by Eugène Sue
Not seeing any person or anything (for since Rodolph had dropped the paper the coach had gone on several yards), the Schoolmaster thought he was mistaken.
“You will laugh at me,” he said, as he resumed his seat, “but I don’t know why I thought some one was following us.”
The coach at this moment turned round a corner, and Murphy, who had not lost sight of it with his eyes, and had seen Rodolph’s manœuvre, ran and picked up the little note, which had fallen into a crevice between two of the paving-stones.
At the end of a quarter of an hour the Schoolmaster said to the driver of the hackney-coach:
“My man, we have changed our minds; drive to the Place de la Madelaine.”
Rodolph looked at him with astonishment.
“All right, young man; from hence we may go to a thousand different places. If they seek to track us hereafter, the deposition of the coachman will not be of the slightest service to them.”
At the moment when the coach was approaching the barrier, a tall man, clothed in a long white riding-coat, with his hat drawn over his eyes, and whose complexion appeared of a deep brown, passed rapidly along the road, stooping over the neck of a high, splendid hunter, which trotted with extraordinary speed.
“A good horse and a good rider,” said Rodolph, leaning forward to the door of the coach and following Murphy (for it was he) with his eyes. “What a pace that stout man goes! Did you see him?”
“Ma foi! he passed so very quickly,” said the Schoolmaster, “that I did not remark him.”
Rodolph calmly concealed his satisfaction; Murphy had, doubtless, deciphered the almost hieroglyphic characters of the note which he had dropped, and which had escaped the vigilance of the Schoolmaster. Certain that the coach was not followed, he had become more assured, and desirous of imitating the Chouette, who slept, or rather pretended to sleep, he said to Rodolph:
“Excuse me, young man, but the motion of the coach always produces a singular effect on me, — it sends me off to sleep like a child.”
The ruffian, under the guise of assumed sleep, thought to examine whether the physiognomy of his companion betrayed any emotion; but Rodolph was on his guard, and replied:
“I rose so early that I feel sleepy, and will have a nap, too.”
He shut his eyes, and very soon the hard breathing of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette, who snored in chorus, so completely deceived Rodolph, that, thinking his companions sound asleep, he half opened his eyes. The Schoolmaster and the Chouette, in spite of their loud snoring, had their eyes open, and were exchanging some mysterious signs by means of their fingers curiously placed or bent in the palms of their hands. In an instant this mute language ceased. The brigand no doubt perceived, by some almost imperceptible sign, that Rodolph was not asleep, and said, in a laughing tone:
“Ah, ah, comrade! what, you were trying your friends, were you?”
“That can’t astonish you, who sleep with your eyes open.”
“I, who — That’s different, young man; I am a somnambulist.”
The hackney-coach stopped in the Place de la Madelaine. The rain had ceased for a moment, but the clouds, driven by the violence of the wind, were so dark and so low, that it was almost night in appearance. Rodolph, the Chouette, and the Schoolmaster went towards the Cours la Reine.
“Young man, I have an idea, which is not a bad one,” said the robber.
“What is it?”
“To ascertain if all that you have told us respecting the interior of the house in the Allée des Veuves is true.”
“You surely will not go there now, under any circumstances? It would awaken suspicion.”
“I am not such a flat as that, young fellow; but why have I a wife whose name is Finette?”
The Chouette drew up her head.
“Do you see her, young man? Why, she looks like a war-horse when he hears the blast of the trumpet!”
“You mean to send her as a lookout?”
“Precisely so.”
“No. 17, Allée des Veuves, isn’t it, my man?” cried the Chouette, impatiently. “Make yourself easy: I have but one eye, but that is a good one.”
“Do you see, young man, — do you see she is all impatience to be at work?”
“If she manages cleverly to get into the house, I do not think your idea a bad one.”
“Take the umbrella, fourline; in half an hour I will be here again, and you shall see what I will do,” said the Chouette.
