Chapter Nine.
Vogue La Galère!
Yes, yes, this is the very spot! Here the great tragedy of my life was enacted. Twenty-four weary years of my existence have passed, and until this moment I have never summoned sufficient courage to visit it. Ah, Dieu! how all has changed! Paris is herself again.
You may perhaps know the place. Near the Porte de la Muette, a little way down the Boulevard Suchet, in the direction of Passy, the fortifications of the city recommence after the open space which gives access to the Bois. The ponderous walls are the same, though the breaches made by the German shells have been repaired, and the stones on which I tread bear no traces of the men’s blood that once made them so slippery. One hundred paces from the corner of the Boulevard there is a steep little path running up the grass-grown mound, beside a railing. Ascend it, and you will find yourself on the top of the great wall, below which, deep down in the fosse, on the outside towards the Bois, there is a well-kept market garden. The only noises on this sunny afternoon are the twittering of birds and the rustling of leaves – different sounds and a different outlook indeed to that which is indelibly impressed upon my memory. All are gone, gone! and I alone remain – aged, infirm, forsaken, and forgotten!
What matters, though I still wear my faded scrap of yellow and green ribbon upon the lapel of my shabby coat – what matters if I am an exile, an outlaw; that here, in Paris, after all these years, I dare not inscribe my proper name in the register? To both friends and enemies I am dead!
As I stand looking away over the market garden, towards the shady wood, a film gathers in my eyes, and I am carried back into the terrible past, to those black, fateful days when France lay helpless under the iron heel of the invader, who had encamped around St. Cloud and Suresnes. Paris – fettered, existing upon black bread and horse-flesh – shivered under an icy mantle. The black branches of the leafless trees over in the Bois stood out distinctly against the grey, stormy sky, and upon the ground snow was lying thickly. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, we had held those walls, regardless of the hail of shell poured upon us from beyond the trees, and replying with monotonous, unceasing regularity. Hundreds of our gallant comrades were, alas! lying dead; hundreds were in the temporary hospitals established in the neighbouring churches; but we, the survivors – half-starved, with the biting wind chilling our bones, and so weak that our greatcoats felt as heavy as millstones, – resolved, every one of us, to face death and do our duty. We knew well that to hold out much longer would be impossible. In those dark December days the city was starving. Our country had been overrun by the Prussian legions, and sooner or later we must succumb to the inevitable.
The night was dark and moonless, as to and fro I paced on sentry duty. My post was a lonely one, under the strongest portion of the wall, at the point I have already indicated. Away in the direction of Courbevoie there was a lurid glare in the sky, showing that the enemy had committed another act of incendiarism; and now and then the booming of artillery echoed like distant thunder. In our quarter the guns of the enemy had ceased their fire – a silence that we felt was ominous. Under my feet the snow crunched as I marched slowly up and down; and with rifle loaded, and ready for any emergency, I waited patiently for relief, which would come at dawn. As I tramped on, I thought of my home away in the centre of the inert, trembling city; of my young wife, blue-eyed, fair-haired, from whom I had been torn away ere our honeymoon was scarcely over. How, I wondered, was she faring? As an advocate I had been distinctly successful, having been entrusted with quite a number of causes célèbres; but on the outbreak of war my chances of fortune had been suddenly wrecked, and I had been called upon to serve with the 106th Regiment of Infantry, first under General Chanzy on the Loire, and afterwards taking part in the defence of Paris.
Though now so near the woman I loved, I saw very little of her; indeed, I had not been able to snatch an hour to run home for the past fortnight. Yet, while I trudged on, I knew that one of the truest and best women on earth was awaiting me au troisième in the great old house in the Rue St. Sauveur.
I think that for some time I must have been oblivious to my surroundings, for on turning sharply, my eyes suddenly detected some indistinct object, moving cautiously in the shadow. Something prompted me to refrain from challenging, and, with rifle ready, I quickly hurried to the spot. With a cry of surprise, a man in a workman’s blouse sprang forward right up to the muzzle of my gun.
I challenged, and presented my rifle.
“Hold!” he gasped in French, in a low, hoarse tone. “Louis Henault, don’t you know me? Have you so soon forgotten your fellow-student, Paul Olbrich?”
The voice and the name caused me to start.
