"Very well," said Talizac, "you were speaking of Tivoli. The crowd was very great at the fête, the fireworks were going on, at that moment the king's arms were exhibited. Suddenly there was a grand excitement; part of the scaffolding gave way. Mademoiselle de Salves in her fright dropped my arm and began to run. I saw a great timber falling and believed she was lost. I could not reach her. A man emerged from the crowd, and with incredible strength seized this timber and eased it to the ground. She fainted, and when the crowd permitted me to reach her side, this young man was holding her in his arms. She opened her eyes, and I am certain that this man was no stranger to her. When, however, we all gathered about her, the unknown bowed respectfully and vanished. I noticed, however, that this romantic cavalier carried away with him a ribbon from the dress of the young lady—only a ribbon. I told Irène of this impertinence; she did not even condescend to answer me."
"But the Paladin did not long content himself with this silent homage, I presume?"
"Women are idiots, you know, and this man now passes Irène's windows daily, and even throws flowers over the garden wall; and this woman, who is to be my wife, stands behind the curtain and watches for his coming. This my own eyes have seen, and I have come to the conclusion that it has gone on long enough—"
"Ah! and you wish to get rid of this gallant. The matter ought to be easy enough."
"Yes, one would think so. I have kept my valeton the watch, and discovered that he came every day to theCafé de Valoisat this hour—"
"My dear Talizac, I can put an end to all your difficulties. If Mademoiselle de Salves has built up a pretty romance, I can banish her dreams by telling her the name of her lover. Your rival, my dear fellow, is or was rather, a mountebank, and his name is Fanfar."
The Vicomte laughed long and loud.
"Upon my word!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak, "I should have made a fool of myself, had I fought a duel with the fellow! But do the men who are with him know who he is?"
"Certainly. They know perfectly well. And yet shake hands with him! They call him their friend."
The Italian could stand no more of this. He rose from his chair. "Come," he said, "this is the Carnival, let us end the day merrily."
"I should be only too glad to do so," was the Vicomte's reply, "anything to make me forget the disagreeable scene with that man!"
The Vicomte called the contumely heaped on his father's name and his own, "a disagreeable scene."
The two young men sauntered across the garden. Just as they reached the fountain, Frederic stopped.
"What is it?" asked the Italian.
A young girl was singing to a guitar. A curious crowd had gathered about her. She was a pretty creature; her brown curls were covered by a handkerchief of white wool, her face was perfect in shape and in coloring, her eyes were dark—gay, but at the same time innocent.
She accompanied herself on a guitar as she sang, and her voice was so delicious that the crowd clamored for more. The girl bowed her thanks, and extended the back of her guitar for money. She colored deeply as she did so. When she reached Frederic, he said, in a whisper, as he laid a gold piece on the instrument, "You are alone to-day."
She started, looked up quickly, and passed on.
"The 'Marquise' is in a lofty mood," said the Italian, stooping as he spoke, and picking the gold piece from the ground. "Take it, Vicomte, it is yours, since she would have none of it."
Frederic uttered a sullen oath.
"And this has been going on for two months!" Fernando laughed, as he stated this as a fact, "and every day the Marquise—by the way, why is she called by that name!—repels the homage of the Vicomte!"
"Do you spend all your time watching me, Fernando? Take care, patience has its limits!"
"I am glad to hear it. You bear too much from this girl!"
Frederic caught his arm. "Listen to me, Fernando, my brain reels with mad projects. Help me to avenge myself on Fanfar—help me to carry off this girl, and I belong to you, body and soul!"
"Well said!" answered the Italian, "as the bargain is concluded, suppose we go to dinner?"
"But this girl?"
"We will talk of her to-night, and I am quite sure you will have no reason to complain of me!"
Forty-eight hours have elapsed since the scenes we have described in the last chapter, and the day is Mardi Gras. Opposite the Café Turc, which in 1824 had a European reputation, stood a house of squalid appearance, inhabited, because of the low rent at which rooms could be obtained, by a number of modest tradespeople, who for the greater part of the year carried on the numerous booths on the Square.
Before describing this picturesque corner of old Paris, unknown to the present generation, we will enter this house to which we have alluded, and which bore the number 42 of the Boulevard du Temple. In a room on the fifth floor, the girl who was called the Marquise was finishing her toilette before the mirror. A poor little room enough, with its faded wall paper, its narrow bed pushed into the corner, its two chairs and pine table. The window closed but imperfectly, and the wind blew out the curtain like a sail. Colored prints were fastened against the wall, and everything was exquisitely clean. A white napkin was spread upon the table, and the bed had snowy curtains. The mirror at this moment was worth more than any from Venice, for it reflected a charming Greuze-like face.
The singer was twisting up her rebellious curls, andendeavoring to bring her hair into some kind of order. Her complexion was exquisite, her big dark eyes were full of sunshine, and her lips were beautiful and fresh. She fastened on her muslin cap, and then the graceful hands fluttered about her dress arranging that also.
Suddenly a deep sigh, apparently from the next room, reached her ear. She ran to the communicating door, and, opening it cautiously, looked in.
"Poor woman!" she said to herself, "she is awake. I wonder if she suffers still."
Then a voice called, "Cinette! little Cinette!"
"How strange!" said the girl, "when I hear her speak that name, it seems to me the voice is familiar."
"Come, Cinette!"
