CHAPTER III
[IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT]
There lived not in the world a man more fearless than the Advocate. At this threatening demand, which meant violence, perhaps murder, he exhibited as little trepidation as he would have done at an acquaintance asking him, in broad daylight, for a pinch of snuff. Indeed, he was so perfectly unembarrassed that his voice assumed a lightness foreign to its usual serious tones. "Money, my friend! How much?"
"All you've got."
"Terse, and to the point. If I refuse?"
"I am desperate. Look to yourself."
The Advocate smiled, and purposely deepened the airiness of his tones.
"This is a serious business, then?"
"You'll find it so, if you trifle with me."
"Are you hungry?"
"I am starving."
"You have a powerful voice for a starving man."
"Don't play with me, master. I mean to have what I ask for."
"How can you, if I do not possess it? How will you if, possessing it, I refuse to give it you?"
The reply was a crashing blow at an overhanging branch, which broke it to the ground. It was evident that the man carried a stout weapon, and that he meant to use it, with murderous effect, if driven to extremes. They spoke at arm's-length; neither was quite within the other's grasp.
"A strong argument," said the Advocate, without blenching, "and a savage one. You have a staff in your hand, and, probably, a knife in your pocket."
"Ah, I have, and a sharp blade to it."
"I thought as much. Would not that do your business more effectually?"
"Perhaps. But I've learnt a lesson to-day about knives, which teaches me not to use mine too freely."
The Advocate frowned.
"Other scoundrels would run less risk of the gaol if their proceeding's were as logical. Do you know me?"
"How should I?"
"It might be, then," continued the Advocate, secretly taking a box of matches from his pocket, "that, like yourself, I am both a thief and a would-be murderer."
As he uttered the last words he flung a lighted match straight at the man's face, and for a moment the glare revealed the ruffian's features. He staggered back, repeating the word "Murderer!" in a hoarse startled whisper. The Advocate strode swiftly to his side, and striking another match, held it up to his own face.
"Look at me, Gautran," he said.
The man looked up, and recognising the Advocate, recoiled, muttering:
"Aye, aye--I see who it is."
"And you would rob me, wretch!"
"Not now, master, not now. Your voice--it was the voice of another man. I crave your pardon, humbly."
"So--you recommence work early, Gautran. Have you not had enough of the gaol?"
"More than enough. Don't be hard on me, master; call me mad if you like."
"Mad or sane, Gautran, every man is properly made accountable for his acts. Take this to heart."
"It won't do me any good. What is a poor wretch to do with nothing but empty pockets?"
"You are a dull-witted knave, or you would be aware it is useless to lie to me. Gautran, I can read your soul. You wished to speak to me in the court. Here is your opportunity. Say what you had to say."
"Give me breathing time. You've the knack of driving the thoughts clean out of a man's head. Have you got a bit of something that a poor fellow can chew--the end of a cigar, or a nip of tobacco?"
"I have nothing about me but money, which you can't chew, and should not have if you could. Hearken, my friend. When you said you were starving, you lied to me."
"How do you know it?"
"Fool! Are there not fruit-trees here, laden with wholesome food, within any thief's grasp? Your pockets at this moment are filled with fruit."
"You have a gift," said Gautran with a cringing movement of his body. "It would be an act of charity to put me in the way of it."
"What would you purchase?" asked the advocate ironically. "Gold, for wine, and pleasure, and fine clothes?"
"Aye, master," replied Gautran with eager voice.
"Power, to crush those you hate, and make them smart and bleed?"
"Aye, master. That would be fine."
"Gautran, these things are precious, and have their price. What are you ready to pay for them?"
"Anything--anything but money!"
"Something of less worth--your soul?"
Gautran shuddered and crossed himself.
"No, no," he muttered; "not that--not that!"
"Strange," said the Advocate with a contemptuous smile, "the value we place upon an unknown quantity! We cannot bargain, friend. Say now what you desire to say, and as briefly as you can."
But it was some time before Gautran could sufficiently recover himself to speak with composure.
"I want to know," he said at length, with a clicking in his throat, "whether you've been paid for what you did for me?"
"At your trial?"
"Aye, master."
"I have not been paid for what I did for you."
"When they told me yonder," said Gautran after another pause, pointing in the direction of Geneva, where the prison lay, "that you were to appear for me, they asked me how I managed it, but I couldn't tell them, and I'm beating my head now to find out, without getting any nearer to it. There must be a reason."
