Chapter XXV
Paris Again
"Le courage commence l'oeuvre et ... "
The same afternoon John Turner and I quitted Hopton. I with a heavyenough heart, which, _d'ailleurs_, I always carried when leavingLucille. There was, however, work to be done, and a need for instantaction is one of the surest antidotes to sad thought. I was engaged,moreover, in affairs intimately concerning Lucille. A man, it appears,whose heart is taken from him, is best employed in doing something forthe woman who has it. No other occupation will fully satisfy him.
We journeyed to London, and there took the night train to Paris,crossing the Channel in a boat crowded with Frenchmen, who hadcontented themselves with deploring their country's evil day fromacross seas. As we drove through the streets of Paris in the earlymorning, John Turner sat looking out of the window of a cab. Never,surely, has a city been so wasted and destroyed.
"The d----d fools; the d----d fools!" my companion muttered under hisbreath. And I believe the charred walls of each ruined landmark burntinto his soul.
I left John Turner in his rooms in the Avenue d'Antan, whereeverything seemed to be in order, and drove across to the Quartier St.Germain. It was my intention to dwell in the Hotel Clericy until thathouse could be made habitable for the ladies. The _concierge_, Ifound, had been killed in one of the sorties, and his wife had, withthe quick foresight of her countrywomen, secured the safety of thehouse by letting a certain portion of it in apartments to the officersof the National Guard as soon as the Commune was declared.
These gentlemen (one arrogant captain, I was informed, sold cat's meatin times of peace) had lived with a fine military freedom, and leftmarks of their boots on all the satin chairs. They had made a practiceof throwing cigar ends and matches on the carpets, had stabbed a fewpictures and bespattered the walls with wine, but a keen regard fortheir own comfort had prevented further wanton damage, and all couldbe repaired within a few days.
The woman made me some coffee, and while I was drinking it brought mea telegram.
"Sander wires that he has run Miste to earth in Nice. Wait for me. Ifollow by day mail."
The message was from Alphonse Giraud.
I laboured all day in Madame's interests, and re-engaged some of theservants who had been scattered by the war and Commune, and a fear,perhaps, of acknowledging any sympathy for the nobility.
In the evening I met Alphonse Giraud on his arrival at the Gare duNord, and found him in fine feather, carrying a stick of British oak,which he had bought, he told me, for Miste's back.
"It will not be a matter of hitting each other with walking sticks," Ianswered.
We drove across to the Lyons station, and took the night mail toMarseilles. It was my second night out of bed. But I was hardy inthose days, and can still thank God that I am stronger than many of mycontemporaries.
"Confound you!" cried Alphonse to me the next morning as the trainraced down the valley of the Loire. "You have slept all night!"
"Of course."
"And I not a wink--when each moment brings us nearer to Miste. You areno sportsman after all, Dick."
"He is the best sportsman who has the coolest head," replied I,sleepily.
We arrived at Nice in the afternoon. The very pavement smelt of heat.At the station a man came up to me, and, raising his hat, spoke myname. He handed me a letter, which I read then and there.
"The bearer is watching Miste in Nice. I am going to stop the passagesby Ventimiglia and the Col di Tende. Miste has evidently appointed tomeet his confederate at Genoa. Two passages have been taken on thesteamer sailing Saturday thence to Buenos Ayres."
The letter was unsigned, but the handwriting that of my astute agent,Sander. Things were beginning to look black for Monsieur Miste. I sawplainly enough that Sander was thinking only of the money, and meantto catch both the thieves. The bearer of the letter, who was aFrenchman, said that he had his eye on Miste, who was staying in theold inn of the Chapeau Rouge at the top of the Quai Massena, andpassed for a commercial traveller there.
"Monsieur must not molest my charge," he said. "Mr. Sander has soordered. It is probable that Miste has in his possession only aportion of the money."
"ARE WE MEN?" RETORTED ALPHONSE, IN RESPONSE, AS HEWRESTLED WITH HIS SHIRT COLLAR, "OR ARE WE SCHOOLGIRLS? TELL ME THAT,MR. THE POLICEMAN!"]
