CHAPTER XX.

AVENGED.

He had fallen grovelling to the earth as that figure turned its face towards him, and now he remained in the same position.

As he did so Archibald Sholto knew for certain that he had found his brother's murderer. In the moment of witnessing that frenzied terror there had flashed into his mind the knowledge of who had been the wearer of the tiara with the one yellow-brown diamond in it; the recognition of the dark head streaked with grey with which his thoughts had been filled for weeks, yet without certainty--the head of the murderer's late mother! He knew all now. She it was who had worn the diadem in the great ceremonies he had taken part in; the rejoicings at the peace of '38, the almost equally great rejoicings at the death of the Emperor Charles, and many others. She, Lady Fordingbridge, his mother, had worn it often; often had he observed the strange light emitted by that blemished jewel; and now, from the tiara in which it still remained, a ruby was missing, and had been found on the spot where his brother had been done to death. Therefore he knew that that brother's assassin was before him. God had given him into his hands.

He bent forward over the crouching creature at his feet; in a low voice he said:

"So, I have found you, Simeon Larpent. Even though you are armed to-night as you were on that other night; even though you bear about you the weapon with which you slew him, you cannot escape me."

"You can do nothing," the other said, turning up an evil eye at him and then rising to his feet--"nothing! Your tongue is sealed. What I confessed was under the sanctity of the confessional; you dare tell naught."

At once the Jesuit's clear mind grasped the facts--at once he perceived that the murderer had been cleansing his soul before a confessor--and thought that he was that confessor.

"I told you all," Fordingbridge went on, "all, all. And you absolved me, pardoned me, though the punishment you meted out to me was hard. Have you not vengeance enough? To go forth a beggar and an outcast--to wander in savage lands until I die--surely, surely, that is enough. Let me go in peace."

"Not yet," Archibald Sholto answered; "not yet."

"Not yet!" the other repeated. "Not yet! What more would you have? All is told--you know all now. Shall I repeat what I said in there? I slew him here upon this spot because he would have warned you and Elphinston that I was in France, and--you absolved me. It is enough."

"You slew him here upon this spot," the Jesuit said, and he pointed with his finger to the place, "upon this spot. You acknowledge it?"

"Have I not said? You have absolved me." It was strange how, from the repetition of this phrase, he seemed to take comfort. "You have absolved me."

"You are mistaken," the other said, while as he spoke he drew nearer to the murderer, though keeping ever a wary eye upon him. "Mistaken! I have heard no confession for a week."

"What!" exclaimed Fordingbridge, springing back a step or so, while now his eyes glared round the deserted cathedral place--again like the eyes of some hunted or trapped wild beast. "What! It was not you in there? Not you!"

"No. Not I. Simeon Larpent, you are doomed. You divulged your crime under the seal of the confessional in the cathedral; you have divulged it openly here with no such seal to protect you. Murderer! You are in my power!"

As he spoke he saw the other do that which he had been anticipating. He saw his hand steal to his breast; he knew that he was searching for some weapon concealed there. But he feared him not; he, too, was armed. Ever since he had sought for the assassin he had carried about with him a small pistol, knowing that if, by any strange chance, fortune should throw him across the villain's path, such weapon might be needed. To-night he had come out to gaze again on the place where the deed had been done, never thinking, never dreaming, that there of all places on the earth that murderer should be found, yet not neglecting the precaution of being armed. Now that precaution stood him in good stead.

"Draw no hidden weapon from your breast," he said, as he saw the hand go to it; "remember, I am not as Douglas was, but am forewarned; and if you bring forth one, I will slay you here on the spot as you slew him, and save the hangman his office," and as he spoke he showed the other the little inlaid pistol, its barrel glistening in the moon's rays.

"You know nothing," the other hissed at him now, "nothing. I have told you nothing--you have no witnesses. My word is as good as yours, even if I let you take me--which I will not," he continued, "which I will not."

"No witnesses?" said Archibald; "no witnesses? Nay, look behind you. Look! I say. No other witness is required."

Affrighted at his words--thinking, perhaps, that the terrible spectre that haunted him always now might be standing menacingly behind him--he glanced round, and what he saw struck nearly as much horror to his crime-laden brain as could have done the ghost of his victim.

