The Four Invisibles/Chapter 5

HATEVER poet or sage may say, old age is still old age.”

Such was the unexpectedly rueful conclusion of one who was both poet and sage himself, who had, indeed, many a winning thing to say upon the placid beauties of life's Autumn.

In the estimation of that genial bibliophile, M. Havart de Gournay however, Autumn was no symbol for “old age.” Winter, yes, of course; but Autumn, ah no. Autumn was only the hour of maturity, of fruition. For the serene, epicurean philosopher, in the words of one of his favorite authors—

The Winter solstice in man—in a man of health and honored ease—might be said to occur at the passing of three score years and ten—perhaps. Now, M. Havart de Gournay, upon this eighth day of October, 1817, had only entered upon the sixty-first year of a life which, for all it had seen momentous upheavals, strange vicissitudes in his country's fortunes, had been evenly prosperous. Indeed, but for the looming of the Winter toward which Autumn undeniably drifts, this amiable gentleman could argue that the seventh decade was in many ways the most satisfactory of the whole span noted of the psalmist.

Unalloyed enjoyment is so rare in this world that it may without rashness be asserted that no one was more content with life than M. de Gournay as he sat by his balconied window, all in the glow of a fine sunset, examining a new bibliographic treasure just come into his possession.

His was one of those admirable houses, dating from the Grand Siècle, on the Quai Malaquais, overlooking across the silvery Seine the noble prospect of Louvre and Tuileries. Behind it, stretching as far as the Rue de Bourbon, spread the old mulberry-tree gardens of the whilom Théatins convent. The mansion, not inconveniently vast, but of perfect appointment, was ruled by a dame in her still handsome forties, reasonably plump, serene-tempered, withal witty—rare and delighting combination—who still thought the world of her old husband. She kept him in health and cheeriness with the help of an admirable chef and rejoiced in his bookish hobby, which left her free to enjoy the social intercourse for which he had but little taste.

The passion which had outlived all others in M. de Gournay's life was wholly bibliomaniac. And his collection of rare bindings—of volumes, incunabula and others, with fine printers' devices of livres à vignettes and armorial stamps—was a thing which no doubt when it came to the hammer—ultimate fate of all collections: Nunc mihi, mox aliis—would make the hearts of future bibliophiles leap with eagerness.

“Tell me whom thou consortest with; I will tell thee who thou art.” To say that his best appreciated correspondent was Thomas Frognall Dibden, Esq., a friend of exile days in England, then engaged upon the “Bibliographical Decameron;” to say that one of the most welcome presences at his dinner-table was that of M. Brillat-Savarin, the witty gourmet then meditating his immortal work on “La Physiologie du Gout;” that perhaps would be the quickest way of limning the mental man in M. de Gournay.

The bodily presentment was equally engaging. Short, fresh and neat; always attired point-device in an old-fashioned style—slightly powdered hair in a queue; silver shoe-buckles and so forth, in men of his age quite de mise under the returned Bourbons; with a good appetite, sound teeth and clear eyes, M. de Gournay was the very image of one equipped for the enjoyment of fife, especially in its Autumn. When M. Brillat-Savarin rallied him on the coming of an appreciable rotundity, he would answer, with a kind of smiling ruefulness that had nothing bitter in it:

“Bah, my good friend, let that be! Shall we not all of us be thin enough—some day?”

And he would add a “dum vivimus, vivamus;” a “carpe diem,” or some such comforting tag dear to the bon-vivant.

If it be further mentioned that the heir to this fortunate house, a youth of attainments, idolized by his father, was rapidly making for himself a brilliant position without losing a loving devotion to his family—a characteristic very particularly French—it will have been made plain that M. Havart de Gournay had the right to be pleased with life.

At the sunset hour of this particular day the excellent gentleman was gloating over a vellum-bound volume, armoried in faded gold, that displayed—greatest of rarities—the printer's device of Valentin Fernandez. He was inhaling the fragrance of an undreamed prize and licking the chops of greedy anticipation at the thought of many more that might, it appeared, be in his grasp on the morrow.

Barely half an hour before an unknown visitor had secured a welcome by means of the most propitiatory of conceivable offerings—a little packet, under the strings of which was slipped a rather exotic glazed card, bearing beneath a slender Spanish coronet the name of Condesa Lucanor. A lady, the footman stated, requested the favor of a moment's interview with M. de Gournay. She would not detain him many minutes.

