Affair of the rue du Quatre Septembre"At the last moment of going to press, a bloody imprint has been discovered on hand-cart number 2. Monsieur Bertillon immediately identified this imprint: it was made by the hand of Jacques Dollon, the criminal who is already wanted by the police for the murder of the Baroness de Vibray, and the robbery committed on the Princess Sonia Danidoff."
Affair of the rue du Quatre Septembre
"At the last moment of going to press, a bloody imprint has been discovered on hand-cart number 2. Monsieur Bertillon immediately identified this imprint: it was made by the hand of Jacques Dollon, the criminal who is already wanted by the police for the murder of the Baroness de Vibray, and the robbery committed on the Princess Sonia Danidoff."
"But I am not mad!" cried Fandor, when he had read these lines. "I declare I am not mad! By all that's holy, Jacques Dollon is dead!... Fifty persons have seen him dead! But, for all that, Bertillon cannot be mistaken!"
After a minute or two, Fandor took up his pen again, and added a note to his article, entitled:—
Sensational development. The police say: "It is the late Jacques Dollon who has stolen the millions!"
Sensational development. The police say: "It is the late Jacques Dollon who has stolen the millions!"
This note showed clearly that Jérôme Fandor did not believe that Jacques Dollon could possibly be involved in this affair, or in either of the other crimes in connection with which his name had been mentioned.
A man jumped quickly out of the Auteuil-Madeleine tram.
It would have been difficult to guess his age, or see his face. He wore a large soft hat—a Brazilian sombrero—whose edges he had turned down. The collar of his overcoat was turned up, so that the lower part of his face was so far buried in it that his features were almost hidden. Then, during the entire journey, seated at the end of the tramcar he had kept his back turned on the other passenger: he seemed to be absorbed in watching the movements of the driver. At the end of the rue Mozart, where the rues La Fontaine, Poussin, des Perchamps meet, he had quitted the tram with real satisfaction.
Then, in the silence of the evening, the clock of Auteuil church had slowly struck eight silvery strokes.
The listening man murmured:
"Oh, there's no hurry after all. I've a two good hours' wait in front of me!"
Leaving the frequented ways, he plunged into the little by-streets, newly made and not yet named, which join the end of the rue Mozart with the boulevard Montmorency. He walked fast, at the same time taking his bearings.
"Rue Raffet?... If I don't deceive myself, it lies in this direction!"
He reached the hilly and lonely road bearing that name, which, on both sides of its entire length, is bordered by attractive private residences.
Swiftly, silently, stealthily, this individual approached one of these houses. He glanced through the garden railing, scrutinising the windows which were lighted up.
"Good! Good! Decidedly good!" he said, in a low tone of satisfaction.... "But there's two hours to wait ... they are still in the dining-room, if I am to go by the lighted windows."
The watcher now inspected the rue Raffet. The house which interested him so much, was situated just where the rue du Docteur Blanche opens into the street at right angles. Auteuil is certainly not a frequented part, but, as a rule, the rue Raffet is generally more lonely than any of the streets in Auteuil: no carriages, no pedestrians.
From an early hour in the evening, that hilly road was, more often than not, quite deserted, so was the rue du Docteur Blanche, still surrounded by waste land, and more especially at the rue Raffet end.
A glance or two sufficed to show the man the lie of the land. He noted the feeble glimmer of the street lamps; he made certain that not one of the neighbouring houses could perceive his actions, mark his movements. He repeated in a theatrical tone of voice with a note of amusement in it.
"Not a soul! Not a solitary soul! Well, it is no joke to wait here; but, after all, it is a quiet spot, and I can count on not being disturbed in the job I have in hand to-night...."
This individual traversed the rue Raffet, gained the rue du Docteur Blanche, and, wrapping himself up in his voluminous black cloak, ensconced himself in a break in the palisades bordering the pavement. He stood there motionless; anyone might have passed within a few yards of him without suspecting his presence, so still was he, so imperceptibly did his dark figure blend with the blackness of the night.
He started slightly. The church clock struck nine, its notes sounding silvery clear through the tranquil night ... in the distance some convent clock chimed an evening prayer, then a deeper silence fell on the darkness of night....
Suddenly, the front door of the house, which the stranger had watched with scrutinising intentness, was thrown wide open, showing a large, luminous square in the darkness. Two women were speaking.
"Are you going out, my darling?" asked the elder.
"Don't be anxious, madame," replied a girlish voice. "There is no need to wait for me. I am only going to the post...."
"Why not give Jules your letter?"
"No, I prefer to post it myself."
"You would not like someone to go with you? There are not many people about at this hour...."
The same fresh, young voice replied:
"Oh, I am not frightened ... besides it's only rue Raffet which is deserted; as soon as I reach rue Mozart there will be nothing more to fear!"
The luminous square, drawn on the obscurity of the garden, disappeared.
The mysterious stranger, who had not lost a word of this conversation, heard the door of the vestibule close, then the gravel of the garden crunch under the feet of the girl coming down the path. Very soon the gate of the garden grated on its badly oiled hinges, and then the elegant outline of a young girl was visible on the badly lighted pavement. She was walking fast....
The stranger remained stationary until the girl had gone some way; then pressing against the wall, concealing his movements with practised ability, he followed her at a discreet distance....
"There can be no doubt about it," he murmured. "I recognised her voice directly!... It's the very deuce!... It's going to complicate matters!... A lover's meeting? Not likely!... She must be going to the post, as she said.... She will return in about a quarter of an hour, and then ... then!..."
The girl was far from suspecting that she was being followed. She had walked down rue Mozart, turned into rue Poussin, posted her letter, and then walked quietly back to the house.
The stranger had not followed her into the more frequented streets: he awaited her return in a dark and deserted side street. When she came into view again, he sighed a sigh of great satisfaction.
"Ah, there is the dear child!... That's all right.... Now we shall have some fun!... or, rather, I shall!"
Anyone seeing his face, whilst making these significant exclamations, would have been frightened by his sneering chuckle, his hideous grin.
A few minutes later, the girl re-entered the little garden of the house in the rue Raffet. A stout woman opened to her ring.
"Ah, there you are, darling." There was relief in her tone.
"Yes, here I am, safe and sound, madame!"
"Nothing unpleasant—no one molested you, Elizabeth?"
Elizabeth Dollon, for she it was, shook her head and smiled a smile both sad and sweet.
"Ah, no, madame!... I was sure you would be waiting for me—I am so sorry!"
"No, not at all!... Tell me, Elizabeth.... Jules has told me that you would not be going out to-morrow. The poor fellow is so stupid that I ask myself if he has not made a mistake?"
"No," said Elizabeth. "It is quite true.... I do not think I shall go out, either in the morning or the afternoon."
"You expect a caller?"
