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CHAPTER XVI
"TREASON HAS DONE HIS WORST."

Some of those who came to Amiens as attendants upon the fair had not yet sought their beds, whether in the straw of the stables, on the brick floors of the kitchens, or in the sweltering garrets under the red-tiled roofs. Night birds, however, were most of these, creatures who found their account in roaming the streets, seeking whom they might devour. Night birds, such as the bellowing, red-faced bullies who had been shouting all day for drink and food in the Croix Blanche, and who, managing to keep sober in spite of all their potations, sallied forth at midnight. For it was then their work began. Then horse dealers, merchants, buyers, dissolute members of the local bourgeoisie and the petite noblesse, making their way to their lodgings or houses, found themselves suddenly seized by the throat or from behind, and their watches, trinkets and rings taken from them and their purses cut-nay, might deem themselves fortunate if their throats were not cut too.

Once or twice men of this stamp passed Douglas after he had quitted his friend-fellows in soiled finery with great swords by their sides, and with their huge hats drawn down over their faces-who looked at him askance, seeing his sword also by his side and noting his well-knit form and military bearing. But, as they observed his glance fixed keenly on them and his hand ready enough to his weapon, they passed on with a surly "Good-night."

Making his way back to the inn, Douglas came to a sudden halt as he arrived under the Beau Dieu on the pillar of the great west doorway of Nôtre Dame d'Amiens, for, in the open space in front of that entrance he saw two of these very night birds standing, evidently, as he supposed at first, planning and concocting some villainy. Regarding them from behind a buttress of that old cathedral of Robert de Luzarches, he could observe them and all their movements plainly enough, since the full moon was high in the heavens by now; and, although the towers obscured somewhat the light, a great stream of it poured down into the place before the west doorway and with its rays illuminated the space.

Great brawny fellows they were, he could see; good types of the half swashbuckler, half highwayman, of the period-the class of men who would be found one day fighting as mercenaries at Placentia or Raucoux, another robbing a church or some lonely grange, another hung or broken on the wheel, or swinging in chains on a gibbet on some heath or by the seashore.

"By St. Firmin!" he heard one say to the other, while he balanced something in his hand which sparkled in the moonlight as he gazed down at it, "who would have thought the scarecrow had such valuables upon him? Regardez moi ça!" and again he moved what he had in his hand, so that it glittered as though on fire.

"'Tis enough," replied the other, "we have done well this fairing. Now for Paris and vogue la galère! We have the wherewithal to amuse ourselves for a year. Come, let us ride to-night; to-morrow he may raise a hue and cry. Come, the horses are outside; the gates do not shut till midnight. Hark! it wants but a quarter," he broke off as the big clock above them boomed out that hour. "Come," and clasping his companion's arm they disappeared round the other side of the cathedral.

The first impulse of Douglas was to seize these men, if possible; the next, since they were two to one, to follow them to the gate and there to call on the watchman to prevent their exit. And knowing that some robbery had been committed, perhaps some murder-as was very likely-he was about to put this idea in practice when his action was arrested by what startled him far more than the sight of the two scoundrels regarding their stolen wealth had done.

That which so startled him was a man's form creeping up behind him in the shadow of the cathedral, a man who had come so near to him without his knowing it that, as Douglas turned and faced him, he sprang out at him and endeavoured to seize him by the throat. And as he did so he shrieked out, "Villain, thief, give me back my property! Give it back, I say, or," and he hissed the words out, "I will kill you! See, I am armed: you have left me this," and he brandished a long knife that shone in the moonlight-into which Douglas had now dragged him-as the jewels had heretofore shone.

Of the man himself, nor of his dagger, Douglas had no fear; he was stronger than his antagonist, and his hand held the other's, which grasped the weapon, as in a vice. But what appalled, almost unnerved him, was that he knew the voice-and he knew the man. It was Fordingbridge.

