by John K. Leys, author of "The Lindsays," etc.
As published in Strange Doings in Strange Places (Cassell & Company, Ltd.; 1890), originally published in Cassell's Saturday Journal.
I.
Before narrating what happened to myself, it will be convenient to lay before the reader a statement which I received from the Rev. Father Usher. I wrote to him, in circumstances which will presently appear, and in reply I received a letter enclosing this statement. I have only to add that Father Usher is a priest well known and highly respected among the members of his communion.
THE STATEMENT ABOVE REFERRED TO.
It was after twelve months' hard work in an East London parish that I resolved to take a short holiday, and pay a visit to the shrine of our Lady at Lourdes. On my way I had to pass through Paris, and I set aside a day or two for the purpose of visiting some of the principal sights of the city. I was standing alone in the open space in front of Nôtre Dame when a voice said in my ear--
"Monsieur is a priest?"
I turned and saw a short, slim, dark-haired man, with neatly trimmed beard and moustache.
"I am," was my answer.
"And a stranger in Paris, I think?"
"A complete stranger," I said, with a smile.
"Will monsieur come to give the last sacraments to one at the point of death?" was the next question.
"You had better ask one of the clergy resident here," I replied, pointing to the church. "I am a stranger; and I have no faculty to hear confessions in the diocese."
"But the man is dying," returned the stranger. "I thought every priest had power to hear the confessions of the dying."
"True. But why not apply to one of the local clergy?"
"Because the man is of your country; and he naturally prefers a priest of his own nation."
"That is a different matter," said I. "Wait here till I go to the sacristy for the holy oils. I will be with you immediately." I procured what was necessary, and returned to the spot. The man was still there. "There is one thing I must mention," said my guide, as we walked away together. "You must know that there are places in Paris where strangers are not allowed to come. The man you are about to visit is to be found in one of these houses. I dare not take you to him unless you solemnly promise me not to attempt to discover the direction we take or the house we visit."
I hesitated. I was putting myself completely in this stranger's power. But it was impossible to allow a Roman Catholic to die unshriven if I could help it.
"I consent," I said, after a moment's reflection.
The man at my side lifted his hand, and a carriage, which had evidently been waiting, drew up to the pavement. When we entered it I noticed that the blinds were not only drawn but carefully fitted to the window-sashes, so that, to all intents and purposes, the outside world was as thoroughly concealed from me as if I had been carried in a box.
For a long time--for nearly an hour I should say--we drove about the streets of Paris. By that time I had not the faintest idea even of the quarter of the city which we were in. At last the carriage turned sharply into a courtyard, and stopped.
"Monsieur will please close his eyes," said my guide, in a totally different tone from that which he had formerly used.
I obeyed, and was half-led, half-pushed in at a doorway.
Once in the house, I was allowed to open my eyes, and found myself in a narrow, ill-lighted, ill-smelling passage. No one was visible. We mounted several flights of stairs, and at length reached a door, which my guide opened.
"In half an hour I will come for you," he said, as he showed me in. Then he shut and locked the door behind me. The room was a small one, poorly furnished, lighted by gas only. I looked around. A tall, handsome young man, about five-and-twenty years of age, stood leaning against the mantelpiece. There was no bed, nor any sick person to be seen.
"I am a priest," said I, "come to give the last sacraments to a person at the point of death. I suppose I have been shown in here by mistake."
"There is no mistake," said the young man, with a peculiar smile.
"Can you conduct me to the dying man?" I asked, with some impatience.
"I am he."
"You? You are in perfect health!"
"True; but I shall be dead in an hour."
I recoiled, amazed, horrified, and incredulous.
"I am an Irishman, and a member of a secret society," said the stranger. "They ordered me to take part in an assassination. I refused, and defied them. They sentenced me to death--hunted me, trapped me—and here I am."
"But the police--?"
"Quite useless," answered the young Irishman, with the same sad smile.
"I do not know in what part of Paris I am, but I do know that this room has no window, nor any door besides that by which you entered, and which is guarded."
"I will inform the police myself!" I cried.
"It will be quite in vain," was the sorrowful answer.
"To-morrow morning my body will be found in the Seine. Sit down, father."
Hardly able to speak, I obeyed, and the young man knelt at my side. I heard his confession, and, after demanding from him a renunciation of the secret society of which he was a member, gave him absolution.
"There is one request I have to make, father," he said, when all was over. "Will you grant it?"
"Can you doubt it?" I asked, deeply moved. "It is that you will write to my mother, and tell her that I died a good death."
He gave me several messages to his relatives, and I carefully stored up in my memory the address to which I was to write.
He had hardly ceased to speak, when the door opened, and my guide reappeared. I threatened him and his crew with the vengeance of man and the curse of Heaven. My words were received with a contemptuous smile, then with stony indifference, and finally with angry insults. It was utterly in vain. So I turned, gave the poor fellow the last blessing, and was hurried downstairs.
