Chapter 98 The Bell and Bottle Tavern
|
|||||
AND
NOW let us leave Mademoiselle Danglars and her friend pursuing their way
to Brussels, and return to poor Andrea Cavalcanti, so inopportunely
interrupted in his rise to fortune. Notwithstanding his youth, Master
Andrea was a very skilful and intelligent boy. We have seen that on the
first rumor which reached the salon he had gradually approached the door,
and crossing two or three rooms at last disappeared. But we have forgotten
to mention one circumstance, which nevertheless ought not to be omitted;
in one of the rooms he crossed, the trousseau of the bride-elect was on
exhibition. There were caskets of diamonds, cashmere shawls, Valenciennes
lace, English veilings, and in fact all the tempting things, the bare
mention of which makes the hearts of young girls bound with joy, and which
is called the corbeille. Now, in passing through this room, Andrea proved
himself not only to be clever and intelligent, but also provident, for he
helped himself to the most valuable of the ornaments before him. Furnished
with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter heart from the window,
intending to slip through the hands of the gendarmes. Tall and well
proportioned as an ancient gladiator, and muscular as a Spartan, he walked
for a quarter of an hour without knowing where to direct his steps,
actuated by the sole idea of getting away from the spot where if he
lingered he knew that he would surely be taken. Having passed through the
Rue Mont Blanc, guided by the instinct which leads thieves always to take
the safest path, he found himself at the end of the Rue Lafayette. There
he stopped, breathless and panting. He was quite alone; on one side was
the vast wilderness of the Saint-Lazare, on the other, Paris enshrouded in
darkness. "Am
I to be captured?" he cried; "no, not if I can use more activity
than my enemies. My safety is now a mere question of speed." At
this moment he saw a cab at the top of the Faubourg Poissonniere. The dull
driver, smoking his pipe, was plodding along toward the limits of the
Faubourg Saint-Denis, where no doubt he ordinarily had his station.
"Ho, friend!" said Benedetto. "What
do you want, sir?" asked the driver. "Is
your horse tired?" "Tired?
oh, yes, tired enough--he has done nothing the whole of this blessed day!
Four wretched fares, and twenty sous over, making in all seven francs, are
all that I have earned, and I ought to take ten to the owner." "Will
you add these twenty francs to the seven you have?" "With
pleasure, sir; twenty francs are not to be despised. Tell me what I am to
do for this." "A
very easy thing, if your horse isn't tired." "I
tell you he'll go like the wind,--only tell me which way to drive." "Towards
the Louvres." "Ah,
I know the way--you get good sweetened rum over there." "Exactly
so; I merely wish to overtake one of my friends, with whom I am going to
hunt to-morrow at Chapelle-en-Serval. He should have waited for me here
with a cabriolet till half-past eleven; it is twelve, and, tired of
waiting, he must have gone on." "It
is likely." "Well,
will you try and overtake him?" "Nothing
I should like better." "If
you do not overtake him before we reach Bourget you shall have twenty
francs; if not before Louvres, thirty." "And
if we do overtake him?" "Forty,"
said Andrea, after a moment's hesitation, at the end of which he
remembered that he might safely promise. "That's all right,"
said the man; "hop in, and we're off! Who-o-o-p, la!" Andrea
got into the cab, which passed rapidly through the Faubourg Saint-Denis,
along the Faubourg Saint-Martin, crossed the barrier, and threaded its way
through the interminable Villette. They never overtook the chimerical
friend, yet Andrea frequently inquired of people on foot whom he passed
and at the inns which were not yet closed, for a green cabriolet and bay
horse; and as there are a great many cabriolets to be seen on the road to
the Low Countries, and as nine-tenths of them are green, the inquiries
increased at every step. Every one had just seen it pass; it was only five
hundred, two hundred, one hundred steps in advance; at length they reached
it, but it was not the friend. Once the cab was also passed by a calash
rapidly whirled along by two post-horses. "Ah," said Cavalcanti
to himself, "if I only had that britzska, those two good post-horses,
and above all the passport that carries them on!" And he sighed
deeply. The calash contained Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle
d'Armilly. "Hurry, hurry!" said Andrea, "we must overtake
him soon." And the poor horse resumed the desperate gallop it had
kept up since leaving the barrier, and arrived steaming at Louvres. "Certainly,"
said Andrea, "I shall not overtake my friend, but I shall kill your
horse, therefore I had better stop. Here are thirty francs; I will sleep
at the Red Horse, and will secure a place in the first coach. Good-night,
friend." And Andrea, after placing six pieces of five francs each in
the man's hand, leaped lightly on to the pathway. The cabman joyfully
pocketed the sum, and turned back on his road to Paris. Andrea pretended
to go towards the Red Horse inn, but after leaning an instant against the
door, and hearing the last sound of the cab, which was disappearing from
view, he went on his road, and with a lusty stride soon traversed the
space of two leagues. Then he rested; he must be near Chapelle-en-Serval,
where he pretended to be going. It was not fatigue that stayed Andrea
here; it was that he might form some resolution, adopt some plan. It would
be impossible to make use of a diligence, equally so to engage
post-horses; to travel either way a passport was necessary. It was still
more impossible to remain in the department of the Oise, one of the most
open and strictly guarded in France; this was quite out of the question,
especially to a man like Andrea, perfectly conversant with criminal
matters. He
sat down by the side of the moat, buried his face in his hands and
reflected. Ten minutes after he raised his head; his resolution was made.
