The Mystery of Choice

by Robert W. Chambers

  THE PURPLE EMPEROR.

  Un souvenir heureux est peut-etre, sur terre, Plus vrai que le bonheur.

  A. DE MUSSET.

  I.

  The Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again, spinning outsix feet more of waterproof silk, and, as the line hissed through theair far across the pool, I saw my three flies fall on the water likedrifting thistledown. The Purple Emperor sneered.

  "You see," he said, "I am right. There is not a trout in Brittany thatwill rise to a tailed fly."

  "They do in America," I replied.

  "Zut! for America!" observed the Purple Emperor.

  "And trout take a tailed fly in England," I insisted sharply.

  "Now do I care what things or people do in England?" demanded thePurple Emperor.

  "You don't care for anything except yourself and your wrigglingcaterpillars," I said, more annoyed than I had yet been.

  The Purple Emperor sniffed. His broad, hairless, sunburnt features borethat obstinate expression which always irritated me. Perhaps the mannerin which he wore his hat intensified the irritation, for the flappingbrim rested on both ears, and the two little velvet ribbons whichhung from the silver buckle in front wiggled and fluttered with everytrivial breeze. His cunning eyes and sharp-pointed nose were out of allkeeping with his fat red face. When he met my eye, he chuckled.

  "I know more about insects than any man in Morbihan--or Finistereeither, for that matter," he said.

  "The Red Admiral knows as much as you do," I retorted.

  "He doesn't," replied the Purple Emperor angrily.

  "And his collection of butterflies is twice as large as yours," Iadded, moving down the stream to a spot directly opposite him.

  "It is, is it?" sneered the Purple Emperor. "Well, let me tell you,Monsieur Darrel, in all his collection he hasn't a specimen, a singlespecimen, of that magnificent butterfly, Apatura Iris, commonly knownas the 'Purple Emperor.'"

  "Everybody in Brittany knows that," I said, casting across thesparkling water; "but just because you happen to be the only man whoever captured a 'Purple Emperor' in Morbihan, it doesn't follow thatyou are an authority on sea-trout flies. Why do you say that a Bretonsea-trout won't touch a tailed fly?"

  "It's so," he replied.

  "Why? There are plenty of May-flies about the stream."

  "Let 'em fly!" snarled the Purple Emperor, "you won't see a trout touch'em."

  My arm was aching, but I grasped my split bamboo more firmly, and,half turning, waded out into the stream and began to whip the ripplesat the head of the pool. A great green dragon-fly came drifting by onthe summer breeze and hung a moment above the pool, glittering like anemerald.

  "There's a chance! Where is your butterfly net?" I called across thestream.

  "What for? That dragon-fly? I've got dozens--Anax Junius, Drury,characteristic, anal angle of posterior wings, in male, round; thoraxmarked with----"

  "That will do," I said fiercely. "Can't I point out an insect inthe air without this burst of erudition? Can you tell me, in simpleeveryday French, what this little fly is--this one, flitting over theeel grass here beside me? See, it has fallen on the water."

  "Huh!" sneered the Purple Emperor, "that's a Linnobia annulus."

  "What's that?" I demanded.

  Before he could answer there came a heavy splash in the pool, and thefly disappeared.

  "He! he! he!" tittered the Purple Emperor. "Didn't I tell you the fishknew their business? That was a sea-trout. I hope you don't get him."

  He gathered up his butterfly net, collecting box, chloroform bottle,and cyanide jar. Then he rose, swung the box over his shoulder, stuffedthe poison bottles into the pockets of his silver-buttoned velvetcoat, and lighted his pipe. This latter operation was a demoralizingspectacle, for the Purple Emperor, like all Breton peasants, smoked oneof those microscopical Breton pipes which requires ten minutes to find,ten minutes to fill, ten minutes to light, and ten seconds to finish.With true Breton stolidity he went through this solemn rite, blew threepuffs of smoke into the air, scratched his pointed nose reflectively,and waddled away, calling back an ironical "Au revoir, and bad luck toall Yankees!"

  I watched him out of sight, thinking sadly of the young girl whose lifehe made a hell upon earth--Lys Trevec, his niece. She never admittedit, but we all knew what the black-and-blue marks meant on her soft,round arm, and it made me sick to see the look of fear come into hereyes when the Purple Emperor waddled into the cafe of the Groix Inn.

