CHAPTER XIX
"WHICH WAY I FLY IS HELL-MYSELF AM HELL!"
It was the feast of St. Denys, the patron saint of France.
Over all the land, from north to south and east to west, the churches and cathedrals were crowded on that day with worshippers bringing offerings and gifts to the altars, praying for the saint's aid to be still continued to them, asking for pardon for past sins, for prosperity in the future. On that day the King himself went in state to Nôtre Dame, accompanied by his brilliant court. In the provinces, governors of fortresses and of departments did the same thing at the local cathedrals; prisoners were released because of the anniversary of St. Denys, while some of the worst among them were executed-both as an example, and because it was the great fête-day and a holiday when other people required to be amused.
In Amiens, as in all the other cities boasting a beautiful cathedral and possessed of a strong religious element, it was the same as elsewhere. From morning until night the bells clanged at intervals from the towers of Nôtre Dame and the fourteen parish churches; processions innumerable took place, masses of all kinds-Capitular, Conventual, Missa Cantata, Missa Fidelium, Mass High and Low-were said and sung, accompanied by Kyrie, Gloria, and Credo, by Sanctus, Benedictus, and Agnus Dei.
But at last all was over-of a religious nature. The crowds that had filled Nôtre Dame d'Amiens were streaming out to other forms of celebration of the jour de Patron. It was the turn of the theatres now and the family gatherings, of the dance and song and jest among the better classes; the turn of the supper party and the wineshop and the courtesan for the remainder of the day-or rather night.
Yet, for those who still were willing to continue their religious devotions, still to regard the occasion more as a fast than a feast, the opportunity presented itself and was availed of by many. In every church in the city, in the cathedral above all, worshippers still knelt in prayer, though the hour grew late; at the confessionals hidden priests still listened to the sins-real or imaginary-of those who knelt before them.
In that cathedral with, still lingering about it, the odour of the incense that had been used that day, with the organ still pealing gently through the aisles, while at intervals the voix celeste, in flute-like tones, seemed almost to utter the soul's cry, "Oh, Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere mihi!" – those confessors sat there, and would sit until midnight struck, to listen to and absolve all those who sought for pardon.
"My son," came forth the muffled voice of one, his face being hidden in the impenetrable darkness in which he sat-a darkness still more profound since many of the lights in the great edifice had either been extinguished or had burnt themselves out, "the confession is not yet all made. Therefore, as yet there can be no absolution. Confess thy sins! Continue!"
Kneeling outside, the stricken creature thus addressed, its wild hair streaming down its back and meeting with the other unkempt hair on cheek and chin, its eyes gleaming, like a hunted animal's, around and up and down the dusky aisles, and glancing at pillars as though fearing listeners behind each, went on:
"My life, oh, holy father, was in his hands. He knew all; knew I was in France, and that he could give me up to justice to those whom I had wronged. Oh, father, mea culpa, mea culpa! Absolve me! absolve me!"
"Tell first thy sin," the muffled voice said again. "Thou hast not yet told all. Deceive not the Church. Confession first, then absolution."
The penitent groaned and wrung his hands, threw back the locks from his face, and then, with that face pressed close to the confessional, hissed in a whisper:
"Father, I was mad-am mad, I think. I was sore wrought; but half an hour before I had been assaulted and robbed by two villains of much wealth in jewels-and-and-I feared he would denounce me for my crimes, make my presence known. So, holy father-in my frenzy, in my fear-I struck him dead. I slew him. Have mercy on me, God!"
"Where slew you him?" the priest's stifled voice continued.
"There, father-without, by the west door. Oh, pardon, pardon, that here, on holy ground that should be sanctuary, I took his life!"
It seemed almost to the wretch outside the confessional that the priest had uttered a gasp, had started in his seat, as he heard these words; yet presently he spoke again:
"The victim being the young Scots officer found murdered more than three months past?"
"'Tis so, holy father. 'Tis so. Oh, pardon! Pardon me! Mea culpa, mea culpa!"
"What restitution have you made?" the voice was heard to ask. "What restitution propose to make?"
"I know not what to make, father. I cannot call him back to life. What can I, must I do?"
