The Lock and Key Library: Classic Mystery and Detective Stories: Modern English
blindfold, toward the last act in the drama of the Hostler's Dream.
On the evening of the twenty-eighth, I informed the servants at the
stables that one of them must watch through the night by the Englishman's
bedside. Joseph Rigobert immediately volunteered for the duty--as a means,
no doubt, of winning his way back to my favor. I accepted his proposal.
That day the surgeon dined with us. Toward midnight he and I left the
smoking room, and repaired to Francis Raven's bedside. Rigobert was at his
post, with no very agreeable expression on his face. The Frenchman and the
Englishman had evidently not got on well together so far. Francis Raven
lay helpless on his bed, waiting silently for two in the morning and the
Dream Woman.
"I have come, Francis, to bid you good night," I said, cheerfully.
"To-morrow morning I shall look in at breakfast time, before I leave home
on a journey."
"Thank you for all your kindness, sir. You will not see me alive to-morrow
morning. She will find me this time. Mark my words--she will find me this
time."
"My good fellow! she couldn't find you in England. How in the world is she
to find you in France?"
"It's borne in on my mind, sir, that she will find me here. At two in the
morning on my birthday I shall see her again, and see her for the last
time."
"Do you mean that she will kill you?"
"I mean that, sir, she will kill me--with the knife."
"And with Rigobert in the room to protect you?"
"I am a doomed man. Fifty Rigoberts couldn't protect me."
"And you wanted somebody to sit up with you?"
"Mere weakness, sir. I don't like to be left alone on my deathbed."
I looked at the surgeon. If he had encouraged me, I should certainly, out
of sheer compassion, have confessed to Francis Raven the trick that we
were playing him. The surgeon held to his experiment; the surgeon's face
plainly said--"No."
The next day (the twenty-ninth of February) was the day of the "Silver
Wedding." The first thing in the morning, I went to Francis Raven's room.
Rigobert met me at the door.
"How has he passed the night?" I asked.
"Saying his prayers, and looking for ghosts," Rigobert answered. "A
lunatic asylum is the only proper place for him."
I approached the bedside. "Well, Francis, here you are, safe and sound, in
spite of what you said to me last night."
His eyes rested on mine with a vacant, wondering look.
"I don't understand it," he said.
"Did you see anything of your wife when the clock struck two?"
"No, sir."
"Did anything happen?"
"Nothing happened, sir."
"Doesn't _this_ satisfy you that you were wrong?"
His eyes still kept their vacant, wondering look. He only repeated the
words he had spoken already: "I don't understand it."
I made a last attempt to cheer him. "Come, come, Francis! keep a good
heart. You will be out of bed in a fortnight."
He shook his head on the pillow. "There's something wrong," he said. "I
don't expect you to believe me, sir. I only say there's something
wrong--and time will show it."
I left the room. Half an hour later I started for Mr. Beldheimer's house;
leaving the arrangements for the morning of the first of March in the
hands of the doctor and my wife.
XVI
The one thing which principally struck me when I joined the guests at the
"Silver Wedding" is also the one thing which it is necessary to mention
here. On this joyful occasion a noticeable lady present was out of
spirits. That lady was no other than the heroine of the festival, the
mistress of the house!
In the course of the evening I spoke to Mr. Beldheimer's eldest son on the
subject of his mother. As an old friend of the family, I had a claim on
his confidence which the young man willingly recognized.
"We have had a very disagreeable matter to deal with," he said; "and my
mother has not recovered the painful impression left on her mind. Many
years since, when my sisters were children, we had an English governess in
the house. She left us, as we then understood, to be married. We heard no
more of her until a week or ten days since, when my mother received a
letter, in which our ex-governess described herself as being in a
condition of great poverty and distress. After much hesitation she had
ventured--at the suggestion of a lady who had been kind to her--to write
to her former employers, and to appeal to their remembrance of old times.
You know my mother: she is not only the most kind-hearted, but the most
innocent of women--it is impossible to persuade her of the wickedness that
there is in the world. She replied by return of post, inviting the
governess to come here and see her, and inclosing the money for her
traveling expenses. When my father came home, and heard what had been
done, he wrote at once to his agent in London to make inquiries, inclosing
the address on the governess' letter. Before he could receive the agent's
reply the governess, arrived. She produced the worst possible impression
on his mind. The agent's letter, arriving a few days later, confirmed his
suspicions. Since we had lost sight of her, the woman had led a most
disreputable life. My father spoke to her privately: he offered--on
condition of her leaving the house--a sum of money to take her back to
England. If she refused, the alternative would be an appeal to the
authorities and a public scandal. She accepted the money, and left the
house. On her way back to England she appears to have stopped at Metz. You
will understand what sort of woman she is when I tell you that she was
seen the other day in a tavern, with your handsome groom, Joseph
Rigobert."
While my informant was relating these circumstances, my memory was at
work. I recalled what Francis Raven had vaguely told us of his wife's
experience in former days as governess in a German family. A suspicion of
the truth suddenly flashed across my mind. "What was the woman's name?" I
asked.
