A Girl Among the Anarchists

by Isabel Meredith

The Frenchman made me an elegant and profound bow in strange contrast with his sporting appearance, removing his hat, which he had till then kept on.

"But what has happened to you, Sylvestre?" exclaimed Matthieu. "Your hair has turned purple."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake don't look at my hair. A most awful fate has befallen it. Yesterday I heard from Cotteaux that you intended leaving soon, so I settled to come down here this morning, and thought it would be as well to disguise myself; one never knows, one can sometimes get such a lot of fun out of those heavy-witted, pudding-eating police. So I asked Marie to go into a West End hairdresser's and procure some black hair-dye, as I know my gold locks are well known to our friends below. She asked for some, explaining that it was for theatricals, and last night I tried it. With what result you see!—and mind I only made up my mind to come out after washing it some dozen times. Now, with a hat on, it's not very noticeable, but if you could have seen it last night; it had turned the real imperial shade of purple! It was a sight for the gods!"

We all laughed heartily at his adventure, the humour of which was heightened by the mock pathos and tragedy with which he narrated it. But Matthieu, who was straining his ears to catch the slightest sound downstairs, asked him to proceed with his news.

"Oh, mais vous saves, mademoiselle, votre pays est tout-à-fait épatant," he began, turning to me. "As I came down the street I noticed Deveril speaking with those two satellites of his outside the 'Cat and Mouse.' I at once guessed something was up here, and thought I would try and pump them, so I walked into the bar and asked in my best English accent for a whisky and soda, throwing down a half-sovereign to pay for it, and began talking about racing bets with the barman. As I expected, after a few minutes, Limpet entered, asking for a glass of bitter; he soon got interested in our talk. I was giving tips with the air of a Newmarket jockey, and as he had finished his drink I offered to treat him. He hesitated, saying that he was in a hurry, and I then pumped the whole tale out of him, how he and his comrade were watching this house, where they had reason to know that a dangerous French Anarchist was concealed, and so forth and so on.

"'But,' I said, 'if this is so, why do you not get a warrant to search the house?' And he then explained to me that the inspector had wished so to do, but that the magistrate, spite of his entreaties, had refused to sign the warrant because it was Sunday!! Yes, this is an extraordinary country. Society must be saved, but before everything the Sabbath must not be broken. C'est delicieux! Having gained this information, I politely wished him good day, and walked over to this house. You should have seen the faces of those two men. I expect their mouths are open still."

We all stared at each other at this information. This, then, was the secret of the situation. The English Sunday had saved our comrade! Bonafede went downstairs to summon the Combrissons and relieve their minds. We had now nearly twenty-four hours before us; it was certain that till nine o'clock on Monday morning the search-warrant would not be signed. In this interval Matthieu must leave the house, but how?

Sylvestre, who evidently looked upon the whole question as a good joke—une bonne blague—suggested that the dynamitard should dress up in his sporting attire; he urged that the detectives had seen him enter and could not be surprised at his leaving, and that this would be the best solution of the difficulty. The idea seemed feasible, and it was tried on. Matthieu got into the check trousers and horsy overcoat, but the effect was too ludicrous, and he was the first to laugh at the figure he cut in the looking-glass. Something else must be found. Madame Combrisson came to the rescue. She reminded us of a Jewish comrade, also a tailor by trade, who was not unlike Matthieu, being slightly hunchbacked. Her idea was to get him round, dress him in the fugitive's clothes, let Bonafede call a cab in an ostentatious style, into which the false Matthieu was to jump and drive off; the detectives would probably follow on their bicycles, and then was our opportunity. Only, how to get this man on to the scene without his advent being noticed by them? For if he were seen to enter, the game was up; his exit would not cause surprise. We were still face to face with the same difficulty, and Matthieu once more began to pace the room like a wild beast in a cage.

Sylvestre broke the silence. "The only way out of the difficulty is to disguise our man. Dress him up as a woman; he will then enter without causing observation."

In a few minutes all was settled. I was to leave with the hand-bag in which I had brought in the jewellery to be pawned; but this time it was to contain a dress belonging to Madame Combrisson. With this I was to proceed to the lodging of the Jewish comrade, Yoski, taking care to lose on the way any detective who might be following me. Yoski was to dress himself in the woman's clothes, and return with me to Grafton Street, care being taken that the detectives should notice his entry. He was then to exchange his female attire for Matthieu's clothes and drive off in a cab, as previously arranged, and then Matthieu, in his turn donning the skirt and blouse, was to leave the house on my arm, whilst the police would be rushing after a red-herring. Sylvestre turned a somersault to express his joy, and, slapping Matthieu on the shoulder, said, "Why, before long, mon vieux, you will again be treading the flags of Paris, and, let us hope, frightening the bourgeois out of their wits."