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!"
CHAPTER XVIII
"WHAT FACE THAT HAUNTS ME?"
After that all hope was given up of discovering who had murdered Douglas. From the first, from the moment Bertie saw the jewels taken from the two vagabonds by the sergeant, he felt that neither of them were the culprits. Yet, all asked each other whenever they met, "If not these scoundrels, who then?"
"He had no enemy in France, in the world," said Bertie, as they sat one night in the lodgings which Kate had hired for her father and herself. "Why, why should any creature have taken his life? In his regiment he was most popular-nay, beloved. Oh! oh! I cannot understand it."
And now, since, as has been said, the summer was waning-for Douglas had been dead three months when they talked thus-their little circle was about to be broken up once more. One was gone for ever, they said in whispered tones, he could never come back; could those who still remained be once more united after they separated at Amiens?
Bertie, with his troop and one other of the Regiment of Picardy, was to proceed to St. Denis; Kate and her father were to go to Paris; Archibald was to remain behind at Amiens.
Over the latter a great change had come since his brother's death. He had always been a quiet and reserved man-perhaps from the very nature of his calling-one who never said more than was absolutely necessary to any person on any subject; now he seemed to have retired entirely within himself and to have but two things in this world to which his life was devoted: his Faith, and his determination to find the murderer of Douglas.
"And," he said to Bertie, "I shall do it. Have no fear of that. I shall do it. I have now an idea-though an idea of so strange, so extraordinary a nature, that I hardly dare to let myself believe that it can ever take a tangible shape."
"And may I, may Kate, know nothing of that idea? Remember how we both loved him."
"No," Sholto replied. "No. It may come to nothing-must, it almost seems certain, come to nothing. Yet, if the secret can be unravelled, I will find the way to do it. Then, when I am sure, if ever I am, you shall know all. Nay, you will most assuredly know all."
"Will you tell us-tell me-no more than this?" asked Bertie.
"I will tell you nothing. It is possible I may be mistaken; more than possible. If I am not, then you will know."
And with this the other had to be content, and to prepare to proceed to his new quarters outside Paris.
The Jesuit's idea was, indeed, one about which he might well say that he could not believe it should ever assume a tangible shape. It was nothing else than that he believed he had seen those jewels-especially that tiara-before.
He had examined them many times since they had been taken away from D'Aunay and his companion and kept in the custody of the Mayor of Amiens-had turned them over and over in his hands; scrutinised the settings to see if he could observe any mark or inscription upon them. But there was nothing-no coronet engraved inside the tiara with a name, or initials, such as might well have been looked for in such costly gewgaws-nothing! Yet the tiara forced itself upon his memory, seemed to be a thing he had seen before-worn upon a woman's head at some great ceremony. Especially he seemed to remember one diamond to the extreme left of the diadem, a yellow, light brown stone that had flashed out a different light from its fellows beneath the gleams of many-lustred candelabras. But where? Where? Where?
"Almost," he whispered to himself, "I seem to see, as through a mist, the head, the face that was beneath it. Dark hair, grizzled grey; pale olive complexion; lines of care. Who was it? Who? If I could remember that."
At night as he lay upon his truckle bed, or as he walked by the banks of the Somme, or held the jewels in his hands-for more than once he went to see them-he mused on all this. Nay, when the memory of his beloved brother and his cruel death was more than usually strong upon him, he would ponder upon the idea that was ever in his mind as he stood at night, solitary and alone, in the Place de la Cathédrale before the great west door, and on the very spot where his loved one had fallen. But still memory failed him, or, as he came near believing now, he was the sport of a delusion.
Practised by long training in every mental art, he took next to recalling each scene of splendour-for in some such scene it was, he felt sure, that he had seen that gleaming hoop worn, if he had ever seen it at all-in which he had ever taken part from the time he had been ordained a priest, from the time when, an ardent enthusiast of the Stuart cause, he had mixed in the great court circles. Scenes at Versailles, at Marly and Vincennes, St. Germain and Fontainebleau-for he had been amidst them all-were recalled carefully, yet still the phantom of the dark-haired woman with the threads of grey running through that hair evaded him. He had known so many such, he told himself, wearily; had seen so many women to whom jewels and adornments were the natural accompaniments, that, perhaps, it was not strange he should forget. Also, he reflected, how easy for him, who had seen countless jewelled head-dresses worn, to imagine that he remembered this particular one!
