Denounced

So they all said who gazed upon the handsome features now setting rigidly in the blaze of the moon. "Il était beau!"

"Well," said the chief, "we must not stay here. He must be removed. Meanwhile, I must to the officers of the guard; none must pass the gates at daybreak except under strict scrutiny. And the body must be searched to see if we can gather who and what he is. Alas! alas! The woman speaks well. He was handsome."

But now an exclamation arose from the crowd, while one or two stooped hurriedly to the earth, and the first picked up something that, as he held it out, glistened in his hand. It was an unset stone, a ruby.

"Tiens," said the chief, turning it over in his hand, "what's this? A ruby, and unset," he repeated. Then meditatively, "It may have fallen from a setting worn by one or other, victim or murderer-from, say, a ring, a collar, a brooch for cravat, or ruffle. Has he upon his body," he said to his attendant, "any setting to which it might by chance belong?"

The man bent down and inspected poor Douglas's form, then he rose and shook his head.

"Neither ring nor chain that I can see. Nought that is likely to have held such as that stone."

"Humph!" mused the chief, "humph!" Then he whispered to himself, "If anyone pass the gate to-morrow with an unfilled setting-bah! Non! non! non! He that has the setting belonging to the ruby will scarcely show it. Yet, that the murderer owns it is most likely. If it had been lost by anyone who has lately worshipped here," and he glanced up at the cathedral over which the daffodil dawn was coming now from the east, "there would have been hue and cry enough. Allons," he said aloud. "To the watch house. And, bonne femme, come you with us to testify." Then, turning to his underlings, he said, "Bring him with you-find a plank or door. And-and-be gentle with him. Pauvre garçon! Has he a mother, I wonder?"

For three or four days the search went on, those whom he had loved so aiding it in every way. Archibald, stern, silent, inwardly crushed; Bertie mad with grief and despair; Kate broken-hearted. The lower parts of the city were ransacked and received visits from the watch and the exempts, but nothing came of it except great discomfort to the denizens thereof. Nothing! And-which perhaps was not strange-never to one of those who had so loved him came the veriest shadow of a thought as to who the murderer was. It was not possible, indeed, that such a thought should come. He, they imagined-if ever in their sorrow they let his foul memory enter their mind-was in England. No, they never dreamt of him. They began, therefore, at last to think, as all the world which went to make up Amiens thought, that some of the outcasts, the thieves and scoundrels who had visited the city at fair-time, had taken his bright young life. Yet, strange to say, if such were the case, he had not been robbed. His pocketbook was on him, his purse untouched. There was little enough in either, it was true, yet, the night-birds would have had them had they been his slayers!

Then, at last, it seemed that the murderers were caught.

There rode up to the south gate, on the fifth day, a sergeant and three troopers of the Regiment Picardy, and with them they had-bound with rope; – two villainous-looking scoundrels, fellows in stained and tawdry riding coats, with brandy-inflamed faces, one having a broken leg, so that as he sat on his horse he groaned with every movement it made.

The sergeant's story was brief and soon told to the captain of the guard, while Bertie Elphinston, summoned to hear it, stood by hollow-eyed and sad, wondering if he was to learn that in these swashbucklers he saw the assassins of his poor friend.

"Monsieur le capitaine," said the sergeant, "by orders received from you we have scoured the roads for the last few days. Then, last night, we put up at the Dragon Volant, outside of Poix, and here we found these two larrons. This one-this creature here-who calls himself Jacques Potin, was abed with his broken leg, his horse having thrown him; the other one, who names himself Adolphe d'Aunay, was nursing him. Ma foi! a strange patient and a strange nursing. From the room they occupied came forth howlings and singings and songs of the vilest, mixed with oaths and laughter sufficient to have awakened their grandfathers in their prison graves. 'Twas this drew my attention to them, Monsieur le capitaine. Passing their door, attracted by their roars and singings, I was also led to stop and listen, because, the uproar over, I next heard this conversation: 'Curse you and your leg too!' said he who calls himself D'Aunay; 'if 'twere not for your accident we should have been in Paris now, safe and free with our prize disposed of. Your drunkenness, whereby you got your fall, has ruined all.' 'Mon petit choux,' said the other, 'bemoan not; here we are snug and comfortable. Our logement is good, the food of the best, the wine of the most superior. What would you more? And we have the jewels, which are a small fortune, and the money-bonnes pieces fortes et trebuchantes-for our immediate wherewithal. As for the bills and bonds-well, we have destroyed them, so they can tell no tales. Mon enfant, be gay.'