"It is possible someone may come to see me.... If by any chance I have to go out for a few minutes, to get something or other, I must warn Jules: he must make the visitor wait: I shall not go far in case..."
"All right! That's settled then, darling. Now, good night, I am going to my room."
"Good evening, madame, and good night!"
Leaving stout and kindly Madame Bourrat, owner of this private boarding-house where Elizabeth Dollon had found a refuge, the poor girl, still with a smile on her pale lips, made her way upstairs, entered her bedroom, and carefully locked the door. She lit the lamp. Her face now wore a tragic look: its expression was wild and desperate....
"If only he would come!" she sighed.... "Ah, I am afraid! I am afraid!... I am terribly afraid!"
Elizabeth stood motionless—a frozen image of fear—all but her eyes: they were casting terrified glances about her....
And no wonder! Elizabeth was neatness personified, and her room was kept with exquisite care—but now, everything was in the greatest disorder.... The drawers of her chest of drawers were piled one on top of the other in a corner of the room; their contents were thrown down in heaps a little way off; books had been cast pell-mell on a sofa; a great wicker trunk, wherein Elizabeth had packed numerous papers belonging to her brother, was overturned on the floor, the lid open.
Its contents were scattered near—a confused mass of documents and crumpled papers.
Elizabeth stared about her for a long minute, and again she cried:
"Oh, if only he would come! What is the meaning of all this?..."
She regained her self-control. Her usual expression of serene gravity returned.
"To go to sleep," she murmured. "That is the best thing—to-morrow will come more quickly so—and, oh, I am so sleepy, so very, very tired!"
Soon Elizabeth blew out her lamp—darkness reigned in her room.
It was about half-past ten o'clock, and the light in Elizabeth Dollon's room had been extinguished for some little while, when the front door of the little house was opened again....
Noiselessly, with infinite precautions, with searching and suspicious glances, taking care to keep off the gravel of the paths, tip-toeing on the grass edging the flower beds, where his steps made no sound, a man left the house and went towards the garden gate.
He quickly reached it; and there he commenced to whistle a soft, slow, monotonous, and continuous whistle.
Second succeeded second; then another whistle, identical in rhythm, replied: soon a voice asked:
"It's you, Jules?"
"It is I, master!"
The man whom Jules named "master," was the stranger, who, for two weary hours, had kept strict watch over the goings and comings of the house....
"All well, Jules?"
"All well, master!"
"And nothing new?..."
"I don't know about that, master: she has written a letter...."
"To whom?..."
"I couldn't say.... I could not see the address, master...."
"You red-headed idiot!"
The servant protested.
"No, it was not my fault!... She did not write in the drawing-room, but in her own room.... I couldn't get a squint at her paper...."
"Did she not say anything?"
"Nothing."
"Did she look upset?"
"A little."
"No one suspects anything?"
"I hope not, master!... Gods and little fishes, if anyone suspected!"
The visitor's voice grew harsh, imperious.
"Enough," said he. "We have no time to lose!"
"How? No time...."
"That's it! We must set to work...."
"Work?... Now?... This very night?... Oh, master, surely not!"
"Don't I? Do you imagine that I arranged a meeting only for the pleasure of talking to you?... Come on, now!... March!"
"What are we to do?"
A moment's silence.
"I cannot see the house very well, because of the branches: listen—look!... Isn't there a light?... Someone still up?"
"No. They've all gone to bed."
"Good. And she?"
"She, too."
"You did what I told you?"
"Yes, master."
"You were able to pour out the narcotic?"
"Yes, master."
"And then?"
"What do you mean by then?"
"Have you carried out all my orders ... the last?"
"Yes, it is all right!... I went into her room and blew out the lamp."
"Good! Now for it!..."
A slight brushing sound, along the low stone wall of the garden, was barely perceptible to a listening ear. The wall was topped by railings, and the gate had sheets of iron fastened to it. In a twinkling, the stranger leaped down beside Jules.
"It's child's play to vault that gate," he said.
By the uncertain light of the stars, Jules could see the individual who had just joined him. His appearance was fantastic, and the wretched Jules started and trembled in every limb. The stranger, who had thus invaded Madame Bourrat's domain, who a short while before had been wearing a long cloak and immense sombrero, wore them no longer. Probably he had rid himself of them by casting them among the bramble bushes on the waste ground around rue Docteur Blanche.... Now he was clad in a long black knitted garment moulded tightly to his figure, a sinister garment, by means of which the wearer can blend with the darkness so as to be almost indistinguishable. His face was entirely concealed by a long black hood, a movable mask, which prevented his features being seen: through two slits gleamed two eyeballs: they might have burned a way through like glowing coals.
"Master!... Master!" murmured Jules. "What are you going to do now?"
This spectral figure replied in a low tone:
"Fool!... go on in front—or no—better follow me! And not a sound—it's as much as your skin is worth!... Take care—great care!"
The two men advanced in silence. But, while Jules seemed to take exaggerated precautions to prevent being heard, his companion seemed naturally shod with silence.
He advanced noiselessly, almost invisible in his black garment.
The two accomplices were soon at the front-door steps of the house.
"Open," commanded the master.
Jules slipped a key into the lock: noiselessly the door turned on its hinges.
"Listen," whispered the cloaked man. "Half-way up the stairs, you must stop: I do not wish you to go right up...."
"But..."
"Do as I say! You must keep watch.... If, by chance, you should hear a noise, if I were to be taken by surprise, you must go downstairs, making a great noise and shouting at the top of your voice: 'Stop him!... Stop him!...' Thus, in the first moment of confusion, everyone will rush after you, and that will give me time to choose my way of escape."
Jules, whatever his fears, did not dare to question his instructions.
"Very good, master," he breathed. "I'll do as you say."
"I should think you would," scoffed his master, almost inaudibly.
Leaving his accomplice on the stairs, the masked man went forward. He seemed to know the ins and outs of the house, for he turned into the corridor and, without a moment's hesitation, walked towards the door of Elizabeth Dollon's room. He put his ear against it.
"She sleeps," he murmured.
He had inserted a key in the lock: there was an obstacle to its easy entrance.
"Confound it! The girl has left her own key in the lock!" he said softly.... "What the deuce am I to do now? What did Jules do when he got in and put out the lamp?... Why, of course, he took off the screw that fixes the staple—a simple push will suffice." With a push of his shoulder the door yielded. The stranger entered and carefully closed the door. He walked to the window and drew the curtains, muttering:
"That fool should have thought of this just now."
Taking a small electric torch from his pocket he turned on the light. Calmly, collectedly, he approached a couch at one side of the room.... On it lay Elizabeth Dollon in a deep sleep. She looked white as death.
"An excellent narcotic," he muttered, bending over the unconscious girl. "When one thinks that she took it at dinner, then went out, and that then it produced its effect!..."