Mr. Beldheimer's son answered: "Alicia Warlock."
I had but one idea when I heard that reply--to get back to my house
without a moment's needless delay. It was then ten o'clock at night--the
last train to Metz had left long since. I arranged with my young
friend--after duly informing him of the circumstances--that I should go by
the first train in the morning, instead of staying to breakfast with the
other guests who slept in the house.
At intervals during the night I wondered uneasily how things were going on
at Maison Rouge. Again and again the same question occurred to me, on my
journey home in the early morning--the morning of the first of March. As
the event proved, but one person in my house knew what really happened at
the stables on Francis Raven's birthday. Let Joseph Rigobert take my place
as narrator, and tell the story of the end to You--as he told it, in times
past, to his lawyer and to Me.
FOURTH (AND LAST) NARRATIVE
STATEMENT OF JOSEPH RIGOBERT: ADDRESSED TO THE ADVOCATE WHO DEFENDED HIM
AT HIS TRIAL
Respected Sir,--On the twenty-seventh of February I was sent, on business
connected with the stables at Maison Rouge, to the city of Metz. On the
public promenade I met a magnificent woman. Complexion, blond.
Nationality, English. We mutually admired each other; we fell into
conversation. (She spoke French perfectly--with the English accent.) I
offered refreshment; my proposal was accepted. We had a long and
interesting interview--we discovered that we were made for each other. So
far, Who is to blame?
Is it my fault that I am a handsome man--universally agreeable as such to
the fair sex? Is it a criminal offense to be accessible to the amiable
weakness of love? I ask again, Who is to blame? Clearly, nature. Not the
beautiful lady--not my humble self.
To resume. The most hard-hearted person living will understand that two
beings made for each other could not possibly part without an appointment
to meet again.
I made arrangements for the accommodation of the lady in the village near
Maison Rouge. She consented to honor me with her company at supper, in my
apartment at the stables, on the night of the twenty-ninth. The time fixed
on was the time when the other servants were accustomed to retire--eleven
o'clock.
Among the grooms attached to the stables was an Englishman, laid up with a
broken leg. His name was Francis. His manners were repulsive; he was
ignorant of the French language. In the kitchen he went by the nickname of
the "English Bear." Strange to say, he was a great favorite with my master
and my mistress. They even humored certain superstitious terrors to which
this repulsive person was subject--terrors into the nature of which I, as
an advanced freethinker, never thought it worth my while to inquire.
On the evening of the twenty-eighth the Englishman, being a prey to the
terrors which I have mentioned, requested that one of his fellow servants
might sit up with him for that night only. The wish that he expressed was
backed by Mr. Fairbank's authority. Having already incurred my master's
displeasure--in what way, a proper sense of my own dignity forbids me to
relate--I volunteered to watch by the bedside of the English Bear. My
object was to satisfy Mr. Fairbank that I bore no malice, on my side,
after what had occurred between us. The wretched Englishman passed a night
of delirium. Not understanding his barbarous language, I could only gather
from his gesture that he was in deadly fear of some fancied apparition at
his bedside. From time to time, when this madman disturbed my slumbers, I
quieted him by swearing at him. This is the shortest and best way of
dealing with persons in his condition.
On the morning of the twenty-ninth, Mr. Fairbank left us on a journey.
Later in the day, to my unspeakable disgust, I found that I had not done
with the Englishman yet. In Mr. Fairbank's absence, Mrs. Fairbank took an
incomprehensible interest in the question of my delirious fellow servant's
repose at night. Again, one or the other of us was to watch at his
bedside, and report it, if anything happened. Expecting my fair friend to
supper, it was necessary to make sure that the other servants at the
stables would be safe in their beds that night. Accordingly, I volunteered
once more to be the man who kept watch. Mrs. Fairbank complimented me on
my humanity. I possess great command over my feelings. I accepted the
compliment without a blush.
Twice, after nightfall, my mistress and the doctor (the last staying in
the house in Mr. Fairbank's absence) came to make inquiries. Once _before_
the arrival of my fair friend--and once _after_. On the second occasion
(my apartment being next door to the Englishman's) I was obliged to hide
my charming guest in the harness room. She consented, with angelic
resignation, to immolate her dignity to the servile necessities of my
position. A more amiable woman (so far) I never met with!
After the second visit I was left free. It was then close on midnight. Up
to that time there was nothing in the behavior of the mad Englishman to
reward Mrs. Fairbank and the doctor for presenting themselves at his
bedside. He lay half awake, half asleep, with an odd wondering kind of
look in his face. My mistress at parting warned me to be particularly
watchful of him toward two in the morning. The doctor (in case anything
happened) left me a large hand bell to ring, which could easily be heard
at the house.
Restored to the society of my fair friend, I spread the supper table. A
pâté, a sausage, and a few bottles of generous Moselle wine, composed our
simple meal. When persons adore each other, the intoxicating illusion of
Love transforms the simplest meal into a banquet. With immeasurable
capacities for enjoyment, we sat down to table. At the very moment when I
placed my fascinating companion in a chair, the infamous Englishman in the