"Monsieur Fanfar," said Irène, "I beg you to take my horse. She is a splendid animal, and goes like the wind!"
Madame Ursula raised her hands to heaven. "A splendid animal indeed!" she thought, "it cost two thousand francs."
Caillette wrung her hands in despair.
"I accept your kindness," answered Fanfar, simply. "You are very good, Mademoiselle, and I thank you."
"I remembered your words of advice," she replied.
Fanfar looked at her a moment. Then, passing his hand over his brow, he seemed to try to shake himself together.
"Let him be carried to the inn, and the doctor shall see him as quickly as possible," he said.
The peasants slowly raised the injured man, and as they crossed the Square, they beheld a singular scene. Bobichel had Robeccal by the throat, and pressed his knees on his adversary's chest.
"Ah! Bobichel," cried Schwann, "is this the time to fight?"
Bobichel rose, and seemed to hesitate, then he flung the scoundrel from him, with contempt and loathing.
Fanfar leaped upon Irène's horse, and dashed off in the direction of Vagney.
"My father, and he," murmured Caillette, "all that I love and have in the world."
And with her handkerchief to her eyes, she followed the sad procession.
We have left the Marquis and his most excellent servant Cyprien going toward Vagney, but it was not without anxiety that they ventured on this expedition. Both these men valued their lives highly, and felt no fears of ordinary foes, but with an inundation no cunning would prevail. Cyprien was extremely uncomfortable, and held his breath to listen to the rush of waters. He heard it soon enough, and saw it too. The water looked brown and had a silver foam upon it, but high as was the torrent it was still confined to its rocky bed. The intendant's courage returned. The Marquis stopped short to look at the cataract in admiration, but Cyprien urged him on, for it was growing late.
Suddenly, Cyprien laid his hand on the arm of the Marquis, who started. Criminals are subject to these involuntary starts.
"We are here," said Cyprien.
"Ah!" answered the Marquis.
"Do you see on that side hill a tiny house, which seems to hold its equilibrium almost by a miracle? It is there that we shall find Pierre Labarre."
"But he may not be at home?"
"He never goes out, this hermit." And Cyprien laughed.
The house that Cyprien pointed out was much more like a hut—it consisted of one story. Before the door were two or three worn stone steps. The door was of oak, and looked strong. On each side of the door was a window, which had heavy shutters that could be bolted at night. These were now open.
There was not a sound nor a movement about the house, at the back of which was an enclosure of moderate dimensions most carefully cultivated.
The Marquis hastened on, impatiently. He struck two or three blows with his cane on the door.
A voice within called out, "Who is there?"
The two accomplices exchanged a glance. Their expedition promised well.
"The Marquis de Fongereues."
Instantly the door opened, and an old man appeared. It was the man whom we saw in the Black Forest in the beginning of our narrative, the man who then escaped from the assassin, and who told the old Marquis of Simon's retreat. But the ten years that had since elapsed had left their traces on his brow; and perhaps it was not years alone that had lined his brow, faded his eyes, and bent his form. His face was sad—a shadow rested upon it.
"Enter, sir," said the former servant of the Fongereues family.
The room into which the Marquis stepped was simply furnished—one corner was curtained off.
"Please be seated, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Pierre.
"I am forced to believe, Pierre," answered the Marquis, "that in the nine years that have elapsed since my father's death you have forgotten your good breeding. Will you kindly remember that my title is the Marquis de Fongereues?"
Pierre held himself more erect. His face was like one of Rembrandt's pictures, where each wrinkle hides a thought.
"I know but one Marquis de Fongereues!" he said, slowly.
"And who may that be?" asked the Marquis, bringing his closed hand down upon the table.
"The son of the man who was murdered in 1815, in the village of Leigoutte!" answered Labarre, with perfect calmness.
"Murdered! That man fell when fighting against the true masters of France!"
"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte, was killed by those who had sworn his death, and who struck him down, when, in defending his country, he was doing his duty!"
The Marquis could hardly contain himself, his rage was so great. Cyprien feared an explosion. He had no objection to the man being killed, but not until he had been made to speak.
"Let that pass!" said the Marquis, at last. "It is needless to awaken these memories." Then lowering his voice he added, with an affectation of pity:
"It was a terrible affair, Pierre, and I understandthat an old and faithful servant must have felt it deeply—the father, mother, and two children to die at the same time!"
"You are mistaken," answered Labarre. "The father was shot, the mother perished in the flames, but the two children escaped."
"It is strange that you can persist in this illusion, Pierre. Simon's two children are dead."
The old man answered.
"No—they are living!"
The Marquis forgot himself:
"Ah! you know, then, where they are?"
"No; but your exclamation proves that you yourself do not believe in their death."
Fongereues bit his lips.
Cyprien shrugged his shoulders. He felt a little contempt for his master and doubted. The Society of Jesus would never trust him with a mission of diplomacy. He thought it was time for him to interfere.
"It seems to me, sir," he said to the Marquis, "that absolute certainty in this matter is impossible. I have made the most careful search without the smallest success, though I had no difficulty in finding this house."
"Ah! it was you, then, who discovered my retreat?" And Labarre shook his head.
"That is enough!" interposed the Marquis. "Labarre, all this is useless. Give me your attention. I am about to speak of the honor of the Fongereues family."
Labarre's pale face was lighted by a smile as he repeated the words: "The honor of the Fongereues family!"
The Marquis shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Cyprien," he said to his intendant, "you can leave us!"
Cyprien was astonished. This was no part of the programme, but he remembered that he could return, and also that he could listen.
As soon as the Marquis was alone with Labarre, an entire transformation took place in his manner. He seemed to throw aside a mask. He seized Labarre's hand, who shrank from the contact.