He threw some dust over the topcoat, which he had found time to unhook
from the ante-chamber and button over his ball costume, and going to
Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at the door of the only inn in the
place. The host opened. "My friend," said Andrea, "I was
coming from Montefontaine to Senlis, when my horse, which is a troublesome
creature, stumbled and threw me. I must reach Compiииgne
to-night, or I shall cause deep anxiety to my family. Could you let me
hire a horse of you?" An
inn-keeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good or bad. The host
called the stable-boy, and ordered him to saddle "Whitey," then
he awoke his son, a child of seven years, whom he ordered to ride before
the gentleman and bring back the horse. Andrea gave the inn-keeper twenty
francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a visiting card. This
belonged to one of his friends at the Cafиж
de Paris, so that the innkeeper, picking it up after Andrea had left, was
convinced that he had let his horse to the Count of Maulижon, 25 Rue Saint-Dominique, that
being the name and address on the card. "Whitey" was not a fast
animal, but he kept up an easy, steady pace; in three hours and a half
Andrea had traversed the nine leagues which separated him from Compiииgne, and four o'clock struck as
he reached the place where the coaches stop. There is an excellent tavern
at Compiииgne,
well remembered by those who have ever been there. Andrea, who had often
stayed there in his rides about Paris, recollected the Bell and Bottle
inn; he turned around, saw the sign by the light of a reflected lamp, and
having dismissed the child, giving him all the small coin he had about
him, he began knocking at the door, very reasonably concluding that having
now three or four hours before him he had best fortify himself against the
fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep and a good supper. A waiter opened
the door. "My
friend," said Andrea, "I have been dining at Saint-Jean-au-Bois,
and expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but like a
fool I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours in
the forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which overlook
the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux." The
waiter had no suspicions; Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he had a
cigar in his mouth, and his hands in the pocket of his top coat; his
clothes were fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots irreproachable;
he looked merely as if he had stayed out very late, that was all. While
the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess arose; Andrea assumed his
most charming smile, and asked if he could have No. 3, which he had
occupied on his last stay at Compiииgne. Unfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a young man
who was travelling with his sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but
consoled himself when the hostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for
him, was situated precisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet
and chatting about the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they
announced his room to be ready. Andrea
had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking out upon the
court of the Bell Tavern, which with its triple galleries like those of a
theatre, with the jessamine and clematis twining round the light columns,
forms one of the prettiest entrances to an inn that you can imagine. The
fowl was tender, the wine old, the fire clear and sparkling, and Andrea
was surprised to find himself eating with as good an appetite as though
nothing had happened. Then be went to bed and almost immediately fell into
that deep sleep which is sure to visit men of twenty years of age, even
when they are torn with remorse. Now, here we are obliged to own that
Andrea ought to have felt remorse, but that he did not. This was the plan
which had appealed to him to afford the best chance of his security.
