Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  ‘Then in your own interests you had best take it to M. Louvel,’ was the uncompromising answer.

  Capoulade rose with great dignity.

  ‘I am an honourable man, madame,’ he informed her, ‘and I prefer to be on the side of honour. Therefore I come to you, for I should prefer to deal with you.’

  ‘But if you find me unreasonable you would no longer scruple to go to M. Louvel?’

  ‘I should scruple, madame, but I should go,’ said Capoulade.

  Thereafter they bargained for the best part of an hour, the negotiations being protracted by madame’s distrust of Capoulade. It was not until he rose to leave her that she made up her mind.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ she said. ‘You shall have a thousand livres; five hundred now in exchange for that document, and my note of hand for the other five hundred, payable when I am once again in possession of the theatre.’

  Capoulade considered.

  ‘If I agree, madame,’ he asked, ‘how do you propose to act?’

  ‘Why, I shall go straight to Paris and place the matter before the Comptroller-General.’

  ‘You might bungle the affair,’ he objected, ‘in which case I should lose five hundred livres. I insist, madame, upon accompanying you, and you must consent to be guided by my advice.’

  She made some demur at first, but ended by agreeing, reflecting that his advice might, after all, be useful.

  Madame Lobreau took a post-chaise that very evening, and, accompanied by Capoulade, now in a suit of black and looking almost respectable, she set out for Paris.

  She possessed some little influence, and by exerting it she obtained, three days later, an interview with M. Turgot, the Comptroller-General. Accompanied ever by Capoulade, she was ushered into the great man’s room in the Tuileries.

  There, for once in his life, the little rogue was rather out of countenance. He was overawed by the splendour of his surroundings, and not a little scared by the elegant man with the weary face and wide-set eyes who sat at the ormolu-encrusted writing-table.

  ‘I am come to tell you, monsieur, that your agent in Lyons is a rogue,’ was madame’s uncompromising opening. ‘He abuses the authority which you have vested in him by selling appointments for his own profit.’

  Now, it happened that Monsieur Turgot placed the utmost confidence in Louvel. He flashed his searching glance upon the pair, and Capoulade shivered.

  ‘You allude, madame, to the revocation of your licence for the Lyons theatre,’ said the Comptroller in a voice that was as weary as his countenance. ‘My agent gives the soundest reason for the step, which I approve whilst deploring its necessity.’

  Madame breathed gustily.

  ‘May one enquire your agent’s reason, monsieur?’

  Monsieur took up a paper.

  ‘Amongst others, madame, he finds that a class of play is being encouraged in which the new and unhealthy doctrines of the rights of man, and the like, are being exploited.’

  ‘But, monsieur, that is utterly false.’

  ‘I must prefer my agent’s judgement,’ said that composed and weary gentleman.

  Madame gasped as if for breath. Then:

  ‘If I can lay proof before you, monsieur, that Louvel has dispossessed me so that he may earn a bribe, what then, monsieur?’

  ‘Such an abuse of authority shall be punished.’

  ‘Good,’ said madame, with satisfaction. ‘Will you give yourself the trouble to read this?’

  And she produced Capoulade’s document.

  Monsieur Turgot perused it with frowning eyes. He turned it about in his fingers.

  ‘You pretend that this is genuine?’ he said contemptuously.

  ‘Certainly, monsieur,’ snapped Capoulade.

  The Comptroller’s eyes were levelled upon him for a moment.

  ‘Who is this?’ he enquired.

  ‘My secretary, monsieur,’ replied madame.

  ‘Ah! And how does this document, if genuine, come to be in your hands?’

  Again it was Capoulade who interposed.

  ‘It — it was — procured, monsieur.’

  ‘Procured, was it? Now listen to me, both of you. In view of your categorical accusation of Monsieur Louvel, I shall summon him to Paris. If he prove guilty he shall be fitly punished and your theatre shall be restored to you. But if, as I suspect, this document is a forgery, then the law shall deal with you both, and rigorously.’

  Madame Lobreau was assailed by momentary panic, partly allayed, however, by Capoulade’s show of confidence.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘may I, in the interests of justice, venture upon a suggestion?’