Advancing from an open door by the side of the cathedral there came a woman, her face white as any ghost's or leper's, her eyes distended, her hand uplifted and pointing at him. Indeed, so appalling was her ghastliness, the whiteness of her face being made doubly so by the rays of the moon falling upon it, that the dazed, stricken creature hid his own face in his hands and recoiled as she advanced.

"It is he," she said. "It is he. Nightly almost he comes when the moon is up. Seize on him, seize him! Let him never escape again," and still she pointed at the man shivering between them.

"Fear not," Archibald said. "Fear not." Then turning to Fordingbridge, while he held the pistol pointed at him, he continued: "Come! Resistance is useless. I have sworn here, upon this spot, to avenge Douglas; I will keep my oath. Till you stand upon the scaffold you are mine."

"He has a weapon to his hand," the woman said, still with her own pointing at him as if it were the hand of Fate. "See!" Then, as though she were one inspired, she said, as she turned to him, "Give me the knife."

Whether his mind was gone at last, or whether fear had so overcome Fordingbridge that he was no longer master of his actions, Sholto was never able to decide. Yet, from whichever cause it was, he obeyed his ghastly denouncer in so far that, as she spoke to him, the dagger dropped to the earth. And she, picking it up, placed it in the priest's hands, saying:

"It is borne in on me that with this he slew that other one. I feel it--know it."

"You will testify that he is the murderer?" Sholto said. "You do not doubt?"

"Doubt!" she exclaimed, turning her wan, white face on him. "Doubt! How should I doubt? He has haunted me since that awful night--haunted me, almost driven me to my death. Oh, you know not! I have risen at night from my bed to see him standing there, muttering, grimacing over that very spot, so that, as I gazed on him from out the darkness of my room, I have swooned again as on that night I swooned. Had I been a man, nay, had I had a man to call on, I would have gone forth and seized him. Yet, when I have told others that nightly, almost, the murderer came and gloated over the space where he slew the other, they derided me, said I was mad, would not even watch themselves. Oh, the horror of it! the horror of it!"

"The horror is ended for you now, poor woman," the priest said. "Never more will he affright your sight when you rise from your bed. Yet do me one service, I beg you. Put on some clothes, for the night air gets cold"--she had, indeed, come forth from her room--where she had again been watching in terror, fearing to see another murder--in little else than her night raiment--"and go fetch the watch. I will see that he escapes not."

The woman went away at his request, and coming out from the house, at which she was the concierge, with a cloak thrown over her shoulders, sped down the darkened streets, while once more the avenger and his prey were left alone. But they spoke no more to one another now; only stood there silent, facing each other. Yet once, after a few moments' pause, Fordingbridge chuckled audibly and whispered to himself. God only knows what was in the wretched man's mind as he did so; Archibald, at least, made no attempt to discover.

For himself he was contented. Fate had thrown into his hands the assassin of his beloved brother--that was enough.

Presently the woman came back, and with her three of the watch, armed and with a lantern borne in the hands of one, and into their custody the Jesuit gave Fordingbridge. Yet, since he could not feel at ease until he had seen the other safe under lock and key, he accompanied them to the prison--to which the guardhouse was attached--and handed him over to the officials there.

"To-morrow," he said, "I will formally lay my charge against him before the Procureur du Roi; till then, I pray you, keep him safe. He is the murderer of the young Scotch officer who was slain outside the cathedral, and was my brother, as all Amiens knows."

"Never fear, monsieur," said the chief of the watch; "we will keep him safe enough. Our cage is strong."

* * * * * * *

A few nights later than the one on which the murderer, Fordingbridge, had been taken to the prison, Bertie Elphinston, riding up to the northern gate of Paris, demanded admission. It was a cold, raw night this--one of those October evenings common enough to the north of France, when the moisture hangs like rain-drops on every bush and bramble, and when the rawness penetrates to the inside of man, making him think of drams of brandy and Nantz as the best preventive of chill and cold.

He would not have ridden in to-night, would not have left the comfortable fire in the officers' quarters of the St. Denis Caserne to splash through six miles of wet roads, only it was Thursday, the day on which he invariably went to Paris, partly to pay his respects to Charles Edward, partly to see his mother and Kate. Also, if he did not come on Thursday there was no other opportunity for him to do so for a week; there were only the officers of two troops quartered in the old town, and but one night a week granted to each for leave. Therefore he was loath to lose his turn, and to go a whole fortnight without seeing the two creatures dearest to him in the world.

