Chapter 15

Her reply amazed the listeners, for she said, "If one has no soul, as I have none, what is there to harmonise?" Then she burst into a fit of passionate weeping, to the consternation of all the little company. As she again and again wept, the priest, fearing that she was possessed by some evil spirit, sought to exorcise it. The priest turned to the bridegroom with the assurance that he could discover nothing evil in the bride, mysterious though her behaviour was, and he commended him to be loving and true to her.

The next morning Undine, when she and her husband made their appearance, responded gracefully to the paternal greeting of the priest, beseeching his pardon for her folly of the previous evening, and begging him to pray for the good of her soul. Through the whole day Undine behaved angelically. She was kind, quiet, and gentle. At eventide she led her husband out to the edge of the stream, which, to the wonder of Huldbrand, had subsided into gentle, rippling waves.

She whispered, "Carry me across to that little isle, and we will decide there."

Wondering, he carried her across, and, laying her on the turf, listened as she began.

"My loved one, know that there are strange beings which, though seeming almost mortals, are rarely visible to human eyes--salamanders in the flames, gnomes down in the earth, spirits in the air. And in the water are myriads of spirits dwelling in crystal domes, in the coral-trees, and in the lovely shells. These are far more beautiful than the fairest of human beings, and sometimes a fisherman has seen a tender mermaid, and has listened to her song. Such wonderful creatures are called Undines, and one of these you see now before you!

"We should be far superior to other beings--for we consider ourselves human--but for one defect. We have no souls, and nothing remains of us after this mortal life is over. Yet every being aspires to rise higher, and so my father, who is a great water prince in the Mediterranean Sea, desired that his only daughter should become possessed of a soul. But this can only come to pass with loving union with one of your race. Now, O my dearly beloved, I have to thank you that I am gifted with a soul, and it will be due to you should all my life be made wretched. For what will become of me if you forsake me? If you would do so, do it now! Then I will plunge into the stream--which is my uncle--and as he brought me here, so will he take me back to my parents, a loving, suffering woman with a soul."

Undine would have said yet more, but Huldbrand, astonishing though the recital was, with tears and kisses vowed he would never leave his lovely wife; and with her leaning in loving trustfulness on his arm, they returned to the hut.

The next day, at Undine's strange urgency, farewell was said with bitter tears and lamentations.

Undine was placed on the beautiful horse, and Huldbrand and the priest walked on either side as the three passed through the solemn glades of the wood. A fourth soon joined them. He was dressed in a white robe, like that of the priest, and presently attempted to speak to Undine. But she shrank from him, declaring she wished to have nothing to do with him.

"Oh, oh!" cried the stranger, with a laugh. "What kind of a marriage is this you have made, that you must not speak to your relative? Do you not know I am your uncle Kühleborn, who brought you to this region, and that I am here to protect you from goblins and sprites? So let me quietly accompany you."

"We are near the end of the forest, and shall not need you further," was her rejoinder. But he grinned at her so frightfully that she shrieked for help, and the knight aimed at his head a blow from his sword. Instantly Kühleborn was transformed into a gushing waterfall, foaming over them from a rock near by and drenching all three.

_III.--"Woe! Woe!"_

The sudden disappearance of the young knight had caused a sensation in the city, for the duke and duchess, and the friends and servants of Huldbrand, feared he had perished in the forest during the terrible tempest When he suddenly reappeared, all rejoiced except Bertalda, who was profoundly vexed at seeing with him a beautiful bride. She so far reconciled herself to the conditions that a warm friendship sprang up between Undine and herself.

It was agreed that Bertalda should accompany the wedded pair to Ringstetten, and with the consent of the noble foster-parents of Bertalda the three appointed a day for departure. One beautiful evening, as they walked about the market-place round the great fountain, suddenly a tall man emerged from among the people and stopped in front of Undine. He quickly whispered something in her ear, and though at first she seemed vexed at the intrusion, presently she clapped her hands and laughed joyously. Then the stranger mysteriously vanished, and seemed to disappear in the fountain.