"Upon this," went on the sergeant, "I arrested them and found these."

Whereupon the man produced from his pockets numerous gold coins, French and English, Louis d'ors and double Louis d'ors, some gold quadruple pistoles, and a handful of English guineas. And also he brought forth, wrapped in a filthy handkerchief, a considerable quantity of pieces of jewellery containing superb precious stones. There were two necklaces, innumerable rings and bracelets, and a woman's tiara of rubies and diamonds. And from this latter-the rubies and diamonds being set alternately-one of the former was missing.

"Alas!" said Bertie aside to his brother captain, "that proves nothing as regards my poor friend. He possessed no jewels, nor, in the world, one-half of that money. He had nought but his pay and a little allowed him by the Scot's Fund. These men may be his murderers, but all this is the result of another robbery-perhaps another murder."

"Nevertheless," said the captain of the guard, "we will hear their story. Observe, a stone is missing from the tiara, and such a stone was found where your friend was slain." Then turning to the two fellows before them, he said curtly, "Now, your account of yourselves. And explain your possession of all this," and he swept his hand over the plain guardroom table, whereupon the money and the jewellery had been temporarily placed.

"Explain!" exclaimed the man who was called D'Aunay and who appeared to be the boldest of the two-while he regarded the captain with an assumed air of fierceness and disdain. "Explain! What shall I explain? That we are two gentlemen of Gascony."

"Sans doute," the captain muttered under his teeth.

"Oui, monsieur, sans doute," repeated the fellow, who had overheard his whisper. "Of Gascony, I repeat. From Tarbes, and resident at Paris."

"Amiens scarcely lies on the route between those places," the captain remarked quietly.

"Permit that I make myself clear. We had been to your great fair in this fine city, and, by St. Firmin, had much enjoyed ourselves and were riding back to Paris when, by great misfortune, my friend, who suffers much from a painful and distracting vertigo, fell from his horse. Naturally, I remained to solace and console him, and 'twas there that your sergeant-who, you will pardon me for saying, possesses not manners of the highest refinement and appears to combine the calling of a mouchard with that of a soldier-burst in upon our privacy, and has added to his insults by dragging us back here."

"You have your papers, doubtless?" the captain asked.

"Doubtless-at Paris. They are there."

"Is it usual for gentlemen of-of Gascony to travel with such jewellery and gems as these?"

"Monsieur le capitaine," said the man named D'Aunay, "you will pardon me if I say that it is usual for gentlemen of Gascony to do precisely whatever it seems best to them. At the same time they are respecters most profound of the law. Therefore, monsieur, if you have had any complaint of jewellery stolen, I am willing to give a more full account of that which is in our possession."

He was a bold villain-yet, perhaps, more of a crafty one. On the road from Paris to Amiens his sharpness had gathered something from the troopers, chatting among themselves, of what they were being brought back for, and he knew that it was for murder, and not robbery, that they were wanted. Therefore, being innocent of the former, he brazened it out as regards the latter, though all the while thinking that there was, probably, as great a hue and cry after those who had robbed the man near the cathedral as those who had murdered the other one.

That the captain of the guard was nonplussed his equally sharp eyes saw at once; and he drew himself up a little more to his full height and regarded the other with a still more assured air of haughty disdain. However, the captain went on:

"There was a murder committed five nights ago in the Place de la Cathédrale-"

"Nom d'un chien!" interrupted D'Aunay, "is it murder we are accused of next? Excellent! Go on, monsieur. There are still other crimes in the decalogue."

"No, you are not accused of it. But circumstances require explanation. First to me, afterwards, perhaps, to the law. One circumstance is that in your jewellery," and he emphasised the "your" very strongly, "there is a stone, a ruby, missing from the tiara. Now-"

"It is found?" exclaimed the cunning vagabond, with an admirable assumption of gladness. "Ha! that is well, monsieur; these are joyous tidings. That tiara was my mother's, La Marquise d'Aunay. I am indeed thankful."

