by M. Betham Edwards, author of "Doctor Jacob," "Kitty," etc.
As published in Strange Doings in Strange Places (Cassell & Company, Ltd.; 1890), originally published in Cassell's Saturday Journal.
I.
It happened one midwinter, many years ago, that, in company with other travellers, I was snowed up at Marseilles. I had embarked from Algiers, leaving tropical weather behind, but a sudden storm came up in the Gulf of Lyons. After tossing about uncomfortably for many hours in sight of port, we were obliged to put back to sea, our passage lasting double the usual time. Instead of clouds of dust, a hot wind, and blinding sunshine--the tourist's usual portion at Marseilles--the aspect of the city was wholly Siberian. A snow-storm of almost unheard-of severity had swept over central and southern France, blocking roads and railways, and, for the time, completely cutting off communication with Paris. We were only a day's journey from the capital, but no one could give us any idea as to the time of getting there. Detachments of soldiers were at work all along the line, clearing the snow as fast as they could; so deep were the drifts, and so thickly embedded the cuttings, that we were assured our incarceration might last for ten days, or even more.
A pleasant delay enough for those who were in no hurry to continue their journey. The hotel at which I had put up with other snowbound travellers was comfort itself. Cheerful wood fires blazed all over the house. Corridors, staircases, and salons were brilliantly illuminated at dusk. The midday and six o'clock table d'hôte offered a variety of dishes, cooked in the best French manner; after dinner, music, conversation, and cards made up for the want of letters and newspapers. As the railway was impassable, we were cut off from these, or only obtained them by a roundabout route several days after date.
The company was a varied and sociable one; fortunately, also, not without accomplishments. One traveller could set our hair on end with ghost stories; another could melt us to tears with pathetic verse; a third send us into paroxysms of laughter with mimicry and caricature; a fourth puzzle every one out of his wits with sleight-of-hand. Some were equally well pleased to look on and applaud. Let me now particularise a little, for the strange circumstances which I am going to narrate have imprinted every detail on my memory.
I see before me, as if they were acquaintances of yesterday, the two middle-aged Englishmen-what hotel ordinary is without their counterparts?—who had seen everything in Europe from Spitzbergen to the Golden Horn, and who made themselves unobtrusively agreeable to everybody: the cheery old priest, just arrived after twenty years' missionary work in Cochin China; the young French naval officer, about to join his squadron at Toulon; the clever actress, "starring" as a dramatic reader; the good-natured, rotund little pianist, her husband; the pretty and pert American sisters, with their un-sophisticated parents, from Chicago; lastly, the pair of West Indians, the two Basilios. These young men, so singularly alike as to suggest the notion of twins, arrived only two or three days before the breaking up of our little party. They had disembarked at Bordeaux from the Manillas, and were bound to Algiers, one of them having just inherited a large property in the French colony. So he carelessly told me as we chatted at dinner, and I daresay I should have thought no more of the communication but for an incident that happened a few hours later.
The new comers did not join us in the salon. My dinner-table companion lingered on the threshold, as if intending to do so; even entered into a lively tête-à-tête with the vivacious Americans when the other called him away. I saw no more of them, and was thinking--must I confess the lazy wish?—what a pity we could not remain snowbound a week or two longer, when two voices in the adjoining room diverted my attention.
I at once recognised the peculiar accent of the young West Indians. The first speaker, my dinner-table neighbour, seemed bent on expostulation.
"Why so suspicious, so ready to think ill of every one you meet, Raymond?" he was saying, impatiently. "We are most likely not among sharpers or assassins. Moreover, I do not carry my newly-acquired fortune in my breast pocket. What earthly harm can it do to tell an English tourist that I am going to take possession of a large estate in Algeria?"
"Prattling of private affairs to entire strangers can never do good," retorted the other. "Do you wish before you have been under your own roof for four-and-twenty hours to be beset by speculators, money jobbers, and adventurers? And you are not able to say no. You would fall an easy prey to the designing."
"I must go my own way. Don't interfere with me, Raymond, there's a good fellow," was the reply, spoken not ungently, yet in a ruffled voice. "You know that I shall do all in my power to atone for your wrongs, and always treat you as a brother. But I cannot be harangued. I cannot be guided."
Here the conversation ended, so far as my own. ears were concerned. Softly opening the door, I hastened along the luxuriously carpeted corridor, and joined the company downstairs. But the manner of the speakers and the purport of their words had aroused my curiosity. Next day, without appearing to do so, I watched the pair narrowly.
