Half-a-dozen times in the course of the day Pierre Lamont had sent in search of Fritz the Fool, and it was not till the afternoon that Fritz made his appearance.
"You should have come earlier, fool," said Pierre Lamont with a frown.
"I was better engaged," said Fritz coolly. "You fired me with those love-verses last night, and I have been studying what to say to my peach."
"The pretty Dionetta! Rehearse, then; I am dull."
"Ah, I have much to tell you. I am thinking of saying to the peach, 'Dionetta, place your hand in mine, and we will both serve Pierre Lamont. He will give us a home; he will pay us liberally; and when he dies he will not leave us unprovided for.'"
"And if the peach should laugh in your face?"
"I would reason with it. I would say, 'Look you now; you cannot be always ripe, you cannot be always mellow and luscious. Do not waste the precious sunshine of life, but give yourself to a clever fool, who cares quite as much for your fair face and beautiful skin as he does for the diamond baubles in your ears.'"
"Diamond earrings, Fritz! Are you dreaming?"
"Not at this moment--though I had a dream last night after I left you which I may tell you if I don't repent of it before I disclose it. Yes, Master Lamont, diamond earrings--as I'm a living fool, diamonds of value. See, Master Lamont, I don't want this peach to be gathered yet. It is well placed, it is in favour; it is making itself in some way useful, not to finer, but to richer fruit. Heaven only knows what may be rained upon it when the very first summer shower brings a diamond finger-ring, and the second a pair of diamond earrings. A diamond brooch, perhaps; money for certain, if it will take a fool's advice. And of course it will do that if, seeing that the fool is a proper fool, the peach says kindly, 'I am yours.' That is the way of it, is it not, Master Lamont?"
"I am waiting to hear more, Fritz," said Pierre Lamont, with a full enjoyment of Fritz's loquacity.
"Behind the summer-house, Master Lamont, lies a lovely lake, clear as crystal in parts where it is not covered with fairy lilies. I am as good as a pair of eyes to you to tell you of these beauties. The water is white and shining and at one part there is a mass of willows bending over; then there is a break, clear of the shadow of branch and leaf; then there is another mass of willows. From a distance you would think that there was no break in the foliage; you have to go close to it to make the discovery, and once you are there you are completely hidden from sight. Not more than two hours ago I was passing this spot at the back of the willows, when I heard a voice--a girl's voice, Master Lamont--saying quite softly, 'Oh, how lovely! how beautiful--how beautiful!' It was Dionetta's voice; I should know it among a thousand. Through the willows I crept with the foot of a cat till I came to the break, and there was Dionetta herself, bending over the water, and sighing, 'Oh, how lovely! how beautiful!' She could not see me, for her back was towards me, and I took care she did not hear me. She was shaking her pretty head over the water, and I shouldn't deserve to be called a fool if I had not felt curious to see what it was in the lake that was so lovely and beautiful. Perhaps it was her own face she was admiring. Well, she had a perfect right, and I was ready to join in the chorus. I crept up to her as still as a mouse, and looked over her shoulder. She gave a great scream when she saw my face in the lake, and I caught hold of her to prevent her from falling in. Then I saw what almost took away my breath. In her ears there flashed a pair of diamond earrings, the like of which I never in my life beheld in our village. Her face got as red as a sunset as I gazed at her. 'How you frightened me, Fritz!' she said. I set the earrings swinging with my fingers and said, 'Where did you get these wonderful things from?' She answered me pat. 'My lady gave them to me.' 'They are yours, then?' I asked. 'Yes, Fritz,' she said, 'they are mine, and I came here to see how I look in them. They are so grand that I am ashamed to put them on unless I am alone. Don't tell anybody, will you, Fritz? If grandmother knew I had them, she would take them from me. She would never, never let me wear them. Don't tell anybody.' Why, of course I said I would not, and then I asked why my lady gave them to her, and she said it was because my lady loved her. So, so! thought I, as I left my peach--I would like to have given her just one kiss, but I did not dare to try--so, so! my lady gives her maid a pair of diamond earrings that are as suitable to her as a crown of gold to an ass's head. There is something more than common between lady and maid. What is it, Master Lamont, what is it?"
"A secret, fool, which, if you get your peach to tell, will be worth much to you. And as you and I are going to keep our own counsel, learn from me that this secret has but one of two kernels. Love or jealousy. Set your wits at work, Fritz, set your wits at work, and keep your eyes open. I may help you to your peach, fool. And now about that dream of yours. Were you asleep or awake at the time?"