Yet he could swear he remembered that yellow, brown diamond!
Tortured thus by his struggles with the dim shadows of his memory, he bade farewell to the others as they departed, and left him alone in the city so bitterly dear to him.
"Farewell, Kate," he said, "farewell. God bless you! You are separated, as I think, for ever from a man utterly unworthy of you; yet you have still the consolation of being without dishonour-ay, without speck or blemish. He will never trouble you again, I do believe. Let him, therefore, go his evil way, and go you yours in peace and happiness. I would that I could see a way to your obtaining the one happiness that should belong to you; wish it for your sake and Bertie's. But it cannot be. Not yet, at least. Therefore bear up. Heaven in its mercy will, I know, protect and prosper you."
"Good-bye, good-bye, Archie," Kate replied, as she sobbed unrestrainedly. "Oh, how unhappy we are! We looked forward to so much in this meeting here, and see-see how it has ended! Shall we ever be happy again?"
"In Heaven's mercy," he said, "in Heaven's mercy." Then he kissed her on the brow, shook hands with her father, and went his way back to his gloomy life, and now still more gloomy thoughts. Yet never in those thoughts-no, not even though they had sometimes spoken of the man himself-did it dawn upon him that here was the one who might be the murderer of Douglas.
Bertie was already gone, the two troops of the Regiment of Picardy having marched out a day or so before, the blare of their trumpets and the clatter of the horses' hoofs having awakened the city early. And he had seen Kate-dawn though it was-glancing from her window to look at him, to wave him her farewell.
"Yet," he had said to her overnight, "it must not be for long, Kitty. It seems to me that we grow nearer to one another as trouble falls-at least, there can be no assassin's knife to come between us. Kate, I shall come and see you as often as I can get leave to visit Paris; even though you are in a King's-a future King's-house, as I still hope-I may come. Is it not so?"
"Yes," she said, "you may come always. Oh, Bertie, we are parted for ever-our lives, our hopes, all-yet if I could not sometimes see you, know that you are well, happy-you will be happy, will you not, when this great sorrow is eased by time? – I think I should die. Surely it cannot be wrong, remembering what we once were to each other, what we once were to have been, to wish to know and hear of you."
"What we once were to have been!" he repeated, in almost a whisper. "To have been. O Kate! O Kate! Those plans, those projects for the future!" His voice broke and failed him as he continued: "You have not forgotten them! Kate, do you remember how once we pictured ourselves growing old together, how we meditated on the time that should come when, our lives done with, we should rest together in some calm and peaceful grave?"
"No," she said, "no," and sprang to her feet excitedly. "No! no! no! I will not remember-will recall nothing, for if I do I shall go mad. Remember nothing-'tis best so. Go, Bertie Elphinston, go to your duties, as I will go to mine. Let us forget everything-except-except-" she faltered, changing in a moment womanlike-"that it was I who ruined and cursed both our lives."
He soothed her as best he could, reproaching himself for having revived such memories; reproaching himself, too, for the silence that had led to her believing him false. And once he said, as he had said in England when first they met again:
"Mine was the fault, let mine be the blame. Yet, unhappily, both have had to suffer. Surely something must arise to end that suffering ere long."
He did not know it, could not, indeed, know it; yet the end was far off still. There were more vigils of sorrow to be kept by both, more grief and pain to be endured.
Nor when she said between her tears, "If we were to be parted again now, if I should never see your face more, my heart would break," could she know what lay in front of them-black, dark, and lowering.
Her future was in a way provided for. The Cardinal Tencin, in spite of being somewhat out of favour now and retired to his archbishopric of Lyons-for when a French prelate was in disgrace his punishment was that he should attend to his diocese instead of being in Paris! – had still entire influence over the exiled Stuarts. Therefore it was to him that Archibald Sholto applied on behalf of Kate, and through him that she was to be appointed to the small court now being formed round Charles Edward in Paris.
That unhappy prince-though fortunate in some things, especially in his escape from Scotland after the rebellion-had now landed at Roscort, three leagues west of Morlaix, from the "Bellona," of St. Malo, and was safe once more in Paris. His adventures since the defeat of Culloden had been truly marvellous, and his escapes not less so; twice he was in danger of being shot, five times in danger of being drowned, nine times he was pursued by men of war and armed vessels of King George, and six times he escaped being captured by what seemed to be miracles. Also he had been almost famished for want of food and drink, and had had to lie out on the bare heaths or wild mountains and to shelter in caves.
