Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Because I have dragged him back when in his drunken love he would have thrown his arms about your cousin Adele.”

  “Oh!” The young man’s colour had been rising and his brows knitted at each successive charge, but at this last his anger boiled over, and he hurried forward with fury in his face, dragging his elderly companion by the elbow. They had been passing through one of those winding paths, bordered by high hedges, which thinned away every here and there to give a glimpse of some prowling faun or weary nymph who slumbered in marble amid the foliage. The few courtiers who met them gazed with surprise at so ill-assorted a pair of companions. But the young soldier was too full of his own plans to waste a thought upon their speculations. Still hurrying on, he followed a crescent path which led past a dozen stone dolphins shooting water out of their mouths over a group of Tritons, and so through an avenue of great trees which looked as if they had grown there for centuries, and yet had in truth been carried over that very year by incredible labour from St. Germain and Fontainebleau. Beyond this point a small gate led out of the grounds, and it was through it that the two passed, the elder man puffing and panting with this unusual haste.

  “How did you come, uncle?”

  “In a caleche.”

  “Where is it?”

  “That is it, beyond the auberge.”

  “Come, let us make for it.”

  “And you, Amory, are you coming?”

  “My faith, it is time that I came, from what you tell me. There is room for a man with a sword at his side in this establishment of yours.”

  “But what would you do?”

  “I would have a word with this Captain Dalbert.”

  “Then I have wronged you, nephew, when I said even now that you were not whole-hearted towards Israel.”

  “I know not about Israel,” cried De Catinat impatiently. “I only know that if my Adele chose to worship the thunder like an Abenaqui squaw, or turned her innocent prayers to the Mitche Manitou, I should like to set eyes upon the man who would dare to lay a hand upon her. Ha, here comes our caleche! Whip up, driver, and five livres to you if you pass the gate of the Invalides within the hour.”

  It was no light matter to drive fast in an age of springless carriages and deeply rutted roads, but the driver lashed at his two rough unclipped horses, and the caleche jolted and clattered upon its way. As they sped on, with the road-side trees dancing past the narrow windows, and the white dust streaming behind them, the guardsman drummed his fingers upon his knees, and fidgeted in his seat with impatience, shooting an occasional question across at his grim companion.

  “When was all this, then?”

  “It was yesterday night.”

  “And where is Adele now?”

  “She is at home.”

  “And this Dalbert?”

  “Oh, he is there also!”

  “What! you have left her in his power while you came away to

  Versailles?”

  “She is locked in her room.”

  “Pah! what is a lock?” The young man raved with his hands in the air at the thought of his own impotence.

  “And Pierre is there?”

  “He is useless.”

  “And Amos Green.”

  “Ah, that is better. He is a man, by the look of him.”

  “His mother was one of our own folk from Staten Island, near Manhattan. She was one of those scattered lambs who fled early before the wolves, when first it was seen that the king’s hand waxed heavy upon Israel. He speaks French, and yet he is neither French to the eye, nor are his ways like our ways.”

  “He has chosen an evil time for his visit.”

  “Some wise purpose may lie hid in it.”

  “And you have left him in the house?”

  “Yes; he was sat with this Dalbert, smoking with him, and telling him strange tales.”

  “What guard could he be? He is a stranger in a strange land. You did ill to leave Adele thus, uncle.”

  “She is in God’s hands, Amory.”

  “I trust so. Oh, I am on fire to be there!”

  He thrust his head through the cloud of dust which rose from the wheels, and craned his neck to look upon the long curving river and broad-spread city, which was already visible before them, half hid by a thin blue haze, through which shot the double tower of Notre Dame, with the high spire of St. Jacques and a forest of other steeples and minarets, the monuments of eight hundred years of devotion. Soon, as the road curved down to the river-bank, the city wall grew nearer and nearer, until they had passed the southern gate, and were rattling over the stony causeway, leaving the broad Luxembourg upon their right, and Colbert’s last work, the Invalides, upon their left. A sharp turn brought them on to the river quays, and crossing over the Pont Neuf, they skirted the stately Louvre, and plunged into the labyrinth of narrow but important streets which extended to the northward. The young officer had his head still thrust out of the window, but his view was obscured by a broad gilded carriage which lumbered heavily along in front of them. As the road broadened, however, it swerved to one side, and he was able to catch a glimpse of the house to which they were making.