“One moment, Finette; we are going down to the Bleeding Heart, — only two steps from here. If the little Tortillard (cripple) is there, you had better take him with you; he will remain outside on the watch whilst you go inside the house.”
“You are right, — little Tortillard is as cunning as a fox; he is not ten years of age, and yet it was he who the other day—”
A signal from the Schoolmaster interrupted the Chouette.
“What does the ‘Bleeding Heart’ mean? It is an odd sign for a cabaret,” asked Rodolph.
“You must complain to the landlord.”
“What is his name?”
“The landlord of the Bleeding Heart?”
“Yes.”
“What is that to you? He never asks the names of his customers.”
“But, still—”
“Call him what you like, — Peter, Thomas, Christopher, or Barnabas, — he will answer to any and all. But here we are, and it’s time we were, for the rain is coming down again in floods; and how the river roars! It has almost become a torrent! Why, look at it! Two more days of such rain, and the water will overflow the arches of the bridge.”
“You say that we are there, but where the devil is the cabaret? I do not see any house here.”
“Certainly not, if you look round about you.”
“Where should I look, then?”
“At your feet.”
“At my feet?”
“Yes.”
“And whereabouts?”
“Here, — look; do you see the roof? Mind, and don’t step upon it.”
Rodolph had not remarked one of those subterraneans which used to be seen, some years since, in certain spots in the Champs Elysées, and particularly near the Cours la Reine.
A flight of steps, cut out of the damp and greasy ground, led to the bottom of this sort of deep ditch, against one end of which, cut perpendicularly, leaned a low, mean, dilapidated hovel; its roof, covered with moss-covered tiles, was scarcely so high as the ground on which Rodolph was standing; two or three out-buildings, constructed of worm-eaten planks, serving as cellar, wood-house, and rabbit-hutches, surrounded this wretched den.
A narrow path, which extended along this ditch, led from the stairs to the door of the hut; the rest of the ground was concealed under a mass of trellis-work, which sheltered two rows of clumsy tables, fastened to the ground. A worn-out iron sign swung heavily backwards and forwards on its creaking hinges, and through the rust that covered it might still be seen a red heart pierced with an arrow. The sign was supported by a post erected above this cave, — this real human burrow.
A thick and moist fog was added to the rain as night approached.
“What think you of this hôtel, young fellow?” inquired the Schoolmaster.
“Why, thanks to the torrents that have fallen for the last fortnight, it must be deliciously fresh. But come on.”
“One moment, — I wish to know if the landlord is in. Hark!”
The ruffian then, thrusting his tongue forcibly against his palate, produced a singular noise, — a sort of guttural sound, loud and lengthened, something like P-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!!! A similar note came from the depths of the hovel.
“He’s there,” said the Schoolmaster. “Pardon me, young man, — respect to the ladies, — allow the Chouette to pass first; I follow you. Mind how you come, — it’s slippery.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE BLEEDING HEART.
THE LANDLORD OF the Bleeding Heart, after having responded to the signal of the Schoolmas
ter, advanced politely to the threshold of his door.
This personage, whom Rodolph had been to see in the Cité, and whom he did not yet know under his true name, or, rather, his habitual surname, was Bras Rouge.
Lank, mean-looking, and feeble, this man might be fifty years of age. His countenance resembled both the weasel and the rat; his peaked nose, his receding chin, his high cheek-bones, his small eyes, black, restless, and keen, gave his features an indescribable expression of malice, cunning, and sagacity. An old brown wig, or, rather, as yellow as his bilious complexion, perched on the top of his head, showed the nape of the old fellow’s withered neck. He had on a round jacket, and one of those long black aprons worn by the waiters at the wine shops.