As I have already mentioned, they were extra-ordinarily alike: of the same age, stature, and build, and with features and complexion so nearly similar that it was difficult for strangers to identify them apart. This marked natural resemblance was heightened by factitious means. They were dressed after precisely the same fashion, down to the colour of their neckties and the make of their enamel sleeve studs. Hair and beard were cropped to the same proportions. Each carried a watch chain of the same pattern, an eyeglass set in gold, and a diamond ring on the fourth finger of the left hand.
Those sparkling diamond rings led me to a strange discovery. The franker, more genial of the two, the newly-made millionaire, had by some freak of nature, or accident in childhood, been deprived of his left-hand little finger, the loss being most skilfully replaced by an imitation in wax. No one, unless minutely watching his manipulations, would ever have found out the secret. The artificial limb precisely resembled a real one. It was jointed, and with a spring, moved by gentle friction, could be straightened, bent, and unbent again. In fact, to all intents and purposes, its owner was as well off in the matter of fingers as his fellows, with one reservation: he could not play the piano.
"What a privation! Never to be able to learn music," he observed to me as if divining my thoughts. "You were scrutinising my waxen finger, just now, sir: I would exchange its weight in gold for your own of flesh and blood, bone and muscle."
"I am half inclined to wish that we could strike a bargain on the spot," I replied, laughingly. "Piano-forte playing is not much in my line; nor is money-making my strong point."
We happened to be alone in the smoking-room after breakfast, and he seemed disposed to talk.
"Well," he sighed good-humouredly, "I must be thankful to possess such a substitute," and he touched the spring, showing me the wondrously ingenious mechanism of his waxen finger. "Now, shall I tell you where to go for artificial limbs--noses, ears, legs, anything? I do believe there is only one place in the world where they can be had to perfection." I acquiesced readily. We can never possess too much miscellaneous information, and I wanted to learn more of his history. "I lost my finger by an accident five years ago, and my father sent me to Paris on purpose to have it replaced by the celebrated artist and mechanician—but here is his card. I carry the address of my benefactor about with me wherever I go, in the hope of rendering him service. Stay: I will write a word on the back, and if you have an hour to dispose of when next in Paris, do visit his atelier--museum, I should rather call it. You will be much amused."
He moved to the table, took up a pen, and wrote on the reverse side of the business card, "From your friend and well-wisher, Constant Adolf Basilio."
Having pocketed the missive, we chatted about other subjects. I found him a pleasant, fairly educated, gentlemanly young fellow, not at all brilliant or superfluously endowed with worldly wisdom; not at all calculated to make his way, as the phrase goes; rather I set him down as likely to be too easily led and guided--or misguided--however much he might resent anything that wore the look of interference. Truth to tell, I felt sorry for him, in spite of his good fortune. I foresaw many a pitfall into which he would tumble headlong, many a snare that would be laid by the self-seeking and the unscrupulous.
And I mistrusted his companion, the half-brother of the left hand--for such I took him to be--who kept such jealous watch over the young heir, already acting the part of a self-constituted guardian. On his side evidently lay all the masterfulness and determination. Strive as he might, the newly-made millionaire must sooner or later become subordinate to the will of his worldly inferior; so at least it seemed to me. We became quite friendly after that little conversation, but in a day or two the blockade of snow was raised, and our group of ice-bound travellers broke up.
"Mind and pay me a visit if ever you cross over to Africa," said Constant to me at parting. His half-brother was absent. "I can offer you splendid sport--horses, dogs, Arab beaters: all most heartily at your service. And if you accidentally lose a finger you now know where to go for a substitute!"
II.
Ten years had passed away. That pleasant imprisonment at Marseilles, my flirtations with the pretty Americans, our charades, dances, and concerts, the two Basilios, the easy-going, affable heir, and his reserved, suspicious double--all these had well-nigh faded from my memory, when quite unexpectedly I found myself on the way to Algiers. As I steamed from the grand French harbour and mused on my plans, I determined, should time and opportunity permit, to find the young men--middle-aged they would be by this time--out. The second visit to Marseilles had brought a vivid recollection of the first. I felt as much interested in the fate of my friend Constant of the waxen finger as if I had only parted from him the week before. Algiers, however, is one thing; Algeria another. When I referred to the address given me just ten years before, with the map of the French colony spread on the table, I felt tempted to give up the projected visit.