“You!” I cried, peering into his face, and in the semi-darkness discovering the scar upon his cheek that he had received in the fencing school at Königswinter. “You, Paul, my best friend! Alas that you are a Prussian, and we meet here as enemies!”
“As enemies?” he repeated, in a strange, harsh tone. “Yes, Louis, you are right,” he added bitterly, – “as enemies.”
“Why are you here?” I inquired breathlessly. “Why are you disguised as a French workman? It is my duty to arrest you – to – ”
“But you will not. Remember, we were friends beside the Rhine, and we can only be enemies to the outside world. Surely you, of all men, will not betray me!”
“When last I heard of you, two years ago,” I said, “you were a lieutenant of dragoons. To-night you are here, inside Paris, disguised.”
“To tell the truth,” he replied quickly, “it is a love escapade. Let me get away quickly beyond the walls, and no one will know that you have detected me. See, over there,” and he pointed to a portion of the wall deep in the shadow. “There is my fiancée. I have dared to pass through your lines to rescue her before the final onslaught.”
I peered in the direction indicated, and could just distinguish a figure, hidden by a cloak, and closely veiled.
“Quick,” he continued; “there is no time for reflection. If you raise an alarm, my fate is sealed; if you allow us to proceed, two lives will be made happy. Do you consent?” Grasping my hand, he pressed it hard, adding, “Do, Louis, for her sake!”
Muffled footsteps and the clank of arms broke the quiet. Three officers were approaching.
“Go. May God protect you!” I replied; and, turning sharply, tramped onward in the opposite direction, while my old friend, and the woman he had rescued from starvation, were a second later lost in the darkness in the direction of the Prussian camp.
Scarcely had I taken a dozen paces when there were shouts, followed by shots rapidly exchanged.
“Spies!” I heard one of our men exclaim; “and, sacré! they’ve escaped!”
At that moment the officers who had approached ordered me to halt, and proceeded to question me as to whom I had been speaking with. I admitted that the man was a stranger, and that I had allowed him to pass out of the city. Thus all was discovered, and I was at once arrested as a traitor – as one who had rendered assistance to a Prussian spy!
The penalty was death. The stern, grey-haired general before whom I was taken half an hour later pronounced sentence; and, without ceremony, I was hurried off to execution. Bah! Fate has always been unkind to me. It would have been better had I fallen with four of my comrades’ bullets in my breast, than that I should have continued to drag out an existence till to-day. But the bombardment had recommenced vigorously; and as I was being led along, a shell fell close to my escort, and, bursting, killed two of the poor fellows, and demoralised the rest.
I saw my chance, and darted away. A moment later, I was lost among the trees.
Three hours later.
Breathlessly I mounted the long flights of stairs that led to my home, and opened the door with my key. Entering our little salon, I looked around. In the cold, grey light of dawn, the place looked unutterably cheerless, and the thunder of the guns was causing the windows to rattle. Passing quickly into the bedroom, I found the ceiling open to the sky, and a huge gap in the wall. A shell had fallen, and completely wrecked it.
“Rose!” I cried. “Rose, I have returned.”
There was no response. Another roar like the roll of thunder, and the whole place vibrated, as though an earthquake had occurred.
Where was Rose? I dashed back into the salon, and there, upon a table, I found a letter addressed to me in her familiar hand. Tearing it open, I read eagerly the three brief lines it contained, then staggered back, as if I had received a blow. A second later, I felt conscious of the presence of some one at my elbow; and, turning, found Mariette, our maid-of-all-work.
“My wife – where is my wife?” I gasped.
“Madame has gone, m’sieur,” the girl replied in her Gascon accent. “Last night a man called for her, and she went out, leaving a note for you.”
“A man?” I cried. “Describe him. What was he like?”
“I only caught one glimpse of him, m’sieur. He was fair, and had a long red scar across his cheek.”
“A scar?” I shrieked in dismay, as the terrible truth dawned suddenly upon me. Rose, whom I had first met in Cologne, when a student on the Rhine-bank, had told me that I was not her first love; and now I remembered that she had long ago been acquainted with my fellow-student, Paul Olbrich.
It was my own wife whom I had assisted to elope with my enemy!
