Part 19
It was horrible. In vain did I cry: “Only look at me, my dear madame; I am not what you think me!” She was beside herself with fear; she raved and screamed in such piercing tones that had we not been underground, the whole neighborhood would inevitably have been aroused. In this extremity, consulting only my rage, I overturned her, and gaining the door before her, I slammed it in her face, taking care to slip the bolt. During the struggle the candle had been extinguished and Dame Grédel was left in the dark. Her cries grew fainter and fainter. I stared at Annette, giddy, and with hardly strength enough left to stand. Her agitation equaled mine. We neither of us seemed able to speak, and stood listening to the expiring cries of the mistress, which soon ceased altogether. The poor woman had fainted.
“Oh! Kasper,” cried Annette, wringing her hands, “what is to be done? Fly! fly! You may have been heard! Did you kill her?” “Kill her? I?” “I am so glad! But fly! I will open the door for you.” She unbarred it, and I fled into the street, without stopping even to thank her; but I was so terrified and there was not a moment to lose. The night was inky black; not a star in the sky, and the street lamps unlighted. The weather was abominable; it was snowing hard and the wind howled dismally. Not until I had run for a good half-hour did I stop to take breath. You may imagine my horror when looking up I found myself directly opposite the Pied de Mouton Tavern. In my terror I had run around the square a half dozen times for aught I knew. My legs felt like lead and my knees tottered under me.
The inn, but a moment before deserted, swarmed like a bee-hive, and lights danced about from window to window. It was evidently filled with the police. And now, at my wits’ end, desperate, exhausted with cold and hunger, and not knowing where to find refuge, I resolved upon the strangest possible course. “By Jove,” I said to myself, “as well be hanged as leave my bones on the road to the Black Forest.” And I walked into the tavern with the intention of giving myself up to the officials. Besides the fellows with their cocked hats tilted rakishly over their ears, and the clubs fastened to their wrists, whom I had already seen in the morning, and who were now running here and there, and turning everything upside down, there was the bailiff, Zimmer, standing before one of the tables, dressed in black, with a grave air and penetrating glance, and near him the secretary Roth, with his red wig, imposing countenance, and large ears, flat as oyster shells. They paid no attention to my entrance, and this circumstance altered my resolution at once. I sat down in a corner of the room behind the big cast-iron stove, in company with two or three of the neighbors, who had run hither to see what was going on, and I ordered a pint of wine and a dish of sauerkraut. Annette came near betraying me. “Goodness!” she cried, “is it possible!” But one exclamation, more or less, in such a babel of voices possessed but little significance. It passed unnoticed, and, while I ate with a ravenous appetite, I listened to the examination to which Dame Grédel was subjected as she lay back in a large armchair, her hair falling down and her eyes bulged out with fright. “How old did the man appear to be?” asked the bailiff. “Between forty and fifty, sir. He was an enormous man with black side whiskers, or maybe brown, I don’t exactly remember, with a long nose and green eyes.” “Did he have any birth-mark or scars?” “I don’t remember any. He only had a big hammer and pistols.” “Very good! And what did he say to you?” “He seized me by the throat, but fortunately I screamed so loud it frightened him, and I defended myself with my finger-nails. When any one tries to murder you, you fight hard for your life, sir.” “Nothing is more natural or legitimate, madame. Take this down, Roth! The coolness of this good woman is truly remarkable.” The rest of the deposition was in the same strain. They questioned Annette afterward, but she testified to having been so frightened that she could remember nothing.
“That will do,” said the bailiff; “if we need anything further, we will return to-morrow morning.” Everybody withdrew, and I asked Dame Grédel for a room for the night. So great had been her fear that she had not the slightest recollection of having seen me before. “Annette,” said she, “Show the gentleman to the little room on the third floor. I can not stand on my legs. Oh! dear! what trials we have to bear in this world.” She began to weep.
Annette, having lighted a candle, led me up to the little chamber, and when we found ourselves alone, she cried innocently: “Oh! Kasper, Kasper! Who would have believed that you were one of the band! I can never console myself for having loved a robber!” “What! you, too, believe us guilty, Annette?” I exclaimed despairingly, dropping into a chair; “that is the last straw on the camel’s back.” “No! no! you can not be. You are too much of a gentleman, dear Kasper! And you were so brave to come back.” I explained to her that I was perishing with cold and hunger, and that that was the only consideration which led me to return.
We were left to ourselves for some time; then Annette departed, lest she should arouse Madame Grédel’s suspicions. Left to myself, after having ascertained that the windows were not approached by any wall, and that the sashes were securely fastened, I thanked God that I had thus far been brought safely through the perils which surrounded me, and then going to bed, I was soon fast asleep.
