
Ah ! " he suddenly exclaimed, as with his usual agility
he literally threw himself upon the staggering woman.
“Stop that, now ! Stop it, I say! ”
But he was too late. Madame Darnier had fallen
back into her chair. From a deep scratch across her
hand drops of blood were oozing freely. The com-
missaire and the préfet were gazing, horror-stricken
and helpless, upon her face, which was slowly becom-
ing distorted. A curious, jerky quiver shook her
limbs from time to time.
“She has killed herself with the same poison


The Arrow Poison 283.
wherewith she sent her unfortunate husband to his
death,” said the secret agent quietly.
“To his death?” gasped the préfet. “Then the
story of Hippolyte Darnier’s recovery—”
“Was false,” broke in the Man in Grey. “It was
a trap set to wring an avowal from the murderer. And
we must own,” he added earnestly, “that the avowal
has been both full and conclusive.”
He threw his mantle over the wretched woman,
who was already past help. But he dispatched
one of the servants of the prefecture for the nearest
leech.
“But what made you guess—P ” queried the
commissary, who was gasping with astonishment.
“The fact that Madame Darnier was the daughter
of the man Leclerc, who for years devoted himself to
the fortunes'of the Trévargans. He and his family
are attached heart and soul to the Marquis and his
cause. The daughter has proved herself a fanatic, a
madwoman, I should say. She killed her husband
to save the family she loved.” '
“But those accursed Trévargans-—~—" said the
préfet.
“Their punishment will not long be delayed. I
sent a copy of the compromising letter to the Minister
——the original is still in my keeping.”


The Last Adventure 285
his companion. “I am getting saddle-sore, and this
abominable damp has got into my bones.”
The other sighed with obvious impatience.
“I would like to push on to Paris to-night,” he
said. “The moon will be up directly, and I believe
the rain-clouds will clear. In any case the night
will not be very dark, and I know every inch of the
way.”
“Another six hours or more in the saddle l”
growled the commissary. “No, thank you ! ”
“I thought you were anxious about those escaped
prisoners of yours,” observed the Man in Grey.
“So I am,” retorted M. Gault.
“And that you desired Monsieur le Ministre to
hear of the escape through your lips, before rumour
hath played havoc with the event,” continued the
other tartly.
"So I do—so I do!” grunted the commissary.
“ But those damned Chouans only got away last night
from Evreux, where they should never have been
brought. They were apprehended at Caen; the out-
rage, which you were able to avert, had been planned
and was discovered at Caen; the knaves should have
been tried and hanged at Caen. Instead of which,"
continued M. Gault wrathfully, “they were marched
to Evreux, on their way to Paris. At Evreux we had
neither the facilities nor the personnel to guard such
a rusé gang adequately—they gave us the slip—”
“And,” interrupted the Man in Grey, in his iciest
manner, “the men who planned to murder the


286 TheZLast Adventure
Emperor are now at large, free to concoct a further
outrage, which, this time, may prove successful!”
“Through no fault of mine I ” protested the com-
missary.
“That will be for the Minister to decide,” con-
cluded the Man in Grey. ‘ '
But even this thinly-veiled threat failed to instil
new vigour into M. Gault. Alarmed at the possible
effects upon his future career of what might be deemed
oiiicial negligence, he had wished to place his excuses
personally before His Majesty’s Minister of Police, ere
the latter could hear through outside sources that the
desperate gang of malefactors who had planned the
affair of the infernal machine against the Emperor’s
life had escaped from Evreux, and that such astute
and reckless criminals as Blue-Heart and White-Beak
were again at large. In spite of M. Gault’s anxiety,
however, to be the first to gain the Minister’s ear,
his whole middle-aged, over-indulged person pro-
tested against any prolongation of what had become
torturing fatigue. '
“You are young, Monsieur Fernand," he added
dolefully. “You do not realise Malédiction!
What was that?” he ejaculated, as his horse gave a
sudden jump to one side and nearly unseated him.
The animal had shied at something not at present
visible to its rider. It was still retreating, with ears
set back, nostrils quivering, its body trembling with
fright, so that M. Gault had the greatest difficulty
alike to keep his seat and soothe the poor beast.


