The House of the White Shadows

CHAPTER VIII

THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON

"Arise, Gautran."

At this command Gautran rose slowly from the floor of his prison-cell, upon which he had been lying at full length, and shaking himself like a dog, stood before the gaoler.

"Can't you let me alone?" he asked, in a coarse, savage voice.

"Scum of the gutter!" replied the gaoler. "Speak civilly while you have the power, and be thankful your tongue is not dragged out by the roots."

"You would do it if you dared."

"Ay-and a thousand honest men would rejoice to help me."

"Is it to tell me this you disturbed me?"

"No, murderer!"

"What do you want of me?"

The gaoler laughed at him in mockery. "You look more like beast than man."

"That's how I've been treated," growled Gautran.

"Better than you deserve. So, you have influential friends, it seems."

"Have I?" with a venomous flash at the taunt.

"One will be here to see you directly."

"Let him keep from me. I care to see no one."

"That may be, but the choice is not yours. This gentleman is not to be denied."

"A gentleman, eh?" exclaimed Gautran, with some slight show of interest.

"Yes, a gentleman."

"Who is he, and what is his business with me?"

"He is a great lawyer, who has sent murderers to their doom-"

"Ah!" and Gautran drew a long vindictive breath through closed teeth.

"And has set some free, I've heard."

"Is he going to do that for me?" asked Gautran, and a light of fierce hope shone in his eyes.

"He will earn Heaven's curse if he does, and man's as well. Here he is. Silence."

The door was opened, and the Advocate entered the cell.

"This is Gautran?" he asked of the gaoler.

"This is he," replied the gaoler.

"Leave me alone with him."

"It is against my orders, sir."

"Here is your authority."

He handed to the gaoler a paper, which gave him permission to hold free and uninterrupted converse with Gautran, accused of the murder of Madeline the flower-girl. The interview not to last longer than an hour.

The gaoler prepared to depart, but before he left the cell he said in an undertone:

"Be careful of the man; he is a savage, and not to be trusted."

"There is nothing to fear," said the Advocate.

The gaoler lingered a moment, and then retired.

The cell was but dimly lighted, and the Advocate, coming into it from the full sunlight of a bright day, could not see clearly for a little while. On the other hand. Gautran, whose eyes were accustomed to the gloom, had a distinct view of the Advocate, and in a furtive, hangdog fashion he closely inspected the features of his visitor. The man who stood before him could obtain his condemnation or his acquittal. Dull-witted as he was, this conviction was as much an intuition as an impression gained from the gaoler's remarks.

"You are a woodman?" said the Advocate.

"Aye, a woodman. It is well known."

"Have you parents?"

"They are dead."

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"None. I was the only one."

"Friends?"

"No."

"Have you wife or children?"

"Neither."

"How much money have you?"

"Not a sou."

"What about this murder?" asked the Advocate abruptly.

"What about it, then?" demanded Gautran. The questions asked by the Advocate were more judicial than friendly, and he assumed an air of defiance.

"Speak in a different tone. I am here to assist you, if I see my way. You have no lawyer to defend you?"

"How should I get one? What lawyer works without pay, and where should I find the money to pay him?"

"Heed what I say. I do not ask you if you are innocent or guilty of the crime of which you stand charged, for that is a formula and, guilty or not guilty, you would return but one answer. Have you anything to tell me?"

"I can't think of anything."

"You have led an evil life."

"Not my fault. Can a man choose his own parents and his country? The life I have led I was born into; and that is to stand against me."

"Are there any witnesses who would come forward and speak in your favour?"

"None that I know of."

"Is it true that you were walking with the girl on the night she was murdered?"

"No man has heard me deny it," said Gautran, shuddering.

"Why do you shudder?"

"Master, you asked me just now whether I had a wife, and I told you I had none. This girl was to have been my wife. I loved her, and we were to have been married."

"That is disputed."

"Everything is disputed that would tell in my favour. The truth is of no use to a poor devil caught in a trap as I am. Have you heard any good of me, master?"

"Not any; all that I have heard is against you."

"That is the way of it. Well, then, judge for yourself."

