CHAPTER III.
THE porter who let me into the house where Monkton lived directed me tothe floor on which his rooms were situated. On getting upstairs, I foundhis door on the landing ajar. He heard my footsteps, I suppose, for hecalled to me to come in before I could knock.
I entered, and found him sitting by the table, with some loose lettersin his hand, which he was just tying together into a packet. I noticed,as he asked me to sit down, that his expression looked more composed,though the paleness had not yet left his face. He thanked me for coming;repeated that he had something very important to say to me; and thenstopped short, apparently too much embarrassed to proceed. I tried toset him at his ease by assuring him that, if my assistance or advicecould be of any use, I was ready to place myself and my time heartilyand unreservedly at his service.
As I said this I saw his eyes beginning to wander away from my face--towander slowly, inch by inch, as it were, until they stopped at acertain point, with the same fixed stare into vacancy which had sooften startled me on former occasions. The whole expression of his facealtered as I had never yet seen it alter; he sat before me looking likea man in a death-trance.
"You are very kind," he said, slowly and faintly, speaking, not to me,but in the direction in which his eyes were still fixed. "I know you canhelp me; but--"
He stopped; his face whitened horribly, and the perspiration broke outall over it. He tried to continue--said a word or two--then stoppedagain. Seriously alarmed about him, I rose from my chair with theintention of getting him some water from a jug which I saw standing on aside-table.
He sprang up at the same moment. All the suspicions I had ever heardwhispered against his sanity flashed over my mind in an instant, and Iinvoluntarily stepped back a pace or two.
"Stop," he said, seating himself again; "don't mind me; and don't leaveyour chair. I want--I wish, if you please, to make a little alteration,before we say anything more. Do you mind sitting in a strong light?"
"Not in the least."
I had hitherto been seated in the shade of his reading-lamp, the onlylight in the room.
As I answered him he rose again, and, going into another apartment,returned with a large lamp in his hand; then took two candles from theside-table, and two others from the chimney piece; placed them all,to my amazement, together, so as to stand exactly between us, and thentried to light them. His hand trembled so that he was obliged to give upthe attempt, and allow me to come to his assistance. By his direction,I took the shade off the reading-lamp after I had lit the other lampand the four candles. When we sat down again, with this concentrationof light between us, his better and gentler manner began to return, andwhile he now addressed me he spoke without the slightest hesitation.
"It is useless to ask whether you have heard the reports about me," hesaid; "I know that you have. My purpose to-night is to give you somereasonable explanation of the conduct which has produced those reports.My secret has been hitherto confided to one person only; I am now aboutto trust it to your keeping, with a special object which will appear asI go on. First, however, I must begin by telling you exactly what thegreat difficulty is which obliges me to be still absent from England. Iwant your advice and your help; and, to conceal nothing from you, I wantalso to test your forbearance and your friendly sympathy, before I canventure on thrusting my miserable secret into your keeping. Will youpardon this apparent distrust of your frank and open character--thisapparent ingratitude for your kindness toward me ever since we firstmet?"
I begged him not to speak of these things, but to go on.
"You know," he proceeded, "that I am here to recover the body of myUncle Stephen, and to carry it back with me to our family burial-placein England, and you must also be aware that I have not yet succeeded indiscovering his remains. Try to pass over, for the present, whatever mayseem extraordinary and incomprehensible in such a purpose as mine is,and read this newspaper article where the ink-line is traced. It isthe only evidence hitherto obtained on the subject of the fatal duel inwhich my uncle fell, and I want to hear what course of proceeding theperusal of it may suggest to you as likely to be best on my part."
He handed me an old French newspaper. The substance of what I read thereis still so firmly impressed on my memory that I am certain of beingable to repeat correctly at this distance of time all the facts which itis necessary for me to communicate to the reader.
The article began, I remember, with editorial remarks on the greatcuriosity then felt in regard to the fatal duel between the Count St. Loand Mr. Stephen Monkton, an English gentleman. The writer proceeded todwell at great length on the extraordinary secrecy in which the wholeaffair had been involved from first to last, and to express a hopethat the publication of a certain manuscript, to which his introductoryobservations referred, might lead to the production of fresh evidencefrom other and better-informed quarters. The manuscript had been foundamong the papers of Monsieur Foulon, Mr. Monkton's second, who had diedat Paris of a rapid decline shortly after returning to his home in thatcity from the scene of the duel. The document was unfinished, havingbeen left incomplete at the very place where the reader would most wishto find it continued. No reason could be discovered for this, and nosecond manuscript bearing on the all-important subject had been found,after the strictest search among the papers left by the deceased.
The document itself then followed.