Fritz stepped cautiously to the door, opened it, looked along the passage, closed the door, and came close to the bedside.
"Master Lamont," he said, "what I dreamt is something so strange that it will take a great deal of thinking over. Do you know why I tell you things?"
"I might guess wrong, Fritz. Save me the trouble."
"You have never been but one way with me; you have never given me a hard word; you have never given me a blow. When I was a boy--twenty years ago and more, Master Lamont--you were the only man who spoke kind words to me, who used to pat my head and pity me. For, if you remember, Master Lamont, I was nothing but a castaway, living on charity, and everybody but you made me feel it. Cuffed by this one and that one, kicked, and laughed at--but never by you. Even a fool can bear these things in mind."
"Well, well, Fritz, go on with your dream. You are making me hungry."
"It came nearly two hours after midnight. At that time I was in the grounds. All was dark. There was nobody about but me, until the Advocate came. Then I slipped aside and watched him. He walked up and down, like a machine. It was not as if a man was walking, but a figure of steel. It was enough to drive me crazy, it was so like clockwork. Twice he almost discovered me. He looked about him, he searched the grounds, still with the same measured step, he called aloud, and asked if anybody was near. Then he went into the house and into the study. I knew he was there by the shifting of the lights in the room. Being alone with the shadows, your love-verses came into my mind, and you may believe me, Master Lament, I made my way to the window of the room in which Dionetta sleeps, and stood there looking up at it. I should have been right down ashamed of myself if I hadn't been dreaming. Is it the way of lovers, Master Lamont? 'Faster than bees to flowers they wing their way;' that is how the line runs, is it not? Well, there stood I, a bee, dreaming in the dark night, before the window of my flower. An invisible flower, unfortunately. But thoughts are free; you can't put chains on them. So there stood I, for how many minutes I cannot say, imagining my flower. Now, if I had known that her pretty head was lying on the pillow, with great diamond earrings in her ears--for that is a certainty--I might not perhaps have been able to tear myself away. Luckily for my dream, that knowledge had still to come to me, so I wandered off, and found myself once more staring at the lights in the Advocate's study windows. Now, what made me step quite close to them, and put my eye to a pane which the curtains did not quite cover? I could see clear into the room. Imagine my surprise, Master Lamont, when I discovered that the Advocate was not alone! Master Lamont, you know every man in the village, but I would give you a thousand guesses, and you would not hit upon the name of the Advocate's friend. From where I stood I could not hear a word that was said, but I saw everything. I saw the Advocate go to a cupboard, and give this man liquor; he poured it out for him himself. Then they talked--then the Advocate brought forward a silver basket of biscuits, and the man ate some, and stuffed some into his pockets. They were on the very best of terms with each other. The Advocate gave his friend some money--pieces of gold, Master Lamont; I saw them glitter. The man counted them, and by his action, asked for more; and more was given; the Advocate emptied his purse into the man's hand. Then, after further conversation, the man turned to leave the room. It was time for me to scuttle from my peep-hole. Presently the man was in the grounds stepping almost as softly as I stepped after him. For I was not going to lose him, Master Lamont; my curiosity was whetted to that degree that it would have taken a great deal to prevent me from following this friend of the Advocate's. 'How will he get out?' thought I; 'the gates are locked; he will hardly venture to scale them.' Two or three times he stopped, and looked behind him; he did not see me. He arrived at the wall which stretches at the back; he climbed the wall; so did I, in another and an easier part; he dropped down with a thud and a groan; I let myself to the ground without disturbing a leaf. Presently he picked himself up and walked off, with more haste than before. I followed him. He stopped; I stopped; he walked on again, and so did I. Again he stopped and cried aloud: 'I hear you follow me! Is not one killing enough for you?' And then he gave a scream so awful that the hair rose on my head. 'She is here!' he screamed; 'she is here, and is driving me to madness!' With that he took to his heels and tore through field and forest really like a madman. I could not keep up with him, and after an hour's running I completely lost sight of him. There was nothing for me to do but to get back to the villa. I returned the way I came--I had plenty to think about on the road--and I was once more before the windows of the Advocate's study. The lights were still there. The Advocate, I believe, can live without sleep. I peeped through the window, and there he was, sitting at his table reading, with an expression of power in his face which might well make any man tremble who dared to oppose him. That is the end of my dream, Master Lamont."