"Can you indicate anyone who would be likely to murder the girl? You shudder again."

"I cannot help it. Master, put yourself in this cell, as I am put, without light, without hope, without money, without a friend. You would need a strong nerve to stand it. You want to know if I can point out anyone who could have done the deed but me? Well, if I were free, and came face to face with him, I might. Not that I could say anything, or swear to anything for certain, for I did not see it done. No, master, I will not lie to you. Where would be the use? You are clever enough to find me out. But I had good reason to suspect, aye, to know, that the girl had other lovers, who pressed her hard, I dare say; some who were rich, while I was poor; some who were almost mad for her. She was followed by a dozen and more. She told me so herself, and used to laugh about it; but she never mentioned a name to me. You know something of women, master; they like the men to follow them-the best of them do-ladies as well as peasants. They were sent into the world to drive us to perdition. I was jealous of her, yes, I was jealous. Am I guilty because of that? How could I help being jealous when I loved her? It is in a man's blood. Well, then, what more can I say?"

In his intent observance of Gautran's manner the Advocate seemed to weigh every word that fell from the man's lips.

"At what time did you leave the girl on the last night you saw her alive?"

"At ten o'clock."

"She was alone at that hour?"

"Yes."

"Did you see her again after that?"

"No."

"Did you have reason to suspect that she was to meet any other man on that night?"

"If I had thought it, I should have stopped with her."

"For what purpose?"

"To see the man she had appointed to meet."

"And having seen him?"

"He would have had to answer to me. I am hot-blooded, master, and can stand up for my rights."

"Would you have harmed the girl?"

"No, unless she had driven me out of my senses."

"Were you in that state on the night of her death?"

"No-I knew what I was about."

"You were heard to quarrel with her."

"I don't deny it."

"You were heard to say you would kill her."

"True enough. I told her if ever I found out that she was false to me, I would kill her."

"Had she bound herself to marry you?"

"She had sworn to marry me."

"The handkerchief round her neck, when her body was discovered in the river, is proved to have been yours."

"It was mine; I gave it to her. I had not much to give."

"When you were arrested you were searched?"

"Yes."

"Was anything taken from you?"

"My knife."

"Had you and the girl's secret lover-supposing she had one-met on that night, you might have used your knife."

"That is speaking beforehand. I can't say what might have happened."

"Come here into the light. Let me look at your hands."

"What trick are you going to play me, master?" asked Gautran, in a suspicious tone.

"No trick," replied the Advocate sternly. "Obey me, or I leave you."

Gautran debated with himself in silence for a full minute; then, with an impatient movement, as though it could not matter one way or another, he moved into the light, and held out his hands.

The Advocate, taking a powerful glass from his pocket, examined the prisoner's fingers and nails and wrists with the utmost minuteness, Gautran, the while, wrapped in wonder at the strange proceeding.

"Now," said the Advocate, "hold your head back, so that the light may shine on your face."

Gautran obeyed, warily holding himself in readiness to spring upon the Advocate in case of an attack. By the aid of his glass the Advocate examined Gautran's face and neck with as much care as he had bestowed upon the hands, and then said:

"That will do."

"What is it all for, master?" asked Gautran.

"I am here to ask questions, not to answer them. Since your arrest, have you been examined as I have examined you?"

"No, master."

"Has any examination whatever been made of you by doctors or gaolers or lawyers?"

"None at all."

"How long had you known the girl?"

"Ever since she came into the neighbourhood."

"Were you not acquainted with her before?"

"No."

"From what part of the country did she come?"

"I can't say."

"Not knowing?"

"Not knowing."

"But being intimate with her, you could scarcely avoid asking her the question."

"I did ask her, and I was curious to find out. She would not satisfy me; and when I pressed her, she said the other one-Pauline-had made her promise not to tell."

"You don't know, then, where she was born?"

"No."

"Her refusal to tell you-was it lightly or seriously uttered?"

"Seriously."

"As though there was a secret in her life she wished to conceal?"

"I never thought of it in that way, but I can see now it must have been so."

"Something discreditable, then?"

"Most likely. Master, you go deeper than I do."

"What relationship existed between Pauline and Madeline?"

