CHAPTER XIV
THE OLD-IRON SHOP
An enormous yellow and black coach lumbered and strained along by theaid of six lean horses, and many elaborate springs, chains and straps,from Brittany towards Paris. The autumn roads were execrable, for therains had been heavy, and the ruts made by the harvest-waggons weredeep. The lateness of the season intensified the deserted look of ruralFrance. Little else was to be seen along most of the route than rows ofpolled trees lining the highway, and here and there an old castle on ahill, or a _commune_ of a few whitewashed cottages, where the coachwould pull up at the inn and perhaps change horses. The driver and guardremained the same; but various postillions took charge and then gave uptheir charges to others. Travellers of assorted ranks and occupationsgot in and out. Of the twelve for whom there were places in the coachsome remained during long distances, some shorter, but only one wasfaithful from Brittany to the end. He was a short-statured, country_bourgeois_, whose woollen stockings and faded hat gave to him a certainlook of non-importance. Moreover, he was always wrapped unsociably in abrown cloak, of which he kept a fold over his lower face, and in whichhe snored in his corner even when all the others jumped up to escape anupset.
After several days the aspect of the country suddenly changed. Immensewoods and parks rendered it even more solitary, yet strange to say theincreased solitude was evidence that the hugest capital in Europe wasnear, for these were the hunting domains of the princes of the blood andgreat courtiers, which encircled Paris.
During the night there was another sudden change. The forest solitudesdisappeared, the horses sped forward on fine broad roads; and soon thecoach dashed with a triumphant blast into the lights and stir ofVersailles, crossed its Place d'Armes and turned again into darknessalong the Avenue of Paris.
At length, in the first grey of morning, it rumbled loudly over astretch of cobbled pave, and pulled up at an iron railing inside theCity wall. Here the officers of the municipal customs came out. One ofthe first passengers visited was the _bourgeois_, and his dingy blackbox and sleepy expression received exceptionally contemptuous usage.
"Haste, beast, open it! Dost thou think I have to wait all day? Takethat," and the gendarme struck him a tap on the side with the flat ofhis sword.
For a second the _bourgeois_ seemed another man. He drew up with such aninhuman gleam in his cadaverous eyes that the customs man drew back.
"Quick, then, a little," said the latter in something of an apologetictone. The short man as rapidly recovered his self-possession. He leeredin a conciliatory way upon the official and pressed a livre into hispalm. The official passed the box through the gate. The coach proceededinto the City until it arrived at its heart and stopped at the entranceof that great and wide bridge, the Pont Neuf, the main artery of Paris,where most of the passengers alighted. They found themselves engulfedin a yelling multitude of porters, who scrambled for passengers andbaggage as if they would tear both to pieces, which indeed they had nogreat aversion to doing.
The _bourgeois_ singled out a tall man who had mingled in the scrimmageas if only for his amusement. Cuffing the others aside like puppies withhis long arms, the latter lifted the black box out of the tussle andstarted away, followed by its owner. They plunged into that maze oftall, narrow, medieval streets of older Paris which Meryon loved topicture before they disappeared in the improvements of Napoleon. Theycrossed the Latin Quarter and thence wending eastward, entered finallythe Quarter of St. Marcel, the wretchedest of the city, and came into alane named the Street of the Hanged Man; where dilapidated rookeriesleaned across at each other, their upper floors occupied by swarms ofhuman beings. The _bourgeois_ here stopped alongside his porter andspoke to him in the tone of an intimate.
"Is it far now, Hache? It is already some distance from the old place."
"Here we are; come in quick," replied Hache. He was a bold-looking,black-haired man, red-faced, unshaven, and battered with the effects ofbrandy-drinking.
They turned into a grimy old-iron shop. A woman sitting in a cornerfixed her eyes upon them like a watch-dog. They stumbled through,climbed a dark stair, and entered a room where the traveller, withoutspeaking to a man who lay there on a bench, locked the door, and Hachedropped the box on the table with a thud, shaking off a cap and bottlewhich were on it.
The man on the bench started at the noise, and got up on his elbow, hiseyes opening with an effort.
"Great God, the Admiral!" he exclaimed.
