“Thought there was something out o’ the common thereaway,” said one of the jury; “for as we rode by the tree a whole nation of kites and turkey buzzards flew out. Didn’t they, Mr Heart?”
Mr Heart nodded.
“Met him by the river, and wanted halves of his money,” continued Bob mechanically. “He said he’d give me something to buy a quid, and more than enough for that, but not halves. ‘I’ve wife and child,’ saidhe——”
“And you?” asked the juror with the deep voice, which, this time, had a hollow sound in it.
“Shot him down,” said Bob, with a wild, hoarse laugh.
There was a dead pause of some duration. The jury sat with eyes fixed upon the ground.
“And who was the man?” said a juror at last.
“Didn’t ask him; and it warn’t written on his face. He was from the States; but whether a hosier, or a buckeye, or a mudhead, is more than I can say.”
“The thing must be investigated, Alcalde,” said another of the jury, after a second pause.
“It must so,” answered the Alcalde.
“What’s the good of so much investigation?” grumbled Bob.
“What good?” repeated the Alcalde. “Because we owe it to ourselves, to the dead man, and to you, not to sentence you without having held an inquest on the body. There’s another thing which I must call your attention to,” continued he, turning to the jury; “the man is half out of his mind—notcompos mentis, as they say. He’s got the fever, and had it when he did the deed; he was urged on by Johnny, and maddened by his losses at play. In spite of his wild excitement, however, he saved that gentleman’s life yonder, Mr Edward Nathaniel Morse.”
“Did he so?” said one of the jury.
“That did he,” replied I, “not only by saving me from drowning when my horse dragged me,half-dead and helpless, into the river, but also by the care and attention he forced Johnny and his mulatto to bestow upon me. Without him I should not be alive at this moment.”
Bob gave me a look which went to my heart. The tears were standing in his eyes. The jury heard me in deep silence.
“It seems that Johnny led you on and excited you to this?” said one of the jurors.
“I didn’t say that. I only said that he pointed to the man’s money-bag, and said——But what is it to you what Johnny said? I’m the man who did it. I speak for myself, and I’ll be hanged for myself.”
“All very good, Bob,” interposed the Alcalde; “but we can’t hang you without being sure you deserve it. What do you say to it, Mr Whyte? You’re the procurador—and you, Mr Heart and Mr Stone? Help yourselves to rum or brandy; and, Mr Bright and Irwin, take another cigar. They’re considerable tolerable the cigars—ain’t they? That’s brandy, Mr Whyte, in the diamond bottle.”
Mr Whyte had got up to give his opinion, as I thought; but I was mistaken. He stepped to the sideboard, took up a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, every movement being performed with the greatest deliberation.
“Well, Squire,” said he, “or rather Alcalde—”
After the word “Alcalde,” he filled the glass half full of rum.
“If it’s as we’ve heard,” added he, pouring abouta spoonful of water on the rum, “and Bob has killed the man”—he continued, throwing in some lumps of sugar—“murdered him”—he went on, crushing the sugar with a wooden stamp—“I rather calkilate”—here he raised the glass—“Bob ought to be hung,” he concluded, putting the tumbler to his mouth and emptying it.
The jurors nodded in silence. Bob drew a deep breath, as if a load were taken off his breast.
“Well,” said the judge, who did not look over well pleased, “if you all think so, and Bob is agreed, I calculate we must do as he wishes. I tell you, though, I don’t do it willingly. At any rate, we must find the dead man first, and examine Johnny. We owe that to ourselves and to Bob.”
“Certainly,” said the jury with one voice.
“You are a dreadful murderer, Bob, a very considerable one,” continued the judge; “but I tell you to your face, and not to flatter you, there is more good in your little finger than in Johnny’s whole hide. And I’m sorry for you, because, at the bottom, you are not a bad man, though you’ve been led away by bad company and example. I calculate you might still be reformed, and made very useful—more so, perhaps, than you think. Your rifle’s a capital good one.”
At these last words the men all looked up, and threw a keen inquiring glance at Bob.
“You might be of great service,” continued the judge encouragingly, “to the country and to yourfellow-citizens. You’re worth a dozen Mexicans any day.”
Whilst the judge spoke, Bob let his head fall on his breast, and seemed reflecting. He now looked up.
“I understand, Squire; I see what you’re drivin’ at. But I can’t do it—I can’t wait so long. My life’s a burthen and a sufferin’ to me. Wherever I go, by day or by night, he’s always there, standin’ before me, and drivin’ me under the Patriarch.”
There was a pause of some duration. The judge resumed.
“So be it, then,” said he with a sort of suppressed sigh. “We’ll see the body to-day, Bob, and you may come to-morrow at ten o’clock.”
“Couldn’t it be sooner?” asked Bob impatiently.
“Why sooner? Are you in such a hurry?” asked Mr Heart.
“What’s the use of palaverin’?” said Bob sulkily. “I told you already I’m sick of my life. If you don’t come till ten o’clock, by the time you’ve had your talk out and ridden to the Patriarch, the fever’ll be upon me.”
“But we can’t be flying about like a parcel of wild geese, because of your fever,” said the procurador.
“Certainly not,” said Bob humbly.
“It’s an ugly customer the fever, though, Mr Whyte,” observed Mr Trace; “and I calculate we ought to do him that pleasure. What do you think, Squire?”
“I reckon he’s rather indiscreet in his askin’s,”said the judge, in a tone of vexation. “However, as he wishes it, and if it is agreeable to you,” added he, turning to the Ayuntamiento; “and as it’s you, Bob, I calculate we must do what you ask.”
“Thankee,” said Bob.
“Nothing to thank for,” growled the judge; “and now go into the kitchen and get a good meal of roast beef, d’ye hear?” He knocked upon the table. “Some good roast beef for Bob,” said he to a negress who entered; “and see that he eats it. And get yourself dressed more decently, Bob—like a white man and a Christian, not like a wild redskin.”
The negress and Bob left the room. The conversation now turned upon Johnny, who appeared, from all accounts, to be a very bad and dangerous fellow; and after a short discussion, they agreed to lynch him, in backwoodsman’s phrase, just as coolly as if they had been talking of catching a mustang. When the men had come to this satisfactory conclusion, they got up, drank the judge’s health and mine, shook us by the hand, and left the room and the house.