"Listen to me, Pierre, and for God's sake throw aside this distrust, which is an insult to me. You were the friend and the confidant of my father, you knew his secret thoughts, and you know that he did not love me. I am ready to admit that my father had reason to be offended at many of my acts and many of my words. I was young, and very reckless. You see, Pierre, that I am speaking to you with entire frankness. God forgives the penitent. Are you harsher than He?" He felt the hand he held tremble in his grasp. "Guilty though I be," continued the Marquis, "great as have been my faults and my errors, I bear to-day the name of my father, and that name, Pierre Labarre, will be forever dishonored unless you come to my assistance!"
"I do not understand," said Labarre. "I am an old man and poor. What can I do for you?"
"I will tell you. I am ruined, my influence is lost.This is not all—I am crushed under the weight of engagements so heavy that were I to give up every sou I have in the world, and reduce my wife and my son to beggary, I could not release myself and save my honor!"
Labarre did not speak.
"I have tried every plan," continued the Marquis, "and—hear me, Pierre—I have gone too far. What would you say, Pierre, if the name of your old master should be borne by a forger?"
Pierre did not evince the smallest emotion.
"Well?" said the Marquis, breathlessly.
"What do you want of me?" asked Pierre.
"I will tell you. I know that my father, in order to reserve for Simon a portion of his fortune, and fearing, with the suspicion of an old man, that in some way he would lose it, made a will, which he gave to you——"
"Go on, sir."
"This will contains a secret—it tells where this money reserved for Simon is concealed. This will gives direction that only Simon, or his heirs, shall receive this will. Simon is dead, his children have disappeared. Your duty is plain. This money now amounts to two millions, at least. What was always my father's first wish? Was it not to preserve his family name without a spot or blemish? Give me this will. Without this money I am dishonored!"
The old man released his hand and crossed the room. He stopped before the dark curtain, and then, with a solemn gesture, lifted it. The Marquis leaned forward. This was what he saw: A sheet of iron was fastenedto the wall. It was twisted and out of shape. Strange lines were upon it, as if flames had licked it.
"Do you know what that is?" said Labarre.
"No," answered the Marquis, surprised and uneasy.
"I will tell you. Among the Vosges mountains there lived a man, honest and kindly. He was loved by all. He kept an inn, and taught the children of the peasants, to whom he sold wine. Yes, and this man bore one of the noblest names in France. One day cowards killed him, and at the same time other scoundrels and cowards, in obedience to fratricidal commands, attacked the house where he had so long struggled against poverty; other villains again attacked his wife and tried to kill his children. This, Monsieur de Talizac, is the sign that hung on the front of the inn kept by Simon, Marquis de Fongereues, and I defy you, his brother and his murderer, to repeat to me what you have already said in the face of this witness. Pray and entreat, if you will, if you dare—I, the lacquey of your father, reply: Cain! you are stained with the blood of your brother—begone!"
The Marquis uttered a yell of rage.
"Your memory is short, Monsieur de Talizac, and I will remind you that in 1817, one night the good man whom you killed with your infamy lay dying. You had the cruel courage to enter his room, and knelt at the side of his bed——"
"Be silent!" cried the Marquis.
"My master cursed you, cursed you as a murderer! It was a horrible scene—I saw and heard it all. You implored this dying man to have mercy on you andtell you where this money was placed. But my master did not yield, nor will I!"
Deadly pale, and with compressed lips, the Marquis murmured:
"Then you refuse?"
"I refuse—the son of Simon de Fongereues is living!"
"And if he be dead—am I not the sole heir?"
"I do not know."
"You have no right to keep back a will. Once more I ask—will you speak?"
"I will not!"
"Very well. The will is here; we will take it!"
The Marquis whistled, and Cyprien appeared.
"We must help ourselves," said the Marquis.
"All right!" answered the lacquey.
Strangely enough, this man who looked so infirm now bounded back and placed himself behind a table. He drew from his pockets two pistols, which he pointed toward his adversaries.
"Monsieur de Talizac," he said, "you tried to kill me once before, in the Black Forest—take care!"
Fongereues had no arms. Cyprien had been wiser. He, too, drew a pistol, but before he could touch the trigger, Pierre had opened the door behind him.
"For a valet," he said, "a dog is all that is required."
A dog of the Vosges, as large as a wolf, with bloodshot eyes and bristling hair, flew at Cyprien's throat, who fell on the floor.
"Help! Help!" cried the scoundrel.
The Marquis, livid with terror, had succeeded in opening the door.
"Here, Cliepé! Here!" shouted Pierre.
The dog gave Cyprien another furious shake, and dropped him. He rolled himself out of the door. Pierre flung it to and bolted it.
"Farewell!" he cried. "You will get your punishment in another world!"
And from his window he watched two black shadows fleeing toward Saint-Amé.
Just as Fanfar mounted his horse, an incident occurred which passed unperceived by the others.
Irène went up to the groom who held her horse, and with the air of giving him some directions, she said to Fanfar, in a low voice:
"Are you not wounded? Are you not risking your life to save that of your father?" She emphasized the word father, as if to make amends for having previously called him master.
"I am always ready to die for those I love!" answered Fanfar, as he examined the animal with attention.
Irène was silent for a moment. She admired the courage and the devotion of this man, but was at the same time irritated at the attraction she felt toward him. Obeying her sarcastic impulse, she said, quickly:
"I have christened my horse since I saw you. His name is Fanfar!"
Fanfar smiled.
"Very good!" he answered, as he patted the animal's glossy side. "We two Fanfars must not shrink from any danger!"
Irène remembered the inundation, but before she could speak the animal and rider were away.
"The carriage is waiting for you," said Madame Ursula, approaching.
"Yes, let us go," answered the girl, with feverish haste, and as she took her seat in the carriage, she said to herself: "Yes, I see what he means—make myself beloved, is what he said!"
Fanfar, directed by some peasants, was now far on the road. He tore off his hat and flung it away. His brow was burning. Was it his violent exertions that had given him this fever? Or was it the anxiety he felt for his adopted father? But Gudel's pale face was obscured by a mocking though sweet face, which flitted between him and all else. How beautiful she was!