"But the man, Fritz, the man!" exclaimed Pierre, Lamont. "I am still in ignorance as to who this strange, nocturnal visitor can be."
"There lies the pith of my dream. If I were to tell you that this man who makes his way secretly into the grounds in the darkness of the night--who is closeted with the Advocate for an hour at least--who is treated to wine and cake--who is presented with money, and grumblingly asks for more, and gets it--if I were to tell you that this man is Gautran, who was tried for the murder of Madeline, the flower-girl, and who was set free by the Advocate--what would you say, Master Lamont?"
"I should say," replied Pierre Lamont with some difficulty controlling his excitement, "that you were mad, fool Fritz."
"Nevertheless," said Fritz with great composure, "it is so. I have related my dream as it occurred. The man was Gautran and no other. Can you explain that to me in one word?"
"No," said Pierre Lamont, gazing sharply at Fritz. "You are not fooling me, Fritz?"
"If it were my last word it would make no difference. I have told you the truth."
"You know Gautran's face well?"
"I was in the court every day of the trial, and there is no chance of my being mistaken. See here, Master Lamont. I can do many things that would surprise people. I can draw faces. Give me a pencil and some paper."
With a few rapid strokes he produced the very image of Pierre Lamont, sitting up in bed, with thin, cadaverous face, with high forehead and large nose; even the glitter of the old lawyer's eyes was depicted. Pierre Lamont examined the portrait with admiration.
"I am proud of you, Fritz," he said; "you have the true artist's touch."
Fritz was busy with the pencil again. "Who may this be?" he asked, holding another sketch before Pierre Lamont.
"The Advocate. To the life, Fritz, to the life."
"This is also to the life," said Fritz, producing a third portrait. "This is Gautran. It is all I can draw, Master Lamont--human faces; I could do it when I was a boy. There is murder in Gautran's face; there was murder in the words I heard him speak as I followed him: 'Is not one killing enough for you?' There is only one meaning to such words. I leave you to puzzle it all out, Master Lamont. You have a wise head; I am a fool. Mother Denise may be right, after all, when she said--not knowing I was within hearing--that it was an evil day when my lady, the Advocate's wife, set foot in the grounds of the House of White Shadows. But it is no business of mine; only I must look after my peach, or it may suddenly be spirited away on a broomstick. Unholy work, Master Lamont, unholy work! What do you say to letting Father Capel into the mystery?"
"Not for worlds!" cried Pierre Lamont. "Priests in such matters are the rarest bunglers. No--the secret is ours, yours and mine; you shall be well paid for your share in it. Without my permission you will not speak of it--do you hear me, Fritz?"
"I hear you, and will obey you."
"Good lad! Ah, what would I give if I had the use of my limbs! But you shall be my limbs and my eyes--my second self. Help me to dress, Fritz--quick, quick!"
"Master Lamont," said Fritz with a sly laugh, "be careful of your precious self. You are ill, you know, very, very ill! You must keep your bed. I cannot run the risk of losing so good a master."
"I have a dozen years of life in me yet, fool. This dried-up old skin, these withered limbs, this lack of fat, are my protection. If I were a stout, fine man I might go off at any moment. As it is, I may live to a hundred--old enough to see your grandchildren, Fritz. But yes, yes, yes--I am indeed very ill and weak! Let everybody know it--so weak and ill that it is not possible for me to leave this hospitable house for many, many days. The medicine I require is the fresh air of the gardens. With my own eyes I must see what I can of the comedy that is being played under our very noses. I, also, had dreams last night, Fritz, rare dreams! Ah--what a comedy, what a comedy! But there are tragic veins in it, fool, which make it all the more human."
The following night was even darker than the preceding one had been. In the afternoon portents of a coming storm were apparent in the sky. Low mutterings of thunder in the distance travelled faintly to the ears of the occupants of the House of White Shadows. The Advocate's wife shuddered as she heard the sounds.
