Kitabı oku: «Brigadier Frederick, The Dean's Watch», sayfa 14
II
When I drew the curtain of my bed next morning, I saw that the window-panes were white with snow, which was heaped up also on the sill without. I thought mournfully of my poor comrades' fate. How they must have suffered from cold! Old Bremer and big Berthe especially – my heart ached for them.
While I was absorbed in these sad reflections a strange noise arose outside. It drew near the inn, and, not without fear and trembling, I jumped out of bed and rushed to the window, to see what new danger threatened.
They were bringing the terrible band to confront it with Mme. Grédel Dick. My poor companions came down the street between two files of policemen, and followed by a perfect avalanche of ragamuffins, yelling and hissing like true savages. There was poor Bremer, handcuffed to his son Ludwig, then Carl and Wilfrid, and last of all stout Berthe, who walked by herself, lamenting her fate all the while in heart-rending tones:
"For Heaven's sake, gentlemen, for Heaven's sake, have pity on a poor innocent harpist! I – kill! I – rob! Oh! good Lord! can it be possible?"
And she wrung her hands. The others looked doleful enough as they walked with heads bent, and dishevelled hair hanging over their faces.
The procession, rabble and all, turned into the dark alley which led to the inn. Presently the guards drove out the eager crowd, who remained outside in the mud, with their noses flattened against the window-panes.
I dressed myself quickly, and opened my door, to see if there were not some chance of escape, but I could hear voices and footsteps going to and fro down-stairs, and made up my mind that the passages were well guarded. My door opened on the landing, just opposite the window which our midnight visitor of the night before must have used in his flight. At first I paid no attention to this window, but, while I remained listening, on a sudden I perceived that it was open – that there was but little snow on the sill, and drawing near I perceived that there were fresh tracks along the wall. I shuddered at this discovery. The man had been there again, perhaps he came every night. The cat, the weasel, the ferret, all such beasts of prey, have their accustomed paths in this way. In a moment, everything was clear to my mind.
"Ah," thought I, "if chance has thus put the assassin's fate in my hands, my poor comrades may be saved."
Just at this moment the door of the saloon was opened, and I could hear some words of the examination going on.
"Do you admit having participated, on the 20th of this month, in the assassination of the priest Ulmet Elias?"
Then followed some words which I could not make out, and the door was closed again. I leaned my head on the banister, debating in my mind a great, an heroic resolution, "Heaven has put the fate of my companions in my hands. I can save them. If I recoil from such a duty, I shall be their murderer! my peace of mind, my honour, will be gone forever! I shall feel myself the most contemptible of men!"
For a long time I hesitated, but all at once my resolution was taken. I descended the stairs and made my way into the hall.
"Have you never seen this watch?" the provost was saying to Grédel. "Try to recollect, madame."
Without awaiting her answer, I advanced and replied myself, in a firm voice: "This watch, sir, I have seen in the hands of the assassin himself, I recognise it, and I can deliver the assassin into your hands this very night, if you will but listen to me."
Profound silence for a moment followed my address. The astounded officials looked at each other; my comrades seemed to revive a little.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded the provost, recovering himself.
"I am the comrade of these unfortunate men, and I am not ashamed to own it," I cried, "for all, all of them, though poor, are honest. Not one of them is capable of committing the crime they are accused of."
Once more there was silence. The great Berthe began to sob under her breath. The provost seemed to reflect. At last, looking at me sternly, he said:
"Where do you pretend you will find the assassin for us?"
"Here, sir, in this house, and, to convince you, I only ask to speak one moment to you in private."
"Come," said he, rising.
He motioned to the chief detective, Madoc, to follow us, and we went out.
I ran quickly up-stairs; the others close behind me. On the third story, I stopped before the window, and pointed out the tracks in the snow.
"There are the assassin's footsteps," said I. "This is where he passes every evening. Night before last he came at two o'clock in the morning. Last night he was here; no doubt he will return to-night."
The provost and Madoc looked at the footsteps for several moments without saying a word.
"And how do you know these are the footprints of the murderer?" asked the chief of police, incredulously.
I told them about the man's entrance into our garret, and pointed out above us the lattice through which I had watched his flight in the moonlight. "It was only by accident," I said, "that I had discovered the footsteps this morning.
"Strange!" muttered the provost. "This modifies considerably the position of the prisoners. But how do you explain the murderer's being in the cellar?"