The _bourgeois_ had thrown off his hat, wig, and cloak. He was thevisitor to the cavern of Fontainebleau.
"It is I, Gougeon," he returned, his death's-head face smiling.
Gougeon wore the garb of an old-iron gatherer. His countenance wasunkempt, pale, scowling, with black eyes embedded in it, his hair coarseand long, his mouth hard and drooping. He pushed back the grey _tuque_with which his head had been covered, and without readdressing theAdmiral, got up, slowly unwound the cords which bound the black box, andraised the lid. Hache looked on.
Gougeon first took out a couple of coarse articles of clothing, anduttered a grunt. His next grasp brought up a brilliant article ofapparel. He raised it to examine it at the window. The garment shoneeven in the meagre light. It was a waistcoat of flowered silk, sown withseed-pearls. The Admiral stood by, smiling.
With the other hand Gougeon pulled out and lifted a magnificentrose-coloured dress-coat with silver buttons.
Having gazed at them all round and grunted to his own satisfaction andto that of Hache, he dived again into the box, where he fumbled around alarge lump covered with linen, and at length drew out a shiningarticle--a golden _soleil_, or sun-shaped stand for displaying the Hostat the mass. Beside it was a finely embossed chalice of silver. His eyesand those of Hache were lost in wonder.
There came just then a tap at the door.
The articles were whipped back into their box and covered. The woman ofthe shop below walked in. All recovered self-possession. She bolted thedoor herself.
Gougeon's mate, who thus appeared among them, was a small woman of aboutforty, with the sharp grey eyes of a wild animal.
The coat and vessels were displayed to her by her husband.
"Admiral," she said, "where do these come from?"
The chief seemed to recognise in her a personage equal to himself. Hebowed and said--
"Madame, the _soleil_ and chalice were the Abbey of Pontcalec's, andwere politely removed for safe-keeping by seven marines of theGalley-on-land."
"And this fine waistcoat?" said Madame, smiling.
"Was one of which the owner had no longer need," he said, looking ather.
"Indeed," she returned nonchalantly.
"It was a troublesome marquis who ventured home one night by a shortcut. He was one of the fellows who does not believe in the necessity ofa poor man living. He saw a fire of ours in the waste, and what does hedo but ride up and over us. Luckily there is no blood on the waistcoat."
Madame's smile expanded. She looked the article over, picked theseed-pearls and lace with her little skinny hands, turned out thepockets, and inspected the flower-pattern of the silk.
Gougeon held the glittering _soleil_ fast in his hands. He could notkeep his scowling eyes off it. Hache took up the bottle from the floor,and poured some wine into the chalice, whence he drank it off. Madamelifted the dress-coat, and inspected it with the same feminine closenessas the vest.
"It is a good package," remarked she.
"You have not seen all," vivaciously replied the Admiral, and diving hishand into the box he drew forth and opened the black kerchief of thecave of Fontainebleau. Gougeon's hand snatched the watch of the Princede Poix. Hache caught up the chalice, and executed a jig round the roomwhile drinking it empty; and Madame arranged her neck to greatself-satisfaction with Cyrene's necklace, while the Admiral told with nosmall exaggeration the story connected with the plunder.
"This brings us," he continued, "to the object of my coming. Bec, Caron,and la Tour, the three taken in the cave, are now in Pa
ris imprisoned inthe Little Chatelet. What can be done for them?"
"Nothing," answered Gougeon.
"Be still," enjoined his wife, flashing her eyes at him.
"Were it I, I would go to the galleys and get away just as I didbefore," exclaimed Hache.
"Hache, you have no head."
"Not so good as yours, wife Gougeon, I admit; but I escaped from thegalleys."
"To force the guards is impossible," said she speculating. "Who are thewitnesses?"
"I fear they are out of the question."
"Who are they?"
"The Prince de Poix."
"He will not appear in the matter. It is not like your provincialtribunals."
"Several gendarmes."
"They have their price."
"Granted; but another remains, a bad one."
"Who?"
"The aristocrat who fell into the cave. He is near us."
"His name?"
"Repentigny."
"I will do what I can. We shall see what the Galley is good for inParis."