Before daybreak he would awake, leave the inn after rigorously paying his
bill, and reaching the forest, he would, under presence of making studies
in painting, test the hospitality of some peasants, procure himself the
dress of a woodcutter and a hatchet, casting off the lion's skin to assume
that of the woodman; then, with his hands covered with dirt, his hair
darkened by means of a leaden comb, his complexion embrowned with a
preparation for which one of his old comrades had given him the recipe, he
intended, by following the wooded districts, to reach the nearest
frontier, walking by night and sleeping in the day in the forests and
quarries, and only entering inhabited regions to buy a loaf from time to
time. Once
past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his diamonds; and by
uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes he always carried about with him in
case of accident, he would then find himself possessor of about 50,000
livres, which he philosophically considered as no very deplorable
condition after all. Moreover, he reckoned much on the interest of the
Danglars to hush up the rumor of their own misadventures. These were the
reasons which, added to the fatigue, caused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In
order that he might awaken early he did not close the shutters, but
contented himself with bolting the door and placing on the table an
unclasped and long-pointed knife, whose temper he well knew, and which was
never absent from him. About seven in the morning Andrea was awakened by a
ray of sunlight, which played, warm and brilliant, upon his face. In all
well-organized brains, the predominating idea--and there always is one--is
sure to be the last thought before sleeping, and the first upon waking in
the morning. Andrea had scarcely opened his eyes when his predominating
idea presented itself, and whispered in his ear that he had slept too
long. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. A gendarme was crossing
the court. A gendarme is one of the most striking objects in the world,
even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a timid conscience,
and with good cause too, the yellow, blue, and white uniform is really
very alarming. "Why
is that gendarme there?" asked Andrea of himself. Then, all at once,
he replied, with that logic which the reader has, doubtless, remarked in
him, "There is nothing astonishing in seeing a gendarme at an inn;
instead of being astonished, let me dress myself." And the youth
dressed himself with a facility his valet de chambre had failed to rob him
of during the two months of fashionable life he had led in Paris.
"Now then," said Andrea, while dressing himself, "I'll wait
till he leaves, and then I'll slip away." And, saying this, Andrea,
who had now put on his boots and cravat, stole gently to the window, and a
second time lifted up the muslin curtain. Not only was the first gendarme
still there, but the young man now perceived a second yellow, blue, and
white uniform at the foot of the staircase, the only one by which he could
descend, while a third, on horseback, holding a musket in his fist, was
posted as a sentinel at the great street door which alone afforded the
means of egress. The
appearance of the third gendarme settled the matter, for a crowd of
curious loungers was extended before him, effectually blocking the
entrance to the hotel. "They're after me!" was Andrea's first
thought. "Diable!" A
pallor overspread the young man's forehead, and he looked around him with
anxiety. His room, like all those on the same floor, had but one outlet to
the gallery in the sight of everybody. "I am lost!" was his
second thought; and, indeed, for a man in Andrea's situation, an arrest
meant the assizes, trial, and death,--death without mercy or delay. For a
moment he convulsively pressed his head within his hands, and during that
brief period he became nearly mad with terror; but soon a ray of hope
glimmered in the multitude of thoughts which bewildered his mind, and a
faint smile played upon his white lips and pallid cheeks. He looked around
and saw the objects of his search upon the chimney-piece; they were a pen,
ink, and paper. With forced composure he dipped the pen in the ink, and
wrote the following lines upon a sheet of paper:-- "I
have no money to pay my bill, but I am not a dishonest man; I leave behind
me as a pledge this pin, worth ten times the amount. I shall be excused
for leaving at daybreak, for I was ashamed." He
then drew the pin from his cravat and placed it on the paper. This done,
instead of leaving the door fastened, he drew back the bolts and even
placed the door ajar, as though he had left the room, forgetting to close
it, and slipping into the chimney like a man accustomed to that kind of
gymnastic exercise, having effaced the marks of his feet upon the floor,
he commenced climbing the only opening which afforded him the means of
escape. At this precise time, the first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked
up-stairs, preceded by the commissary of police, and supported by the
second gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself re-enforced by
the one stationed at the door. Andrea
was indebted for this visit to the following circumstances. At daybreak,
the telegraphs were set at work in all directions, and almost immediately
the authorities in every district had exerted their utmost endeavors to
arrest the murderer of Caderousse. Compiииgne,
that royal residence and fortified town, is well furnished with
authorities, gendarmes, and commissaries of police; they therefore began
operations as soon as the telegraphic despatch arrived, and the Bell and
Bottle being the best-known hotel in the town, they had naturally directed
their first inquiries there. Now,
besides the reports of the sentinels guarding the H?tel de Ville, which is
next door to the Bell and Bottle, it had been stated by others that a
number of travellers had arrived during the night. The sentinel who was
relieved at six o'clock in the morning, remembered perfectly that just as
he was taking his post a few minutes past four a young man arrived on
horseback, with a little boy before him. The young man, having dismissed
the boy and horse, knocked at the door of the hotel, which was opened, and
again closed after his entrance. This late arrival had attracted much
suspicion, and the young man being no other than Andrea, the commissary
and gendarme, who was a brigadier, directed their steps towards his room. They
found the door ajar. "Oh, ho," said the brigadier, who
thoroughly understood the trick; "a bad sign to find the door open! I
would rather find it triply bolted." And, indeed, the little note and
pin upon the table confirmed, or rather corroborated, the sad truth.
