by Eugène Sue
The Chouette, still stealing on with slow steps, had at length reached one end of the table, and had her stiletto perpendicularly in her basket, its handle on a level with the opening, and within her clutch. She was but a step or two from the countess.
“Do you know how to write?” inquired Sarah of her; and, pushing from her the casket and gems, she opened a blotting-book, which was by an inkstand.
“No, madame; I do not!” replied the Chouette, at all risks.
“I will write, then, at your dictation. Tell me all the circumstances of the abandonment of this little girl.”
And Sarah, sitting in an armchair before the writing-table, took up a pen, and made a sign to the Chouette to come close to her. The old wretch’s one eye sparkled. At last she was standing up, close to the seat on which Sarah was sitting, and, stooping over a table, was preparing to write.
“I will read aloud, and then,” said the countess, “you can correct any mistakes.”
“Yes, madame,” replied the Chouette, narrowly watching every motion of Sarah; and she furtively introduced her hand into her basket, that she might be able to grasp the poniard without being observed.
The countess commenced writing.
“I declare that—”
Then interrupting herself, and turning towards the Chouette, who was at the moment touching the handle of her poniard, Sarah added:
“At what period was the child brought to you?”
“In the month of February, 1827.”
“And by whom?” continued Sarah, turning towards the Chouette.
“By Pierre Tournemine, now at the galleys at Rochefort. It was Madame Séraphin, the notary’s housekeeper, who brought the young girl to him.”
The countess continued writing, and then read aloud:
“I declare that, in the month of February, 1827, a person named—”
The Chouette had drawn the poniard; already had she raised her arm to strike her victim between the shoulders; Sarah turned again. The Chouette, that she might not be off her guard, leaned her right hand, armed as it was, on the back of Sarah’s armchair, and then stooped towards her, as if in attitude to reply to her question.
“Tell me again the name of the man who handed the child to you?” said the countess.
“Pierre Tournemine,” repeated Sarah, as she wrote it down, “at this time at the galleys of Rochefort, brought me a child, which had been confided to him by the housekeeper of—”
The countess could not finish. The Chouette having got rid of her basket by allowing it to slide from her arm onto the floor, threw herself on the countess with equal fury and rapidity; and having grasped the back of her neck with her left hand, forced her face down on the table, and then with her right hand drove the stiletto in between her two shoulders.
This atrocious assassination was so promptly effected that the countess did not utter a cry — a moan. Still sitting, she remained with her head and the front of her body on the table. Her pen fell from her fingers.
“Just the very blow which fourline gave the little old man in the Rue du Roule!” said the monster. “One more who will never wag tongue again! Her account is settled!” And the Chouette, gathering up the jewels together, huddled them into her basket, not perceiving that her victim still breathed.
The murder and robbery effected, the horrid old devil opened the glass door, ran swiftly along the tree-covered path, went out by the small side door, and reached the lone tract of ground. Near the Observatory she took a hackney-coach, which drove her to Bras-Rouge’s in the Champs Elysées.
The widow Martial, Nicholas, Calabash, and Barbillon had, as we know, an appointment with the Chouette in this den of infamy, in order to rob and murder the diamond-matcher.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE AGENT OF SAFETY.
THE READER ALREADY knows the Bleeding Heart in the Champs Elysées, near the Court de la Reine, in one of the deep ditches which, a few years since, were close to this promenade. The inhabitants of the Isle du Ravageur had not yet arrived.
After the departure of Bradamanti, who had, as we know, accompanied Madame d’Harville’s stepmother into Normandy, Tortillard had returned to his father. Placed as a sentinel at the top of the staircase, the little cripple was to announce the arrival of the Martials by a certain cry, Bras-Rouge being at this moment in secret conference with an agent-de-sûreté named Narcisse Borel, whom the reader may perchance remember to have seen at the tapis-franc of the ogress, when he came there to arrest two miscreants accused of murder.
