The Mystery of Madeline Le Blanc/Chapter 7

by Max Ehrmann

VI.

In the morning this conversation took place at the Hôtel de Ville:—

"Well, what did you see?" asked a stout man sitting behind a desk, in the lower office. He was the prefect of the police.

"It was too dark a night to see anything, " replied an individual, bespattered with mud, standing before the desk,

"Was the house quiet?"

"No. I lay all night beneath the grating of a cellar window, on the north side of the house. The window was nailed up from the inside, so that I could see absolutely nothing. Until almost midnight, I could hear faint murmuring sounds coming from somewhere beneath me; I think perhaps from the very room in the cellar beside which I lay. Once or twice I thought I heard talking on the ground floor; but being some feet below the ground, I could not be sure. That the house is occupied is positive."

"Did you learn nothing more?" asked the prefect.

"Yes. As I said, until about the middle of the night I heard sounds in the cellar, and then for a long time everything was silent. I thought the person or persons must have gone to bed. There was nothing for me to gain by getting out of the hole in which I lay, so I determined to stay until daylight at least. It must have been several hours before there was so much as the sound of a breath. At length I heard footsteps mixed with some talk—from how many different persons I have no idea. It seemed that but one person spoke, but perhaps there were two. Presently I heard something thump upon the cellar floor, and a ragged voice cried, 'Monsieur'—that I heard clearly enough. It was perhaps half an hour before there was any other sound that I could hear. Then it seemed that two voices began totalk. Sometimes it sounded like only one; and again, later, I thought I could hear a third."

"Do you think any of the voices could have been that of the man found on the floor night before last?" asked the prefect.

"I could not hear them plainly enough. That man I think was dead, although, as I reported, he was still warm. The voice that I heard last night say 'Monsieur' would not probably belong to a man of that size. It was not clear, and seemed weak.—But let me finish about last night."

"Certainly, go on."

"I could see from the hole in which I lay that the day was breaking. Presently I heard scuffling sounds over the floor. They must have been pretty loud for that kind of noise else I could not have heard them. There was no conversation now, and I could only hear low monotonous sounds at about the interval of one's breathing. At length the talk began again, almost all coming from one voice; but I feel nearly certain that in this last conversation two persons were speaking; neither voice, however, sounded like the one that had called 'Monsieur.' Occasionally, I heard a noise as if some one were pounding or drumming on an iron door or wall; but this stopped soon; and that is all I heard. I crawled out of the hole about daybreak."

"We are warranted now in breaking into the house; and we shall do so to-night," said the prefect, dismissing the officer.

The news had come that there was fighting in Paris, that the People were bombarding the city from behind ramparts and barricades, and that the King remained in retreat at Saint Cloud. In vain had Marshal Marmont sent courier after courier asking the monarch to pacify the people. He did nothing. The Marshal went himself. The King listened patiently, then said calmly, "Then it is really a revolt?"

"No, sir," replied Marmont, "it is not a revolt, but a revolution!"

Then everything turned to confusion in the royal house.

The police officers of the town from which Joseph's company had marched were supposed to be supporters of the existing régime; but in their hearts they were glad that the People were tearing the royal robes. Fifteen years had passed since Waterloo, and the desire for some kind of excitement burned in nearly every Frenchman's breast. The five police who proceeded by separate paths to the old stone house at nine o'clock that night, were anxious, therefore, to satisfy a little of their aroused spirit by the adventure which the present expedition afforded. The night was favorable. Though somewhat misty, it was not as dark as the night before.