We went to the Hotel des Anglais, and there wrote fictitious names inthe police register; for it was impossible to be too careful.Alphonse, in his zeal, would have written himself down an Englishmanhad I not remonstrated, and told him that the ordinary housefly couldhave in its mind no doubt as to his nationality. So he borrowed thename of a friend who had gone to Pondicherry. Our orders were to keepwithin the hotel garden, and thus in masterly inactivity we passed theafternoon and evening. The heat was intense, and the gay towndeserted. Indeed, one half of the shops were closed.
I went to bed early, and was already asleep when a great rappingaroused me. It was Sander's colleague, who came into my room, anddismissed the waiter who had brought him thither. Alphonse, aroused bythe clamour, appeared on the scene, making use of a door ofcommunication connecting our rooms.
"Quick, Messieurs!" the man said. "Into your clothes. I will tell youmy news as you dress. My man," he went on, acting valet as he spoke,"has left by the night diligence for St. Martin Lantosque. But, tellme, are these gentlemen good for forty miles on horseback to-night?"
"Are we men?" retorted Alphonse, in response, as he wrestled with hisshirt collar, "or are we schoolgirls? Tell me that, Mr. the Policeman!"
"You can only hope to do it on horseback," continued the man. "It issixty kilometres, and for thirty of them you mount. No carriageascends at the trot. The diligence is the quickest on the road. Itproceeds at the trot where the hired carriages go at a snail's pace.You hire horses--they are your own. You beat them--_hein_!"
And he made a gesture descriptive of a successful and timely arrival.
"It is my custom," he went on, confidentially, "to make sure that mypatients are comfortably in bed at night. I go this evening to theChapeau Rouge--Monsieur knows the house--facing the river; wineexcellent--drainage leaves to be desired. Well, I find our friend isabsent--has taken his luggage. He has vanished--_Pfui_! I know he issafe at eight o'clock--at ten he is gone. There are no trains. Thisman wants to get to Italy, I know. There is no boat. One way remains.To take the diligence to St. Martin Lantosque, five miles from thefrontier, at the head of the valley of the Vesubie--to walk over thepass; it is but a footpath, and now buried under the snow--to reachthe wildest part of northern Italy, and, if the good God so will it,arrive at Entraque. Thence by way of Cuneo and Savona one takes thetrain to Genoa. I inquire at the diligence office. It is as Isuspected. Miste is in the diligence. He is now"--the man paused toconsult his watch--"between La Tourette and Levens. It is 11:30. Thediligence was twenty minutes late in starting. Our friend has twohours and ten minutes start of these gentlemen."
By way of reply we made greater haste, and, in truth, were aidedtherein by our new ally, who, if he possessed a busy tongue, hadfingers as active.
"The horses," he continued, "await us in the Rue Paradis, just behindhere--a quiet street--good horses of two comrades of mine in themounted gendarmerie who are away on furlough. If necessary, you canleave them at the Hotel des Alpes, at St. Martin, and write me word.If the horses come to harm, I know these gentlemen will not let mycomrades suffer."
Here Alphonse, who had borrowed the money from me earlier in the day,produced two notes of five hundred francs, and pressed themunavailingly on the agent.
As we walked rapidly towards the Rue Paradis, our masterful friendgave us particulars of the road.
"It is," he said, "the route de Levens. Monsieur knows it--well, nomatter! They say it was built hundreds of years before the Romanscame. One ascends this bank of the river until the road divides, thento the left through the village of St. Andre. After two kilometres onefinds one's self in a gorge--the cliffs on either side of many hundredf
eet. There are places where the sunlight never enters. It is anascent always--follows La Tourette, a fortified village high above theroad on the right. Then the road becomes dangerous. There are placesbetween Levens and St. Jean de la Riviere where to make a false stepis to fall a thousand feet. One hears the Vesubie roaring far below,but the river is invisible--it is dark even at midday. The greatcliffs are unbroken by a tree or a pathway. This is the Col du Dragon,a great height. In descending one passes through a long tunnel cut inthe rock, and that is half-way. At St. Jean de la Riviere you willfind yourselves in the valley of the Vesubie. Here, again, one mountscontinually by the side of the river. The road is a dangerous one, forthere are landslips and chutes of stone--at times the whole roadway isswept down into the river."
The man, with the quick gestures of his people, described all sographically that I could see the road and its environments as hetraversed it in imagination.
