“Mon Dieu!” said the Count, laughing, “what would you have? It is the short cut.”
“But it is only a few moments longer by the street,” urged Landes, “and these trees are too thick for a dark night.”
“Not for young eyes like yours and mine,” persisted the old soldier, and Philip chafed to hear the smile in his voice. But he followed without another word, and they crossed together the strip of turf which separates the shrub-grown path from the long, square pool of the fountain. Here gigantic sycamores threw their shadow on the gravel, and a thicket of shrubs, dense, although leafless, cast a deep gloom over the shallow reaches of the pool.
“There are the barracks,” said the Count, taking off his fatigue cap, and passing a handkerchief over his forehead. “Mon Dieu! How you walk, Monsieur the American. Have all the young men in America legs like that?”
Landes did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the thicket close behind him. Quick as a flash he raised his stick and at the same moment Sarre felled him from behind.
When he recovered consciousness, and the roaring in his ears had partly died away, he heard Tribert’s voice very near:
“Throw that American into the water. No, don’t search him. I did that. What the devil are you doing, Sarre? Leave the Count alone.” Then he swore frightfully, cursing Sarre and Georgias by name.
“The Count didn’t have the diamonds on him, after all,” snarled Georgias, delivering a kick at Landes’ body.
“You lie, you bungling Greek! I tell you I heard them fall into the water.’
“If you would look more carefully in his clothes,” — suggested Sarre, with an anxious snicker.
“Oh, you make me sick, you scented, fat-headed bungler! The bag fell into the water, I heard it.
I told you to keep him away from the edge. Unless Pagot comes back with that light pretty d — d quick, we’ll lose the diamonds, and if he does come, they’ll see it at the corps de garde and be down on r us. Georgias, do you hear? Help me drop this American pork overboard.”
“On the bag of diamonds,” giggled Sarre, nervously.
“Only wait till Pagot brings a light. Damn the lazy fool, why don’t he hurry? Shall I slip my knife into the American? He’s breathing and trying to turn over,” said Georgias.
“Yes,” muttered Tribert, “stick him deep behind the ear. — Hark! — is that Pagot?”
“Qui vive?”
“Friends,” stammered Georgias.
“Halt!” shouted a voice behind them, with a rattle of accoutrements and the stamp of horses’ hoofs.
“The cavalry!” whispered Tribert. “They are on the grass among the trees. Stick the American! — stick the American, quick! What are you shaking for? — idiot! fool! — Give me the knife! — Give it, I say!”
“Advance three paces, friends of France,” came the order close beside them.
Tribert seized the knife. A lantern flashed in his face.
“À l’assassin!”
“À l’assassin!” came the startled cry of the vedette, and bang! bang! bang! rang the cavalry carbines, while the drums crashed out in the guard-house below, and a bugle sent the echoes flying among the trees.
“Au secours!” gasped Landes, and fainted dead away.
“Cochon!” panted Tribert, hurling the knife at his throat. “Attrape ton secours!”
* * * * * * *
Lights were dancing before Philip’s eyes when consciousness returned again, and tall figures moved slowly about him, in apparently aimless circles. After a while his mind grew clearer, and he began to remember. Then a sudden fear chilled him and he tried to rise on his elbow.
“The Count,” he said weakly. “Where is the Count de Brassac?”
The moving figures seemed to be struck motionless. Some one brought a light close to him, and he saw that he was lying on a military cot covered with soldiers’ blankets. He was in a big gray room and all about him soldiers moved. Their motion and the light pained his eyes, and his head ached as if the skull would fly into splinters.
A white-haired officer came, and another, a surgeon, readjusted a bandage about his throat, and laid something cool over his eyes and forehead.
“Can you speak?” asked the officer.
“Yes,” said Landes, but his own voice jarred his head, and the jar sickened him.
“You were attacked. Do you remember how?”
“I was with the Count de Brassac. He stopped a moment by the fountain to rest. He was laughing because I walked so fast. Then — then I don’t remember — oh, yes — something looked out from the thicket — the face of a thief — Tribert. I struck at him with my cane — then — then — I don’t remember.” The pain was severe and he had to stop and wait until the throbbing of his brain subsided a little.
“What is his name, the man you saw in the thicket?”
“Tribert.”
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know. I have seen him in the Café Cardinal. There were other — other thieves. I heard them talking when I lay on the ground.”