  ‘In the interests of justice all suggestions are welcome,’ replied M. Turgot sardonically.

  Capoulade bowed.

  ‘Then, monsieur, I would very respectfully submit to your consideration that not Monsieur Louvel’s word but only the subsequent events themselves can prove whether this document is true or false, and I would suggest, again very respectfully, that you allow the events to speak.’

  M. Turgot frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘And how long do you suggest that the matter should lie in this suspense?’ he asked.

  ‘A fortnight, monsieur, should prove long enough,’ said Capoulade.

  The Comptroller pondered the matter yet a moment.

  ‘Be it so,’ he said, and upon that dismissed them.

  The fortnight that ensued was for Madam Lobreau a period of considerable anxiety, which not all Capoulade’s assurances sufficed to allay. When, at the end of it, there came a summons from Monsieur Turgot, that anxiety was converted into positive alarm. She obeyed it, nevertheless, and Capoulade went with her to the Tuileries once more.

  Monsieur Turgot was very grave, and his manner less weary and sardonic than when last they had seen him.

  ‘Madame,’ he announced, ‘I have here a letter from my Lyons agent, Theodore Louvel — a letter received five days ago — in which he announces to me that he has found in a certain Monsieur Noirmont your successor at the Grand Theatre.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Capoulade.

  ‘Immediately upon receiving it I desired Monsieur Louvel to wait upon me. I judge no man unheard. He has just arrived, and is awaiting audience. I deemed it well that you should be present at the interview.’

  Nervously madame expressed her gratitude. Capoulade trembled a little.

  Theodore Louvel was introduced — raffishly elegant and impudently at ease, no whit discouraged by the presence of Madame Lobreau, though guessing she was there as a plaintiff.

  ‘A complaint has been lodged against you, monsieur,’ said the Comptroller, when Louvel had made his bow and his compliments. ‘It is alleged by Madame Lobreau that the reasons you urged for dispossessing her of the theatre are ill-founded.’

  Theodore smiled deprecatingly.

  ‘Of course, monsieur, but I can affirm that I had no interests to serve other than those of his Majesty.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Monsieur Turgot. ‘And yet madame goes so far as to say that you were bribed by M. Noirmont.’

  ‘That,’ replied Theodore, ‘is an obvious calumny.’

  ‘True,’ said Monsieur Turgot. ‘And yet madame’s story is oddly circumstantial. She can even tell me the sum paid by this Noirmont. It was, she says, ten thousand livres.’

  Louvel’s aplomb fell from him for a moment. He stood chap-fallen, and his colour changed. But his recovery was swift. He repudiated the charge with all the heat of offended virtue.

  ‘Look at this, monsieur,’ said the Comptroller, ‘and tell me if you have ever seen it before.’

  He held out the document which Capoulade had sold to Madame Lobreau.

  Louvel took it nervously, but as he scanned it he recovered his composure. He almost laughed when he placed it on the Comptroller’s writing-table.

  ‘An impudent and an obvious forgery, monsieur. Noirmont’s very name is misspelt.’

  ‘Yet,’ was the slow answer, ‘this document, if forged, as
you say, is oddly prophetic. It has been in my hands a fortnight — a fortnight, do you understand? Can you explain how it came to foretell so accurately the name of the man to whom the control of the Lyons theatre has since been granted by you?’

  ‘Why — why — —’ faltered Louvel; and there he paused, staring in dismay at the smiling Comptroller. He was utterly bewildered — utterly without answer to so incredible a statement. ‘But that is not possible, monsieur,’ he cried out at last.

  ‘I tell you that it is so, monsieur. You cannot explain the circumstances, eh? It is at once mysterious and convincing — a remarkable combination. Be good enough to wait in the ante-room, Louvel. We shall talk of this again.’

  The dumbfoundered agent stumbled blindly out of the room in the wake of the servant summoned by M. Turgot. Then for some moments the Comptroller wrote rapidly, watched in silence by Madame Lobreau and Capoulade.