At the door of the house I was seized from behind. A handkerchief was tied over my mouth and another over my eyes. Thus helpless I was thrust into the carriage. I believe there was chloroform on the handkerchief, for I became insensible; and when I awoke I was sitting alone on a bench in a public garden.
Thence I made my way to a police station. They did not laugh at my story, as I anticipated they would. But there was no clue. The police were helpless.
Next day I went to the Morgue, and there, on the marble slab, was the body of the man I had absolved. That evening I wrote to the address he had given me, but beyond a few words of thanks I had no reply.
SAMUEL USHER.
II.
On comparing dates, I think it must have been about three years after the time of Father Usher's visit to Paris that I became a resident in that capital. I went there for the purpose of completing my medical studies, but I must confess that, for the first three months of my stay there, I was so fascinated by the amusements, reputable and disreputable, of that gay city, that my medical knowledge remained very much what it had been before. Nowhere is it harder to resist the temptations of a great city than in Paris, and, to speak plainly, I led an idle, irregular life for these three months.
Among my friends of that period was a young man named Condière, a gay, thoughtless, and, I fear, unprincipled fellow. It was he who proposed one evening that we should visit "La Renardière."
"What is that?" I asked. "I have often heard the place spoken of; but I never could find out exactly what it is."
"Put a louis or two in your pocket, and you will soon know," laughed my companion.
La Renardière, or the Fox-hole, was, I found, a corner house, of dull, uninviting exterior, in the heart of one of the disreputable quarters of Paris.
Condière knocked twice--two sharp raps, followed by three gentle ones--and we were admitted. The attendant handed my friend two small black things, and pocketed a fee at the same moment. Condière gave one of them to me. "Put on that," he said. "What is it? A mask! Why?"
"The police wink at what goes on here; but every now and then they used to drop in unofficially, just to get a sight of their birds, as it were. So it became the rule that every visitor should wear a mask. Come along."
We went upstairs, pushed open a swing door, and entered a large room well lit up. In the centre of the room stood the inevitable roulette table. In one corner was a refreshment table; in another a kind of office, at which change was given, debts were settled, etc. The room was pretty full. I advanced to the table, and stood looking on.
The masks of course effectually concealed the features of the players; and the effect was most singular. It was almost as if an assemblage of ghosts were seated round the table, keeping up in dumb show the passion of their mortal lives. If they had been ghosts they could not have been more silent. From the holes in each mask a pair of eyes glittered hard, greedy, some of them anxious to the verge of agony.
And two of the players were women.
They sat in the second row--an older woman closely veiled; the younger masked like the other guests. The elder female did not play at all. It was evident that she was there merely as a guardian, or duenna, to the younger lady, who played spasmodically, but apparently with great eagerness. How shall I give an idea of the fascination that woman had for me? I trembled with pleasure, with a nameless emotion, as I looked at her. She was still young--certainly not more than two- or three-and-twenty. Her cheek, her chin, her hand were moulded in lines of the most delicate, subtle beauty. Her lips were loveliness itself. Every movement was full of a proud, free grace. She seemed utterly unconscious of her surroundings, of the fact that her mere presence in that place was an unspeakable degradation.
"Who is she?" I whispered to Condière.
"How can I tell?" he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "I have seen her here several times, always masked. Perhaps some great lady who has a passion for high play."
The lady must have noticed my glances. At any rate her eyes were raised slowly, purposely, till they met my own. My eyes fell beneath that strange, questioning stare from a face that was hidden from me. When I looked up the lady was engaged in play.
I felt as if I must draw nearer to her, and by slow degrees I made my way round to her side of the table. It was necessary for me to stake a few francs. I won, as new comers often do.
"Will monsieur stake a louis for me?" said a low; tremulous voice beside me.
It thrilled through me from head to foot. I was delirious with happiness. With a bow and a smile I took the coin, staked it, and won--staked it again, and won again--a third, a fourth, a fifth time.
"Ah! that will do--a thousand thanks, monsieur. One must not tempt fortune too far, even with so gallant a--"
"You are English!" I exclaimed, involuntarily.
The lady seemed surprised, but it was only for a moment. She shook her head and laughed; then, with a glance which set my blood on fire, she slipped away. I tried to follow her, madly desirous of knowing who she was; but Condière caught my arm.
"Take care what you are about, Mac," he said. "I saw you were smitten, and I have made inquiries. Strange things are told of that young lady. You are not the first who has worshipped her; and one, if not two, of them suddenly disappeared--"
"Bah!" I exclaimed; "I am neither a child nor a fool."
"I tell you I noticed that, as you were staking her money, an ill-looking fellow went up and spoke to the duenna, and--"
"What does that matter? Let me go!" I cried, impatiently.
But I was too late. The ladies had vanished.
The next night found me once more at La Renardière. The lady was there too; and I succeeded in making her acquaintance. I was allowed to accompany her and her duenna to their home, and they dismissed me at the door. It was about a fortnight after that time that the older woman, the companion--who, by the way, had never spoken a word in my hearing--handed me a tiny note. It was an invitation to supper.