The day passed more heavily than the preceding one. I was too engrossed with the strange scene I had witnessed to talk much. The judge, too, was in a very bad humour. He was vexed that a man should be hung who might render the country much and good service if he remained alive. That Johnny, the miserable, cowardly, treacherous Johnny should be sent out of the world as quickly as possible, was perfectly correct, but with Bob it wasvery different. In vain did I remind him of the crime of which Bob had been guilty—of the outraged laws of God and man—and of the atonement due. It was no use. If Bob had sinned against society, he could repair his fault much better by remaining alive than by being hung; and as to anything else, God would avenge it in his own good time. We parted for the night, neither of us convinced by the other’s arguments.
We were sitting at breakfast the next morning, when a man, dressed in black, rode up to the door. It was Bob, but so metamorphosed that I scarcely knew him. Instead of the torn and bloodstained handkerchief round his head, he wore a hat; instead of the leathern jacket, a decent cloth coat. He had shaved off his beard too, and looked quite another man. His manner had altered with his dress; he seemed tranquil and resigned. With a mild, submissive look, he held out his hand to the judge, who took and shook it heartily.
“Ah, Bob!” said he, “if you had only listened to what I so often told you! I had those clothes brought on purpose from New Orleans, that, on Sundays at least, you might look like a decent and respectable man. How often have I asked you to put them on, and come with us to meeting, to hear Mr Bliss preach? There is some truth in the saying, that the coat makes the man. With his Sunday coat, a man often puts on other and better thoughts. If that had been your case only fifty-twotimes in the year, you’d have learned to avoid Johnny before now.”
Bob said nothing.
“Well, well! I’ve done all I could to make a better man of you—all that was in my power.”
“That you have,” answered Bob, much moved. “God reward you for it!”
I could not help holding out my hand to the worthy judge; and as I did so, I thought I saw a moisture in his eye, which he suppressed, however, and, turning to the breakfast table, bade us sit down. Bob thanked him humbly, but declined, saying that he wished to appear fasting before his offended Creator. The judge insisted, and reasoned with him, and at last he took a chair.
Before we had done breakfast, our friends of the preceding day began to drop in, and some of them joined us at the meal. When they had all taken what they chose, the judge ordered the negroes to clear away, and leave the room. This done, he seated himself at the upper end of the table, with the Ayuntamiento on either side, and Bob facing him.
“Mr Whyte,” said the Alcalde, “have you, as procurador, anything to state?”
“Yes, Alcalde,” replied the procurador. “In virtue of my office, I made a search in the place mentioned by Bob Rock, and there found the body of a man who had met his death by a gunshot wound. I also found a belt full of money, and several letters of recommendation to different planters, from whichit appears that the man was on his way from Illinois to San Felipe, to buy land of Colonel Austin, and settle in Texas.”
The procurador then produced a pair of saddle-bags, out of which he took a leathern belt stuffed with money, which he laid on the table, together with the letters. The judge opened the belt, and counted the money. It amounted to upwards of five hundred dollars in gold and silver. The procurador then read the letters.
One of the corregidors now announced that Johnny and his mulatto had left their house and fled. He, the corregidor, had sent people in pursuit of them, but as yet there were no tidings of their capture. This piece of intelligence seemed to vex the judge greatly, but he made no remark on it at the time.
“Bob Rock!” cried he.
Bob stepped forward.
“Bob Rock, or by whatever other name you may be known, are you guilty or not guilty of this man’s death?”
“Guilty!” replied Bob, in a low tone.
“Gentlemen of the jury, will you be pleased to give your verdict?”
The jury left the room. In ten minutes they returned.
“Guilty!” said the foreman.
“Bob Rock,” said the judge solemnly, “your fellow-citizens have found you guilty; and I pronouncethe sentence—that you be hung by the neck until you are dead. The Lord be merciful to your soul!”
“Amen!” said all present.
“Thank ye,” murmured Bob.
“We will seal up the property of the deceased,” said the judge, “and then proceed to our painful duty.”
He called for a light, and he and the procurador and corregidors sealed up the papers and money.
“Has any one aught to allege why the sentence should not be put in execution?” said the Alcalde, with a glance at me.
“He saved my life, judge and fellow-citizens!” cried I, deeply moved.
Bob shook his head mournfully.
“Let us go, then, in God’s name,” said the judge.
Without another word being spoken, we left the house and mounted our horses. The judge had brought a Bible with him; and he rode on, a little in front, with Bob, doing his best to prepare him for the eternity to which he was hastening. Bob listened attentively for some time; but at last he seemed to get impatient, and pushed his mustang into so fast a trot, that for a moment we suspected him of wishing to escape the doom he had so eagerly sought. But it was only that he feared the fever might return before the expiration of the short time he yet had to live.
After an hour’s ride, we came to the enormous live oak distinguished as thePatriarch. Two orthree of the men dismounted, and held aside the heavy moss-covered branches, which swept the ground and formed a complete curtain round the tree. The party rode through the opening thus made, and drew up in a circle beneath the huge leafy dome. In the centre of this ring stood Bob, trembling like an aspen leaf, his eyes fixed on a small mound of fresh earth, partly concealed by the branches, and which had escaped my notice on my former visit to the tree. It was the grave of the murdered man.
A magnificent burial-place was that: no poet could have dreamed or desired a better. Above, the huge vault, with its natural frettings and arches; below, the greenest, freshest grass; around, an eternal half light, streaked and varied, and radiant as a rainbow. It was imposingly beautiful.
Bob, the judge, and the corregidors, remained sitting on their horses, but several of the other men dismounted. One of the latter cut the lasso from Bob’s saddle, and threw an end of it over one of the lowermost branches; then uniting the two ends, formed them into a strong noose, which he left dangling from the bough. This simple preparation completed, the Alcalde took off his hat and folded his hands. The others followed his example.
“Bob!” said the judge to the unfortunate criminal, whose head was bowed on his horse’s mane; “Bob! we will pray for your poor soul, which is about to part from your sinful body.”
Bob raised his head. “I had something to say,” exclaimed he, in a wandering and husky tone. “Something I wanted to say.”
“What have you to say?”
Bob stared around him; his lips moved, but no word escaped him. His spirit was evidently no longer with things of this earth.
“Bob!” said the judge again, “we will pray for your soul.”
“Pray! pray!” groaned he. “I shall need it.”
In slow and solemn accents, and with great feeling, the judge uttered the Lord’s Prayer. Bob repeated every word after him. When it was ended—
“May God be merciful to his soul!” exclaimed the judge.
“Amen!” said all present.
One of the corregidors now passed the noose of the lasso round Bob’s neck, another bound his eyes, a third person drew his feet out of the stirrups, whilst a fourth stepped behind his horse with a heavy riding-whip. All was done in the deepest silence; not a word was breathed, nor a foot-fall heard on the soft, yielding turf. There was something awful and oppressive in the profound stillness that reigned in the vast enclosure.