  It was surrounded on every side by an immense crowd.

  CHAPTER VI.

  A HOUSE OF STRIFE.

  The house of the Huguenot merchant was a tall, narrow building standing at the corner of the Rue St. Martin and the Rue de Biron. It was four stories in height, grim and grave like its owner, with high peaked roof, long diamond-paned windows, a frame-work of black wood, with gray plaster filling the interstices, and five stone steps which led up to the narrow and sombre door. The upper story was but a warehouse in which the trader kept his stock, but the second and third were furnished with balconies edged with stout wooden balustrades. As the uncle and the nephew sprang out of the caleche, they found themselves upon the outskirts of a dense crowd of people, who were swaying and tossing with excitement, their chins all thrown forwards and their gaze directed upwards. Following their eyes, the young officer saw a sight which left him standing bereft of every sensation save amazement.

  From the upper balcony there was hanging head downwards a man clad in the bright blue coat and white breeches of one of the king’s dragoons. His hat and wig had dropped off, and his close-cropped head swung slowly backwards and forwards a good fifty feet above the pavement. His face was turned towards the street, and was of a deadly whiteness, while his eyes were screwed up as though he dared not open them upon the horror which faced them. His voice, however, resounded over the whole place until the air was filled with his screams for mercy.

  Above him, at the corner of the balcony, there stood a young man who leaned with a bent back over the balustrades, and who held the dangling dragoon by either ankle. His face, however, was not directed towards his victim, but was half turned over his shoulder to confront a group of soldiers who were clustering at the long, open window which led out into the balcony. His head, as he glanced at them, was poised with a proud air of defiance, while they surged and oscillated in the opening, uncertain whether to rush on or to retire.

  Suddenly the crowd gave a groan of excitement. The young man had released his grip upon one of the ankles, and the dragoon hung now by one only, his other leg flapping helplessly in the air. He grabbed aimlessly with his hands at the wall and the wood-work behind him, still yelling at the pitch of his lungs.

  “Pull me up, son of the devil, pull me up!” he screamed. “Would you murder me, then? Help, good people, help!”

  “Do you want to come up, captain?” said the strong clear voice of the young man above him, speaking excellent French, but in an accent which fell strangely upon the ears of the crowd beneath.

  “Yes, sacred name of God, yes!”

  “Order off your men, then.”

  “Away, you dolts, you imbeciles! Do you wish to see me dashed to pieces? Away, I say! Off with you!”

  “That is better,” said the youth, when the soldiers had vanished from the window. He gave a tug at the
dragoon’s leg as he spoke, which jerked him up so far that he could twist round and catch hold of the lower edge of the balcony. “How do you find yourself now?” he asked.

  “Hold me, for heaven’s sake, hold me!”

  “I have you quite secure.”

  “Then pull me up!”

  “Not so fast, captain. You can talk very well where you are.”

  “Let me up, sir, let me up!”

  “All in good time. I fear that it is inconvenient to you to talk with your heels in the air.”

  “Ah, you would murder me!”

  “On the contrary, I am going to pull you up.”

  “Heaven bless you!”

  “But only on conditions.”

  “Oh, they are granted! I am slipping!”

  “You will leave this house — you and your men. You will not trouble this old man or this young girl any further. Do you promise?”

  “Oh yes; we shall go.”

  “Word of honour?”

  “Certainly. Only pull me up!”

  “Not so fast. It may be easier to talk to you like this. I do not know how the laws are over here. Maybe this sort of thing is not permitted. You will promise me that I shall have no trouble over the matter.”