288 The Last Adventure
“The high roads are not safe,” remarked M. Gault
sententiously. “And even in this district, where
those satané Chouans do not ply their nefarious trade,
the police seem unable to ensure the safety of peace-
able travellers.”
He gave an involuntary shiver and gazed anxiously
behind him.
“I pray you, Monsieur Fernand,” he said, “do not
let us linger here. This is an affair for the local
police, and we must get to Mantes before dark.”
“You need not linger, Monsieur le Commissaire,”
rejoined the Man in Grey. “I pray you, tie my horse
to the nearest tree and continue your journey, if you
have a mind.”
He had risen to his feet and appeared to be exam-
ining the ground closely all round the spot where lay
the body of the murdered man. M. Gault uttered one
of his favourite oaths. Indeed, he had no mind to
continue his journey alone, with those murdering
footpads lurking in the woods and the road to Mantes
lonely and unsafe.
“What are you looking for now, Monsieur Fer-
nand? ” he queried sharply. “Surely, the police of
Mantes can deal with the affair. Are you looking for
traces of the miscreants ? ”
“No,” replied the other, “I am looking for the
murdered man’s boots.”
“The murdered man’s boots! ” exclaimed the
commissary crossly. “Why, the fellow is just a
rough peasant, and no doubt he walked barefoot."


The Last Adventure 289
“No doubt,” agreed the Man in Grey. I
Nevertheless, he continued his search and even
plunged into the thicket, only to emerge therefrom in
a minute or two, as the darkness made it impossible to
distinguish anything that might be hidden in the
undergrowth.
“I don’t know why you should be so obstinate
about those boots! ” growled the commissary.
But to this remark the Man in Grey vouchsafed no
reply. He had resumed his mount and was already
in the saddle.
“I am going on to Paris,” he said briefly.
Poor M. Gault heaved a doleful sigh.
“To Paris 1 ” he ejaculated pitiably. “ But I———”
“You’ll stay at Mantes,” enjoined the Minister’s
agent emphatically, “and there await my orders or
those of Monsieur le Ministre. You are on no account
to leave your post,” he added sternly, “on pain of
instant dismissal and degradation.”
With that he put his horse to' a sharp trot, heedless
whether the unfortunate commissary followed him or
not. i
I
2
The Man in Grey was sitting, travel-stained and
weary, in the dressing-room of M. le Duc d’Otrante,
Minister of Police to His Imperial Majesty. He had
ridden all night, only halting now and again to give
his horse a rest, as he could not get a change of
mount during the whole distance between Mantes—


The Last Adventure 295
now, and I can have a posse of police on the way
within half an hour; but whether they can reach the
Emperor in time to be of service is very doubtful.
‘ According to arrangement, he will have left Ver-
sailles an hour ago. He is travelling in his private
be/rline, harnessed with his four bays, which, as you
know, fly over the ground with almost unbelievable
swiftness. He will get relays on the way and proceed
with undiminished speed. Our men have not the
horses wherewith to cover the ground at such a rate.”
“Let me have a horse out of your stables, Mon-
sieur leiMinistre,” rejoined the Man in Grey. “I’ll
cover the ground fast enough."
. “You, Fernand! ” exclaimed M. le Duc. “What
can you do—by yourself? ”
“I don’t know. I can always take short cuts and
gain ground that way. I know every inch of the
district. I can overtake the Emperor’s berline and
warn him that assassins are on his track. He has a
postilion, I presume, and Gerbier is with him, you
say. Well! with the coachman, we should be four
of us to divert a musket-shot from the most precious
life in France.” I
“But, my good Fernand," argued the Minister, “I _
cannot even tell you which road the Emperor has
taken. As you know, he can either go by the main
Paris—Chartres road-4which, of course, is the more
direct, but also the more public—or he can go by way
of Houdan and ”
“Both roads converge at Maintenon, and I can