"Have you wronged others-man, woman, or child? Think! trifle not with the Church. There are, doubtless, others."
"Oh, father, I have been an evil liver-a bad husband; bad friend. Set my feet but in the right way! show me the path. And oh! father, absolve me of this sin of blood. Above all, that!"
"Confess all," the priest said, "confess all."
Then, still shivering there, while more and more the shadows grew within the great temple and it became more and more empty, the wretched assassin went on, though ever and again glancing behind the stately column and pillars as though fearing that unseen listener. He told how, determined to gain possession of a woman whose beauty maddened him-the more so because she despised him, or, at least, regarded him not-he had tricked her into the belief that the man she really loved had jilted her. Also how, when even that brought them no nearer, he had married her. How, later on, when wearied and exasperated by her hate and scorn, he had denied her as his wife, hinting that he was himself a priest; yet it was a lie, for he was no priest, having never been more that a lector.
"Almost," came forth the confessor's voice again, "art thou beyond absolution-beyond pardon."
"No! no! no!" wailed the wretch.
"Twice hast thou used our holy Church to aid in thy deceit. First, when thou suborned a villain and caused him to pretend he had performed the holy office of marriage; next, when thou falsely claimedst the office of priest to disavow thy lawful wife. Man, how shall I absolve thee? Yet, be more careful, or thy soul is lost for ever. Hast thou done more evil than this, committed more outrages against the Church?"
Because, perhaps, the wretched creature was half mad with terror now, with a new terror for his soul-whereas before he had but feared for his body-he told all that he had done; how, indeed, he had still further sinned against the Church in that he had set on foot a plot having for part of its intent the ruin of a priest of that Church, a Jesuit, one Sholto. It was all told at last.
For so long did the confessor sit silent in his unseen place that the miserable penitent, thinking no absolution would come forth to him, began to tremble, even to weep, and to call on him again for pardon and for pity. But at last the other spoke:
"Art thou well-to-do in the world?" he asked. "What are thy means?"
Yes, he said he was well-to-do; he had large means in both England and France. What portion should he set aside to appease both God and the Church?
"All," answered the priest. "All."
"All!" he gasped. "Go forth a beggar!
"All. Ay, all. Better go forth a beggar, stand naked in the market-place, than strip thy soul of its last chance of salvation."
"All!"
"To the last sol, the last dénier-excepting a provision for thy unhappy wife. Thou art the shedder of blood, the blasphemer of the Church and its holy offices, thy soul is clogged with guilt. I know not, even then, and with all else that thou must do, if it can ever find expiation."
"Say not so, father; absolve me, pardon me! See! see! I will do it. Before God I swear, in this His house, that I will do it! I will become a beggar, part with all. Only, father, give me His pardon. Pardon, and set me free!"
"Yet, still more," said that voice, "must thou do. Listen!"
And from his lips there fell so deep a charge that the murderer, kneeling there, knew that to save his soul in heaven he must forego all hopes of future peace on earth. Nevermore was he to touch meat nor aught but the coarsest black bread, never drink but water, never sleep soft, nor lie warm again. And there was worse even than that. He was to go forth to wild, savage parts of the world, there to pass the rest of his existence in trying to preach God's goodness and mercy to the heathen who knew Him not. On the promise that he would do this the priest would give him absolution; otherwise he would refuse it, and his soul must go to everlasting perdition.
He promised, and he was absolved!
Still sitting there, the last in the cathedral that night-for all were gone now except those who were to guard it until midnight had struck-he became the prey of even worse horrors than he had been before; he was absolved as regards his soul, yet into his mind a new fear had arisen for his body-a fear that became a spectre. He had thought that once or twice he had recognised in the tones of the priest's voice some that were familiar to him; now he felt sure that they were. He had confessed to his bitterest enemy on earth-to Archibald Sholto! to the brother of the man whom he had murdered!
This was the meaning of the awful doom passed on him-the doom of ruin, beggary, and starvation, of expatriation to wild and savage lands. To him! He had confessed to him of all others! Yet, was it so, or was he, in truth, mad? He had heard of madmen who knew that they were mad and who could yet be so cunning as to contend with that madness, wrestle with it, subdue it-for a time. Let him do so now. Let him think it all out. Was it, in truth, Archibald Sholto?