  “None, none. Only pull me up!”

  “Very good. Come along!”

  He dragged at the dragoon’s leg while the other gripped his way up the balustrade until, amid a buzz of congratulation from the crowd, he tumbled all in a heap over the rail on to the balcony, where he lay for a few moments as he had fallen. Then staggering to his feet, without a glance at his opponent, he rushed, with a bellow of rage, through the open window.

  While this little drama had been enacted overhead, the young guardsman had shaken off his first stupor of amazement, and had pushed his way through the crowd with such vigour that he and his companion had nearly reached the bottom of the steps. The uniform of the king’s guard was in itself a passport anywhere, and the face of old Catinat was so well known in the district that everyone drew back to clear a path for him towards his house. The door was flung open for them, and an old servant stood wringing his hands in the dark passage.

  “Oh, master! Oh, master!” he cried.

  “Such doings, such infamy! They will murder him!”

  “Whom, then?”

  “This brave monsieur from America. Oh, my God, hark to them now!”

  As he spoke, a clatter and shouting which had burst out again upstairs ended suddenly in a tremendous crash, with volleys of oaths and a prolonged bumping and smashing, which shook the old house to its foundations. The soldier and the Huguenot rushed swiftly up the first flight of stairs, and were about to ascend the second one, from the head of which the uproar seemed to proceed, when a great eight-day clock came hurtling down, springing four steps at a time, and ending with a leap across the landing and a crash against the wall, which left it a shattered heap of metal wheels and wooden splinters. An instant afterwards four men, so locked together that they formed but one rolling bundle, came thudding down amid a debris of splintered stair-rails, and writhed and struggled upon the landing, staggering up, falling down, and all breathing together like the wind in a chimney. So twisted and twined were they that it was hard to pick one from the other, save that the innermost was clad in black Flemish cloth, while the three who clung to him were soldiers of the king. Yet so strong and vigorous was the man whom they tried to hold that as often as he could find his feet he dragged them after him from end to end of the passage, as a boar might pull the curs which had fastened on to his haunches. An officer, who had rushed down at the heels of the brawlers, thrust his hands in to catch the civilian by the throat, but he whipped them back again with an oath as the man’s strong white teeth met in his left thumb. Clapping the wound to his mouth, he flashed out his sword and was about to drive it through the body of his unarmed opponent, when De Catinat sprang forward and caught him by the wrist.

  “You villain, Dalbert!” he cried.

  The sudden appearance of one of the king’s own bodyguard had a magic effect upon the brawlers. Dalbert sprang back, with his thumb still in his mouth, and his sword drooping, scowling darkly at the new-comer. His long sallow face was distorted with anger, and his small black eyes blazed with passion and with the hell-fire light of unsatisfied vengeance. His troopers had released their victim, and stood panting in a line, while the young man leaned against the wall, brushing the dust from his black coat, and looking from his rescuer to his antagonists.

  “I had a little account to settle with you before, Dalbert,” said

  De Catinat, unsheathing his rapier.

  “I am on the king’s errand,” snarled the other.

  “No doubt. On guard, sir!”

  “I am here on duty, I tell you!”

  “Very good. Your sword, sir!”

  “I have no quarrel with you.”

  “No?” De Catinat stepped forward and struck him across the face with his open hand. “It seems to me that you have one now,” said he.

  “Hell and furies!” screamed the captain. “To your arms, men! Hola, there, from above! Cut down this fellow, and seize your prisoner! Hola! In the king’s name!”

  At his call a dozen more troopers came hurrying down the stairs, while the three upon the landing advanced upon their former antagonist. He slipped by them, however, and caught out of the old merchant’s hand the thick oak stick which he carried.

  “I am with you, sir,” said he, taking his place beside the guardsman.

  “Call off your canaille, and fight me like a gentleman,” cried

  De Catinat.