"You fool!" he cried, "do you not know me? I am Douglas Sholto," and as he said the words he felt the other's hold relax, felt him disengage himself and stagger back against the wall of the cathedral, where, the moon lighting up his pale, cadaverous face, he stood gasping and glaring at him.

"Douglas Sholto!" he muttered, whispering to himself, "Douglas Sholto here? So, you herd with thieves and robbers, do you? Where are they gone, those others? Where, where, I say?"

"To the gates, I imagine. Beyond them by now," for as he spoke the hour boomed forth from the clock in the tower above, and was repeated by all the other clocks in the city. "Your property, Lord Fordingbridge, is gone. I cannot say that I am sorry for it, though, had you not come when you did, I was about to follow the men who robbed you and have them stopped at the gate. Now, knowing whom they have despoiled, I can only say I rejoice that for once you have met with scoundrels as great as yourself."

Glowering, staring at him intently, the other leaned back against the cathedral, while from his eyes there shone a light which looked like the light of madness. Nay, in that moment Douglas decided in his own mind that he was mad. Still, so great a villain did he know Fordingbridge to be, that, gentle as he was to all others, he could feel no pity towards him. Instead, he said:

"So, my lord, not content with having nearly sacrificed our lives in England, you have tracked us all to this place, doubtless in furtherance of some scheme of your own, though what it is I cannot even guess. You can harm no one here. Your spite-"

"It is false," said Fordingbridge; "I have done no such thing. I am myself on the road to Paris" – he did not say that he was a fugitive from England-"and I have been robbed of all-jewels, money, bills."

"To Paris!" echoed Douglas. "I am afraid you will scarcely be welcome there. The base hint you gave about being a priest will surely lead you into trouble-for it is a lie, as my brother has discovered," and he saw the other start at his words. But he went on: "Moreover, there are many ardent adherents of the Stuart cause in Paris. How do you imagine they will receive the intelligence that you, a supposed adherent yourself, endeavoured to betray three others to their doom in London? Lord Fordingbridge, take my advice, do not go to Paris."

In truth, he had no intention of going to Paris, as has been already told. After much deliberation, when he stole away from his house at Kensington, and during the time occupied in escaping to France, he had been meditating much upon where he should live, where go to until the trouble he had brought upon himself by his own evil actions should have blown over. Money he did not want, having a large sum in France that had been invested by his father, as well as that which he could procure from his property in England, and so, at last, he decided that he would for some time at least take up his abode at Amiens. There he was comparatively near Paris if he wished at any time to visit the capital, and at the same time he was but a day's journey to the seaports of Calais and Boulogne, should he find it necessary at any time to quit France suddenly. Full of these ideas, and certain that it would not be long before he could either return to England or take up his position in Paris, he had come on to Amiens and was now staying at a larger inn than the Croix Blanche under the name of Mr. Chester-which had been his mother's.

He had come out that night, partly driven forth by the shouts and carousings that were going on in his own hostelry in the same manner that they were in all the others in the city, and which, with his brain in the state it had been for some time now, were maddening to him. And partly, also, he had been driven forth by discovering that a large group of English visitors had arrived during the afternoon, the very sight of whom was terrifying to him, since amongst them were one or two young men of fashion whom he had more than once met at King George's levees. Therefore, he had determined to wander about the city until it was time to go to bed, and then to return and keep his room until the English party had gone on to Paris the next morning and the hubbub of the fair was over. But near the cathedral he had been attacked and robbed of his money and trinkets-which, for precaution, as he imagined, he had kept on his person-and in endeavouring to follow the thieves he had stumbled on Douglas Sholto.

"No one would know that I was in Paris," he said, with a cunning leer in his eyes, as he answered the other's remark. "No one, no one."

"On the contrary," replied Douglas, "everyone would know-Bertie, my brother, your wife, all."

