CHAPTER XVII.

GASCONISM.

The summer waned, the autumn came, and poor, gentle Douglas lay in his grave, but still his murderer had never been discovered.

Yet in connection with that murderer, or rather in connection with the murder itself, some extraordinary facts had been forthcoming which, after all, but served to surround it more and more with mystery. These you shall hear.

When that white-faced woman, whose threatening finger had pointed at the assassin as he fled, recovered from her horror--she was but a poor concierge who had happened to be seeking her bed--she rushed forth into the open place where Douglas's body lay, and there, with wild and piercing shrieks, awakened all who dwelt round the cathedral. At first she conveyed to those who hurried to the spot the idea that it was she who was the shedder of blood, for, as she threw herself down by the victim's side to see if any spark of life remained, her own white night garments became stained with the dreadful fluid, so that those hurrying to the scene imagined that they saw a guilty woman screaming over her own evil deed.

But as she grew more composed she was able to tell her tale coherently; to relate how, in curiosity, she had stood watching those two conversing there; how she had seen the blow struck, and the murderer flee into the darkness. She was very poor, she said, every sou was worth taking account of; therefore, on moonlight nights, she sought her bed without candlelight. Yet now she bemoaned her thrift, for had she but burnt a light it might have alarmed the assassin--have saved the unhappy victim.

"But _mort de ma vie!_" exclaimed the chief of the watch, who by this time had arrived with two or three of his subordinates, "why not rush out and follow the man; why not at least open the window and scream? _Peste!_ you women can do that if a mouse scampers across the floor or your husband reproves you, yet, behold! when a man is done to death you hold your tongue."

The poor affrighted creature, still whimpering and shivering, explained that she had no thought of murder being about to be done; she had supposed they were two friends parting for the night; there was no sign of argument or quarrel, and, when the deed was done, she thought she had swooned for a moment or so. She could say no more.

"_Peste!_" again exclaimed the chief of the watch--a tetchy man given to examining all kinds of characters from midnight revellers and wassailers to housebreakers and worse, "why not do something better than swoon? And I'll be sworn, too, that you would not know the fellow again even though he came back this instant itself."

But to this the woman protested her dissent. She would know him again anywhere, at once or at a long interval, adding with a shudder that "for ever and as long as she should live, his features were stamped into her memory."

"What was he like, then?" asked the chief, "how clad?"

"Fairly tall," she replied, "though not so tall, I think, as _that_," and she glanced at poor Douglas's body lying in the centre of the crowd that surrounded it. The chief of the watch, and a doctor who had come from out a house near, had examined it at once on their arrival, and, alas! there was no life left in it. The gentle spirit had flown.

"Also," she went on, "the assassin was very dark, his eyes of a piercing nature, his face white as a corpse--as _that_," and again she glanced at the dead man; "but the whiteness might be from horror, _mon Dieu!_ it was a terrible face, the face of a devil, terror-stricken; the face of a fiend. But no remorse, oh, no! only fear--it might be of himself."

"And his clothes?" asked the chief. "What of them?"

"Sombre, dark. All dark. Scarce any lace at sleeves or breast, neither aigrette nor cockade, nor galloon to his hat; no sword."

"Not a bully, then, nor _filou?_ No appearance of a knight of the road? Hein?"

"No," the woman replied, "no." Then, reflectively, she said, "It was, I think, no murder for gain nor greed. Nay, could not have been. He stooped not, went not near the--the body after it fell. More like, I think, a deed of hate, of bitter, hot rage. Who knows? Perhaps a wife stolen, a daughter wronged. All is possible. For see, _it_," and again she glanced down, "was young, and--and, _mon Dieu, il était beau!_"

So they all said who gazed upon the handsome features now setting rigidly in the blaze of the moon. "_Il était beau!_"

"Well," said the chief, "we must not stay here. He must be removed. Meanwhile, I must to the officers of the guard; none must pass the gates at daybreak except under strict scrutiny. And the body must be searched to see if we can gather who and what he is. Alas! alas! The woman speaks well. He was handsome."

But now an exclamation arose from the crowd, while one or two stooped hurriedly to the earth, and the first picked up something that, as he held it out, glistened in his hand. It was an unset stone, a ruby.

"_Tiens_," said the chief, turning it over in his hand, "what's this? A ruby, and unset," he repeated. Then meditatively, "It may have fallen from a setting worn by one or other, victim or murderer--from, say, a ring, a collar, a brooch for cravat, or ruffle. Has he upon his body," he said to his attendant, "any setting to which it might by chance belong?"