Ah! time has not effaced her memory. My sorrow is still as bitter to-day as it was in that cold December dawn, with the horrors of war around me. My life has become soured, and my hair grey. Since that eventful night, I have wandered in strange lands, endeavouring to stifle my grief; for, still under sentence of death as a spy, I have been an exile and an outlaw until to-day.
What, you ask, has become of her?
Far away, in a secluded valley in the Harz, under the shadow of the mystic Brocken, there is a plain white cross in the village burying-ground, bearing the words, “Rose Henault, 1872.”
My enemy, Paul Olbrich, a year after the war had ended, succeeded to the family title and estates; and to-day he is one of the most prominent men in Europe, and acts as the diplomatic representative of Germany at a certain Court that must be nameless.
Truly, Fate has been unkind to me. To-day, for the first time, I have taken my skeleton from its cupboard. Would that I could bury it forever!
Chapter Ten.
Fortune’s Fool
I am no longer myself. I vanished involuntarily. Truth to tell, I was befooled by Fortune.
As confidential messenger in the service of the Bank of France, it was my duty to convey notes and bullion to various European capitals, and so constantly did I travel between London and Paris, and to Rome, Berlin, and Vienna, that my long journeys became terribly irksome, and I longed for rest and quiet. There is much excitement and anxiety in such a life, when one is entrusted with large sums of money which are impossible to hide in one’s pocket.
In the year 1883, England, as is frequently the case, was remitting a quantity of gold coin to France, and consequently, during the month of June, I was making two, and sometimes three, journeys between Paris and London weekly. Incessant travelling, such as this, soon wearies even those inured to long railway journeys, especially if one very often has to arrive in London in the morning only to leave again the same night. A long trip, say to the Austrian or Turkish capitals, was much more to my taste than the wearying monotony of the Dover-Calais route, and the inevitable turmoil between Paris and the English metropolis.
One warm night – although excessively tired, having arrived in London at an early hour that morning – I was compelled to return, and left Charing Cross by the mail train at half-past eight. I had with me a box from the Bank of England containing a large quantity of bullion. As far as Dover I was alone, smoking and dozing over a newspaper, but when I alighted on the pier, the weather had changed. It rained in torrents, and a violent wind was blowing in a manner that was indicative of a “dirty” night.
My expectations in this respect proved correct, and I was glad to arrive at Calais, where I selected an empty first-class compartment, bade the porter deposit my weighty box on the seat, and, wrapping myself comfortably in my travelling rug, settled myself for the remainder of the journey. While such a quantity of gold was in my possession, I dared not sleep, yet, fatigued as I was, I experienced great difficulty in keeping awake. It was always possible that while coin was in my custody I might be watched and followed by thieves, therefore a loaded revolver constantly reposed in my pocket ready for an emergency.
Few persons were travelling that night, and I was fortunate in having the compartment to myself as far as Abbeville. Then there entered two well-dressed Frenchmen, who, after scrutinising me rather closely, sank into opposite corners of the carriage. Seldom I felt uneasy regarding fellow-travellers; nevertheless, I confess that as I looked at them, I felt a strange, vague shadow of distrust. Instinctively I felt for my revolver, assuring myself that it was ready if required. Somehow I had a suspicion that the men had been on board the Channel boat, and were following me for some evil purpose. But they sat opposite one another smoking, occasionally indulging in conversation, though always keeping their faces concealed as much as possible from the pale, flickering rays of the lamp overhead.
As we sped south, I became more fully convinced that they meant mischief. Looking at my watch, I found that in twenty minutes we should be at Amiens, and determined to change into another carriage there. Patiently I sat, gazing out of the window watching the grey streak of dawn break over the low, distant hills, when suddenly I felt a terrible crushing blow on the top of my skull.
At the same moment I drew forth my revolver and pulled the trigger. Then a darkness fell upon me, and I remember nothing more.
The sensation was horrible; the pain excruciating. It seemed as though a thousand red-hot needles were being thrust into my brain.
Slowly the terrible throbbing in my head abated, and I found myself seated in an armchair in a well-furnished, though unfamiliar, drawing-room. It was lit by tiny electric lamps, shaded with canary silk; and, as I gazed round in abject astonishment, I noticed a pretty fernery beyond, which looked like a mermaid’s grotto in the depths of the sea, so dense was the mass of dimly-illuminated greenery.