Huldbrand had suspected that he had seen the man before, and now felt assured that he was Kühleborn. Undine admitted the fact, and said that her uncle had told her a secret, which she was to reveal on the third day afterwards, which would be the anniversary of Bertalda's nameday.

The anniversary came, and strange incidents happened. After the banquet given by the duke and duchess, Undine suddenly gave a signal, and from among the retainers at the door came forth the old fisherman and his wife, and Undine declared that in these Bertalda saw her real parents. The proud maiden instantly flew into a violent rage, weeping passionately, and utterly refused to acknowledge the old couple as her father and mother. She declared that Undine was an enchantress and a witch, sustaining intercourse with evil spirits.

Undine, with great dignity, indignantly denied the accusation, while Bertalda's violent conduct created a feeling of disgust in the minds of all in the assembly. The matter was settled in a simple manner, for the duke commanded Bertalda to withdraw to a private apartment with the duchess and the two old folks from the hut, that an investigation might be made. It was soon over, for the noble lady was able presently to inform the company that Undine's story was absolutely true. The guests silently departed, and Undine sank sobbing into her husband's arms.

Next day Bertalda, humbled by these events, sought pardon of Undine for her evil behaviour, and was instantly welcomed with loving assurances of forgiveness, moreover, she was cordially invited to go with the pair to Ringstetten.

"We will share all things there as sisters," said Undine.

The three journeyed to the distant castle, and took up their abode together. Soon Kühleborn appeared on the scene, but Undine at once repulsed him. Next, when her husband was one day hunting, she ordered the great well in the courtyard to be covered with a big stone, on which she cut some curious characters.

Bertalda waywardly complained that this proceeding deprived her of water that was good for her complexion, but Undine privately explained to Huldbrand that she had caused the servants to seal up this spring because only by that way of access could her uncle Kühleborn come to disturb their peace.

As time passed on, Huldbrand gradually cooled toward his wife and turned affectionately towards Bertalda. Undine bore patiently and silently the sorrow thus inflicted on her. But when her husband was impatient and angry she would plead with him never to speak to her in accents of unkindness when they happened to be on the water, for the water spirits had her completely in their power on their element, and would seek to protect her, and even seize her and take her down for ever to dwell in the crystal castles of the deep.

After some estrangements, Undine and Bertalda had again become loving friends, and Huldbrand's affection for his wife had revived with its old and welcome warmth, while the attachment between him and Bertalda seemed forgotten.

One day the three were enjoying a delightful excursion on the glorious Danube. Bertalda had taken off a beautiful coral necklace which Huldbrand had given her. She leaned over and drew the coral beads across the surface, enjoying the glitter thus caused, when suddenly a great hand from beneath seized the necklace and snatched it down. The maiden's scream of terror was answered by mocking laughter from the water.

In an outburst of passion, Huldbrand started up and poured forth curses on the river and its denizens, whether spirits or sirens. With tears in her eyes, Undine besought him softly not to scold her there, and she took from her neck a beautiful necklace and offered it to Bertalda as a compensation.

But the angry knight snatched it away, and hurled it into the river, exclaiming, "Are you still connected with them? In the name of all the witches, remain among them with your presents, and leave us mortals in peace, you sorceress!"

Bitterly weeping and crying, "Woe! Woe!" she vanished over the side of the vessel. Her last words were, "Remain true! Woe! Woe!" Huldbrand lay swooning on the deck, and little waves seemed to be sobbing on the surface of the Danube, "Woe! Woe! Remain true!"