This time the girl entered the room. She beheld a woman vainly seeking to raise herself in her bed.
Her face was hideously scarred and seared, while the bloodshot eyes could not endure the light. It was clear that the poor creature had been the victim of a horrible accident.
"I am thirsty," she faintly articulated.
"Yes, mamma," answered the girl who was called Cinette.
And the woman smiled. She was mad in addition to her helplessness. No one knew who she was, nor whence she came.
The reader has recognized in the girl who ministered to her needs, little Cinette, the child of Simon Fougère and Françoise. She had run distractedly through those subterranean vaults when she lost Jacques, and finally escaped from the labyrinth tofall into the hands of those people whom Hugo has immortalized.
These people—a husband, wife and children—were pillaging the dead on a battle-field, but when Cinette appeared they smiled upon her.
The little girl could give no explanation as to why she was thus alone and deserted. To all questions she could only reply by the words "papa Simon," and "mamma Françoise." Of course this was too indefinite for these people to act upon; besides, at that time they had much to do—the invasion promised them much spoil. They took Cinette away, and after the peace they continued to keep her. They had amassed quite a little property, and bought a farm in Blaisois. Cinette was happy in these days, for she was too young to remember her woes.
In the village there was an old soldier whose violin and songs had often enlivened the bivouac. He soon discovered that Cinette, for she still went by that name, possessed a wonderful voice. He took it into his head to start a musical school; he had three pupils, only two of which paid a sou; on the third, Cinette, he built many projects. He was making arrangements to transport his pupil to a wider stage, when an epidemic broke out in the village, and the girl was left alone in the world.
The "Good Sisters" offered her a home in the convent, but she had always been accustomed to the open air, to flowers that nodded a welcome to her as she passed, and to sunshine, and was afraid of the cloister, of its dimness, and of watchful eyes.
She finally took her departure, and begged her way to Paris. Some one gave her an old guitar that had been left behind by some wanderer, which the child had gazed at with longing eyes. She escaped the many snares that were laid for her, and finally found shelter in a house where only the very poor lived, but they were all honest, industrious people. She obtained the necessary permission to sing on the street, and then had another idea. In the part of the city where she lived there was a great deal of poverty, and she undertook the care of a poor woman, she was so confident in her ability to make money.
"But the person you propose to take care of has been dreadfully disfigured, and is unpleasant to look upon," said one of the neighbors.
The child asked to be told all that was known of the unfortunate creature.
She had been found among the mountains long before, and the people who had found her were dead, but she was still taken care of by these kind, good creatures who, however, found the burthen a heavy one.
Francine went to see this poor creature. There was a long silence, the girl seemed to hesitate, then, suddenly, she stooped and kissed her.
"Will you go with me, mamma?" she said.
Why did she use the word mamma? She could not have told herself, and yet this woman was really her mother. Yes, this unfortunate, this mad woman was Françoise, the wife of Simon. After the agony of that fearful night, she lost her memory and her reason.She did not know how she had escaped, and yet she was here and restored to her child. Fate had brought the two together. Mother and daughter were alike victims of the Talizacs.
Francine took this woman, whom she had volunteered to support, and installed her next her own room. Day and night she watched over her with a solicitude that was absolutely filial.
The elder woman was happy only when Cinette was with her, and when the girl was away, she repeated the name over and over.
Francine worked hard. She now had her regular audiences, and could be heard at certain places at certain hours. Her programmes were regularly made out. The name that had been given her of the Marquise was not given unkindly. She was neither vain nor proud, but she wore her simple woolen gown in such a dainty fashion, and put the little kerchief on her head in such a way, that the people called her the Marquise. But to return to our tale.
"I am going out, mamma," said Francine, "and you will be very good while I am away, will you not?"
"Yes, Cinette—yes."
"You will not try to get up?"
"No, Cinette."
"And to-morrow you shall have a pretty new cap—"
"With ribbons?"
"Yes, with ribbons."
The woman laughed with delight, but presently she uttered a cry of distress.
"The box! the box!—where is the box?"
Francine had heard this same exclamation over and over again, and attached no significance to it, but to humor the invalid, she answered:
"Oh! you shall have the box."
"Yes, I must have it. Everything is in it—fortune, money, titles. Where have I put it?"
Her voice dropped so low that Francine could hardly hear her.
It was time for the girl to go out, and, as it was Mardi Gras, she hoped for large receipts. She returned to her chamber and took her guitar. Just as she was going out, she heard a knock on her door. She started, and called out:
"Who is it?"
"A friend?"
"Your name?"
"You do not know me."
"Tell me your name."
A stifled oath was the reply.
"Open the door, I say. My name is Robeccal."
The young girl drew a breath of relief, for she was becoming sorely frightened by the pursuit of the Vicomte, and an unusual knock made her feel that it was he. But the voice and the name of Robeccal tranquillized her fears. She opened the door—our old friend of the circus stood before her. He began to grumble and scold.
"I beg your pardon," said the girl, gently, "but I am in haste, and if—"
"Suppose you offer me a chair, young lady! What manners!"
Francine repeated that she was in haste, and would be glad to know the occasion of his visit. Her manner was so decided that Robeccal saw that he must speak.
"I have come," he said, "to put you in the way of earning a little money."
"Go on."
"I assist in restaurants on fête days. I am an 'extra,' you understand, and am now at theVeau Sauté, at the corner. You know—"
"I know the establishment, certainly."