“Who were the others?”
“Georgias, the Greek; André Sarre, student in the École de Médecine; and a man they called Pagot.”
“Who are you?”
“Philip Landes, citizen of the United States, living at 70 rue Notre Dame, student of painting in the École des Beaux Arts.” Pain forced him to stop again.
“Make one more effort,” said the officer. “There is no danger?” — turning to the surgeon.
“Oh, no, he is not badly injured. There is no fracture, and the knife only grazed the skin of his throat, but the pain confuses him.”
“Try, again then, Monsieur Landes. Try to tell me all you know about the affair.”
Philip made a desperate effort to concentrate his mind, and succeeded. As his mind grew clear, he realized that he must speak warily, or he should compromise Faustine, and he was resolved not to do that if it could be avoided. So when at last he told his story in a weak voice, with long pauses, he left her out of it altogether.
He said in substance that he could not mistake the thieves for he had met the whole lot of them that afternoon in the Café Cardinal, and been insulted by them because he was an American. Their voices were unmistakable. After dinner, he had wanted to call on his old friend, the Count de Brassac, returned three days ago to Paris,—” Monsieur knew?”
Oh, yes, the officer knew all about that.
Well, Landes said, he had found the Count’s address at the telegraph office in the Palais du Sénat. The Count was in the old hôtel of the family, rue Faublas. Philip had gone there after dinner and had found him. The Count had shown him a small bag of diamonds which he had brought up to Paris to place for safekeeping in the Bank of France. He was going to keep an appointment to meet the Marquis de Ploeuc this evening.
“It seemed ‘to me,” said Landes, “that he carried the diamonds rather recklessly, and when I found that he was going to the Luxembourg quite alone, I begged permission to accompany him.” Then he related the rest, and at last resolutely asked the question whose answer he had been dreading to hear.
“And the Count de Brassac?”
“Monsieur le Comte is very badly hurt,”
“He is dead?”
“He was killed by a knife-thrust.”
“That was Georgias,” whispered Landes, and fainted away again.
They would not let him talk any more, and to that end kept him well under the influence of morphine. He slept heavily all the next day, and only woke at night long enough to passively take some soup. Next morning he awoke from a dreamless slumber and looked at the white-haired officer who was standing by watching him.
“Good!” said that gentleman. “Monsieur is better.”
Philip sat up. There was plenty of lassitude and stiffness in his muscles, and his head felt queer, but he answered: “I am quite well. I must get up.”
“When you like, but first a word, if you please.” The officer took some pape
rs from his pocket. “Those are the papers found upon you two nights ago. One is a letter notifying you of your expulsion from the Students League, on account of your being an American. It is signed by Raoul Rigault and countersigned by André Sarre. And this is the telegram you wrote to the Count de Brassac, without sending, at the office of the Palais du Sénat, the same night. The operator in charge remembers you and corroborates your account.” After a pause the officer went on: “The Count de Brassac died about half-past eleven on the night of the assault. He recovered consciousness before he died. His daughter was summoned and was with him. He was able to speak with her.”
“Poor little Jeanne!” Philip suddenly saw the desolate child and his eyes filled with tears. He had not spoken, but the white-haired officer said, kindly: “You are right, Monsieur!”
“We are anxious about the jewels,” he went on. “They were found in the basin of the fountain, and should have been given at once to the Marquis de Ploeuc, but by some mistake they were left in the hands of Mademoiselle de Brassac’s maid, and are now in the de Brassac apartments at the Hôtel Perret.”
“Oh, that is wrong! Some harm will come to the young lady if the thieves know she has those jewels in her possession!”
“That is what we fear, although at present an orderly is on guard there subject to her commands; but when you are able to go there, Monsieur, I think you can be of great service to her. The Count spoke to her of you before he died.”
The officer bowed, and Landes felt that he was trusted.
“Have the murderers been caught?” he asked.
“No, and it will be a difficult matter to take them. Listen, Monsieur Landes. They are the soul and centre of a widespread conspiracy. There is more than murder in it. We have stumbled upon a plot whose ramifications give great cause for anxiety. The government has been notified, the police are working secretly, the newspapers have been prevented from publishing any account of the murder. They reported the Count’s death from a stroke of paralysis. The Count was buried yesterday at Montrouge, privately. If possible, Mademoiselle de Brassac should leave Paris for Chartres to-day.”