Our three acquaintances had hardly descended the last step of the staircase when a child of about ten years of age, rickety, lame, and somewhat misshapen, came to rejoin Bras Rouge, whom he resembled in so striking a manner that there was no mistaking them for father and son. There was the same quick and cunning look, joined to that impudent, hardened, and knavish air, which is peculiar to the scamp (voyou) of Paris, — that fearful type of precocious depravity, that real ‘hemp-seed’ (graine de bagne), as they style it, in the horrible slang of the gaol. The forehead of the brat was half lost beneath a thatch of yellowish locks, as harsh and stiff as horse-hair. Reddish-coloured trousers and a gray blouse, confined by a leather girdle, completed Tortillard’s costume, whose nickname was derived from his infirmity. He stood close to his father, standing on his sound leg like a heron by the side of a marsh.
“Ah, here is the darling one (môme)!” said the Schoolmaster. “Finette, night is coming on, and time is pressing; we must profit by the daylight which is left to us.”
“You are right, my man; I will ask the father to spare his darling.”
“Good day, old friend,” said Bras Rouge, addressing the Schoolmaster, in a voice which was cracked, sharp, and shrill. “What can I do for you?”
“Why, if you could spare your ‘small boy’ to my mistress for a quarter of an hour, she has lost something which he could help her to look for.”
Bras Rouge winked his eye and made a sign to the Schoolmaster, and then said to the child:
“Tortillard, go with madame.”
The hideous brat hopped forward and took hold of the “one-eyed’s” hand.
“Love of a bright boy, come along! There is a child!” said Finette. “And how like his father! He is not like Pegriotte, who always pretended to have a pain in her side when she came near me, — a little baggage!”
“Come, come away! — be off, Finette! Keep your weather-eye open, and bright lookout. I await you here.”
“I won’t be long. Go first, Tortillard.”
The one-eyed hag and the little cripple went up the slippery steps.
“Finette, take the umbrella,” the brigand called out.
“‘Ah, Here is the ‘Darling One’!’”
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel
“It would be in the way, my man,” said the old woman, who quickly disappeared with Tortillard in the midst of the fog, which thickened with the twilight, and the hollow murmur of the wind as it moaned through the thick and leafless branches of the tall elms in the Champs Elysées.
“Let us go in,” said Rodolph.
It was requisite to stoop in passing in at the door of the cabaret, which was divided into two apartments. In one was a bar and a broken-down billiard-table; in the other, tables and garden chairs, which had once been painted green. Two narrow windows, with their cracked panes festooned with spiders’ webs, cast a dim but not religious light on the damp walls.
Rodolph was alone for one moment only, during which Bras Rouge and the Schoolmaster had time to exchange some words, rapidly uttered, and some mysterious signs.
“You’ll take a glass of beer, — or brandy, perhaps, — whilst we wait for Finette?” said the Schoolmaster.
“No; I am not thirsty.”
“Do as you like, — I am for a ‘drain’ of brandy,” said the ruffian; and he seated himself on one of the little green tables in the second apartment.
Darkness came on to this den so completely, that it was impossible to see in one of the angles of this inner apartment the open mouth of one of those cellars which are entered by a door in two divisions, one of which was constantly kept open for the convenience of access. The table at which the Schoolmaster sat was close upon this dark and deep hole, and he turned his back upon it, so that it was entirely concealed from Rodolph’s view.
He was looking through the window, in order to command his countenance and conceal the workings of his thoughts. The sight of Murphy speeding through the Allée des Veuves did not quite assure him; he was afraid that the worthy squire had not quite understood the full meaning of his note, necessarily so laconic, and containing only these words:
“This evening — ten o’clock. Be on your guard.”
Resolved not to go to the Allée des Veuves before that moment, nor to lose sight of the Schoolmaster for an instant, he yet trembled at the idea of losing the only opportunity that might ever be afforded him of obtaining that secret which he was so excessively anxious to possess. Although he was powerful and well armed, yet he had to deal with an unscrupulous assassin, capable of any and every thing. Not desiring, however, that his thoughts should be detected, he seated himself at the table with the Schoolmaster, and, by way of seeming at his ease, called for a glass of something. Bras Rouge having exchanged a few words, in a low tone, with the brigand, looked at Rodolph with an air in which curiosity, distrust, and contempt were mingled.