The two men, when they fled from the cottage of old Labarre, were entirely routed and discomfited. It was not the Marquis who was afraid of the pistol—he fled from the echo of his father's words, which the old servant had repeated.
Cyprien could hardly draw a breath without pain, for the dog had wounded him on the throat.
The Marquis was enraged with himself that he had taken no arms with him. He had supposed that he would not have the smallest difficulty in bending the old man to his will. Why had he not leaped at the fellow's throat when he opened the door?
They had reached the rocks near the cataract, when Cyprien, seizing the arm of the Marquis, cried:
"Listen!"
The cataract roared through the narrow passage, but this was not all. What was that sound of crashingrocks? They soon discovered. Huge blocks of granite had rolled down from above, diverting the course of the water, which now tumbled down on the highway like a sheet of foam. And what was this behind them? Another great sheet of water coming on. The flood was pursuing them. The two men began to run. Suddenly the Marquis stumbled and fell. The water swept over him and carried him toward the abyss.
"Help! Help!" cried Fongereues.
Cyprien gathered together all his strength for one mighty effort—he was saved!
The Marquis clung to the trunk of a pine tree that grew close to the precipice. The water rolled over his head and blinded him, but did not succeed in washing him away. Suddenly, from the summit of the rocks, came a voice.
"Courage!" it cried, "courage!"
The voice came from a man, but how did any man maintain a foothold there? He descended the rock, crying all the time: "Courage! Courage!" Suddenly his hands ceased to clutch the rocks, and he dropped. The water rose to his knees, but tempestuous as was the rush, he maintained his footing.
The voice that had shouted for assistance was growing weaker. But Fanfar, for he it was, soon found the Marquis, but just as he had succeeded in reaching him he slipped, and believed himself lost.
No, a strong hand grasped his arm and drew him up, but the burthen was heavy, for the Marquis was unconscious. Slowly, very slowly, Fanfar raised his loadand himself, and finally sank upon the turf above, nearly as unconscious as the Marquis.
Fortunately, a small lantern, which Fanfar wore at his belt, was not broken; he lighted it and examined the face of the man he had rescued.
Yes, Fanfar, the resemblance is great. This is the brother of the man who died at Leigoutte. This is the man who outraged a woman one terrible night, and that woman was the sister of Simon's wife, and this man, who was then the Vicomte de Talizac, is to-day the Marquis de Fongereues. This man is your father! Does Fanfar know all this? Not he!
The Marquis opens his eyes, he sees Fanfar in the darkness.
"You have saved me!" he murmured.
"Can you stand? Can you walk?" asked Fanfar.
The Marquis struggled to his feet, but uttered a cry of pain.
"Are you hurt?"
"I think not, but I seem to have no strength left."
"Wait!" said Fanfar.
He went to the side of the rock, and examined it with his lantern. He uttered a joyous exclamation.
"Most men," he said to himself, "would find this rock impracticable, but Fanfar can do it."
He returned to the Marquis.
"Put your arms about my neck," he said, "and trust to me."
The Marquis obeyed, and Fanfar, weighed down again by this burthen, climbed the path heretoforetrodden only by goats. They reached the top in safety, there they found Irène's horse.
"I am going to take you on the saddle with me," he said to the Marquis. "I had been to a neighboring village for a physician, and returning I am only too thankful that accident brought me in this direction."
He assisted the Marquis to the saddle, and that his hands might be free requested the Marquis to hold the lantern.
He did so, and, with instinctive curiosity, flashed the light into the face of his preserver. He started back, for he saw before him the living image of the old Marquis de Fongereues. He must know the truth at any price. He fought against his fatigue, and just as Fanfar was about to leap into the saddle, the Marquis pressed the animal with his knee, and the animal was off like the wind. Fanfar believed that the horse had ran away.
"I hope he will get to the inn in safety," said Fanfar, anxiously. "I must get back on foot, it seems!"
Gudel had been carried to his room, the innkeeper moaning over and over again, "How could this have happened?"
La Roulante established herself by the sick bed. She was livid with fear. The attempt had been a failure, and Bobichel had guessed it!
The persistent questions of Schwann made her very uneasy. Caillette said the same thing. She hardly knew what had happened; she only knew that her father had been injured.
Bobichel came in.
"The chain has been examined," he said, looking in La Roulante's face.
"What of that!" she cried. "Why do you meddle in what does not concern you? Do you mean to say that any one meddled with the chain?"
"That is precisely what I mean!" answered Bobichel, forgetting all caution.
La Roulante rushed at him. Caillette threw herself between them, and Schwann dragged her back.
La Roulante caught Caillette by the arm and swung her off, then the girl picked herself up and ran to Gudel's bed. "Help! father!" she cried, "help!"
The girl's voice seemed to produce a magical effect. He half rose in his bed, and looked about.
Every one was amazed and delighted.
"I knew he would get well!" cried Schwann, as he rushed to Gudel, and took his hands.
Bobichel immediately poured out some brandy and gave it to Gudel, whose eyes almost at once regained a natural appearance. He saw Caillette first, and kissed her tenderly.
"Where is Fanfar?" he said. "Was he hurt?"
"He has gone to Vagney for a doctor for you, dear father."
Iron Jaws laughed aloud.
"I want none of your poisoners here, let me tell you." He caught sight of Bobichel, as he spoke. The clown was crying like a baby. "What is the matter with you, Bob?" he asked.
"Nothing, master, nothing at all; I am so happy."
"You have been fighting, sir?" said Gudel.
La Roulante bustled forward.
"No, he was impertinent to me," she said, "and I gave him such a shaking as he deserved, that was all. But have not you a word for your wife?"
Gudel turned his head away. Bobichel took advantage of this movement to shake his fist in the face of the giantess.
"Now let me see if I can stand," said Gudel. "One! two! three!"