"You strike a key-note, my friend."
"Someone has promised to pay you."
"No one has promised to pay me."
"You puzzle and confuse me, master. You're a stranger in Geneva, I'm told."
"It is true."
"I've lived about here half my life. I was born in Sierre. My father worked in the foundry, my mother in the fields. You are not a stranger in Sierre."
"I am a stranger there; I never visited the town."
"My father was born in Martigny. You knew my father."
"I did not know your father."
"My mother--her father once owned a vineyard. You knew her."
"I did not know her."
Once more was Gautran silent. What he desired now to say raised up images so terrifying that he had not the courage to give it utterance.
"You are in deep shadow, my friend," said the Advocate, "body and soul. Shall I tell you what is in your mind?"
"You can do that?"
"You wish to know if I was acquainted with the unhappy girl with whose murder you were charged."
"Is there another in the world like you?" asked Gautran, with fear in his voice. "Yes, that is what I want to know."
"I was not acquainted with her."
Gautran retreated a step or two, in positive terror. "Then what," he exclaimed, "in the fiend's name made you come forward?"
"At length," said the Advocate, "we arrive at an interesting point in our conversation. I thank you for the opportunity you afford me in questioning my inner self. What made me come forward to the assistance of such a scoundrel? Humanity? No. Sympathy? No. What, then, was my motive? Indeed, friend, you strike home. Shall I say I was prompted by a desire to assist the course of justice--or by a contemptible feeling of vanity to engage in a contest for the simple purpose of proving myself the victor? It was something of both, mayhap. Do you know, Gautran, a kind of self-despisal stirs within me at the present moment? You do not understand me? I will give you a close illustration. You are a thief."
"Yes, master."
"You steal sometimes from habit, to keep your hand in as it were, and you feel a certain satisfaction at having accomplished your theft in a workmanlike manner. We are all of us but gross and earthly patches. It is simply a question of degree, and it is because I am in an idle mood--indeed, I am grateful to you for this playful hour--that I make a confession to you which would not elevate me in the eyes of better men. You were anxious to know whether I have been paid for my services. I now acknowledge payment. I accept as my fee the recreation you have afforded me."
"I shall be obliged to you, master," said Gautran, "if you will leave your mysteries, and come back to my trial."
"I will oblige you. I read the particulars of the case for the first time on my arrival here, and it appeared to me almost impossible you could escape conviction. It was simply that. I examined you, and saw the legal point which, villain as you are, proclaimed your innocence. That laugh of yours, Gautran, has no mirth in it. I am beginning to be dangerously shaken. I will do, I said then, for this wretch what I believe no other man can do. I will perform a miracle."
"You have done it!" cried Gautran, falling on his knees in a paroxysm of fear, and kissing the Advocate's hand, which was instantly snatched away. "You are great--you are the greatest! You knew the truth!"
"The truth!" echoed the Advocate, and his face grew ashen white.
"Aye, the truth--and you were sent to save me. You can read the soul; nothing is hidden from you. But you have not finished your work. You can save me entirely--you can, you can! Oh, master, finish your work, and I will be your slave to the last hour of my life!"
"Save you! From what?" demanded the Advocate. He was compelled to exercise great control over himself, for a horror was stealing upon him.
The trembling wretch rose, and pointed to the opposite roadside.
"From shadows--from dreams--from the wild eyes of Madeline! Look there--look there!"
The Advocate turned in the direction of Gautran's outstretched trembling hand. A pale light was coining into the sky, and weird shadows were on the earth.
"What are you gazing on?"
"You ask me to torture me," moaned Gautran. "She dogs me like my shadow--I cannot shake her off! I have threatened her, but she does not heed me. She is waiting--there--there--to follow me when I am alone--to put her arms about me--to breathe upon my face, and turn my heart to ice! If I could hold her, I would tear her piecemeal! You must have known her, you who can read what passes in a man's soul--you who knew the truth when you came to me in my cell! She will not obey me, but she will you. Command her, compel her to leave me, or she will drive me mad!"
With amazing strength the Advocate placed his hands on Gautran's shoulders, and twisted the man's face so close to his own that not an inch of space divided them. Their eyes met, Gautran's wavering and dilating with fear, the Advocate's fixed and stern, and with a fire in them terrible to behold.
"Recall," said the Advocate, in a clear voice that rang through the night like a bell, "what passed between you and Madeline on the last night of her life. Speak!"