The Last Adventure 303~
must not belittle the services you have rendered to me
and to the King. If you had not known how to bribe
our warders at Evreux, and how to send us word and
succour, we could not have effected our escape. If
you had not given us shelter we must certainly have
been recaptured. If you had not conveyed me hither,
I—in my indifferent state of health—could never have
followed the others across country; and if you had not
found that old musket for us, we could not have
done for the Corsican at this hour, when God Himself
is delivering him into our hands. That is so, is it
not, my men? ” he concluded, turning to his fol-
lowers.
“Ay ! Ay l ” they replied unanimously.
“ God grant you may succeed! ” said Constance
de Plélan, as she gently disengaged her hand from
his.
“We cannot fail,” he declared firmly. “ One or
more of the Corsican’s horses must go dead lame over
the carpet of nails and broken glass and flint. The
carriage must then halt, and the coachman and pos-
tilion will get down to see to the injured beasts. That
will be our opportunity. Blue-Heart and the others
will fall on the men and I shall hold Napoleon at the
end of my musket, and though it may be old, I know
how to shoot straight and my aim is not likely to err.
And now let us get on,” he added peremptorily.
“The Corsican’s carriage cannot be far off.”
Constance, without another word, handed him his
hat and mantle. The latter he fastened securely


The Last Adventure 309
“In Heaven’s name, Oncle Armand,” she en-
treated, “let the man fire! Think you I should not
be glad to die? Blue-Heart, has your courage for-
saken you ? What is one life when there is so much
at stake? O God! ” she added in a fervent prayer,
“give them the strength to forget everything save
their duty to our King! ”
But not a sound—not a movement came in res-
ponse to her passionate appeal. Through the open
casement a confused murmur of voices could be dis-
tinctly heard some distance away, up the side-road
which ran from Dreux. The Emperor’s carriage was
obviously being held up. One, if not more, of the
spanking bays had gone dead lame while trotting
across Blue-Heart’s well-laid carpet. The rough,
stained hands of the Chouans opened and closed till
their thick knuckles cracked in an agony of impotence.
I
. 5
How long the torture of this well-nigh intolerable
suspense lasted not one of those present could have
told. The twilight gradually faded into gloom; dark-
ness like a huge mantle slowly enveloped those
motionless, kneeling figures in the coffee-room of
“The Farmer’s Paradise.”
But if some semblance of hope had crept into the
hearts of the Chouans at sight of the beneficent dark-
ness, it was soon dispelled by the trenchant warning
which came like a blow from a steel-hammer from the
police agent’s lips:


310 The Last Adventure
“If I hear the slightest movement through the
darkness—one flutter, one creak, even a sigh—I shall
fire,” he had said, as soon as the gloom of the night
had begun to creep into the more remote corners of
the room. And even through the darkness the over-
strained ears of the kneeling Chouans caught the
sound of a metallic click—the cocking of the pistol
which threatened Constance de Plélan’s life. 'And
so they remained still—held more securely on
their knees by that one threat than by the pressure
of giant hands.
An hour went by. Through the open window the
sound of the murmur of voices had given place to
renewed clanking of metal chains, to pawing of
the ground by high-mettled horses, to champing
of bits, to snOrting, groaning and creaking, as
the heavy travelling chaise once more started on
its way. '
After that it seemed like eternity.
When once again the silent roads gave forth signs
of life and movement; when, from the direction of
Paris, there came the sound of a cavalcade, of a num-
ber of horses galloping along at breakneck speed;
when after a while it dawned upon these enchanted
statues here that a posse of police had arrived at “The
Farmerjs Paradise,” and the men were even now dis-
mounting, almost a sigh of relief rose from five
oppressed breasts. /
They knew the game was up; they knew that all
that they had staked had been swept aside by the





__.L
'a—