He was on his feet.
"I must look at that chain," he said, "when Fanfarcomes. And where is he? It seems to me that he is gone a long time."
"He will be here soon," answered the innkeeper, "unless the inundation has increased."
"Is he on foot?" asked Gudel.
"No, the lady lent him her horse," said Bobichel, but he stopped short when he saw Caillette turn pale.
Gudel could not see his daughter.
"The young lady is kind-hearted, in spite of all her affectations," he said. "And now, good people, I must ask you to leave me. While I am waiting for Fanfar, I must see these men that I am to take to-morrow to Rémisemont."
"You do not really mean to go to-morrow?"
"I can't say yet. Caillette, my dear, you must go to bed and get some rest at once."
Gudel was not in the least hurt; he had received a great shock, that was all.
When La Roulante left the room, she was met at the door by Robeccal.
"You see," he said, in a fierce whisper, "that if I had done as I wished, and used a knife, the whole thing would have been settled by this time."
The two accomplices stood talking in the large room which the men of the company shared.
"Who the devil could have supposed," the one said to the other, "that Fanfar would have been able to save Gudel. Such a tremendous weight!"
While they were talking, Robeccal and La Roulante heard heavy steps on the stairs, and then a knock at Gudel's door.
Robeccal started. He suddenly remembered the brief colloquy which he had had with the unknown—who was in fact, Cyprien. Might it not be if he did what this man desired that in it he would also find his revenge?
"If you hate Gudel," this man had said, "I will give you an opportunity of paying off old scores."
Robeccal opened the door and looked out.
Yes, these were the men. Turning to the giantess,
"Listen!" he said, "it is by no means certain that all is lost."
"I don't understand."
"No, but tell me quick. Does he seem to have any secrets?"
"He is always reading the newspapers. He goes himself for his letters always, and brings back a quantity."
"Have you never read any of them?"
"I can't read."
"Wait a little. I think we have him now."
The two persons whom we saw in the dining-room now stood at the foot of Gudel's bed.
"You have had a narrow escape," said one.
"Yes, thanks to Fanfar. His brains, his arms and his muscles saved me."
"It was of him that we came to speak," replied the man who was dressed like a horse jockey.
"If it is time to act," said Gudel, "you may rely on him."
"Are you sure? We do not doubt you nor him, but for such work as ours—of which the aim is toreturn to France that liberty which has been stifled by the iron hand of Bonaparte and by the Bourbons—we need men who are ready to sacrifice their lives—to walk straight on, even if the scaffold stands at the termination of their road. Is Fanfar such a man?"
"I am not much of a speaker," answered Gudel. "My father was a soldier of the Republic. I myself was condemned to death in 1815. My father gave his life for France, and I lived through accident. It was about that time that little Fanfar fell into my hands, and I have always taught him to feel the greatest respect for the Revolution. You know, too, that his father was murdered by the allies, his mother was burned by the Cossacks, and his sister, poor little soul, died of starvation. Do you wonder that Fanfar hates the Bourbons? And you ask if you may trust him!"
There was a brief silence, and then the man who looked like an old soldier spoke.
"Gudel," he said, "we believe you. For ten years, over and over again, you have proved to us your devotion and your honesty."
Iron Jaws blushed with pleasure.
"Fanfar will be here presently. You will find him ready to do your bidding, and to risk his life in the performance of his duty."
"You know the situation," resumed one of the men; "our enemies are already quarreling among themselves, our friends are redoubling their efforts. General Foy has stigmatized the purchasers of votes and rendered their names infamous. Roger Collard has distinctly asked a terrible question—'where willyou be in seven years?' The excitement is general, and we must send a man of activity to Paris—a man who is young and active, who is willing to make any sacrifice. Can Fanfar be this man?"
Gudel contented himself with a simple affirmative.
"Then," said the old soldier, drawing out a pocketbook, "here are papers so important that were they to fall into the hands of our adversaries, our heads would be in danger and our plans ruined. These papers Fanfar must carry to Paris; he will give them to the committee, who in their turn will give him orders, which he is to execute without hesitation or curiosity. Can you answer for Fanfar?"
"Upon my honor, I can."
The two men continued to talk in a low voice with Gudel, and then they went out. Absorbed in thought, they did not notice a man who started back when they appeared. Robeccal had heard every syllable.
Cyprien now arrived at the inn. White, trembling and breathless, he could scarcely reply to the questions addressed to him. He believed the Marquis to be dead, and was finally able to tell his story.
Schwann began to be very anxious. Where was Fanfar? Suddenly a horse was heard coming at full speed. Schwann and Caillette rushed to the door. They uttered a simultaneous cry of surprise. It was the Marquis.
"And Fanfar? Where is he?"
"He is coming. But I have not a moment to lose. Take me to Gudel's chamber."
The tone was too peremptory for Schwann to hesitate; being reassured, too, in regard to Fanfar, he was ready to obey without stopping to ask the meaning of this extreme haste. Cyprien started forward, but the Marquis gave him a look that commanded silence, and as he passed, said in a low voice:
"Patience!"
The door closed. Then Cyprien felt a hand on his shoulder and recognized the man whose assistance he had endeavored to buy.
"Come out with me," said this man.
"You have learned something?"
"Come out with me, I tell you. Do you think I am fool enough to talk under these walls?"
As they stepped out on the square they saw Fanfar, but Fanfar did not notice these two shadows. He entered the inn and Caillette threw herself into his arms, sobbing with joy.
"I am glad to see you," muttered Schwann, half ashamed of his own emotion.
In the silence that followed, the voice of La Roulante was heard singing while drowning her sorrows in a bottle of brandy.
After the departure of the two strangers, who, it will be understood, now renounced their trip for Rémisemont, Gudel remained very pensive. He said to himself that after all he had no right to imperil the future of Fanfar and to have made that promise for him. He began to feel very uneasy at the long absence of the young man. There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," called Iron Jaws.