II
I got up at about eight o’clock the next morning. It was foggy and dark. As I drew aside the hangings of the bed, I noticed that the snow was drifted on a level with the windows; the sashes were all white. I began to reflect upon the sad condition of my companions; they must have suffered with the cold, particularly old Bremer and Bertha, and the idea filled me with sorrow. As I was reflecting thus, a strange noise arose outside. It drew near the inn, and I sprang anxiously to the window to see if some new dangers were threatening. They were bringing the famous band of robbers to confront Dame Grédel Dick, who was not yet sufficiently recovered from her fright to venture out of doors. My poor comrades came down the street between a double file of police, and followed by a crowd of street urchins, who screamed and yelled like savages. It seems to me that I can still see that terrible scene: poor Bremer chained between his sons, Ludwig and Karl, Wilfred behind them, and Bertha bringing up the rear and crying piteously: “In the name of Heaven, my masters, have pity on a poor, innocent harpist! I kill? I steal? O God! can it be?” She wrung her hands distractedly. The others proceeded with bowed heads, their hair falling over their faces.
The crowd swarmed into the dark alleyway of the inn. The guards drove back the rabble, and the door was closed and barred. The eager crowd remained outside, standing ankle-deep in slush, with their noses flattened against the panes. A profound silence settled upon the house. Having by this time got into my clothes, I opened the door part way to listen, and see if it would be possible to escape from my unpleasant quarters. I heard the sound of voices and of people moving about on the lower floors, which convinced me that the passages were strongly guarded. My door opened on the landing, directly opposite the window through which the man had fled two nights before. I did not pay any attention to this circumstance at first, but as I stood there I suddenly noticed that the window was open, and that there was no snow on the sill; approaching it, I saw fresh tracks along the wall. I shuddered. The man must have returned last night; perhaps visited the inn every night. It was a revelation to me, and at once the mystery began to clear up.
“Oh! if it were only true,” I said to myself, “that fortune had placed the murderer’s fate in my hands, my unhappy fellows would be saved!” And I followed with my eyes the footprints, which led with surprising distinctness to the opposite roof. At this moment some words fell on my ear. The door of the dining hall had just been opened to let in the fresh air, and I heard the following conversation: “Do you recall having taken part in the murder of Ulmet Elias on the twentieth of this month?” Some unintelligible words followed, “Close the door, Madoc!” said the bailiff; “the woman is ill.” I heard no more. As I stood with my head resting against the balusters, a sudden resolution seized me. “I can save my comrades!” I exclaimed; “God has pointed out to me the means, and if I fail to do my duty, their blood will be upon my head. My self-respect and peace of mind will be forever lost, and I shall consider myself the most cowardly of wretches.” It took me some time, however, to summon up resolution enough. Then I went downstairs and entered the dining-room.
“Did you ever see this watch before?” the bailiff was saying to Dame Grédel. “Do your best to remember!” Without waiting for her answer, I stepped forward and replied firmly: “That watch, bailiff? I have seen it before in the hands of the murderer himself. I recognize it perfectly, and if you will only listen to me, I will agree to deliver the man into your hands this very night.” Perfect stillness followed my bold declaration. The officials stared at each other, dumfounded; my comrades seemed to cheer up a bit. “I am the companion of these unfortunate people,” I continued, “and I say it without shame, for every one of them is honest, even if he is poor, and there is not one among them capable of committing the crimes imputed to him.”
Again silence followed. Dame Bertha began to weep quietly. At last the bailiff aroused himself. Looking at me sharply, he said: “Where do you pretend to deliver the assassin into our hands?” “Right here in this very house! And to convince you of it, I only ask for a moment’s private conversation.” “Let us hear what you have to say,” he replied, rising. He motioned Madoc to follow us; the others remained. We left the room. I went hastily up the stairs, with the others at my heels. Pausing at the window on the third floor, I showed them the man’s footprints in the snow. “Those are the murderer’s tracks!” I said; “he visits this house every night. Yesterday he came at two in the morning; last night he returned, and he will undoubtedly be back again this evening.”
The bailiff and Madoc examined the footprints without a word. “How do you know that these are the murderer’s tracks?” asked the chief of police, doubtfully. Thereupon I told him of the man’s appearance in our loft. I pointed out to them the little window above us through which I had watched him as he fled in the moonlight, and which Wilfred had not seen, as he remained in bed. I admitted that it was mere chance that had led me to the discovery of the tracks made the night before.
