THE FIRST THREADS OF THE NET
The office of the Superintendent of Police, Baron Lecazes, was an apartment severely sumptuous and furnished in the purest Imperialistic style. The power of the great Napoleon, laid low forever after the ephemeral sway of the Hundred Days, lived still in art. How could the suite of Lecazes be furnished otherwise, when it had been the official headquarters of Fouché, Napoleon's chief minister, the "Great Second" in power and, perhaps, behind the throne's draperies, the "Great First." He had occupied it during the stirring period in which the power of the police department attained its zenith,—Fouché, the only man who in reality knew the history of the epoch.
Lecazes was said to have reaped the harvest of his predecessor's ingenious policy—tangled labyrinths of tunnels, secret passages, back stairways, hidden closets, dungeons wherein dangerous citizens kept gloomy vigils while gagged and fettered, awaiting presentation before the all-potent superintendent. There were chiffoniers and garde-robes whose compartments held every variety of disguises. Smothered voices, could they have become audible again, might have told of torture-galleries consummately fitted up, containing indented wheels, Austrian steel-blocks, English pricking-forks, Spanish weights and cords, Prussian metal helmets and other devices no less terrifying. The truth of these rumors cannot be vouched for but it is enough to say that they were disseminated by the Carbonari, whose society was then starting. It has also been said, perhaps rashly, that under the eye of Fouché there existed a chemical laboratory in which a turbaned doctor from the Orient, envoy from the Great Turk, concocted distillations of herbs which induced stupor, insanity or death. However legendary some of these statements may seem, however rash it may be to gainsay the erudite historians who give credit only to what is found in the records, it is well to recognize the fact that some of the most dramatic and highly significant happenings are among those of which all trace has been obliterated.
The private office of Lecazes was reached from the outside by an antechamber with apparently but one entry, that of the rear, leading to the hall and before which hung a green silk portière brocaded in yellow palms. The walls of the office were covered with green silk laid on in squares and retained in place by carved gilt-edged mahogany strips. The floor was a mosaic of rare and variegated woods which in their natural tints formed a Grecian fret encircling a serpent-locked head of Medusa. There were swan-formed sofas and chairs and stools of artistically wrought brass, depicting processions of nymphs with airy coiffures, slender necks and beribboned sandals, or groups of cupids bearing hymeneal torches. A splendid bronze railing surrounded the desk on which stood an inkstand with the figure of Laocoön struggling in the coils of serpents. The Laocoön and the Medusa, strongly suggestive of martyrdom and despair, could not be more fittingly placed. Above the baron's seat, a canopy overhung the portrait of the reigning king, Louis XVIII. Lecazes was seated and although many papers lay before him, he was not busy. His attitude was meditative, his head resting in the left hand, while his right fingered a silver pen tipped with steel. It would have been difficult to classify the quality of his meditation—to determine whether it was artful or idle. His face was keenly intelligent and in public it expressed an ingenious frankness, with an affability too unremitting to be sincere, and a smile half abstracted and half mellow, which, when in solitude was replaced by lines of astute and tenacious determination. It was the expression of a man who travels without deviation to his ends.
As superintendent of the restored monarch, he was impelled to display greater vigor than as the superintendent of the great Corsican. In the latter capacity he was guided by a superior genius; in the former he stood back of the throne to guard the government—including himself.
"What would become of them without me?" Lecazes asked himself, on the successful termination of a coup. "It is often necessary to act without consulting. There are questions which must not be asked. I am the contriver. I direct the play and they are the audience. Much cause for congratulation is it if I can prevent them and their vengeful partisans of the south from spoiling the plot."
The baron's reflections were not those of one who seeks a path amid thorns and thistles. They had, rather, to do with the balancing of probabilities and the best way to carry out his purpose. Suddenly he began to arrange the documents, some of which he tied together. After extracting and reading a letter over and over, he placed that important paper in his pocket-book.
A project of much consequence agitated his mind, for his hand shook nervously as he took up his pen, and deep furrows lined his brow. Two clocks, standing upon artistic brackets at his right and left respectively, joined their crystalline voices in musical precision. It was two o'clock in the afternoon—time to stop reflecting and go to acting. He struck the bell and inquired of the attendant, who immediately appeared:
"What person waits?"
"Professor Beauliège is in the anteroom."
"Show him in."
A moment later there appeared a man who was a type of the literary-scientific proletariat, such as may always be found in Parisian bookstores, lingering before shelves containing antique works marked at extravagant prices. A greasy looking hat, uncombed hair, coat collar soiled with dandruff, tattered gloves pierced by dirty fingernails, a faded portfolio (apparently full of manuscripts) beneath his arm; a shaven face with a peaked nose and myopic eyes which seemed to peer through a dusty web—such were the unpleasing features of Monsieur Beauliège's exterior.
The baron, scarcely looking up, motioned him to a seat. Active and practical himself, he professed for litterateurs a disdain which he made no effort to conceal.