His surprise was great when he beheld a stranger walk in.
"I am," said this stranger, "the Marquis de Fongereues, and I wish to talk with you."
"I am entirely at your service," answered Iron Jaws, bringing forward a chair.
"You are probably astonished, Monsieur Gudel," said the Marquis, "at my coming here at this time. I know of your accident, and I trust you will excuse my indiscretion when you hear my reasons."
Iron Jaws bowed.
"I was, a half hour since, in great danger, and one of your people saved my life. You will hear about that later on, I can not now delay to tell you."
"But who was this person?"
"His name was Fanfar."
"I might have known it!" shouted Gudel, "he is always doing such things. But where is he? Is he hurt?"
"Not in the least. He assisted me upon his horse, and the animal was uncontrollable; he, however, brought me here in safety, but my preserver was obliged to walk back."
"He does not mind that, let me tell you. He will be here in ten minutes."
"And the more reason why I should make haste in what I have to say. My name tells you the position I hold at court—"
"I know very little of such matters."
"Then I will tell you that my name is well known, and that my credit is great. I am ready to serve your—son—"
"My son! Alas, sir, I wish Fanfar were my son, but, unfortunately, he is no relation of mine."
"But this young man has parents? I can serve them, undoubtedly."
"Fanfar has no parents."
The Marquis bit his lips. With difficulty he curbed his impatience; it showed in his voice and his eyes. Gudel suspected nothing.
"A poor orphan, then?" asked the Marquis, in the most honeyed tones, "entrusted to your care by a dying father?"
"No, sir, I found Fanfar."
"Pray tell me how and where? I am greatly interested in this young man."
"It is a simple story, sir. My father and I weremountebanks, and there are worse trades, let me assure you. I have served my time under the Republic, and was easy in my mind when there came the trouble of 1812. I with the rest was called out again. I had left my wife and my little girl at home in a village which the allies would have gobbled up at a mouthful, so I asked for a short leave and started off. I tumbled my family and their goods into my chariot, where were already packed the things I used in my profession. I must not omit to mention that Bobichel had kept up the business for me. We travelled along not very rapidly, for there was already fighting going on in France, and we were obliged to turn off the highway many times. One morning, passing through a field, I heard the sound of a bugle. It was the French bugle call. It sounded a little queer, but I said to myself, 'Hullo! there are comrades near.' I ran round a hillock, and saw something that I shall never forget in my life."
"Go on!" cried the Marquis.
Gudel opened his eyes in amazement, but he could not well see the face of his companion, and was flattered by the evident curiosity of the Marquis.
"I saw soldiers, several of them, lying dead, butchered by the Cossacks. I looked around to see who had sounded the bugle. You won't believe me when I tell you that it was a boy, certainly not over ten, who had discovered this bugle and blown it. I ran to him, but I don't know that he even saw me, for he fell back fainting at that very moment."
"And you picked him up?"
"Of course I did! And this was Fanfar."
"Did you make any search for his parents?"
"How could I! The Cossacks were at my heels, and there was fire and blood everywhere."
"But later on?"
"The child was sick for a long time, entirely out of his head, and when he began to recover we feared that his brain was hopelessly affected. It was not until eighteen months had elapsed that he was able to tell me he came from Leigoutte, among the Vosges mountains."
"Ah!" The Marquis drew his breath with pain. "Go on! go on!" he muttered in a hoarse voice.
"He said his father's name was Simon, his mother's name Françoise, and a little sister was called Francinette, but he gave me no family name. I did my best and found that the father had been killed in an engagement among the mountains, the mother was burned in a fire set by the Cossacks, the sister had disappeared; my little Fanfar was all alone. I kept him, and did what I could for him. I taught him my profession. This is the whole story. On one side good, brave people, on the other cowards and assassins."
The Marquis was livid. There was now no doubt. It was Simon's son who had been thus thrown in his path. He asked one more question.
"But could you not learn the father's name?"
"No, the village was burned, almost all the inhabitants had perished, the Cossacks had done their work well. One of the peasants did tell me that he always thought this Master Simon—he taught a school—was agreat lord in disguise, but there are always just such foolish stories, and you know in those days great lords were not often killed in defending France."
Fanfar entered somewhat abruptly.
"This is the lad, sir," said Gudel, drawing him to his side. "He is good, he is honest, he is strong!"
"I wish to thank you, young man," said the Marquis, turning to Fanfar, "for saving my life."
Fanfar answered courteously.
"You were in peril. I only did my duty."
"Do not forget that if I can ever serve you, you are to apply to me without hesitation," said the Marquis, and bowing he left the room.
Fanfar and Gudel were now alone.
Cyprien waited for his master, who seized him by the arm and dragged him into the room where they had talked together in the morning.
"Cyprien," he whispered, fiercely, "hell has come to our aid; this young man who saved my life, this Fanfar—"
"Well?"
"Is the son of Simon Fougère—the son of my brother!"
My readers will please remember that only Françoise knew the secret of the birth of little Jacques, who was supposed to be the son of Simon. And of Françoise, the fire had destroyed every trace.
"At last!" exclaimed Cyprien.
"Hush! I have reflected. This young man must die, but his identity must be perfectly clear. Werequire Gudel's testimony, and then, when all this is plain, we can control Labarre."
Cyprien assented to the wisdom of the plan, but he wished a little delay. He saw evidences of great impatience on the part of the Marquis.
"I am not so simple, sir, as you think. This Gudel is one of the leaders of the conspiracy of which I have told you, and Fanfar is the man on whom these bandits rely to arouse the populace in Paris."
Then in a low voice he told the Marquis how Iron Jaws had then in his possession papers which would prove the whole plot, and give the names of the conspirators.
"Let him fall into the hands of the law," concluded Cyprien, "and the end is certain. We can contrive to give to the plot enormous proportions, and he will be condemned."
The Marquis shrugged his shoulders.