Again the other leered at him with so sidelong a glance, with such a snake-like look, that Douglas, remembering how Archibald had said that night that he must be mad, began to feel sure that he was, indeed, in the presence of a demoniac-a creature whose pursuit of evil had turned his brain. And again, for some reason, the young man shuddered violently as he looked at him, as he had shuddered more than once before.

"No," hissed Fordingbridge, glinting his eyes round the open space in front of the great cathedral, which, with the exception of the spot where they stood, close up by the door, was now bathed in moonlight. "No; they do not know, they will never know. They think I am still in England; that I shall not leave it."

"Indeed! Will they think so to-morrow when I tell them I have met you to-night?"

"Tell them to-morrow! To-morrow?" he whispered. "How can you do that, Douglas Sholto?"

"Very easily. They are all here."

"Here!" He almost screamed the word "here," and his eyes roved round the place as though he thought they might be hiding behind some buttress, or pillar, ready to spring out on him.

"Ay, here. One, who seeks for you ever, at the Citadel, another at the Jesuits' College, and your wife at an inn in the town."

Fordingbridge reeled back against the cathedral walls once more as he heard this unexpected disclosure-he had until now imagined that Douglas was alone in Amiens; and there he stood absolutely paralysed with apprehension. In Amiens! The very place he had selected for a refuge. In Amiens. They would know all to-morrow, all. And he would be brought face to face with Elphinston, who would slay him, he never doubted; with Archibald Sholto, who would denounce him to the Jacobites, of whom there were many in this city as well as Paris; to the Church, which he had slandered by falsely stating himself to be one of its priests. A Church which, he knew-had reason enough to know-was sufficiently powerful to resent any affront to it; a Church which-though the Inquisition had no foothold in France-could make its vengeance felt. And he remembered he had bound himself to that Church by many oaths to further the Stuart cause in England, and had ended by denouncing three of its most active partisans! No need for Elphinston to force him to fight; no need for the Jacobites to take vengeance on him for his treachery; Archibald Sholto would see that the punishment was accorded.

As he stood there, while Douglas remained regarding him, he thought it all out as well as his disordered mind would permit; remembered that but for the hated form of the man before him they would never know he was in France. And if they never knew, then he might remain in peace until things could be smoothed over in England. But could they be so smoothed? He must know that first.

"You drove me out of England," he said, or rather whined; "now you would drive me out of France"; and he folded his hands across his breast as he spoke, and stood shaking before the other.

"Your own cowardice, your own wickedness, drove you out," replied Douglas. "Nought else. And, Lord Fordingbridge, because I would not have you regard us upon the same bad level as yourself, let me tell you this: None of us are spies, denouncers, informers. None. We do not shift from white to black cockade to save our necks nor to gratify a base hatred. You were not denounced by us to the English Government even after your execrable lies at Lady Belrose's; we but frightened you into silence till we had time to quit England ourselves. You have been terrified by a bugbear-by your own evil nature."

Alas! poor Douglas. He was no match for this crafty, frenzied villain. He told more than he should. He showed Fordingbridge that England was still open to him; he presented him with the knowledge that, besides himself, there was no one knew of his presence in France.

In a moment the wretch had grasped this fact; in another he had resolved on what he would do. His glittering eye still upon Douglas, who stood there calmly contemptuous, his left hand idly resting on his sword hilt, and his right in the lace of his ruffles, he asked:

"Is this true?"

For answer Douglas shrugged his shoulders and replied, "All men are not born liars."

Alas! poor Douglas. Unready as he was, he had no time to save himself.

With a harsh, raucous cry the other sprang at him; the knife, which he had held hidden in his sleeve so long, gleamed in the moonlight; a moment later and it was buried in Douglas's bosom.

"So," said the assassin, "in this way I am free of France too."

As he struck the unhappy man the latter reeled back three paces and then fell prone in the full blaze of the moonlight, while the murderer, with a hurried glance round, prepared to skulk away in the deep shadow thrown by the cathedral walls on a side street. Yet, as though the horror of the deed he had done were not enough for him to carry away, he knew that it had been observed.