HE stranger's entrance had revealed a truly charming old lady, dressed in black silks of becoming—if undeniably foreign—elegance. Bandeaux of white hair, under a fall of black lace, framed a visage of gray, faded beauty, still lit up by eyes of marked brilliancy. She was enveloped in a delicate atmosphere of Parma violets. Her manner, which had withal the ease of une dame du monde, was self-assured, even to briskness.

“If M. de Gournay, the well-known connoisseur, will undo this parcel,” she had said as he led her to an armchair, “he will save me the difficulty of any preamble and will understand the object of my intrusion.”

She spoke the purest French, but with a vibrating, deep Castilian voice that was most attractive.

He had bowed and obeyed. Then, radiantly:

“A Fernandez! Of 1501! Why, madame, this is a treasure! To what do I owe”

“I will not waste your time,” she had answered, with a smile singularly flashing in so wan a face. “I see that the introduction is sufficient for the present. And I feel, now, confident that it will lead to a transaction that may be very pleasant to you—while it will extricate me out of a difficulty. I possess, at my villa in St. Mande—I have written the address on the card—a collection of books left me by my late husband. I have always understood, although these are not things I understand, that it is a remarkable one. This volume I took haphazard. The binding pleased me. It has, you see, the arms of Lucanor on the side”

“Are these Lucanor?” had exclaimed the greedy collector in ravishment.

“Yes,” had pursued the dame, in pleasant but businesslike tones. “And there are a good many others; the best houses of Castile. I am a lone woman; I have no use for all these vieilleries. But, to be frank, I have much use for their worth. I must leave France in something of a hurry, and I require money. I made inquiries. I heard that M. de Gournay collected such things; that he was a man of wealth. In fact—you see I am quite open—I thought that I could get a better price, leaving it to you, a gentilhomme, to fix it, than by going to the librarians. You can have the pick; the rest can then go to them. Ah, I see you will. I am fortunate. And so are you—permit me to say so.”

After a little more converse at a similar lively rate, the lady had taken her departure.

“Time,” she had urged, as he escorted her back to her fiacre, “is for me very pressing. I have a world of things to see to. But I shall be in between eleven and twelve for you and have the treasures,” she laughed charmingly; “these old bouquins, with not a line in them that any one can care to read, are jewels for your bibliophiles, it seems—I'll have all the treasures laid out for you. Yet, be punctual—eleven to twelve is all I can give you. Five minutes past eleven, and I shall conclude you have thought better of it. Then,” she threatened him with her fan, “the librarian of St. Genevieve will have first pick.”

“Be assured,” had said the jubilant collector, “I shall be there at the first stroke.”

Y SAINT ALIPANTIN” the absurd asseveration the bibliomaniac favored in his moments of melting blandness—“by Saint Alipantin,” murmured M. de Gournay, as all in the sunset glow he collated the black-letter leaves, “no, I am scarce likely to be late!”

And, little conscious indeed of the direction in which the stream of his placid life had been diverted by this pleasant whirlwind, he counted the hours that still separated him from the fateful morrow.

MONG the letters awaiting M. de Gournay upon his breakfast tray—madame took her early chocolate amid her own pillows—was one from London, which the gentleman, attired this morning not in slippers and quilted silk dressing-gown but already prepared to sally forth though it was scarce past eight o'clock, took up with some curiosity.

The contents proved of growing interest, for he read right through without thinking of lifting the coffee-pot which his fingers had mechanically sought. These words Mr. Johnstone had written from Bedford Row:

M. de Gournay poured out his coffee, drank it and ate his white loaf, lost in a painful muse. “Ever-suspecting vigilance.” To one of his bland habits the words bore a strangely unpleasant color. They even dimmed the rosy tints of the coming transaction with the delightful old lady. But he was afforded little time for the vexing speculation. The servant brought in another letter.

“Left by hand,” said he, “and the messenger waiting at the door.”

This was the communication:

“The great horned devil is in it!” muttered the excellent man. It was not Saint Alipantin now; M. de Gournay was seriously discomposed. He pocketed his letters, demanded his hat, and his gold-headed cane.

“I follow,” he said tartly to the nondescript individual waiting in the vestibule.

And, ten minutes later—it is but a short traject from the Quai Malaquais to the Isle of the Cité—he was introduced to the inner sanctum of the Bureau of Public Safety: a stuffy room, lined from floor to ceiling with green cardboard dossier boxes arranged by the thousand in pigeonholes.