“It is strange!” muttered the bailiff; “this greatly modifies the position of the accused. But how do you explain the presence of the robber in the cellar?” “That robber was myself.” I now related briefly everything that had taken place from the time of my comrades’ arrest until the moment of my flight from the inn. “That will do,” said the bailiff; and, turning toward the chief of police, he added: “I must admit, Madoc, that the depositions of these musicians never seemed to me very conclusive of their guilt; moreover, their passports established an alibi difficult to controvert. Nevertheless, young man,” turning to me, “in spite of the plausibility of the proofs you have given us, you must remain in our power until they are verified. Keep him in sight, Madoc, and take your measures accordingly.” The bailiff descended the stairs thoughtfully, and, refolding his papers, he said, without continuing the examination: “Let the accused be taken back to the prison!” And with a scornful glance at the landlady, he departed, followed by the secretary. Madoc alone remained with two officials.
“Madame,” he said to Dame Grédel, “maintain the strictest secrecy about what has happened, and give this brave young man the same room he occupied night before last.” Madoc’s look and emphasis admitted of no reply. Dame Grédel swore she would do whatever was required of her if she could only be rid of the robbers! Madoc replied: “We shall stay here all day and to-night to protect you. Go about your work in peace, and begin by giving us some breakfast. My good fellow, you will give us the pleasure of dining with us?” My situation did not permit me to decline. I accepted accordingly, and we soon found ourselves seated before a leg of ham and a jug of Rhine wine. Other people arrived from time to time, and endeavored to elicit the confidence of Dame Grédel and Annette, but they maintained a discreet silence, for which they deserve no little credit. We spent the afternoon smoking our pipes and emptying our mugs; no one paid any attention to us.
The chief of police, in spite of his sallow face, piercing glance, pale lips, and sharp nose, was excellent company after a bottle or two; he told us some excellent stories, and at every word of his the other two burst out laughing. I remained gloomy and silent. “Come, my dear young fellow!” he said to me with a smile, “forget for a little the death of your respectable grandmother. Take a drop, and put your troublesome thoughts to flight.”
Others joined in the conversation, and the time passed in the midst of tobacco smoke, the clinking of glasses, and the ringing of mugs. But at nine o’clock, after the watchman’s visit, the expression of things changed. Madoc rose and said: “Well, my friends, let us proceed to business. Fasten the doors and shutters quietly! You, ladies, may go to bed!” His two tattered followers looked more like robbers themselves than like props of law and order. Each drew a club with a knob of lead attached to one end, from his trousers’ leg, and Madoc tapped his breast pocket to make sure that his pistol was there. This done, he bid me lead them to the loft. We climbed the stairs. Having reached the little room, where thoughtful little Annette had taken care to light a fire, Madoc, cursing between his teeth, hastened to throw water on the coals; then motioning to the pile of straw, he said to me: “You may go to sleep if you like.”
He sat down, together with his two acolytes, at the end of the room close to the wall, and they put out the light. I lay down on the straw, breathing a prayer to the Almighty to send hither the assassin. After midnight the silence became so profound that you would never have suspected three men were there with wide-open eyes, on the alert for the slightest sound. The hours wore slowly away. I could not sleep. A thousand terrible ideas teemed in my brain. One o’clock--two o’clock--three o’clock struck, and nothing appeared. At three o’clock one of the officials stirred slightly. I thought the man had come at last. But again all was still. I began to think that Madoc would take me for an impostor, as he must be only too ready to do, and that in the morning things would fare badly with me; thus, instead of helping my companions, I should only be fettered with them.
The time seemed to me to pass very rapidly after three o’clock. I wished the night might last forever, that the only ray of hope might not be gone. I was starting to go over all these thoughts for the fiftieth time, when, suddenly, without my having heard a sound, the window opened and two eyes glistened in the opening. Nothing stirred in the loft. “The others are asleep,” I thought. The head remained in the opening, listening. The wretch seemed to suspect something. My heart galloped and the blood coursed through my veins. I dared not even breathe. A few moments passed thus. Then, suddenly, the man seemed to make up his mind. He let himself down into the loft with the same caution as on the preceding night. On the instant a terrible cry, short, piercing, blood-curdling, resounded through the house. “We’ve got him!”