The whip fell. The horse gave a spring forwards. At the same moment Bob made a desperate clutch at the bridle, and a loud “Hold!” burst in thrilling tones from the lips of the judge.
It was too late; Bob was already hanging. Thejudge pushed forward, nearly riding down the man who held the whip, and, seizing Bob in his arms, raised him on his own horse, supporting him with one hand, whilst with the other he strove to unfasten the noose. His whole gigantic frame trembled with eagerness and exertion. The procurador, corregidors—all, in short, stood in open-mouthed wonder at this strange proceeding.
“Whisky! whisky! Has nobody any whisky!” shouted the judge.
One of the men sprang forward with a whisky-flask, another supported the body, and a third the feet, of the half-hanged man, whilst the judge poured a few drops of spirits into his mouth. The cravat, which had not been taken off, had hindered the breaking of the neck. Bob at last opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly around him.
“Bob,” said the judge, “you had something to say, hadn’t you, about Johnny?”
“Johnny,” gasped Bob, “Johnny.”
“What’s become of him?”
“He’s gone to San Antonio, Johnny.”
“To San Antonio!” repeated the judge, with an expression of great alarm overspreading his features.
“To San Antonio—to Padre José,” continued Bob; “a Catholic. Beware!”
“A traitor, then!” muttered several.
“Catholic!” exclaimed the judge. The words he had heard seemed to deprive him of all strength. His arms fell slowly and gradually by his side, and Bob was again hanging from the lasso.
“A Catholic! a traitor!” repeated several of the men; “a citizen and a traitor!”
“So it is, men!” exclaimed the judge. “We’ve no time to lose,” continued he, in a harsh, hurried voice; “no time to lose; we must catch him.”
“That must we,” said several, “or our plans are betrayed to the Mexicans.”
“After him immediately to San Antonio!” cried the judge, with the same desperately hurried manner.
“To San Antonio!” repeated the men, pushing their way through the curtain of moss and branches. As soon as they were outside, those who were dismounted sprang into the saddle, and, without another word, the whole party galloped away in the direction of San Antonio.
The judge alone remained, seemingly lost in thought; his countenance pale and anxious, and his eyes following the riders. His reverie, however, had lasted but a very few seconds, when he seized my arm.
“Hasten to my house!” cried he; “lose no time; don’t spare horse-flesh. Take Ptoly and a fresh beast; hurry over to San Felipe, and tell Stephen Austin what has happened, and what you have seen and heard.”
“But, judge——”
“Off with you at once, if you would serve and save Texas. Bring my wife and daughter back.”
And so saying, he literally drove me from under the tree, pushing me out with both hands. I wasso startled at the expression of violent impatience and anxiety which his features assumed, that, without venturing to make further objection, I struck the spurs into my mustang and galloped off.
Before I had got fifty yards from the tree, I looked round: the judge was nowhere to be seen.
I rode full speed to the judge’s house, and thence on a fresh horse to San Felipe, where I found Colonel Austin, who seemed much alarmed by the news I brought him, had horses saddled, and sent round to all the neighbours. Before the wife and step-daughter of the judge had made their preparations to accompany me home, he and fifty armed men rode off in the direction of San Antonio.
I escorted the ladies to their house, but scarcely had we arrived there, when I was seized with fever, the result of my recent fatigues and sufferings. For some days my life was in danger, but a good constitution, and the kindest and most watchful nursing, triumphed over the disease. As soon as I was able to mount a horse, I set out for Mr Neal’s plantation, in company with his huntsman Anthony, who, after spending many days, and riding over hundreds of miles of ground in quest of me, had at last found me out.
Our way led past the Patriarch; and, as we approached it, we saw innumerable birds of prey and carrion-crows circling round it, croaking and screaming. I turned my eyes in another direction; but, nevertheless, I felt a strange sort of longing to revisitthe tree. Anthony had ridden on, and was already hidden from view behind its branches. Presently I heard him give a loud shout of exultation. I jumped off my horse, and led it through a small opening in the leafage.
Some forty paces from me, the body of a man was hanging by a lasso from the very same branch on which Bob had been hung. It was not Bob, however, for the corpse was much too short and small for him.
I drew nearer. “Johnny!” I exclaimed. “That’s Johnny!”
“Itwas,” answered Anthony. “Thank Heaven, there’s an end of him!”
I shuddered. “But where is Bob?”
“Bob?” cried Anthony. “Bob!”
I glanced at the grave. The mound of earth seemed larger and higher than when I had last seen it. Doubtless the murderer lay beside his victim.
“Shall we not render the last service to this wretch, Anthony?” asked I.
“The scoundrel!” answered the huntsman. “I won’t dirty my hands with him. Let him poison the kites and the crows!”
We rode on.
Ilike political ovations. It is a very pleasant thing to perambulate Europe in the guise of a regenerator, sowing the good seed of political economy in places which have hitherto been barren, and enlightening the heathen upon the texture of calico, and the blessings of unreciprocal free-trade. I rather flatter myself that I have excited considerable sensation in certain quarters of Europe, previously plunged in darkness, and unillumined by the argand lamp of Manchester philosophy. Since September last, I have not been idle, but have borne the banner of regeneration from the Baltic to the shores of the Bosphorus.
As the apostle of peace and plenty, I have everywhere been rapturously greeted. Never, I believe, was there a sincerer, a more earnest wish prevalent throughout the nations for the maintenance of universal tranquillity than now; never a better security for that fraternisation which we all so earnestly desire; never a more peaceful or unrevolutionary epoch. Such, at least, were my ideas a short time ago, when, after having fulfilled a secret mission of some delicacy in a very distant part of the Continent, I turned my face homewards, and retraced my steps in the direction of my own Glaswegian Mecca. In passing through Italy, I found that country deeply engaged in plans of social organisation, and much cheered by the sympathising presence of a member of her Britannic Majesty’s Cabinet. It was delightful to witness the good feeling which seemed to prevail between the British unaccredited minister and the scum of the Ausonian population,—the mutual politeness and sympathy exhibited by each of the high contracting parties,—and the perfect understanding on the part of the Lazzaroni, of the motives which had induced the northern peer to absent himself from felicity awhile, and devote the whole of his vast talents and genius to the cause of foreign insurrection. I had just time to congratulate Pope Pius upon the charming prospect which was before him, and to say a few hurried words regarding the superiority of cotton to Christianity asa universal tranquillising medium, when certain unpleasant rumours from the frontier forced their way to the Eternal City, and convinced me of the propriety of continuing my retreat towards the land of my nativity. Not that I fear steel, or have any abstract repugnance to grape, but my mission was emphatically one of peace; I had a great duty to discharge to my country, and that might have been lamentably curtailed by the bullet of some blundering Austrian.