The man bent down and inspected poor Douglas's form, then he rose and shook his head.

"Neither ring nor chain that I can see. Nought that is likely to have held such as that stone."

"Humph!" mused the chief, "humph!" Then he whispered to himself, "If anyone pass the gate to-morrow with an unfilled setting--bah! _Non! non! non!_ He that has the setting belonging to the ruby will scarcely show it. Yet, that the murderer owns it is most likely. If it had been lost by anyone who has lately worshipped here," and he glanced up at the cathedral over which the daffodil dawn was coming now from the east, "there would have been hue and cry enough. _Allons_," he said aloud. "To the watch house. And, _bonne femme_, come you with us to testify." Then, turning to his underlings, he said, "Bring him with you--find a plank or door. And--and--be gentle with him. _Pauvre garçon!_ Has he a mother, I wonder?"

For three or four days the search went on, those whom he had loved so aiding it in every way. Archibald, stern, silent, inwardly crushed; Bertie mad with grief and despair; Kate broken-hearted. The lower parts of the city were ransacked and received visits from the watch and the exempts, but nothing came of it except great discomfort to the denizens thereof. Nothing! And--which perhaps was not strange--never to one of those who had so loved him came the veriest shadow of a thought as to who the murderer was. It was not possible, indeed, that such a thought should come. He, they imagined--if ever in their sorrow they let his foul memory enter their mind--was in England. No, they never dreamt of him. They began, therefore, at last to think, as all the world which went to make up Amiens thought, that some of the outcasts, the thieves and scoundrels who had visited the city at fair-time, had taken his bright young life. Yet, strange to say, if such were the case, he had not been robbed. His pocketbook was on him, his purse untouched. There was little enough in either, it was true, yet, the night-birds would have had them had they been his slayers!

Then, at last, it seemed that the murderers were caught.

There rode up to the south gate, on the fifth day, a sergeant and three troopers of the Regiment Picardy, and with them they had--bound with rope;--two villainous-looking scoundrels, fellows in stained and tawdry riding coats, with brandy-inflamed faces, one having a broken leg, so that as he sat on his horse he groaned with every movement it made.

The sergeant's story was brief and soon told to the captain of the guard, while Bertie Elphinston, summoned to hear it, stood by hollow-eyed and sad, wondering if he was to learn that in these swashbucklers he saw the assassins of his poor friend.

"_Monsieur le capitaine_," said the sergeant, "by orders received from you we have scoured the roads for the last few days. Then, last night, we put up at the _Dragon Volant_, outside of Poix, and here we found these two _larrons_. This one--this creature here--who calls himself Jacques Potin, was abed with his broken leg, his horse having thrown him; the other one, who names himself Adolphe d'Aunay, was nursing him. _Ma foi!_ a strange patient and a strange nursing. From the room they occupied came forth howlings and singings and songs of the vilest, mixed with oaths and laughter sufficient to have awakened their grandfathers in their prison graves. 'Twas this drew my attention to them, _Monsieur le capitaine_. Passing their door, attracted by their roars and singings, I was also led to stop and listen, because, the uproar over, I next heard this conversation: 'Curse you and your leg too!' said he who calls himself D'Aunay; 'if 'twere not for your accident we should have been in Paris now, safe and free with our prize disposed of. Your drunkenness, whereby you got your fall, has ruined all.' '_Mon petit choux_,' said the other, 'bemoan not; here we are snug and comfortable. Our _logement_ is good, the food of the best, the wine of the most superior. What would you more? And we have the jewels, which are a small fortune, and the money--_bonnes pieces fortes et trebuchantes_--for our immediate wherewithal. As for the bills and bonds--well, we have destroyed them, so they can tell no tales. _Mon enfant_, be gay.'

"Upon this," went on the sergeant, "I arrested them and found these."

Whereupon the man produced from his pockets numerous gold coins, French and English, Louis d'ors and double Louis d'ors, some gold quadruple pistoles, and a handful of English guineas. And also he brought forth, wrapped in a filthy handkerchief, a considerable quantity of pieces of jewellery containing superb precious stones. There were two necklaces, innumerable rings and bracelets, and a woman's tiara of rubies and diamonds. And from this latter--the rubies and diamonds being set alternately--one of the former was missing.

