The Double Life

CHAPTER XXVI
Théophraste Again Hears of His Treasures

THE clamber over the roofs of the Rue Ge-rondo on a cold rainy night had a physical and moral effect on Théophraste. He had taken cold and was suffering in consequence. From a moral point of view it had made him change his whole view of these events. While he had been reading the accounts of these crimes with which the new Cartouche had been terrifying Paris, he had shown a callous indifference, but now he commenced to hold himself responsible for many of the atrocities, and especially for the murder of M. Houdry, which he had before facetiously blamed on the calf.

He often recalled nocturnal visits by the route he was now following, and several bloody crimes came back to his memory, disgusting him, and making him weep bitter tears of useless remorse.

It was, however, too late. In spite of all his sufferings, in spite of M. de la Nox’s invocations, and the torture they had submitted him to, Cartouche was not dead.

And that evening, then, like many other criminal evenings, he led his damned soul over the roofs of Paris. He wept. He cursed that mysterious, irresistible force, which from the depths of centuries commanded him to kill. He cursed the influence which made him kill. He thought of his wife-of Adolphe. He bitterly regretted the hours of passed happiness between those two beings so dear to him. He excused them for running away. He pardoned them for their terror. He resolved never again to trouble their peaceful days with his bloody incoherencies. “Let me disappear,” he said to himself. “Let me hide my shame and my original defect in the midst of the desert. They will forget me. I shall forget myself. Let me profit by these logical moments, when my brain, released momentarily from the Other, discusses, weighs, deduces, and concludes and sees in the present.”

It was not Cartouche who spoke, it was Théophraste, who cried to Cartouche: “Let us fly! Since I love Marceline, let us fly! Since I love Adolphe, let us fly! One day they will be happy without me! There is no longer happiness with me! Adieu! adieu! Marceline, adored woman, faithful wife! Farewell, Adolphe, precious, consoling friend! Farewell! Théophraste tells you farewell!” He wept. Then he said aloud: “I come, Cartouche!”

Then he plunged into the darkness, going from gutter to gutter, from roof to roof, sliding from high walls with safety, protected, like a somnambulist, by Providence.

And now who is that man who, with his head lowered, his back curved, his hands in his pockets, swayed like a poor wretch in the wind and rain which fell profusely all the tedious way? He followed the road which skirts the railroad. It is a straight road, bordered by small, weak trees, plain common broom-straw-sad ornaments for a departmental road-running along the side of the railroad. Whence comes this man, with his hands in his pockets, or, rather, this shade of a man? The plain extends to the right and the left without an undulation, without the rising of a hillock, without the hollow of a riser. All this can be seen, for this is not a night scene; it is broad daylight, on the track, straight on by the side of the road.

Trains pass each other from time to time, local trains, fast trains, freight trains, rattling along with an occasional ceasing when one hears in the wind the ting, ting, ting of the bell of the disks at the station. There is one station before, and one behind. They are small stations, and are five kilometers apart. Between the two stations there is a straight double track, but no viaduct, no tunnel, no bridge, not even a culvert.

As I said before, from whence came the sad shade of a man?

It is Théophraste. He has resolved to fly-no matter where-far from his wife.

After a night passed from gutter to gutter, not knowing where to direct his steps, and not caring at all, he goes into a railway station. He gets into a train without a ticket, gets out of the train at another station.

How often does it happen that the control registers of railway stations are badly made on account of the number of travelers.

Behold him, then, on the road at the entrance of a village which follows the railroad track. And who is it that watches him as he crosses the threshold of a little house at the entrance of a village?

Mme. Petito herself!

It was the first time that Mme. Petito had seen M. Longuet since he cut off the ears of her husband. Upon seeing him, Mme. Petito became highly indignant, and commenced upbraiding Théophraste.