"How does the book come on?" he asked.
"Monsieur le Baron," faltered the poor old fellow, "I make little advance because, as you are well aware, I absolutely lack basis. I have no corroborating documents for establishing the boy's demise. I am in ignorance of what transpired during the latter part of his imprisonment and my labor is most arduous since, thanks to the spirit of the age, history seems to be taking on new methods and insisting on indisputable evidences. When I received your summons, I jumped for joy, for I thought you had important documents to entrust to me."
"Monsieur Beauliège" replied Lecazes, in slightly repressed irony, "if we possessed the papers that you wish, we should have no need of you. Le diable! In that case I should transfer them to the columns of Le Moniteur. What I expect of your genius and erudite pen is a compilation—do you follow me?—a compilation of, well, of materials conjectural and plausible, tender, affecting, poetic, descriptive of the unhappy prince's life in prison. The theme is pregnant. You have a virgin field and an ample horizon. You are not asked for a romance. Beware! You must bring forth a historic revelation to serve as a beacon for the future. 'Tis an enterprise which, above all, if believed to have been spontaneously undertaken, will redound to your literary glory. A seat in the Academy shall not be deemed too lofty an honor by way of reward for your distinguished merit."
The word "Academy" caused the savant to leap from his seat and grasp the railing. Lecazes eyed him astutely. This man was not purchasable in money. He had wisely held to him the bait of literary eminence.
"A book of your writing, Monsieur Professeur, does not require much help from documentary evidence, since your personal authority is sufficient. It might, if you were one of those fools who invent narratives having neither head nor tail, but the fact of your being a scholar and a collector of historical manuscripts imparts the strength of credibility to your productions. The test of your ability shall consist in imparting stability to a monument without a pedestal. We have unfortunately lost the pedestal."
"I am told," said the professor, "that there exists in the Hospital for Incurables a woman capable of throwing light on this chapter of history. She is the widow of the shoemaker who tortured the wretched little prince. I have decided to interview this woman."
The baron's fist dealt the table a fearful blow.
"With what instrument must I inject into your brain the idea that you are to interview nobody except the person or persons to whom I direct you? Is your book to be the recital of old women's garrulities or a dignified exposition?"
The savant drooped his head. The magic charm of membership in the Academy constrained him into a meek submission. Nevertheless, he timidly stammered:
"If only I might possess the death certificate! Resting upon that solitary document, the book would have a basis of adamant. It would suffice to refute conclusively those vile impostors, the cobbler of Rouen, the lackey of Versailles, and the mechanic of Prussia."
Lecazes again assumed his habitual smile in order to restrain himself from flinging the Laocoön inkstand at the savant's head,—the old imbecile, seeking Jerusalem artichokes in the depths of the sea! Then he amiably remonstrated:
"Refrain, my dear Professor, from desiring such evidence, or—renounce your seat in the Academy. You must convince yourself that the aforesaid death certificate has not yet been unearthed, and that it is not yet expedient to record the facsimile. But what does this matter to a sage like yourself?"
Gliding his hand into his pocket, the superintendent extracted a roll of banknotes.
"This insignificant sum is not intended as payment for your labor but only as a reimbursement for expenses incidental to the mechanical part of your task. In two weeks I shall expect the manuscript, may I not?"
An authoritative gesture dismissed the Professor, who retired in an absorbed mental condition, for already he had begun framing his initiatory address on entering the Academy. Lecazes glanced, at the clock. The hands indicated twenty-five minutes of three.
"Volpetti has doubtless arrived," he said to himself and then rising, he took up the package of papers which had recently been collected and pressed a finger upon a hidden spring back of his chair, whereupon one of the panels swung open, revealing a dark, narrow passageway, at the farther end of which there was an iron shutter. Entering, he touched this lightly with his knuckles and no sooner had it rolled upward than a man's voice hoarsely whispered from the opened room:
"I am here, Excellency."
The chamber which the baron entered was furnished in mahogany, the walls painted to match, and the floor was covered with a cheap carpet. It lacked windows and was ventilated only by the stovepipe. A lantern was suspended from the ceiling and he quickly turned it upon the individual who had announced himself.
"Lower the shutter," ordered the baron, and the man obeyed, closing the chamber's only exit.
"Now bring cup and salver."
The man took from the cupboard a deep bronze cup with handles representing two sirens of protruding bosom. Unstopping a bottle, he emptied its contents into the cup and then, striking a flint, ignited a taper which he applied to the liquid. He then placed the cup on the stove. A blue flame arose, and in it the baron lighted, one by one, the documents he had just been handling at his desk. He watched the burning sheets as they turned to black crumpled shapes and then to shapeless ashes upon the metal salver. The odor from the burning seals was wafted to his face and a slight shiver came over him. He was enjoying his power of obliterating history, cunningly causing past happenings to seem as though they had not been. Feeling relieved at the destruction of the papers, he said amiably to Volpetti:
"When you are again here, 'twill be because that has been accomplished."