I kissed the morsel of paper a thousand times. I counted the hours, the minutes, as they fled.
At last the hour came. I saw her for the first time without her mask. I could have fallen at her feet, so enthralled I was by the sense of her beauty.
"You have not yet told me your name," I said in half a whisper.
"Infelicia," said the sweet voice.
"Felicia, you mean?"
"No; only Infelicia."
I cannot remember much about that night. I was maddened by an unreasoning, all-absorbing passion. There was supper, I know, with waxlights, flowers, and perfumes. No one was at the table but Infelicia, her silent companion, and myself. I addressed the duenna, but Infelicia whispered to me that she was deaf and dumb; and, of course, I was not sorry to hear it. It allowed me to speak the more freely to the lovely woman at my side.
I felt, however, that she did not respond to my advances; that she felt for me nothing of the passion I had for her. I saw reflected in her face many a changing mood. At one moment I saw that some memory of infinite sadness oppressed her. Then she would burst into a laugh of forced gaiety; and again, a fierce passion which I could not comprehend burned in her eyes. For me, it was happiness enough to be near her. Of the future I hardly thought at all.
When the meal was nearly over, the dumb duenna slipped into an adjoining room. My opportunity had come a chance that might never return. Seizing the beautiful girl's hand, I sank on my knees, pouring forth I know not what mad words of rapturous love.
"Oh, nonsense!" cried Infelicia, a strange, cold glitter in her eyes. "Do not talk of love just now. Let us drink a glass of good Burgundy to our next meeting."
She poured out the wine. I stood up and held the glass to my mouth, while she followed my example, a smile on her parted lips.
"To our next meeting--and our deathless love, Infelicia!"
"No, no; not that!" she cried. I was in the act of drinking, and had swallowed a few drops of the wine, when I heard a sound from behind, then a blow, and the red liquid was dashed over the table.
"It is a lie! He lied, the wretch! Thank Heaven I am in time!" cried a stranger's voice.
I turned, and saw a young man about my own age, his eyes blazing with excitement, his breath coming in short gasps, as if he had been running.
My hand was lifted to strike him, but I was stopped by the noise of a heavy fall. Infelicia had fainted. I sprang forward to help her, but the stranger pushed me aside. "Go. I am her brother," he said, with a strange, half-frightened look at me. "Go away, and be thankful you are alive. You will never be nearer death than you have been this night." I staggered from the room, and reached my own lodgings, I can hardly tell how. The next day (so great was my infatuation) I went back to the house; but I could find no trace of Infelicia or her friends. They had left, I was told, before dawn. It would be vain to describe the chaos of feelings--wounded love, indignation, sorrow, baffled desire to know the truth--that raged in my breast. For months I haunted the room in which I had first seen Infelicia, the streets which I had traversed at her side, the neighbourhood of the house where that mysterious girl had lived. It was in vain. She never returned to Paris; and I never afterwards breathed her name.
III.
One after another the years went by. I took my degree, and set up in practice in London. I was a middle-aged man, with a wife and children of my own.
One morning, in the early winter, I was just setting out on my daily round of visits, when my servant said to me--
"Two Sisters of Charity, sir, wish to see you."
I was accustomed to the visits of these good sisters; and I told the man to show them in.
"Good morning, sister," I began--and stopped, unable to say another word. Under the snowy headdress of the nun I saw before me the well-remembered face of Infelicia!
She became white to the lips, and I led her to a seat.
"Your sister is indisposed. She may have over-tasked her strength," I said calmly to the other nun. "If you will sit down in the waiting room I will make up a restorative for her."
The sister obeyed me, and we were left alone.
"Oh, forgive me!" she cried, clasping her hands.
"Infelicia," I said, "is it possible that you—"
"Yes; I am guilty. I tried to take your life. But it was a mistake--a piece of treachery on the part of one of our allies. My brother-in-law found it out, thank Heaven, in time!"
"But why did you wish to murder any one?"
"They killed him, my husband, my darling, my only one! They killed him in cold blood. Write to Father Usher, of New York, and he will explain it to you."
"Explain what?"
"How they murdered my husband because he would not become an assassin to please them. There were three of them, three fiends in human shape; and we swore--his mother, his brother, and I--that we would have blood for blood."
"But before we could accomplish our revenge, the hand of the Almighty came between. One died in prison; the other fell in a quarrel. We believed you to be the last of the three. That gambling den had been a haunt of his, and I used to go there on purpose to meet and ensnare him. His name was--it began with 'Mac,' and I heard your friend call you by that name. That helped to deceive me; and so, when one of the band assured me that you were my husband's murderer, I believed him. My brother-in-law discovered, just in time to save your life, that our informant had lied to us. He himself was the guilty one, and he had denounced you to us in order to save himself from our vengeance."
"Is he still alive?" I asked.
"No!" she answered with a shudder; and I asked no more.
She rose. For the last time she lifted her eyes to mine--and pulled the thick black veil over her head.
In another moment she was gone. I have never seen her since.