CHAPTER XI.
In one of those quiet by-thoroughfares between Gray’s Inn Road and Holborn stands a hairdresser’s shop. It is a good enough house above stairs, with capacious rooms over the shop; below, it has its plate-glass windows and the pole typical of the tonsorial talent within; a window decorated with pale waxen beauties, rejoicing in wigs of great luxuriance and splendour of colour; brushes of every shape and design; and cosmétiques from all nations, dubbed with high-sounding names, and warranted to make the baldest scalp resemble the aforesaid beauties, after one or more applications. But the polite proprietor of ‘The Cosmopolitan Toilette Club’ had something besides hair-cutting to depend upon, for Pierre Ferry’s house was the London headquarters of the League.
As he stood behind a customer’s chair in the ‘saloon’ snipping and chatting as barbers, especially if they be foreigners, always will, his restless little black eyes twinkled strangely. Had the customer been a man of observation, he would have noticed one man after another drop in, making a sign to the tonsorial artist, and then passing into an inner room. Salvarini entered presently, accompanied by Frederick Maxwell, both making some sign and passing on. Pierre Ferry looked at the newcomer keenly; but a glance of intelligence satisfied his scruples, and he resumed his occupation. Time went on until Le Gautier arrived, listless and cool, as was his wont, and in his turn passed in, turning to the barber as he shut the door behind him. ‘This room is full,’ he said; ‘we want no more.’
Ferry bowed gravely, and turning the key in the lock, put the former in his pocket. That was the signal of the assembly being complete. He wished his customer good-night, then closing the door, seated himself, to be on the alert in case of any threatened danger.
As each of the conspirators passed through the shop, they ascended a dark winding staircase into the room above; and at the end of the apartment, a window opened upon another light staircase, for flight in case of danger, and which led into a courtyard, and thence into a back street. The windows looking upon Gray’s Inn Road were carefully barred, and the curtains drawn so as to exclude any single ray of light, and talking quietly together were a few grave-looking men, foreigners mostly. Maxwell surveyed the plain-looking apartment, almost bare of furniture, with the exception of a long table covered with green cloth, an inkstand and paper, together with a pack of playing-cards. The artist’s scrutiny and speculations were cut short by the entrance of Le Gautier.
To an actor of his stamp, the change of manner from a light-hearted man of the world to a desperate conspirator was easy enough. He had laid aside his air of levity, and appeared now President of the Council to the life—grave, stern, with a touch of hauteur in his gait, his voice deliberate, and his whole manner speaking of earnest determination of purpose. Maxwell could not but admire the man now, and gave him credit at least for sincerity in this thing.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, in deep sonorous tones, ‘we will commence business, if you please. I shall not detain you long to-night, for I have business of grave importance myself. Will you take your seats?’
The men gathered round the table, drawing up their chairs, Le Gautier at the head, and every eye turned upon him with rapt attention. From an inside pocket he produced a packet of papers and laid them before him. ‘Brothers,’ he asked, ‘what is our first duty to the League?’
‘The removal of tyrants!’ came from every throat there in a kind of deep chorus. ‘And death to traitors!’ added one, low down the board.
‘You are right, my friend,’ Le Gautier continued. ‘That is a duty to which none can yield. I hold evidence in my hand that we have a traitor amongst us—not in the room, I mean, but in our camp. Does any Brother here know Visci, the Deputy at Rome?’
The assembly looked one to the other, though without speaking; and Maxwell noted the deathly pallor upon Salvarini’s face, wondering what brought it there. The President repeated the question, and looked round again, as if waiting for some one to speak.
‘Yes, I know him. He was my friend,’ Salvarini observed in melancholy tones. ‘Let us hear what his fault is.’
‘He is a traitor to the Order,’ Le Gautier continued; ‘and as such, he must die. His crime is a heavy one,’ he went on, looking keenly at Maxwell: ‘he has refused to obey a mandate of the Three.’
‘Death!’ shouted the voices in chorus again—‘death to the traitor!’
‘That is your verdict, then?’ the President asked, a great shout of ‘Ay’ going up in reply.—‘It is proper for you to see his refusal; we must be stern in spite of our justice. See for yourselves.’ Saying these words, he passed the papers down the table from hand to hand, Maxwell reading them in his turn, though the whole thing was a puzzle to him. He could only see that the assembly were in deadly earnest concerning something he did not understand. He was destined to have a rude awakening ere long. The papers were passed on until they reached the President’s hands again. With great care he burnt them at one of the candles, crushing the charred ashes with his fingers.
‘You are all agreed,’ he asked. ‘What is your verdict to be?’ And like a solemn echo came the one word, ‘Death!’ Salvarini alone was silent, and as Le Gautier took up the cards before him, his deathly pallor seemed to increase.
‘It is well—it is just,’ Le Gautier said sternly, as he poured the cards like water from one hand to the other. ‘My friends, we will draw lots. In virtue of my office as President, I am exempt; but I will not stand out in the hour of danger; I will take my chance with you.’
A murmur of applause followed this sentiment, and the cards were passed round by each, after being carefully examined and duly shuffled. Maxwell shuffled the cards in his hands, quite unconscious of what they might mean to him, and passed them to Salvarini.
‘No,’ he said despondingly; ‘there is fate in such things as these. If the lot falls to me, I bow my head. There is a higher Hand than man’s guiding such destinies as ours; I will not touch them.’ Saying these words with an air of extremely deep melancholy, he pushed the cards in Le Gautier’s direction. The latter turned back his cuffs, laid the cards on the palm of one hand, and looked at the assembly.
‘I will deal them round, and the first particular card that falls to a certain individual shall decide,’ he said. ‘Choose a card.’
‘The dagger strikes to the heart,’ came a foreign voice from the end of the table; ‘what better can we have than the ace of hearts?’ He stopped, and a murmur of assent ran round the room.