"There are only two things in the world I am afraid of," she said to Pierre Lamont, "and those are thunder and lightning. When I was a little child a dreadful thing occurred to me. I was playing in a garden when a storm came on. I was all alone, and it was some distance to the house. The storm broke so suddenly that I had not time to reach shelter without getting myself drenched. I dare say, though, I should have run through it had I not been frightened by the flashes of lightning that seemed to want to cut me in two. I flew behind a tree, and stood there trembling. Every time a flash came I shut my eyes tight and screamed. But the storm did not allow my cries to be heard. You can imagine the state I was in. It would not have mattered, except for the wetting, had I kept my eyes closed, but like a little fool, I opened them once, and just at that moment a flash seemed to strike the tree behind which I stood. I can almost hear the shriek I gave, as I fell and fainted dead away. There, lying on the wet grass, I was found. A dreadful looking object I must have been! They carried me into the house, and when I was conscious of what was passing around me, I asked why they did not light the gas. The fact is I was quite blind, and remained so for several days. Was it not shocking? I shall never, never forget my fright. Can you imagine anything more dreadful than being struck blind? To be born blind cannot be half as bad, for one does not know what one loses--never having seen the flowers, and the fields, and the beautiful skies. But to enjoy them, and then to lose them! It is altogether too horrible to think of."
She was very gracious to the old lawyer during the afternoon.
"Do you know," she said, "I can't quite make up my mind whether to be fond or frightened of you."
"Be fond of me," said Pierre Lamont, with a queer look.
"I shall see how you behave. I am afraid you are very clever. I don't like clever people, they are so suspicious, pretending to know everything always."
"I am very simple," said Pierre Lamont, laughing inwardly. He knew that she wanted to propitiate him; "and beauty can lead me by a silken thread."
"Is that another of your compliments? I declare, you speak as if you were a young man."
She did, indeed, desire to win Pierre Lamont entirely to her, and she would have endured much to make him her friend instead of her enemy. Christian Almer had told her that the old lawyer had slept in the next room to his, and she had set herself the task of sounding the old fellow to ascertain whether his suspicions were aroused, and whether she had anything to fear from him. She could not help saying to herself what a fool Mother Denise--who looked after the household arrangements--was to put him so close to Christian.
"I do believe," thought Adelaide, "that she did it to spite me."
Her mind, however, was quite at ease after chatting with the old lawyer.
"I am so glad we are friends," she said to him; "it is altogether so much nicer."
Pierre Lamont looked reproachfully at her, and asked how she could ever have supposed he was anything but her most devoted admirer.
"Lawyers are so fond of mischief," she replied, "that if it does not come to them ready-made they manufacture it for themselves."
"I am no longer a lawyer," he said; "if I were twenty years younger I should call myself a lover."
"If you were twenty years younger," she rejoined gaily, "I should not sit and listen to your nonsense."
Being called from his side she turned and gave him an arch look.
"All that only makes the case stronger, my lady," he said inwardly. "You cannot deceive me with your wiles."
During the chief part of the day Gautran concealed himself in the woods. Twice had he ventured to present himself to his fellow--creatures. He was hungry, and in sore need of food, and he went to a wayside inn, and called for cold meat and bread and brandy.
"Can you pay for it?" asked the innkeeper suspiciously.
Gautran threw down a gold piece. The innkeeper took it, bit it, turned it over and over, rang it on the wooden table, and then set the food before Gautran.
The murderer ate ravenously; it was the first sufficient meal he had eaten for days. The innkeeper gave him his change, and he ordered more meat and brandy, and paid for them. While he was disposing of this, two men came up, eyed him, and passed into the inn; Gautran was eating at a little table in the open air.
Presently the innkeeper came out and looked at him; then the innkeeper's wife did the same; then other men and women came and cast wrathful glances upon him.
At first he was not conscious that he was being thus observed, he was so ravenously engaged; but his hunger being appeased, he raised his head, and saw seven or eight persons standing at a little distance from him, and all with their eyes fixed upon his face.
"What are you staring at?" he cried. "Did you never see a hungry man eat before?"
They did not answer him, but stood whispering among themselves.
The idea occurred to Gautran to take away with him a supply of food, and he called to the innkeeper to bring it to him. Instead of doing so, the innkeeper removed the plates and glasses in which the meal had been served. Having done this, he joined the group, and stood apart from Gautran, without addressing a word to him.
"Do you hear me?" shouted Gautran. "Are you deaf and dumb?"
"Neither deaf nor dumb," replied the innkeeper; "we hear you plain enough."
"Bring me the bread and meat, then," he said.
"Not another morsel," said the innkeeper. "Be off with you."
"When I get the food."
"You will get none here--nor would you have had bite or sup if I had known."
"Known what?" demanded Gautran fiercely. "Is not my money as good as another man's?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because there is blood upon it."
If this did not convince him that his name was known and execrated, what next transpired would have enlightened him. The innkeeper's wife came out with a glass and two plates in her hands.
"Are these the things," she asked of her husband, "the monster has been eating out of?"
"Yes," replied the innkeeper.