I had pictured to myself a pleasant day's excursion in the immediate environs of the city. I now discovered that my undertaking was quite formidable. The railway helped me one-third of the way, about seventy miles in all; the diligence would take me about as far again; the remaining twenty and odd miles of wild country I must get over as best I could. The whole thing savoured of hazard and adventure, but on further consideration I decided to set out. I had as yet seen next to nothing of French Africa. If I failed to find my former acquaintance, I should, at any rate, traverse an unknown and curious region. The weather was splendid, my health was of the best, and two weeks of holiday still remained at my disposal. Far better to spend them in exhilarating enterprise than on the hot, fashionable boulevards of what may now be called Brighton in Barbary.
Everything went well. The bit of railway on the line to Constantine led me through charming scenery. I was fortunate enough to secure a good seat outside the diligence. The eight hours' journey was full of interest to a stranger.
What most struck me was the mixture of savagery and civilisation: here brand-new, state-constructed French villages, with a toylike town hall, school house, and police station, the tricolour flying everywhere; there, in close juxtaposition, a collection of Bedouin tents: the dark-skinned, wild-looking population, with their flocks and herds, recalling Biblical scenes. On all sides the vegetation was magnificent, olives being evidently the chief crop. The diligence stopped at last, and as night was at hand I took up my quarters in the posthouse, a straggling, comfortless, dingy inn, where, however, I obtained a decent bed and a good supper. On inspecting the stables, I found that anything in the shape of a fairly comfortable carriage was out of the question. I hired instead a couple of the best horses to be had, engaged the services of a retired soldier as guide, and soon after sunrise next day was on my way.
"Do you know a gentleman named Basilio living in these parts?" I asked of my conductor.
"Who does not?" was the reply. "He is worth a million."
"Is he married? Has he children?"
"Pleasure is his wife; his gold pieces are his family. You will see what a splendid place he has built in these deserts."
Very desert-like and solitary indeed was the region we had now entered upon. Again and again we were obliged to cross a wide river-bed, in places dry, in others the water up to our horses' flanks, the steep banks glowing with oleanders in full bloom. Far and wide stretched the rocky waste; here and there groves of the silvery green olive and golden palm breaking the brown monotony. At rare intervals we came upon some little oasis, the walled-in premises of an ostrich farmer enterprising enough to settle amid such solitudes; around his fortified encampments, slopes of vineyard, olive orchard, and pasture.
Towards noon we reached a little inn, and, as the heat was intense, rested an hour or two, my companion assuring me that we should reach our destination before nightfall. There was no help for it then. My acquaintance of ten years before might have forgotten me. He would be compelled to offer me hospitality!
I reassured myself with the reflection that no visit could well wear the look of an intrusion in such circumstances. Almost the face of an enemy must surely be welcome at this world's end!
It was twilight when, hungry and tired, we came in sight of the Campagne Basilio, a large handsome structure, in the style of a modern château and surrounded, as all country houses are in Algeria, by a lofty wall. Outside that enclosure were park-like glades and shrubberies; within, flower gardens, fountains, aviaries, all most beautifully kept.
The aspect of the place was not that of a bachelor's home. Every window blazed with cheerful light; servants bustled hither and thither; and, as we rode up to the front door, two smart Arab grooms ran forward to seize the bridles, as if we were expected. It was evident that some kind of festivity was going on, and that I was supposed to be an invited guest.
While I stood hesitating as to what course to pursue--how best to frame an excuse for an untimely intrusion I heard the well-remembered accent of my old acquaintance. Having warmly received two visitors arrived just before, he now turned to myself, all hospitality and preoccupation. "I offer many apologies for this unexpected appearance," I said; "I am an Englishman--you may remember our meeting years ago--Fletcher by name--Vincent Fletcher--and happening to be in Algeria--"
"You are most heartily welcome," he exclaimed; "I receive many visits from your countrymen on their way to Constantine. I am delighted to show them the country. Excuse me—"
Here he greeted another new comer.
"The fact is," he added, "I am to-night entertaining a large hunting party, and my mind is distracted by a thousand details. Hamed, conduct this gentleman to a bedroom. Let me see--the west room is unoccupied, and see that his attendant and horses are well cared for. In a quarter of an hour the bell will ring for dinner," he added; then, with a pleasant smile and second handshake, he left me in charge of the Arab servant.
The dining-room in which the large company assembled a little later presented a brilliant scene.
Magnificent candelabra, with their myriad lights, were reflected in the mirrors set around. Silver in abundance glittered on the snowy damask; crystal and coloured glass sparkled, whilst from end to end. of the long table were displayed brilliant tropic flowers and delicate ferns. To crown all, only Arabs were in attendance, clad in gala dresses. I found my host surrounded by his friends, and only won a friendly nod from him before we sat down to table.