Behold me, then, at Paris—that Aspasian capital of the world. I had often visited it before in the character of a tourist and literateur, but never until now as a politician. True, I was not accredited: I enjoyed neither diplomatic rank, nor the more soothing salary which is its accompaniment. But, in these times, such distinctions are rapidly fading away. I had seen with my own eyes a good deal of spontaneous diplomacy, which certainly did not seem to flow in the regular channel; and, furthermore, I could personally testify to the weight attached abroad to private commercial crusades. I needed no official costume; I was the representative of a popular movement; I was the champion of a class; and my name and my principles were alike familiar to the ears of the illuminati of Europe. Formerly I had been proud of associating with Eugène Sue, Charles Nodier, Paul de Kock, and other characters of ephemeral literary celebrity; I had wasted mytime in orgies at the Café de Londres, or the Rocher de Cancale, and was but too happy to be admitted to those little parties of pleasure in which the majority of the cavaliers are feuilletonists, and the dames, terrestrial stars from the constellation of the Théatre des Variétés. Now I looked back on this former phase of my existence with a consciousness of having wasted my energies. I had shot into another sphere—was entitled to take rank with Thiers, Odillon Barrot, Crémieux, and other champions of the people; and I resolved to comport myself accordingly. I do not feel at liberty to enter into the exact details of the public business which detained me for some time in Paris. It is enough to say, that I was warmly and cordially received, and on the best possible terms with the members of theextreme gauche.
One afternoon about the middle of February, I was returning from the Chamber of Deputies, meditating very seriously upon the nature of a debate which I had just heard, regarding the opposition of ministers to the holding of a Reform banquet in Paris, and in which my friend Barrot had borne a very conspicuous share. At the corner of the Place de la Concorde, I observed a tall swarthy man in the uniform of the National Guard, engaged in cheapening a poodle. I thought I recognised the face—hesitated, stopped, and in a moment was in the arms of my illustrious friend, the Count ofMonte-Christo, and Marquis Davy de la Pailleterie!
“Capdibious!” cried the author of Trois Mousquetaires—“Who would have thought to see you here? Welcome, my dear Dunshunner, a thousand times to Paris. Where have you been these hundred years?”
“Voyaging, like yourself, to the East, my dear Marquis,” replied I.
“Ah, bah! That is an old joke. I never was nearer Egypt than the Bois de Boulogne; however, I did manage to mystify the good public about the baths of Alexandria. But how came you here just now?Dix mille tonnerres!They told me you had been madepair d’Angleterre.”
“Why, no; not exactly. There was some talk of it, I believe. But jealousy—jealousy, you know—”
“Ah, yes,—I comprehend!Ce vilain Palmerston, n’est-ce pas?But that is always the way; ministers are always the same. You will hardly credit it, my dear friend, but I—I with my ancient title—and the most popular author of France, am not even a member of the Chamber of Deputies!”
“You amaze me!”
“Yes—after all, you manage better in England. There is that little D’Israeli—very clever man—Monceton Milles, Bourring, and Wakeley, all in the legislature; while here the literary interest is altogether unrepresented.”
“Surely, my dear Marquis, you forget—there’s Lamartine.”
“Lamartine! a mere sentimentalist—a nobody! No, my dear friend; France must be regenerated. The daughter of glory, she cannot live without progression.”
“How, Marquis? I thought that you and Montpensier—”
“Were friends? True enough. It was I who settled the Spanish marriages. There, I rather flatter myself, I had your perfidious Albion on the hip. But, to say the truth, I am tired of family alliances. We want something more to keep us alive—something startling, in short—something like the Pyramids and Moscow, to give us an impulse forward into the dark gulf of futurity. The limits of Algeria are too contracted for the fluttering of our national banner. We want freedom, less taxation, and a more extended frontier.”
“And cannot all these,” said I, unwilling to lose the opportunity of converting so remarkable a man as the Count of Monte-Christo to the grand principles of Manchester—“cannot these be attained by more peaceful methods than the subversion of general tranquillity? What is freedom, my dear Marquis, but an unlimited exportation of cotton abroad, with double task hours of wholesome labour at home? How will you diminish your taxationbetter, than by reducing all duties on imports, until the deficit is laid directly upon the shoulders of a single uncomplaining class? Why seek to extend your frontier, whilst we in England, out of sheer love to the world at large, are rapidly demolishing our colonies? Did you ever happen,” continued I, pulling from my pocket a bundle of the Manchester manifestos, “to peruse any of these glorious epitomes of reason and of political science? Are you familiar with the soul-stirring tracts of Thompson and of Bright? Did you ever read the Socialist’s scheme for universal philanthropy, which Cobden—”
“Peste!” replied the illustrious nobleman, “what the deuce do we care for the opinions of Monsieur Tonson, or any of your low manufacturers? By my honour, Dunshunner, I am afraid you are losing your head. Don’t you know, my dear fellow, that all great revolutions spring from us, the men of genius? It is we who are the true rousers of the people; we, the poets and romancers, who are the source of all legitimate power. Witness Voltaire, Rousseau, De Beranger, and—I may say it without any imputation of vanity—the Marquis Davy de la Pailleterie!”
“Yours is a new theory!” said I, musingly.
“New! Pray pardon me—it is as old as literature itself! No revolution can be effectual unlessit has the fine arts for its basis. Simple as I stand here, I demand no more time than a month to wrap Europe in universal war.”
“You don’t say so seriously?”
“On my honour.”
“Give me leave to doubt it.”
“Should you like a proof?”
“Not on so great a scale, certainly. I am afraid the results would be too serious to justify the experiment.”
“Ah, bah! You are a philanthropist. What are a few thousand lives compared with the triumph of mind?”
“Not much to you, perhaps, but certainly something to the owners. But come, my dear friend, you are jesting. You don’t mean to insinuate that you possess any such power?”
“I do indeed.”
“But the means? Granting that you have the power—and all Europe acknowledges the extraordinary faculties of the author of Monte-Christo—some time would be required for their development. You cannot hope to inoculate the mind of a nation in a moment.”
“I did not say a moment—I said a month.”
“And dare I ask your recipe?”
“A very simple one. Two romances, each in ten volumes, and a couple of melodramas.”
“What! of your own?”
“Of mine,” replied the Marquis de la Pailleterie.
“I wish to heaven that I knew how you set about it. I have heard G. P. R. James backed for a volume a-month, but this sinks him into utter insignificance.”