"No, that won't do. We can't rely on these judges. One never knows what whims they may take into their heads."
"But what do you propose?"
Fongereues hesitated.
"Who is this man," he asked, "who has revealed to you the conversation of Gudel and his accomplices?"
"He is a scoundrel named Robeccal, who belongs to their troupe."
The Marquis tore a leaf from his note book, and wrote a few words in haste.
"Take this man with you, and go to Rémisemont," he said. "Go to the Comte de Vernac, who is a rabidmonarchist. He has vast influence, and this very night the police will be here, these two men will be made prisoners, and I have no doubt they will resist. Then I will attend to the rest; a criminal who resists may be silenced."
Cyprien smiled meaningly.
"Now go, at once, there is no time to be lost. Fanfar must be killed; Gudel must be taken alive. Gudel will tell his story in the court-room. The Comte de Vernac can never say that the information on which he acted came from me, and without any trouble we shall get rid of the heir of Simon Fougère. Before these same judges, moreover, Labarre shall deliver the will, and tell the secret. Let no one see you and this Robeccal go away together."
"Rely on me."
Before many minutes, Robeccal and Cyprien started off together.
More than two hours had elapsed since the departure of the two spies. The little town of Saint Amé was plunged in profound obscurity. The wind raged down the narrow street, and the roar and rush of the torrent was heard in the distance.
One of the rooms in the inn presented a singular aspect. Caillette lay exhausted on her bed, but she was not asleep; she lay with her eyes wide open thinking of Fanfar. The poor little creature's heart was very sore, but she was too innocent to know why. She felt a vague terror complicated by a certain bitterness. She felt without understanding.
Suddenly, she heard a strange noise. She looked around the room, dimly lighted by a night-lamp. On the floor lay the giantess, who had drank too much brandy. Robeccal had said a few words to her before he went away with the lacquey. She did not seem to understand him, but fell into a doze while he was talking. When she awoke, though by no means herself, she determined to rise from her bed. She did so, and staggered half across the room, then fell on the floor. Half laughing she looked about, and met the surprised, half frightened eyes of Caillette. This was not the first time that the young girl had surprised herin this degraded condition but this time she was more than ever shocked, and shuddered perceptibly.
All at once, the giantess seemed to recognize in Caillette an enemy. She uttered a sound that was almost a growl, and, unable to stand, crawled across the room to the girl's bed.
Caillette recoiled until she could go no further. She wanted to scream, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
La Roulante saw her terror, and laughed. Determined to torture the child, she began to talk.
"You want your Fanfar, don't you? Let me tell you that he cares not a sou whether you live or die."
She stopped talking for a few minutes, and seemed to be reflecting.
"No, I won't kill you—it is not worth while. What was it that my little Bob said to me? Where has he gone, I should like to know!"
She repeated these words over and over again. Presently she vaguely recalled what Robeccal had last said to her.
"'He will not be long,' he said, 'he was going—' Where was he going? Oh! for the police—Gudel and Fanfar had better look out!"
She now crawled away from the bed until she found the brandy bottle, which she drained, all the time saying over and over confused words about the police and papers which would cost two persons their lives.
Although Caillette did not understand, she saw that there was danger, pressing and immediate, for both Gudel and Fanfar. She waited until La Roulante'sheavy breathing showed that she was asleep, and then the young girl cautiously crept from her bed and to the door, which, fortunately, was not locked. She hurried to her father's room. Some one lay before the door. She stooped and recognized the faithful clown, who had thus mounted guard.
"Bobichel! I must speak to my father," she whispered.
"What! is it you, little Caillette? Is there trouble?"
"Yes—and not one moment to lose!"
Bobichel was wide awake and on his feet. He opened the door for Caillette. Her father was on the bed asleep. Fanfar was asleep, too, sitting in his chair.
Fanfar started up. "Caillette!" he exclaimed.
"Yes—wake my father at once!"
"He is so weary, and needs rest."
"It is a question of your liberty—his liberty and your lives!"
Gudel now opened his eyes.
"What is the matter, child?" he asked.
"The police are coming to arrest you!"
"What nonsense!"
Caillette instantly repeated the disconnected words uttered by La Roulante.
"She can't know anything!" said Gudel, uneasily. "Bobichel!" he called.
"I am here, master!" answered the clown.
"Where is Robeccal?"
"I don't know—he went away three hours ago."
"Where was he going?"
"I don't know—I was too sleepy to ask."
Gudel questioned Caillette again. "Had La Roulante distinctly spoken of papers?"
It was only too clear that there had been spies in their camp.
"Fanfar," said Gudel, "when one accepts a mission like ours his life no longer belongs to himself. We must fly, and at once!"
"But how?"
"We will take the horses that belong to the chariot."
"And do you forget me, father?" asked Caillette.
"No—I confide you to Bobichel."
"Oh! Fanfar, do not leave me!" sobbed the young girl.
"Dear child, there are great dangers to run!"
"Yes, but with you I should not be afraid."
"And master—am I to be left behind?" asked the clown.
"Very well, we four will go, then," answered Gudel. "But you forget that we have not horses enough," he added.
"But I have legs," interposed Bobichel, "and I can overtake you wherever you go. You can take Caillette on behind."
"Yes, that would do very well, would it not, Fanfar?" asked the girl, eagerly.
"Where shall we go?" said Fanfar to Gudel.
"We had best take the road to Paris. If we are pursued, we shall find a hiding-place there as well as anywhere else."
"Shall we wake Schwann?" asked the clown.
"No, no—what is the use? I do not wish him to be compromised, either, and when they question him they will find that he really knows nothing. You, Bobichel, bring out the horses—the saddles are in the wagon. Go, and make haste!"
Gudel here stopped short.
"My wife!" he said.
"But, master, it is she who has betrayed you!" cried Bobichel.
"It is she who has saved us!" Gudel replied.
"Yes, but without meaning to do so."
"I must see her, at all events."
