Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (439 page)

‘Yes,’ said the boy.

‘You see,’ returned the Doctor, with sublime fatuity, ‘I read your thoughts!  Nor am I surprised — your education is not yet complete; the higher duties of men have not been yet presented to you fully.  A hint — till we have leisure — must suffice.  Now that I am once more in possession of a modest competence; now that I have so long prepared myself in silent meditation, it becomes my superior duty to proceed to Paris.  My scientific training, my undoubted command of language, mark me out for the service of my country.  Modesty in such a case would be a snare.  If sin were a philosophical expression, I should call it sinful.  A man must not deny his manifest abilities, for that is to evade his obligations.  I must be up and doing; I must be no skulker in life’s battle.’

So he rattled on, copiously greasing the joint of his inconsistency with words; while the boy listened silently, his eyes fixed on the horse, his mind seething.  It was all lost eloquence; no array of words could unsettle a belief of Jean-Marie’s; and he drove into Fontainebleau filled with pity, horror, indignation, and despair.

In the town Jean-Marie was kept a fixture on the driving-seat, to guard the treasure; while the Doctor, with a singular, slightly tipsy airiness of manner, fluttered in and out of cafés, where he shook hands with garrison officers, and mixed an absinthe with the nicety of old experience; in and out of shops, from which he returned laden with costly fruits, real turtle, a magnificent piece of silk for his wife, a preposterous cane for himself, and a kepi of the newest fashion for the boy; in and out of the telegraph office, whence he despatched his telegram, and where three hours later he received an answer promising a visit on the morrow; and generally pervaded Fontainebleau with the first fine aroma of his divine good humour.

The sun was very low when they set forth again; the shadows of the forest trees extended across the broad white road that led them home; the penetrating odour of the evening wood had already arisen, like a cloud of incense, from that broad field of tree-tops; and even in the streets of the town, where the air had been baked all day between white walls, it came in whiffs and pulses, like a distant music.  Half-way home, the last gold flicker vanished from a great oak upon the left; and when they came forth beyond the borders of the wood, the plain was already sunken in pearly greyness, and a great, pale moon came swinging skyward through the filmy poplars.

The Doctor sang, the Doctor whistled, the Doctor talked.  He spoke of the woods, and the wars, and the deposition of dew; he brightened and babbled of Paris; he soared into cloudy bombast on the glories of the political arena.  All was to be changed; as the day departed, it took with it the vestiges of an outworn existence, and to-morrow’s sun was to inaugurate the new.  ‘Enough,’ he cried, ‘of this life of maceration!’  His wife (still beautiful, or he was sadly partial) was to be no longer buried; she should now shine before society.  Jean-Marie would find the world at his feet; the roads open to success, wealth, honour, and post-humous renown.  ‘And O, by the way,’ said he, ‘for God’s sake keep your tongue quiet!  You are, of course, a very silent fellow; it is a quality I gladly recognise in you — silence, golden silence!  But this is a matter of gravity.  No word must get abroad; none but the good Casimir is to be trusted; we shall probably dispose of the vessels in England.’

‘But are they not even ours?’ the boy said, almost with a sob — it was the only time he had spoken.

‘Ours in this sense, that they are nobody else’s,’ replied the Doctor.  ‘But the State would have some claim.  If they were stolen, for instance, we should be unable to demand their restitution; we should have no title; we should be unable even to communicate with the police.  Such is the monstrous condition of the law. It is a mere instance of what remains to be done, of the injustices that may yet be righted by an ardent, active, and philosophical deputy.’

Jean-Marie put his faith in Madame Desprez; and as they drove forward down the road from Bourron, between the rustling poplars, he prayed in his teeth, and whipped up the horse to an unusual speed.  Surely, as soon as they arrived, madame would assert her character, and bring this waking nightmare to an end.

Their entrance into Gretz was heralded and accompanied by a most furious barking; all the dogs in the village seemed to smell the treasure in the noddy.  But there was no one in the street, save three lounging landscape painters at Tentaillon’s door.  Jean-Marie opened the green gate and led in the horse and carriage; and almost at the same moment Madame Desprez came to the kitchen threshold with a lighted lantern; for the moon was not yet high enough to clear the garden walls.

‘Close the gates, Jean-Marie!’ cried the Doctor, somewhat unsteadily alighting.  ‘Anastasie, where is Aline?’

‘She has gone to Montereau to see her parents,’ said madame.

‘All is for the best!’ exclaimed the Doctor fervently.  ‘Here, quick, come near to me; I do not wish to speak too loud,’ he continued.  ‘Darling, we are wealthy!’