Moving away from Elizabeth, he crossed the room to where the contents of the overturned trunk lay.
"Damnable papers!" he growled low. "To think!... It is too late now to continue the search.... Bah! By shutting the mouth of an informant ... that's the way to settle it ... the best way too!... Now for it!..."
Without apparent effort, the man in the hooded mask seized Elizabeth Dollon in his muscular arms.
"Come, mademoiselle," he said in a jeering tone. "Come to bye-bye! Sleep better than on this sofa! You will sleep a longer sleep, that's certain!" An evil smile punctuated these sinister remarks.
He laid the poor girl's body on the floor in the middle of the room; then, approaching a little gas stove, he detached the india-rubber tube and slipped the end of it between his victim's teeth.
He turned the gas tap....
"Perfect!" he said, as he straightened himself.
"To-morrow morning, early, at eight o'clock, or at nine, the excellent Madame Bourrat will open the meter. The narcotic this child has taken will prevent her from waking, so that, without suffering, without cries, quite gently—pfuit!... sweet Elizabeth will pass from life to death!... But it will not do to linger here ... let us find Jules and give him the necessary instructions!"
The stranger went out into the corridor closing the door. The thing had been well managed; the screws keeping the bolt case in position were put back in their holes—the key remained inside—no one would suspect that only a slight push was necessary to get into the room.
With a chuckle, the stranger bent down and pushed a tassel under the door.
The servant must not discover the trick when she is sweeping the passage: now with this wedge, the door cannot be opened without a violent push.
With a last glance up and down the passage, illuminated for a moment by his electric torch, the stranger made sure that there was no one about to see him; then, with silent tread, he began to go downstairs....
Half-way down, his accomplice awaited him.
"Well, master?" questioned Jules in a low, trembling voice.
In a calm, quiet voice, the man in the hood mask replied:
"It is done—is successful.... I have wedged the door to. You will be careful when you are sweeping to-morrow."
Jules lowered his head.
"Yes ... yes.... Have you?..."
The stranger put his hand on the servant's shoulder.
"Listen," whispered the stranger, "I do not repeat my orders twenty times over,... have I not already told you that I do not allow myself to be questioned?... try to remember that!... You wish to know whether I have killed her?... Well, I will tell you this: I have not killed her. But I have so managed things that she will kill herself!... A suicide, you understand.... One piece of advice: to-morrow, keep anyone from going to her room as long as you can ... if Madame Bourrat, or anyone else asks for her, you must say that you saw her leave the house—that she has gone out...."
"But," protested Jules, "it is impossible, what you tell me to say, master! It just happens that she is expecting visitors to-morrow!... She told me that, on this account, she meant to stay indoors all day!"
The man with the hood mask ground his teeth.
"You idiot! What does that matter?... You are to say: Mademoiselle Elizabeth has just gone out, but she told me that she was not going far, and that she would return in about twenty minutes.... If anyone should ask for her again, you are to answer that she has not come in yet!..."
"But ... master ... when they find out what's happened really?..."
"Ho! When it is discovered, it will seem quite natural that a person who means to commit suicide—for she will have committed suicide, you understand—should have taken precautions not to be disturbed ... you grasp this?"
"Yes, master ... yes!..."
They had returned to the garden: the man in the hooded mask was preparing to get over the gate....
"Farewell! Be faithful! Be intelligent!... You know what you have to gain?... You also know what risks you run?... Eh!... Now go!"
"You will return to-morrow, master?"
The man with the hooded mask looked his accomplice up and down.
"I shall return when it pleases me to do so."
Then, with marvellous agility, without making a spring for it, with a quite extraordinary muscular flexibility and power, the stranger leaped on to the little wall, cleared the gate, and disappeared into the night....
Jules, with bent head, much moved, terribly anxious, slowly walked back to the house....
Maray, second reporter ofLa Capitale, shook hands with Fandor.
"Are you in a good humour, dear boy?"
"So—so...."
"Ah! Well, here is something which will cheer you up, I'm sure!... Here's a letter from a lady for you.... I found it in my pigeon-hole by mistake!"
Fandor smiled.
"From a lady?... You must be mistaken!... How do you know it is?"
"By the handwriting, the paper, and so on—I'm not mistaken—am I ever?..." Laughing, Maray threw down on Fandor's table a small envelope with a deep black border.
"Yes, it is a letter from a woman," said Fandor, as he picked it up: "from whom?... Ah,... why yes!..."
With a hasty finger, he tore open the envelope whilst his colleague withdrew making a joking remark.
"Dear boy, I leave you to this tender missive: I should be annoyed with myself were I to interrupt your reflections!"
Fandor's friend would have been surprised, if he could have seen the gloomy expression which the perusal of this so-called love-letter produced. Jérôme had turned to the signature—Elizabeth Dollon.
"What does she want with me?" he asked himself. "After the extraordinary affair of rue du Quatre Septembre, one must suppose that she has arrived at some conclusion regarding the possible guilt of her brother ... so long as she does not let her imagination run away with her, and, like the police, fancy that Jacques Dollon is still in the land of the living? The position the poor thing is in is a very cruel one!"
Fandor had met Jacques Dollon's young sister repeatedly; and, every time, he had been more and more troubled by the poor girl's touching grief, as well as by her pathetic beauty, which had made a great impression on him.... He began to read her letter.
"Dear Sir,You have been so good to me in all my troubles, you have shown me such true sympathy, that I do not hesitate to ask your help once more.Such an extraordinary thing has happened to me which I cannot account for at all, which, nevertheless, makes me think, more than ever, that my poor brother is living, innocent, and kept prisoner, perhaps by those who compel him to accept the responsibility for all those horrible crimes you know about.To-day, whilst I was in Paris on business, some people, of whom I know nothing, I need hardly say, whom not a soul in the private boarding-house where I am saw, these persons entered my room!I found all my belongings turned upside down; my papers scattered over the floor, every drawer and trunk and box ransacked from top to bottom!You can guess how frightened I was....I do not think they had come to do me any personal harm, not even to rob me, for I had left my modest jewellery on the mantelpiece and found them still there: those who entered my room did not covet valuables.Then, why did they come?You are perhaps going to say that my imagination is playing me tricks!... Nevertheless, I assure you that I try to keep calm, but I cannot keep control of myself, and I am terribly afraid!I have just said that nothing was stolen from me; I think, however, it right to mention one strange coincidence.I was convinced that I had left, in a little red pocket-book, the list I spoke to you of, which had been retrieved at my brother's house on the day of Madame de Vibray's death. It was, as I have told you, written in green ink by a person whose handwriting I do not know. I can hardly tell why, but amidst all the disorders in my room I immediately searched for this list. The little pocket-book was on the floor amongst other papers, but the list was not to be found in it.Am I mistaken? Have I packed it in somewhere else, or, allowing for the fact that everything had been turned upside down, has this paper slipped among other papers, which would explain why I had not come across it again?In spite of myself, I must confess to you that the thieves, I fancy, had only one aim in view when they entered my room, and that was to get hold of this list.What is your opinion?I feel that perhaps I am about to show myself both inconsiderate and injudicious, but you know how miserable I am, and you will understand how the position I am in gives me grounds for being distracted. I am bent on talking this over with you, on knowing what you think of it. Perhaps even, knowing how clever you are, you might be able to find something, an indication, some detail, in my room? I have not touched anything.I shall stay indoors all to-morrow in the hope of seeing you; do come if you possibly can. It seems to me that I am forsaken by everyone, and I trust only you...."