"Well, the master wishes to give a little entertainment to his customers to-night, and I thought of you. He will give you twenty francs."
Twenty francs! It was quite a fortune to the child, and yet she hesitated.
"Did the master give you no note for me?" she asked, at length.
"How suspicious you are! What are you afraid of!"
"Nothing. I will call at the restaurant now, when I go out."
"You must decide now, for if you decline I am to go for the man who has no arms, but who sings so well."
Robeccal showed her a card on which was written the girl's address and that of the armless singer.
Francine's hesitation vanished—she accepted the proposition.
"I will go," she said, "and at what hour?"
"At eight o'clock, sharp," Robeccal replied.
"And how long shall I be wanted?"
A wicked light came into the man's eyes.
"I don't know exactly—until ten or eleven, I suppose."
"But I must be home before midnight."
"Oh! of course; and if you are afraid to come alone, I am at your service. And now, good-bye."
He ran lightly down the stairs. When he reached the street he looked around. A man wrapped in a large cloak, a disguise much employed at that time, and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, approached him.
"Well?" he said, quickly.
"It is all right!" answered Robeccal. "She will come."
This man, who was none other than Fernando, the worthy friend of the Vicomte de Talizac, now slipped a gold piece into the scoundrel's hand.
"Twenty louis more," he said, "when the affair is accomplished!"
"Very good, sir. When I undertake anything, it is sure, let me tell you. La Roulante will see to everything."
The two men separated.
While these two accomplices were talking, Francine had reached the Square where she was to sing.
"Hurry up, Perrette! How about that sauce? Have you forgotten the parsley?"
And the proprietor of theVeau Sautétore about in the most distracted manner. Aubé had dreamed of vast rooms and huge kitchens, but the obstinacy of the people already living in the same building could not be conquered, and as yet he had not obtained the space he desired. They resisted every offer and every threat he made. He could have borne it better had these refractory persons been tenants whose vicinity addedéclatto his establishment. But it was not so. These tenants were a man known as Iron Jaws, a rope dancer called Fanfar, a girl named Caillette, and a clown with an odd name.
This Fanfar gave lessons in prestigiation, but the people who went up his private stairs were well dressed, and most of them looked like old soldiers.
While Aubé was worrying about these matters and many more, a carriage drove up to the door of the restaurant, and three gentlemen got out. These were Frederic de Talizac, Fernando de Vellebri, and Arthur de Montferrand, the duelist, all strangely alike in their lack of moral sense and in their cynicism, neither of them hesitating to do anything, however evil, to gratifytheir passions. Room No. 11 was ready for these gentlemen. The waiter took their cloaks and hats. Arthur threw himself on a sofa, and announced that there was to be no heavy talk until the dessert came on.
"Bravo!" said Fernando. "But perhaps you would kindly define what you mean by heavy talk? As for you, Frederic, I think you had an interview with your father to-day?"
"Champagne!" shouted Frederic, flinging his glass at the door, an original manner of summoning a waiter, which he had invented.
"Yes," he replied, "and the Marquis is resolved that the marriage shall take place in a fortnight—as if I had not other fish to fry!"
"But it seems to me," said Arthur, "that a union so desirable in every respect, a fortune so large—"
"Do you mean to insinuate, sir, that a fortune is essential?" asked Frederic, haughtily.
Here the Italian interfered, and smoothed down the Vicomte's asperities.
At this moment a fresh, young voice rose from the lower room, which was crowded, and when the voice ceased there came loud applause.
"That is a charming voice!" said Arthur. "I would like to see this nightingale a little nearer."
"And why not?" asked Talizac.
Fernando wished to oppose this idea, which might disarrange his carefully prepared plans, but the champagne had by this time affected the Vicomte.
"I say," he persisted, angrily, "I do not see anyobjection. I for one should like to hear the girl sing up here before the adventure."
"The adventure?" repeated Montferrand.
"A little surprise we have arranged for her—that is all."
Arthur looked bewildered, and then exclaimed:
"Ah! I see. Bravo!—call the proprietor, and bid him send the singer to us."
"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" said Fernando, "be careful what you do. No imprudences! Remember that you are not in the Palais Royal. The people down stairs won't stand any nonsense!"
Frederic rang the bell furiously, and the waiter was sent for the proprietor. Aubé presently appeared. He was very obsequious in his manner, for the party had ordered bottle after bottle of champagne.
"Who is that girl singing to the people in the café?" asked Frederic, abruptly.
"She is called the Marquise, sir—a pretty little creature, and as good as she is pretty!"
"I dare say! Now send her up here, and tell the waiter to bring up three more bottles of your best champagne."
Aubé stood still, twisting his cap in his hands.
"Well?" said Frederic, "why don't you go?"
"I wish to say, sir, that the girl is very respectable."
"We don't doubt it. We will pay her for her song—three louis, five—is that enough?"
Aubé felt that he had no right to deprive the girl of this money, and it was more than probable that these young fellows were not as wild as they seemed.Fernando's calm superciliousness reassured him in some degree.
"Are you going?" asked Frederic, somewhat rudely.
Aubé reluctantly left the room.
The restaurant was filled with customers, all respectable people with the exception of those seated around a table in the further corner of the room—they were doubtful in appearance. When Robeccal, in the discharge of his duties as "extra," came to this table he lingered there, even drinking a glass of wine, first taking care that his employer could not see him.