_IV.--The White Stranger_

For a time deep sorrow fell on the lord of Ringstetten and Bertalda. They lived long in the castle quietly, often weeping for Undine, tenderly cherishing her memory. Undine often visited Huldbrand in his dreams, caressing him and weeping silently so that his cheeks were wet when he awoke. But these visions grew less frequent, and the knight's grief diminished by degrees. At length he and Bertalda were married, but it was in spite of a grave warning from Father Heilmann, who declared that Undine had appeared to him in visions, beseeching him to warn Huldbrand and Bertalda to leave each other. They were too infatuated to heed the admonition, and a priest from a neighbouring monastery promised to perform the ceremony in a few days.

Meantime, when lying between sleeping and waking, the knight seemed fanned by the wings of a swan, and, as he fell asleep, seemed borne along on the wings of swans which sang their sweetest music. All at once he seemed to be hovering over the Mediterranean Sea. Its waters were so crystalline that he could see through them to the bottom, and there, under a crystal arch, sat Undine, weeping bitterly. She seemed not to perceive him. Kühleborn approached her, and told her that Huldbrand was to be wedded again, and that it would be her duty, from which nothing could release her, to end his life.

"That I cannot do," said she. "I have sealed up the fountain against my race."

Huldbrand felt as if he were soaring back again over the sea, and at length he seemed to reach his castle. He awoke on his couch, but he could not bring himself to break off the arrangements that had been made.

The marriage feast at Ringstetten was not as bright and happy as such occasions usually are, for a veil of gloom seemed to rest over the company. Even the bride affected a happy and thoughtless demeanour which she did not really feel. The company dispersed early, Bertalda retiring with her maidens, and Huldbrand with his attendants.

In her apartment Bertalda, with a sigh, noticed how freckled was her neck, and a remark she made to her maidens as she gazed in the mirror excited the eager attention of one of them. She heard her fair mistress say, "Oh, that I had a flask of the purifying water from the closed fountain!" Presently the officious waiting-woman was seen leading men to the fountain. With levers they quickly lifted the stone, for some mysterious force within seemed to aid them.

Then from the fountain solemnly rose a white column of water. It was presently perceived that it was a pale female figure, veiled in white. She was weeping bitterly as she walked slowly to the building, while Bertalda and her attendants, pale with terror, watched from the window. The figure passed on, and at the door of Huldbrand's room, where the knight was partly undressed, was heard a gentle tap. The white figure slowly entered. It was Undine, who softly said, "They have opened the spring, and now I am here and you must die." Said the knight, "It must be so! But let me die in your embrace."

"Most gladly, my loved one," said she, throwing back her veil and disclosing her face divinely smiling. Imprinting on his lips a sacred kiss, Undine clasped the knight in her arms, weeping as if she would weep her very soul away. Huldbrand fell softly back on the pillows of his couch, a corpse.

At the funeral of Huldbrand the veiled figure appeared when the procession formed a circle round the grave. All knelt in mute devotion at a signal from Father Heilmann. When they rose again the white stranger had vanished, and on the spot where she had knelt a silvery little fountain gushed forth, which almost encircled the grave and then ran on till it reached a lake near by. And to this day the inhabitants cherish the tradition that thus the poor rejected Undine still lovingly embraces her husband.

* * * * *

ÉMILE GABORIAU

"File No. 113"

Émile Gaboriau, one of the best-known exponents of the "police story," was born at Saujon, in France, on November 9, 1833. He began life in a lawyer's office, became a volunteer in a cavalry regiment, and, later, secretary to Paul Feval, the novelist and dramatist. In the meantime, Gaboriau had contributed a number of sketches dealing with military and fashionable life to various minor Parisian journals, but it was not until 1866, with the publication of "L'Affaire Lerouge," that he suddenly sprang into fame. From that time until his death, on September 28, 1873, story after story appeared rapidly from his pen. "File No. 113" ("Le Dossier 113") was published in 1867, and was the first of a remarkable series of detective tales introducing the figure of Lecoq. "File No. 113" is perhaps the most characteristic specimen of his work, exhibiting as it does a careful study of the Paris police system, and a thorough acquaintance with all phases of criminal life.