  It was commonly said that he half-starved her. This she denied. MarieJoseph and 'Fine Lelocard had seen him strike her the day after thePardon of the Birds because she had liberated three bullfinches whichhe had limed the day before. I asked Lys if this were true, and sherefused to speak to me for the rest of the week. There was nothing todo about it. If the Purple Emperor had not been avaricious, I shouldnever have seen Lys at all, but he could not resist the thirty francsa week which I offered him; and Lys posed for me all day long, happyas a linnet in a pink thorn hedge. Nevertheless, the Purple Emperorhated me, and constantly threatened to send Lys back to her drearyflax-spinning. He was suspicious, too, and when he had gulped downthe single glass of cider which proves fatal to the sobriety of mostBretons, he would pound the long, discoloured oaken table and roarcurses on me, on Yves Terrec, and on the Red Admiral. We were thethree objects in the world which he most hated: me, because I was aforeigner, and didn't care a rap for him and his butterflies; and theRed Admiral, because he was a rival entomologist.

  He had other reasons for hating Terrec.

  The Red Admiral, a little wizened wretch, with a badly adjustedglass eye and a passion for brandy, took his name from a butterflywhich predominated in his collection. This butterfly, commonly knownto amateurs as the "Red Admiral," and to entomologists as VanessaAtalanta, had been the occasion of scandal among the entomologists ofFrance and Brittany. For the Red Admiral had taken one of these commoninsects, dyed it a brilliant yellow by the aid of chemicals, and palmedit off on a credulous collector as a South African species, absolutelyunique. The fifty francs which he gained by this rascality were,however, absorbed in a suit for damages brought by the outraged amateura month later; and when he had sat in the Quimperle jail for a month,he reappeared in the little village of St. Gildas soured, thirsty, andburning for revenge. Of course we named him the Red Admiral, and heaccepted the name with suppressed fury.

  The Purple Emperor, on the other hand, had gained his imperial titlelegitimately, for it was an undisputed fact that the only specimen ofthat beautiful butterfly, Apatura Iris, or the Purple Emperor, as itis called by amateurs--the only specimen that had ever been taken inFinistere or in Morbihan--was captured and brought home alive by JosephMarie Gloanec, ever afterward to be known as the Purple Emperor.

  When the capture of this rare butterfly became known the Red Admiralnearly went crazy. Every day for a week he trotted over to the GroixInn, where the Purple Emperor lived with his niece, and brought hismicroscope to bear on the rare newly captured butterfly, in hopes ofdetecting a fraud. But this specimen was genuine, and he leered throughhis microscope in vain.

  "No chemicals there, Admiral," grinned the Purple Emperor; and the RedAdmiral chattered with rage.

  To the scientific world of Brittany and France the capture of anApatura Iris in Morbihan was of great importance. The Museum of Quimperoffered to purchase the butterfly, but the Purple Emperor, though ahoarder of gold, was a monomaniac on butterflies, and he jeered at theCurator of the Museum. From all parts of Brittany and France lettersof inquiry and congratulation poured in upon him. The French Academyof Sciences awarded him a prize, and the Paris Entomological Societymade him an honorary member. Being a Breton peasant, and a more thancommonly pig-headed one at that, these honours did not disturb hisequanimity; but when the little hamlet of St. Gildas elected him mayor,and, as is the custom in Brittany under such circumstances, he left histhatched house to take up an official life in the little Groix Inn
, hishead became completely turned. To be mayor in a village of nearly onehundred and fifty people! It was an empire! So he became unbearable,drinking himself viciously drunk every night of his life, maltreatinghis niece, Lys Trevec, like the barbarous old wretch that he was, anddriving the Red Admiral nearly frantic with his eternal harping on thecapture of Apatura Iris. Of course he refused to tell where he hadcaught the butterfly. The Red Admiral stalked his footsteps, but in vain.

  "He! he! he!" nagged the Purple Emperor, cuddling his chin over a glassof cider; "I saw you sneaking about the St. Gildas spinny yesterdaymorning. So you think you can find another Apatura Iris by runningafter me? It won't do, Admiral, it won't do, d'ye see?"

  The Red Admiral turned yellow with mortification and envy, but the nextday he actually took to his bed, for the Purple Emperor had broughthome not a butterfly but a live chrysalis, which, if successfullyhatched, would become a perfect specimen of the invaluable ApaturaIris. This was the last straw. The Red Admiral shut himself up inhis little stone cottage, and for weeks now he had been invisible toeverybody except 'Fine Lelocard who carried him a loaf of bread and amullet or langouste every morning.

  The withdrawal of the Red Admiral from the society of St. Gildasexcited first the derision and finally the suspicion of the PurpleEmperor. What deviltry could he be hatching? Was he experimenting withchemicals again, or was he engaged in some deeper plot, the objectof which was to discredit the Purple Emperor? Roux, the postman,who carried the mail on foot once a day from Bannalec, a distance offifteen miles each way, had brought several suspicious letters, bearingEnglish stamps, to the Red Admiral, and the next day the Admiral hadbeen observed at his window grinning up into the sky and rubbing hishands together. A night or two after this apparition the postman lefttwo packages at the Groix Inn for a moment while he ran across the wayto drink a glass of cider with me. The Purple Emperor, who was roamingabout the cafe, snooping into everything that did not concern him, cameupon the packages and examined the postmarks and addresses. One of thepackages was square and heavy, and felt like a book. The other was alsosquare, but very light, and felt like a pasteboard box. They were bothaddressed to the Red Admiral, and they bore English stamps.