At half-past nine the officer in citizen's dress crept up the valley from the north, and crawling through the wild hedges, descended into the hole of the cellar window. By ten o'clock the other officers lay behind thick shrubbery on every side of the house. It was their plan that no one should be permitted to leave the house, and the entrance of no one was to be impeded. At a low whistle from the officer in the hole, the house was to be entered at every door simultaneously. The signal was to be given sufficiently long after the sound of talking had ceased in the cellar to allow the inmates to retire and fall asleep. So far as the officers lying about the house knew, this might be at any minute. Consuming with impatience, they lay several hours; but no signal came, and no one tried to enter the house or to leave it. Probably the situation was such that the officer in the hole thought it unwise to make the attack with so small a force; but they had made no provisions for retreat, and it was their understanding that the house was to be entered. Could it be that their fellow by the cellar window had been discovered and rendered helpless? At a little after two o'clock one of the officers crept to the hole and whispered his name.

"Yes, who is it?"

The first speaker crawled into the hole, and said, "Why don't you give the signal ?"

"The cellar is silent."

"Then it is time."

"Don't be hasty."

"How long has it been since the talking stopped?"

"I have not heard a sound all the evening."

"Then I think we should all enter at one door, for perhaps we are expected, and can accomplish most by the kind of entrance that will make the least possible noise, which would be to open but one door instead of all."

After this conversation, which was with mouth to ear, they separated.

One officer was placed before the house to watch the front and side, while the other four collected at the back door. One began at once to work quietly with a bunch of keys. All knew the dimensions of the house, upon which knowledge they had now to depend, for it was too dark to see much. Disguised as peasants or drovers, at one time or another during the day they had studied the house from a distance. Presently, the lock yielded to a key, and in their stocking-feet they entered. There was that dead silence that makes one nervous and feel that somebody is in hiding. They proceeded into the next room; while one remained, flashing his lantern about, but saw nothing save a coat, some old cooking utensils, and a low wooden bench on which lay a few dry crusts of bread. The next room was absolutely barren, and so the next. The officers were as noiseless as the night, and as cunning as any of their kind. After everything had been searched and nothing found, they turned toward the cellar. The door was easily opened, and three descended; but the door at the bottom of the stairs, which was the last between them and the cellar, was made of iron and baffled every key. Thrice the officer operating with the keys made some noise; and they decided that the door must be broken open. From within there came no sound except the echo of their pounding. The officer who had been stationed outside and the one at the head of the stairs now also descended. Presently the door sprang open, and in an instant all were within. But besides them no one was there.

The room was as already described; except that on the couch, which still stood in the center of the floor, were a few stains of blood. The two narrow arches at once attracted the officers. Two entered one, and two the other, while one remained within the square room. Nothing was found in either, except in the front arched chamber lay a small heap of light ashes, from the edge of which protruded a piece of white satin, unburned, One of the officers was working at the cross bar which closed the iron door that led from this room, while two others held their lanterns close by. At length the door turned on its hinges, and from within came a puff of suffocating odor that cut their throats like glass; and for an instant their lanterns shone on the dead figure of the dwarf, crouched close to the wall.

*****

A week passed. Joseph had returned home. He had not had the heart to stay in Paris and take enough interest in anything to fight for it. Irène had found him almost immediately in a hazardous barricade between the Pont des Arts and the Louvre. She did not return with him, but remained with a distant relative in Paris. The world was dark to young Joseph. His bravery did not deprive his nature of a pure emotion; and though for his age he had been much among men, he had not become worldly in the sense that he could outwit his purer feelings by dissipation, temporary attachments, or any other device in that category, to which many another would have appealed to suppress his sorrow.

Tall, slender, of dark complexion, with large deep eyes that carried the wistful look of a child mingled with the unconscious strength and power of youth, he was that type of man that women instinctively love. Had not it been for the extreme stereotyped manner in which he dealt with the people about him, he might have been a hero to more than one heart. If he ever showed any side of his nature, it was the majestic that appeared, and that resented pressing familiarity. But before one person he had been unarmed of all save the emotional youth. His fellows' and Madeline's friends had thought him proud, but he cared not; it was sufficient for him that one person had not thought him so. He and Madeline were soon to have been married. Their approach to this great event had opened a world of thought that neither dreamed existed within them. But now a great shadow had settled over the brightness of the vista that had lain before him. His taciturnity was of the kind that carried with it a restless inner grief that made those who loved him fearful of his actions.