Aubé, greatly disturbed by the orders he had received, returned to the dining-room just as the Marquise was making her rounds to collect the money that was laid on the back of her guitar. Aubé touched her shoulder.
"I want to speak to you, petite," he said, as he drew her into a corner. "You are not rich, I fancy?"
"I should say not!" And Francine laughed. "What a queer thing to say!"
"I have a proposal to make."
"And what may that be?"
Aubé's kindly face inspired the girl with no distrust. He hesitated.
"You know," he said, "that I have no advice to give, but if you choose, you can make five louis."
"A hundred francs! You are jesting!"
"And only by singing two or three songs."
"But that would be better pay than the opera singers receive!"
"That may be!"
"But where am I to sing?"
"Here—on the next floor."
"Hallo! ambassador, are you never coming?" shouted Montferrand from the top of the stairs.
Francine started.
"They are young men, are they not?"
"Yes, but you need not be alarmed—they are only a little gay."
A hundred francs was a good deal of money. She could buy an easy chair for the poor invalid, and give her a little treat.
"Well?" asked Aubé, who would have been glad had she refused.
"I accept," she answered, "but you must not go far away. You must be near in case I should call."
"All right. No harm shall come to you in my house, let me tell you."
The girl went toward the stairs.
"What does that mean?" said one of the men at the table at the end of the room. "The linnet seems to be going of her own free will!"
"Silence!" said Robeccal, passing the table. "Watch and be ready!"
Meanwhile the people in the restaurant began to grumble at Francine's departure. She looked back from the stairs.
"Have a little patience," she said, with her lovely smile, "when I come back very shortly, I will sing you my best songs."
She followed Aubé to No. 11. The proprietor wasastonished to see that the door was open, and that one of the gentlemen had vanished.
Arthur and Fernando were there. Francine had seen the Italian before in the street, but Arthur was entirely unknown to her.
"I hope, Mademoiselle, you will sing us something," said Montferrand, politely.
Our readers will notice that this young man's instincts were not bad, and when removed from Frederic's influence, they resumed their ascendancy. The girl's gentle manner, her refined, pure face commended his respect.
Aubé, now quite reassured, hastened back to his duties below.
Francine began a prelude to a simple song, when suddenly she stopped, her guitar slipped from her hands. She saw Frederic de Talizac gliding into the room.
"Go on,ma belle" he said, "surely you are not afraid of me!" And he tried to take her by the waist.
"No," she replied, "I shall sing no more."
Frederic, though very tipsy, threw himself in front of the door.
"Yes, you will sing, and for each one of your sweet notes I will give you a kiss."
The girl drew back from his extended arms, and turning to the two men who stood looking on, she cried, with infinite contempt:
"Cowards! will neither of you interfere to prevent a woman from being insulted?"
Arthur's heart was stirred by this appeal.
"You are right," he replied. "Come, Frederic, no more of this!"
"Are you talking to me?" hiccoughed Frederic. "Take her from me if you dare!" And he put his arm around her.
"Help!" cried Francine. "Help!"
At the same moment, Frederic received a tremendous blow from Montferrand.
The Vicomte snatched a knife from the table, and the two men engaged in a hand to hand contest.
Francine was so terrified that she could not move.
Why had not Aubé heard this noise? We will return to the lower floor.
Robeccal was disgusted when he saw Francine go up-stairs. He felt that the ground was cut from under his feet, and that he was to lose the reward he had been promised. He stole partly up the stairs and listened. He went on, and when the quarrel burst out and he saw the knife in the hand of the Vicomte, he rushed down the stairs, and summoned the men at the table, who were on the watch for a signal from him.
Aubé had heard Francine's cry and ran to her aid, but two of the men summoned by Robeccal stood before the door.
"Let me pass!" cried Aubé.
"Softly, good sir," was the reply. "Don't meddle in what does not concern you."
Furious at being thus braved in his own establishment, Aubé thrust the men aside, but was driven back by repeated blows.
He turned to his customers.
"Gentlemen!" he cried, "they are insulting a poor girl up-stairs. Help me to save her; it is the Marquise—the singer!"
A number of men started up at this appeal.
The two bandits stood on the stairs with knives in their hands, and feet and hands ready to repel any one who attempted to ascend the stairs.
"Help! Murder!" shouted Aubé.
Women screamed, and clung to the arms of their husbands to prevent them from taking part in the contest. Others, less courageous, threw bottles and glasses at the scoundrels who promptly returned them.
In the meantime, Arthur had thrown Frederic on the floor. Fernando endeavored to separate them, but they were no more amenable to reason than if they had been wild beasts.
Pale and trembling, Francine leaned against the wall. Robeccal went to her.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "this is not my fault. Why did you come up here?"
"Why did I?" she repeated in agony.
"I got you into this trouble unintentionally, and now I must get you out!"
She did not distrust him, she was too good for that.
"Follow me!" said Robeccal. "I know a way into the street. No one will see you."
Arthur and Frederic were still fighting; the tumult below had not decreased.
Robeccal took the girl's hand, and led her to the door which opened into the private apartments of Aubé. They passed through these until they reachedanother flight of stairs. Down these the girl ran, closely followed by Robeccal. They went out through a narrow alley. Suddenly, Francine heard a whistle, and she was seized, a handkerchief over her head stifled her cries, and she felt that she was being carried away by vigorous arms.