My first thoughts were of my charge, and I felt for my pouch, in which I had carried a bundle of bank-notes.
It was not there! Placing my hand upon my chin, I was startled to find that I had a beard, while on the previous night I had been clean shaven! And the box of bullion – where was that?
I started to my feet, and as I did so, my figure was reflected in a long mirror. I staggered back in dismay, for, although last night I was a sprightly and spruce young man of thirty, my hair was now turning grey, and my face so aged and wrinkled that I could scarcely recognise myself!
Where was I? What could it all mean?
I saw a bell, and rang it hastily.
My summons was quickly answered by a sharp-featured man, who was evidently not a servant.
“Tell me, who brought me here? Whose house is this?” I demanded.
He gazed at me, open-mouthed, in astonishment.
“I – er – You’re not well, sir, I think. This is your own house.”
“Mine?” I cried incredulously. “Nonsense. Who are you, pray?”
“I’m your secretary,” he replied, adding, “I – I’ll return in a moment;” and then, in evident alarm, he disappeared.
I had no time to reflect upon the mystery of the situation before there entered a tall, beautiful woman, of what might be termed the Junoesque type, attired in a handsome dinner-gown.
“Why, my dear, whatever have you been saying to Norton? You’ve quite frightened him,” she exclaimed, laughing. “How is it that you’re not dressed? You remember we promised to dine with the Websters to-night.”
“I – I confess I don’t understand you, madam,” I gasped, for my brain was in a whirl, and everything seemed in maddening confusion. The pain in my head was intense.
“What’s the matter? What has happened?” she cried in alarm. “Don’t you recognise me – Lena, your wife?”
“My wife?” I gasped, astounded. “No, I’ve never seen you before. It’s some trick. Where is the box – the box that was with me in the train?”
Her look of distress deepened, as she said, “Calm yourself, my dear. You are not well, and must have advice.”
“I want none,” I replied hotly. “I desire nothing beyond the box. These are not my clothes,” I said, glancing in puzzled confusion at the coat I wore. “Where are mine?”
“I don’t comprehend your meaning,” said the handsome woman who called herself my wife. “Your mind must be wandering, Harry.”
“That’s not my name. I am Charles Deane.”
“No, no, dear,” she cried. “You are under some strange delusion. What can have happened to you? You are Henry Medhurst, and I am Lena Medhurst, your wife.”
“Where and when did you marry me, pray?”
“In Cape Town, five years ago.”
“In Cape Town? And where are we now?”
“This is your house, situate, I think, to be exact, two and a half miles from Johannesburg. Is there anything else you desire to know?” she added, with a smile, half inclined to believe that I was joking.
The crowd of thoughts and feelings that burst upon my mind was indescribable. Was I still myself, or was it all a delusion?
No. It was a stern reality; a deep, inexplicable mystery.
“I married you five years ago, you say. Then what year of grace is this?”
“Come,” replied my wife, “such fooling is out of place, dear. You know as well as I that it is 1893.”
“What!” I cried, feeling myself grow rigid in amazement. “Yesterday was ten years ago!”
I was undoubtedly wide awake and sensible, but that I was really myself I began to doubt. I struggled to comprehend the situation, but failed. How I came to be in South Africa, the possessor of such a mansion, the husband of such a wife, was a problem beyond solution. I felt light-headed, for the horrible suspense was goading me into a frenzy of madness.
“There must be some – some serious mistake,” I said calmly. “I’ve never had the pleasure of setting eyes upon you before this evening, and am utterly at a loss to understand who or what I am.”
She regarded me with a terrified expression; her face suddenly blanched, and she would have fallen, had I not caught her and placed her upon the settee.
Ringing the bell again, a maid-servant answered my summons.
“Your mistress has fainted. Call some one to her assistance,” I said; and then I proceeded to explore the house. It was a splendid modern mansion, and by the bright moonlight I discerned that it was surrounded by a well-kept lawn and clumps of fine old trees.
I was utterly unable to realise that the journey to Paris had been made ten years before; nevertheless, my aged appearance, my beard, the fact of my marriage, and my apparent opulence, all combined to confirm her statement. In vain I tried to recollect the incidents of that memorable night; but, beyond the knowledge that I received a terrible blow, I could remember nothing.