She dashed them to the ground and shivered them to pieces, and the onlookers applauded the act.
"Why do you do that, Mistress?" cried Gautran.
"So that honest men shall not be poisoned," was the answer, "by eating out of a murderer's dish or putting their lips to a murderer's glass."
And the onlookers again applauded her, and kicked away the pieces.
Gautran glared at the men and women, and asked:
"Who do you take me for?"
"For Gautran. There is but one such monster. If you do not know your own face, look upon it there."
She pointed to the window, and there he beheld his own portrait, cut out of an illustrated newspaper, and beneath it his name--"GAUTRAN," to which had been added, in writing, the words, "The Murderer of Madeline, the Flower-Girl."
He could not read the inscription, but he correctly divined its nature. The moment before he saw his portrait, it had entered his mind to deny himself; he recognised now how futile the attempt would be.
"What if I am Gautran?" he exclaimed. "Do you think the law would set me free if I was guilty?"
To which the innkeeper's wife replied:
"You have escaped by a quibble. You are a murderer, and you know yourself to be one."
"Mistress," he said, "if I had you alone I would make you smart."
"How does that sound, men?" cried the innkeeper's wife with excited gestures. "Is it the speech of an innocent man? He would like to get me alone. Yes, he got one poor girl alone, and we know what became of her. The coward! the murderer! Hunt him away, neighbours. It is a disgrace to look upon him."
They advanced towards Gautran threateningly, and he drew his knife and snapped it open.
"Who will be the first?" he asked savagely, and seeing that they held together, he retreated backwards, with his face to them, until a turn in the road hid them from his sight. Then he fled into the woods, and with wild cries slashed the trees with his knife, which he had sharpened in the early morning.
On the second occasion he presented himself at a cottage door, with the intention of begging or buying some food. He knocked at the door, and not receiving an answer, lifted the latch. In the room were two children--a baby in a cradle, and a five-year-old boy sitting on the floor, playing with a little wooden soldier. Looking up, and seeing the features of the ruffian, the boy scrambled to his feet, and rushing past Gautran, ran screaming down the road. Enraged almost to madness, Gautran ran after the child, and catching him, tossed him in the air, shouting:
"What! you, too, brat? This for your pains!"
And standing over the child, was about to stamp upon him, when he found himself seized by the throat. It was the father, who, hearing the child's screams, came up just in time to save him. Then ensued a desperate struggle, and Gautran, despite his boast to the Advocate, found that he had met more than his match. He was beaten to the ground, lifted, and thrown into the air, as he had thrown the child. He rose, bruised and bleeding, and was slinking off, when the man cried:
"Holy Mother! it is the murderer, Gautran!"
Some labourers who were coming across the fields, were attracted by the scuffle, and the father called out to them:
"Here is Gautran the murderer, and he has tried to murder my child!"
This was enough for them. They were armed with reaping-hooks, and they raced towards Gautran with loud threats. They chased him for full a mile, but he was fleeter of foot than they, and despair gave him strength. He escaped them, and sank, panting, to the ground.
The Advocate had spoken truly. There was no safety for him. He was known for miles round, and the people were eager for vengeance. He would hide in the woods for the rest of the day. There was but one means of escape for him. He must seek some distant spot, where he and his crime were unknown. But to get there he would be compelled to pass through villages in which he would be recognised. It was necessary that he should disguise himself. In what way could this be done? He pondered upon it for hours. In the afternoon he heard the muttering of the thunder in the distant mountains.
"There's a storm coming," he said, and he raised his burning face to meet the welcome rain. But only a few heavy drops fell, and the wind moaned through the woods as if in pain. Night stole upon him swiftly, and wrapt him in horrible darkness. He bit his lips, he clenched his hands, his body shook with fear. Solitude was worse than death to him. He tried to sleep; in vain. Terrible images crowded upon him. Company he must have, at all hazards. Suddenly he thought of John Vanbrugh, the man he had met the night before on the hill not far from the Advocate's house. This man had not avoided him. He would seek him again, and, if he found him, would pass the night with him. So resolving, he walked with feverish steps towards the hill on which John Vanbrugh was keeping watch.