"Well done!" said Robeccal, "and now for La Roulante!"
When the men on the stairs heard the whistle blown by Robeccal, they rushed through the crowd brandishing their knives. They disappeared in the street.
Aubé hurried up-stairs. Francine had disappeared. Fernando had finally succeeded in separating the combatants, and pushed Frederic out of the door.
Arthur, foaming with rage, called out to Aubé:
"Make haste, the girl has been carried off by the order of these people! I know what I say!"
Aubé hastened to his private rooms; he found the door that led to the stairs unlocked and open.
"What scoundrels they are!" cried Aubé.
"Yes," answered Montferrand, "but scoundrels who bear the best names in France—one is the Vicomte de Talizac, son of the Marquis de Fongereues."
A young man suddenly appeared on the stairs.
"Who speaks of Talizac and de Fongereues?" he asked.
"Ah! Monsieur Fanfar! heaven has sent you to my assistance. My establishment is ruined, but that is nothing to the ruin of this poor girl!"
"What poor girl?" asked Fanfar. "Pray explain yourself, Monsieur Aubé."
Montferrand had heard that this Fanfar was only a rope-dancer; but his air and manner, his dress, too, proclaimed him to hold a very different position, and he was greatly attracted by his appearance.
"It is a disgraceful piece of business, sir," he answered, "in which, I am sorry to say, I am in a measure concerned;—the Vicomte de Talizac—"
"I knew it!" murmured Fanfar.
"And his friend, Fernando de Vellebri—"
"The Italian spy, who betrayed his brothers, the Carbonari, and is now the slave of the Jesuits."
"All of which I knew nothing of; but at all events these two men, whom I have called my friends, to my shame, have carried off a young girl, a street singer—
"A most odious crime; but have you any idea where they have taken her?"
"No, not the slightest."
"And this girl, has she no father, no mother?"
"She is an orphan, and is called the Marquise."
"Ah! but her real name? Where does she live?"
"Only a little way from here, but a man named Robeccal can tell you exactly."
"Robeccal! A miserable scoundrel!"
"You know him then?"
"Only too well!"
"I know that the Marquise boards with a woman who is bed-ridden, and I remember that she is sometimes spoken of as Cinette, or Francine."
"Cinette!" cried Fanfar, "how old is she!"
"Fifteen or sixteen, I should say."
"Merciful Heavens! Can it be she! Am I going mad?"
"What are you saying, sir?" and Montferrand seemed to feel a real interest.
"You can't understand, but I shall save her. If I chance to meet that Talizac, I will crush him as I would a venomous reptile!"
"You are going in pursuit of the girl?" asked Aubé.
"Most certainly, nor will I rest until I have rescued her!"
"Accept my services," said Montferrand.
"Where am I to turn? What shall I do first? My head is dizzy." He held himself more erect. "But this is no time to give way. Thank you, sir, for your generous offer, of which I may avail myself later."
"I regret to have seemed, even for a moment, the accomplice of these men. My name is Arthur, son of the Marquis de Montferrand. Here is my card."
Fanfar took the bit of shining pasteboard.
"And here is my hand!" added Arthur.
"And now," said Fanfar, after a vigorous exchange of handshaking, "and now we have not a moment to lose!"
There was another disturbance below. A great noise, and a voice shouting, "Open! in the name of the law!"
Fanfar started.
"At last!" cried Aubé. "It is the police; probably by this time the men are arrested."
Fanfar laid his hand on his shoulder, and saidrapidly, "No, no; the police of Louis XVIII. do not disturb themselves for such trifles; they are after other game than criminals—"
"Open, in the name of the king! If not, we force the door!"
"These officers are in pursuit of men who have sworn eternal war against oppression and corruption—who detest a despotic monarchy and demand a free and honest republic!"
"Do you speak of yourself?" asked Montferrand, quickly.
Aubé opened his eyes wide. Certainly, this was a most extraordinary evening!
"You are lost!" cried Montferrand.
"Not yet!" answered Fanfar. "Pray, Monsieur Aubé, hold them in conversation, a few minutes. Good-bye, but remember that I shall rescue Francine." As he spoke, he ran lightly up the upper stairs.
Aubé, according to his instructions, slowly raised the bars of the door, at which the police were impatiently knocking. When at last the door was opened, a crowd poured in, headed by a Police Commissioner.
"Keeping me waiting in this way will cost you dear, let me tell you!" foamed this important functionary.
"But why are you here?" stammered the proprietor of the restaurant.
"I don't suppose we are bound to tell you that, are we? But first, who is that man?" and he pointed to Arthur, who pale and covered with blood, was not especially reassuring in appearance.
"That man, sir, of whom you speak so rudely," saidArthur, with some heat, "is the son of the Marquis de Montferrand."
"I beg ten thousand pardons!" said the official, in the most obsequious tone, "but this house is a den—"
"A den!" gasped Aubé.
"Yes, a den where the enemies of our beloved king plot together."
"And who are these enemies? What may their names be?"
"Gudel, or Iron Jaws, and a scoundrel named Fanfar."
"Indeed! Very good, sir, if you have come to arrest these men, do not let me detain you!"
Arthur and Aubé exchanged a glance. Fanfar was by this time undoubtedly in safety.
"The house is well watched," continued the Commissioner, "and they cannot escape our vigilance!"