  When Roux, the postman, came back, the Purple Emperor tried to pumphim, but the poor little postman knew nothing about the contents of thepackages, and after he had taken them around the corner to the cottageof the Red Admiral the Purple Emperor ordered a glass of cider, anddeliberately fuddled himself until Lys came in and tearfully supportedhim to his room. Here he became so abusive and brutal that Lys calledto me, and I went and settled the trouble without wasting any words.This also the Purple Emperor remembered, and waited his chance to geteven with me.

  That had happened a week ago, and until to-day he had not deigned tospeak to me.

  Lys had posed for me all the week, and to-day being Saturday, and Ilazy, we had decided to take a little relaxation, she to visit andgossip with her little black-eyed friend Yvette in the neighbouringhamlet of St. Julien, and I to try the appetites of the Breton troutwith the contents of my American fly book.

  I had thrashed the stream very conscientiously for three hours, but nota trout had risen to my cast, and I was piqued. I had begun to believethat there were no trout in the St. Gildas stream, and would probablyhave given up had I not seen the sea trout snap the little fly whichthe Purple Emperor had named so scientifically. That set me thinking.Probably the Purple Emperor was right, for he certainly was an expertin everything that crawled and wriggled in Brittany. So I matched,from my American fly book, the fly that the sea trout had snapped up,and withdrawing the cast of three, knotted a new leader to the silkand slipped a fly on the loop. It was a queer fly. It was one of thoseunnameable experiments which fascinate anglers in sporting stores andwhich generally prove utterly useless. Moreover, it was a tailed fly,but of course I easily remedied that with a stroke of my penknife.Then I was all ready, and I stepped out into the hurrying rapids andcast straight as an arrow to the spot where the sea trout had risen.Lightly as a plume the fly settled on the bosom of the pool; then camea startling splash, a gleam of silver, and the line tightened from thevibrating rod-tip to the shrieking reel. Almost instantly I checked thefish, and as he floundered for a moment, making the water boil alonghis glittering sides, I sprang to the bank again, for I saw that thefish was a heavy one and I should probably be in for a long run downthe stream. The five-ounce rod swept in a splendid circle, quiveringunder the strain. "Oh, for a gaff-hook!" I cried aloud, for I was nowfirmly convinced that I had a salmon to deal with, and no sea trout atall.

  Then as I stood, bringing every ounce to bear on the sulking fish, alithe, slender girl came hurriedly along the opposite bank calling outto me by name.

  "Why, Lys!" I said, glancing up for a second, "I thought you were atSt. Julien with Yvette."

  "Yvette has gone to Bannalec. I went home and found an awful fightgoing on at the Groix Inn, and I was so frightened that I came to tellyou."

  The fish dashed off at that moment, carrying all the line my reel held,and I was compelled to follow him at a jump. Lys, active and gracefulas a young deer, in spite of her Pont-Aven sabots, followed along theopposite bank until the fish settled in a deep pool, shook the linesavagely once or twice, and then relapsed into the sulks.

  "Fight at the Groix Inn?" I called across the water. "What fight?"

  "Not exactly fight," quavered Lys, "but the Red Admiral has come outof his house at last, and he and my uncle are drinking together anddisputing about butterflies. I never saw my uncle so angry, and the RedAdmiral is sneering and grinning. Oh, it is almost wicked to see sucha face!"

  "But Lys," I said, scarcely able to repress a smile, "your uncle andthe Red Admiral are always quarrelling and drinking."

  "I know--oh, dear me!--but this is different, Monsieur Darrel. The RedAdmiral has grown old and fierce since he shut himself up three weeksago, and--oh, dear! I never saw such a look in my uncle's eyes before.He seemed insane with fury. His eyes--I can't speak of it--and thenTerrec came in."

  "Oh," I said more gravely, "that was unfortunate. What did the RedAdmiral say to his son?"

  Lys sat down on a rock among the ferns, and gave me a mutinous glancefrom her blue eyes.

  Yves Terrec, loafer, poacher, and son of Louis Jean Terrec, otherwisethe Red Admiral, had been kicked out by his father, and had also beenforbidden the village by the Purple Emperor, in his majestic capacityof mayor. Twice the young ruffian had returned: once to rifle thebedroom of the Purple Emperor--an unsuccessful enterprise--and anothertime to rob his own father. He succeeded in the latter attempt, but wasnever caught, although he was frequently seen roving about the forestsand moors with his gun. He openly menaced the Purple Emperor; vowedthat he would marry Lys in spite of all the gendarmes in Quimperle;and these same gendarmes he led many a long chase through brier-filledswamps and over miles of yellow gorse.