The distance was longer than Gautran had calculated, and he did not shorten it by the devious tracks he took in his anxiety to avoid meeting with his enemies. The rainstorm still kept off, but, in spite of the occasional flashes of lightning, the darkness seemed to grow thicker and thicker, and he frequently missed his way. He kept on doggedly, however, and although the shadow of his crime waited upon his steps, and made itself felt in the sighing and moaning of the wind, in the bending of every branch, and in the fluttering of every leaf, the craving for human companionship in which there was something of sympathy, and from which he would not be hunted like a dog, imbued him with courage to fight these terrors. Often, indeed, did he pause and threaten with fearful words the spectre of the girl he had murdered; and sometimes he implored her to leave him, and told her he was going to pay for masses for the repose of her soul. Occasionally he was compelled to take the high road, and then he was grateful for the darkness, for it prevented his face from being seen. At those times he slunk close to the hedges, as though dreading that the slightest contact with a human being would lead to discovery. Terrible as the night was to him, he feared the approach of day, when it would be more difficult to conceal himself from his pursuers. He knew that his life was not safe while he remained in this fatal neighbourhood. He must escape, and in disguise, before he was many hours older. How was this to be accomplished? Once, in the roadway, he followed with stealthy steps two men who were conversing. He would have avoided them, as he had avoided others, had it not been that he heard his name mentioned, and was morbidly curious to hear what they were saying about him.
Said one: "I have not set eyes upon this man-monster, but I shall know him if I meet him in the light."
To which the other replied: "How will you manage that, if you have never seen his face?"
"You ask a foolish question. Have not full descriptions of the murderer been put about everywhere? His features, the colour of his hair, his clothes, from his cap to his boots--all is known. His face he might disguise by a slash of his knife, if he has courage enough for it, or he might stain it--and in that way, too, he might change the colour of his hair. But his clothes would remain. The shirt he wears is one in a thousand, and there's no mistaking it. It is blue, with broad yellow bands, which encircle his villainous body like rings. Let him get another shirt if he can. The country is aroused for twenty miles round, and men are resolved to take justice into their own hands. The law has allowed him to slip through its fingers; he shall not slip through ours. Why, he said to a woman this morning that he would know how to serve her if he had her alone, and not long afterwards he tried to murder a child! Shall such a monster be allowed to remain at liberty to strike women down and murder the helpless? No--we don't intend to let him escape. Men are on the watch for him everywhere, and when he is caught he will be beaten to death, or hung upon the nearest tree. There is another end for him, if he chooses to take it. He can hide in the woods and starve, and when his body is found, we'll drive a stake through it. Take my word for it, Gautran, the murderer, has not long to live."
Gautran shook with fear and rage.
"I could spring upon them with my knife," he thought, "but they are two to one."
And then, when the men were out of hearing, he shook his fist at them, and muttered:
"Curse you! I will cheat you yet!"
But how? The description given of his shirt was a faithful one; the broad yellow bands were there, and he remembered that, two days before the end of his trial, the gaolers had taken it from his cell in the night, and returned it to him in the morning, washed, with the yellow colour brighter than it had been for months. He knew now that this had been done out of malice, in case he should be acquitted, so that he might be the more readily recognised and shunned, or the more easily tracked and caught if he was again wanted. There loomed upon him a way to foil those who had vowed to kill him. The man he was seeking had spoken in a reckless manner; he had complained of the world, and was doubtless in want of money. He had gold which the Advocate had given him; he would offer to buy the man's clothes, and would give him his own, and one, two, or even three gold pieces in exchange; An easy thing to accomplish. But if the man would not consent to the bargain! He smiled savagely, and felt the edge of his knife. He was thoroughly desperate. He would sacrifice a thousand lives to save his own.
Out of this murderous alternative--and out of the words uttered by the man he had overheard, "His face he might disguise by a slash of his knife if he has courage for it"--grew ideas which, as he plodded on gradually arranged themselves into a scheme which would ensure him an almost sure escape from those who had leagued themselves against him. Its entire success depended upon certain physical attributes in John Vanbrugh--but he would risk it even if these were not as he wished them to be. The plan was horrible in its design, and needed strength and cunning. He had both, and would use them without mercy, to ensure his safety. John Vanbrugh, with whose name he was not acquainted, was probably a stranger in the locality; something in Vanbrugh's speech caused him to suspect this. He would assure himself first of the fact, and then the rest was easy. Vanbrugh was about his own height and build; he had stood by his side and knew this to be so. Gautran should die this night in the person of another man, and should be found in the morning, murdered, with features so battered as to defy recognition. But he would be attired in Gautran's clothes, and would by those means be instantly identified. Then he, the true Gautran, would be forever safe. In John Vanbrugh's garments he could make his way to a distant part of the country, and take another name. No one would suspect him, for Gautran would be dead; and he would buy masses for the repose of Madeline's soul, and so purge himself of blood-guiltiness. As to this second contemplated crime he gave it no thought, except that it was necessary, and must be done.