Pacing in distraction the broad terrace that ran before the house, I suddenly heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I confronted the man who called himself my secretary.
“Griffiths, the manager of Pike’s Reef, has just arrived from Pretoria, and wishes to see you on important business, sir.”
“To see me? What for?”
“He desires instructions regarding the Reef. They’ve struck the lead at last, and the crushings show it to be one of the richest veins in the Randt. Shall I bring him to you?”
“No,” I replied savagely; “I want to be alone. I haven’t the slightest notion of what you’re talking about.”
“Surely you know Griffiths, sir? He used to manage your old mine, the Bellefontaine, and is now in charge at Pike’s Reef.”
“I don’t know him, and have no desire to make his acquaintance. Send him away,” I said abruptly.
The man, who seemed puzzled, hesitated for a moment, and, after muttering some words in an undertone, re-entered the house.
For nearly half an hour I had remained alone, until the maid appeared, saying, “Mistress would like to see you in the drawing-room, sir.”
I obeyed the summons, and on entering the room, found the woman who called me husband seated on a low chair, while near her stood a short, stout old gentleman, in a frock-coat of rather ancient cut, and wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez.
“Ah, my dear Medhurst!” exclaimed the man, greeting me effusively. “How are you this evening?”
“I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, sir,” I said indifferently.
“You don’t know Dr Beale? Come, come, this won’t do at all,” he said, smiling.
I assured him that I had never set eyes upon him before, and went on to explain how I had been travelling to Paris and suddenly struck insensible, only to regain consciousness and find myself in Africa – rich, married, and ten years older.
The doctor listened with grave attention, and subsequently we entered upon a long and rather heated discussion. All I wanted to discover was how I came to be there.
“Monomania, evidently,” observed the doctor in a low voice, when we had been talking for some time. “It develops frequently into the most violent form of madness. He will have to be kept in seclusion and watched.”
Again I resented the imputation that I was going insane, to which the medical luminary replied, “Very well, my dear fellow, very well. We will believe what you say. Calm yourself; for your wife is nervous and weak, remember.”
I turned away disgusted. All my efforts to explain the remarkable facts had only been met with incredulity by the idiotic, soft-spoken old doctor, who undoubtedly imagined I was mad.
In desperation I strode out of the house, and spent the night in wandering about the grounds, and walking aimlessly through unfamiliar roads, subsequently sitting down upon the fallen trunk of a tree, where I fell asleep.
When I retraced my footsteps, the bright morning sun was glinting through the foliage of the dense wood that seemed to almost surround the house.
From a servant I learnt that my soi-disant wife was too unwell to leave her room; and as I wandered through the place, I entered one apartment which was evidently a study – my own, possibly. Glancing round at the books, the two great iron safes, and the telephone instruments, I seated myself at the littered writing-table. Turning over the papers before me, I saw they related to mining enterprises involving large sums. Many of them were evidently in my handwriting, but the signatures were “Henry Medhurst,” and the note-paper bore the heading, “Great Bellefontaine Gold Mines, Offices, 127 Commissioner Street, Johannesburg.”
Upwards of an hour I sat plunged in thought, bewildered by the events of the past few hours. I felt I must make some strenuous effort to solve the enigma, and account for the intervening ten years that I had lost. I could not have been asleep in the manner of the legendary Rip Van Winkle, but must have been existing during the period. Yet where did I live? And how?
It seemed clear from the doctor’s words that if I remained, I should be placed under restraint as an imbecile. Therefore the thought suggested itself that I should return to Europe, and endeavour to find out what befell me on that midnight journey. Recollecting that I should require funds, I searched the drawers of the writing-table, and found a cash-box, in which was nearly four hundred pounds in gold and notes. This was sufficient for the journey; and, with a feeling of joy, I transferred it to my pockets, and prepared for departure.
A few hasty lines I wrote to my self-styled wife, informing her of my intention, and stating that I should return as soon as I had gained the information necessary to restore my peace of mind. Afterwards I went to my room, crammed a few necessaries into a travelling-bag, and, without uttering a word of farewell, left the City of Gold en route for England.