  “A gentleman! Hark to the bourgeois Huguenot, whose family peddles cloth!”

  “You coward! I will write liar on you with my sword-point!”

  He sprang forward, and sent in a thrust which might have found its way to Dalbert’s heart had the heavy sabre of a dragoon not descended from the side and shorn his more delicate weapon short off close to the hilt. With a shout of triumph, his enemy sprang furiously upon him with his rapier shortened, but was met by a sharp blow from the cudgel of the young stranger which sent his weapon tinkling on to the ground. A trooper, however, on the stair had pulled out a pistol, and clapping it within a foot of the guardsman’s head, was about to settle the combat, once and forever, when a little old gentleman, who had quietly ascended from the street, and who had been looking on with an amused and interested smile at this fiery sequence of events, took a sudden step forward, and ordered all parties to drop their weapons with a voice so decided, so stern, and so full of authority, that the sabre points all clinked down together upon the parquet flooring as though it were a part of their daily drill.

  “Upon my word, gentlemen, upon my word!” said he, looking sternly from one to the other. He was a very small, dapper man, as thin as a herring, with projecting teeth and a huge drooping many-curled wig, which cut off the line of his skinny neck and the slope of his narrow shoulders. His dress was a long overcoat of mouse-coloured velvet slashed with gold, beneath which were high leather boots, which, with his little gold-laced, three-cornered hat, gave a military tinge to his appearance. In his gait and bearing he had a dainty strut and backward cock of the head, which, taken with his sharp black eyes, his high thin features, and his assured manner, would impress a stranger with the feeling that this was a man of power. And, indeed, in France or out of it there were few to whom this man’s name was not familiar, for in all France the only figure which loomed up as large as that of the king was this very little gentleman who stood now, with gold snuff-box in one hand, and deep-laced handkerchief in the other, upon the landing of the Huguenot’s house. For who was there who did not know the last of the great French nobles, the bravest of French captains, the beloved Conde, victor of Recroy and hero of the Fronde? At the sight of his pinched, sallow face the dragoons and their leader had stood staring, while De Catinat raised the stump of his sword in a salute.

  “Heh, heh!” cried the old soldier, peerin
g at him.

  “You were with me on the Rhine — heh? I know your face, captain.

  But the household was with Turenne.”

  “I was in the regiment of Picardy, your Highness. De Catinat is my name.”

  “Yes, yes. But you, sir, who the devil are you?”

  “Captain Dalbert, your Highness, of the Languedoc Blue Dragoons.”

  “Heh! I was passing in my carriage, and I saw you standing on your head in the air. The young man let you up on conditions, as I understood.”

  “He swore he would go from the house,” cried the young stranger. “Yet when I had let him up, he set his men upon me, and we all came downstairs together.”

  “My faith, you seem to have left little behind you,” said Conde, smiling, as he glanced at the litter which was strewed all over the floor. “And so you broke your parole, Captain Dalbert?”

  “I could not hold treaty with a Huguenot and an enemy of the king,” said the dragoon sulkily.

  “You could hold treaty, it appears, but not keep it. And why did you let him go, sir, when you had him at such a vantage?”

  “I believed his promise.”

  “You must be of a trusting nature.”

  “I have been used to deal with Indians.”

  “Heh! And you think an Indian’s word is better than that of an officer in the king’s dragoons?”

  “I did not think so an hour ago.”

  “Hem!” Conde took a large pinch of snuff, and brushed the wandering grains from his velvet coat with his handkerchief of point.

  “You are very strong, monsieur,” said he, glancing keenly at the broad shoulders and arching chest of the young stranger. “You are from Canada, I presume?”

  “I have been there, sir. But I am from New York.”

  Conde shook his head. “An island?”

  “No, sir; a town.”

  “In what province?”

  “The province of New York.”

  “The chief town, then?”

  “Nay; Albany is the chief town.”

  “And how came you to speak French?”

  “My mother was of French blood.”