“There is no difficulty in explaining it. He writes,—I never do.”
“You never write?”
“Never.”
“Then how the mischief do you manage?”
“I compose. Since I met you, I have composed and dictated a whole chapter of the Memoirs of a Physician!”
“Dictated?”
“To be sure. It is already written down, and will be circulated throughout Paris to-morrow.”
“Monsieur le Marquis—have I the honour to hold an interview with Satan?”
“Mon cher, vous me flattez beaucoup!I have not thought it necessary to intrust my experiences to the sympathising bosom of M. Frédéric Soulié.”
“Have you a familiar spirit, then?” said I, casting a suspicious glance towards the poodle, then vigorously engaged in hunting through its woolly fleece.
The Marquis smiled.
“The ingenuity of your supposition, my dear friend, deserves a specific answer. I have indeed a familiar spirit—that is, I am possessed of a confidant,ready at all times, though absent, to chronicle my thoughts, and to express, in corresponding words, the spontaneous emotions of my soul. Nay, you need not start. The art is an innocent one, and its practice, though divulged, would not expose me in any way to the censures of the church.”
“You pique my curiosity strangely!”
“Well, then, listen. For some years I have paid the utmost attention to the science of animal magnetism, an art which undoubtedly lay at the foundation of the ancient Chaldean lore, and which, though now revived, has been debased by the artifices and quackery of knaves. I need not go into details. After long search, I have succeeded in finding a being which, in its dormant or spiritual state, has an entire affinity with my own. When awake, you would suppose Leontine Deschappelles to be a mere ordinary though rather interesting female, endowed certainly with a miraculous sensibility for music, but not otherwise in any way remarkable. But, when asleep, she becomes as it were the counterpart or reflex of myself. Every thought which passes through my bosom simultaneously arises in hers. I do not need even to utter the words. By some miraculous process, these present themselves as vividly to her as if I had bestowed the utmost labour upon composition. I have but to throw her into a magnetic sleep, and my literary product for the day is secured. I goforth through Paris, mingle in society, appear idle andinsouciant; and yet all the while the ideal personages of my tale are passing over the mirror of my mind, and performing their allotted duty. I have reached such perfection in the art, that I can compose two or even three romances at once. I return towards evening, and then I find Leontine, pale indeed and exhausted, but with a vast pile of manuscript before her, which contains the faithful transcript of my thoughts. Now, perhaps, you will cease to wonder at an apparent fertility, which, I am aware, has challenged the admiration and astonishment of Europe.”
All this was uttered by Monte-Christo with such exemplary gravity, that I stood perfectly confounded. If true, it was indeed the solution of the greatest literary problem of the age; but I could hardly suppress the idea that he was making me the victim of a hoax.
“And whereabouts does she dwell, this Demoiselle Leontine?” said I.
“At my house,” he replied; “she is my adopted child. Poor Leontine! sometimes when I look at her wasted cheek, I feel a pang of regret to think that she is paying so dear for a celebrity which must be immortal. But it is the fate of genius, my friend, and all of us must submit!”
As the Marquis uttered this sentiment with a pathetic sigh, I could not refrain from glancing athis manly and athletic proportions. Certainly there was no appearance of over-fatigue or lassitude there. He looked the very incarnation of good cheer, and had contrived to avert from his own person all vestige of those calamities which he was pleased so feelingly to deplore. He might have been exhibited at theTrois Frèresas a splendid result of their nutritive and culinary system.
“You doubt me still, I see,” said De la Pailleterie. “Well, I cannot wonder at it. Such things, I know, sound strange in the apprehension of you incredulous islanders. But I will even give you a proof, Dunshunner, which is more than I would do to any other man—for I cannot forget the service you rendered me long ago at the Isle de Bourbon. You see this little instrument,—put it to your ear. I shall summon Leontine to speak, and the sound of her reply will be conveyed to you through that silver tube, which is in strictrapportwith her magnetic constitution.”
So saying, he placed in my hand a miniature silver trumpet, beautifully wrought, which I immediately placed to my ear.
Monte-Christo drew himself up to his full height, fixed his fine eyes earnestly upon vacuity, made several passes upwards with his hand, and then said,
“My friend, do you hear me? If so, answer.”
Immediately, and to my unexpected surprise,there thrilled through the silver tube a whisper of miraculous sweetness.
“Great master! I listen—I obey!”
“May St Mungo, St Mirren, St Rollox, and all the other western saints, have me in their keeping!” cried I. “Heard ever mortal man aught like this?”
“Hush—be silent!” said the Marquis, “or you may destroy the spell. Leontine, have you concluded the chapter?”
“I have,” said the voice; “shall I read the last sentences?”
“Do,” replied the adept, who seemed to hear the response simultaneously with myself, by intuition.
The voice went on: “At this moment the door of the apartment opened, and Chon rushed into the room. ‘Well, my little sister, how goes it?’ said the Countess. ‘Bad.’ ‘Indeed!’ ‘It is but too true.’ ‘De Noailles?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ha! D’Aiguillon?’ ‘You deceive yourself.’ ‘Who then?’ ‘Philip de Taverney, the Chevalier Maison-Rouge!’ ‘Ha!’ cried the Countess, ‘then I am lost!’ and she sank senseless upon the cushions.”
“Well done, Leontine!” exclaimed De la Pailleterie; “that is the seventh chapter I have composed since morning. Are you fatigued, my child?”
“Very—very weary,” replied the voice, in a melancholy cadence.
“You shall have rest soon. Come hither. Do you see me?”
“Ah! you are very cruel!”
“I understand. Cease to be fatigued—I will it!”
“Ah! thanks, thanks!”
“Do you see me now?”
“I do. Oh, how handsome!”
The Marquis caressed his whiskers.
“Where am I?”
“At the corner of the Place de la Concorde, near the Tuileries’ gardens. Ah, you naughty man, you have been smoking!”
“Who is with me?”
“A poodle-dog,” replied the voice. “What a pretty creature! he is just snapping at a fly. Come here, poor fellow!”
The poodle gave an unearthly yell, and rushed between the legs of Monte-Christo, thereby nearly capsizing that extraordinary magician.
“That will do, my dear Marquis,” said I, returning him the trumpet. “I am now perfectly convinced of the truth of your assertions, and can no longer wonder at the marvellous fertility of your pen—I beg pardon—of your invention. Pray, do not trouble your fair friend any further upon my account. I have heard quite enough to satisfy me that I am in the presence of the most remarkable man in Europe.”