  What he did to the Purple Emperor--what he intended to do--disquietedme but little; but I worried over his threat concerning Lys. Duringthe last three months this had bothered me a great deal; for when Lyscame to St. Gildas from the convent the first thing she captured was myheart. For a long time I had refused to believe that any tie of bloodlinked this dainty blue-eyed creature with the Purple Emperor. Althoughshe dressed in the velvet-laced bodice and blue petticoat of Finistere,and wore the bewitching white coiffe of St. Gildas, it seemed like apretty masquerade. To me she was as sweet and as gently bred as many amaiden of the noble Faubourg who danced with her cousins at a Louis XVfete champetre. So when Lys said that Yves Terrec had returned openlyto St. Gildas, I felt that I had better be there also.

  "What did Terrec say, Lys?" I asked, watching the line vibrating abovethe placid pool.

  The wild rose colour crept into her cheeks. "Oh," she answered, with alittle toss of her chin, "you know what he always says."

  "That he will carry you away?"

  "Yes."

  "In spite of the Purple Emperor, the Red Admiral, and t
he gendarmes?"

  "Yes."

  "And what do you say, Lys?"

  "I? Oh, nothing."

  "Then let me say it for you."

  Lys looked at her delicate pointed sabots, the sabots from Pont-Aven,made to order. They fitted her little foot. They were her only luxury.

  "Will you let me answer for you, Lys?" I asked.

  "You, Monsieur Darrel?"

  "Yes. Will you let me give him his answer?"

  "Mon Dieu, why should you concern yourself, Monsieur Darrel?"

  The fish lay very quiet, but the rod in my hand trembled.

  "Because I love you, Lys."

  The wild rose colour in her cheeks deepened; she gave a gentle gasp,then hid her curly head in her hands.

  "I love you, Lys."

  "Do you know what you say?" she stammered.

  "Yes, I love you."

  She raised her sweet face and looked at me across the pool.

  "I love you," she said, while the tears stood like stars in her eyes."Shall I come over the brook to you?"

  II.

  That night Yves Terrec left the village of St. Gildas vowing vengeanceagainst his father, who refused him shelter.

  I can see him now, standing in the road, his bare legs rising likepillars of bronze from his straw-stuffed sabots, his short velvetjacket torn and soiled by exposure and dissipation, and his eyes,fierce, roving, bloodshot--while the Red Admiral squeaked curses onhim, and hobbled away into his little stone cottage.

  "I will not forget you!" cried Yves Terrec, and stretched out his handtoward his father with a terrible gesture. Then he whipped his gun tohis cheek and took a short step forward, but I caught him by the throatbefore he could fire, and a second later we were rolling in the dustof the Bannalec road. I had to hit him a heavy blow behind the earbefore he would let go, and then, rising and shaking myself, I dashedhis muzzle-loading fowling piece to bits against a wall, and threw hisknife into the river. The Purple Emperor was looking on with a queerlight in his eyes. It was plain that he was sorry Terrec had not chokedme to death.

  "He would have killed his father," I said, as I passed him, goingtoward the Groix Inn.

  "That's his business," snarled the Purple Emperor. There was a deadlylight in his eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to attack me;but he was merely viciously drunk, so I shoved him out of my way andwent to bed, tired and disgusted.

  The worst of it was I couldn't sleep, for I feared that the PurpleEmperor might begin to abuse Lys. I lay restlessly tossing among thesheets until I could stay there no longer. I did not dress entirely;I merely slipped on a pair of chaussons and sabots, a pair ofknickerbockers, a jersey, and a cap. Then, loosely tying a handkerchiefabout my throat, I went down the worm-eaten stairs and out into themoonlit road. There was a candle flaring in the Purple Emperor'swindow, but I could not see him.

  "He's probably dead drunk," I thought, and looked up at the windowwhere, three years before, I had first seen Lys.

  "Asleep, thank Heaven!" I muttered, and wandered out along the road.Passing the small cottage of the Red Admiral, I saw that it was dark,but the door was open. I stepped inside the hedge to shut it, thinking,in case Yves Terrec should be roving about, his father would losewhatever he had left.

  Then, after fastening the door with a stone, I wandered on through thedazzling Breton moonlight. A nightingale was singing in a willow swampbelow, and from the edge of the mere, among the tall swamp grasses,myriads of frogs chanted a bass chorus.

  When I returned, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten, and acrossthe meadows on the cliffs, outlined against the paling horizon, I sawa seaweed gatherer going to his work among the curling breakers on thecoast. His long rake was balanced on his shoulder, and the sea windcarried his song across the meadows to me:

  St. Gildas! St. Gildas! Pray for us, Shelter us, Us who toil in the sea.