Within half an hour of midnight he arrived at the hill, and saw the shadow of a man who was leaning against a tree. Gautran had been walking for nearly three hours, and during the whole time the storm of thunder and lightning had continued at intervals, now retreating, now advancing; but its full force had been spent many miles away, and it did not seem likely to approach much nearer to the House of White Shadows.
"The man is there," muttered Gautran, "with his face still towards the Advocate's window. What is his purpose?"
He was curious about that, too, and thought he would endeavour to ferret it out. It might be useful to him in the future, for it concerned the Advocate. There was plenty of time before him to accomplish his own murderous design.
John Vanbrugh heard Gautran's footsteps.
"Who comes this way?" he cried.
"A friend," replied Gautran.
"That is easily said," cried Vanbrugh. "I am not in a trustful mood. Hold off a bit, or I may do you mischief."
"Do you not know me?" asked Gautran, approaching closer, and measuring himself with the dark form of Vanbrugh. They were of exactly the same height.
"What, Gautran!" exclaimed Vanbrugh in a gay tone.
"Yes, Gautran."
"Welcome, friend, welcome," said Vanbrugh, with a laugh. "Give me your hand. Veritable flesh and blood. You have a powerful grip, Gautran. I thought we should meet again. What caused you to make yourself scarce so suddenly last night? You vanished like a cloud."
"I had business to do. Have you got any more of that brandy about you?"
"I am not sure whether you deserve it. After emptying my flask, you may make off again. A poor return for hospitality, my friend."
"I promise to remain with you--it is what I came for--if you give me brandy."
"I take your word," said Vanbrugh, producing a flask. "Drink, but not too greedily."
Gautran took a long draught and returned the flask, saying, "You have no food, I suppose?"
"Why, yes, I have. Warned by previous experiences I supplied myself liberally for this night's watch. I'll not refuse you, though I spent my last franc on it."
"Ah," said Gautran, with some eagerness, for an amicable exchange of clothing would render the more villainous part of his task easier of accomplishment, "you are poor, then?"
"Poor? Yes, but not for long, Gautran. The days of full purses are coming. Here is the food. Eat, rogue, eat. It is honest bread and meat, bought and paid for; but none the sweeter for that. We know which fruit is the sweetest. So you had business to do when you took French leave of me! How runs the matter? I had just pointed out the Advocate's window to you--your own special Advocate, my friend, to whom you have so much reason to be grateful--when you disappeared like an arrow from a bow. What follows then? That, leaving me so abruptly, your business was important, and that it concerned the Advocate. Right or wrong, rogue?"
"Right," replied Gautran, as he devoured the food.
"Come, that's candid of you, and spoken like a friend. You did not know, before I informed you, that he lived in the villa yonder?"
"I did not."
"I begin to have hopes of you. And learning it from me, you made up your mind on the spur of the moment--your business being so important--to pay him a friendly visit, despite the strangeness of the hour for a familiar call?"
"You've hit it," said Gautran.
John Vanbrugh pondered a while. These direct answers, given without hesitation, puzzled him. He had expected to meet with prevarication, and he was receiving, instead, straightforward confidence.
"You are not afraid," he said, "to speak the truth to me, Gautran?"
"I am not."
"But I am a stranger to you."
"That's true."
"Why, then, do you confide in me?"
It was Gautran's turn now to pause, but he soon replied, with a sinister look which John Vanbrugh, in the darkness, could not see:
"Because, after what passes between us this night, I am sure you will not betray me."
"Good," said Vanbrugh; "then it is plain you sought me deliberately, because you think I can in some way serve you."
"Yes, because you can in some way serve me--that is why I am here."
"Then you intend to hide nothing from me?"
"Nothing--for the reason I have given."
A flash of lightning seemed to strike the spot on which he and Gautran were conversing, and he waited for the thunder. It came--long, deep, and threatening.
"There is a terrible storm somewhere," he said.
"It does not matter," rejoined Gautran, with a shudder, "so long as a man is not alone. Don't mind my coming so close. I have walked many a mile to find you. I have not a friend in the world but you."
"Not even the Advocate?"
"Not even him. He will see me no more."
"He told you that last night?"
"Yes."
"But how did you get to him, Gautran? You did not enter by the gates."