"Alas!" said Bertie aside to his brother captain, "that proves nothing as regards my poor friend. He possessed no jewels, nor, in the world, one-half of that money. He had nought but his pay and a little allowed him by the Scot's Fund. These men may be his murderers, but all this is the result of another robbery--perhaps another murder."

"Nevertheless," said the captain of the guard, "we will hear their story. Observe, a stone is missing from the tiara, and such a stone was found where your friend was slain." Then turning to the two fellows before them, he said curtly, "Now, your account of yourselves. And explain your possession of all this," and he swept his hand over the plain guardroom table, whereupon the money and the jewellery had been temporarily placed.

"Explain!" exclaimed the man who was called D'Aunay and who appeared to be the boldest of the two--while he regarded the captain with an assumed air of fierceness and disdain. "Explain! What shall I explain? That we are two gentlemen of Gascony."

"_Sans doute_," the captain muttered under his teeth.

"_Oui, monsieur, sans doute_," repeated the fellow, who had overheard his whisper. "Of Gascony, I repeat. From Tarbes, and resident at Paris."

"Amiens scarcely lies on the route between those places," the captain remarked quietly.

"Permit that I make myself clear. We had been to your great fair in this fine city, and, by St. Firmin, had much enjoyed ourselves and were riding back to Paris when, by great misfortune, my friend, who suffers much from a painful and distracting vertigo, fell from his horse. Naturally, I remained to solace and console him, and 'twas there that your sergeant--who, you will pardon me for saying, possesses not manners of the highest refinement and appears to combine the calling of a _mouchard_ with that of a soldier--burst in upon our privacy, and has added to his insults by dragging us back here."

"You have your papers, doubtless?" the captain asked.

"Doubtless--at Paris. They are there."

"Is it usual for gentlemen of--of Gascony to travel with such jewellery and gems as these?"

"_Monsieur le capitaine_," said the man named D'Aunay, "you will pardon me if I say that it is usual for gentlemen of Gascony to do precisely whatever it seems best to them. At the same time they are respecters most profound of the law. Therefore, monsieur, if you have had any complaint of jewellery stolen, I am willing to give a more full account of that which is in our possession."

He was a bold villain--yet, perhaps, more of a crafty one. On the road from Paris to Amiens his sharpness had gathered something from the troopers, chatting among themselves, of what they were being brought back for, and he knew that it was for murder, and not robbery, that they were wanted. Therefore, being innocent of the former, he brazened it out as regards the latter, though all the while thinking that there was, probably, as great a hue and cry after those who had robbed the man near the cathedral as those who had murdered the other one.

That the captain of the guard was nonplussed his equally sharp eyes saw at once; and he drew himself up a little more to his full height and regarded the other with a still more assured air of haughty disdain. However, the captain went on:

"There was a murder committed five nights ago in the Place de la Cathédrale----"

"_Nom d'un chien!_" interrupted D'Aunay, "is it murder we are accused of next? Excellent! Go on, monsieur. There are still other crimes in the decalogue."

"No, you are not accused of it. But circumstances require explanation. First to me, afterwards, perhaps, to the law. One circumstance is that in your jewellery," and he emphasised the "your" very strongly, "there is a stone, a ruby, missing from the tiara. Now----"

"It is found?" exclaimed the cunning vagabond, with an admirable assumption of gladness. "Ha! that is well, monsieur; these are joyous tidings. That tiara was my mother's, La Marquise d'Aunay. I am indeed thankful."

"It was found on the spot where the murder took place--the spot where the victim's body was also found."

"_Vraiment!_ And that spot was----?" he asked, with still greater coolness.

"I shall not tell you. Indeed, it would be best for you to say what spots you were in on that night."

"On that night; monsieur speaks of which night?"

"The 28th. The last night of the fair."

"The 28th! Jacques, _mon ami_," to his friend, "correct me if I forget to mention any place we visited. _Vonons_. We supped at nine--_tiens_, the _paté de canard_ was excellent; we must instruct our cook in Paris to attempt one. Then we visited the theatre, a vile representation of '_Les Précieuses_,' I assure you, monsieur. Next, because in Gascony we never forget, amidst all our troubles of after years, our early religious instruction, we decided to attend the evening service at La Cathédrale; there was a large and reverent crowd, monsieur----"

"_Dame!_" exclaimed the captain, turning to Bertie; "I can do nothing with the fellow." Then, re-addressing D'Aunay, he said:

"I have finished with you, sir. Your next examination will be before the Procureur du Roi," and he ordered the two "gentlemen of Gascony" to be confined in the guardhouse until that official should interrogate them.