“Pooh! this is a mere bagatelle. Any man might do the same, with a slight smattering of the occult sciences. But we were talking, if I recollectright, about moral influence and power. I maintain that the authors of romance and melodrama are the true masters of the age: you, on the contrary, believe in free-trade and the jargon of political economy. Is it not so?”
“True. We started from that point.”
“Well, then, would you like to see a revolution?”
“Not on my account, my dear Marquis. I own the interest of the spectacle, but it demands too great a sacrifice.”
“Not at all. In fact, I have made up my mind for abouleversementthis spring, as I seriously believe it would tend very much to the respectability of France. It must come sooner or later. Louis Philippe is well up in years, and it cannot make much difference to him. Besides, I am tired of Guizot. He gives himself airs as an historian which are absolutely insufferable, and France can submit to it no longer. The only doubt I entertain is, whether this ought to be a new ministry, or an entire dynastical change.”
“You are the best judge. For my own part, having no interest in the matter further than curiosity, a change of ministers would satisfy me.”
“Ay, but there are considerations beyond that. Much may be said upon both sides. There is danger certainly in organic changes, at the same time we must work out by all means our full andlegitimate freedom. What would you do in such a case of perplexity?”
Victor Hugo’s simple and romantic method of deciding between hostile opinions, as exemplified in his valuable drama of Lucrêce Borgia, at once occurred to me.
“Are you quite serious,” said I, “in wishing to effect a change of some kind?”
“I am,” said the Marquis, “as resolute as Prometheus on the Caucasus.”
“Then suppose we toss for it; and so leave the question of a new cabinet or dynasty entirely to the arbitration of fate?”
“A good and a pious idea!” replied the Marquis de la Pailleterie. “Here is a five-franc piece. I shall toss, and you shall call.”
Up went the dollar, big with the fate of France, twirling in the evening air.
“Heads for a new ministry!” cried I, and the coin fell chinking on the gravel. We both rushed up.
“It is tails!” said the Marquis devoutly. “Destiny! Thou hast willed it, and I am but thine instrument. Farewell, my friend; in ten days you shall hear more of this. Meantime, I must be busy. Poor Leontine! thou hast a heavy task before thee!”
“If you are going homewards,” said I, “permit me to accompany you so far. Our way lies together.”
“Not so,” replied the Marquis thoughtfully. “I dine to-day at Véfour’s, and in the evening I must attend the Théatre de la Porte St Martin. I am never so much alone as in the midst of excitement. O France, France! what do I not endure for thee!”
So saying, Monte-Christo extended his hand, which I wrung affectionately within my own. I felt proud of the link which bound me to so high and elevated a being.
“Ah, my friend!” said I, “ah, my friend! there is yet time to pause. Would it not be wiser and better to forego this enterprise altogether?”
“You forget,” replied the other solemnly. “Destiny has willed it. Go, let us each fulfil our destiny!”
So saying, this remarkable man tucked the poodle under his arm, and in a few moments was lost to my view amidst the avenues of the garden of the Tuileries.
Several days elapsed, during which Paris maintained its customary tranquillity. The eye of a stranger could have observed very little alteration in the demeanour of the populace; and even in thesalonsthere was no strong surmise of any coming event of importance. In the capital of France onelooks for a revolution as quietly as the people of England await the advent of “the coming man.” The event is always prophesied—sometimes apparently upon the eve of being fulfilled; but the failures are so numerous as to prevent inordinate disappointment. In the Chamber there were some growlings about the Reform banquet, and the usual vague threats if any attempt should be made to coerce the liberties of the people; but these demonstrations had been so often repeated, that nobody had faith in any serious or critical result.
Little Thiers, to be sure, blustered; and Odillon Barrot assumed pompous airs, and tried to look like a Roman citizen at our small patriotic cosmopolitan reunions; but I never could believe that either of them was thoroughly in earnest. We all know the game that is played in Britain, where the doors of the ministerial cabinet are constructed on the principle of a Dutch clock. When it is fair weather, the ambitious figure of Lord John Russell is seen mounting guard on the outside—when it threatens to blow, the small sentry retires, and makes way for the Tamworth grenadier. Just so was it in Paris. Guizot, if wheeled from his perch, was expected to be replaced by the smarter and more enterprising Thiers, and slumbrous Duchatel by the broad-chested and beetle-browed Barrot.
At the same time I could not altogether shut my eyes to the more active state of the press. I donot mean to aver that the mere political articles exhibited more than their usual vigour; but throughout the whole literature of the day there ran an under-current of revolutionary feeling which betokened wonderful unanimity. Less than usual was said about Marengo, Austerlitz, or even the three glorious days of July. The minds of men were directed further back, to a period when the Republic was all in all, when France stood isolated among the nations, great in crime, and drunken with her new-won freedom. The lapse of half a century is enough to throw a sort of halo around the memory of the veriest villain and assassin. We have seen Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard exhumed from their graves to be made the heroes of modern romance; and the same alchemy was now applied to the honoured ashes of Anacharsis Clootz, and other patriots of the Reign of Terror.
All this was done very insidiously, and, I must say, with consummate skill. Six or seven simultaneous romances reminded the public of its former immunity from rule, and about as many melodramas denounced utter perdition to tyranny. I liked the fun. Man is by nature a revolutionary animal, especially when he has nothing to lose; and it is needless to remark that a very small portion indeed of my capital was invested in the foreign funds.
I saw little of my friend the Marquis, beyond meeting him at the usual promenades, and bowingto him at the theatres, where he never failed to present himself. A casual observer would have thought that De la Pailleterie had no other earthly vocation than to perambulate Paris as a mere votary of pleasure. Once or twice, however, towards evening, I encountered him in his uniform of the National Guard, with fire in his eye, haste in his step, and a settled deliberation on his forehead; and I could not help, as I gazed upon him, feeling transported backwards to the period of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
At length I received the expected billet, and on the appointed evening rendered myself punctually at his house. The rooms were already more than half filled by the company.
“Are the Ides of March come?” said I, pressing the proffered hand of Monte-Christo.
“Come—but not yet over,” he replied. “You have seen the new play which has produced such a marked sensation?”
“I have. Wonderful production! Whose is it?”
A mysterious smile played upon the lip of my friend.
“Come,” said he, “let me introduce you to a countryman, a sympathiser; one who, like you, is desirous that our poor country should participate in the blessings of the British loom. Mr Hutton Bagsby—Mr Dunshunner.”
Bagsby was a punchy man, with a bald head, and a nose which betokened his habitual addiction to the fiery grape of Portugal.