Montferrand started on hearing this. The Commissioner ran up-stairs, followed by his men. He reached the upper floor. An oath was heard.
"The birds have flown!" he shouted.
"They went by the roof!" some one called from below. This some one was Cyprien, who had been on guard in the street, and had seen forms against the sky.
"To the roof, then! And remember your orders, take them alive or dead!"
Cyprien, as agile as a tiger cat, now stood by the side of the Commissioner.
"You must go out this way," he said, pointing to the window.
"Zounds!" muttered the Commissioner, drawing back.
"Take care!" sneered Cyprien, "the king has his eyes on you!"
Thus cheered and encouraged, the Commissioner stepped out on the narrow cornice.
"There they are!" cried Cyprien. "There they are! They wish to reach the next house. We shall have them! we shall have them!"
Gudel and Fanfar had gone as far as they could. They found they must turn. Fanfar stopped short and seemed to be doing something to a chimney.
"Surrender!" shouted the Commissioner, some distance off.
"Surrender!" repeated Cyprien.
At this moment a man was seen to vault into space; it was Fanfar, who had sprang across the gulf between the two houses. With him he had taken the end of the rope which he had fastened to the chimney. He held the rope so firmly that it made a bridge. Gudel began the perilous voyage.
"At all events, we will have a dead body!" growled the Commissioner, who advanced to cut the rope.
Cyprien did not at first understand.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Stop!"
To kill Gudel was ruin, for he was the only human being who could prove Fanfar's birth. But he was too late, the zealous Commissioner had cut the rope.
"Fool!" shouted Cyprien, and then he listened to hear the dull thud of the body falling on the stones below.
But he heard nothing, for Gudel had not fallen. By a movement more rapid than thought, Fanfar, divining what was to happen, had thrown himself flat on the roof with his arms extended beyond the gutter, and had shouted to Gudel:
"Hold fast to the rope!"
Iron Jaws snatched the rope between his formidable jaws, and when the rope was cut he simply hung and waited. Fanfar slowly drew him up. It was a magnificent display of energy and strength. And presently Fanfar and Gudel stood side by side.
"Now, gentlemen, it is your turn," said Fanfar.
"No! it is my turn!" shouted Cyprien, taking a pistol from his pocket and firing.
The ball broke a slate which fell into the street. As to Gudel and Fanfar, they were far away and a high chimney hid them from view.
Although our two friends had made their escape for the time being, they were by no means in an enviable position, for it must be confessed that midnight on the roof of an unknown house is not very delightful. Iron Jaws and Fanfar had accomplished a miracle of strength and audacity, but what were they to do next?
"I must say that I should like a few hours of rest," said Gudel.
"Yes, and we must have a little talk, but where I know not."
Fanfar's tone struck his friend as being rather depressed.
"What is it?" said Gudel. "You have had encounters with the police before, and will have again, I imagine."
"It is not that; but first we will walk over these roofs, to the end."
"Very good!"
They started, Fanfar going a little in front. Suddenly he stopped.
"Zounds!" he said, "here is a wide courtyard; it is impossible for us to cross it. We must get down now."
"And how, for Heaven's sake!"
"By taking hold of the gutters and the balconies."
"One would suppose that we were gorillas," sighed Gudel.
"We must do something!"
"Yes, but I am a little heavy, as you have reason to acknowledge. How can we tell that guards are not below waiting for us. Let us see if we can't get into some window."
"And find the room inhabited?"
"Oh! I will explain that we don't mean to steal, but that we will give him money if he will aid us."
"Very good. Now do you take the lead, I will follow."
Fanfar was strangely preoccupied. While Gudel talked to him a voice was continually repeating in his ear:
"Cinette! Cinette!"
Gudel saw that there was something unusual going on in the mind of his friend. He had been long accustomed to unquestioning obedience to Fanfar. Ever since La Roulante left him after the attempt at assassination, Gudel had been a different man and subject to fits of great depression from which Fanfar alone could rouse him, and when Fanfar rushed into his room calling out, "The police! the police!" Gudel followed him without a question.
Suddenly Gudel stumbled. Fanfar caught him, but it was too late. There was a crash of broken glass. Gudel had broken one of those small windows in the roof which landlords consider sufficient for tenants who pay only sixty francs per annum for their attics. And from this window emerged a long, strange, whiteobject, which was probably a man, as it terminated in a white cotton nightcap. This strange form had two long arms. One hand held a candle and the other sheltered it from the wind. There was a yell of amazement from their throats.
"Fanfar!"
"Bobichel!"
"I thought you were dead, Bobichel," said Iron Jaws, severely.
"No, I am not dead; but I was asleep."
"You are alone!"
"Of course!"
"Then you can take us in."
Bobichel uttered an oath. "Of course I can!" he shouted.
It was clear that he was not a ghost. Ghosts do not swear nor carry candles in their hands. Finally the three were seated in a small attic about four yards square. They all talked at once.
How did Bobichel get there? Where had he been?
He had been taken to the hospital and there detained on account of some peculiarities in his condition, which greatly excited the curiosity of the medical students. One day as Bobichel was recovering, he was in the garden and noticed a door in the wall, and saw that the gardener had left his key in it. He selected the moment judiciously, and finally found himself on the road to Paris, where he had arrived that very morning. He had not a sou, but he had rented this garret which the landlord had had on his hands for three months by reason of the rats, and therefore nobly refrained fromasking money in advance. A bundle of straw had taken his remaining five sous, and on this the ex-clown extended himself, thinking of the past and resolutely closing his eyes to the future. His first care was to regain his strength, which had been sorely taxed by his journey. While half asleep, he had heard steps on the roof, and with a vague belief that the whole hospital force were in pursuit of him, he resolved to brave them. Fate had brought to him, however, his two best friends—Gudel and Fanfar.
