CHAPTER XXXVIII.
NUMBER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN.
Mueller, when he so confidently proposed to visit Bras de Fer in hisfuture retirement at Toulon, believed that he had only to lodge hisinformation with the proper authorities, and see the whole affairsettled out of hand. He had not taken the bureaucratic system intoconsideration; and he had forgotten how little positive evidence he hadto offer. It was no easier then than now to inspire the official mindwith either insight or decision; and the police of Paris, inasmuch asthey in no wise differed from the police of to-day, yesterday, orto-morrow, were slow to understand, slow to believe, and slower stillto act.
An escaped convict? Monsieur le Chef du Bureau, upon whom we took theliberty of waiting the next morning, could scarcely take in the barepossibility of such a fact. An escaped convict? Bah! no convict couldpossibly escape under the present admirable system. _Comment_! Heeffected his escape some years ago? How many years ago? In what yard, inwhat ward, under what number was he entered in the official books? Forwhat offence was he convicted? Had Monsieur seen him at Toulon?--and wasMonsieur prepared to swear that Lenoir and Bras de Fer were one and thesame person? How! Monsieur proposed to identify a certain individual,and yet was incapable of replying to these questions! Would Monsieur bepleased to state upon what grounds he undertook to denounce the saidindividual, and what proof he was prepared to produce in confirmationof the same?
To all which official catechizing, Mueller, who (wanting Guichet'stestimony) had nothing but his intense personal conviction to putforward, could only reply that he was ready to pledge himself to theaccuracy of his information; and that if Monsieur the Chef du Bureauwould be at the pains to call in any Toulon official of a few years'standing, he would undoubtedly find that the person now described ascalling himself Lenoir, and the person commonly known in the Bagnes asBras de Fer, were indeed "one and the same."
Whereupon Monsieur le Chef--a pompous personage, with a bald head and awhite moustache--shrugged his shoulders, smiled incredulously, had thehonor to point out to Monsieur that the Government could by no means beat the expense of conveying an inspector from Toulon to Paris on soshadowy and unsupported a statement, and politely bowed us out.
Thus rebuffed, Mueller began to despair of present success; whilst I, indefault of any brighter idea, proposed that he should take legal adviceon the subject. So we went to a certain avocat, in a little streetadjoining the Ecole de Droit, and there purchased as much wisdom asmight be bought for the sum of five francs sterling.
The avocat, happily, was fertile in suggestions. This, he said, was nota case for a witness. Here was no question of appearing before a court.With the foregone offences of either Lenoir or Bras de Fer, we hadnothing to do; and to convict them of such offences formed no part ofour plan. We only sought to show that Lenoir and Bras de Fer were intruth "one and the same person," and we could only do so upon theauthority of some third party who had seen both. Now Monsieur Mueller hadseen Lenoir, but not Bras de Fer; and Guichet had seen Bras de Fer, butnot Lenoir. Here, then, was the real difficulty; and here, he hoped, itsobvious solution. Let Guichet be taken to some place where, beinghimself unseen, he may obtain a glimpse of Lenoir. This done, he can, ina private interview of two minutes, state his conviction to Monsieur theChef de Bureau--_voila tout_! If, however, the said Guichet can bepersuaded by no considerations either of interest or justice, thenanother very simple course remains open. Every newly-arrived convict inevery penal establishment throughout France is photographed on hisentrance into the Bagne, and these photographs are duly preserved forpurposes of identification like the present. Supposing therefore Bras deFer had not escaped from Toulon before the introduction of this system,his portrait would exist in the official books to this day, and mightdoubtless be obtained, if proper application were made through anofficial channel.
Armed with this information, and knowing that any attempt to induceGuichet to move further in the matter would be useless, we then wentback to the Bureau, and with much difficulty succeeded in persuading M.le Chef to send to Toulon for the photograph. This done, we could onlywait and be patient.