  Passing the shrine at the entrance of the village, I took off my capand knelt in prayer to Our Lady of Faoeuet; and if I neglected myselfin that prayer, surely I believed Our Lady of Faoeuet would be kinder toLys. It is said that the shrine casts white shadows. I looked, but sawonly the moonlight. Then very peacefully I went to bed again, and wasonly awakened by the clank of sabres and the trample of horses in theroad below my window.

  "Good gracious!" I thought, "it must be eleven o'clock, for there arethe gendarmes from Quimperle."

  I looked at my watch; it was only half-past eight, and as the gendarmesmade their rounds every Thursday at eleven, I wondered what had broughtthem out so early to St. Gildas.

  "Of course," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes, "they are after Terrec," andI jumped into my limited bath.

  Before I was completely dressed I heard a timid knock, and opening mydoor, razor in hand, stood astonished and silent. Lys, her blue eyeswide with terror, leaned on the threshold.

  "My darling!" I cried, "what on earth is the matter?" But sheonly clung to me, panting like a wounded sea gull. At last, when Idrew her into the room and raised her face to mine, she spoke in aheart-breaking voice:

  "Oh, Dick! they are going to arrest you, but I will die before Ibelieve one word of what they say. No, don't ask me," and she began tosob desperately.

  When I found that something really serious was the matter, I flungon my coat and cap, and, slipping one arm about her waist, went downthe stairs and out into the road. Four gendarmes sat on their horsesin front of the cafe door; beyond them, the entire population of St.Gildas gaped, ten deep.

  "Hello, Durand!" I said to the brigadier, "what the devil is this Ihear about arresting me?"

  "It's true, mon ami," replied Durand with sepulchral sympathy. I lookedhim over from the tip of his spurred boots to his sulphur-yellow sabrebelt, then upward, button by button, to his disconcerted face.

  "What for?" I said scornfully. "Don't try any cheap sleuth work on me!Speak up, man, what's the trouble?"

  The Purple Emperor, who sat in the doorway staring at me, started tospeak, but thought better of it and got up and went into the house. Thegendarmes rolled their eyes mysteriously and looked wise.

  "Come, Durand," I said impatiently, "what's the charge?"

  "Murder," he said in a faint voice.

  "What!" I cried incredulously. "Nonsense! Do I look like a murderer?Get off your horse, you stupid, and tell me who's murdered."

  Durand got down, looking very silly, and came up to me, offering hishand with a propitiatory grin.

  "It was the Purple Emperor who denounced you! See, they found yourhandkerchief at his door----"

  "Whose door, for Heaven's sake?" I cried.

  "Why, the Red Admiral's!"

  "The Red Admiral's? What has he done?"

  "Nothing--he's only been murdered."

  I could scarcely believe my senses, although they took me over to thelittle stone cottage and pointed out the blood-spattered room. Butthe horror of the thing was that the corpse of the murdered man haddisappeared, and there only remained a nauseating lake of blood onthe stone floor, in the centre of which lay a human hand. There wasno doubt as to whom the hand belonged, for everybody who had ever seenthe Red Admiral knew that the shrivelled bit of flesh which lay in thethickening blood was the hand of the Red Admiral. To me it looked likethe severed claw of some gigantic bird.

  "Well," I said, "there's been murder committed. Why don't you dosomething?"

  "What?" asked Durand.

  "I don't know. Send for the Commissaire."

  "He's at Quimperle. I telegraphed."

  "Then send for a doctor, and find out how long this blood has beencoagulating."

  "The chemist from Quimperle is here; he's a doctor."

  "What does he say?"

  "He says that he doesn't know."

  "And who are you going to arrest?" I inquired, turning away from thespectacle on the floor.

  "I don't know," said the brigadier solemnly; "you are denounced by thePurple Emperor, because he found your handkerchief at the door when hewent out this morning."

&
nbsp; "Just like a pig-headed Breton!" I exclaimed, thoroughly angry. "Did henot mention Yves Terrec?"

  "No."

  "Of course not," I said. "He overlooked the fact that Terrec tried toshoot his father last night, and that I took away his gun. All thatcounts for nothing when he finds my handkerchief at the murdered man'sdoor."

  "Come into the cafe," said Durand, much disturbed, "we can talk itover, there. Of course, Monsieur Darrel, I have never had the faintestidea that you were the murderer!"

  The four gendarmes and I walked across the road to the Groix Inn andentered the cafe. It was crowded with Bretons, smoking, drinking,and jabbering in half a dozen dialects, all equally unsatisfactory toa civilized ear; and I pushed through the crowd to where little MaxFortin, the chemist of Quimperle, stood smoking a vile cigar.

  "This is a bad business," he said, shaking hands and offering me themate to his cigar, which I politely declined.

