The Mystery of M. Felix

On the third day she went out again in the direction of Gerard Street, drawn thither, as it were, by a magnetic current. But indeed all her hopes, and the future of herself and child, were centred in the house in which Gerald's brother lived under the name of M. Felix. Snow was still falling heavily, but she did not shrink from the chill blasts which swept through the narrow spaces of Soho. She had struck up an acquaintance with the mistress of a shop in which foreign provisions were sold, and she was now standing before the counter conversing with the woman, and picking up further information of the domestic habits which reigned in M. Felix's house. She learnt that it was Mrs. Middlemore's custom to go out every night for her supper-beer at half-past eleven, and that she was generally absent for not less than half an hour. A wild plan instantly suggested itself; she felt that something must be done, and that she must be bold. At eleven o'clock this very night she would be on the watch outside the house in Gerard Street, waiting for the housekeeper to go upon her usual nightly errand. Then she would go up to her, before she closed the street-door, and say she came by appointment to see M. Felix. She had already ascertained that he occupied apartments on the first floor; she had seen on the previous night the lights shining through his windows, and she would know in the same way on this night whether he was at home. If she played her part well, and controlled her voice so that it did not betray her, the housekeeper would doubtless take her word, and thus she would obtain entrance to the house without M. Felix being aware of it. As to what she should do when she confronted him she was as yet undecided, but certain unformed ideas loomed in her mind which seemed to give her hope that this nocturnal visit would not be fruitless. It would be necessary, however, that she should not present herself to the housekeeper dressed as a woman, for that would almost certainly bring suspicion upon her. In the disguise of a man her story would be more credible. Well, she would buy a suit of male clothing, and so disguise herself. The moral energy by which she was supported caused her to accept any suggestion, however daring and bold, by means of which she could attain success.

She went out of the provision shop full of the scheme, but had not gone ten yards before she made a discovery which occasioned her as much surprise as her meeting with Gerald's brother a couple of days ago. A man brushed quite closely to her, and this man was none other than Dr. Peterssen. Another fateful thread in her sad story. What did his presence in that locality portend?

He took no notice of her as he passed, but lingered before the window of the provision shop, looking through the panes, not at the goods displayed, but into the shop to see who was there. Throughout this series of adventures Emilia's senses were preternaturally sharpened, and nothing escaped her which seemed to bear upon her sad story. Presently Dr. Peterssen entered the shop, and without a moment's hesitation Emilia followed him.

He had already commenced a conversation with the mistress of the establishment, who, saying to him, "I beg your pardon," went to Emilia.

"I have forgotten something I wanted to buy," said Emilia, in a low tone, "but I can wait till you have attended to that gentleman."

She took care that her voice should not reach his ears, and as the woman stepped toward him she turned her back, with the air of a person who was not in the least interested in his business. The first words she spoke caused Emilia's heart to beat violently; but she still kept her face from him.

"Yes, sir, M. Felix lives very near here, in the next street."

"Thank you," said Dr. Peterssen. "It was very careless of me to lose the letter he sent me containing his address. Would you mind writing it down on paper for me?"

"Not at all, sir."

The woman wrote the address, and Dr. Peterssen, thanking her, left the shop. Then she asked Emilia what she wished; it was common enough for people to come and ask the address of persons living in the neighborhood, and she attached no importance to it. Emilia made another small purchase, and again took her departure.

Instead of leaving Soho, as was her original intention, to buy the suit of man's clothing necessary for the carrying out of her scheme, she walked slowly through Gerard Street. Dr. Peterssen was on the opposite side of the road to that on which M. Felix's house was situated, and he was gazing up at the windows with an expression of triumph on his face. There had been a note of triumph also in his voice when he had thanked the shopkeeper for the information she gave him, and Emilia judged from those signs that he, as well as herself, had been hunting for M. Felix. For what reason, and why, had M. Felix hidden himself from a man he knew so well? Here again Emilia did not stop to reason. In the selfishness of the task upon which she was engaged she jumped at conclusions, and the conclusion she formed now was that Dr. Peterssen's search for M. Felix was in some way connected with herself and the husband she had lost.