‘Wealthy!’ repeated the wife.

‘I have found the treasure of Franchard,’ replied her husband.  ‘See, here are the first fruits; a pineapple, a dress for my ever-beautiful — it will suit her — trust a husband’s, trust a lover’s, taste!  Embrace me, darling!  This grimy episode is over; the butterfly unfolds its painted wings.  To-morrow Casimir will come; in a week we may be in Paris — happy at last!  You shall have diamonds.  Jean-Marie, take it out of the boot, with religious care, and bring it piece by piece into the dining-room.  We shall have plate at table!  Darling, hasten and prepare this turtle; it will be a whet — it will be an addition to our meagre ordinary.  I myself will proceed to the cellar.  We shall have a bottle of that little Beaujolais you like, and finish with the Hermitage; there are still three bottles left.  Worthy wine for a worthy occasion.’

‘But, my husband; you put me in a whirl,’ she cried.  ‘I do not comprehend.’

‘The turtle, my adored, the turtle!’ cried the doctor; and he pushed her towards the kitchen, lantern and all.

Jean-Marie stood dumfounded.  He had pictured to himself a different scene — a more immediate protest, and his hope began to dwindle on the spot.

The Doctor was everywhere, a little doubtful on his legs, perhaps, and now and then taking the wall with his shoulder; for it was long since he had tasted absinthe, and he was even then reflecting that the absinthe had been a misconception.  Not that he regretted excess on such a glorious day, but he made a mental memorandum to beware; he must not, a second time, become the victim of a deleterious habit.  He had his wine out of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial vessels, some on the white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still crusted with historic earth.  He was in and out of the kitchen, plying Anastasie with vermouth, heating her with glimpses of the future, estimating their new wealth at ever larger figures; and before they sat down to supper, the lady’s virtue had melted in the fire of his enthusiasm, her timidity had disappeared; she, too, had begun to speak disparagingly of the life at Gretz; and as she took her place and helped the soup, her eyes shone with the glitter of prospective diamonds.

All through the meal, she and the Doctor made and unmade fairy plans.  They bobbed and bowed and pledged each other.  Their faces ran over with smiles; their eyes scattered sparkles, as they projected the Doctor’s political honours and the lady’s drawing-room ovations.

‘But you will not be a Red!’ cried Anastasie.

‘I am Left Centre to the core,’ replied the Doctor.

‘Madame Gastein will present us — we shall find ourselves forgotten,’ said the lady.

‘Never,’ protested the Doctor.  ‘Beauty and talent leave a mark.’

‘I have positively forgotten how to dress,’ she sighed.

‘Darling, you make me blush,’ cried he.  ‘Yours has been a tragic marriage!’

‘But your success — to see you appreciated, honoured, your name in all the papers, that will be more than pleasure — it will be heaven!’ she cried.

‘And once a week,’ said the Doctor, archly scanning the syllables, ‘once a week — one good little game of baccarat?’

‘Only once a week?’ she questioned, threatening him with a finger.

‘I swear it by my political honour,’ cried he.

‘I spoil you,’ she said, and gave him her hand.

He covered it with kisses.

Jean-Marie escaped into the night.  The moon swung high over Gretz.  He went down to the garden end and sat on the jetty.  The river ran by with eddies of oily silver, and a low, monotonous song.  Faint veils of mist moved among the poplars on the farther side.  The reeds were quietly nodding.  A hundred times already had the boy sat, on such a night, and watched the streaming river with untroubled fancy.  And this perhaps was to be the last.  He was to leave this familiar hamlet, this green, rustling country, this bright and quiet stream; he was to pass into the great city; his dear lady mistress was to move bedizened in saloons; his good, garrulous, kind-hearted master to become a brawling deputy; and both be lost for ever to Jean-Marie and their better selves.  He knew his own defects; he knew he must sink into less and less consideration in the turmoil of a city life, sink more and more from the child into the servant.  And he began dimly to believe the Doctor’s prophecies of evil.  He could see a change in both.  His generous incredulity failed him for this once; a child must have perceived that the Hermitage had completed what the absinthe had begun.  If this were the first day, what would be the last?  ‘If necessary, wreck the train,’ thought he, remembering the Doctor’s parable.  He looked round on the delightful scene; he drank deep of the charmed night air, laden with the scent of hay.  ‘If necessary, wreck the train,’ he repeated.  And he rose and returned to the house.

CHAPTER VI.  A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS.