_I.--The Robbery and a Clue_

The first mention of the celebrated robbery which took place at M. Fauvel's bank in Paris--the _dossier_ of the case is numbered 113 in the police files--appeared in the evening papers, February 28, 1866.

On the previous day a certain Count Louis de Clameran sent word to M. Fauvel that he wished to withdraw the following morning at ten o'clock the sum of £12,000 which had been deposited in the bank by his brother, an ironmaster from the south of France who had recently died.

M. Fauvel made it a rule never to keep any large sums of money on the premises, but to deposit all such amounts in the keeping of the Bank of France. As this sum, however, had to be paid the first thing in the morning, the chief cashier, M. Prosper Bertomy, thought he was justified in obtaining the amount from the Bank of France on the evening of the 27th, and in locking it up in the bank safe against the morning.

The safe was a formidable-looking affair constructed entirely of wrought iron of treble thickness. An ingenious device regulated its opening. On the massive door were five movable steel buttons engraved with the letters of the alphabet. Before the key could be inserted in the lock, these buttons had to be manipulated in the same order in which they had been used when the safe was last shut. The buttons were arranged so that the letters on them formed some word, which was changed from time to time. This word was known only to M. Fauvel and his cashier, each of whom possessed a key of the safe.

As soon as the bank opened on the morning of February 28, the count put in an appearance, and Prosper Bertomy went to the safe to obtain the money. When, a second later, he reappeared, his face was ashy pale, and his steps tottered as he walked. The £12,000 had disappeared from within the safe. What made the affair all the more mysterious was that the safe was locked just as the cashier had left it the night before.

The room in which the safe was situated communicated with the bank by another room in which every night a tried servant of the establishment slept. By a second door admittance was obtained to the private apartments of M. and Madame Fauvel and their niece Madeline.

As soon as M. Fauvel had heard the startling news, he first obtained the necessary money from the Bank of France, settled the business with the count, and then turned his attention to the elucidation of the robbery. He summoned the cashier to his presence.

Bertomy was a young man of thirty to whom M. Fauvel had shown great kindness, advancing his interests wherever possible until, though very young for the position, he was his most important and most confidential employee. Besides the paternal affection with which the bank manager regarded his cashier, another tie tended to make their relations all the stronger and more personal. Bertomy loved M. Fauvel's niece Madeline, and though a curious estrangement had sprung up between them during the previous nine or ten months, the banker always regarded their marriage as practically arranged.

The interview between the two men was a curious one. To each it appeared that the other must be the thief. They alone had the keys of the safe; they alone knew the magic word which could open the massive door. The banker urged Bertomy to confess, promising him forgiveness; the other haughtily rejected the suggestion, and hinted that his employer had converted the £12,000 to his own use. In the end M. Fauvel lost his temper, sent for the police, and before twenty-four hours were up, Prosper Bertomy, who but the day before had held one of the most important and envied positions in the financial world of Paris, was charged before a magistrate as being a common thief.

Investigation of the case was at first entrusted to a detective named Fanferlot, nicknamed by his comrades the "Squirrel." Fanferlot's examination of the premises resulted in little. All he discovered was a scratch upon the door of the safe, but certain words that passed between M. Fauvel and his niece, which seemed to indicate that the former was secretly opposed to the marriage of Madeline with Bertomy, caused him to jump to the conclusion that the banker had robbed his own safe in order to bring disgrace upon his cashier. He connived, however, at the arrest of Bertomy, hoping that later on he might obtain great kudos for himself by unmasking the banker. What might have been the result of his improper and unofficial methods will never be known, but in all probability great inconvenience would have been caused to a number of innocent persons and the whole course of justice thwarted had it not been for the intervention of the great and famous M. Lecoq.