After they had heard this explanation, it became Bobichel's turn to question.
"Let Fanfar tell you," said Gudel. "I really know nothing except that he bade me fly, that my neck has been nearly broken, and that he saved my life; but why I have been obliged to run about over roofs in this way, I really can't say."
"Perhaps you are still conspiring?" asked Bobichel, innocently.
Fanfar shouted with laughter. "Yes," he replied, "and more than ever!"
"Tell me," asked the clown, "is it a difficult trade? I have nothing in the world to do, and I must have some occupation, of course."
"We will see about that later."
"You have said nothing about Mademoiselle Caillette."
"She is in safety. She knew nothing of the pursuit of the police. To-morrow, before she begins to be uneasy, we will send her word where we are, and bid her come to us."
The clock struck two.
"Do you hear that, Bobichel?" said Fanfar. "You are far from strong, and must rest."
"No, no. I have found you, and there is rest in that!"
"My dear fellow, you must get yourself into the best possible condition if you join us. You will need your legs, I assure you. Sleep, Bobichel, sleep."
The truth was that, in spite of his good intentions, Bobichel was dead with sleep, and presently he tumbled upon his mattress, and loud snores informed the two friends that he had succumbed to their entreaties. Then, and not until then, Fanfar leaned toward Gudel.
"You will admit," he said, "that I do not easily become a prey to illusions, but the truth is, that I am greatly disturbed by something that has happened. Will you answer a few questions?"
"Certainly, my boy—any questions."
"You know, my second father, the strange accident by which I was thrown in your way. You have told me of the researches you made in the village of Leigoutte. You learned, did you not, that my mother perished in a fire?"
"Yes—a fire set by the Cossacks."
"And my father?"
"Died on the field of battle, in the defence of France!"
"I am haunted by a dim remembrance of a flight through the darkness, leading my little sister by my side, and then she seemed to vanish."
"And you have never seen her since?"
"No; but I have never forgotten her, and I am convinced that if she is living she has not forgotten her brother. Ah! when I think of all this, I hate more than ever the oppressors of France, who have opened a road to the throne over dead bodies!"
"But why are you troubled with these thoughts to-day?"
"I will tell you. My sister's name was Francine, but we called her Cinette, and this evening a girl was carried away by violence from theVeau Sauté."
"And that Aubé has such a good face!"
"Oh! he was not concerned in this villainy. The crime was committed by a man who has more than once crossed our path—the Vicomte de Talizac!"
"Oh! what a family that is!" cried Gudel. "It was his lacquey, or his father's, who denounced us to-night!"
"This is not all. The truth is, Gudel—you will probably think me mad—but I am convinced that the girl who was carried off—the one called Cinette—"
"You mean that you believe her to be your—"
"I can't reason," interrupted Fanfar. "It is the name of my little sister, and the conviction is unalterable that this girl is my sister. And now I can do nothing for her, and she in such deadly peril!" He stopped short. "Gudel," he exclaimed, "you have never seen me shrink from danger?"
"Not I."
"And yet, to-night I feel as weak as a child."
Tears came into the eyes of Fanfar as he spoke. Hisnerves were thoroughly shaken by the exertions he had made to save Gudel and himself.
Bobichel here lifted himself up.
"Fanfar," he said, "let me help you!"
At these kind words uttered by this honest, faithful voice, Fanfar started. He had no right to despair, he said to himself, when he had such friends.
"You are right, Bobichel," he cried. "I have no right to talk of my energy, for I am trembling like a woman!"
"I should like to tell you what I think, sir," the clown stammered, "though I do not wish to take a liberty, but didn't you say you thought you had found your sister?"
"Oh! do not say that!"
"Yes, I must say it, and I think it would be best if you made up your mind that it was she, and acted on that supposition."
"I think you are right. I am told that this girl lives with a poor paralytic. I will go to her and question her. From her replies I shall be able to judge if chance has really put me on the track of her whom I lost so long ago. But we ought to follow these scoundrels at once!"
"I will see to them!" said Iron Jaws.
"Can you give me the smallest clue?"
"Only that of Robeccal's name."
"Robeccal's name!" exclaimed Bobichel. "If he has anything to do with this matter I will soon finish him up."
Fanfar laid his hand on Gudel's shoulder.
"My friend," he said, "I hesitate to touch an unhealed wound, but we must speak frankly to each other. La Roulante and this Robeccal went away together. This woman was thoroughly vicious; it is difficult to imagine the scale of vice to which she would not fall. I am sorry to pain you, but I feel sure if Robeccal has assisted in carrying away this girl that he has placed her with La Roulante. Therefore, while I go to see Cinette's sick friend, you will hunt up this woman and her accomplice. Will you do this, Gudel?"
Gudel, whose face had been buried in his hands, now looked up.
"Fanfar," he said, "were I to die of shame and grief, I will obey you, for I should be doing a good act."
"This girl must be saved! I dare not indulge in the hope that she is Cinette, and, moreover, I need all my courage. Gudel, your hand. Bobichel, I rely on you!"