"The murderer was myself, sir."
And I related in a few words the events of the night before.
"That will do," said he, and then, turning to the chief of police, continued:
"I must confess, Madoc, that these fiddlers' story has seemed to me by no means conclusive of their having had anything to do with the murders. Besides, their papers establish, for several of them, an alibi very hard to disprove. – Still, young man, though the account you give us has the appearance of being true, you will remain in our power until it is verified. – Madoc, do not lose sight of him, and take your measures accordingly."
With this he went down-stairs, collected his papers, and ordered the prisoners to be taken back to jail. Then, casting a look of contempt at the corpulent landlady, he took his departure, followed by his secretary.
"Madame," said Madoc, who remained with two of his men, "you will please preserve the most profound silence as to what has taken place. Also, prepare for this brave lad here the same room he occupied night before last."
His tone admitted of no reply, and Mme. Grédel promised by all that was sacred to do whatever they wished, if they would only save her from the brigands.
"Give yourself no uneasiness about the brigands," replied Madoc. "We will stay here all day and all night to protect you. Go quietly about your affairs, and begin by giving us breakfast. – Young man, will you do me the honour to breakfast with me?"
My situation did not permit me to decline this offer. I accepted.
We were soon seated in front of a ham and a bottle of Rhine wine. The chief of police, in spite of his leaden face – his keen eye and great nose like the beak of an eagle – was a jolly enough fellow after a few glasses of wine. He tried to seize Annette by the waist as she passed. He told funny stories, at which the others shouted with laughter. I, however, remained silent, depressed.
"Come, young man," said Madoc, with a laugh, "try to forget the death of your estimable grandmother. We are all mortal. Take a good drink, and chase away all these gloomy thoughts."
So the time slipped away, amid clouds of tobacco-smoke, the jingling of glasses, and clinking of cans. We sat apart during the day in one corner of the saloon. Guests came to drink as usual, but they paid no attention to us. At nine o'clock, however, after the watchman had gone his round, Madoc rose.
"Now," said he, "we must attend to our little business. Close the door and shutters – softly, madame, softly. There, you and Mlle. Annette may go to bed."
The chief and his two followers drew from their pockets bars of iron loaded at the ends with leaden balls. Madoc put a fresh cap on his pistol, and placed it carefully in the breast-pocket of his overcoat, so as to be ready at hand.
Then we mounted to the garret. The too-attentive Annette had lighted a fire in the stove. Madoc, muttering an oath between his teeth, hastened to throw some water on the coals. Then he pointed to the mattress.
"If you have any mind for it," said he to me, "you can sleep."
He blew out the candle, and seated himself with his two acolytes in the back part of the room against the wall. I threw myself on the bed, murmuring a prayer that Heaven would send the assassin.
The hours rolled by. Midnight came. The silence was so profound I could scarcely believe the three men sat there with eye and ear strained to catch the least movement – the slightest sound. Minute after minute passed slowly – slowly. I could not sleep. A thousand terrible images chased each other through my brain. One o'clock struck – two – yet nothing – no one appeared.
At three o'clock one of the policemen moved. I thought the man was coming – but all was silent again as before. I began to think that Madoc would take me for an impostor, to imagine how he would abuse me in the morning. And then my poor comrades, instead of aiding, I had only riveted their chains!
The time seemed now to pass only too rapidly. I wished the night might last forever, so as to preserve at least a ray of hope for me.
I was going over the same torturing fancies for the hundredth time – on a sudden, without my having heard the least sound – the window opened – two eyes gleamed in the aperture – nothing moved in the garret.
"They have gone to sleep!" thought I, in an agony of suspense.
The head remained there – motionless – watchful. The villain must suspect something! Oh! how my heart thumped – the blood coursed through my veins! And yet cold beads of sweat gathered on my forehead. I ceased to breathe.
Several minutes passed thus – then, suddenly, the man seemed to have decided – he glided down into the garret, with the same noiseless caution as on the previous night.
But at the same instant a cry – a terrible, short, thrilling cry – vibrated through the room.
"We have him!"
Then the whole house was shaken from garret to cellar by cries – the stamping of feet – hoarse shouts. I was petrified by terror. The man bellowed – the others drew their breaths in quick gasps – then came a heavy fall which made the floor crack – and I heard only the gnashing of teeth and clink of chains.
"Light!" cried the terrible Madoc.