Andrea had fled. We say corroborated, because the brigadier was too
experienced to be convinced by a single proof. He glanced around, looked
in the bed, shook the curtains, opened the closets, and finally stopped at
the chimney. Andrea had taken the precaution to leave no traces of his
feet in the ashes, but still it was an outlet, and in this light was not
to be passed over without serious investigation. The
brigadier sent for some sticks and straw, and having filled the chimney
with them, set a light to it. The fire crackled, and the smoke ascended
like the dull vapor from a volcano; but still no prisoner fell down, as
they expected. The fact was, that Andrea, at war with society ever since
his youth, was quite as deep as a gendarme, even though he were advanced
to the rank of brigadier, and quite prepared for the fire, he had climbed
out on the roof and was crouching down against the chimney-pots. At one
time he thought he was saved, for he heard the brigadier exclaim in a loud
voice, to the two gendarmes, "He is not here!" But venturing to
peep, he perceived that the latter, instead of retiring, as might have
been reasonably expected upon this announcement, were watching with
increased attention. It
was now his turn to look about him; the H?tel de Ville, a massive
sixteenth century building, was on his right; any one could descend from
the openings in the tower, and examine every corner of the roof below, and
Andrea expected momentarily to see the head of a gendarme appear at one of
these openings. If once discovered, he knew he would be lost, for the roof
afforded no chance of escape; he therefore resolved to descend, not
through the same chimney by which he had come up, but by a similar one
conducting to another room. He looked around for a chimney from which no
smoke issued, and having reached it, he disappeared through the orifice
without being seen by any one. At the same minute, one of the little
windows of the H?tel de Ville was thrown open, and the head of a gendarme
appeared. For an instant it remained motionless as one of the stone
decorations of the building, then after a long sigh of disappointment the
head disappeared. The brigadier, calm and dignified as the law he
represented, passed through the crowd, without answering the thousand
questions addressed to him, and re-entered the hotel. "Well?"
asked the two gendarmes. "Well,
my boys," said the brigadier, "the brigand must really have
escaped early this morning; but we will send to the Villers-Coterets and
Noyon roads, and search the forest, when we shall catch him, no
doubt." The honorable functionary had scarcely expressed himself
thus, in that intonation which is peculiar to brigadiers of the
gendarmerie, when a loud scream, accompanied by the violent ringing of a
bell, resounded through the court of the hotel. "Ah, what is
that?" cried the brigadier. "Some
traveller seems impatient," said the host. "What number was it
that rang?" "Number
3." "Run,
waiter!" At this moment the screams and ringing were redoubled.