"A rough, raw night," he said to the man at the gate as he passed in, "a night better for indoor pleasures than the streets. You have the best of it," glancing in at the bright fire in the man's room, "much the best of it."

"_Mais out, Monsieur le Capitaine_," said the custodian--who knew him very well--following his glance as it rested on the blazing hearth and his little girl playing with a pup before it. "_Mais oui_." Then he said, as Bertie stooped down to tighten the buckle of his stirrup leather, "Was monsieur expecting, _par hazard_, to meet anyone hereabouts to-night? Any friend or person with a message?"

"No," replied Elphinston, partly in answer to his question, partly in surprise. "No one. Why do you ask?"

The man shrugged his shoulders in the true French manner, then he said:

"Oh, for no serious reason--but," and he paused and then went on again: "There came yesterday an unknown one to me who asked how often Monsieur le Capitaine Elphinston rode into Paris. I knew not your name then, monsieur, but his description was graphic, very graphic, so that at once I knew he meant you. Moreover, the other officers of monsieur's regiment come not so regularly on any day, some come not at all."

"'Tis strange," Bertie said; "I know no one who need ask for me in this mysterious manner, especially as there is no mystery about me. My life is simple and open enough, I should suppose. Six days a week in garrison at St. Denis, one night a week in Paris; there is not much to hide."

"So I told the man, Monsieur le Capitaine; not much to hide. _Voyez-vous_, I said, here is the captain's life so far as I know it. He rides in every Thursday evening about six of the clock, leaves his horse, as I have heard him say, at an inn in the Rue St. Louis, sees his friends, sleeps at the inn, and rides out of Paris again at six in the morning to his duties. Not much mystery in that, _mon ami?_ I said to him. Not much mystery in that."

"And what did he say to you in return?" asked Bertie.

"Little enough. Remarked that he had made no suggestion of mystery; indeed, was not aware of any reason for such; only he desired to see you. Asked if you wore your military dress, to which I answered _ma foi!_ no. The uniform of the Regiment of Picardy was too handsome, the cuirass too heavy for ordinary wear, the gold lace too costly; and that monsieur was always well but soberly attired. Also that his horse, a bright bay, was a pretty creature, as she is, as she is," whereon he stroked the mare's muzzle affectionately, for he himself was an old cavalryman and knew a good horse when he saw one.

"Well," said Bertie with a laugh, "you have described me accurately, so that my friend should know me when he sees me. However, I must not linger here. Good-night. Good-night, _Bébé_," to the child playing with the dog, both of whom he, who loved children and animals, had long since made acquaintance with.

As he rode through the narrow streets towards the inn where he always put up for the night, he reflected that it might have been wise to ask the gate-keeper for a description of the man who had been anxious to obtain that of him; but since he had not done so there was no help for it. Yet he could not dismiss from his mind the fact of the unknown having inquired for him--and by name, too--nor help wondering who on earth he could be. He pondered over every friend he could call to mind, old comrades in the French King's service by whose side he had fought, or comrades in the late English invasion; yet his meditations naturally amounted to nothing. The man might have been one of them or none of them, and, whoever he was, no amount of cogitation would reveal him. He must wait and see what the mysterious inquirer might turn out to be.

He rode into the inn he used in the Rue St. Louis, put up his horse, and after personally seeing it attended to--for it had done duty before starting for Paris--went into the guests' room and made a slight meal, after which he ordered a coach to be called to take him to Passy, where his mother lived.

Later, when Bertie Elphinston had disappeared from all human knowledge from that night, the search that was made for him elucidated what had been his movements and actions up to a certain point, after which all clue was lost. What those movements were have now to be told.

Quitting his mother after an hour's visit, he found the same coach standing outside the _auberge_ in the street of the little suburb, and, again hiring it, proceeded to the mansion of Charles Edward, on the Quai de Théatin--to which he had removed from the Château de St. Antoine, where he had resided for a short time as the guest of Louis XV--and here he spent two more hours with his countrymen in attendance on the prince, and with Kate. At this place he had finally dismissed the coach, and as he left the house an episode arose which recalled to his mind the unknown person who had inquired for him at the north gate.

As he descended the steps of the mansion he saw, to his surprise, that, lurking opposite by the parapet which separated the Quai from the river, was a man who had been standing near him when he hired the coach outside his inn on the other side of the Seine, and who, still more strangely, had been standing outside the inn at Passy when he quitted his mother's house.