HENRI, a youngish, tubby man of small size and no very remarkable appearance, save singularly wide, coldly observant eyes, rose from the table upon which was spread a letter he had been conning.

“You will forgive,” he began in quick precise words after a gesture toward his own chair, the only one in the room, “the pressing tone of my letter if it has inconvenienced you. Time is very short. I will ask you, first, if you are acquainted with one of the name of Ferrars, an Englishman?”

M. de Gournay started. Like a flash, the attorney's words “ever-suspecting vigilance” leaped out, as it were, to illumine the white hair and the bright eyes of last eve's visitor.

“One Sir Jasper Ferrars is an old friend of mine,” he answered quickly.

“Ah, we are on the road; my guess was happy.”

A smile flickered across M. Henri's face.

“You will now give me,” he went on, “the address, if you have it, of any one with whom you may lately have entered into communication concerning bibliographic treasures—that is the word.” He bent sideways over the table and laid a finger upon the letter. “Especially if it be a woman. One moment, you are a better-lettered man than I, but I believe I am right in presuming that the name Ashtoreth refers to a female devil?”

“Yes, certainly.” M. de Gournay sank deeper into wonder. “The Semitic Aphrodite, an evil spirit. And, as a fact, I have an appointment with a lady this morning, between eleven and twelve. Yes, and about treasures,” he said ruefully, as he saw in imagination these coveted prizes melting into thin air. “And this is the address.”

The Chef de la Sûreté took the card, glanced at it and rang his bell.

“Send in Vidocq,” he ordered to the plain-clothes attendant who appeared at the door. Then, to his visitor, “We will be in time. Parbleu, we are lucky! And so are you, M. de Gournay,” he added with much meaning, “as you will hear. Ah, Vidocq, I think we have that Montmorency affair well in hand. Here is the address. Take all your measures: the mouse-trap in this case. Have it all fixed up by ten o'clock. Not much time, but, for you—time enough.”

M. de Gournay looked with intense curiosity at the celebrated Vidocq, the wily, formidable sleuth-hound whose name was already a terror to whom it might concern: a broad-shouldered massive-headed man, whose appearance, out of service, was that of some sturdy, good-tempered sailor. On duty, there was none who could assume more convincingly the most unlikely disguises.

Vidocq studied the card, repressed a grin of satisfaction, saluted with the hand and disappeared.

“Now, my dear sir,” resumed M. Henri, “if you will give me half an hour of your attention, everything in this business, which must of course seem still mysterious, will, I think, be made as clear to you as it is already to us. Your help, besides, will be required to bring to a stop certain sinister machinations which closely concern you. Be good enough to read carefully this letter.”

He planted himself with his back to the window and watched M. de Gournay's face. The latter, mounting his spectacle, perused the cryptic document, which ran, in French, as follows:

Beads of perspiration had appeared on M. de Gournay's face as he drew near the end of the lines, packed so full of hidden meaning. He looked up at last with dire perplexity in his eyes.

“What do you make of it?” asked M. Henri.

“Nothing that is clear—much that seems sinister.”

“It is sinister. And it will soon be made clear. This letter,” said M. Henri, “was found on the body of a man—sewn in the lining of his coat—a man, not yet identified, but who is obviously the Abaddon mentioned, killed two nights ago by a young English traveler whom he had tried to murder, in the forest of Montmorency. The affair was cleverly planned—we have already, through examination of the young man, reconstituted the whole story—but the Englishman, though badly mauled, succeeded in suppressing Abaddon, instead of being suppressed himself. The English man's name is Ferrars, son of the Sir Jasper Ferrars you mentioned.”

M. de Gournay gave a start. The chief, pleased with the result of his methodically dramatic way of exposition, went on, intent upon the next effect:

ELPHEGOR, who sent Mr. Ferrars to be disposed of abroad by his compeer, Abaddon, is beyond doubt a young fashionable, well-known—and, curiously enough, honorably so, under the present régime—as the Baron de Hanstedt.”

Here M. de Gournay as if shot by a spring leaped from his chair. He mopped Ins brow.

“Hanstedt! The son of my old friend, the friend of Sir Jasper, a murderer! What, in heaven's name—ah, I've got it—the tontine!”

