Don'tyou feel the hand of Providence? Doesn't this bring home to you themajesty of eternity better than any religion that has been tried orthought of? Really, Ashton, really..."
I was amazed at his sudden outburst of pent-up feeling--I had imaginedhim cold, undemonstrative, unemotional, a being without nerves anddevoid of temperament. So his self-control and apparent calmness hadbeen nothing but a mask. I think I liked him all the better for it.
We heard voices--women's shrill, terrified voices. We were unable tolocate them. Suddenly I started. Surely that was Vera's voice! Yes, Irecognised it.
Attentively we both listened. Then, as the flames shot up again,lighting up the meadows away to the woods, we both distinctly saw insilhouette a man and a woman struggling in the distance.
The man had her by the wrists. He was overpowering her. At that samemoment the red glare sank, and both were hidden in the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
FOUND IN THE DEBRIS.
We were on the alert in a moment.
Though we searched in the darkness for a distance of a hundred yards ormore, we failed to come upon either the man or the woman of whom we hadcaught a brief glimpse as they struggled desperately.
Nor did we again hear the sound of voices. That I had heard Vera'svoice, I felt convinced. We wondered if there was a lodge, and how farit was away. Perhaps the servants had taken shelter there.
"The whole place seems to be deserted," Faulkner said when, after afutile search, we again found ourselves near the burning chateau, wherethe fire had by this time subsided considerably. "And yet there musthave been people in the house--at any rate, servants."
We walked right round the chateau. What a huge old place it had been!No wonder the fire had taken a long time to reach us, if it had brokenout, as it presumably had done, in a wing remote from the room where wehad been. Judging by the architecture of the outer walls I concludedthat the chateau must have been built towards the end of the fourteenthcentury, and afterwards added to.
There was a sharp nip in the air, and we felt chilly enough. Alreadythe streaks of dawn were striving to pierce the belt of leaden clouds,against which the black pinewoods could be seen distinctly outlined.
Faulkner turned to me.
"Have you any money?" he asked.
"Plenty," I answered. "Why?"
"When it is daylight we must make for the nearest village and get aconveyance to the railway-station. We must be miles from everywhere, orfire-escapes would have come along before now. I suppose the Baronne isdead."
"She can have escaped only by a miracle," I said. "We shall probablyknow soon."
"And that cur--Paulton. What can have become of him?"
"I can't help thinking it was Paulton we saw struggling. But who canthe woman have been? I hope it wasn't Vera. I am certain I heard hervoice. What do you think?"
"It may have been Mademoiselle de Coudron," Faulkner said. "She seemsto have disappeared. What a brave girl! She must have climbed alongthe roofs to save us, with the fire just behind her. I wonder who thewoman was who called for help first of all--I mean before we knew thatfire had broken out."
"The whole thing is most mysterious, but the biggest mystery is thedisappearance of everybody. We heard at least three voices in thedarkness!"
Happening to glance down the long carriage drive which, after windingfor a hundred yards across the broad, level lawns, disappeared into thewood, I noticed two men on horseback approaching at a walk. They hadjust emerged from the wood, and, so far as I could see in thehalf-light, were officials of some kind.
They broke into a jog-trot as they caught sight of us, and took a shortcut across the grass. As they came near us we saw that they were twogendarmes.
"What are you doing here?" one of them asked sharply in French.
I didn't like his tone, and I saw Faulkner's lip twitch with annoyance.Instead of answering, we looked the two men up and down.
"What are you doing here--tell me at once," the speaker repeated, in abullying tone.
I suppose we did look disreputable, standing there without collars, withunlaced boots, and with our coat collars turned up. Also a day's growthof beard is hardly conducive to a smart appearance, and in mostcivilised countries but America a man is judged by his appearance and bythe clothes he wears.
"Who set fire to the chateau?" demanded the gendarme, quickly losing histemper as we refused to speak.
"Oh, we did, of course," I exclaimed in French, meaning to be cynical."We burnt it down on purpose."
The man raised his black eyebrows, and glanced at his companion.
"You hear that?" he said meaningly.
The man who had remained silent produced a notebook and scribbled in it.
Faulkner turned to me.
"A few more of your `witticisms' Ashton," he said, "and we shall getpenal servitude. Don't you know you are talking to State officials, andhave you ever known a State official to be other than matter-of-fact?For Heaven's sake, don't make more statements that may be used inevidence against us."
"My friend was joking," Faulkner said in his perfect French to the manwho had addressed us; but the official seemed not to understand what theword _plaisanterie_ meant.
At this juncture the men exchanged one or two remarks in a rapidundertone. Then, while one of them remained, apparently to keep guardover us, the other cantered away across the turf, struck the road closeto the wood, and disappeared.
In the absence of his companion, who apparently was his superior inauthority, the gendarme thawed to some extent. We gathered that theChateau d'Uzerche was about eighty miles by road from Monte Carlo, andtwelve or so miles from Digne, in the Bedeone Valley, also that novillage lay within a radius of two miles of it. Small wonder,therefore, that no fire-escape had come.
"Where is la Baronne de Coudron?" the man asked suddenly.
We explained that we feared she had been either burnt or suffocated. Atthis he looked grave.
"And her companion, the Englishman Monsieur Paulton, where is he?"
Again we explained. He had escaped from the fire, but, since hisescape, we had not seen him.
"Why do you want to know?" Faulkner asked, in his politest tones.
"Because," the man answered, taken off his guard, "we have a warrant forthe arrest of both Madame la Baronne and the Englishman."
"Arrest! For what?" Faulkner asked.
"On several charges. The most recent is a charge of obtaining money byfraud--a large sum. There is also a charge of blackmail."
"Against both?"
"Against both."
I was silent. Here was a new phase of the affair. By degrees wegathered from him that Paulton was known to be interested in variousundertakings of, to say the least, a dubious nature, also that hepromoted wild-cat companies in England, on the Continent, and inAmerica. Information that especially interested us was that all who hadescaped from the fire had made their way to the lodge at the entrance tothe drive.
It was at this juncture that the other gendarme reappeared. He wasstill on horseback, and, as he came towards us slowly, our attentionbecame centred upon the man who walked beside him, with one hand on hisstirrup. In the distance it looked very like Paulton.
He seemed quite composed. His mouth was bound up, partly concealing hisface.
When a few yards from us the gendarme reined up. As he did so, Paultonraised his arm, pointed at me, and said in French--
"That's the man you came to arrest. That is Dago Paulton."
"And his companion?" the gendarme asked.
"Is his valet."
"And your name, monsieur?"
"Ferrari--Paoli Ferrari. My father was Italian, my mother English. Ihave been in Mr. Paulton's service as butler for the last three years.Previous to that I was butler to Count Pinto"--the Portuguese diplomatwho had won the cup for shooting.
"Thank you, monsieur, I am exceedingly indebted to you," the gendarmesaid blandly. Then, producing an official-loo
king document, he said tome--
"We have to take you into custody, you and Madame la Baronne."
For some moments, indignation prevented my speaking. Was it possiblethese outrageous statements of Paulton's would be taken withoutquestion? Such a thing seemed monstrous and grotesque, but knowing, asI did, how intensely stupid some police officials are, no matter to whatcountry they may belong, I thought it likely that I should presently bemarched off and placed under lock and key.
Faulkner, to my annoyance, seemed amused.
"They will march you twelve miles to Digne," he said, "and when you getthere and prove your identity they will apologise in the most humblefashion for the mistake that has been made. Meanwhile, you will havehad your twelve-mile walk, and Paulton have been allowed to escape.
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