Briefly, then, we did wait and were patient--though the last conditionwas not easy; for even I, who was by no means disposed to sympathizewith Mueller in his solicitude for the fair Marie, could not but feel astrange contagion of excitement in this _chasse au forcat_. And so aweek or ten days went by, till one memorable afternoon, when Mueller camerushing round to my rooms in hot haste, about an hour before the timewhen we usually met to go to dinner, and greeted me with--
"Good news, _mon vieux_! good news! The photograph has come--and I havebeen to the Bureau to see it--and I have identified my man--and he willbe arrested to-night, as surely as that he carries T.F. on hisshoulder!"
"You are certain he is the same?" I said.
"As certain as I am of my own face when I see it in the looking-glass."
And then he went on to say that a party of soldiers were to be inreadiness a couple of hours hence, in a shop commanding Madame Marot'sdoor; that he, Mueller, was to be there to watch with them till Lenoireither came out from or went into the house; and that as soon as hepointed him out to the sergeant in command, he was to be arrested, putinto a cab waiting for the purpose, and conveyed to La Roquette.
Behold us, then, at the time prescribed, lounging in the doorway of asmall shop adjoining the private entrance to Madame Marot's house; ourhands in our pockets; our cigars in our mouths; our whole attitudeexpressive of idleness and unconcern. The wintry evening has closed inrapidly. The street is bright with lamps, and busy with passers-by. Theshop behind us is quite dark--so dark that not the keenest observerpassing by could detect the dusky group of soldiers sitting on thecounter within, or the gleaming of the musket-barrels which rest betweentheir knees. The sergeant in command, a restless, black-eyed,intelligent little Gascon, about five feet four in height, with arevolver stuck in his belt, paces impatiently to and fro, and whistlessoftly between his teeth. The men, four in number, whisper together fromtime to time, or swing their feet in silence.
Thus the minutes go by heavily; for it is weary work waiting in thisway, uncertain how long the watch may last, and not daring to relax thevigilance of eye and ear for a single moment. It may be for an hour, orfor many hours, or it may be for only a few minutes-who can tell? OfLenoir's daily haunts and habits we know nothing. All we do know is thathe is wont to be out all day, sometimes returning only to dress and goout again; sometimes not coming home till very late at night; sometimesabsenting himself for a day and a night, or two days and two nightstogether. With this uncertain prospect before us, therefore, we wait andwatch, and watch and wait, counting the hours as they strike, andscanning every face that gleams past in the lamplight.
So the first hour goes by, and the second. Ten o'clock strikes. Thetraffic in the street begins perceptibly to diminish. Shops close hereand there (Madame Marot's shutters have been put up by the boy in theoilskin apron more than an hour ago), and the _chiffonnier_, sure heraldof the quieter hours of the night, flits by with rake and lanthorn,observant of the gutters.
The soldiers on' the counter yawn audibly from time to time; and thesergeant, who is naturally of an impatient disposition, exclaims, forthe twentieth time, with an inexhaustible variety, however, in thechoice of expletives:--
"_Mais; nom de deux cent mille petards_! will this man of ours nevercome?"
To which inquiry, though not directly addressed to myself, I reply, as Ihave already replied once or twice before, that he may come immediately,or that he may not come for hours; and that all we can do is to wait andbe patient. In the midst of which explanation, Mueller suddenly lays hishand on my arm, makes a sign to the sergeant, and peers eagerly downthe street.
There is a man coming up quickly on the opposite side of the way. Formyself, I could recognise no one at such a distance, especially bynight; but Mueller's keener eye, made keener still by jealousy,identifies him at a glance.
It is Lenoir.
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br /> He wears a frock coat closely buttoned, and comes on with a light, rapidstep, suspecting nothing. The sergeant gives the word--the soldiersspring to their feet--I draw back into the gloom of the shop-and onlyMueller remains, smoking his cigarette and lounging against thedoor-post.
Then Lenoir crosses over, and Mueller, affecting to observe him for thefirst time, looks up, and without lifting his hat, says loudly:--
"_Comment_! have I the honor of saluting Monsieur Lenoir?"
Whereupon Lenoir, thrown off his guard by the suddenness of the address,hesitates--seems about to reply--checks himself--quickens his pace, andpasses without a word.
The next instant he is surrounded. The butt ends of four muskets rattleon the pavement--the sergeant's hand is on his shoulder--the sergeant'svoice rings in his ear.
"Number two hundred and seven, you are my prisoner!"
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 32