  ‘There, madame,’ he said at last, ‘is an order to my new agent in Lyons to restore you possession of your theatre. In all the circumstances I will ask no questions about this document you brought me. I confess that I am curious, but if I knew all perhaps my duty would not permit me to deal with you as generously as I desire to deal.’

  Bewildered, but clear, at least, upon the all-important fact that she was once more in possession of her theatre, Madame Lobreau expressed her thanks and took her leave.

  ‘What did he mean?’ she asked Capoulade when they were outside the palace.

  Capoulade grinned. In his immense relief he was proud of his exploit.

  ‘Why, you see, Louvel was right,’ he confessed. ‘You see, that document — /enfin/, I wrote it as well as I could from memory, after hearing Monsieur Theodore read it to his father. I am afraid my spelling — —’

  ‘You wrote it?’ Her voice became shrill. At last she understood. ‘Then it was a forgery. Why, you have swindled me.’

  ‘Ah, no, madame. I undertook that your theatre should be restored to you, and I have your note of hand for five hundred livres payable when that shall be accomplished. It is accomplished, madame. But,’ he added, as an afterthought, ‘I must improve my spelling.’

  THE PLAGUE OF GHOSTS

  Capoulade had made the discovery that honesty is the best policy. He was in hiding in an alley near the Carousel at the time, and in hourly expectation of capture and harsh treatment as an anti-climax to his three years’ career of ingenious and successful crime.

  He was persuaded that from this Paris, to which an evil hour had brought him, there could be no escape, for he was well-informed that M. de Sartines’ ubiquitous agents were diligently seeking him. So he set his wits to work, and resolved upon a course whose boldness would have appalled a stouter but less ingenious spirit. If he would find safety he must look for it under the very wing of the Minister of Police. Such was the resolve he took. Dishonesty, he realized, was stale, it was failing him in his adversity, and he would mark his scorn of that fair-weather friend by abandoning its pursuit, and ranging himself hereafter on the side of law and order — always provided that M. de Sartines should prove the astute opportunist he was reputed.

  The brilliant notion once conceived, he was not the man to delay its execution. The same spring day, whose waking hours had been devoted to its conception, saw him, towards noon, in the ante-chamber of the famous Minister. Thus far he had penetrated without hindrance, and he now sent M. de Sartines a message to the effect that a certain M. Quélaure, whose acquaintance with criminal methods was vast, sought to place his services at the Lieutenant-General’s disposal.

  From the ante-chamber to the chamber is but a step; yet it was the one step in his journey from the Carousel to the presence of M. de Sartines which Capoulade had expected to find fraught with difficulty. Instead, he found it astonishingly, discomposingly, easy. He had not been waiting more than a few moments when an usher approached him with the message that M. de Sartines would see him at once.

  He took a deep breath, like a man about to plunge into deep waters, and he might have been observed to pale a little. Here was the situation he had boldly sought; yet, despite his unparalleled effrontery, he did not relish it now that it had arrived. The notion which had seemed a finely daring one two hours ago, seemed now incalculably rash, and he found himself wishing that he had given it longer consideration before so recklessly proceeding to act upon it.

  Thus, feeling very much as the fly may have felt after it had accepted the spider’s invitation to walk into its parlour, he stepped into the famous policeman’s office. At a littered writing-table he beheld a richly apparelled gentleman, in the prime of life, with a hooked nose and a pair of eyes grey and wide-set that were submitting him to an undisguised and searching scrutiny.

  ‘Monsieur Capoulade,’ said that gentleman, in the most affable voice in the world, ‘I have been expecting you for some days, although I had not presumed to hope that you would do me the honour of a spontaneous visit.’

  Capoulade felt his knees sinking under him, as many another criminal had done in the presence of that dread man from whom nothing seemed concealed. ‘Monsieur — —’ he gasped, and there he stopped, his cheeks blanched and his ferrety eyes as wide as he could make them. What, indeed, remained for him to say? Sartines laughed musically.

  ‘You are surprised that I should know you?’ murmured the Minister, with a lift of the eyebrows, and it flashed through the little rascal’s mind that if ever he had need of effrontery, he had need of it now.

  His aplomb returned. ‘Immensely flattered,’ he answered, with a bow.