"Before long, however, one sees Venanson," he went on, "a church andvillage on a point of rock far above the river. At a turn of the roadVenanson is left behind; and in front, three thousand feet above thesea, surrounded by snow mountains, lies St. Martin Lantosque. The airis cold, the people are different from the Nicois--it is anotherworld. These gentlemen have a wonderful ride before them, and there isa moon. If I were a younger man--but there! I am married, and havetwo children. Also I am afraid of my wife. Mon Dieu! I make noconcealment of it. My comrades know that I fear nothing that comes inthe way of our business; but I tremble before my wife--a little womanas high as my elbow. What will you? A tongue!--_Pstt_!"
And with his forefinger he described in the air the descent of a forkof lightning.
"These are the horses, gentlemen."
And indeed he had done us well.
"Your comrades," I said, "must be fine fellows," as I climbed up theside of a horse as tall as one of my own hunters at home.
We were soon on the road, which was plain enough, and Alphonse hadcrammed a handful of the hotel matches into his pocket in case weshould have to climb the sign posts.
My companion, it may be imagined, was in high good humour, and sat onthe top of his great charger in a state of ebullient excitement worthyof a schoolboy on his first mount.
"Ah!" he cried, as we clattered along the dusty road before the greatmad-house, "this is sport, my friend. Surely, fox-hunting cannot beatthis?"
"'Tis rather like riding to covert, but we cannot tell what sport thisfox will give us."
The police horses were heavy footed, and wore part of theirprofessional accoutrement, so we made a military clatter whichobviously pleased the brave soul of my companion.
We had to make all speed, and yet spare no care, for should we make afalse turn there would be no stopping Monsieur Miste on this side ofthe frontier. There were, fortunately, many carts on the road withteams of four or five horses, carrying vast loads of produce from theoutlying villages to Nice. Of the drivers of these we made carefulinquiries, though we often had to wake them for the purpose, as theylay asleep on the top of the load of hay or straw. One of these menthanked us for arousing him, and would have detained us to relate atale of some carter who, at a spot called the "Saut du Francais," hadbeen thrown thus, as he slept, from the summit of his hay cart, andwas broken to pieces on the rock two thousand feet below.
As we topped the Col du Dragon the day broke, and lighted up the whitepeaks in front of us with a pink glow. The vast snow-capped range of theAlpes Maritimes was stretched out before us like a panorama--behind usthe Mediterranean lay in a blue and perfect peace. The air was cool andclear as spring water.
Alphonse Giraud pulled off his hat as he looked around him.
"Blessed Name," he cried, "what a world the good God made when He wasbusy with it."
Our horses threw up their heads, and answered to the voice with awillingness that made us wish we had a shorter journey before us.
At St. Jean de la Riviere we rested them for fifteen minutes. Thevillagers were already astir, and we learnt that we had as yet gainedonly half an hour on the diligence.
There was no doubt about the road now, for we were enclosed in anarrow valley, with only the great thoroughfare built above the river,and that not too securely. We made good speed, and soon sightedVenanson, a queer village perched above all vegetation on the spur ofa mountain.
At a turn of the road we seemed suddenly to quit France, and wheelinto Switzerland. The air was Alpine, and the vegetation that of thehigher valleys there. It was near seven o'clock when we approached St.Martin Lantosque, a quaint brown village of wood, clustering around adomed church.
We soon found the Hotel des Alpes, which was but a sorry inn of nogreat cleanliness. The proprietor, a white-faced man, watched usdescend without enthusiasm.
"What time did the diligence come in?" I asked him.
"These gentlemen have ridden," he said pleasantly.
He was joined at this moment by a person who seemed to be a waiter,though he was clad more like a stable help.
I repeated my question at a shout, and the attendant, placing his lipsagainst the innkeeper's ear, issued another edition of it in a voicethat awakened an echo far across the vale, and startled the tiredhorses.
"The patron is deaf," explained the servant.
"You don't say so," I answered.
We gave these people up as hopeless, and Alphonse had the brilliantidea of applying at the post-office across the way. Here we found anintelligent man. Miste had arrived by the diligence. He had sent atelegram to Genoa. He had posted a letter; and, after a hurriedbreakfast at the hotel, he had set off half an hour ago by the bridlepath to the Col di Finestra, alone and on foot.