This agent, a man about forty years of age, was thickset and powerful, with a high colour, a keen, quick eye, his face entirely shaven, in order that he might better assume the various disguises necessary for his dangerous expeditions; for it was frequently necessary for him to unite the transformations of the actor to the courage and energy of the soldier, in order to seize on certain ruffians with whom he had to contend in cunning and determination. Narcisse Borel was, in a word, one of the most useful and most active instruments of that providence on a small scale which is modestly and commonly termed the police.
We will return to the conversation between Narcisse Borel and Bras-Rouge, which appeared to be very animated.
“Yes,” said the agent of safety; “you are accused of profiting by your double-faced position, and of taking with impunity a share in the booty of a band of most dangerous malefactors, and then giving false information respecting them to the protective police. Take care, Bras-Rouge; for if you are detected no mercy will be shown you!”
“Alas! I know I am accused of this; and it is very distressing for me, my good M. Narcisse,” replied Bras-Rouge, whilst his weasel’s face assumed a hypocritical air of vexation. “But I hope that this day will at last do me justice, and my good faith will be recognised.”
“That remains to be proved.”
“How can I be distrusted — have I not given proofs? Was it I or was it not who, at the time, enabled you to apprehend Ambroise Martial, one of the most dangerous malefactors in Paris, in the very fact?”
“All this is very fine and good; but Ambroise was warned they were going to arrest him, and if I had not been earlier than the hour you told me of, he would have escaped.”
“Do you think me capable, M. Narcisse, of having secretly told him of your coming?”
“I only know that I received from the scoundrel a pistol-shot aimed full at me, but which, fortunately, only grazed my arm.”
“Why, to be sure, M. Narcisse, in your profession you must be occasionally exposed to such mistakes!”
“Ah, you call these mistakes, eh?”
“Certainly; for, no doubt, the wicked fellow intended to lodge the ball in your body.”
“In the arm, body, or head, no matter, I don’t complain of that; every profession has its disagreeables.”
“And its pleasures, too, M. Narcisse, and its pleasures. For instance, when a man as cunning, as skilful, and as courageous as you, has been for a long time on the track of a gang of villains, whom he follows from quarter to quarter, from lurking-place to lurking-place, with a good bloodhound like your poor servant to command, Bras-Rouge, and, finally, marks them down and comes upon them in a trap from which not one of them can escape, why, then, you must say, M. Narcisse, that there is great pleasure in it, — the joy of a sportsman, — not including the service he renders to justice!” added the host of the Bleeding Heart, with a grave air.
“I should fully agree with you if the bloodhound were faithful, but I fear it is not.”
“Ah, M. Narcisse, you think—”
“I think that, instead of putting us on the track, you amuse yourself with setting us on a false scent, and abuse the confidence placed in you. Every day you promise to aid us to lay hands on the gang, and that day never arrives.”
“What if the day arrives to-day, M. Narcisse, as I am sure it will? What if I bring together in a parcel Barbillon, Nicholas Martial, the widow, her daughter, and the Chouette? Will that or will it not be a g
ood sweep of the net? Will you then mistrust me any longer?”
“No; and you will have rendered a real service; for there are very strong presumptive facts against this gang, — suspicions almost assured, but, unfortunately, no proofs.”
“So, then, a small fag-end of actual crime, which would allow of their being apprehended, would help amazingly to unravel the difficult skein, — eh, M. Narcisse?”
“Most decidedly. And you assure me that there has not been the slightest incitement on your part towards the coup which they are now going to attempt?”
“No, on my honour! It is the Chouette, who came to me to propose inveigling the diamond-matcher here when that infernal hag learned from my son that Morel, the lapidary, who lives in the Rue du Temple, was a workman in real stones, and not in false, and that Mother Mathieu had frequently considerable value about her person, I acceded to the proposition, and suggested to the Chouette that the Martials and Barbillon should join her, so that I might be able to put the whole party into your hands.”