"It was found on the spot where the murder took place-the spot where the victim's body was also found."

"Vraiment! And that spot was-?" he asked, with still greater coolness.

"I shall not tell you. Indeed, it would be best for you to say what spots you were in on that night."

"On that night; monsieur speaks of which night?"

"The 28th. The last night of the fair."

"The 28th! Jacques, mon ami," to his friend, "correct me if I forget to mention any place we visited. Vonons. We supped at nine-tiens, the paté de canard was excellent; we must instruct our cook in Paris to attempt one. Then we visited the theatre, a vile representation of 'Les Précieuses,' I assure you, monsieur. Next, because in Gascony we never forget, amidst all our troubles of after years, our early religious instruction, we decided to attend the evening service at La Cathédrale; there was a large and reverent crowd, monsieur-"

"Dame!" exclaimed the captain, turning to Bertie; "I can do nothing with the fellow." Then, re-addressing D'Aunay, he said:

"I have finished with you, sir. Your next examination will be before the Procureur du Roi," and he ordered the two "gentlemen of Gascony" to be confined in the guardhouse until that official should interrogate them.

Yet they were too much even for this astute old lawyer, who had learned his craft in Paris in the Law Courts of the Grand Monarch, as they had learned theirs in half the gaols of France.

D'Aunay insisted first on knowing who charged them with having stolen the jewellery; where the person was who had lost it or had it stolen; and if the unhappy young man who had been so monstrously and cruelly done to death was known, or even supposed, to have been possessed of any similar jewellery? Having achieved victory over the Procureur in this respect, in the doing of which he exhibited such virtuous indignation, accompanied by strange exclamations and shrugs and hangings of the bench in front of him, as to nearly terrify the representative of the law into releasing him, he began on a new tack.

"Summon the good woman," he exclaimed, "who saw the murder done. By St. Firmin, if she says one of us is the man, then to the wheel with us! Also call the watch at the southern gate; if he in turn says that we did not pass through ere midnight-I hear the excellent female places the assassination after the first quarter past the hour had struck-then, I say, to the wheel with us! Sacré nom d'un chien! were ever gentlemen treated thus before? Sacré mille tonnerres, is this France in which we are?"

The woman was summoned, and instantly replied, "No, neither of the messieurs before her was the man. No resemblance whatever. She was certain. That face she could never forget. It was a devil's. On her most sacred oath, neither were concerned in the awful scene."

The watchmen at the gate affirmed that both men passed out before midnight struck-the hour for the gate to close on fête-days. There was no possibility of his being mistaken-one, the big man, swore at him for having half closed the gate, thinking the last person had gone through for that night; the other insulted him and jeered at him, and flung a sou at his feet.

"So," said the old Procureur du Roi, "you seem free of this crime. Yet, I misdoubt me but you are the lawful prey of the gibbet. The sergeant heard you speaking of your plunder. That you have stolen the jewellery no one can doubt-"

"Produce the owner," interrupted D'Aunay, on whom a clear light had now dawned. "We ask nothing but that."

"Also you swear by St. Firmin. He is a saint of Picardy, not of the south of France."

"It would be strange if I did not swear by him. In the few hours we were here we heard everyone we met swear terribly by him. He must, indeed, be a saint of Picardy-surtôut of Amiens."

"Also," went on the judge, "you spoke truth when you said you had been to the theatre and to the Cathedral-"

"Naturally, monsieur. It is ever my habit. To shun the truth is impossible to me."

"But your actions were suspicious. Both at the theatre and the cathedral you were observed to place yourselves, to force yourselves, nearest to those who presented the appearance of greatest wealth-"

"Finissons!" roared D'Aunay now in virtuous indignation. "Enough. Produce more tangible reasons for this detention, these insults, or release us. Your charges have all fallen to the ground; you now begin a fresh one equally baseless. Yet, because I love justice and respect the law-its administrators I cannot always respect-if anyone has been robbed at either theatre or church, bring them forward, and we will meet that charge too."