"Some said they were sisters, but there was a big difference in their ages. Others said that Pauline was her mother, but I don't believe it, for they never spoke together in that way. Master, I don't know what to say about it; it used to puzzle me; but it was no business of mine."

"Did you never hear Pauline address Madeline as her child?"

"Never."

"They addressed each other by their Christian names?"

"Yes."

"Did they resemble each other in feature?"

"There was something of a likeness between them."

"Why did Pauline leave the girl?"

"No one knew."

"That is all you can tell me?"

"That is all."

Then after a slight pause, the Advocate asked:

"Do you value your liberty?"

"Yes, master," replied Gautran excitedly.

"Let no person know what has passed between us, and do not repeat one word I have said to you."

"I understand; you may depend upon me. But master, will you not tell me something more? Am I to be set free or not?"

"You are to be tried; what is brought against you at your trial will establish either your innocence or your guilt."

He knocked at the door of the prison cell, and the gaoler opened it for him and let him out.

"Well, Gautran?" said the gaoler, but Gautran, wrapped in contemplation of the door through which the Advocate had taken his departure, paid no attention to him. "Do you hear me?" cried the gaoler, shaking his prisoner with no gentle hand.

"What now?"

"Is the great lawyer going to defend you?"

"You want to know too much," said Gautran, and refused to speak another word on the subject.

During the whole of the day there were but two figures in his mind-those of the Advocate and the murdered girl. The latter presented itself in various accusing aspects, and he vainly strove to rid himself of the spectre. Its hair hung in wild disorder over neck and bosom, its white lips moved, its mournful eyes struck terror to his soul. The figure of the Advocate presented itself in far different aspects; it was always terrible, Satanic, and damning in its suggestions.

"What matter," muttered Gautran, "if he gets me off? I can do as I please then."

In the evening, when the small window in his cell was dark, the gaoler heard him crying out loudly. He entered, and demanded what ailed the wretch.

"Light-light!" implored Gautran; "give me light!"

"Beast in human shape," said the gaoler; "you have light enough. You'll get no more. Stop your howling, or I'll stop it for you!"

"Light! light! light!" moaned Gautran, clasping his hands over his eyes. But he could not shut out the phantom of the murdered girl, which from that moment never left him. So he lay and writhed during the night, and would have dashed his head against the wall to put an end to his misery had he not been afraid of death.

CHAPTER IX

THE ADVOCATE UNDERTAKES A STRANGE TASK

It was on the evening of this day, the third since the arrival of the Advocate in Geneva, that he said to his wife over the dinner-table:

"I shall in all likelihood be up the whole of to-night in my study. Do not let me be disturbed."

"Who should disturb you?" asked Adelaide languidly. "There are only you and I in the villa; of course I would not venture to intrude upon you without permission."

"You misunderstand me, Adelaide; it is because we are in a strange house that I thought it best to tell you."

"As if there were anything unusual in your shutting yourself up all night in your study! Our notions of the way to lead an agreeable life are so different! Take your own course, Edward; you are older and wiser than I; but you must not wonder that I think it strange. You come to the country for rest, and you are as hard at work as ever."

"I cannot live without work; aimless days would send me to my grave. If you are lonely, Adelaide-"

"Oh, no, I am not," she cried vivaciously, "at least, not yet. There is so much in the neighbourhood that is interesting. Dionetta and I have been out all day seeing the sights. On the road to Master Lamont's house there is the loveliest rustic bridge. And the wild flowers are the most beautiful I have ever seen. We met a priest, Father Capel, a gentle-looking man, with the kindest face! He said he intended to call upon you, and hoped to be permitted. I said, of course, you would be charmed. I had a good mind to visit Master Lamont, but his house was too far up the hills. Fool Fritz joined us; he is very amusing, with his efforts to be wise. I was delighted everywhere with the people. I went into some of their cottages, and the women were very respectful; and the children-upon my word, Edward, they stare at me as if I were a picture."

The Advocate looked up at this, and regarded his wife with fond admiration. In his private life two influences were dominant-love for his wife, and friendship for Christian Almer. He had love for no other woman, and friendship for no other man, and his trust in both was a perfect trust.