As he turned to fly, he saw looking at him from a window in a darkened room the white face of a woman distorted with terror; a face from which the eyes seemed starting. And, as he crept by the buttress in the shadow, he also saw her raise her finger and point as though denouncing him.

CHAPTER XVII
GASCONISM

The summer waned, the autumn came, and poor, gentle Douglas lay in his grave, but still his murderer had never been discovered.

Yet in connection with that murderer, or rather in connection with the murder itself, some extraordinary facts had been forthcoming which, after all, but served to surround it more and more with mystery. These you shall hear.

When that white-faced woman, whose threatening finger had pointed at the assassin as he fled, recovered from her horror-she was but a poor concierge who had happened to be seeking her bed-she rushed forth into the open place where Douglas's body lay, and there, with wild and piercing shrieks, awakened all who dwelt round the cathedral. At first she conveyed to those who hurried to the spot the idea that it was she who was the shedder of blood, for, as she threw herself down by the victim's side to see if any spark of life remained, her own white night garments became stained with the dreadful fluid, so that those hurrying to the scene imagined that they saw a guilty woman screaming over her own evil deed.

But as she grew more composed she was able to tell her tale coherently; to relate how, in curiosity, she had stood watching those two conversing there; how she had seen the blow struck, and the murderer flee into the darkness. She was very poor, she said, every sou was worth taking account of; therefore, on moonlight nights, she sought her bed without candlelight. Yet now she bemoaned her thrift, for had she but burnt a light it might have alarmed the assassin-have saved the unhappy victim.

"But mort de ma vie!" exclaimed the chief of the watch, who by this time had arrived with two or three of his subordinates, "why not rush out and follow the man; why not at least open the window and scream? Peste! you women can do that if a mouse scampers across the floor or your husband reproves you, yet, behold! when a man is done to death you hold your tongue."

The poor affrighted creature, still whimpering and shivering, explained that she had no thought of murder being about to be done; she had supposed they were two friends parting for the night; there was no sign of argument or quarrel, and, when the deed was done, she thought she had swooned for a moment or so. She could say no more.

"Peste!" again exclaimed the chief of the watch-a tetchy man given to examining all kinds of characters from midnight revellers and wassailers to housebreakers and worse, "why not do something better than swoon? And I'll be sworn, too, that you would not know the fellow again even though he came back this instant itself."

But to this the woman protested her dissent. She would know him again anywhere, at once or at a long interval, adding with a shudder that "for ever and as long as she should live, his features were stamped into her memory."

"What was he like, then?" asked the chief, "how clad?"

"Fairly tall," she replied, "though not so tall, I think, as that," and she glanced at poor Douglas's body lying in the centre of the crowd that surrounded it. The chief of the watch, and a doctor who had come from out a house near, had examined it at once on their arrival, and, alas! there was no life left in it. The gentle spirit had flown.

"Also," she went on, "the assassin was very dark, his eyes of a piercing nature, his face white as a corpse-as that," and again she glanced at the dead man; "but the whiteness might be from horror, mon Dieu! it was a terrible face, the face of a devil, terror-stricken; the face of a fiend. But no remorse, oh, no! only fear-it might be of himself."

"And his clothes?" asked the chief. "What of them?"

"Sombre, dark. All dark. Scarce any lace at sleeves or breast, neither aigrette nor cockade, nor galloon to his hat; no sword."

"Not a bully, then, nor filou? No appearance of a knight of the road? Hein?"

"No," the woman replied, "no." Then, reflectively, she said, "It was, I think, no murder for gain nor greed. Nay, could not have been. He stooped not, went not near the-the body after it fell. More like, I think, a deed of hate, of bitter, hot rage. Who knows? Perhaps a wife stolen, a daughter wronged. All is possible. For see, it," and again she glanced down, "was young, and-and, mon Dieu, il était beau!"

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.