“Servant, sir!” said he. “Understand you’re a free-trader, supporter of Cobden’s principles, and inclined to go the whole hog. Glad to see a man of common understanding here. Damme, sir, when I speak to these French fellows about calico, they begin to talk about fraternity; which, as I take it, means eating frogs, for I don’t pretend to understand their outlandish gibberish.”
“Every nation has its hobby, you know, Mr Bagsby,” I replied. “We consider ourselves more practical than the French, and stick to the main chance; they, on the other hand, are occupied with social grievances, and what they call the rights of labour.”
“Rights of labour!” exclaimed Bagsby. “Hanged if I think labour has got any rights at all. Blow all protection! say I. Look after the interests of the middle classes, and let capital have its swing. As for those confounded working fellows, who cares about them? We don’t, I can answer for it. When I was in the League, we wanted to bring corn down, in order to get work cheaper; and, now that we’ve got it, do you think we will stand any rubbish about rights? These French fellows are a poor set; they don’t understand sound commercial principles.”
“Ha! Lamoricière!” said our host, accosting ageneral officer who just then entered the apartment; “how goes it? Any result from to-day’s demonstration at the Chamber?”
“Ma foi!I should say there is. The banquets are forbidden. There is a talk about impeaching ministers; and, in the mean time, the artillery-waggons are rumbling through the streets in scores.”
“Then our old friend Macaire is likely to make a stand?”
“It is quite possible that the respectable gentleman may try it,” said the commandant, regaling himself with a pinch. “By the way, the National Guard must turn out to-morrow early. Therappelwill be beat by daybreak. There is a stir already in the Boulevards; and, as I drove here, I saw the people in thousands reading the evening journals by torch-light.”
“Such is liberty!” exclaimed a little gentleman, who had been listening eagerly to the General. “Such is liberty! she holds her bivouac at nightfall by the torch of reason; and, on the morrow, the dawn is red with the brightness of the sun of Austerlitz!”
A loud hum of applause followed the enunciation of this touching sentiment.
“Our friend is great to-night,” whispered Monte-Christo; “and he may be greater to-morrow. If Louis Philippe yields, he may be prime-minister—iffiring begins, I have a shrewd notion he won’t be anywhere. Ah, Monsieur Albert! welcome from Cannes. We have been expecting you for some time, and you have arrived not a moment too soon!”
The individual thus accosted was of middle height, advanced age, and very plainly dressed. He wore a rusty grey surtout, trousers of plaid check, and the lower part of his countenance was buried in the folds of a black cravat. The features were remarkable; and, somehow or other, I thought that I had seen them before. The small grey eyes rolled restlessly beneath their shaggy pent-house; the cheek-bones were remarkably prominent; a deep furrow was cut on either side of the mouth; and the nose, which was of singular conformation, seemed endowed with spontaneous life, and performed a series of extraordinary mechanical revolutions. Altogether, the appearance of the man impressed me with the idea of strong, ill-regulated energy, and of that restless activity which is emphatically the mother of mischief.
Monsieur Albert did not seem very desirous of courting attention. He rather winked than replied to our host, threw a suspicious look at Bagsby, who was staring him in the face, honoured me with a survey, and then edged away into the crowd. I felt rather curious to know something more about him.
“Pray, my dear Marquis,” said I, “who may this Monsieur Albert be?”
“Albert! Is it possible that you do not—but I forget. I can only tell you,mon cher, that this Monsieur Albert is a very remarkable man, and will be heard of hereafter among the ranks of the people. You seem to suspect a mystery? Well, well! There are mysteries in all great dramas, such as that which is now going on around us; so for the present you must be content to know my friend as simple Albert,ouvrier.”
“Hanged if I haven’t seen that fellow in the black choker before!” said Mr Bagsby; “or, at all events, I’ve seen his double. I say, Mr Dunshunner, who is the chap that came in just now?”
“I really cannot tell, Mr Bagsby. Monte-Christo calls him simply Mr Albert, a workman.”
“That’s their fraternity, I suppose! If I thought he was an operative, I’d be off in the twinkling of a billy-roller. But it’s all a hoax. Do you know, I think he’s very like a certain noble—”
Here an aide-de-camp, booted and spurred, dashed into the apartment.
“General! you are wanted immediately: theémeutehas begun, half Paris is rushing to arms, and they are singing the Marseillaise through the streets!”
“Anything else?” said the General, who, with inimitablesang froid, was sipping a tumbler of orgeat.
“Guizot has resigned.”
“Bravo!” cried the little gentleman above referred to—and he cut a caper that might have done credit to Vestris. “Bravo! there is some chance for capable men now.”
“I was told,” continued the aide-de-camp, “as I came along, that Count Molé had been sent for.”
“Molé! bah! an imbecile!” muttered the diminutive statesman. “It was not worth a revolution to produce such a miserable result.”
“And what say the people?” asked our host.
“Cela ne suffit pas!”
“Ah, les bons citoyens! Ah! les braves garçons! Je les connais!” And here the candidate for office executed a playful pirouette.
“Nevertheless,” said Lamoricière, “we must do our duty.”
“Which is?” interrupted De la Pailleterie.
“To see the play played out, at all events,” replied the military patriot; “and therefore, messieurs, I have the honour to wish you all a very good evening.”
“But stop, General,” cried two or three voices: “what would you advise us to do?”
“In the first place, gentlemen,” replied the warrior, and his words were listened to with the deepest attention, “I would recommend you, as the streets are in a disturbed state, to see the ladies home. That duty performed, you will probably be guidedby your own sagacity and tastes. The National Guard will, of course, muster at their quarters. Gentlemen who are of an architectural genius will probably be gratified by an opportunity of inspecting several barricades in different parts of the city; and I have always observed, that behind a wall of this description there is little danger from a passing bullet. Others, who are fond of fireworks, may possibly find an opportunity of improving themselves in the pyrotechnic art. But I detain you, gentlemen, I fear unjustifiably; and as I observe that the firing has begun, I have the honour once more to renew my salutations.”
And in fact a sharp fusillade was heard without, towards the conclusion of the General’s harangue. The whole party was thrown into confusion; several ladies showed symptoms of fainting, and were incontinently received in the arms of their respective cavaliers.
The aspiring statesman had disappeared. Whether he got under a sofa, or up the chimney, I do not know, but he vanished utterly from my eyes. Monte-Christo was in a prodigious state of excitement.
“I have kept my word, you see,” he said: “this may be misconstrued in history, but I call upon you to bear witness that the revolution was a triumph of genius. O France!” continued he, filling his pocket with macaroons, “the hour of thine emancipation has come!”