No detective could have acted more warily than she. With extreme caution she watched Dr. Peterssen's movements. He stood for a few moments looking up at the windows, then he crossed the road, and noted the number of the house, and then, with an exulting smile, he slowly walked away. Emilia was now more than ever resolved to carry out her scheme on this night.

She had observed that there were large clothing establishments in Tottenham Court Road, and at one of these she purchased a suit of clothes for a small-made man. Hastening to the room she had taken she tried them on and found them too large. She went back to the shop and exchanged the suit for a smaller one, which fitted her fairly well. Then leaving the clothes behind her, she joined Constance, and remained with her till eight o'clock.

"Must you go out to night, mamma?" asked the girl.

"Yes, Constance," replied Emilia, "and I may not be home till late. You had better go to bed soon."

"No, mamma," said Constance, "I will wait up for you." She went to the window. "Mamma, you cannot possibly go out. The snow will blind you. There is not a person in the streets."

"I must go, dear child," said Emilia, firmly.

"But, mamma, dear-look!"

It was the night of January 16th, and a terrible snowstorm was raging. For over two weeks now the snow had been falling in London, and many of the thoroughfares were blocked with drift, which the efforts of great numbers of laborers could not remove; and on this night the tempest had reached its height. So engrossed had Emilia been in the task which had brought her from her happy home in Geneva that she thought little of the storms of nature which she had encountered as she trudged through the white-carpeted thoroughfares of the city. What physical sufferings was she not prepared to bear, and to bear cheerfully, for the sake of her beloved child? Only when her strength gave way would she yield, and she was sustained now by an abnormal strength which enabled her to endure that from which on ordinary occasions she would have shrunk. During this trying period of her life her powers of endurance were astonishing.

"You will not go out in such a storm, mamma!"

"Do not try to dissuade me, darling, I must go. Do not fear for me; God is watching over me. I shall be quite safe."

"Let me go with you," pleaded Constance.

"Impossible. You know, dear child, I always do what I believe to be right; I am doing it now, and you must not thwart me, nor make things more difficult for me than they are."

"Are they difficult, mamma!" asked Constance, in a tone of tender solicitude. This was the first time her mother had hinted at difficulties, and the admission had slipped from Emilia unawares.

"Yes, dear, but I cannot tell you what they are. Perhaps the time may come when I shall tell you all, but for the present trust in me, have faith in me."

The solemnity of her voice had its effect, and Constance no longer attempted to prevail upon her.

"Are you warm enough, mamma?"

"Yes, dear child, and my boots are dry and thick. God bless my darling, and shield her from harm."

Constance tied a red silk scarf round her mother's neck, who left her with bright smiles and cheering words. Then Emilia made her way to her other lodging of one room, and effected the change in her garments. There was no other lodger in the house but herself, and she had a latchkey to let herself in; she experienced little difficulty in preserving the secrecy necessary for her operations, and she entered and left the house always without being observed.

She surveyed herself in the little bit of broken looking-glass which rested on the deal chest of drawers against the wall. "It is not possible for anyone to recognize me," she thought, and was about to leave the room, when her eyes fell upon the red scarf which Constance had tied round her throat. With a tender smile she took it up and put it on. She looked at her watch; it was a quarter to ten. "I have still a few minutes," she said, and she knelt by the side of the bed she had not yet occupied, and prayed for strength and for a successful issue of her dangerous errand. Then she went out into the streets.

They were almost deserted; all the better for her task. On such a night who would notice her? As she turned into Gerard Street the church clocks chimed a quarter to eleven. She had three-quarters of an hour to wait. But the hot blood rushed over her face and neck as she saw, three or four paces ahead of her, the form of a man proceeding in the direction she was taking-and that man no other than Dr. Peterssen. He knocked-a peculiar knock seemingly by pre-arrangement-and Emilia timed her steps so that she reached and passed the door as it was opened by someone from within. She stooped just beyond the street-door, and while she was pretending to tie her shoestring heard what passed, which may fitly be given here in dramatic form:

Dr. Peterssen: "Ah, my dear friend, at last we meet!"