Yet now he had entered Paris again, had been graciously welcomed by the French King and Queen, and was in treaty for a fine house in the Quartier St. Germain. It was to that house that Kate, with her father, was to go, there to form two of his small court.
At first when she took up her residence in it she was happy. She was among friends she had known in Paris, many of them also comrades of Bertie who had fought in the last invasion and themselves escaped. The Lords Ogilvie and Elcho were there with the ladies of their family; there, too, were old Lochiel and young Lord Lewis Gordon; the young Lochiel also, and Captain Stafford, who had lain long in Newgate in irons, yet was now escaped and free.
Also she was happy because Bertie was able to come and see her, and on one occasion, with all the others, including herself, accompanied the prince when he went to pay his respects to Louis at Versailles.
"Faith, Kate," he whispered to her on that evening, when, Charles Edward being at supper with the royal family, they strolled together up and down the mirrored galleries of the palace, "'tis even better than the old days, were it not that dear Douglas has left us," and he sighed. "But," he went on, "you are provided for-that, at least, is well, or as well as things are ever likely to be."
She said, "Yes, it is well, so far." Then she continued:
"Still, Bertie, I am unhappy."
"Unhappy?"
"Yes. Unhappy because I never know when that man-my husband-may cross my path again. Oh, if I could be sure I should never see him more!"
"At least he can never harm or annoy you. Have no fear of that. Remember, he knows that Archibald and I are in Paris, and, of course, believes that Douglas is here also. His dread of us will keep him away. He will trouble you no more. And if he should come-which is of all things most unlikely-why, I shall be near at hand to shield and protect you."
"You will always be near me?" she asked. "Always now? Oh, promise, Bertie; promise me that you will never disappear again."
"Of course, I promise. Why, where should I go to?" and he laughed as he asked. "My life is now bound up with the regiment. Short of campaigns nothing can take me far from you."
"Yet," she replied, "I fear-fear always. It is only when you are near that I feel safe-feel that I have one who is a brother to stand between me and harm."
"Yes," he said, "as a brother. It can never be anything else than that now-yet, as a brother, I will not fail you."
So they went back to Paris as they had come, the royal visit being over.
And then it seemed at last as if, with some few changes, things were to be almost as they had once been, though it is true that, instead of the old house in the Rue Trousse Vache, she and her father were lodged in a mansion which was in fact a palace, that Douglas was gone out of their life forever, and that she was a wife in name, though nothing else.
Bertie came at least once a week to Paris from St. Denis, both to pay his respects to his prince-as he regarded always Charles Edward-and also to see her, and brought her flowers from the gardens round that old town. But he brought no news from Archibald as to his having been successful in discovering who the murderer of Douglas was. The priest had, indeed, written to them once or twice from Amiens, but he either refrained from mentioning the subject at all, or, if he did so, said that he could discover nothing, and that any idea he might have had on the matter was, he now feared, a futile one.
"I began to also fear," Bertie said, as he talked it over with Kate, "that it was indeed a futile one-that never now will he be avenged. Poor Douglas! Who could have desired his life-who have struck so foul a blow?"
"It must have been," she answered, "as we at first thought, a murder in the hope of robbery afterwards."
"Or," said Bertie, "as sometimes I think now, the offshoot of another-an undiscovered murder. What if those vagabonds who called themselves Gascon gentlemen had previously slain someone else who was possessed of all that jewellery, and Douglas had come across them at the time, and, in endeavouring to save that other, was slain himself?"
"No," she said, "no. That is impossible. No other victim's body was found, and there was no place where they could have hidden it away, or, having hidden it, could not also have disposed of his. Besides, remember: The woman-the concierge-saw only one other slay him, and that other was neither of the Gascons. Nor was his sword drawn. No, we must seek elsewhere for the solution of that crime."
Thus they talked it over and over whenever they met. Surely it was natural that they should do so, seeing how much he had been to them, and how awful a blow his assassination was, but never did they arrive at any thought or idea of who was the actual murderer.
And, as they so discussed it day by day, the autumn departed as the summer had done, and the winter was almost upon them. Already the leaves lay in heaps at the roots of the trees, the swallows were all gone, the nights were long and dark, and Douglas slept unavenged in his grave. And still the troubles, the griefs and sorrows of this luckless man and woman were not yet at an end.
Another blow was still to fall upon them-it was close at hand now, though they knew it not.