And Gudel hurried to her room, and beheld her lying in a drunken stupor on the floor. He shook his head sadly.
"After all, she has nothing to fear, and we may as well part in this way as in any other—the end was coming!"
And he returned to his daughter and his friends, who in the meantime had been making a rope of the sheets and blankets on the bed. With their aid Bobichel dropped from the window.
"Now it is my turn!" said Caillette, and, light as a bird, she seized the rope.
"Take care, child! Take care!" cried Fanfar.
"Would it pain you," she asked quickly, "if I came to grief?"
"Hush! child."
Little Caillette was very gay, and it was with a pretty, childish laugh that she swung herself to theground, where in two minutes her father and Fanfar also stood.
The two horses, all saddled, stood ready.
"You have the papers, Fanfar?" asked Gudel, in a whisper.
"Yes—I have them."
"Then let us start at once."
Caillette, without the smallest hesitation, sprang on Fanfar's horse.
"And you, Bobichel?"
"Don't be troubled about me!"
"Hark!" cried Fanfar.
They listened, and heard distinctly the tread of horses in the distance.
"The police!" said Bobichel.
"They have lost no time, at all events!" And Gudel laughed. "But we have the advantage, and I know a cross-road which will cut off a good bit."
The two horses stepped gingerly out of Schwann's premises, and when once on the high road dashed madly forward. The inn was wrapped in silence and almost in darkness—only one room was lighted, the one where the Marquis sat, impatient and anxious. He, too, heard the horses galloping. His plan had succeeded, then. In a few minutes the house would be surrounded.
A group of horsemen suddenly appeared on the Square. Robeccal and Cyprien were with them.
When Robeccal went away, he had taken the precaution to leave a window open on the lower floor,which Schwann had not discovered in making his rounds for the night.
Robeccal entered through this window and opened the door.
Schwann was aroused by footsteps below, and rushed down the stairs. Seeing the police in uniform, he uttered an exclamation.
"The police in my house!" he cried.
"I ask your pardon, sir," answered the Brigadier of police, "but there was urgent need. In the name of the king!"
Schwann repeated the words with a sigh.
"You have conspirators lodging here—enemies of the monarchy!"
"You are greatly mistaken, Brigadier—"
"Not so. Their names are Gudel and Fanfar."
Schwann laughed. "That is ridiculous!" he said.
"That may be, but I have orders to arrest these men! Where are they?"
"I will show you!" said Robeccal, quickly. The door of the chamber was locked.
"Break it in!" cried Robeccal.
"Wait! Law before all else." And standing in a military attitude, the Brigadier shouted: "In the name of the king, open!"
As may be supposed, there was no reply. Then, with his shoulder, the Brigadier burst it open.
"Gone!" roared Robeccal, and looking round he quickly espied the improvised rope at the window, and flew down the stairs.
Cyprien drew the Brigadier aside. "Spare no exertion. The fate of France depends on you, now!" he said.
The Brigadier became immensely important on hearing these words. He took a lantern and hunted for traces of the fugitives.
"This way!" cried Robeccal, "they have made their escape toward the forest."
"I know every inch of the forest," answered the Brigadier, waving his sword, as if he were about to attack an enemy.
Cyprien stood biting his lips. Could it be that Fanfar was to escape him now? The police rode off at a rapid pace, and Cyprien felt that they must overtake the fugitives.
About two miles from the village the road wound round a hill, on one side of which was a deep precipice. Day was breaking, and Robeccal, who of course had joined in the pursuit, rose in his stirrups in hopes to see some sign of the men they were pursuing.
Suddenly one of the horses fell, then the one behind meeting with the same obstacle, fell also, until five out of the seven were on the ground.
"It is a rope!" cried the Brigadier, "a rope stretched across the road—the rascals!"
The men who were in their saddles leaped to the ground and endeavored to assist their comrades, one of whom had a leg broken.
Robeccal stamped with rage.
"Halloo!" cried a voice, "you had best meddle withhonest people again!" And Bobichel, standing on the side of the road, danced with glee.
"You shall pay for that!" shouted Robeccal, and snatching a pistol from the belt of one of the police, he fired at Bobichel.
The clown flung out his arms. "They are saved, at all events!" he shouted, as he disappeared, falling into the abyss at his feet.
Fanfar and Gudel were far away. Poor Bobichel!
The 29th of February, 1824, was a Sunday, and a fête day. At that time the Carnival was in full blast, and the streets were crowded with curious spectators. A carriage drew up before a fashionable restaurant in the Palais Royal. The carriage was driven by a coachman wearing a powdered wig, and the horses were magnificent. Three young men with cigars in their mouths descended from the carriage, and took the path that led to the garden.
They were wrapped in Venetian cloaks and each wore on his shoulder knots of ribbon, different in hue, and each concealed his face under a white satin mask, to which mask the police made no objection, as it was a sign of high birth and nobility.
These young men laughed when they found they were to pass through a double row of spectators, to whose jokes they replied in kind.
Lights were beginning to twinkle among the trees when they established themselves at a table in the café.
"I am thankful to say," exclaimed one of the young men, "that the Carnival is nearly over."
"Fernando is right," said one of the two others."We have been out now for two hours, and we have not had the smallest adventure."
"Pshaw!" answered the third youth, who was called Arthur by his friends, "we have a long evening before us, and it would be odd if we did not find some excitement and could not create a little scandal!"
Of these three young men one was named Arthur de Montferrand; his father had made himself a name in the Chamber of Peers by defending the assassins of Marshal Brune; the other, Gaston de Ferrette, was a great duelist, although not more than twenty-four, and belonged to the best blood in France.
The third was less known in Paris. He was an Italian who was traveling in France. His name was Fernando de Vellebri. He came with letters from princes and ambassadors, which opened to him the first hôtels in the Faubourg. This was the time when the word "dandy" began to be used, and these three aspired to the title.