“And the Schoolmaster, — that fellow who is so dangerous, so powerful, and so ferocious, and who was always with the Chouette, — one of the frequenters of the tapis-franc?”
“The Schoolmaster?” said Bras-Rouge, feigning astonishment.
“Yes, a convict escaped from the galleys at Rochefort, Anselm Duresnel by name, sentenced for life. We know now that he disfigured himself on purpose, that he might not be recognised. Have you no trace of him?”
“None,” replied Bras-Rouge, boldly, for he had his reasons for the lie, the Schoolmaster being at this very moment shut up in one of the cellars of the cabaret.
“There is every reason to believe that the Schoolmaster is the author of fresh murders. He would be an important capture.”
“No one knows what has become of him for the last six weeks.”
“And that’s the reason you are reproached with having lost all trace of him.”
“Always reproaches, M. Narcisse, always!”
“Not for want of ample cause! And how goes on the smuggling?”
“Is it not necessary that I should know something of all kinds of persons — smugglers as well as others — in order to put you on the scent? I disclosed to you that pipe to introduce liquids, established outside the Barrière du Trône, and coming into a house in the street.”
“I know that,” said Narcisse, interrupting Bras-Rouge; “but for one that you denounce, you allow ten to escape, and continue your traffic with impunity. I am sure you eat at two mangers, as the saying is.”
“Oh, M. Narcisse, I am incapable of an appetite so dishonest!”
“That is not all: in the Rue du Temple, No. 17, there lives a woman named Burette, who lends money on deposit, who, they say, is a private receiver of stolen goods on your account.”
“What would you have me do, M. Narcisse? The world is so slanderous, — says so many wicked things! Once again, I say, it is necessary for me to mix with as many rogues as possible, that I even seem one of themselves — so much the worse for them — in order that they may not have any suspicions; but it cuts me to the heart to imitate them, — cuts me to the heart. I must, indeed, be devoted to the service, to give myself up to such a thing as that.”
“Poor, dear man! I pity you with all my soul!”
“You are laughing at me, M. Narcisse; but, if that was believed, why has there not been a search made at Mother Burette’s and in my house?”
“You know well enough, — that we might not alarm the ruffians, whom, for so long a time, you have promised to deliver into our hands.”
“And I am now about to deliver them, M. Narcisse; before an hour you will have them all handcuffed, and that without much trouble, for there are three women. As to Barbillon and Nicholas Martial, they are as savage as tigers, but as cowardly as pullets.”
“Tigers or pullets,” said Narcisse, half opening his long frock coat, and showing the butts of two pistols in the pockets of his trousers, “I have wherewithal here for them.”
“You will do well to have two of your men with you, M. Narcisse. When they see themselves caught, the most cowardly sometimes show fight.”
“I shall station two of my men in the small parlour at the entrance, by the side of the room into which you are to introduce the jewel-matcher. At the first cry, I shall appear at one door, and my two men at the other.”
“You must be speedy, then, for I expect the gang here every moment, M. Narcisse.”
“Very well, I will go at once and place my men, provided that all this is not another humbug.”
The conversation was cut short by the peculiar whistle intended as a signal. Bras-Rouge looked out of a window to see whom it was that Tortillard announced.
“Ah, ha! It is the Chouette already. Well, do you believe me now, M. Narcisse?”
“Why, this looks something like; but it is not all. But we shall see. And now to station my men.”
And the agent of safety disappeared at a side door.
CHAPTER XX.
THE CHOUETTE.
THE PRECIPITATION OF the Chouette’s step, the fierce throbbings of a fever of rapine and murder which still animated her, had suffused her hideous features with a deep purple, whilst her green eye sparkled with savage joy. Tortillard followed her, hopping and skipping. At the moment when she descended the last steps of the stairs, Bras-Rouge’s son, from pure mischief, put his foot on the long and dragging skirts of the Chouette’s gown. This sudden stoppage made the old woman stumble, and, unable to catch hold of the baluster, she fell on her knees, her two hands extended, and dropping her precious basket, whence escaped a gold bracelet set with emeralds and pearls. The Chouette having, in her fall, somewhat excoriated her fingers, picked up the bracelet, which had not escaped the keen sight of Tortillard, and, recovering her feet, turned furiously to the little cripple, who approached her with a hypocritical air, saying to her:
“Oh, dear me! Did your foot slip?”
