IX
THE TRAGEDY AT THE "LOUP NOIR"
The Boy at the corner of the table flicked the ash of his cigar into thefire.
"Spiritualism is all rot!" he declared.
"I don't know," the Host reflected thoughtfully. "One hears queerstories sometimes."
"Which reminds me----" started the Bore.
But before he could proceed any further the little French Judgeruthlessly cut him short.
"Bah!" Contempt and geniality were mingled in his tone. "Who are we,poor ignorant worms, that we should dare to say 'is' or 'is not'? YourShakespeare, he was right! 'There are more things in heaven and earth,Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!'"
The faces of the four Englishmen instantly assumed that peculiarlystolid expression always called forth by the mention of Shakespeare.
"But Spiritualism----" started the Host.
Again the little French Judge broke in:
"I who you speak, I myself know of an experience, of the mostremarkable, to this day unexplained save by Spiritualism, Occultism,what you will! You shall hear! The case is one I conductedprofessionally some two years ago, though, of course, the events which Inow tell in their proper sequence, came out only in the trial. I stringthem together for you, yes?"
The Bore, who fiercely resented any stories except his own, gave vent toa discontented grunt; the other three prepared to listen carefully. Fromthe drawing-room, whither the ladies had retired after dinner, soundedthe far-away strains of a piano. The little French Judge held out hisglass for a creme de menthe; his eyes were sparkling with suppressedexcitement; he gazed deep into the shining green liquid as if seeingtherein a moving panorama of pictures, then he began:
On a dusky autumn evening, a young man, tall, olive-skinned, trampsalong the road leading from Paris to Longchamps. He is walking with aquick, even swing. Now and again a hidden anxiety darkens his face.
Suddenly he branches off to the left; the path here is steep and muddy.He stops in front of a blurred circle of yellow light; by this can onefaintly perceive the outlines of a building. Above the narrow doorwayhangs a creaking sign which announces to all it may concern that this isthe "Loup Noir," much sought after for its nearness to the racecourseand for its excellent _menage_.
"_Voila!_" mutters our friend.
On entering, he is met by the burly innkeeper, a shrewd enough fellow,who has seen something of life before settling down in Longchamps. Theyoung man glances past him as if seeking some other face, thenrecollecting himself demands shelter for the night.
"I greatly fear----" began the innkeeper, then pauses, struck by anidea. "Hola, Gaston! Have monsieur and madame from number fourteen yetdeparted?"
"Yes, monsieur; already early this morning; you were at the market, soMademoiselle settled the bill."
"Mademoiselle Jehane?" the stranger looks up sharply.
"My niece, monsieur; you have perhaps heard of her, for I see by youreasel you are an artist. She is supposed to be of a rare beauty; I thinkit myself." Jean Potin keeps up a running flow of talk as he conductshis visitor down the long bare passages, past blistered yellow doors.
"It is a double room I must give you, vacated, as you heard, but thisvery morning. They were going to stay longer, Monsieur and MadameGuillaumet, but of a sudden she changed her mind. Oh, she was of atemper!" Potin raises expressive eyes heavenwards. "It is ever so whenMay weds with December."
"He was much older than his wife, then?" queries the artist, politelyfeigning an interest he is far from feeling.
"_Mais non, parbleu!_ It was she who was the older--by some fifteenyears; and not a beauty. But rich--he knew what he was about, giving hissmooth cheek for her smooth louis!"
Left alone, Lou Arnaud proceeds to unpack his knapsack; he lingers overit as long as possible; the task awaiting him below is no pleasant one.Finally he descends. The small smoky _salle a manger_ is full of people.There is much talk and laughter going on; the clatter of knives andforks. At the desk near the door, a young girl is busy with theaccounts. Her very pale gold hair, parted and drawn loosely back overthe ears, casts a faint shadow on her pure, white skin. Arnaud, as hechooses a seat, looks at her critically.
"Bah, she is insignificant!" he thinks. "What can have possessedClaude?"