Well, I said to myself, my explanation, such as it was, would keep! When a man has built himself a
palace on the confines of the desert, he evidently needs no letters introductory from chance visitors. A chance partaker of his splendour is only too welcome. So I took my place, bowed to my table companions, and resolved to enjoy the altogether unexpected turn of affairs. We numbered upwards of twenty in all, the party being composed of two Arab chiefs, a couple of French officers, a cheery old priest, and several sunburnt colonists and civilians--evidently the doctor, notary, and magistrate of the nearest town.
It was some time before anything was attempted worthy the name of conversation. Everybody seemed to be in my own case--that is to say excessively hungry; and during the first half hour the chief accompaniment to the banquet was the clatter of knives and forks.
When the first imperative calls of hunger were satisfied, I glanced at my host.
Whilst ten years had outwardly much changed myself, most likely past recognition, he remained the same. My own hair had taken a silvery gleam; his close-cut beard and curly locks were still black as ever. A slim stripling, I had grown portly; he seemed hardly to have gained a quarter of an inch in breadth. Yet as I studied his physiognomy I perceived an alteration--of what nature I could not define--but change was there. And the more and more I became familiar with my former acquaintance, the more clearly did I recognise it. The candid, almost lethargic expression, the amiable yieldingness of early years, had given way to a certain hardness and cynicism, also to a certain reserve that had been wholly wanting in the Constant Adolf Basilio of ten years before. Excess of good fortune had turned my frank, ingenuous companion into a voluptuary, a worldling.
The banquet had now become more animated; sparkling wine circulated freely. Amid the Babel of voices, it was almost impossible to make one's own heard. Yet I was conscious of interchanging a few commonplaces with my neighbour, the Abbé.
All this time my gaze was fascinated to the other end of the table. I could not help glancing furtively at this enigmatic host--the same man, yet not the same, known so well during that snowbound imprisonment at Marseilles. As I watched him, without appearing to do so, an incident, trivial in itself, made my heart beat quickly. The master of the house, in rapidly moving his glass, had come in contact with the sharp edge of a knife as the servant was removing it. I think my own eyes were the only ones to observe what followed. A tiny crimson drop now rose to the surface of the fourth finger of his left hand!
Horror stricken at the revelation, I yet mastered myself sufficiently to ask the old priest,
"Is it long, may I ask, Monsieur l'Abbé, since you have been in these regions--since you have known our host?"
"This is the fourteenth year of my ministration in Africa," he replied. "I was the first to welcome the young heir to his new home."
"Did he arrive unaccompanied--without any relation?" I contrived to get out.
"He was unhappily--or perhaps happily for himself--alone in the world," was the answer. "That is to say, if any one can be so called who inherits a million."
I was now past reasoning with myself. Utterly regardless of the consequences, only mindful of the foul plot I had just unravelled, of the unhappy youth whose place was filled by his murderer, I rose to my feet, and by a wild, almost a superhuman effort, commanded silence.
"Fellow guests," I cried, "this is no hour for feast or rejoicing! Ask him to whose board you have been bidden what he has done with the real Constant Adolf Basilio! This is no jest," I added, facing the guilty man, "but solemn earnest. That red spot on the fourth finger of your left hand, that drop of blood just now surreptitiously wiped away, has betrayed you. I knew your unhappy namesake well. I can prove to one and all here assembled that long before setting out for Africa, the fourth finger of his left hand had been replaced by a waxen substitute. What was his fate, what happened after I bade him adieu at Marseilles on the twenty-third of January, 1869, shall be my business to learn."
* * * * *
True enough, after a long and laborious trial, now celebrated in the criminal annals of the French colony, the mystery was brought to light and the fictitious Basilio to justice. He was condemned to lifelong incarceration for having caused the death of his half-brother by drowning off the coast of Marseilles, just after my departure.
The half-brothers had quitted the hotel with their baggage early in the day on which the steamer started for Algiers, but on that same morning, it transpired that two young West Indian gentlemen had hired a boat in the harbour for a row. Only one returned, the explanation being given that the other had alighted at a certain point, preferring to walk back. As the movements of the pair concerned none but themselves, the fact that two had quitted the hotel and only one embarked passed unnoticed. The rest of the scheme was easy of accomplishment, not a soul in the African colony knowing either the real heir to the property or his double.