The next morning there was a most unusual outcry, in the Doctor’s house.  The last thing before going to bed, the Doctor had locked up some valuables in the dining-room cupboard; and behold, when he rose again, as he did about four o’clock, the cupboard had been broken open, and the valuables in question had disappeared.  Madame and Jean-Marie were summoned from their rooms, and appeared in hasty toilets; they found the Doctor raving, calling the heavens to witness and avenge his injury, pacing the room bare-footed, with the tails of his night-shirt flirting as he turned.

‘Gone!’ he said; ‘the things are gone, the fortune gone!  We are paupers once more.  Boy! what do you know of this?  Speak up, sir, speak up.  Do you know of it?  Where are they?’  He had him by the arm, shaking him like a bag, and the boy’s words, if he had any, were jolted forth in inarticulate murmurs.  The Doctor, with a revulsion from his own violence, set him down again.  He observed Anastasie in tears.  ‘Anastasie,’ he said, in quite an altered voice, ‘compose yourself, command your feelings.  I would not have you give way to passion like the vulgar.  This — this trifling accident must be lived down.  Jean-Marie, bring me my smaller medicine chest.  A gentle laxative is indicated.’

And he dosed the family all round, leading the way himself with a double quantity.  The wretched Anastasie, who had never been ill in the whole course of her existence, and whose soul recoiled from remedies, wept floods of tears as she sipped, and shuddered, and protested, and then was bullied and shouted at until she sipped again.  As for Jean-Marie, he took his portion down with stoicism.

‘I have given him a less amount,’ observed the Doctor, ‘his youth protecting him against emotion.  And now that we have thus parried any morbid consequences, let us reason.’

‘I am so cold,’ wailed Anastasie.

‘Cold!’ cried the Doctor.  ‘I give thanks to God that I am made of fierier material.  Why, madam, a blow like this would set a frog into a transpiration.  If you are cold, you can retire; and, by the way, you might throw me down my trousers.  It is chilly for the legs.’

‘Oh, no!’ protested Anastasie; ‘I will stay with you.’

‘Nay, madam, you shall not suffer for your devotion,’ said the Doctor.  ‘I will myself fetch you a shawl.’  And he went upstairs and returned more fully clad and with an armful of wraps for the shivering Anastasie.  ‘And now,’ he resumed, ‘to investigate this crime.  Let us proceed by induction.  Anastasie, do you know anything that can help us?’  Anastasie knew nothing.  ‘Or you, Jean-Marie?’

‘Not I,’ replied the boy steadily.

‘Good,’ returned the Doctor.  ‘We shall now turn our attention to the material evidences.  (I was born to be a detective; I have the eye and the systematic spirit.)  First, violence has been employed.  The door was broken open; and it may be observed, in passing, that the lock was dear indeed at what I paid for it: a crow to pluck with Master Goguelat.  Second, here is the instrument employed, one of our own table-knives, one of our best, my dear; which seems to indicate no preparation on the part of the gang — if gang it was.  Thirdly, I observe that nothing has been removed except the Franchard dishes and the casket; our own silver has been minutely respected.  This is wily; it shows intelligence, a knowledge of the code, a desire to avoid legal consequences.  I argue from this fact that the gang numbers persons of respectability — outward, of course, and merely outward, as the robbery proves.  But I argue, second, that we must have been observed at Franchard itself by some occult observer, and dogged throughout the day with a skill and patience that I venture to qualify as consummate.  No ordinary man, no occasional criminal, would have shown himself capable of this combination.  We have in our neighbourhood, it is far from improbable, a retired bandit of the highest order of intelligence.’

‘Good heaven!’ cried the horrified Anastasie.  ‘Henri, how can you?’

‘My cherished one, this is a process of induction,’ said the Doctor.  ‘If any of my steps are unsound, correct me.  You are silent?  Then do not, I beseech you, be so vulgarly illogical as to revolt from my conclusion.  We have now arrived,’ he resumed, ‘at some idea of the composition of the gang — for I incline to the hypothesis of more than one — and we now leave this room, which can disclose no more, and turn our attention to the court and garden.  (Jean-Marie, I trust you are observantly following my various steps; this is an excellent piece of education for you.)  Come with me to the door.  No steps on the court; it is unfortunate our court should be paved.  On what small matters hang the destiny of these delicate investigations!  Hey!  What have we here?  I have led on to the very spot,’ he said, standing grandly backward and indicating the green gate.  ‘An escalade, as you can now see for yourselves, has taken place.’