Suddenly she raises her eyes. They meet his in a long, steady gaze. Thenonce again the lids are lowered.
The artist sets down his glass with a hand that shakes. He is notimaginative, as a rule, but when one sees the soul of a mocking devillook out, dark and compelling, from the face of a Madonna, one isdisconcerted.
He wonders no more what had possessed Claude. On his way to the door afew moments later, he pauses at her desk.
"Monsieur wishes to order breakfast for to-morrow morning?"
"Monsieur wishes to speak with you."
She smiles demurely. Many have wished to speak with her. Arnaud divinesher thoughts.
"My name is Lou Arnaud!" he adds meaningly.
"Ah!" she ponders on this for an instant; then: "It is a warm night; ifyou will seat yourself at one of the little tables in the courtyard atthe back of the house, I will try to join you, when these pigs havefinished feeding." She indicates with contempt the noisily eating crowd.
They sit long at that table, for the man has much to tell of his youngbrother Claude; of the ruin she has made of his life; of the littlegreen devils that lurk in a glass of absinthe, and clutch their victim,and drag him down deeper, ever deeper, into the great, green abyss.
But she only laughs, this Jehane of the wanton eyes.
"But what do you want from me? I have no need of this Claude. Hewearies me--now!"
Arnaud springs to his feet, catching her roughly by the wrist. He loveshis young brother much. His voice is raised, attracting the notice oftwo or three groups who take coffee at the iron tables.
"You had need of him once. You never left him in peace till you hadsucked him of all that makes life good. If I could----"
Jean Potin appears in the doorway.
"Jehane, what are you doing out here? You know I do not permit it thatyou speak with the visitors. Pardon her, monsieur, she is but a child."
"A child?" The artist's brow is black as thunder. "She has wrecked alife, this child you speak of!"
He strides past the amazed innkeeper, up the narrow flight of stairs,and down the passage to his room.
Sitting on the edge of the huge curtained four-poster bed, he ponders onthe events of the evening.
But his thoughts are not all of Claude. That girl--that girl with herpale face and her pale hair, and eyes the grey of a storm cloud beforeit breaks, she haunts him! Her soft murmuring voice has stolen into hisbrain; he hears it in the drip, drip of the rain on the sill outside.
Soon heavy feet are heard trooping up the stairs; doors are heard tobang; cheery voices wish each other good-night. Then gradually thesounds die away. They keep early hours at the "Loup Noir"; it is not yetten o'clock.
Still Arnaud remains sitting on the edge of the bed; the dark plushcanopy overhead repels him, he does not feel inclined for sleep.Jehane! what a picture she would make! He _must_ paint her!
Obsessed by this idea, he unpacks a roll of canvas, spreads it on thetripod easel, and prepares crayons and charcoal; he will start thepicture as soon as it is day. He will paint her as Circe, mocking at hergrovelling herd of swine!
He creeps into bed and falls asleep.
* * * * *
Softly the rain patters against the window-pane.
A distant clock booms out eleven strokes.
Lou Arnaud raises his head. Then noiselessly he slides out of bed on thechill wooden boarding. As in a trance he crosses the room, seizescharcoal, and feverishly works at the blank canvas on the easel.
For twenty minutes his hand never falters, then the charcoal drops fromhis nerveless fingers! Groping his way with half-closed eyes back to thebed, he falls again into a heavy, dreamless slumber.
*
* * * *
The early morning sun chases away the raindrops of the night before.Signs of activity are abroad in the inn; the swish of brooms; the noisyclatter of pails. A warm aroma of coffee floats up the stairs and underthe door of number fourteen, awaking Arnaud to pleasant thoughts ofbreakfast. He is partly dressed before his eye lights on the canvas hehad prepared.
"_Nom de Dieu!_"
He falls back against the wall, staring stupefied at the picture beforehim. It is the picture of a girl, crouching in a kneeling position, allthe agony of death showing clearly in her upturned eyes. At her throat,cruelly, relentlessly doing their murderous work, are a pair ofhands--ugly, podgy hands, but with what power behind them!