"Where is Frederic?" said one. "Would he fail us now?"
"Of course not. Besides, he wrote to me to say that he was to go with Mademoiselle de Salves to witness some ceremony at Notre Dame!"
"Poor Frederic!"
"He is not so much to be pitied, if you please, for Mademoiselle de Salves is a most charming person."
"But does he love her? That is the question."
"It seems to me that you take a great deal of interest in my private affairs, gentlemen!" said a clear voice behind them.
"Frederic! Frederic, at last!"
"Yes, Frederic, who has been listening to you for some minutes, and who thinks you a little venturesome in your remarks."
He whom these young men greeted as Frederic wore no mask. His costume was what in 1824 was regarded as the height of elegance. His friends looked at him with admiration and envy, audibly regretting that they had appeared in mask and costume.
"Then go and take them off," said Frederic. "I will wait for you here, or, better still, you may stop for me an hour later at theMille Colonnes."
Frederic was left alone. He was a youth of about twenty, but looked older. Heavy brows shaded deep-set eyes, his shoulders were square, with a slight deformity of the spine. His name was Frederic de Talizac.
Ten years had elapsed since the son of Magdalena scorned and insulted France. We shall soon discover if the man fulfilled the promise of his childhood.
The Vicomte left the rotunda, and putting up his eyeglasses, began to examine the crowd in the garden.
The Palais Royal was at that time the central point of Paris, and served as a rendezvous for everybody. Each café had its special customers. The Bonapartists went to one, foreigners to another—theMille Colonnes—speculators to theCafé de Fois, and so on. TheCafé de Valoiswas frequented by military men, the survivors of the great Revolution, and it was also believed that it was a resort of the Republicans. Wonder was frequently expressed that the police hadnot suppressed this scandal. It was toward this café that the Vicomte now took his way. Hardly had he passed the gallery than he was attracted by a group of young men earnestly conversing together. Frederic watched them a moment, and then went up to them. He touched one of the men on his shoulder, saying:
"Will you grant me a few minutes' conversation, sir?"
The young man to whom this question was addressed was about twenty-five. His regular features indicated great determination. He looked at Talizac for a moment, and then replied, very coldly:
"I am at your service, sir."
The two men then walked into an almost deserted street.
"I first wish to know your name," said the Vicomte. "I am Frederic de Talizac."
"As I am well aware."
"And I wish to know your name that I may know also, if I am to speak to you as to a gentleman, or strike you as I would a lacquey."
The young man turned very pale, but with a calmness that was absolutely terrifying under the circumstances, he replied:
"There can be nothing in common between us two."
"I am to marry Mademoiselle de Salves in a month," said Talizac, between his close shut teeth. "Yesterday, at noon, you had the impertinence, when riding past her mother's hôtel, to throw a bouquet over the garden wall."
"Well?"
"You probably have excellent reasons for concealing your name, but I give you fair warning that if you are again guilty of similar conduct, that your chastisement will be swift and sure!"
The Vicomte stopped short, for the young man grasped him by the wrist with such strength that Frederic caught his breath in pain.
The stranger spoke in a low, calm voice.
"You have insulted me—wait!"
He turned and called to his friends.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this man has insulted me. Shall I fight him? He is the Vicomte de Talizac."
One of the friends, who wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, replied:
"You cannot fight with a Talizac!"
The Vicomte uttered a cry of rage, but the other still held him firmly.
"You see," he said, "we do not fight with people whom we do not respect. If you do not understand me, apply to your father for an explanation—he will give it to you. The day may come when you may have an opportunity of killing me—if you can. Now go—return to your shameful pleasures!"
With features convulsed with rage the Vicomte, unable to speak, drew from his pocket a handful of cards, and flung them into the face of the unknown, who started forward, but one of his friends laid a restraining hand on his arm.
"You do not belong to yourself!" he said, warningly.
Talizac disappeared. As he was hurrying on, blind with anger, a voice cried:
"Is this the way you keep your appointments?"
It was the Italian, Fernando de Vellebri. He added, with a wink:
"You ought to have killed that fellow. You know him?"
"Very little."
"He was concerned in that affair at Tivoli. You will tell me about it."
The tone which the Italian employed was not pleasing to Frederic, who, glad to have found a new adversary, answered quickly:
"I suppose you mean that I can tell you, if I choose. You seem to give me orders."
"Suppose we sit down." And the Italian pointed to two chairs which were unoccupied. He seated himself at once.
"My dear Vicomte," he said, serenely, "it seems to me that, situated as we are, there should be no misunderstanding or quarrel between us."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean what you seem to have forgotten, that yesterday, in a moment of absent-mindedness, you signed a certain paper with a name that was not your own."
The Vicomte turned very pale.
"How did you know this?" he stammered.
The Italian took out an elegant little pocketbook.
"Here it is," he said, opening a paper bearing the royal mark.
"But how did it come into your hands?"
"In a very simple way—I bought it."
"You—and for what reason?"
"Can you not suppose that my only motive was to render you a service?"
The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders.
"You are right," answered Fernando, in reply to this mute protest. "I have another reason. I do not wish the Vicomte de Talizac to come to grief because my fortune is intimately connected with his—because his father, the Marquis de Fongereues, has rendered and will render great services to a cause that is mine. You must promise me to be guilty of no more imprudences like this."
"Do you mean to give me that paper?"
"No, it is not altogether mine; those who retain an interest in it can alone surrender it to you."
"And who are those persons?"
"Friends, defenders of the Monarchy and of Religion. But we will say no more on this trifle now. I merely wished to prove to you that I had a right to your confidence. Resume your story, and tell me why you hate this man whom you just now provoked."
This trifle, as the Italian called it, could place the Vicomte at the criminals' bar, as both men well knew, but Frederic deemed it advisable not to insist. He suspected the truth, and had long since decided that the Italian belonged to the mysterious association. It was enough for him that the danger was momentarily averted.