“It is my advice, young man,” said the Schoolmaster, “that if my wife informs us that the persons we wish to see are within, we had better make our call about eight o’clock.”
“That will be two hours too soon,” said Rodolph; “and that will spoil all.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Bah! amongst friends there should be no ceremony.”
“I know them well, and I tell you that we must not think of going before ten o’clock.”
“Are you out of your senses, young man?”
“I give you my opinion, and devil fetch me if I stir from here before ten o’clock.”
“Don’t disturb yourself, — I never close my establishment before midnight,” said Bras Rouge, in his falsetto voice; “it is the time when my best customers drop in; and my neighbours never complain of the noise which is made in my house.”
“I must agree to all you wish, young man,” continued the Schoolmaster. “Be it so, then; we will not set out on our visit until ten o’clock.”
“Here is the Chouette!” said Bras Rouge, hearing and replying to a warning cry similar to that which the Schoolmaster had uttered before he descended to the subterraneous abode.
A minute afterwards the Chouette entered the billiard-room alone.
“It is all right, my man, — I’ve done the trick!” cried the one-eyed hag, as she entered.
Bras Rouge discreetly withdrew, without asking a word about Tortillard, whom, perhaps, he did not expect to see return. The beldam sat with her face towards Rodolph and the brigand.
“Well?” said the Schoolmaster.
“The young fellow has told us all true, so far.”
“Ah! you see I was right,” exclaimed Rodolph.
“Let the Chouette tell her tale, young man. Come, tell us all about it, Finette.”
“I went straight to No. 17, leaving Tortillard on the lookout and concealed in a corner. It was still daylight, and I rung at a side door which opens outwards, and here’s about two inches of space between it and the sill; nothing else to notice. I rang; the porter opened. Before I pulled the bell I had put my bonnet in my pocket, that I might look like a neighbour. As soon as I saw the porter I pretended to cry violently, saying that I had lost a pet parrot, Cocotte, — a little darling that I adored. I told him I lived in the Rue Marboeuf, and that I had pursued C
ocotte from garden to garden, and entreated him to allow me to enter and try and find the bird.”
“Ah!” said the Schoolmaster, with an air of proud satisfaction, pointing to Finette, “what a woman!”
“Very clever,” said Rodolph. “And what then?”
“The porter allowed me to look for the creature, and I went trotting all around the garden, calling ‘Cocotte! Cocotte!’ and looked about me in every direction to scrutinise every thing. Inside the walls,” continued the horrid old hag, going on with her description of the premises, “inside the walls, trellis-work all around, — a perfect staircase; at the left-hand corner of the wall a fir-tree, just like a ladder, — a lying-in woman might descend by it. The house has six windows on the ground floor, and has no upper story, — six small windows without any fastening. The windows of the ground floor close with shutters, having hooks below and staples in the upper part: press in the bottom, use your steel file—”
“A push,” said the Schoolmaster, “and it is open.”
The Chouette continued:
“The entrance has a glass door, two Venetian blinds outside—”
“Memorandum,” said the ruffian.
“Quite correct; it is as precise as if we saw it,” said Rodolph.
“On the left,” resumed the Chouette, “near the courtyard, is a well; the rope may be useful (for at that particular spot there is no trellis against the wall), in case retreat should be cut off in the direction of the door. On entering into the house—”
“You got inside the house, then? Young man, she got inside the house!” said the Schoolmaster, with pride.
“To be sure I got in! Not finding Cocotte, I had made so much lamentation that I pretended I was quite out of breath; I begged the porter to allow me to sit down on the step of the door, and he very kindly asked me to step in, offering me a glass of wine and water. ‘A glass of plain water,’ I said; ‘plain water only, my good sir.’ Then he made me go into the antechamber, — carpeted all over; good precaution, — footsteps or broken glass cannot be heard, if we must ‘mill the glaze’ (break a pane of glass); right and left, doors with sliding bolts, which open by a gentle push from the top. At the bottom was a strong door, locked, — it looked very like a money-chest. I had my wax in my basket—”