Arrived in London, I set about tracing my career; but from the outset I found it a task fraught by many difficulties. I must have altered considerably in personal appearance during my absence, for none of my friends recognised me. There was but one agency that seemed likely to render me assistance, namely, the Press. The files of the Times and Telegraph for 1883 I searched diligently, but gleaned nothing from them. Indeed, I spent several weeks in looking through various daily and weekly papers, published about the time of my fatal journey, without result, until one day it occurred to me that the French Press might aid me. Accordingly, I went to Paris, and on the following day called at the office of the Gaulois, where I obtained the file for the year I required. Turning to the paper for the day following my sudden oblivion, my eye fell upon the headline, “Terrible Accident on the Northern Railway.” Eagerly I read and reread every word, for here was what seemed a clue to the mystery.
It appeared that the train in which I had travelled, when approaching Longpré, ran into some trucks, and was completely wrecked, seven persons being killed and about twenty injured. In a first-class compartment two passengers were discovered, one of whom had among his luggage a box containing a large sum in English gold and notes. Neither men had been injured by the accident; but one, presumably, in order to obtain possession of the money, had shot his fellow-traveller dead, and was making off with his booty when he was apprehended, and brought to Paris.
In the papers of following days I found a report of the examination before the Juge d’instruction, and the subsequent trial before the Assize Court of the Seine. According to the newspaper accounts, the man charged with wilful murder was young and well-dressed, but seemed enveloped in mystery, inasmuch as he conducted himself strangely, refusing to give his name or any account of himself, and preserving an immutable silence throughout the many days the case lasted. Judging from the prominence given to the report, the trial must have been a celebrated one, and considerable excitement was created in the French capital, owing to the fact that several prominent members of the medical profession, who had examined the accused, agreed that he was suffering from some strange mental affection, the precise nature of which they were unable to discover. It was owing to this that the culprit escaped the guillotine, being sentenced to hard labour for life, and transportation to the penal colony of New Caledonia.
Which was I, the murderer or the murdered?
I felt confident I was one or the other. Therefore, I resolved to find out whether this mysterious convict was still alive; and if so, to seek an explanation from him. The thought occurred to me that an official in the Prisons Department, whom I had known, might be able to furnish me with the information. After some difficulty I discovered him, but he had long ago retired into private life. So entirely had my personal appearance changed, that he did not recognise me. Therefore, by representing that I was an English solicitor, anxious to discover a next-of-kin, and offering to pay handsomely for the investigation, I prevailed upon him to seek an interview with the chief of the department, and ascertain whether the convict was still living.
When I called a few days later, he placed in my hands a memorandum signed by the chief, certifying that after two years at La Nouvelle – as the French prison island is termed, – prisoner Number 8469, committed for life for murder, had effected his escape by means of an open boat in company with Jean Montbazon, who had been convicted of forging Spanish bonds. Both were known to have landed on the Queensland coast after a perilous voyage; but they had disappeared before the Australian police were communicated with, and all efforts to trace them had been futile. Having, however, been employed in the Government mines near Noumea, it was expected that they had obtained work in one of the remote mining districts, where they could effectively hide until the search was over.
To find this man Montbazon was no easy task, but if I chanced to be successful, he might, I thought, tell me something of his whilom comrade in adversity.
I was puzzled how to proceed, but at length resorted to advertising as the only expedient. In the chief French and Colonial newspapers I caused to be inserted a brief paragraph addressed to “Jean Montbazon, late of Noumea,” stating that his companion upon the voyage from New Caledonia to Australia wished particularly to meet him, and giving my address at the Table Bay Hotel, Cape Town, whither I proceeded. Patiently I awaited a reply, but although I had spent a large sum upon the advertisement, it apparently failed to reach the man whose acquaintance I desired to make.
For many weeks I remained at the hotel, feeling no desire to return to Johannesburg until I had cleared up the mystery and accounted for my lost identity. Times without number I was tempted to relinquish the effort to trace my past, yet with sheer, dogged perversity, I remained and hoped.
At last my patience was rewarded, for one evening, while I was sitting on the balcony of the hotel, enjoying a cigar in the starlight, the waiter brought me a visitor.
Judge my dismay when I recognised the face of my secretary.
“Well, old fellow,” he exclaimed familiarly, “and what means all this confounded mystery?”
I sat speechless in amazement.
“I saw the advertisement in the Cape Times, and, concluding that something was wrong, came down here. What is it?” he continued, sinking lazily into a chair by my side.