That this man was following him was therefore scarcely to be doubted, and, determined to see whether such was the case, he crossed the road, stared under his hat, which was drawn well down over his features, and then walked slowly on towards the Pont Neuf. Also, he took the precaution of loosening his sword in its sheath.

If he had had any doubts--which was not the case--they would soon have been resolved, since, as he proceeded along the narrow footway by the parapet, the man followed him at the same pace. Then, instantly, Bertie stopped, faced around, and, walking back half-a-dozen paces, said to him:

"Monsieur has business with me without doubt. Be good enough to explain it," and now he lifted his sword in its scabbard so that, while he held the sheath in the left hand, his right grasped the handle.

"I--I----" the man stammered. "Yes, Monsieur Elphinston----"

"Monsieur Elphinston! so you know me?" and a light flashed on his mind. "Monsieur Elphinston. Ha! Perhaps it was you who inquired for me at the north gate yesterday?"

"Yes, monsieur," the man replied respectfully; "it was I who did so."

"Who are you, then? What is your affair with me that you track me thus?"

"I am servant to Carvel, the exempt. I have orders to keep you in view."

"Servant to an exempt![5] What, pray, has an exempt to do with me?" Bertie asked in astonishment.

"That, monsieur," the man said, still very respectfully, "I cannot say. I but obey my orders, do my duty. I received instructions that you were to be kept under watch from the time you entered Paris, and I am carrying them out--must carry them out."

"Where is this exempt to be found, this man Carvel? We will have the matter regulated at once. Where is he, I say?"

"If monsieur would be so complaisant as to follow me--it is but across the Pont Neuf--doubtless monsieur will make everything clear."

"Lead on," Bertie said, "I will follow you, or, since you may doubt me, will go first."

"If monsieur pleases."

At this period, and indeed for long afterwards, Paris was too often the scene of terrible outrages committed on unprotected persons. Men--sometimes even women--were inveigled into houses under one pretence or another and robbed, oftentimes murdered for whatever they might chance to have about them, and, frequently, were never heard of again. That this was the case Bertie knew perfectly well, yet--even after the mysterious murder of his friend at Amiens--he had not the slightest belief that anything of a similar nature was intended towards him. First, he was a soldier and known by the man behind him to be one; he was armed, although now dressed as a civilian, and therefore a dangerous man to attack. And, next, none who knew aught of him could suppose that it would be worth while to endeavour to rob him. The Scots officers serving in France were no fit game for such as got their living by preying on their fellow-creatures.

Still he could not but muse deeply on what could possibly be the object of any exempt in subjecting him to such espionage, while at the same time he hastened his footsteps over the bridge so as at once to arrive at a solution of the matter.

"Here is the bureau of Monsieur Carvel," said the spy, as on reaching the northern side of the river he directed his companion to a house almost facing the approach to the bridge; "doubtless he will explain all."

"Doubtless," replied Elphinston. "Summon him."

The door was opened an instant after the man had rapped on it, and another man, plainly dressed and evidently of the inferior orders, though of a respectable type, admitted them to a room on the left-hand side of the passage; a room on the walls of which hung several weapons--a blunderbuss, a musquetoon or so, some swords--which Bertie noticed were mostly of fashionable make with parchment labels attached to them--and one or two pairs of gyves, or fetters. Also, on the walls were some roughly-printed descriptions of persons, in some cases illustrated with equally rough wood-cuts.

"So!" said the man, looking first at the spy and then at Elphinston. "So! Whom have we here?"

"Monsieur le Capitaine Elphinston," the other replied. "Learning, Monsieur Carvel, your desire to meet with him from me, he elected to visit you at once."

"_Tiens!_ It will save much trouble. Monsieur le Capitaine is extremely obliging."

"Sir," said Bertie sternly, "I am not here with the intention of conferring any obligation upon you. I wish to know why I, an officer of the King, serving in the Regiment of Picardy, am tracked and spied upon by your follower, or servant. I wish a full explanation of why I am subjected to this indignity."

"Monsieur, the explanation is very simple. An order signed by the Vicomte d'Argenson has been forwarded to me for your arrest, and with it a lettre de cachet."

"A lettre de cachet!"

"Yes, monsieur. A lettre de cachet, ordering me to convey you to the Bastille."

"My God!"