"Dear Sir,
You have been so good to me in all my troubles, you have shown me such true sympathy, that I do not hesitate to ask your help once more.
Such an extraordinary thing has happened to me which I cannot account for at all, which, nevertheless, makes me think, more than ever, that my poor brother is living, innocent, and kept prisoner, perhaps by those who compel him to accept the responsibility for all those horrible crimes you know about.
To-day, whilst I was in Paris on business, some people, of whom I know nothing, I need hardly say, whom not a soul in the private boarding-house where I am saw, these persons entered my room!
I found all my belongings turned upside down; my papers scattered over the floor, every drawer and trunk and box ransacked from top to bottom!
You can guess how frightened I was....
I do not think they had come to do me any personal harm, not even to rob me, for I had left my modest jewellery on the mantelpiece and found them still there: those who entered my room did not covet valuables.
Then, why did they come?
You are perhaps going to say that my imagination is playing me tricks!... Nevertheless, I assure you that I try to keep calm, but I cannot keep control of myself, and I am terribly afraid!
I have just said that nothing was stolen from me; I think, however, it right to mention one strange coincidence.
I was convinced that I had left, in a little red pocket-book, the list I spoke to you of, which had been retrieved at my brother's house on the day of Madame de Vibray's death. It was, as I have told you, written in green ink by a person whose handwriting I do not know. I can hardly tell why, but amidst all the disorders in my room I immediately searched for this list. The little pocket-book was on the floor amongst other papers, but the list was not to be found in it.
Am I mistaken? Have I packed it in somewhere else, or, allowing for the fact that everything had been turned upside down, has this paper slipped among other papers, which would explain why I had not come across it again?
In spite of myself, I must confess to you that the thieves, I fancy, had only one aim in view when they entered my room, and that was to get hold of this list.
What is your opinion?
I feel that perhaps I am about to show myself both inconsiderate and injudicious, but you know how miserable I am, and you will understand how the position I am in gives me grounds for being distracted. I am bent on talking this over with you, on knowing what you think of it. Perhaps even, knowing how clever you are, you might be able to find something, an indication, some detail, in my room? I have not touched anything.
I shall stay indoors all to-morrow in the hope of seeing you; do come if you possibly can. It seems to me that I am forsaken by everyone, and I trust only you...."
Jérôme Fandor read and reread this letter, which had been written with a trembling hand.
"Poor little soul!" he murmured. "Here is something more to add to her troubles! It is really terrible! It seems to me as if we should never come to the end of it; and I ask myself, whether the police will ever find the key to all these mysteries!...
"Did someone really break into Elizabeth Dollon's room to steal this paper? It is rather improbable. Judging from what she told me, there is nothing compromising in it. But then, why this search?... She is right so far: if the intruders had been merely thieves, they would have carried off her jewellery!... Then it is for that paper they came? Besides, ordinary burglars would have had considerable difficulty in getting into her room, where she is remarkably well guarded, by the very fact of there being other boarders in the house....
"No, the very audacity of this attempted theft seems to prove, that it is connected with the other affairs which have brought the name of Jacques Dollon into such prominence!
"I see in this the same extraordinary audacity, the same certainty of escape, the same long and careful preparation, for it is a by no means convenient place for a burglary in open day: comings and goings are perpetual, and the guilty persons ran a hundred risks of being caught...."
Fandor interrupted his reflections to read Elizabeth's letter once more.
"She is dying of fright! That is evident!... In any case she calls to me for help. Her letter was posted yesterday evening.... I will go and see her—and at once.... Who knows but I might find some clue which would put me on the right track?"
Jérôme Fandor did not feel very hopeful.
After having gone carefully over every point connected with, and pertaining to, the affair of rue du Quatre Septembre, he had almost come to the conclusion, optimistic as he was regarding the police, that chance alone would bring about the arrest of the guilty parties.
"To lay these criminals by the heels," he had frankly declared, "requires the aid of very favourable circumstances, and without them, neither I nor the police will get at the truth of it all."
Fandor made a definite distinction between the opinion of the police and his own, because two different theories now obtained with regard to the two affairs: that of the attack on the Princess Sonia Danidoff, and that of the robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre, where the imprints of Jacques Dollon's fingers had been found.
The police and Fandor coupled Monsieur Havard with Monsieur Bertillon under this definition; the police held it for certain that Jacques Dollon was alive, very much alive, and the probabilities were great that he was guilty of the different crimes attributed to him.
In an interview granted to a press rival ofLa CapitaleMonsieur Bertillon had stated:
"We base our assertion that Dollon is alive, and consequently guilty, on material facts: we have found his signature attached to each of the crimes, and it is a signature which cannot be imitated by anyone...."
For his part, Fandor held it as certain that Jacques was dead.
"I maintain that, since fifty persons have seen Jacques Dollon dead, it is infinitely more likely that he is dead than that he is alive! The imprints of his fingers, his hand, are equally visible, it is true, and seem to prove that he is alive. But the conclusive nature of this test is nullified by the fact that, before the discovery of these imprints, before these imprints had been made, Jacques Dollon was dead!"
And in his articles inLa Capitale, Jérôme Fandor, with a persistency which finished by disconcerting even the most convinced partisans of the police contention, continued to maintain that Jacques Dollon was dead, dead as dead, and, to use his own expression, "as dead as it was possible for anyone to be dead!"
Jérôme Fandor had just rung the bell at the garden gate of Madame Bourrat's private boarding-house in Auteuil.
Jules hastened to answer this ring, and was met by the question:
"Is Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon at home?"
"No, monsieur. She went out not an hour ago!"
"And you are certain she has not returned?"
"Absolutely, monsieur.... There are two visitors waiting for her already."
"She will be in soon, then?"
"Certainly, monsieur: she will not be long...."
Fandor looked at his watch.
"A quarter past ten!... Very well, I will wait for her."
"If monsieur will kindly follow me?"
Fandor was shown into the drawing-room. He had advanced only a step or two when he was greeted with:
"Why! Monsieur Fandor!"