"I do not wonder that the children stare at you," he said; "you must be a new and pleasant experience to them."

"I believe they take me for a saint," she said, laughing gaily; "and I need not tell you that I am very far from being one."

"You are, as we all are, human; and very beautiful, Adelaide."

She gazed at him in surprise.

"It is not often you pay me compliments."

"Do you need them from me? To be sure of my affection-is not that sufficient?"

"But I am fond of compliments."

"I must commence a new study, then," he said gravely; it was difficult for him to indulge in light themes for many minutes together. "So you are making yourself acquainted with the neighbours. I hope you will not soon tire of them."

"When I do I must seek out some other amusement. You have also discovered something since you came here in which you appear to be wonderfully interested."

"Yes; a criminal case-"

"A criminal case!" she echoed pettishly.

"In which there is a great mystery. I do not trouble you with these law matters; long ago you expressed weariness of such themes."

Her humour changed again.

"A mystery!" she exclaimed with child-like vivacity, "in a place where news is so scarce! It must be delightful. What is it about? There is a woman in it, of course. There always is."

"Yes; a young woman, whose body was found in the Rhone."

"Murdered?"

"Murdered, as it at present seems."

"The wretch! Have they caught him? For of course it is a man who committed the dreadful deed."

"One is in prison, charged with the crime. I visited him to-day."

"Surely you are not going to defend him?"

"It is probable. I shall decide to-night."

"But why, Edward, why? If the man is guilty, should he not be punished?"

"Undoubtedly he should. And if he is innocent, he should not be made to suffer. He is poor and friendless; it will be a relief for me to take up the case, should I believe him to be unjustly accused."

"Is he young-handsome-and was it done through jealousy?"

"I have told you the case is shrouded in mystery. As for the man charged with the crime, he is very common and repulsive-looking."

"And you intend to defend such a creature?"

"Most likely."

She shrugged her shoulders with a slight gesture of contempt. She had no understanding of his motives, no sympathy in his labours, no pride in his victories.

When he retired to his study he did not immediately proceed to the investigation of the case of Gautran, as it was set forth in the numerous papers which lay on the table. These papers, in accordance with the given promise, had been sent to him by Pierre Lamont, and it was his intention to employ the hours of the night in a careful study of the details of the affair, and of the conjectures and opinions of editors and correspondents.

But he held his purpose back for a while, and for nearly half-an-hour paced the floor slowly in deep thought. Suddenly he went out, and sought his wife's private room.

"It did not occur to me before," he said, "to tell you that a friend of Christian Almer's-Mr. Hartrich, the banker-in a conversation I had with him, expressed his belief that Almer was suffering."

"Ill!" she cried in an agitated tone.

"In mind, not in body. You have received letters from him lately, I believe?"

"Yes, three or four-the last a fortnight ago."

"Does he say he is unwell?"

"No; but now I think of it, he does not write in his usual good spirits."

"You have his address?"

"Yes; he is in Switzerland, you know."

"So Mr. Hartrich informed me-somewhere in the mountains, endeavouring to extract peace of mind from silence and solitude. That is well enough for a few days, and intellectual men are always grateful for such a change; but, if it is prolonged, there is danger of its bringing a mental disease of a serious and enduring nature upon a man brooding upon unhealthy fancies. I value Almer too highly to lose sight of him, or to allow him to drift. He has no family ties, and is in a certain sense a lonely man. Why should he not come and remain with us during our stay in the village? I had an idea that he himself would have proposed doing so."

"He might have considered it indelicate," said Adelaide with a bright colour in her face, "the house being his. As if he had a right to be here."

"It is by no means likely," said the Advocate, shaking his head, "that Almer would ever be swayed by other than generous and large-minded considerations. Write to him to-night, and ask him to leave his solitude, and make his home with us. He will be company for you, and your bright and cheerful ways will do him good. The prospect of his visit has already excited you, I see. I am afraid," he said, with a regretful pathos in his voice, "that my society affords you but poor enjoyment; yet I never thought otherwise, when you honoured me by accepting my proposal of marriage, than that you loved me."