Observing a middle-aged lady making towards the door without male escort, I thought it incumbent upon me to tender my services, in compliance with the suggestions of the gallant Lamoricière. I was a good deal obstructed, however, by Mr Hutton Bagsby, who, in extreme alarm, was cleaving to the skirts of my garments.
“Can I be of the slightest assistance in offering my escort to madame?” said I with a respectful bow.
The lady looked at me with unfeigned surprise.
“Monsieur mistakes, I believe,” said she quietly. “Perhaps he thinks I carry a fan. Look here”—and she exhibited the butt of an enormous horse-pistol. “The authoress of Lélia knows well how to command respect for herself.”
“George Sand!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“The same, Monsieur; who will be happy to meet you this evening at an early hour, behind the barricade of the Rue Montmartre.”
“O good Lord!” cried Mr Hutton Bagsby, “here is a precious kettle of fish! They are firing out yonder like mad; they’ll be breaking into the houses next, and we’ll all be murdered to a man.”
“Do not be alarmed, Mr Bagsby; this is a mere political revolution. The people have no animosity whatever to strangers.”
“Haven’t they? I wish you had seen the way the waiter looked this morning at my dressing-case.They’d tie me up to the lamp-post at once for the sake of my watch and seals! And I don’t know a single word of their bloody language. I wish the leaders of the League had been hanged before they sent me here.”
“What! then you are here upon a mission?”
“Yes, I’m a delegate, as they call it. O Lord, I wish somebody would take me home!”
“Where do you reside, Mr Bagsby?”
“I don’t know the name of the street, and the man who brought me here has just gone away with a gun! Oh dear! what shall I do?”
I really felt considerably embarrassed. By this time Monte-Christo and most of his guests had departed, and I knew no one to whom I could consign the unfortunate and terrified free-trader. I sincerely pitied poor Bagsby, who was eminently unfitted for this sort of work; and was just about to offer him an asylum in my own apartments, when I felt my shoulder touched, and, turning round, recognised the intelligent though sarcastic features of Albert the ouvrier.
“You are both English?” he said in a perfectly pure dialect. “Eh bien, I like the English, and I wish they understood us better. You are in difficulties. Well, I will assist. Come with me. You may depend upon the honour of a member of the Institute. Workman as I am, I have some influence here. Come—is it a bargain? Only onecaution, gentlemen: remember where you are, and that the watchwords for the night arefraternité,egalité!You comprehend? Let us lose no time, but follow me.”
So saying, he strode to the door. Bagsby said not a word, but clutched my arm. But as we descended the staircase, he muttered in my ear as well as the chattering of his teeth would allow:—
“It ishim—I am perfectly certain! Who on earth would have believed this! O Lord Harry!”
The streets were in a state of wild commotion. Everywhere we encountered crowds of truculent working fellows, dressed in blouses, and armed with muskets, who were pressing towards the Boulevards. Sometimes they passed us in hurried groups; at other times the way was intercepted by a regular procession bearing torches, and singing the war-hymn of Marseilles. Those who judge of the physical powers of the French people by the specimens they usually encounter in the streets of Paris, are certain to form an erroneous estimate. A more powerful and athletic race than the workmen is scarcely to be found in Europe; and it was not, I confess, without a certain sensation of terror,that I found myself launched into the midst of this wild and uncontrollable mob, whose furious gestures testified to their excitement, and whose brawny arms were bared, and ready for the work of slaughter.
Considering the immense military force which was known to be stationed in and around Paris, it seemed to me quite miraculous that no effective demonstration had been made. Possibly the troops might be drawn up in some of the wider streets or squares, but hitherto we had encountered none. Several bodies of the National Guard, it is true, occasionally went by; but these did not seem to be considered as part of the military force, nor did they take any active steps towards the quelling of the disturbance. At times, however, the sound of distant firing warned us that the struggle had begun.
Poor Bagsby clung to my arm in a perfect paroxysm of fear. I had cautioned him, as we went out, on no account to open his lips, or to make any remarks which might serve to betray his origin. The creature was quite docile, and followed in the footsteps of Monsieur Albert like a lamb. That mysterious personage strode boldly forward, chuckling to himself as he went, and certainly exhibited a profound knowledge of the topography of Paris. Once or twice we were stopped and questioned; but a few cabalistic words from our leader solvedall difficulties, and we were allowed to proceed amidst general and vociferous applause.
At length, as we approached the termination of a long and narrow street, we heard a tremendous shouting, and the unmistakable sounds of conflict.
“Here come the Municipal Guards!” cried M. Albert, quickly. “These fellows fight like demons, and have no regard for the persons of the people. Follow me, gentlemen, this way, and speedily, if you do not wish to be sliced like blanc-mange!”
With these words the ouvrier dived into a dark lane, and we lost no time in following his example. I had no idea whatever of our locality, but it seemed evident that we were in one of the worst quarters of Paris. Every lamp in the lane had been broken, so that we could form no opinion of its character from vision. It was, however, ankle-deep of mud—a circumstance by no means likely to prolong the existence of my glazed boots. Altogether, I did not like the situation; and had it not been for the guarantee as to M. Albert’s respectability, implied from his acquaintance with Monte-Christo, I think I should have preferred trusting myself to the tender mercies of the Municipal Guard. As for poor Bagsby, his teeth were going like castanets.
“You seem cold, sir,” said Albert, in a deep and husky voice, as we reached a part of the lane apparently fenced in by dead walls. “This is a wildnight for a Manchester weaver to be wandering in the streets of Paris!”
“O Lord! you know me, then?” groaned Bagsby, with a piteous accent.
“Know you? ha, ha!” replied the other, with the laugh of the third ruffian in a melodrama; “who does not know citizen Bagsby, the delegate—Bagsby, the great champion of the League—Bagsby, the millionaire!”
“It’s not time, upon my soul!” cried Bagsby; “I am nothing of the kind. I haven’t a hundred pounds in the world that I can properly call my own.”
“The world wrongs you, then,” said Albert; “and, to say the truth, you keep up the delusion by carrying so much bullion about you. I should say, now, that the chain round your neck must be worth some fifty louis.”
Bagsby made no reply, but clutched my arm with the grasp of a cockatoo.
“This is a very dreary place,” continued Albert, in a tone that might have emanated from a sepulchre. “Last winter three men were robbed and murdered in this very passage. There is a conduit to the Seine below, and I saw the bodies next morning in the Morgue, with their throats cut from ear to ear!”
From a slight interjectional sound, I concluded that Bagsby was praying.
“These,” said the ouvrier, “are the walls of aslaughter-house: on the other side is the shed where they ordinarily keep the guillotine. Have you seen that implement yet, Mr Bagsby?”