By the flame of the burning coals, which cast a bluish light through the room, I could dimly see the police-officers crouched over the body of a man in his shirt-sleeves; one held him by the throat, the knees of the other rested upon his chest; Madoc was roughly clasping the handcuffs on his wrists. The man lay as if lifeless, save that from time to time one of his great legs, naked from knee to ankle, was raised and struck the floor with a convulsive movement. His eyes were starting from their sockets – a blood-stained foam had gathered upon his lips.
Hardly had I lighted the candle when the officers started back with an exclamation:
"Our dean!"
And all three rose to their feet, looking at each other with pale faces.
The bloodshot eye of the assassin turned towards Madoc, his lips moved, but only after several seconds I could hear him murmur:
"What a dream! – Good God! what a dream!"
Then a sigh, and he lay motionless again.
I drew near to look at him. Yes, it was he, the man who had overtaken us on the road to Heidelberg, and advised us to turn back. Perhaps even then he had a presentiment that we would be the cause of his ruin. Madoc, who had recovered from his surprise, seeing that he did not move, and that a thread of blood was oozing along the dusty floor, bent over him and tore asunder the bosom of his shirt; he had stabbed himself to the heart with his huge knife.
"Eh!" said Madoc, with a sinister smile. "Monsieur the dean has cheated the gallows. He knew where to strike, and has not missed his mark. Do you stay here," he continued to us. "I will go and inform the provost."
I remained with the two police agents, watching the corpse.
By eight o'clock next morning all Heidelberg was electrified with the news. Daniel Van der Berg, dean of the woollen-drapers, possessed of wealth and position such as few enjoyed, who could believe that he had been the terrible assassin?
A hundred different explanations were offered. Some said the rich dean had been a somnambulist, and therefore not responsible for his actions – others, that he had murdered from pure love of blood – he could have had no other motive for such a crime. Perhaps both theories were true. In the somnambulist the will is dead, he is governed by his animal instincts alone, be they pacific or sanguinary, and in Master Daniel Van der Berg, the cruel face, the flat head swollen behind the ears – the green eyes – the long bristling mustache, all proved that he unhappily belonged to the feline family – terrible race, which kills for the pleasure of killing.
THE END OF THE DEAN'S WATCH
THE PORTRAITS OF ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN
The popular names of Erckmann-Chatrian, names which recall so many stirring and patriotic tales, represent, to our great regret, only a very obscure and unæsthetic iconography. We have but very few pictures of the authors of Madame Thérèse and L'Ami Fritz. Simple and rural in their tastes, Erckmann and Chatrian, without at any time parading that celebrity in which so many authors of "smart" literature take so much pride, when in the most brilliant epoch of their fame still preserved that rustic simplicity which characterized their first appearance. With their genial and upright natures these two Alsatians never thought to put themselves before their works. They were men of a bygone age, Nature's philosophers, wise men without vanity. Our task in respect of them has been difficult, but we hope not altogether infelicitous. It is not without a certain satisfaction that, by the side of other personalities so often popularized, we have been able by dint of persevering research to discover two or three portraits of these writers.
Thus we have given as frontispiece two pictures of these Siamese twins of literature, ingenuously painted, in timid and awkward strokes, by one of those travelling professors of the familiar art of charcoal and pencil, such as were to be seen in the villages of Alsace about fifty years ago. It portrays the "Amis Fritz" and the worthy pastors seated round the tables in the old Gothic inns.
A detached portrait of Erckmann by Otto de Frère, of about the year 1864 or 1865, gives us an opportunity of studying more closely one of the collaborators. Émile Erckmann, born in 1822, at Phalsbourg, has in the portrait before us already passed his fortieth year. The calm features and high bald forehead of the professor leave an impression of gravity and thoughtfulness. A pair of spectacles which he wears adds to his pedagogical appearance. Émile Erckmann represents the philosophic and the contemplative side of this romantic couple. Born in a town which has given so many chiefs to the French army, he brought to their joint work a deep and profound study of the Alsatian land, together with the silent tenacity of his race. The confined life of his province, rural and industrious in times of peace, implacable and ardent in the hour of strife, finds in him an able and truthful historian.