It purported to be an agreement privately drawn up between Mr. Monkton'ssecond, Monsieur Foulon, and the Count St. Lo's second, MonsieurDalville, and contained a statement of all the arrangements forconducting the duel. The paper was dated "Naples, February 22d," and wasdivided into some seven or eight clauses. The first clause describedthe origin and nature of the quarrel--a very disgraceful affair on bothsides, worth neither remembering nor repeating. The second clause statedthat, the challenged man having chosen the pistol as his weapon, andthe challenger (an excellent swordsman), having, on his side, thereuponinsisted that the duel should be fought in such a manner as to makethe first fire decisive in its results, the seconds, seeing that fatalconsequences must inevitably follow the hostile meeting, determined,first of all, that the duel should be kept a profound secret fromeverybody, and that the place where it was to be fought should not bemade known beforehand, even to the principals themselves. It was addedthat this excess of precaution had been rendered absolutely necessaryin consequence of a recent address from the Pope to the ruling powers inItaly commenting on the scandalous frequency of the practice of dueling,and urgently desiring that the laws against duelists should be enforcedfor the future with the utmost rigor.
The third clause detailed the manner in which it had been arranged thatthe duel should be fought.
The pistols having been loaded by the seconds on the ground, thecombatants were to be placed thirty paces apart, and were to toss up forthe first fire. The man who won was to advance ten paces marked out forhim beforehand--and was then to discharge his pistol. If he missed, orfailed to disable his opponent, the latter was free to advance, if hechose, the whole remaining twenty paces before he fired in his turn.This arrangement insured the decisive termination of the duel at thefirst discharge of the pistols, and both principals and seconds pledgedthemselves on either side to abide by it.
The fourth clause stated that the seconds had agreed that the duelshould be fought out of the Neapolitan States, but left themselves to beguided by circumstances as to the exact locality in which it should takeplace. The remaining clauses, so far as I remember them, were devotedto detailing the different precautions to be adopted for avoidingdiscovery. The duelists and their seconds were to leave Naples inseparate parties; were to change carriages several times; were to meetat a certain town, or, failing that, at a certain post-house on the highroad from Naples to Rome; were to carry drawing-books, color boxes, andcamp-stools, as if they had been artists out on a sketching-tour; andwere to proceed to the place of the duel on foot, employing no guides,for fear of treachery. Such general arrangements as these, and othersfo
r facilitating the flight of the survivors after the affair was over,formed the conclusion of this extraordinary document, which was signed,in initials only, by both the seconds.
Just below the initials appeared the beginning of a narrative, dated"Paris," and evidently intended to describe the duel itself with extrememinuteness. The hand-writing was that of the deceased second.
Monsieur Foulon, the gentleman in question, stated his belief thatcircumstances might transpire which would render an account by aneyewitness of the hostile meeting between St. Lo and Mr. Monkton animportant document. He proposed, therefore, as one of the seconds, totestify that the duel had been fought in exact accordance with the termsof the agreement, both the principals conducting themselves like men ofgallantry and honor (!). And he further announced that, in order not tocompromise any one, he should place the paper containing his testimonyin safe hands, with strict directions that it was on no account to beopened except in a case of the last emergency.
After thus preamble, Monsieur Foulon related that the duel had beenfought two days after the drawing up of the agreement, in a locality towhich accident had conducted the dueling party. (The name of the placewas not mentioned, nor even the neighborhood in which it was situated.)The men having been placed according to previous arrangement, the CountSt. Lo had won the toss for the first fire, had advanced his ten paces,and had shot his opponent in the body. Mr. Monkton did not immediatelyfall, but staggered forward some six or seven paces, discharged hispistol ineffectually at the count, and dropped to the ground a dead man.Monsieur Foulon then stated that he tore a leaf from his pocketbook,wrote on it a brief description of the manner in which Mr. Monkton haddied, and pinned the paper to his clothes; this proceeding having beenrendered necessary by the peculiar nature of the plan organized on thespot for safely disposing of the dead body. What this plan was, or whatwas done with the corpse, did not appear, for at this important pointthe narrative abruptly broke off.
A foot-note in the newspaper merely stated the manner in whichthe document had been obtained for publication, and repeated theannouncement contained in the editor's introductory remarks, that nocontinuation had been found by the persons intrusted with the care ofMonsieur Foulon's papers. I have now given the whole substance of whatI read, and have mentioned all that was then known of Mr. StephenMonkton's death.
When I gave the newspaper back to Alfred he was too much agitated tospeak, but he reminded me by a sign that he was anxiously waiting tohear what I had to say. My position was a very trying and a very painfulone. I could hardly tell what consequences might not follow any wantof caution on my part, and could think at first of no safer plan thanquestioning him carefully before I committed myself either one way orthe other.
"Will you excuse me if I ask you a question or two before I give you myadvice?" said I.
He nodded impatiently.
"Yes, yes--any questions you like."
"Were you at any time in the habit of seeing your uncle frequently?"
"I never saw him more than twice in my life--on each occasion when I wasa mere child."
"Then you could have had no very strong personal regard for him?"
"Regard for him! I should have been ashamed to feel any regard for him.He disgraced us wherever he went."
"May I ask if any family motive is involved in your anxiety to recoverhis remains?"
"Family motives may enter into it among others--but why do you ask?"
"Because, having heard that you employ the police to assist your search,I was anxious to know whether you had stimulated their superiors tomake them do their best in your service by giving some strong personalreasons at headquarters for the very unusual project which has broughtyou here."