M. Felix (starting back): "You!"

(His voice, although it had spoken but one word, was to Emilia a confirmation. It was the voice of Gerald's brother, Leonard.)

Dr. Peterssen (airily): "I, sweet comrade in the shady paths, I, Dr. Peterssen-nu ghost, flesh and blood. You received my note."

M. Felix: "Written in a woman's hand, signed in a woman's name!"

Dr. Peterssen: "I knew that was the best bait to hook my fish. And the knock, too, that you yourself and no one else-no prying housekeepers or servants-must answer. Still the same Don Juan as ever. But it is biting cold here. Let us get into your cosy room and talk."

M. Felix: "Not to-night."

Dr. Peterssen: "I am not to be put off, friend of my soul. We will have our little say to-night."

M. Felix: "I have friends with me. I cannot receive you now."

Dr. Peterssen: "A lie. You have no friends with you." (His tone changing to one of undisguised brutality.) "If you keep me waiting here one minute longer I will ruin you. Do you forget our pleasant partnership in Switzerland nineteen years ago? Do you forget your brother Gerald?"

M. Felix: "Hush! Come in. Step softly."

That was all. The door was closed, and all was still.

Emilia stood upright, with a face as white as the falling snow. The words with their hidden meanings, the voices with their varying tones, the trick by which Dr. Peterssen had found it necessary to obtain admission to the presence of M. Felix, the veiled threats, the allusions to the partnership in Switzerland and to her dear Gerald-what did all these portend? What but a secret plot, unknown to her, unknown to all but its accomplices, a plot in which Gerald had been involved, and therefore she? Oh, for some beneficent gift to pierce those walls, to hear what those villains were saying! But it was idle and might be hurtful to indulge in vain, impracticable wishes. She summoned all her fortitude. Scarcely now could she hope to obtain speech to-night with the man whom she believed had ruined her life, and who could ruin it still further. But she would not desert her post; she would wait and hope. She heeded not the bitter, piercing cold; she seemed to be divinely armed against physical suffering. So she tramped slowly up and down the street through the deep snow, keeping her eyes fixed ever on the windows of the room in which the conspirators were conversing, walking backward with her face to them when she went from the house. Visions of the past rose before her; the white snow falling even in this narrow street brought back the snow mountains of Switzerland, where last she had seen the two enemies within hail of her. "Strengthen me, oh, God of the universe!" she murmured. "Endow me with power to fulfil my task, so that I may keep shame and sorrow from my beloved child."

CHAPTER XLI.

DR. PETERSSEN BRINGS M. FELIX TO BOOK

When Dr. Peterssen entered M. Felix's sitting-room he sank into a chair, and gazed around upon the luxurious furnishings with an air of scornful approval. A cigar-case was on the table, and without invitation the unwelcome visitor helped himself to a cigar, which he lighted and smoked in silence for two or three minutes. Meanwhile M. Felix looked on and said nothing.

"You are comfortably lodged here," said Dr. Peterssen, at length, "and your cigars are very fine; but you were ever a man of taste in the matter of your own enjoyments; the best were always good enough for you. By the by, the friends you were entertaining? Where are they?" M. Felix smiled sourly, and Dr. Peterssen laughed aloud. The next moment, however, he became grave. "Let us proceed to business."

"With all my heart," said M. Felix. "I shall be rid of you all the sooner."

"You will never be rid of me, dear comrade. I am curious to learn for what reason Mr. Leonard Paget has transformed himself into M. Felix."

"You are curious to learn nothing of the sort; you are acquainted with the reason. It was to escape from your rapacity, which in another year or two would have beggared me."

"A good reason, from a purely selfish point of view, but you lost sight of a most important element. You and I are one, sweet boy; our fortunes are one; if I swim, you swim; if I sink, you sink. I am not at all sure, as to the latter, whether I could not save myself and bring you to destruction at the same time. Why did you cut and run from the tender-hearted individual upon whom your safety depends? I asked you now and then for a trifle of money to help me through difficulties; you always objected, I always insisted. I put the matter before you plainly. If I did not discharge certain obligations-"

"Brought about by your mad gambling," interrupted M. Felix.