The face is the face of Jehane--a distorted, terrified Jehane! Arnaudrecoils, covering his eyes with his hands. Who could have drawn thisunspeakable thing? He looks again closely; the style is his own! Thereis no mistaking those bold, black lines, that peculiar way of indicatingmuscle beneath the tightly stretched skin--it _is_ his own work!Anywhere would he have known it!
A knock at the door! Jean Potin enters, radiating cheerfulness.
"Breakfast in your room, monsieur? We are busy this morning; I share inthe work. Permit me to move the table and the easel--_Sacre-bleu!_"
Suddenly his rosy lips grow stern. "This is Jehane. Did she sit foryou--and when? You only came last night. What devil's work is this?"
"That is what I would like to find out; I know no more about it than youyourself. When I awoke this morning the picture was there!"
"Did you draw it?" suspiciously.
"Yes. At least, no! Yes, I suppose I did. But I----"
Potin clenches his fist: "I will have the truth from the girl herself!There is something here I do not like!" Roughly he pushes past theartist and mounts to Jehane's room.
She is not there, neither is she at her desk. Nor yet down in thevillage. They search everywhere; there is a hue and cry; people rush toand fro.
Then suddenly a shout; and a silence, a dreadful silence.
Something is carried slowly into the "Loup Noir." Something that wasfound huddled up in the shadow of the wall that borders the courtyard.Something with ugly purple patches on the white throat.
It is Jehane, and she is dead; strangled by a pair of hands that camefrom behind.
The story of the picture is rapidly passed from mouth to mouth. Peoplelook strangely at Lou Arnaud; they remember his loud, strained voice andthreatening gestures on the preceding night.
Finally he is arrested on the charge of murder.
* * * * *
I was the judge, gentlemen, on the occasion of the Arnaud trial.
The prisoner is questioned about the picture. He knows nothing; can tellnothing of how it came there. His fellow-artists testify to its beinghis work. From them also leaks out the tale of his brother Claude, ofthe latter's infatuation and ruin. No need now to explain the quarrel inthe courtyard. The accused has good reason to hate the dead girl.
The Avocat for the defence does his best. The picture is produced incourt; it creates a sensation.
If only Lou Arnaud could complete it--could sketch in the owner of thosemerciless hands. He is handed the charcoal; again and again he tries--invain.
The hands are not his own; but that is a small point in his favour. Whyshould he have incriminated himself by drawing his own hands? But again,why should he have drawn the picture at all?
There is nobody else on whom falls a shadow of suspicion. I sum upimpartially. The jury convict on circumstantial evidence, and I sentencethe prisoner to death.
A short time must elapse between the sentence and carrying it intoforce. The Avocat for the defence obtains for the prisoner a slightconcession; he may have picture and charcoal in his cell. Perhaps he canyet free himself from the web which has inmeshed him!
Arnaud tries to blot out thought by sketching in and erasing againfanciful figures twisted into a peculiar position; he cannot adjust thepose of the unknown murderer. So in despair he gives it up.
One morning, three days before the execution, the innkeeper comes tovisit him and finds him lying face downwards on the narrow pallet.Despite his own grief, he is sorry for the young man; nor is heconvinced in his shrewd bourgeois mind of the latter's guilt.
"You _must_ draw in the second figure," he repeats again and again. "Itis your last, your only chance! Think of the faces you saw at the 'LoupNoir.' Do none of them recall anything to you? You quarrelled withJehane in the garden about your brother. Then you went to your room. Oh,what did you think in your room?"
"I thought of your niece," responds Arnaud wildly. "How very beautifulshe was, and what a model she would make. Then I prepared a blankcanvas for the morning, and went to bed. When I woke up the picture wasthere."
"And you remember nothing more--nothing at all?" insists Jean Potin."You fell asleep at once? You heard no sound?"
Against the barred window of the cell the rain patters softly. A distantclock booms out eleven strokes.