Without making any reply, the Chouette seized Tortillard by the hair, and, stooping to a level with his cheek, she bit it with such fury that the blood spurted out beneath her teeth. Strange, however, Tortillard, in spite of his usual vindictiveness, in spite of feeling such intense pain, did not utter a murmur or a cry. He only wiped his bleeding cheek, and said, with a forced laugh:
“I hope next time you will not kiss me so hard, — eh, La Chouette?”
“Wicked little brat! Why did you tread on my gown on purpose to make me fall?”
“Me? Oh! How could you think so? I swear I didn’t do it on purpose, my dear Chouette! Don’t think your little Tortillard would do you any harm; he loves you too well for that. You should never beat him, or scold him, or bite him, for he is as fond of you as if he were a poor little dog, and you were his mistress!” said the boy, in a gentle and insinuating tone.
Deceived by Tortillard’s hypocrisy, the Chouette believed him, and replied:
“Well, well, if I was wrong to bite you, why, let it go for all the other times you have deserved it, you little villain! But, vive la joie! To-day I bear no malice. Where is your old rogue of a father?”
“In the house. Shall I go and find him for you?”
“No; are the Martials here?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I have time to go down and visit fourline. I want to speak to old No-Eyes.”
“Will you go into the Schoolmaster’s cellar?” inquired Tortillard, scarcely concealing his diabolical delight.
“What’s that to you?”
“To me?”
“Yes, you ask me the question with such an odd air.”
“Because I was thinking of something odd.”
“What?”
“Why, that you ought, at least, to have brought him a pack of cards to pass away his time,” replied Tortillard, with a cunning look; “that would divert him a little; now he has nothing to play at but not to be bitten by the rats; and he always wins at that game, and after awhile it becomes tiresome.”<
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The Chouette laughed heartily at Tortillard’s wit, and said to the cripple:
“Love of a baby boy to his mammy! I do not know any chap who has more vice than this scamp. Go and get me a candle, that you may light me down to see fourline, and you can help me to open his door. You know that I can hardly push it by myself.”
“Well, no, it is so very dark in the cellar,” said Tortillard, shaking his head.
“What! What! You who are as wicked as devil to be a coward? I like to see that, indeed! Go directly, and tell your father that I shall be with him almost immediately; that I am with fourline; and that we are talking of putting up the banns for our marriage. He, he, he!” added the disgusting wretch, grinning. “So make haste, and you shall be bridesman, and, if you are a good boy, you shall have my garter.”
Tortillard went, with a sulky air, to fetch a light. Whilst she was waiting for him, the Chouette, perfectly intoxicated with the success of her robbery, put her hand into her basket to feel the precious jewels it enclosed. It was for the purpose of temporarily concealing this treasure that she desired to descend into the Schoolmaster’s cellar, and not, according to her habit, to enjoy the torments of her new victim.
We will presently explain why, with Bras-Rouge’s connivance, the Chouette had immured the Schoolmaster in the very subterranean cave into which this miscreant had formerly precipitated Rodolph.
Tortillard, holding a light, now appeared at the door of the cabaret. The Chouette followed him into the lower room, in which opened the trap with the folding-doors, with which we are already acquainted. Bras-Rouge’s son, sheltering the light in the hollow of his hand, and preceding the old woman, slowly descended a stone staircase, which led to a sharp declivity, at the end of which was the thick door of the cellar which had so nearly proved Rodolph’s grave. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, Tortillard pretended to hesitate in following the Chouette.