"You will be released," said the Procureur; "you are now free. But the jewellery will be retained for the present. Later on it may be returned to you."

So, not without many protestations, the fellows went away from Amiens, D'Aunay breathing maledictions against the barbarous laws which permitted honest gentlemen to be arrested and their property confiscated. Yet, he swore, the end was not yet arrived at; when they reached Paris they would soon set the highest legal authorities at work. Also he edified the good people of Amiens by the tenderness and care with which he assisted his suffering friend to mount his horse.

Later in that day they halted for an evening meal on the cool grass at the wayside, and, as D'Aunay helped his comrade from his wallet, he said:

"Jacques, mon ami, observe always the advantage of truth. Had I not mentioned our visit to the cathedral in the earlier part of the evening that cursed ruby would almost have sunk us." Then he wagged his head and took a drink of wine.

"Yet," he continued, "I understand it not. Let us consider. We took the plunder close by the cathedral. In front of the cathedral that other one was slain. None claim the jewels-peste! 'tis hard to lose them. What do you make of it?"

"A fool can see," replied Jacques, as he shifted his wounded leg into an easier position. "Any fool can see that. It was our friend who-"

"Precisely," said D'Aunay. "Precisely. Allons! To Paris."

"And the ruby fell out when we were examining the spoil!"

"Again, precisely. And remember, Jacques, that if we ever meet our friend who once owned the jewels it would be worth while attacking him. Also, above all, Jacques, remember the truth is best. Allons! To Paris!"

CHAPTER XVIII

"WHAT FACE THAT HAUNTS ME?"

After that all hope was given up of discovering who had murdered Douglas. From the first, from the moment Bertie saw the jewels taken from the two vagabonds by the sergeant, he felt that neither of them were the culprits. Yet, all asked each other whenever they met, "If not these scoundrels, who then?"

"He had no enemy in France, in the world," said Bertie, as they sat one night in the lodgings which Kate had hired for her father and herself. "Why, why should any creature have taken his life? In his regiment he was most popular-nay, beloved. Oh! oh! I cannot understand it."

And now, since, as has been said, the summer was waning-for Douglas had been dead three months when they talked thus-their little circle was about to be broken up once more. One was gone for ever, they said in whispered tones, he could never come back; could those who still remained be once more united after they separated at Amiens?

Bertie, with his troop and one other of the Regiment of Picardy, was to proceed to St. Denis; Kate and her father were to go to Paris; Archibald was to remain behind at Amiens.

Over the latter a great change had come since his brother's death. He had always been a quiet and reserved man-perhaps from the very nature of his calling-one who never said more than was absolutely necessary to any person on any subject; now he seemed to have retired entirely within himself and to have but two things in this world to which his life was devoted: his Faith, and his determination to find the murderer of Douglas.

"And," he said to Bertie, "I shall do it. Have no fear of that. I shall do it. I have now an idea-though an idea of so strange, so extraordinary a nature, that I hardly dare to let myself believe that it can ever take a tangible shape."

"And may I, may Kate, know nothing of that idea? Remember how we both loved him."

"No," Sholto replied. "No. It may come to nothing-must, it almost seems certain, come to nothing. Yet, if the secret can be unravelled, I will find the way to do it. Then, when I am sure, if ever I am, you shall know all. Nay, you will most assuredly know all."

"Will you tell us-tell me-no more than this?" asked Bertie.

"I will tell you nothing. It is possible I may be mistaken; more than possible. If I am not, then you will know."

And with this the other had to be content, and to prepare to proceed to his new quarters outside Paris.

The Jesuit's idea was, indeed, one about which he might well say that he could not believe it should ever assume a tangible shape. It was nothing else than that he believed he had seen those jewels-especially that tiara-before.

He had examined them many times since they had been taken away from D'Aunay and his companion and kept in the custody of the Mayor of Amiens-had turned them over and over in his hands; scrutinised the settings to see if he could observe any mark or inscription upon them. But there was nothing-no coronet engraved inside the tiara with a name, or initials, such as might well have been looked for in such costly gewgaws-nothing! Yet the tiara forced itself upon his memory, seemed to be a thing he had seen before-worn upon a woman's head at some great ceremony. Especially he seemed to remember one diamond to the extreme left of the diadem, a yellow, light brown stone that had flashed out a different light from its fellows beneath the gleams of many-lustred candelabras. But where? Where? Where?