Something in the artist's brain seems to snap. He raises his head. Heslides from the bed. As in a trance he crosses the cell, seizes a pieceof charcoal, and feverishly works at the picture on the easel!
Not daring to speak, Jean Potin watches him. The figure behind the handsgrows and grows beneath Arnaud's fingers.
A woman's figure!
Then the face: a coarse, malignant face, distorted by evil passions.
"Ah!"
It is a cry of recognition from the breathless innkeeper. It breaks thespell. The charcoal drops, and the prisoner, passing his hand across hiseyes, gazes bewildered at his own work.
"Who? What?"
"But I know her! It is the woman in whose room you slept! She wasstaying at the 'Loup Noir' the very night before you arrived, and sheleft that morning. She and her husband, Monsieur Guillaumet. But it isincredible if _she_ should have----"
I will be short with you, gentlemen. Madame Guillaumet was traced to herflat in Paris. Arnaud's Avocat confronted her with the now completedpicture. She was confounded--babbled like a mad woman--confessed!
A reprieve for further inquiry was granted by the State. Finally Arnaudwas cleared, and allowed to go free.
The motive for the murder? A woman's jealousy. Monsieur and MadameGuillaumet had been married only ten months. Her age was forty-nine; histwenty-seven. Every second of their married life was to her weightedwith intolerable suspicions; how soon would this young husband, so dearto her, forsake her for another, now that his debts were paid? It preyedupon her mind, distorting it, unbalancing it; each glance, each movementof his she exaggerated into an intrigue.
On their way to Paris they stayed a few days at the "Loup Noir"; CharlesGuillaumet was interested in racing. Also, he became interested in acertain Mdlle. Jehane. Madame, quick to see, insisted on an instantdeparture.
The evening of the day of their departure she missed her husband, andfound he had taken the car. Where should he have gone? Back to the inn,of course, only half-an-hour's run from Paris. She hired another car andfollowed him, driving it herself. It was not a pleasant journey. Thefirst car she discovered forsaken, about half-a-mile distant from theinn. Her own car she left beside it, and trudged the remaining distanceon foot.
The rest was easy.
Finding no sign of Guillaumet in front of the house, she stole round tothe back. There she found a door in the wall of the courtyard--a doorthat led into the lane. That door was slightly ajar. She slipped in andcrouched down in the shadow.
Yes, there they were, her husband and Jehane; the latter was laughing,luring him on--and she was young; oh, so young!
The woman watched, fascinated.
Charles bade Jehane good-bye, promising to come again. He kissed hertenderly, passed through the gate; his steps were heard muffled alongthe lane.
Jehane blew him a kiss, and then fastened the little door.
A distant clock boomed out eleven strokes, and a pair of hands stoler
ound the girl's throat, burying themselves deep, deep in the whiteflesh.
* * * * *
"And the husband, was he an accessory after the fact?" inquired the Boy.
"Possibly he guessed at the deed, yes; but, being a weakling, saidnothing for fear of implicating himself. It wasn't proved."
The Host moved uneasily in his chair.
"Do you mean to tell me that the mystery of the picture has never beencleared up?" he asked. "Could Arnaud have actually seen the murder fromhis window, and fixed it on the canvas?"
The little French Judge shook his head.
"Did I not tell you that his window faced front?" he replied. "No, thatpoint has not yet been explained. It is beyond us!"
He made a sweeping gesture, knocking over his liqueur glass; it fellwith a crash on the parquet floor.
The Bore woke with a start.
"And did they marry?" he queried.
"Who should marry?"
"That artist-chap and the girl--what was her name?--Jehane."
"Monsieur," quoth the little French Judge very gently and ironically, "Igrieve to state that was impossible, Jehane being dead."
The Boy at the corner of the table stood up and threw the stump of hiscigar into the fire.
"I think Spiritualism is all rot!" he declared.
MILLER, SON, & COMPY., LIMITED, PRINTERS, FAKENHAM AND LONDON.