It was a thrilling moment. Every face was bent forward eagerly as the President stood up to deal the cards. He placed one before himself, a harmless one, and then, with unerring dexterity, threw one before every man there. Each face was a study of rapt attention, for any one might mean a life, and low hoarse murmurs ran round as one card after another was turned up and proved to be harmless. One round was finished, containing, curiously enough, six hearts, and yet the fatal ace had not appeared. Each anxious face would light up for a moment as the owner’s card was turned up, and then be fixed with sickening anxiety on his neighbour’s. At the end of the second round the ace was still absent. The excitement now was almost painful; not a word was spoken, and only the deep breathing gave evidence of the inward emotion. Slowly, one by one, the cards dwindled away in the dealer’s hands till only seven were left. It was a sight never to be forgotten even with one chance for each; and when the first of the seven was dealt, a simple two, every envying eye was bent upon the fortunate one as he laughed unsteadily, wiped his face, and hastily filled and swallowed a glass of water. Six, five, four; the last to the President, and there only remained three cards now—one for Salvarini, one for Maxwell, and one for the suggester of the emblem card. The Frenchman’s card was placed upon the table; he turned it up with a shrug which was not altogether affected, and then came Salvarini’s turn. The whole room had gathered round the twain, Maxwell calm and collected, Salvarini white and almost fainting. He had to steady one hand with the other, like a man afflicted with paralysis, as he turned over his card. For a moment he leaned back in his chair, the revulsion of feeling almost overpowering him. His card was the seven of clubs.
With a long sweeping throw, the President tossed the last card in Maxwell’s direction. No need to look at it. There it lay—the fatal ace of hearts!
They were amazed at the luckless man’s utter coolness, as he sat there playing with the card, little understanding as yet his danger; and then, one by one shaking his hand solemnly, they passed out. Maxwell was inclined to make light of this dramatic display, ascribing it to a foreigner’s love of the mysterious. He did not understand it to mean a last farewell between Brothers. They had all gone by that time with the exception of Le Gautier and Salvarini, the latter looking at the doomed man sadly, the Frenchman with an evil glitter and a look of subdued triumph in his eyes.
‘Highly dramatic, at anyrate,’ Maxwell observed, turning to Le Gautier, ‘and vastly entertaining. They seemed to be extremely sorry for me.’
‘Well, you take the matter coolly enough,’ the Frenchman smiled. ‘Any one would think you were used to this sort of thing.’
‘I should like to have caught some of those expressions,’ Maxwell replied. ‘They would make a man’s fortune if he could get them on canvas. What do you think of an Academy picture entitled “The Conspirators?”—And now, will you be good enough to explain this little farce to me?’
His cool, contemptuous tones knocked Le Gautier off his balance for a moment, but he quickly recovered his habitual cynicism. ‘There will be a pendant to that picture, called “The Vengeance;” or, if you like it better, “The Assassination,”’ he replied with a sneer. ‘Surely you do not think I dealt these cards for amusement? No, my friend; a life was at stake there, perhaps two.’
‘A life at stake? Do you mean that I am to play the part of murderer to a man unknown to me—an innocent man?’
‘Murder is not a pleasant word,’ Le Gautier replied coldly. ‘We prefer the expression “remove,” as being more elegant, and not so calculated to shock the nerves of novices—like yourself. Your perspicacity does you credit, sir. Your arm is the one chosen to strike Visci down.’
‘Gracious powers!’ Maxwell exclaimed, falling back into his chair faint and dizzy. ‘I stain my hand with an unoffending man’s blood? Never! I would die first. I never dreamt—I never thought—— Salvarini, I did not think you would lead me into this!’
‘I warned you,’ the Italian said mournfully. ‘As far as I dared, I told you what the consequences would be.’
‘If you had told me you were a gang of callous, bloodthirsty murderers, I should not have joined you. I, like every Englishman, am the friend of liberty as much as you, but no cowardly dagger-thrust for me. Do your worst, and come what may, I defy you!’
‘A truce to these histrionics,’ Le Gautier exclaimed fiercely; ‘or we shall hold a Council, and serve you the same. There are your orders. I am your superior. Take them, and obey. Refuse, and’—— He stopped, folding his arms, and looked Maxwell full in the face for a moment; then turning abruptly upon his heel, quitted the room without another word.
Maxwell and his friend confronted each other. ‘And who is this Visci I am to murder?’ the artist demanded bitterly.
Salvarini bowed his head lower and lower till his face almost rested upon his breast. ‘You know him,’ he said. ‘He was a good friend of mine once, and his crime is the one you are contemplating now—disobedience to orders. Is it possible you have not guessed the doomed man to be Carlo Visci?’
‘Carlo Visci—my friend, my more than brother? I must be mad, mad or dreaming. Lay foul hands upon the best friend man ever had—the noble-hearted fellow whose purse was mine, who taught me all I know, who saved my life; and I to stab him in the dark because, perchance, he refuses to serve a companion the same! Never! May my right hand rot off, before I injure a hair of Carlo Visci’s head!’
‘Then you will die yourself,’ Salvarini put in sadly.
‘Then I shall die—death comes only once,’ Maxwell exclaimed proudly, throwing back his head. ‘No sin like that shall stain my soul!’
For a moment the two men were silent.
Salvarini broke the silence. ‘Listen, Maxwell,’ he said. ‘I am in a measure to blame for this, and I will do what I can to serve you. You must go to Rome, as if you intended to fulfil your task, and wait there till you hear from me. I am running great risks in helping you so, and you must rely on me. One thing is in your favour: time is no particular object. Will you go so far, for your sake and mine?’
‘Anything, anywhere!’ burst out the Englishman passionately.
(To be continued.)