The first portrait of Émile Erckmann is contemporary with Madame Thérèse, one of the most admirable and best known of their romans nationaux. A second portrait, which is reproduced here, seems a trifle older and of about the year 1868. That year the Théâtre de Cluny in Paris produced a piece adapted by the two friends from the novel Le Juif Polonais. Erckmann at that time wore a beard. His dress, like his appearance, is without care, but in that serious face and behind those spectacles there shines the profound and concentrated look of one accustomed to gaze upon the waters and the mountains of the Vosges; and the expression, brilliant as a fixed star, obliterates all that is crude and inharmonious in this face, which otherwise reminds one of a German schoolmaster. In contradistinction to Chatrian, who spent nearly the whole of his life in Paris and its environs, Erckmann seems to pine for the green woods and scenery of that beautiful country where the healthy and simple people are so much in harmony with nature. Thus is he shown to us here. His features remind us both of Taine and Cherbuliez, though he possessed nothing in common with them beyond that serene look full of reflection and deduction. Erckmann worked in Alsace; Chatrian, on the contrary, whose administrative duties kept him all day at his desk in Paris, could indulge his taste for novel-writing only in the evenings, occasionally stealing a few hours in the day out of the time which he was bound to devote to his Government work. To the calm and quietude of his companion Chatrian added the animation of an ardent and inventive spirit. To the reflective and poetic talent of Erckmann, he opposed the hastiness of his own dashing and spontaneous genius. To his pen, no doubt, can be assigned all those parts where the story, leaving the description of rustic life, plunges boldly into dramatic action.
A double portrait, from a photograph taken about 1874, depicts them in the constrained attitude characteristic of the work of Daguerre and his followers. Doubtless they were together in that little house at Raincy, where they often met to discuss the plot of some new work, and where the photographer must have invaded their privacy.
"Only once did I see that little garden at Raincy," writes one of their friends, "but I can see again the kindly, portly Erckmann seated under the shade of a cherry-tree, a picture which later on I saw reproduced again at the Théâtre Français in L'Ami Fritz– Erckmann with his calm face and shrewd eyes, smoking his pipe, and throwing out philosophical theories between the whiffs of tobacco. He is, as it were, the dream, and Chatrian the reality in this partnership. Erckmann would willingly have kept to the fantastic tales of their early days, but it was Chatrian, the type of the soldier, with the mustache and face of a somewhat harsh-looking non-commissioned officer, and a strict disciplinarian, who directed the collaboration towards the Napoleonic era and the national chronicles. This, in a measure, explains the portraits and helps us to show them both, united in a work simultaneously conceived, both simple and great in their baffling expression, happy in knowing themselves understood by the multitude of the poor and humble. That photograph dates from the representation of L'Ami Fritz in the Théâtre Français.
After the defeat of the Alsatians these poets, deeply touched, sing to us in their heartfelt words of the picturesqueness of their mountains and forests, henceforth to be under German rule. At that moment (and it is also the last portrait we have been able to find) Erckmann is aged, his beard and mustache are silvered, his appearance no longer that of a professor, but rather that of an old officer whom the close of the war has thrown out of employment. Chatrian, on the other hand, though only four years his junior, with hair and beard still abundant, seems alive with vigour and strength. His glance is keen, frank, and loyal, his face open and bold, his attitude full of energy. No picture could express better than this the striking contrast between two temperaments so widely dissimilar, and yet so well designed to supplement each other and form a complete whole.
André Gill, in a typical and humorous caricature, has admirably shown the expressions of the two writers as their faces appear above a jug of beer, each with an Alsatian pipe in his mouth. A peaceful happiness marks their brotherly features. They are enjoying the dramatic successes of the Rantzau and Madame Thérèse. The final disagreement, which did not happen until 1890, at Villemomble, and which ended only with Chatrian's death, had not yet come, like a detestable intruder, to separate those two strong characters. Their dreams, their work, and their successes were still joint property at the time Andre Gill drew this caricature. The two writers have been termed the "Siamese twins" of historical romance. One cannot understand why these two figures, so full of contrast, were never delineated in painting nor sculpture, in view of the large measure of success which directed attention to their names. Such incomprehensible mysteries do sometimes occur in the lives of celebrated men, and we fail to find the solution of the enigma, which forces us to admit that Erckmann and Chatrian left us no portraits, no important engravings, no great popular lithographs, nor any medallions or busts. If ever posterity thinks of raising a monument to the memory of these two curious writers, the artist to whom the task is assigned will have some difficulty in finding any other valid and interesting documents than the few pictures which are collected here.
OCTAVE UZANNE.