  "Now, Monsieur Fortin," I said, "it appears that the Purple Emperorfound my handkerchief near the murdered man's door this morning, andso he concludes"--here I glared at the Purple Emperor--"that I am theassassin. I will now ask him a question," and turning on him suddenly,I shouted, "What were you doing at the Red Admiral's door?"

  The Purple Emperor started and turned pale, and I pointed at himtriumphantly.

  "See what a sudden question will do. Look how embarrassed he is,and yet I do not charge him with murder; and I tell you, gentlemen,that man there knows as well as I do who was the murderer of the RedAdmiral!"

  "I don't!" bawled the Purple Emperor.

  "You do," I said. "It was Yves Terrec."

  "I don't believe it," he said obstinately, dropping his voice.

  "Of course not, being pig-headed."

  "I am not pig-headed," he roared again, "but I am mayor of St. Gildas,and I do not believe that Yves Terrec killed his father."

  "You saw him try to kill him last night?"

  The mayor grunted.

  "And you saw what I did."

  He grunted again.

  "And," I went on, "you heard Yves Terrec threaten to kill his father.You heard him curse the Red Admiral and swear to kill him. Now thefather is murdered and his body is gone."

  "And your handkerchief?" sneered the Purple Emperor.

  "I dropped it, of course."

  "And the seaweed gatherer who saw you last night lurking about the RedAdmiral's cottage," grinned the Purple Emperor.

  I was startled at the man's malice.

  "That will do," I said. "It is perfectly true that I was walking on theBannalec road last night, and that I stopped to close the Red Admiral'sdoor, which was ajar, although his light was not burning. After thatI went up the road to the Dinez Woods, and then walked over by St.Julien, whence I saw the seaweed gatherer on the cliffs. He was nearenough for me to hear what he sang. What of that?"

  "What did you do then?"

  "Then I stopped at the shrine and said a prayer, and then I went tobed and slept until Brigadier Durand's gendarmes awoke me with theirclatter."

  "Now, Monsieur Darrel," said the Purple Emperor, lifting a fat fingerand shooting a wicked glance at me, "Now, Monsieur Darrel, which didyou wear last night on your midnight stroll--sabots or shoes?"

  I thought a moment. "Shoes--no, sabots. I just slipped on my chaussonsand went out in my sabots."

  "Which was it, shoes or sabots?" snarled the Purple Emperor.

  "Sabots, you fool."

  "Are these your sabots?" he asked, lifting up a wooden shoe with myinitials cut on the instep.

  "Yes," I replied.

  "Then how did this blood come on the other one?" he shouted, andheld up a sabot, the mate to the first, on which a drop of blood hadspattered.

  "I haven't the least idea," I said calmly; but my heart was beatingvery fast and I was furiously angry.

  "You blockhead!" I said, controlling my rage, "I'll make you pay forthis when they catch Yves Terrec and convict him. Brigadier Durand, doyour duty if you think I am under suspicion. Arrest me, but grant meone favour. Put me in the Red Admiral's cottage, and I'll see whetherI can't find some clew that you have overlooked. Of course, I won'tdisturb anything until the Commissaire arrives. Bah! You all make mevery ill."

  "He's hardened," observed the Purple Emperor, wagging his head.

  "What motive had I to kill the Red Admiral?" I asked them allscornfully. And they all cried:

  "None! Yves Terrec is the man!"

  Passing out of the door I swung around and shook my finger at thePurple Emperor.

  "Oh, I'll make you dance for this, my friend," I said; and I followedBrigadier Durand across the street to the cottage of the murdered man.

  III.

  They took me at my word and placed a gendarme with a bared sabre at thegateway by the hedge.

  "Give me your parole," said poor Durand, "and I will let you gowhere you wish." But I refused, and began prowling about the cottagelooking for clews. I found lots of things that some people would haveconsidered most important, such as ashes from the Red Admiral's pipe,footprints in a dusty vegetable bin, bottles smelling of Pouldu cider,and dust--oh, lots of dust!--but I was not an expert, only a stupid,everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick shootingboots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope,although the Red Admiral's microscope stood on the table close at hand.

  At last I found what I had been looking for, some long wisps of straw,curiously depressed and flattened in the middle, and I was certainI had found the evidence that would settle Yves Terrec for the restof his life. It was plain as the nose on your face. The straws weresabot straws, flattened where the foot had pressed them, and stickingstraight out where they projected beyond the sabot. Now nobody inSt. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman who lived near St.Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat straw!This straw, or rather these straws, were from the stalks of the redwheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildasknew, Yves Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; andwhen, three hours later, a hoarse shouting from the Bannalec Roadbrought me to the window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec,bloody, dishevelled, hatless, with his strong arms bound behind him,walking with bent head between two mounted gendarmes. The crowd aroundhim swelled every minute, crying: "Parricide! parricide! Death to themurderer!" As he passed my window I saw great clots of mud on his dustysabots, from the heels of which projected wisps of red wheat straw.Then I walked back into the Red Admiral's study, determined to findwhat the microscope would show on the wheat straws. I examined eachone very carefully, and then, my eyes aching, I rested my chin on myhand and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as fortunate as somedetectives, for there was no evidence that the straws had ever beenused in a sabot at all. Furthermore, directly across the hallway stooda carved Breton chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, frombeneath the closed lid, dozens of similar red wheat straws projected,bent exactly as mine were bent by the weight of the lid.