One morning his father said: "Joseph, you must try to take interest in something; you must try to forget."

He made no reply. Though grateful for his father's good intentions, the expression in his face showed that he knew how little his grief was understood. He had never thought it possible for devotion to exist to the extent that this sad event had made manifest: he had thought that Madeline could get on alone easily enough without him. And to think that it had been for him; and that his lack of appreciation of its intensity had put it aside forever! He understood now that Madeline 's love had been greater than he had thought; and that she had silently restrained herself, hoping to delight him with her boundless devotion in the long years that she imagined lay before them. Morning after morning he walked to the cemetery, sometimes with flowers, and often with a book from which in the days gone by he was wont to read to her. Thus, like many another in the veering world, he worshiped where there was naught save dumb earth.

"Don't go thither this morning," begged his mother, kissing him. "Will you not—please—for me?"

For her sake he did not go; but wandered down side streets toward Madeline's home.

It was a summer morning as balmy as nature affords; the warm sun gently smote the new-born flowers, the growing foliage of the trees thickened the shadows that wavered on the grass, and the birds and bees went gaily about the season's business. Beside the cottage, in the garden, sat Monsieur Le Blanc, reading a newspaper; and Madame, who was somewhat recovered, went quietly about her household affairs. The house was gloomy within; it was no more the abode of enchantment and delight; but like a sea-beach in winter, cold, dark, and linked with memories. Joseph did not enter, but sat on a garden-seat near Monsieur.

"My lad, how are you?"

"Well, I thank you."

"Have you heard from Irène?"

"No."

"When do you think she will come back?"

"I do not think she will come back at all. She will like Paris; and the last thing she said as I asked her to return with me, was, 'No; now that Madeline is gone, I have no desire.'"

"She loved our child," said Monsieur.

"Yes, she must have. As I turned away she broke into tears. It was the only time I ever saw Irène cry."

Presently Madame came from the house, and sat with Joseph. She looked pale, and had fallen away since their great sorrow. Her attachment to the young man was not weak; and it grew stronger now that she saw how deep his affection really was.

There was not much conversation, Of what should they talk? It was as if the flowers had gone from the earth, the light from the sun, the soul from the body. Monsieur was himself again more than either of the others. For them the great veil had not yet lifted. Their words had no deep meaning, but each understood the other's sorrow, and thus what was lacking in verbal intercourse was supplied by a communication more subtle than that of language.

"Joseph," said the mother, "will you come often?"

"Yes, Madame."

"There isn't much here to interest you now," said Monsieur; "but it will do us good to have you come. Sooner or later you will forget the past, my lad; life will open to you again; and other attractions will solicit and win your attention. But come to see us often, since for us the sun is already in the western sky, and it is backwards that we look."

It had been a long time since he had spoken with such kindness; and when he had finished, he arose and kissed the pale face of his wife; but he saw not her pallor, remembering only how beautiful she had been when first he had pressed his lips to her cheek, long years ago.

For a time no one spoke, Monsieur was again reading his paper, and Madame and Joseph were looking at the flowers in the beds near by.

"Here is some strange news," said the father, to whom the other two turned. "Some secret discoveries were made about a week ago; and the police, hoping to make more, have kept the matter to themselves until now."

He read the account of the finding of the body that disappeared from the stone house when the police had returned; also the account of the discovery of the occupied cellar, and of the finding of the dead dwarf, of whom a vivid description was given. Among the last paragraphs of the article was the following: "In the front arched chamber of the cellar was found a heap of ashes from the corner of which protruded a piece of white satin."

Madame buried her face in her hands, and began to cry.

"What is it?" asked Monsieur.

He received the same answer that she had made recently so often, to similar questions, when she had burst into tears by being suddenly reminded of her departed child. "I was only thinking of Madeline," she said, "Her shroud was white."