"I give no reasons. I pay for the work I want done, and, in return formy liberality, I am treated with the most infamous indifference onall sides. A stranger in the country, and badly acquainted with thelanguage, I can do nothing to help myself. The authorities, both at Romeand in this place, pretend to assist me, pretend to search and inquireas I would have them search and inquire, and do nothing more. I aminsulted, laughed at, almost to my face."
"Do you not think it possible--mind, I have no wish to excuse themisconduct of the authorities, and do not share in any such opinionmyself--but do you not think it likely that the police may doubt whetheryou are in earnest?"
"Not in earnest!" he cried, starting up and confronting me fiercely,with wild eyes and quickened breath. "Not in earnest! _You_ think I'mnot in earnest too. I know you think it, though you tell me you don't.Stop; before we say another word, your own eyes shall convince you. Comehere--only for a minute--only for one minute!"
I followed him into his bedroom, which opened out of the sitting-room.At one side of his bed stood a large packing-case of plain wood, upwardof seven feet in length.
"Open the lid and look in," he said, "while I hold the candle so thatyou can see."
I obeyed his directions, and discovered to my astonishment that thepacking-case contained a leaden coffin, magnificently emblazoned withthe arms of the Monkton family, and inscribed in old-fashioned letterswith the name of "Stephen Monkton," his age and the manner of his deathbeing added underneath.
"I keep his coffin ready for him," whispered Alfred, close at my ear."Does that look like earnest?"
It looked more like insanity--so like that I shrank from answering him.
"Yes! yes! I see you are convinced," he continued quickly; "we may goback into the next room, and may talk without restraint on either sidenow."
On returning to our places, I mechanically moved my chair away fromthe table. My mind was by this time in such a state of confusion anduncertainty about what it would be best for me to say or do next, that Iforgot for the moment the position he had assigned to me when we lit thecandles. He reminded me of this directly.
"Don't move away," he said, very earnestly; "keep on sitting in thelight; pray do! I'll soon tell you why I am so particular aboutthat. But first give me your advice; help me in my great distress andsuspense. Remember, you promised me you would."
I made an effort to collect my thoughts, and succeeded. It was uselessto treat the affair otherwise than seriously in his presence; it wouldhave been cruel not to have advised him as I best could.
"You know," I said, "that two days after the drawing up of the agreementat Naples, the duel was fought out of the Neapolitan States. Thisfact has of course led you to the conclusion that all inquiries aboutlocalities had better be confined to the Roman territory?"
"Certainly; the search, such as it is, has been made there, and thereonly. If I can believe the police, they and their agents have inquiredfor the place where the duel was fought (offering a large reward in myname to the person who can discover it) all along the high road fromNaples to Rome. They have also circulated--at least so they tellme--descriptions of the duelists and their seconds; have left an agentto superintend investigations at the post-house, and another at the townmentioned as meeting-points in the agreement; and have endeavored, bycorrespondence with foreign authorities, to trace the Count St. Lo andMonsieur Dalville to their place or places of refuge. All these efforts,supposing them to have been really made, have hitherto proved utterlyfruitless."
"My impression is," said I, after a moment's consideration, "that allinquiries made along the high road, or anywhere near Rome, are likely tobe made in vain. As to the discovery of your uncle's remains, that is, Ithink, identical with the discovery of the place where he was shot; forthose engaged in the duel would certainly not risk detection by carryinga corpse any distance with them in their flight. The place, then, isall that we want to find out. Now let us consider for a moment. Thedueling-party changed carriages; traveled separately, two and two;doubtless took roundabout roads; stopped at the post-house and the townas a blind; walked, perhaps, a considerable distance unguided. Dependupon it, such precautions as these (which we know they must haveemployed) left them very little time out of the two days--though theymight start at sunrise and not stop
at night-fall--for straightforwardtraveling. My belief therefore is, that the duel was fought somewherenear the Neapolitan frontier; and, if I had been the police agent whoconducted the search, I should only have pursued it parallel with thefrontier, starting from west to east till I got up among the lonelyplaces in the mountains. That is my idea; do you think it worthanything?"
His face flushed all over in an instant. "I think it an inspiration!" hecried. "Not a day is to be lost in carrying out our plan. The police arenot to be trusted with it. I must start myself to-morrow morning; andyou--"
He stopped; his face grew suddenly pale; he sighed heavily; his eyeswandered once more into the fixed look at vacancy; and the rigid,deathly expression fastened again upon all his features.
"I must tell you my secret before I talk of to-morrow," he proceeded,faintly. "If I hesitated any longer at confessing everything, I shouldbe unworthy of your past kindness, unworthy of the help which it is mylast hope that you will gladly give me when you have heard all."
I begged him to wait until he was more composed, until he was betterable to speak; but he did not appear to notice what I said. Slowly, andstruggling as it seemed against himself, he turned a little away fromme, and, bending his head over the table, supported it on his hand. Thepacket of letters with which I had seen him occupied when I came in layjust beneath his eyes. He looked down on it steadfastly when he nextspoke to me.