  I yawned in disgust. It was apparent that I was not cut out for adetective, and I bitterly pondered over the difference between clews inreal life and clews in a detective story. After a while I rose, walkedover to the chest and opened the lid. The interior was wadded withthe red wheat straws, and on this wadding lay two curious glass jars,two or three small vials, several empty bottles labelled chloroform, acollecting jar of cyanide of potassium, and a book. In a farther cornerof the chest were some letters bearing English stamps, and also thetorn coverings of two parcels, all from England, and all directed tothe Red Admiral under his proper name of "Sieur Louis Jean Terrec, St.Gildas, par Moelan, Finistere."

  All these traps I carried over to the desk, shut the lid of the chest,and sat down to read the letters. They were written in commercialFrench, evidently by an Englishman.

  Freely translated, the contents of the first letter were as follows:

  "LONDON, _June 12, 1894_.

  "DEAR MONSI
EUR (_sic_): Your kind favour of the 19th inst. received and contents noted. The latest work on the Lepidoptera of England is Blowzer's How to catch British Butterflies, with notes and tables, and an introduction by Sir Thomas Sniffer. The price of this work (in one volume, calf) is L5 or 125 francs of French money. A post-office order will receive our prompt attention. We beg to remain,

  "Yours, etc., "FRADLEY & TOOMER, "470 Regent Square, London, S. W."

  The next letter was even less interesting. It merely stated that themoney had been received and the book would be forwarded. The thirdengaged my attention, and I shall quote it, the translation being afree one:

  "DEAR SIR: Your letter of the 1st of July was duly received, and we at once referred it to Mr. Fradley himself. Mr. Fradley being much interested in your question, sent your letter to Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological Society, whose note Blowzer refers to on page 630, in his How to catch British Butterflies. We have just received an answer from Professor Schweineri, which we translate into French--(see inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs to present to you two jars of cythyl, prepared under his own supervision. We forward the same to you. Trusting that you will find everything satisfactory, we remain,

  "Yours sincerely, "FRADLEY & TOOMER."

  The inclosed slip read as follows:

  "Messrs. FRADLEY & TOOMER,

  "GENTLEMEN: Cythaline, a complex hydrocarbon, was first used by Professor Schnoot, of Antwerp, a year ago. I discovered an analogous formula about the same time and named it cythyl. I have used it with great success everywhere. It is as certain as a magnet. I beg to present you three small jars, and would be pleased to have you forward two of them to your correspondent in St. Gildas with my compliments. Blowzer's quotation of me, on page 630 of his glorious work, How to catch British Butterflies, is correct.

  "Yours, etc., "HEINRICH SCHWEINERI, P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S."

  When I had finished this letter I folded it up and put it into mypocket with the others. Then I opened Blowzer's valuable work, How tocatch British Butterflies, and turned to page 630.

  Now, although the Red Admiral could only have acquired the book veryrecently, and although all the other pages were perfectly clean, thisparticular page was thumbed black, and heavy pencil marks inclosed aparagraph at the bottom of the page. This is the paragraph:

  "Professor Schweineri says: 'Of the two old methods used by collectors for the capture of the swift-winged, high-flying Apatura Iris, or Purple Emperor, the first, which was using a long-handled net, proved successful once in a thousand times; and the second, the placing of bait upon the ground, such as decayed meat, dead cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable, even for an enthusiastic collector, but also very uncertain. Once in five hundred times would the splendid butterfly leave the tops of his favourite oak trees to circle about the fetid bait offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure bait to draw this beautiful butterfly to the ground, where it can be easily captured. An ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer under an oak tree, will draw to it every Apatura Iris within a radius of twenty miles. So, if any collector who possesses a little cythyl, even though it be in a sealed bottle in his pocket--if such a collector does not find a single Apatura Iris fluttering close about him within an hour, let him be satisfied that the Apatura Iris does not inhabit his country.'"