“What is to-day?”
“The 18th.”
“Then I have been ill two nights and a day?”
“Exactly.”
Landes sprang up without further ceremony. When he was dressed and was shaking hands with the surgeon, who pronounced him all right, but advised him to keep his head cool and avoid excitement for the present,— “for,” said the doctor, laughing, “they didn’t crack your skull, but they came very near it,” — just at that moment an orderly entered and handed a note to the white-haired officer.
“What are you doing away from the Hôtel Perret?” asked that gentleman, sharply.
“Mademoiselle insisted, mon capitaine.”
The captain shrugged and turned abruptly to Landes.
“Mademoiselle is now entirely alone with her maid in the Hôtel Perret. She sends a note asking if Mr. Philip Landes will be well enough to call upon her before she leaves for Chartres. If not, she says she’ll come here with her maid. She wishes to thank you, Monsieur, and to give you a message from her father. She should have found some other messenger than the orderly who was there to protect her. Perhaps there is no time to lose, Monsieur.”
“Will you do me the favor to send for a cab?” said Philip.
While he was waiting, stick and hat in hand, after he had made the proper acknowledgments and exchanged very cordial adieus, the captain said to him, drily: “Well, the troops left this morning to retake the cannon on Montmartre.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Landes, “it was time.”
“Yes, it was time, and do you know what convinced M. Thiers also that it was time? They say it was the revelations which reached him in connection with this murder of the Count de Brassac.”
“The conspiracy of which you spoke alarms M. Thiers?”
“Let us hope so,” answered the captain, with a glance at the surgeon.
A dragoon entered and announced the cab. They shook hands once more cordially. Philip hurried out and jumped into the cab, crying: “Hôtel Perret, Place Pigalle. Drive quickly.” The whitehaired captain watched him to the end of the street, then turned back into the guard-room with a curse.
“And you are — blessing whom, mon capitaine?” blandly inquired the surgeon, lighting a cigarette.
“Louis XVI., of course,” growled the other.
The surgeon blew several smoke rings out of the barred window, removed the cigarette from his lips, whistled a little, and then, looking straight at the captain, he deliberately sang the following remarkable couplet:
“C’est Adolphe Thiers qu’on me nomme,
Sacré nom d’un petit bonhomme!”
This being rank treason, the captain walked out of ear-shot.
CHAPTER III. AN HISTORICAL INTERLUDE.
PARIS had been singing Rochefort’s couplet now for several weeks.
On the 27th of the month preceding this, in which our story begins, a proclamation was sent by the National Assembly at Bordeaux to the citizens of Paris, urging them to accept quietly the hard terms of the surrender. The German army would enter Paris, it said, and occupy the zone, from the bridge of Courbevoie, with the Place de la Concorde, and the gardens of the Tuileries as the extreme limit.
“If the terms of surrender are not respected,” continued the proclamation, “the truce will be broken. The enemy, already master of the forts, will seize by violence the entire city. Your property, your public works, your chefs-d’œuvre of art will no longer be guaranteed by the agreement. This misfortune will fall on all France. The terrible ravages of war, which have not yet passed the Loire, will then reach the Pyrenees. It is therefore the exact truth that with you rests the safety of France.” Ernest Picard followed this with a despatch. “The Germans offered to renounce entry into Paris if Belfort were ceded to them forever. We replied that if anything could console Paris in her suffering and humiliation it would be the thought that our suffering saved Belfort to France.” Comforted by this, the Parisians quietly prepared to endure the occupation. The city was ready to accept the terms. The city was, but the faubourgs were not. In many of the suburbs, especially in revolutionary Montmartre and Belleville, the turbulent population, seeing the city patient, began to call for blood. These quarters had distinct ideas as to whose blood they wanted shed. During the siege, when it was necessary to repel invasion at the cost of their own, the battalions of Montmartre and Belleville were not distinguished for reckless bravery. There was even some scandal. They were not mentioned enthusiastically in the orders from headquarters, and in some cases disciplinary measures were employed; and now, when all good citizens had reconciled themselves to the inevitable, these battalions cocked their caps, polished up their gold facings, and yelled for Prussian blood. The mysterious Central Committee incited and supported them, proving that the roots of this organization were imbedded in anarchism. It gloated over the prospect of what was sure to follow on the firing of the first shot. The Prussians would throw themselves on the city like mad men; Mont Valérien would pound the fashionable quarters to powder. What pickings! during the sack of the city which would follow! The first and last article of faith for the Central Committee and those whom it represented was the ruin of the Bourgeoisie. Montmartre.. and Belleville listened and howled approval.