"Almost," he whispered to himself, "I seem to see, as through a mist, the head, the face that was beneath it. Dark hair, grizzled grey; pale olive complexion; lines of care. Who was it? Who? If I could remember that."

At night as he lay upon his truckle bed, or as he walked by the banks of the Somme, or held the jewels in his hands-for more than once he went to see them-he mused on all this. Nay, when the memory of his beloved brother and his cruel death was more than usually strong upon him, he would ponder upon the idea that was ever in his mind as he stood at night, solitary and alone, in the Place de la Cathédrale before the great west door, and on the very spot where his loved one had fallen. But still memory failed him, or, as he came near believing now, he was the sport of a delusion.

Practised by long training in every mental art, he took next to recalling each scene of splendour-for in some such scene it was, he felt sure, that he had seen that gleaming hoop worn, if he had ever seen it at all-in which he had ever taken part from the time he had been ordained a priest, from the time when, an ardent enthusiast of the Stuart cause, he had mixed in the great court circles. Scenes at Versailles, at Marly and Vincennes, St. Germain and Fontainebleau-for he had been amidst them all-were recalled carefully, yet still the phantom of the dark-haired woman with the threads of grey running through that hair evaded him. He had known so many such, he told himself, wearily; had seen so many women to whom jewels and adornments were the natural accompaniments, that, perhaps, it was not strange he should forget. Also, he reflected, how easy for him, who had seen countless jewelled head-dresses worn, to imagine that he remembered this particular one!

Yet he could swear he remembered that yellow, brown diamond!

Tortured thus by his struggles with the dim shadows of his memory, he bade farewell to the others as they departed, and left him alone in the city so bitterly dear to him.

"Farewell, Kate," he said, "farewell. God bless you! You are separated, as I think, for ever from a man utterly unworthy of you; yet you have still the consolation of being without dishonour-ay, without speck or blemish. He will never trouble you again, I do believe. Let him, therefore, go his evil way, and go you yours in peace and happiness. I would that I could see a way to your obtaining the one happiness that should belong to you; wish it for your sake and Bertie's. But it cannot be. Not yet, at least. Therefore bear up. Heaven in its mercy will, I know, protect and prosper you."

"Good-bye, good-bye, Archie," Kate replied, as she sobbed unrestrainedly. "Oh, how unhappy we are! We looked forward to so much in this meeting here, and see-see how it has ended! Shall we ever be happy again?"

"In Heaven's mercy," he said, "in Heaven's mercy." Then he kissed her on the brow, shook hands with her father, and went his way back to his gloomy life, and now still more gloomy thoughts. Yet never in those thoughts-no, not even though they had sometimes spoken of the man himself-did it dawn upon him that here was the one who might be the murderer of Douglas.

Bertie was already gone, the two troops of the Regiment of Picardy having marched out a day or so before, the blare of their trumpets and the clatter of the horses' hoofs having awakened the city early. And he had seen Kate-dawn though it was-glancing from her window to look at him, to wave him her farewell.

"Yet," he had said to her overnight, "it must not be for long, Kitty. It seems to me that we grow nearer to one another as trouble falls-at least, there can be no assassin's knife to come between us. Kate, I shall come and see you as often as I can get leave to visit Paris; even though you are in a King's-a future King's-house, as I still hope-I may come. Is it not so?"

"Yes," she said, "you may come always. Oh, Bertie, we are parted for ever-our lives, our hopes, all-yet if I could not sometimes see you, know that you are well, happy-you will be happy, will you not, when this great sorrow is eased by time? – I think I should die. Surely it cannot be wrong, remembering what we once were to each other, what we once were to have been, to wish to know and hear of you."

"What we once were to have been!" he repeated, in almost a whisper. "To have been. O Kate! O Kate! Those plans, those projects for the future!" His voice broke and failed him as he continued: "You have not forgotten them! Kate, do you remember how once we pictured ourselves growing old together, how we meditated on the time that should come when, our lives done with, we should rest together in some calm and peaceful grave?"