It might well be.
For three months he had been in hiding in a small village near Amiens, watching over the course of events connected with his assassination of Douglas, avoiding, above all others, yet keeping them ever under his own view, two persons. One was Archibald, the other the woman who had seen his face on that night-the white-faced woman in the darkened room who had raised her finger and pointed as he did the deed.
"Avoided them," he muttered now, as he sat there in the dark, watching the sacred lamp that burned unceasingly above the high altar, but still engaged always in peering into the deep shadows and blackness in which the huge pile was now enveloped-"avoided them. O God, how have I avoided them! Yet, drawn irresistibly to where they were. Little does he know how I have seen him officiating at his own church, or she how I have passed her close, though unseen; even peered into her room at night from the street, when, dragged here by-by-the fierce desire to stand again upon the spot where-where he fell. Once, too, she felt, unwittingly, my presence. As I brushed against her in the street she shuddered and drew back from me. Something revealed that one accursed had touched her."
He moaned aloud as he sat there, his head buried in his hands; then, because his mind was now disordered and he was half mad, half sane, a smile came on the evil face that he turned up as the moon's rays came through the great rose window and lighted all the nave. "Yet," he murmured, "it was in the confessional under the seal of confession. If it was Douglas's brother, he can do naught. Naught! Confession is sacred. That seal cannot be broken. But was it he? Was it? Was it?
"His face I could not see, but the tones were like unto his," he continued. "And once he started-I am certain of it. O God, have I told his brother all? His brother! His brother!"
Above, from the great tower, there boomed the striking of the hour-midnight. And again he shuddered and moaned and whispered with white lips:
"The very hour, the hour that I cannot hear, can never hear again, without agony and horror unspeakable. The hour told by the same clock that told it on that night of blood. I must go," he wailed in low, broken tones, "must go there. He draws me to the spot; I see his finger beckoning me nightly. His eyes met mine once, a month ago, as I reached Paris. I thought I was free and had escaped, yet they dragged me back to this accursed spot. I must go. I must go. He waits for me. Ever-ever when the moon is near her full. I am absolved by him, his brother, yet he is always beckoning me and makes me go."
A hand fell on his shoulder as he sat there, and he started up with almost a shriek, and with his own hand thrust in his breast-perhaps to draw some hidden knife, perhaps to still the leap his heart gave.
"Monsieur," a voice said, the voice of the old sacristan, "permit that I disturb your pious meditations. But all are gone now, including the priests. The cathedral is about to close."
"Yes, yes," he muttered low, "I will go. I will go. I have stayed too long."
"By the west door, if it pleases monsieur. It is the only one open."
"The west door," the terrified creature muttered as he left the old man putting out the last remaining lights, and so made his way towards the exit indicated. "By the west door. It must needs be that. It is the nearest to the spot, and he will be there waiting for me, the moonlight shining in his glittering eyes as he beckons me to him, the glare of reproach in them. I must go. I must go."
Down the long aisle he crept, shaking as with a palsy as he went, starting and almost crying out again as a bat flew by and brushed his hair with its wings, going onward to what he dreaded to see, the phantom of the murdered man which his distracted brain conjured up nightly.
"He will be there," he muttered again. "He will be there."
He reached the great west door-striking against the bell ropes hanging in the tower, and gasping at the contact-and then paused at the wicket let into the door, dreading to go out through it to meet the ghostly figure that he knew awaited him.
Still, it must be done, and with another gasp, a smothered groan, he stepped out through the wicket into the shadow thrown by the cathedral wall, and gazed upon the moon-illuminated spot where Douglas had fallen dead.
And once more he smothered a shriek that rose to his lips.
Standing above that spot, its back to him, but as he could tell by the bent head, gazing down upon it, there was the figure of a man-a man still as death itself; a man bare-headed.
"You have come again," he hissed in terror. "Again! Again! Mercy! Mercy!"
Swiftly the figure turned and faced him-its eyes glistening in the moonlight as he had said-and advanced towards him.
"Douglas!" he screamed. "Douglas! Mercy!"
"No," the figure said. "No. Not Douglas. Archibald."
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.