“A tontine!” cried M. Henri, and his eyes flashed satisfaction. “A tontine, of course. We have puzzled a whole day over the thing, and never guessed. The nearest we could think of was a succession. A tontine; you have an interest in it?”

“I have, indeed,” gasped the bibliophile. “I—or my son. And so has” Then, with a sudden recollection of Mr. Johnstone's communication, “So had, I should say, sir Jasper.”

“And so has, I take it, M. de Hanstedt, Belphegor. Any others?”

“No. All the others are already gone. Already gone! This is terrible, M. Henri. And I,” he wailed, “I who looked forward, with interest, of course, but in calmness, to whatever share might fall to my lot, if I lived to see it—and to my son, if I did not!”

“Your son. Your possible substitute,” put in M. Henri, cruelly attentive; “just as Mr. Ferrars, failing his father.”

M. de Goumay turned white.

“My boy, too!” he exclaimed. But, checking the new emotion, he drew himself up resolutely. “You were right, sir; the machinations concern me, closely. But they have concerned others. We must work together, you and I. Now, this may help. You do not read English, probably; I will translate for you a communication I received this very morning.”

“One moment,” said the chief.

He rang his bell, wrote a few words on a slip of paper and handed it to the attendant. Then he turned back to his visitor.

“I am listening.”

“It is clear, M. de Gournay,” he said when the latter had concluded, “that the fate of M. de Bondy, of Colonel Rocheville, of Sir Jasper Ferrars and that which young Ferrars has by luck escaped were governed by the same purpose: elimination in due time. Elimination under plausible appearances, excluding all suggestion of concerted crime. Elimination at the hands of a clever gang of which this Hanstedt is a member. The case of M. de Bondy will be duly attended to. That of the colonel will be more difficult, disguised as it is as an accident of popular commotion; but we shall sift that also.

“This information of yours is of the highest value; we now know the motive of these crimes and can trace them to one association. The mode, I must tell you, is just now all for these secret companionships. 'Each for all, all for each.' I strongly suspect the fraternity which concerns us to be of good social standing—we have known others of the same kind—the most difficult to trace—educated, elegant even—in good circumstances, but on the lookout for great coups; meanwhile, above ordinary suspicion. What sort of a person is Ashtoreth, the soi-disant Spanish comtesse?”

“She would be at ease in any salon.”

“Ah, I thought so. And Belphegor, we know, is a dandy of the first water. These vampires masquerade among each other under demoniacal names, with a rallying phrase, 'the Invisibles,' for a wager in this case. I wonder,” went on M. Henri, peering again at the paper, “whether we have them all here? Abaddon is done with. Ashtoreth and Belphegor I look to have under my thumb before noon. Who may Moloch be? Bah! He'll come to the net, too! It was a weak thing of Belphegor to put anything down on paper, even without an address, even under fancy names and in tangling parables.

“True, there was scarce a chance in a million of its ever falling under the eye of one who had the end of the thread. But there was one. And it is going to cost him dear. Ah, and what is better, it has saved M. de Gournay, for what had been prepared would have been as plausible, and the result as final, as in the case of Mr. Ferrars, the Comte de Bondy and the colonel. It was a weak thing—certes—for instance, to mention a bibliophile—wealthy—old-world—rosy-gilled.” M. Henri smiled apologetically.

“Above all to speak of him as likely to give any price for armorial bindings. It took us the whole of the afternoon—the case only came for my examination yesterday morning—to become acquainted, by the help of the leading dealers in fine books, with all the noted collectors in Paris. Then, by elimination, we settled it that M. de Gournay was the distinguished person who was this day to be put out of the way.”

M. Henri looked at the clock.

“It will soon be time for you to act—I need not ask,” said he gravely, “whether you will play out your part in this drama. You will keep the appointment with Ashtoreth, and before twelve o'clock strikes, this invisible association of society brigands, I give you my word, will be a thing of the past. I can not believe,” he added earnestly, “that you can hesitate; Mr. Ferrars, wounded as he is, is lending his help.”

“But my son, my son!” cried M. de Gournay. “He is as gravely threatened as I am. I must first”

“I have already seen to that. He will be warned and well watched over.”

The old gentleman drew a grateful sigh and again wiped his forehead.

“I am ready,” he said simply.

“Your part,” said M. Henri, “will be to follow instructions. There is a fiacre wait ing for you at the door. Before you sit down to your next meal, the whole affair—as we say in our profession—will be in the sack.”