"I am delighted to see you!" cried Fandor, shaking hands with Monsieur Barbey and Monsieur Nanteuil. Both gave him a pleasant smile of welcome.
"You have come to see Mademoiselle Dollon, I suppose?"
"Yes. We have come to assure her that we will do all in our power to help her out of her terrible difficulties. She wrote to us a few days ago to ask if we would act as intermediaries regarding the sale of some of her unfortunate brother's productions, also to see if we could get her a situation in some dressmaking establishment.... We have come to assure her of our entire sympathy."
"That is most kind of you! They told you, did they not, that she had gone out? I think she will not be absent long, for I have an appointment with her. But, if you will allow me, I will go to the office and ask if they have the least idea of which way she has gone, for I have little time to spare, and if we could go to meet her, it would save, at least, a few minutes...."
Jérôme Fandor rose and went towards one of the drawing-room doors.
"You are making a mistake," said Monsieur Nanteuil, "the office is this way," and he pointed to another door.
"Bah! All roads lead to Rome!" With that, Fandor went out by the door he had approached first....
"They are nice fellows," said Fandor to himself. "If Elizabeth Dollon is really not in!... but... Is she really not in the house? I am by no means sure.... If she feels timid at the idea of seeing the bankers—their visit may have made her nervous, considering the state she is in ... she might have sent to say she was not at home in order to have time to add some finishing touches to her toilette."
Fandor, who knew the house, mounted the little staircase leading to the first floor. Elizabeth's room was on this floor. Before her door he stopped and sniffed.
"Queer smell!" he murmured. "It smells like gas!"
He knocked boldly, calling:
"Mademoiselle Elizabeth! It is I, Fandor!"
The smell of gas became more pronounced as he waited.
A horrible idea, an agonising fear, flashed through his mind.
He knocked as hard as he could on the door.
"Mademoiselle Elizabeth! Mademoiselle!"
No answer.
He called down the stairs:
"Waiter!... Porter!"
But apparently the one and only manservant the house boasted was occupied elsewhere, for no one answered.
Fandor returned to the door of Elizabeth's room, knelt down and tried to look through the keyhole. The inside key was there, which seemed to confirm his agonising fear.
"She has not gone out then?"
He took a deep breath.
"What a horrible smell of gas!"
This time he did not hesitate. He rose, stepped back, sprang forward, and with a vigorous push from the shoulder, he drove the door off its hinges.
"My God!" he shouted.
In the centre of the room, Fandor had just seen Elizabeth Dollon lying unconscious. A tube, detached from a portable gas stove, was between her tightly closed lips! The tap was turned full on. He flung himself on his knees near the poor girl, pulled away the deadly tube, and put his ear to her heart.
What joy, what happiness, he felt when he heard, very feeble but quite unmistakable beatings of Elizabeth's heart!
"She lives!" What unspeakable relief Jérôme Fandor felt! What thankfulness!
The noise he had made breaking the door off its hinges brought the whole household running to the spot. As the manservant, followed by Madame Bourrat, followed in turn by Monsieur Barbey and Nanteuil, appeared in the doorway uttering cries of terror, Jérôme called out:
"No one is to come in!... It is an accident!"
Then lifting Elizabeth in his strong arms, he carried her out of the room.
"What she needs is air!"
He hurried downstairs and out into the garden with his precious burden, followed by the terrified witnesses of the scene.
"You have saved her life, monsieur!" cried Madame Bourrat in a tragic voice. She groaned. "Oh, what a scandal!"
"Yes, I have saved her," replied Fandor as, panting with his exertions, he laid Elizabeth Dollon flat on a garden seat.... "But from whom?... It is certainly not attempted suicide! There is some mystery behind this business: it's a regular theatrical performance arranged simply for effect, and to mislead us," declared Fandor. Then, turning to the bankers, he said courteously but with an air of command:
"Please lay information with the superintendent of police at once ... the nearest police station, you understand!"
"Madame," he said, addressing the overwhelmed Madame Bourrat, "you will be good enough to look after Mademoiselle Dollon, will you not?... Take every care of her. There is not much to be done, however! I have seen many cases of commencing asphyxia: she will regain consciousness now, in a few minutes."
Then, looking at the manservant, he said in a sharp tone:
"Come with me! You will mount guard at the door of Mademoiselle Elizabeth's room, whilst I try to discover some clues, before the police arrive on the scene."
To tell the truth, our young journalist felt embarrassed at the idea that Elizabeth Dollon was about to regain consciousness, and that he would have to submit to being thanked by her, when she knew who had saved her.
Accompanied by the manservant, he went quickly upstairs and into Elizabeth's room.
"You must not enter Mademoiselle Dollon's room on any account!" said Fandor sternly. "It is quite enough that I should run the risk of effacing the, probably very slight, clues which the delinquents have left behind them...."
"But, monsieur, if the young lady put the tubing between her lips, it must have been because she wished to destroy herself!"
"On the face of it you are right, my good fellow. But, when one is right, one is often wrong!"
Without more ado, Fandor started on a minute inspection of the room. Elizabeth had but stated the truth when she wrote that it had been thoroughly ransacked. Only her toilet things had been spared; but some books had been taken from their shelves and thrown about the floor, their pages crumpled and spoilt. He noticed the emptied trunk: its contents—copy books, letters, pieces of music—had been roughly dealt with. On the mantelpiece, in full view, lay Elizabeth's jewellery—some rings and brooches, a small gold watch, a purse.
"A very queer affair," murmured Fandor, who was kneeling in the middle of the room, rummaging, searching, and not finding any clue. He rose, carefully examined all the woodwork, but found nothing incriminating. He examined the lock of the unhinged door, which had subsided on the floor. The lock was intact, the bolt moved freely: the screws only of the staple had given way.
"That," thought Fandor, "is probably owing to the force of my thrust!"
The window fastening was intact: the window closed.
"If the robbers," reflected Fandor, "got into a closed room, they must have used false keys."
Having examined the means of access to the room, Fandor started on a still more minute examination of the interior. He scrutinised the furniture and the slight powdering of dust on each article: in vain!... Then the washstand had its turn: nothing!... He scrutinised the soap.
"Ah! This is interesting!" he cried. The manservant had made himself scarce; and Fandor, unobserved, could wrap up the piece of soap in his handkerchief and hide it in the lowest drawer of the chest of drawers, under a pile of linen. He was whistling now.
"That bit of soap is interesting—very!" he cried. "Let the police come! I am not afraid of their blundering!... Now to see how Elizabeth is getting on!"
When he reached her side, he found she had recovered full consciousness, and was preparing to answer the questions of a police superintendent, who, summoned by the bankers, had hastened to the scene of action. He was a stout, apoplectic man, very full of his own importance.