"No; I dropped over the wall at the back. Tell me. It is but fair; I answer you honestly enough. What are you watching his house for? A man does not do as you are doing, on such black nights as this, for idle pastime."
"No, indeed, Gautran! I also have business with him. And strangely enough, you, whom I met in the flesh for the first time within these last twenty-four hours, are indirectly concerned in it."
"Am I? Strange enough, as you say. But it will not matter after to-night."
Some hidden meaning in Gautran's tone struck warningly upon John Vanbrugh, and caused him to bestow a clearer observance upon Gautran's movements from this moment.
"There is a thing I wish to know, Gautran," he said. "Between vagabonds like ourselves there is no need for concealment. It is a delicate question, but you have been so frank with me that I will venture to ask it. Besides, there are no witnesses, and you will not, therefore, incriminate yourself. This girl, Madeline, whose spirit follows you----"
Vanbrugh hesitated. The question he was about to ask trembled on his lips, and he scarcely knew how to give it shape in words that would not provoke an outbreak on the part of Gautran. He had no desire to come into open collision with this ruffian, of whose designs upon himself he was inwardly warned. Gautran, with brutal recklessness, assisted him.
"You want to know if I killed her?"
"Why, yes--though you put it roughly."
"What matter? Well, then, she died at my hands."
John Vanbrugh recoiled from the murderer in horror, and in a suppressed tone asked:
"When the Advocate defended you, did he know you were guilty?"
"Aye. We kept the secret to ourselves. It was cleverly worked, was it not?"
"And last night," continued John Vanbrugh, "he received you in his study?"
"Aye--and gave me liquor, and food, and money. Listen to it." He rattled the gold pieces in the palms of his hands. "Look you. I have answered questions enough. I answer no more for a while. It is my turn now."
"Proceed, Gautran," said Vanbrugh; "I may satisfy you or not, according to my whim."
"You'll satisfy me, or I'll know the reason why. There is no harm in what I am going to say. You are a stranger in these parts--there is no offence in that, is there?"
"None. Yes, I am a stranger in these parts. Heavens! what a flash! The storm is coming nearer."
"All the better. You will hardly believe that I have been bothering myself about the colour of your hair. I hate red-haired men. Yours, now. Is there any offence in asking the colour of it?"
"None. My hair is black."
Gautran's eyes glittered and a flash of lightning illuminated his face, and revealed to Vanbrugh the savage and ruthless look which shone there.
"And your height and build, about the same as mine," said Gautran. "Let us strike a bargain. I have gold--you have none. I have taken a fancy to your clothes; I will buy them of you. Two gold pieces in exchange for them, and mine thrown in."
"The clothes of a murderer," said Vanbrugh, slowly retreating as Gautran advanced upon him. "Thank you for nothing. Not for two hundred gold pieces, poor as I am. Keep off. Do not come so near to me."
"Why not? You are no better than I. Three gold pieces! That should content you."
"You have my answer, Gautran. Leave me, I have had enough of you."
"You will have had more than enough before I have done with you," said Gautran, and Vanbrugh was satisfied now, from the man's brutal tones, that it was a deadly foe who stood within a few inches of him, "if you do not do as I bid you. Say, done and done; you had better. By fair means or foul I mean to have what I want."
"Not by fair means, you murderous villain. Be warned. I am on my guard."
"If you will have it, then!" cried Gautran, and with a savage shout he threw himself upon Vanbrugh.
So sudden and fierce was the attack that Vanbrugh could not escape from it; but although he was no match for Gautran in strength, he had had, in former years, some experience in wrestling which came to his aid now in this terrible crisis. The struggle that ensued was prolonged and deadly, and while the men were locked in each other's arms, the storm broke immediately over their heads. The thunder pealed above them, the lightning played about their forms.
"You villain!" gasped Vanbrugh, as he felt himself growing weaker. "Have you been paid by the Advocate to do this deed?"
"Yes," answered Gautran, between his clenched teeth; "he is the fiend's agent, and I am his! He bade me kill you. Your last moment has come!"
"Not yet," cried Vanbrugh, and by a supreme and despairing effort he threw Gautran clear from him, and stood again on the defensive.
Simultaneously with the movement a flash of forked lightning struck the tree against which Vanbrugh had been leaning when Gautran first accosted him, and cleft it in twain; and as Gautran was about to spring forward, a huge mass of timber fell upon him with fatal force, and bore him to the earth--where he lay imprisoned, crushed and bleeding to death.