Then for two nights battalions, hastily formed, but numbering in all thirty thousand men, massed themselves in the Champs Elysées as far as the Avenue de la Grande-Armée with the avowed purpose of preventing the entry of the Germans, but General Vinoy, who was commander-in-chief of the National Guard, as well as of the regular army, put a stop to this grotesque fanfaronade.
“The rappel was beaten last night,” he said, “but the drummers had no orders, and they will be court-martialed. Some battalions took up arms with treasonable intent, but the majority of the Guard remained quiet. They understood what is the duty of all good citizens.”
Th
is sobered the faubourgs, and when the German newspapers announced that if there should be any disorder in Paris during the occupation, the Prussian army, with King William at its head, would take possession of the entire city, and would bring back Napoleon III. to the Tuileries, that produced a still more profound impression in the suburbs. Belleville was silent, Montmartre thoughtful, and the insidious Central Committee urged the discontented battalions to retire with dignity, but to keep their arms. Next day, not a National Guardsman was to be seen in the Champs Elysées. Then the Central Committee, from its obscurity, spread broadcast throughout Paris this printed circular:
“Where are the cannon of the National Guard? Soldiers of the battalions of Belleville and Montmartre! these cannon are yours. You paid for them, your sisters, wives, and children contributed to them, — are they to be surrendered to the Prussians?”
It was a thunder-clap from a clear sky. Nobody had thought about the cannon. At that time the National Guard numbered 150,000 men, divided into 250 battalians, and each battalion possessed a cannon. In spite of General Vinoy’s orders, this immense mass of men felt their power and now they began to clamor.
“We bought them, they are ours, they shall not fall into the hands of the Prussians!” the cry went up.
That was the time when Monsieur Thiers should have shown his teeth. He may have had none; he certainly did not exhibit any. He temporized. Jules Favre in the preliminaries of peace had begged Bismarck to allow the National Guard to retain their rifles. Bismarck grinned and politely acceded to the request, thinking, “what an ass, this M. Favre.” Now the National Guard not only possessed 300,000 rifles with sabre bayonets, but was also reaching for 250 pieces of cannon and mitrailleuses. Monsieur Thiers thought this amusing. The National Assembly was bickering over the question of permitting the Orleans princes to return, and paid no attention to the cannon. Col. Schoelcher, commanding the artillery, begged Thiers to interefere. Thiers refused. The poor Colonel then attempted to stem the rising tide himself. He offered to give the battalions their pieces if, one by one, each battalion would receive its pieces from him in the Jardin de l’Archevêché, but they laughed in his face. These 250 cannon and mitrailleuses were assembled in ranks of fifty in the Cours-la-Reine. One day an order came, from whom perhaps no one but the Central Committee knew. The cannon were seized by the National Guard, who, with drums and bugles sounding, marched as convoy, while hundreds of horses dragged the guns ûp the hill of Montmartre. Thiers was very much amused, it appeared, and the comic journals rang the changes on the joke, until one day a staff officer went up the hill of Montmartre to see these famous cannon, and came back with his hair on end and his sabre between his legs. This startled Monsieur Thiers who was by nature timid, and when the staff officer had told his tale, the hair on Monsieur Thiers’ head rose likewise. Two hundred and fifty guns of 7 and 12 concentrated upon Paris! It was not, after all, very amusing. The city began to look serious. People cast sidelong glances at this hill glittering with loaded guns. “The Prussians have gone,” they said to each other, “why are the cannon still there?” Thiers heard these murmurs, and — temporized. The public grew more and more anxious, the Radical newspapers began to give Monsieur Thiers advice. He listened — and temporized. “Take away the cannon,” cried the people. “Please give me your cannon,” mumbled the chief of the Executive Power. When refused with taunts and jeers of “Come and take them,” he turned with a senile snarl on the newspapers and suppressed six, the “Vengeur,” the “Cri du Peuple,” Henri Rochefort’s “Mot d’Ordre,”
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