"Granted, dear boy, but men with minds are never free from weaknesses of one kind or other, and I freely admit I like a little flutter occasionally."

"You would have bled me," said M. Felix, with a dark frown, "till I had lost every shilling of my fortune."

"Of our fortune, comrade, of our fortune. It is in my power to strip you of it at any moment, therefore, in common equity, the money is as much mine as yours."

"We made a bargain, and I adhered to it-have adhered to it up to this day."

"Quite correct. Every quarter-day I find paid into my bank the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds. Woe to you if there had been a single omission. I might have advertised for you, in terms which would have drawn unpleasant notice upon you; I would have left no stone unturned to unearth you. I think it is five years ago since we last met. It was not an amicable meeting; angry words passed between us. You gave me the money I asked for and insisted upon having, but you declined to accept the view I presented for your consideration, that you were but the treasurer of a common fund. We parted, not the best of friends, and the next thing I heard of you was conveyed in a letter you wrote to me from Brindisi-it was actually posted from there-informing me that you had left England never to return, and that the six hundred a year would be paid regularly into my bankers in quarterly instalments, as usual. My dear friend, that letter naturally did not please me, and I did not propose to submit patiently to the desertion. I was working for you, for your ease, for your safety; I had an establishment to keep up. My little private asylum in the country, with its patients and keepers, entails upon me a great expense. I am getting tired of it; it chains me down; I have to be very watchful and careful; I have to wheedle and bribe, and, besides, I have to live. I knew that you lied when you wrote that you had left England never to return; I knew that it was the only country in the world you cared to live in, and I set to work to discover your hiding place. For five years I have been hunting for you; I have been in London a dozen times; I have searched everywhere. Oh, the money you have cost me, every shilling of which you shall refund. You shall; I have kept an account, and you shall pay me not only what I am out of pocket, but so much a day for my personal labor. But you are extraordinarily cunning, and it is only now I have succeeded in tracking you down. And being tracked, I mean to keep my hold upon you; I mean to have my due; I mean to share equally with you. It was by the merest chance that I obtained a clue, and I followed it up, until, behold, in the person of M. Felix, who passes as a foreigner, I discover my dearest friend, Mr. Leonard Paget, a partner with me in a conspiracy which, if it were made public, would insure, for you, certainly, for me probably, penal servitude for life. Now, what is it you propose to do?"

"What do you want?" demanded M. Felix.

"I have already stated-an equal share of the fortune for which we both conspired."

"What if I told you that it was pretty well squandered, and there was but little left?"

"I should not believe you."

"It is a fact."

"It is a lie."

"Do you think I should be living in such seclusion as this if it were not the truth?"

"I think what I please. What more can a man desire than what I see around me? You must be enjoying your days, Leonard."

"I repeat," said M. Felix, "that I have lost the greater part of the money. You can prove it for yourself if you like. I have speculated unluckily; I have lost large sums at Monaco. You can't get blood out of stone."

"If you are the stone I will have either blood or money. Understand me; I am quite resolved. You see, dear friend, you have unfortunately roused a feeling of animosity in me by your bad treatment. I was to have all the kicks, you all the ha'pence. Unfair, monstrously unfair. Whose was the immediate risk in the conspiracy? Mine. Over whose head has hung, at any chance moment, the peril of discovery? Over mine. Who has done all the work? I. And you, living your life of ease and pleasure, laughed in your sleeve all the time, and thought what an easy tool it was who was doing all the dirty work for you, while you posed as a gentleman of immaculate virtue. Leonard, do not mistake me you will have to do as I command; I am not your slave; you are mine. I hold you in the hollow of my hand. You have escaped me once, you shall not escape me again."

"You speak bravely," said M. Felix, with an attempt at bravado. "What would you do if I defy you?"

"What would I do if you defy me?" repeated Dr. Peterssen, musingly. "I would have my revenge, most certainly. I would bring destruction upon you, most certainly. I would make a felon of you, most certainly."

"You forget that you would be implicated in these unpleasant consequences."