Yet they were too much even for this astute old lawyer, who had learned his craft in Paris in the Law Courts of the Grand Monarch, as they had learned theirs in half the gaols of France.

D'Aunay insisted first on knowing who charged them with having stolen the jewellery; where the person was who had lost it or had it stolen; and if the unhappy young man who had been so monstrously and cruelly done to death was known, or even supposed, to have been possessed of any similar jewellery? Having achieved victory over the Procureur in this respect, in the doing of which he exhibited such virtuous indignation, accompanied by strange exclamations and shrugs and hangings of the bench in front of him, as to nearly terrify the representative of the law into releasing him, he began on a new tack.

"Summon the good woman," he exclaimed, "who saw the murder done. By St. Firmin, if she says one of us is the man, then to the wheel with us! Also call the watch at the southern gate; if he in turn says that we did not pass through ere midnight--I hear the excellent female places the assassination after the first quarter past the hour had struck--then, I say, to the wheel with us! _Sacré nom d'un chien!_ were ever gentlemen treated thus before? _Sacré mille tonnerres_, is this France in which we are?"

The woman was summoned, and instantly replied, "No, neither of the messieurs before her was the man. No resemblance whatever. She was certain. That face she could never forget. It was a devil's. On her most sacred oath, neither were concerned in the awful scene."

The watchmen at the gate affirmed that both men passed out before midnight struck--the hour for the gate to close on _fête_-days. There was no possibility of his being mistaken--one, the big man, swore at him for having half closed the gate, thinking the last person had gone through for that night; the other insulted him and jeered at him, and flung a sou at his feet.

"So," said the old Procureur du Roi, "you seem free of this crime. Yet, I misdoubt me but you are the lawful prey of the gibbet. The sergeant heard you speaking of your plunder. That you have stolen the jewellery no one can doubt----"

"Produce the owner," interrupted D'Aunay, on whom a clear light had now dawned. "We ask nothing but that."

"Also you swear by St. Firmin. He is a saint of Picardy, not of the south of France."

"It would be strange if I did not swear by him. In the few hours we were here we heard everyone we met swear terribly by him. He must, indeed, be a saint of Picardy--_surtôut_ of Amiens."

"Also," went on the judge, "you spoke truth when you said you had been to the theatre and to the Cathedral----"

"Naturally, monsieur. It is ever my habit. To shun the truth is impossible to me."

"But your actions were suspicious. Both at the theatre and the cathedral you were observed to place yourselves, to force yourselves, nearest to those who presented the appearance of greatest wealth----"

"_Finissons!_" roared D'Aunay now in virtuous indignation. "Enough. Produce more tangible reasons for this detention, these insults, or release us. Your charges have all fallen to the ground; you now begin a fresh one equally baseless. Yet, because I love justice and respect the law--its administrators I cannot always respect--if anyone has been robbed at either theatre or church, bring them forward, and we will meet that charge too."

"You will be released," said the Procureur; "you are now free. But the jewellery will be retained for the present. Later on it may be returned to you."

So, not without many protestations, the fellows went away from Amiens, D'Aunay breathing maledictions against the barbarous laws which permitted honest gentlemen to be arrested and their property confiscated. Yet, he swore, the end was not yet arrived at; when they reached Paris they would soon set the highest legal authorities at work. Also he edified the good people of Amiens by the tenderness and care with which he assisted his suffering friend to mount his horse.

Later in that day they halted for an evening meal on the cool grass at the wayside, and, as D'Aunay helped his comrade from his wallet, he said:

"Jacques, _mon ami_, observe always the advantage of truth. Had I not mentioned our visit to the cathedral in the earlier part of the evening that cursed ruby would almost have sunk us." Then he wagged his head and took a drink of wine.

"Yet," he continued, "I understand it not. Let us consider. We took the plunder close by the cathedral. In front of the cathedral that other one was slain. None claim the jewels---_peste!_ 'tis hard to lose them. What do you make of it?"

"A fool can see," replied Jacques, as he shifted his wounded leg into an easier position. "Any fool can see that. It was our friend who----"

"Precisely," said D'Aunay. "Precisely. _Allons!_ To Paris."

"And the ruby fell out when we were examining the spoil!"

"Again, precisely. And remember, Jacques, that if we ever meet our friend who once owned the jewels it would be worth while attacking him. Also, above all, Jacques, remember the truth is best. _Allons!_ To Paris!"