"Come now, mademoiselle, tell us just how things happened from beginning to end! We ask nothing better than to believe you, but do not conceal any detail—not the slightest...."
Poor Elizabeth Dollon, when she heard this speech, stared at the pompous police official, astonished. What had she to conceal? What had she to gain by lying? What did he think, this fat policeman, who took it upon himself to issue orders, when he should rather have tried to comfort her! Nevertheless, she at once began telling him all that she knew with regard to the affair. She told him of her letter to Fandor: that her room had been visited the evening before: by whom she did not know ... that she had not said a word about it to anyone, fearing vengeance would fall on her, frightened, not understanding what it all meant....
Then she came to what the police dignitary called "her suicide." As she finished her recital with a reference to her rescue by Fandor, she looked at the young journalist. It was a look of great gratitude and a kind of ardent tenderness, with a touch of fear in it.
"Strange, very strange!" pronounced the superintendent of police, who had been taking notes with an air of great gravity. "So very strange, mademoiselle, that it is very difficult to credit your statements!... very difficult indeed!..."
Whilst he was speaking, Fandor was saying to himself:
"Decidedly, it is that!... Just what I was thinking! It is quite clear, clear as the sun in the sky, evident, indisputable!" And he refused, very politely of course—for one has to respect the authorities—to accompany the superintendent, who, in his turn, went upstairs to Elizabeth's room, in order to carry out the necessary legal verification....
The nuns of the order of Saint Augustin were not expelled in consequence of the Decrees. This was a special favour, but one fully justified, because of the incalculable benefits this community conferred on suffering humanity. The vast convent of rue de la Glacière continues to serve as a shelter for these holy women, and as a sort of hospital for the sick. For close on a hundred years, generation after generation of those living near its walls have heard the convent clock sound the hours in solemn tones; so, too, the convent chapel's shrill-voiced bells have never failed to remind the faithful that the daily offices of their church are being said and sung by the holy sisters within the hallowed walls.
In the vast quarter of Paris, peopled with hospitals and prisons, the convent shows a stern front in the shape of a high, blackened wall. A great courtyard gate, in which a window with iron bars and grating is the only visible opening to the exterior world.
About half-past six in the morning, slightly out of breath with his rapid walk from the Metropolitan station, Jérôme Fandor rang the convent door bell. The sound could be heard echoing and re-echoing in the vaulted corridors, till it died away in the stony distance. There was a silence: then the iron-barred window was half opened, and Fandor heard a voice asking:
"What do you want, monsieur?"
"I wish to speak to Madame the Superior," replied Fandor.
The window was closed again and a lengthy silence followed. Then, slowly, the heavy entrance gate swung half open. Fandor entered the convent. Under the arched doorway, a nun received him with a slight salutation, and turned her back.
"Kindly follow me," she murmured.
Fandor followed along a narrow passage, on one side of which were cells, whilst on the other, it opened by means of large bays, on a vast rectangular cloister quite deserted. A door-window in the passage was ajar: the nun stopped here and said:
"Kindly wait in this parlour, and be good enough to let me have your card. I will inform our Mother Superior that you wish to see her."
The room in which our journalist found himself was severely furnished: its walls were white, on them hung a great ivory crucifix, and here and there, a simple religious picture framed in ebony. A few chairs were ranged in a circle about an oval table: on the floor, polished till it shone like a mirror, were a few small mats, which gave a touch of common-place comfort to the icy regularity of this parlour, set apart for official visits.
What emotions, what dramas, what joys, have had this parlour for a setting! It is there that the life of the cloister touches mundane existence; it is there the nuns receive their future companions in the religious life and their weeping families; it is there the parents of those in the convent infirmary come to hear from the doctor's lips the decrees of life or death; for the convent is not only a retreat, it is an asylum for the sick, the ailing, recommended to their patients by the most eminent doctors, the most prominent surgeons.
Accustomed though he was to every kind of human misery, Fandor shuddered at the thought of all these walls had seen and heard. His reflections were broken by the arrival of a little old lady, whose eyes shone strangely luminous in her pale and wrinkled face—a face showing the highest distinction.
Fandor made a deep bow: it might have expressed the reverence of the world to religion.
"Madame la Supérieure," murmured he, "I have come to pay my respects to you and to ask for news of your boarder."
The Mother Superior, in a gay tone, which contrasted with her cold and reserved appearance, replied at once:
"Ah, you preferred to come yourself! You had not the patience to wait at the telephone? I quite understand. Would you believe it, while the sister, who has charge of this young girl, was being sent for, the communication was cut off. That is why we could not give you any information."
Fandor stared.
"But I do not understand, madame?"
The Mother Superior replied:
"Was it not you then who telephoned this morning to ask for news of Mademoiselle Dollon?"
"I certainly did not do so!"
"In that case, I do not understand what it means, either! But it does not matter much: you shall see your protégée now."
The Mother Superior rang: a sister appeared.
"Sister, will you take this gentleman to Mademoiselle Dollon! She was walking in the park a short while ago, and is probably there now.... Monsieur, I bid you good day."
Gliding swiftly and noiselessly over the polished floor, the Mother Superior disappeared. The nun led the way and Fandor followed: he was very much upset by what the Mother Superior had just told him.
"How had Elizabeth's place of refuge been so quickly discovered?... Who could have telephoned to get news of her?"
The nun had led Fandor across the great rectangular courtyard; then by corridors, and many winding, vaulted passages, they had come out on to a terrace, overlooking an immense park, which extended further than the eye could see. Here were bosky dells, ancient trees, bowers and grooves, meadows where milky mothers chewed the cud in the shade of blossoming apple trees. It might have been in Normandy, a hundred leagues from Paris!
The nun turned to the admiring Fandor.
"The young lady you seek, monsieur, is coming along this path: there she is!... I will leave you."
Fandor had seen Elizabeth's graceful figure moving towards him, thrown into charming relief by the country landscape flooded with sunshine. In her modest mourning dress, with her fair shining hair, she appeared prettier than ever: a touching figure of sorrowing beauty!
Elizabeth pressed Fandor's hands warmly.
"Oh, thank you, monsieur, thank you!" she cried, "for having come to see me this morning. I know how little spare time you have! I feel vexed with myself for putting you out so ... but you see"—Elizabeth could not repress a sob—"I am so alone ... so desolate ... I have lost everything I cared for ... and you are the only person I can trust and confide in now!... I feel like a bit of wreckage at the mercy of wind and wave; I feel as though I were surrounded by enemies: I live in a nightmare.... What should I do without you to turn to?..."
Our young journalist, moved by such great misfortune so simply, so candidly expressed, returned the pressure of Elizabeth's hands.