  When I had finished reading this note I sat for a long while thinkinghard. Then I examined the two jars. They were labelled "_Cythyl_." Onewas full, the other _nearly full_. "The rest must be on the corpseof the Red Admiral," I thought, "no matter if it is in a corkedbottle----"

  I took all the things back to the chest, laid them carefully on thestraw, and closed the lid. The gendarme sentinel at the gate saluted merespectfully as I crossed over to the Groix Inn. The Inn was surroundedby an excited crowd, and the hallway was choked with gendarmes andpeasants. On every side they greeted me cordially, announcing that thereal murderer was caught; but I pushed by them without a word and ranupstairs to find Lys. She opened her door when I knocked and threw botharms about my neck. I took her to my breast and kissed her. After amoment I asked her if she would obey me no matter what I commanded, andshe said she would, with a proud humility that touched me.

  "Then go at once to Yvette in St. Julien," I said. "Ask her to harnessthe dog-cart and drive you to the convent in Quimperle. Wait for methere. Will you do this without questioning me, my darling?"

  She raised her face to mine. "Kiss me," she said innocently; the nextmoment she had vanished.

  I walked deliberately into the Purple Emperor's room and peered intothe gauze-covered box which had held the chrysalis of Apatura Iris. Itwas as I expected. The chrysalis was empty and transparent, and a greatcrack ran down the middle of its back, but, on the netting inside thebox, a magnificent butterfly slowly waved its burnished purple wings;for the chrysalis had given up its silent tenant, the butterfly symbolof immortality. Then a great fear fell upon me. I know now that it wasthe fear of the Black Priest, but neither then nor for years after didI know that the Black Priest had ever lived on earth. As I bent overthe box I heard a confused murmur outside the house which ended ina furious shout of "Parricide!" and I heard the gendarmes ride awaybehind a wagon which rattled sharply on the flinty highway. I wentto the window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, twogendarmes at either side of him, and all around the wagon rode mountedgendarmes whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.

  "Parricide!" they howled. "Let him die!"

  I stepped back and opened the gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmlyI took the splendid butterfly by its closed fore wings and lifted itunharmed between my thumb and forefinger. Then, holding it concealedbehind my back, I went down into the cafe.

  Of all the crowd that had filled it, shouting for the death of YvesTerrec, only three persons remained seated in front of the huge emptyfireplace. They were the Brigadier Durand, Max Fortin, the chemistof Quimperle, and the Purple Emperor. The latter looked abashed whenI entered, but I paid no attention to him and walked straight to thechemist.

  "Monsieur Fortin," I said, "do you know much about hydrocarbons?"

  "They are my specialty," he said astonished.

  "Have you ever heard of such a thing as cythyl?"

  "Schweineri's cythyl? Oh, yes! We use it in perfumery."

  "Good!" I said. "Has it an odour?"

  "No--and, yes. One is always aware of its presence, but really nobodycan affirm it has an odour. It is curious," he continued, looking atme, "it is very curious you should have asked me that, for all day Ihave been imagining I detected the presence of cythyl."

  "Do you imagine so now?" I asked.

  "Yes, more than ever."

  I sprang to the front door and tossed out the butterfly. The splendidcreature beat the air for a moment, flitted uncertainly hitherand thither, and then, to my astonishment, sailed majesticallyback into the cafe and alighted on the hearthstone. For a momentI was nonplussed, but when my eyes rested on the Purple Emperor Icomprehended in a flash.

  "Lift that hearthstone!" I cried to the Brigadier Durand; "pry it upwith your scabbard!"

  The Purple Emperor suddenly fell forward in his chair, his face ghastlywhite, his jaw loose with terror.

  "What is cythyl?" I shouted, seizing him by the arm; but he plungedheavily from his chair, face downward on the floor, and at the samemoment a cry from the chemist made me turn. There stood the BrigadierDurand, one hand supporting the hearthstone, one hand raised in horror.There stood Max Fortin, the chemist, rigid with excitement, and below,in the hollow bed where the hearthstone ha
d rested, lay a crushed massof bleeding human flesh, from the midst of which stared a cheap glasseye. I seized the Purple Emperor and dragged him to his feet.

  "Look!" I cried; "look at your old friend, the Red Admiral!" but heonly smiled in a vacant way, and rolled his head muttering; "Bait forbutterflies! Cythyl! Oh, no, no, no! You can't do it, Admiral, d'yesee. I alone own the Purple Emperor! I alone am the Purple Emperor!"

  And the same carriage that bore me to Quimperle to claim my bride,carried him to Quimper, gagged and bound, a foaming, howling lunatic.

  * * * * *

  This, then, is the story of the Purple Emperor. I might tell you apleasanter story if I chose; but concerning the fish that I had holdof, whether it was a salmon, a grilse, or a sea trout, I may not say,because I have promised Lys, and she has promised me, that no power onearth shall wring from our lips the mortifying confession that the fishescaped.

  POMPE FUNEBRE.

  A wind-swept sky, The waste of moorland stretching to the west; The sea, low moaning in a strange unrest-- A seagull's cry.

  Washed by the tide, The rocks lie sullen in the waning light; The foam breaks in long strips of hungry white, Dissatisfied.

  BATEMAN.