These friends in a cordial grasp of their hands, exchanged a solemn oath which bound them to the sacred cause of justice.
Francine's chamber is dark. The little bed with its white curtains looks as if it were built of marble. There is not a sound. The room is empty. The hours pass on, and still Francine does not return. Her absence excites great wonder in the house, for she is always in very early. "Could anything have happened to her?" one person asked another, but not a voice breathed a word reflecting on the girl's purity. Had any one known where she had gone, some one would have started in search of her. The porter looked once more down the street; the clock had struck twelve. No one came.
In the gray, chilly dawn, a hand slowly pushed open the door of Cinette's room. It is the mad woman. She instinctively knows that Francine never goes to sleep at night without kissing her. She has not felt those dewy lips touch her forehead this night. Restless and uneasy this sick woman, who for years has hardly left her bed, has crawled to Cinette's room. She is familiar with it, for she has many times implored Francine to take her there; and when the girl succeeded in doing so, the old woman laughed to see the curtains so white and the flowers so gay.
She reaches the bed, and feels with her poor witheredhands for the girl's head. Cinette is not there, and the poor creature realizes it and weeps in agony. She would have reminded one of an Hindoo idol had she been seen. An hour elapsed, but the poor deformed woman still lies there.
Suddenly she raises her head. She hears rapid steps on the stairs. When Cinette went out she had locked the door of her room. The porter to be sure had another key. When some one knocked at the porter's lodge he was not yet up, and answered gruffly that the Marquise had not come in and the old woman could not move. There were several rapid knocks on the door.
"Open! open!" a voice called.
The voice had a strange, familiar tone. She listens. And Fanfar, for it is he, repeats his demand.
"In the name of Francine, I beg you to open the door. It is for her sake."
By what miracle did this paralyzed frame struggle to her feet? She takes a step—then another.
"Make haste!" said Fanfar.
The woman obeys. She turns the key in the lock, with many efforts, but it is done. Fanfar enters, and in the pale morning light is confronted by this horrible apparition. He contemplates her with horror and pity.
"Madame," he said, "is not Francine here?"
She did not reply. She is looking at him earnestly.
"She has been carried off, by a man named Talizac."
The sick woman tried to repeat this name.
"Tell me," continued Fanfar, "the life of this girl, who cares for you, who loves you, may depend on what you tell me. Have you ever seen any man by thename of Talizac here? And a woman of great size known as La Roulante, has she never been here to propose an infamous bargain?"
But he is interrupted. The paralytic falls upon her knees, and stretching out her arms, cries:
"Jacques! Jacques!"
"Who is this terrible creature," asks Jacques, "who calls me by the name of my boyhood?"
Suddenly a strange idea flashes into his mind. He looks eagerly into the eyes of the poor woman. He recognizes her; he leans over her.
"You called me Jacques, did you not? Yes, that was my name, when I was a boy in a village among the mountains. My father's name was Simon, Simon Fougère, and I had a little sister Cinette."
The woman quivered from head to foot. She threw her arms around his neck.
"Jacques! my child! My name is Françoise, and I am the widow of Simon Fougère."
"Mother! dear mother!"
This shock has been so great that the vail that obscured the poor woman's brain was rent in twain. She sees, she knows, she understands. It is he—it is the boy she held on her knees, in those days so long ago. He took her tenderly in his arms, and both weep.
"Ah! dear mother," he said, "you braved death for the sake of your children. How did you escape?"
But the momentary glimmer of reason had in a measure vanished, and when he spoke of Cinette she did not seem to be aware of who the girl was.
"You must listen to me, mother," said Fanfar,rapidly. "Jacques was not alone in that inn. There was another child; she was small, she had light curls."
His voice was so sympathetic and persuasive that Françoise saw it all, saw the little rosy face once more.
What was to be done? Time was passing, and now Fanfar knew that she who was in the power of a scoundrel, was his little sister Francine. He sees a miniature hanging on the wall, he takes it down.
"Yes, it is she—it is Cinette!" he cries.
The sick woman snatches it from his hand. She looks at it.
"Yes, it is my child."
"And you never knew it before?"
"No, she called me mamma, but I never called her daughter."
"And, mother, your daughter is in danger."
"Ah! I knew it, she did not kiss me to-night. Where is she?"
"In the power of a scoundrel, of the Vicomte de Talizac."
"Talizac!" The sick woman was troubled by the name, but she could not grasp the memories it had aroused.
The door opened hastily, and Gudel appeared.
"Gudel! Have you found Robeccal or La Roulante?"
"They have vanished. They have been living in la Rue des Venaigrurs, but last night they announced that they were about to move."
"And this is all you have discovered?"
"All."
"Then Gudel, I must tell you that this unfortunate creature I have in my arms is my mother, and Francine is my sister."
Gudel looked utterly aghast. Before he could speak, Bobichel appeared.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said to Fanfar, "but knowing that the sick lady was alone, I went for some one."
Caillette stepped forward.
The girl said in a low voice to Fanfar:
"Will you allow me to take care of your mother?"
She then turned to Françoise, and kissed her as Cinette would have done.
"Good, kind souls!" murmured Fanfar, "with the assistance of such people we ought to succeed."
He kissed his mother again, then turning to Gudel and Bobichel, he cried:
"Come with me! And may Eternal Justice be with us also!"