The whole house shook from cellar to attic; cries, struggles, and hoarse shouts, coupled with muttered oaths, filled the loft. The man roared like a wild beast, and his opponents breathed painfully as they battled with his terrible strength. Then there was a crash that made the flooring creak, and I heard nothing more but a gritting of teeth and a rattle of chains. “A light here!” cried the formidable Madoc. And as the sulphur burned, illuminating the place with its bluish light, I vaguely distinguished the forms of the three officials kneeling above the prostrate man. One of them was holding him by the throat, another had sunk his knees into his chest, and Madoc encircled his wrists with handcuffs hard enough to crush them. The man, in his shirt sleeves as before, seemed inert, save that one of his powerful legs, naked from the knee to the ankle, raised up from time to time and struck the floor with a convulsive movement. His eyes were literally starting from his head, and his lips were covered with a bloody foam. Scarcely had I lighted the taper when the officials exclaimed, thunderstruck: “Our Dean!” All three got up and stood staring at each other, white with astonishment. The bloodshot eyes of the murderer turned on Madoc. He tried to speak, and after a moment I heard him murmur: “What a terrible dream! My God, what a terrible dream!” Then he sighed and became motionless.
I approached to take a look at him. It was indeed the man who had given us advice on the road to Heidelberg. Perhaps he had had a presentiment that we would be the means of his destruction, for people do sometimes have these terrible forebodings. As he did not stir, and a tiny stream of blood flowed on the dusty floor, Madoc, rousing himself from his stupor, bent over him and tore away his shirt; we then saw that he had stabbed himself to the heart with his great knife. “Ho! ho!” cried Madoc, with a sinister smile, “our Dean has cheated the gallows. You others stay here while I go and notify the bailiff.” He picked up his hat, that had fallen off during the mêlée, and left without another word. I remained opposite the corpse, with the two others.
The news spread like wildfire. It was a sensation for the neighborhood. Dean Daniel Van den Berg enjoyed a fortune and a reputation so well established that many people refused to believe in the abominable instincts which dominated him. The matter was discussed from every conceivable point of view. Some held that he was a somnambulist and irresponsible for his acts; others that he was a murderer through love of blood, having no other possible motive for committing these crimes. Perhaps both were right, for it is an undeniable fact that moral being, will, soul, whatever name you choose to call it by, is wanting in the somnambulist. The animal nature left to itself naturally yields to the dictates of its pacific or sanguinary instincts. Be that as it may, my comrades were at once restored to liberty. Little Annette was quoted for a long time after as a model of devotion. She was even sought in marriage by the son of the burgomaster Trungott, a romantic youth, who will one day disgrace his family.
As for me, I lost no time in returning to the Black Forest, where, since that time I have officiated as leader of the orchestra at the Sabre Vert Tavern, on the road to Tubingen. If you should ever happen to pass that way, and my story has interested you, come in and see me. We will drink a bottle or two together, and I will relate to you certain details that will make your hair stand on end.
AT THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE BY ALPHONSE DAUDET
[Illustration]
_Alphonse Daudet, best known among English-speaking people perhaps as author of the humorous “Tartarin de Tarascon,” written in 1872, was born at Nîmes, 1840, and died at Paris, 1897. For such novels as “Sapho,” “Sidonie,” “Numa Roumestan,” etc., he has been called a stern censor, unsparing in his exposition of, and satire on, the weakness and hypocrisy of human nature. But that he has a warm, sympathetic side to his nature, too, is plain enough in the following story, which, on the whole, is an almost perfect example of Daudet’s art. Jules Claretie said of him that he was a “winged realist,” with a lightness and depth of touch that yet never forgot the realities of life. He was subjective, not objective._
[Illustration]
AT THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE BY ALPHONSE DAUDET
Translated by Mrs. Dallas Bache. Copyright, 1898, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
I know not if it be from lack of habit, but I can never enter the Palais de Justice without an uneasiness, an inexplicable heart pang. That grating, those great courts, that stone staircase so vast that every one mounts it in isolation, enveloped in his individual torment. The antiquity of the structures, the melancholy clock, the height of the windows, and also the mist of the quay, that moisture that clings to walls that skirt the water, all give you a foretaste of the neighboring prison. In the halls the impression is the same, or more vivid still, because of the peculiar company which peoples them, because of those long black robes which make the solemn gestures, because of those who accuse, and the unintelligible records, the eternal records spread out everywhere on the tables, carried under the arms in enormous bundles, overflowing--
There are great green doors, noiseless and mysterious, from whence escape--when they are ajar--gusts of voices severe or weeping, and visions of school benches, platforms black with caps, and great crucifixes leaning forward. Muskets ring out on the flags. Sinister rumblings of carriages pass shaking the arches. All these noises blended together are like a respiration, the panting breath of a factory, the apparatus of justice at work. And hearing this terrible machine at labor, one desires to shrink within himself, to dwindle for fear of being caught, even by a hair, in this formidable gearing which one knows to be so complicated, tenacious, destructive--