"You know, mademoiselle," he said softly, but in a voice vibrating with sympathetic emotion—the only sign of feeling he permitted himself to show—"you know that you can count absolutely on me. In getting you to take a few days' rest in this retreat, I felt I was doing what was best for you. You are not solitary; but your surroundings are peaceful and friendly, and should you have enemies, though I am loath to think it, you are sheltered here beyond their reach. With reference to that, have you given your address to anyone, since yesterday?"
"To no one," replied Elizabeth. "Has anyone by chance?..."
She looked troubled, and gave an anxious questioning glance at Fandor.
He did not want to frighten the much-tried girl, but he wished to solve the mystery of the unaccountable telephone call.
"Oh, I just wished to know, mademoiselle.... Now, tell me, have you quite recovered from ... your experience of the other day?"
"Ah, monsieur, I owe my life to you!" cried Elizabeth. "For, I am certain that someone wished to get rid of me ... don't you agree with me?... I must have been dosed with some narcotic, just as they dosed my poor brother, for I am now absolutely convinced that he also was sent to sleep and poisoned...."
"And that he is dead! Is that not so?" asked Fandor in a low voice.
Without hesitation, in a tearful voice, Elizabeth repeated:
"And that he is dead. You have given me so many proofs that it is so, that I can no longer doubt it, alas! But I will take courage, as I promised you I would. I ought to live, that I may strive to rehabilitate his memory, and restore to him his reputation as a man of probity, of honour, to which he is entitled. But directly I begin to think about the horrible mystery in which I am involved, my very reason seems to totter—you can understand that, can you not? I don't understand, I don't know, I can't guess ... oh!..."
"But," interrupted Fandor, "we must seriously consider the situation in all its bearings. It may cause you atrocious suffering, but you must summon all your courage, mademoiselle. We must discuss it."
Fandor and Elizabeth had moved away from the terrace, and were now in the leafy solitudes of the park.
Fandor began:
"There is that paper with its list of names, written in green ink, mademoiselle! It was a mistake on your part not to attach any importance to it until you fancied, and perhaps rightly, that someone had tried to steal it from you. Come now, can you tell me whether this list is still in your possession, or not?"
Elizabeth shook her head sadly.
"I do not know, I cannot tell! My poor head is so bewildered, and I find it all the trouble in the world to collect my thoughts. I told you, the other day, that this list had disappeared from a little red pocket book, that I had put on the chimney piece of my room at Auteuil. But the more I think it over, the more doubtful I am.... It seems to me now, that this list ought to be, must be still—unless it has been stolen since—in the big trunk, into which I threw, pell-mell, the papers and books my brother left scattered about his writing table. To be quite sure about this, we must return to Auteuil.... But perhaps it is useless; because when I wanted to send it to you some forty-eight hours ago, I searched everywhere for the wretched thing, and in vain!... I am not even sure now that I brought it away with me from rue Norvins!"
Fandor gently comforted the distracted girl whose eyes were full of tears.
"Do not be disheartened. Try rather to put together in your memory what was written in this paper! You told me, surely, that there were names in this list of persons you knew, or had heard of? Search your memory a little, mademoiselle."
"I don't know! I cannot remember!" cried Elizabeth nervously.
"Come now," said Fandor encouragingly, "I know an excellent way of assisting the memory. The eyes are like a sensitive photographic plate: what the brain does not always retain, the mirror of the eye registers: do not try to remember, but try, as it were, to read on white paper what your eyes saw!..."
"Let us sit down a minute and I will help you to do it!" Fandor pointed out a rustic seat, under the trees, in front of which was a garden table. They sat down together and Fandor drew from his pocket a sheet of white paper and his fountain pen.
Elizabeth's arm touched his shoulder.
As though electrified by this contact, the two young people trembled, their eyes met in a glance full of troubled emotion—a feeling new to both—whose immense significance neither understood. Fandor remained speechless, and Elizabeth blushed.
They gazed at each other, embarrassed, not knowing what to say for themselves; and their embarrassment was only relieved by the appearance of the sister who attended to the turning box at the entrance gate. She stood at the top of the steps leading down to the park and called Elizabeth.
"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! There is someone on the telephone who wishes to speak to you!"
Fandor rose.
"Will you allow me to accompany you, mademoiselle? I am very curious to know whether the person now asking for you is identical with the person who asked for you a little while ago?"
The young couple hurried to the big parlour, and Elizabeth went to the telephone.
"Hullo?..."
Elizabeth had handed one of the receivers to Fandor. He heard a voice—an unknown voice, but beyond question masculine—who said, over the wire:
"Hullo!... Is it really Mademoiselle Dollon to whom I have the honour of speaking?"
"Yes, monsieur. Who is speaking to me?"
But just as Elizabeth was about to repeat her question, Fandor thought he heard whoever had called up Elizabeth, hang up the receivers. No reply reached them!...
Elizabeth cried impatiently:
"Hullo!... Hullo!... Who is speaking to me?"
But there was no one at the end of the line!
Fandor swore softly to himself, then seizing the two receivers he called:
"Hullo! Come, monsieur, reply!... Whom do you want? Who are you?"
He could not obtain any reply.
Fandor rang up the central office. When the telephone girl answered, he called:
"Mademoiselle, why have you cut me off?"
"But I have done nothing of the kind, monsieur!"
"But I cannot get any reply!"
"It is because the receivers have been hung up by whoever called you. I assure you that is so."
"What was my caller's number?"
"I cannot tell you that, monsieur—the rules forbid it."
Fandor knew this quite well, so he did not insist further. But, as he turned away from the telephone, a dull anger smouldered within him.
"Who was this mysterious individual who had called Elizabeth twice over the telephone, and then, no sooner put into communication with her, had refused to talk to her?"
Fandor felt nervous, anxious, exasperated by this incident; but it would never do to trouble his young friend to no good purpose. He led her back to the garden.
"Where were we in our talk, monsieur?" asked Elizabeth.
With a considerable effort, the journalist collected his thoughts.
"We were discussing the mysterious paper found at your brother's, mademoiselle."
In agreement with Elizabeth, Jérôme Fandor determined the approximate size of this list of addresses. He tore from his note-book a sheet of white paper.
Elizabeth looked fixedly at the white sheet for a long time, as though, by concentrated will power, she could force the mysterious names which she read some days before on the original paper, to rise up in front of her eyes. Certainly it seemed to her that on this list figured the name of her brother, that of the Baroness de Vibray, lawyer Gérin's also: then she remembered a double name, a name not unknown to her, which had appeared in the list.
"Barbey-Nanteuil!" she suddenly cried. "Yes, I do believe those two names were on it!"
Fandor smiled. Encouraged by his smile and the results of this semi-clairvoyant attempt, Elizabeth allowed her thoughts free play.