"I forget nothing; but you are mistaken, friend of my soul. There are roads open to me which are closed to you. I could turn Queen's evidence. I could do better than that. I could hunt up your brother Gerald's wife, who deems herself a dishonored woman. I could say to her that I was a tool in your hands, that you bribed me and played upon my poverty. I could say that the tale you told her of a mock marriage was false, and that she was truly Gerald's wife. I could inform her that her husband was at this moment alive, and was to be found at-"

"Hush!" cried M. Felix.

"Why? I am not afraid. Having revealed the plot to her I should disappear. She would come to England, if she were not here already; she would lose not a moment in ascertaining whether I spoke the truth; and then, my very cunning and clever friend, where would you be, I should like to know? Not only would you be brought to the bar of justice, but you would have to make restitution. You would be beggared and irretrievably disgraced; your life of ease and pleasure would be at an end. As I am a living man, I would bring you to this pass; and I have little doubt, when I wrote to Gerald's wife from my chosen place of exile, that she would listen to the tale of pity I should relate, and would reward me for restoring her husband to her arms, and for restoring the good name which you filched from her by the basest of tricks."

"Enough of this," said M. Felix, "I capitulate. Nothing can be done to-night. Come to me to-morrow, and we will make terms. I can say no more."

"Perhaps not," said Dr. Peterssen. "You will be here to-morrow?"

"I will be here."

"At noon?"

"At noon."

"Then we will go into accounts."

"As you will."

"Attend to me, dear friend. By my blood, by my life, if you deceive me, if you attempt to evade me, if you try once again to escape, I will make the story public through Gerald's wife! Then you may say your prayers-which will be a novel thing for you to do." He raised his hand and swore a frightful oath that he would do as he threatened if he did not find M. Felix at home at the time he had named.

"You will find me at home," said M. Felix, sullenly.

"What noise is that?" asked Dr. Peterssen, as the sound of the shutting of the street-door came to his ears.

"It is the housekeeper going out for liquor. She does so every night."

"She must have a passion for liquor to go out on such a night. An obliging housekeeper, no doubt, dear friend."

"She does as she is directed."

"You have a commanding way with you which goes down with the weak. Are there other lodgers in this house?"

"I am the only one."

"As I have heard."

"You have been making inquiries of me?"

"I have. So, we two are alone. Not a soul on the premises but ourselves. One of us might murder the other, and have time to escape before discovery was made."

"It would not pay either of us to proceed to such an extremity."

"It would not. You are not an affectionate brother, Leonard. You have never inquired after Gerald."

"He is still alive, then?

"He is still alive."

"You might be deceiving me. He may have died years ago."

"That might have been, but it is not so. Would you care to convince yourself? Come down and see him. He might recognize you."

"No," said M. Felix, with a shudder. "I will take your word."

"Do you not wish to know how he is?"

"How is he?"

"In bodily health, better than you would suppose; but his mind" – Dr. Peterssen did not complete the sentence, but watched with some curiosity the effect of his words upon his companion.

"He is really mad?" exclaimed M. Felix, eagerly.

"By no means. It is merely that he is plunged into a chronic melancholy. He passes days in silence, speaking not a word. I give him books, and sometimes he reads, but I am not sure whether he understands what he reads."

"No one sees him?"

"No one but myself and those about me, who know him, as you are aware, as George Street, possessed with an insane idea that he is somebody else."

"Street's father-does he not come to see his son?"

"He does not. Long ago he took the advice I gave him, that it would be best and most merciful for him not to attempt to see his son. Had he not agreed with me, it might have been awkward. Once he came; and I fortunately happened to have in the house a patient absolutely mad, one given to loud raving. It was curious, was it not, that at the time of Mr. Street's visit this patient was in one of his strongest paroxysms? Mr. Street turned pale when he heard the shouts. 'Is that my poor son?' he asked. 'That is your poor son,' I answered. 'I will not answer for the consequences if his eyes fell upon you.' The father went away, with sighs, saying before he went, 'Nothing better can be done for him than you are doing?' 'Nothing better,' I answered. 'He is receiving every kindness here. In another establishment he would be worse off than he is with me.' He came no more, but I send him regular reports, and occasionally go to see him."