"Ah," said the brigadier, stopping the servant, "the person
who is ringing appears to want something more than a waiter; we will
attend upon him with a gendarme. Who occupies Number 3?" "The
little fellow who arrived last night in a post-chaise with his sister, and
who asked for an apartment with two beds." The bell here rang for the
third time, with another shriek of anguish. "Follow
me, Mr. Commissary!" said the brigadier; "tread in my
steps." "Wait
an instant," said the host; "Number 3 has two
staircases,--inside and outside." "Good,"
said the brigadier. "I will take charge of the inside one. Are the
carbines loaded?" "Yes,
brigadier." "Well,
you guard the exterior, and if he attempts to fly, fire upon him; he must
be a great criminal, from what the telegraph says." The
brigadier, followed by the commissary, disappeared by the inside
staircase, accompanied by the noise which his assertions respecting Andrea
had excited in the crowd. This is what had happened. Andrea had very
cleverly managed to descend two-thirds of the chimney, but then his foot
slipped, and notwithstanding his endeavors, he came into the room with
more speed and noise than he intended. It would have signified little had
the room been empty, but unfortunately it was occupied. Two ladies,
sleeping in one bed, were awakened by the noise, and fixing their eyes
upon the spot whence the sound proceeded, they saw a man. One of these
ladies, the fair one, uttered those terrible shrieks which resounded
through the house, while the other, rushing to the bell-rope, rang with
all her strength. Andrea, as we can see, was surrounded by misfortune. "For
pity's sake," he cried, pale and bewildered, without seeing whom he
was addressing,--"for pity's sake do not call assistance! Save me!--I
will not harm you." "Andrea,
the murderer!" cried one of the ladies. "Eugижnie! Mademoiselle Danglars!"
exclaimed Andrea, stupefied. "Help,
help!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, taking the bell from her
companion's hand, and ringing it yet more violently. "Save me, I am
pursued!" said Andrea, clasping his hands. "For pity, for
mercy's sake do not deliver me up!" "It
is too late, they are coming," said Eugижnie. "Well,
conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly alarmed; you can
turn their suspicions and save my life!" The
two ladies, pressing closely to one another, and drawing the bedclothes
tightly around them, remained silent to this supplicating voice,
repugnance and fear taking possession of their minds. "Well,
be it so," at length said Eugижnie; "return by the same road you came, and we
will say nothing about you, unhappy wretch." "Here
he is, here he is!" cried a voice from the landing; "here he is!
I see him!" The brigadier had put his eye to the keyhole, and had
discovered Andrea in a posture of entreaty. A violent blow from the butt
end of the musket burst open the lock, two more forced out the bolts, and
the broken door fell in. Andrea ran to the other door, leading to the
gallery, ready to rush out; but he was stopped short, and he stood with
his body a little thrown back, pale, and with the useless knife in his
clinched hand. "Fly,
then!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, whose pity returned as her fears
diminished; "fly!" "Or
kill yourself!" said Eugижnie
(in a tone which a Vestal in the amphitheatre would have used, when urging
the victorious gladiator to finish his vanquished adversary). Andrea
shuddered, and looked on the young girl with an expression which proved
how little he understood such ferocious honor. "Kill myself?" he
cried, throwing down his knife; "why should I do so?" "Why,
you said," answered Mademoiselle Danglars, "that you would be
condemned to die like the worst criminals." "Bah,"
said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms, "one has friends." The
brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand. "Come, come," said
Andrea, "sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there is no occasion to
make such a fuss, since I give myself up;" and he held out his hands
to be manacled. The girls looked with horror upon this shameful
metamorphosis, the man of the world shaking off his covering and appearing
as a galley-slave. Andrea turned towards them, and with an impertinent
smile asked,--"Have you any message for your father, Mademoiselle
Danglars, for in all probability I shall return to Paris?" Eugижnie covered her face with her
hands. "Oh, ho!" said Andrea, "you need not be ashamed,
even though you did post after me. Was I not nearly your husband?" And
with this raillery Andrea went out, leaving the two girls a prey to their
own feelings of shame, and to the comments of the crowd. An hour after
they stepped into their calash, both dressed in feminine attire. The gate
of the hotel had been closed to screen them from sight, but they were
forced, when the door was open, to pass through a throng of curious
glances and whispering voices. Eugижnie closed her eyes; but though
she could not see, she could hear, and the sneers of the crowd reached her
in the carriage. "Oh, why is not the world a wilderness?" she
exclaimed, throwing herself into the arms of Mademoiselle d'Armilly, her
eyes sparkling with the same kind of rage which made Nero wish that the
Roman world had but one neck, that he might sever it at a single blow. The
next day they stopped at the H?tel de Flandre, at Brussels. The same
evening Andrea was incarcerated in the conciииrgerie.
|
|||||
|
©2005 - 2010 ???? . All Rights Reserved.