  Sartines’ smile broadened. He liked self-possession, accounting it one of the qualities that make for worldly success.

  ‘I understand from your message — although you sent it under a /nom de guerre/ — that you are seeking service with me, and that you suggest that your acquaintance with criminal methods should render you a valuable agent?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur,’ answered Capoulade, a world of mingled hope and despair in his mind. ‘I am sick of crime, and I have a mind not only to be honest, but to make war upon the dishonesty of others.’

  Sartines settled himself comfortably in his chair, and for ten minutes Capoulade could make nothing of the conversation that ensued, which was now serious, now rallying on the Minister’s part. Suddenly the Lieutenant-General asked a question.

  ‘Monsieur Capoulade, are you interested in ghosts?’

  Capoulade’s eyes dilated slightly.

  ‘Monsieur, I have never met one.’

  ‘I can afford you the opportunity,’ was the Minister’s calm reply. ‘If you care to avail yourself of it, I have employment for you, if not — there is always the Châtelet.’

  Capoulade shuddered, and moistened his lips.

  ‘I should have preferred, monsieur, that you could have entrusted me with some affair in which I should have to deal with ordinary mortals; but if you give me to choose between the Châtelet and the ghost, why, then, I must take the ghost.’

  ‘Then it is settled. My information is that the Château de la Blanchette, in Maine, is infested by a plague of ghosts. You should be acquainted with the place, for I understand that you burgled it six months ago.’

  ‘I knew nothing of the ghosts, or I should have hesitated,’ rejoined Capoulade, with an effrontery that provoked a smile from Sartines.

  ‘You know now,’ said the Minister, ‘and if you are anxious for an affair with ordinary mortals, you shall have that as well. A deal of spurious silver is circulating in Maine at present, and my agents trace its source to the town of La Blanchette. Since you are going there to rid the Château of its plague of ghosts, I will further entrust it to you to rid me the town of this plague of coiners. I should not be surprised if the elucidation of one mystery affords the explanation of the other. Former agents of mine have failed over this same task. To you shall belong the honour of succeeding. I may take it that you accept?’

  Sartines was justified in his assumption, for poor Capoulade was between
the sword and the wall, and must be content with any terms that were offered him. And so, entrusted with this double mission, he left Paris for Maine that very afternoon.

  He travelled by post without incident as far as Chartres; and here his luck came signally to his assistance, thrusting him into conversation with a neighbour who had joined the coach at the post-house of that city. In itself this was a trivial matter, a daily happening among travellers; but in Capoulade’s case it had this much of interest that ere they had been acquainted an hour the conversation between them had turned upon the supernatural. It was this new travelling-companion — a healthy, hearty, rubicund fellow, of some forty summers — who had introduced the subject. And Capoulade had not allowed it to be lightly thrust aside by other topics. Ghosts were concerning him very closely just then, and he was of a mind to discover all that he could concerning their habits. His companion seemed no less anxious to pursue the subject, with the consequence that Capoulade had presently mastered the facts — surprising by virtue of the coincidence they covered — that his name was Coupri, that he was the intendant of the Sieur de la Blanchette, and that he was on his way to the Château de La Blanchette to investigate a matter of supernatural apparitions with which the place was said to be plagued.

  ‘Nobody has resided at the Château for the past five years with the exception of a Monsieur Flaumel and his son, who are acting as stewards. They are honest fellows both, and the estate has thriven under their rule, of which they render my master a six-monthly account. Of the ghosts they know nothing, and refuse to believe in their existence. But six months ago M. de la Blanchette’s two children went down there with a nurse, intending to remain for the vintage. Three nights was all they could endure, and they were obliged to return to Paris lest the children’s minds should suffer from the terrors to which they were nightly submitted. A month ago Madame de la Blanchette, herself, accompanied by a maid, went to Maine in consequence of her doctor having ordered her a few weeks in the country. She slept at La Blanchette one single night, and returned to Paris next morning, vowing that nothing would ever cause her to set foot again across that accursed threshold. It is in consequence of this that my master is sending me down to see what I can discover.’