"I am sure of it: there was even a mistake in spelling:Nanteuilwas spelledNauteuil: the bankers were third or fourth on the list, and I am certain now that the Baroness de Vibray's name headed the list.... There was also a date, composed of two figures—a 1 ... then—wait a minute!... a figure with a tail to it ... that is to say, it could only have been a 5, a 7, or a 9.... I cannot remember which. Then there were other names I had never heard of."
"Try, mademoiselle, to remember...."
There was a silence. Fandor was puzzling over the figures he had written down in the order Elizabeth had mentioned them—fifteen—seventeen—nineteen—but what could he deduce from them?... Ah!... The mysterious robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre was committed on May 15th! There may be a clue there! The thread of Fandor's reflections were abruptly broken by a cry from Elizabeth.
"I have recalled a name—something like ... Thomas!... Does that tell you anything?"
"Thomas?" repeated Jérôme Fandor slowly.... "I don't see...."
But suddenly he saw light!
He jumped up:
"Isn't it Thomery?" cried he, intensely excited. "Are you not confounding Thomas with Thomery?"
Elizabeth, taken aback, confused, tried hard to remember: she threshed her memory with knitted brows.
"It may be so," she declared. "I see quite clearly the first letters of the word—Thom ... written in a large hand,... then the rest is indistinct ... but I have the impression that the end of the word is longer than the last syllable of Thomas."
"Perhaps you are right!"
Fandor was no longer listening to her. He had left the rustic bench, and without paying any attention to Elizabeth, he began walking up and down the shady path, talking to himself in a low tone, as was his habit when he wished to reduce his thoughts to order.
"Thomas—that is Thomery; Jacques Dollon, the Baroness de Vibray, Barbey-Nanteuil, lawyer Gérin—but they are all the victims of the mysterious band that plots and plans in the shade!... It is incomprehensible—but we shall find a way to get to the bottom of it all!"
Fandor returned to Elizabeth.
"We shall get to the bottom of these mysteries," cried he, with so triumphant an air, his face shining with joy, that Elizabeth, in spite of her torturing anxieties, could not help smiling.
They were alone in these green and flowery spaces. A great peace was all about them. The birds were singing, the breeze lightly stirred the trees and bushes with caressing breaths.... Fandor gazed tenderly at Elizabeth, very tenderly.... The young girl smiled tremulously, as she met this glance of lover-like tenderness.
"We shall get to the bottom of it," repeated Fandor. "You will see, I promise you...."
Their glances mingled in a mute communion of thought and feeling.... Spontaneously, their hands met and clasped.... They were standing close together, and theirs the consciousness of living through an unforgettable moment: they felt most vividly alive together. How young they were! How intoxicating, a moment!... The world of outside things ceased to exist for them.... They were enwrapt in a glowing world of their own!... Fandor's hand slid to Elizabeth's shoulder; he leaned towards the unresisting girl, and with closed eyes, their lips met in a long kiss—a kiss all ecstasy....
It was a moment's mutual madness!... The instant past, both knew it. Torn from this momentary dream of bliss, they gazed at each other, embarrassed, greatly moved: for that very reason they wished to part. Ah, this was not the moment to speak of love, to dream of happiness and mutual joy! Dark, dreadful mysteries enclosed them: it was a sinister net they struggled in: as yet they could see no clear way out!... They had no right to be themselves until the mysteries were cleared away.... They could not belong to each other now!
Fandor, when taking leave of Elizabeth, expressed a wish that she should not accompany him to the convent; and she, still shaken with emotion, had not insisted on doing so.
As he was on the point of stepping into the street, a sister came up to him.
"You are Monsieur Jérôme Fandor?"
"Yes, sister."
"Our Mother Superior wishes to speak to you."
Our journalist bowed acquiescence.
Some minutes later, the Mother Superior joined him in the large parlour.
"Monsieur," she began, "I must apologise for having sent for you, but I wished to have a necessary talk with you."
Fandor interrupted the saintly nun.
"And I must apologise, reverend Mother, for not having come to pay my respects to you before leaving. Had I not been much troubled, I should never have dreamt of leaving without thanking you for the help you have been good enough to give me."
The nun looked at him questioningly. Fandor continued:
"In agreeing to receive Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon as a boarder, you have done a deed of true charity: this poor girl is so unhappy, so tried, so unfortunate, that I really do not know where she could have found a better refuge than in this convent under your sheltering care.... I ..."
But the nun would not allow Fandor to continue.
"It is precisely about Mademoiselle Dollon that I wish to speak to you.... Of course, I should be glad to help and comfort one suffering from a real misfortune; but I must confess, that when Mademoiselle Dollon presented herself here as a boarder, I was ignorant of the exact nature of the scandal in which she is involved."
Fandor was taken aback at the harsh tone of the nun's speech.
"Good Heavens, madame, what do you mean to insinuate?"
"I have just been informed, monsieur, of the exact nature of the relations which existed between the criminal, Jacques Dollon, and Madame de Vibray."
Fandor stiffened with indignation.
"It is false!" he cried. "Utterly false! You have been misinformed!"
He stopped short. The nun signified by a movement of her hand that further protests were useless.
"In any case, whether false or not, it is quite certain that we cannot keep this girl here any longer, for her name will, in the end, do harm to the respectability of this house."
Fandor was astounded at this extraordinary statement.
"In other words," said he, "you refuse to keep Mademoiselle here any longer as a boarder?"
"Yes, monsieur!"
The journalist moved a step or two, then, with bent head, seemed to be turning something over in his mind.
"It comes to this, madame, you are not giving me your true reasons for ..."
Again the nun interrupted the young man with a gesture.
"True, monsieur, I should have preferred not to mention my real and very definite reasons which make it an imperative duty that I should request Mademoiselle Dollon to seek another refuge. Nevertheless, since you insist, I will tell you that Mademoiselle Dollon's attitude just now—her behaviour—is what we cannot possibly allow...."
"Good Heavens! What do you wish to insinuate now, madame?"
"You kissed her, monsieur. I regret that you have forced me to go into details. I regret that you have compelled me to put into words this—I will not allow you to turn this religious house into a lover's meeting place! Am I clear?"
Before Fandor had time to protest, the nun gave him a curt bow, and prepared to leave him.
The young journalist recalled her. He was angry; all the more so, because he knew that the Mother Superior had some justification for the attitude she had taken up. Alas! All his protestations were vain!
"Very well, madame," he said at last. "You are utterly mistaken; but I recognise that your attitude has some colour of justification, and I bow to your decision, based on misinformation and a mistake though it be. Kindly allow me two days' grace, that I may find another refuge for Mademoiselle Dollon!"
With a movement of her head the nun signified her assent; then, with a final bow, she left the parlour.
Crestfallen, but full of angry resolve, Jérôme Fandor turned his back on the convent.