M. Lecoq's interest in the bank robbery case was largely a personal one. Even detectives have hearts, and M. Lecoq had loved with heart and soul a charming young girl named Nina Gipsy. Under the name of Caldas in one of his innumerable disguises, he had wooed her for many months. When he thought at last that he had won her affections, she had fled to the protection of no less a person than Prosper Bertomy himself. The cashier cared nothing for her, but embittered by an estrangement that had sprung up between Madeline and himself, he had sought forgetfulness in her society. Bertomy's arrest gave Lecoq an opportunity for a noble revenge. He determined to prove to the woman he loved his superiority over his rival by saving the cashier from disgrace.

Though the case looked black against Bertomy, for it was shown that he was heavily in debt, and living far beyond his means, Lecoq was satisfied that he had not committed the crime. When Fanferlot, hopelessly befogged, called for his advice at his house in the Rue Montmartre, the great detective deigned to explain the preliminary data and the deductions from the data he had made.

The scratch on the safe door, slight and minute as it was, was his starting-point. How had it been made? He had found by experiment that it was impossible to make such a scratch upon the varnish without the exercise of considerable force. It was clear, therefore, that the scratch by the keyhole could not have been made by the thief in his trembling anxiety to get the business he had undertaken accomplished. But why was such force used?

For a long time Lecoq puzzled over this problem. Then, with Fanferlot, he tried an experiment. In his room was an iron box varnished like the safe. Taking the key of this box from his pocket, he ordered Fanferlot to seize his arm just as he put it near the lock. The key slipped, pulled away from the lock, and sliding along the surface of the door, left upon it a diagonal scratch, almost an exact reproduction of the one on the safe.

From this simple experiment Lecoq deduced that two people were present when the safe was robbed; one wanted to take the money, the other wanted to prevent it being taken. This was the basis of the case which he set out to draw up against some person or persons unknown. He argued, with his usual clear logic, that neither Fauvel nor Bertomy could have robbed the safe. Both of them had keys; both of them knew the secret word and could have robbed the safe whenever they pleased. Therefore, neither of them would have committed the theft in the presence of somebody else.

_II.--A Mysterious Journey_

Lecoq's first steps after establishing these preliminary deductions was to secure the release of Bertomy on the grounds of insufficient evidence.

On the very morning of his release, Bertomy had received a mysterious letter composed of printed words cut out letter by letter from a book and pasted on paper.

"My dear Prosper," so the epistle ran, "a friend who knows the horror of your situation sends you this help. There is one heart at least which feels for you. Leave France; you are yourself. The future is before you. Go, and may this money be of use."

Enclosed with this note were banknotes for £400. Lecoq, disguised as a M. Verduret, a country merchant, a friend of Bertomy's father, secured this epistle and studied it carefully. His knowledge of the various types used by the printers in Paris showed him that the letters had been taken from a book printed by a well-known firm who published volumes of devotion. The correctness of this conclusion was established by the discovery on the back of one of the small cuttings the word "Deus." The words had been cut from a Catholic prayer-book. To find that prayer-book was his next business.

In another disguise he sought out Nina Gipsy, and, by asking her assistance to clear Prosper, induced her to take up the position of lady's-maid in the Fauvel family, for it was there, he conceived, the mutilated book of devotion would be found. Again his wonderful instinct proved right. In a few days Nina brought him the very book--a prayer- book, belonging to Madeline, which had been given her by Bertomy.

Why had Madeline sent the cashier this elaborately disguised letter? Why had she wished him to leave France, confident as she was, so she told him, of his innocence?

To find an answer to these important queries, Lecoq closely questioned Bertomy. He learnt that the night before the robbery the cashier had dined with his friend Raoul de Lagors, the wealthy, dissolute young nephew of M. Fauvel's wife. This Lagors was the friend of Count Louis de Clameran, whose demand for the £12,000 left him by his dead brother had resulted in the discovery of the mysterious robbery.

Bertomy had nothing but the highest praise for Lagors, but, on the other hand, spoke most disparagingly of the count. The count, it appeared, had proposed for the hand of Madeline, and had pressed his suit with great determination. And Madeline--and this was what provided a new problem for Lecoq's consideration--had tacitly accepted his attention.