After all sorts of imprecations-the result of the barbarity of Théophraste-Mme. Petito informed Théophraste that Signor Petito had found the treasures of the Chopinettes, that he had put them in a safe place, and that the treasures were the richest on earth, treasures which were worth more than two ears. They were as good as the ears of Signor Petito, and so they were quits.

Théophraste, in the course of this discourse, found it difficult to say very much, but this did not disturb him. He was glad of the anger of Mme. Petito, for having furnished him with such valuable information, and he said: “I have found my treasures, for I have found Signor Petito again.”

Mme. Petito burst into satanic laughter.

“Signor Petito,” she exclaimed, “is in the train.”

“In which train?”

“In the train which will pass under your very nose! It will carry my husband beyond the frontier. Get in, then, my dear monsieur; climb in if you wish to speak to him. But hurry, for he passes by in an hour, and they do not distribute tickets at the next station,” and her laugh became more satanic still, so much so that Théophraste almost wished that he was deaf again. He saluted her and walked away rapidly along the railroad track. When he was alone he said: “Come, come! I must get some information about my treasures from Signor Petito himself. But how? He is in the train which will pass under my nose…

CHAPTER XXVII
The Express Train’s Disappearance

IT is necessary now for us to relate the extraordinary events which happened on the railway. At this part of the track, which is double, there were two stations about four miles apart, through which the express trains ran quite frequently. In the evening after Théophraste had been speaking to Mme. Petito, the express train had passed through the first station, and the station master was waiting for the signal from the second station, when suddenly a message came through saying that the train had not arrived yet. The station master could not understand it. The train had passed through his station fifteen minutes before, and would not have taken all that time to go the short distance to the other station. He went out and looked up the track. There was no sign of the train, and all was quiet. Again the signal came back, and the second station master said that he would walk along the track to see if he could find the cause of the delay. The first man said he would do the same, and they both started running down the track, followed by other men in the stations. Although it was broad daylight, nothing could be seen of the train, and the two parties met on the track. The first station master was greatly agitated, and wrung his hands in despair. He knew the train had passed through his station. He was sure of it. The report of his assistant confirmed it. Where could it have disappeared to? The excitement and fear was too much for him, and without any warning he fell dead at their feet with heart failure.

The men ran hither, thither, on both sides of the tracks, but no sign of the train was there. At last they gave up the search, and placing the dead body of the station master on a rough bier of sticks and leaves, they made their way sadly back to the station.

They had not gone far when one of the party cried out: “Look ahead, there’s the train!”

And there, a few yards outside the station, on the very track they had traveled on, was a wagon and baggage car of the disappeared train!

They were all very astonished, and were running, shouting, toward the train, when they suddenly stopped. Peering out of the doors of the train was a peculiar head. It had no ears, and appeared as though the door had been shut violently, catching the man’s neck. They called to him as soon as they saw him, but he did not answer. The head just swayed from one side to the other, rocked by the wind, which was blowing in great gusts. Upon the head was curly hair, and the cravat around the white neck was untied, floating in the wind.

On approaching, they saw the door of the coach was covered with blood, and on examination saw that the man’s head was held to the door by a piece of rag. He had evidently opened the door and poked his head out, when somebody must have shut the door again and decapitated him. The two men who carried the dead body of the station master uttered a cry of dismay, and placing their burden on the track, made an examination of the trucks. They found no one in the first one, and opening the door of the second, found that it was empty save for the dead man’s body, which had been stripped of all its clothing.

The news of this fantastic horror spread rapidly in the villages on the road, and an enormous crowd gathered at the little station.

The police were sent for, but they were unable to get any clue as to who the strange man was, or where the train with all its travelers had gone to.

They were, however, very quiet about it, and only at the inquest did the facts become known.

As it has been said, the tracks between these stations contained no bridge or tunnel, but ran through a flat, desolate country, marked by no hills. The only thing to break the line of the track was a short side line which ran into a disused quarry, which had been used as a sand quarry by a glassmaker. This had been abandoned many years ago, and had not been used since.

On looking at the plan one would at once think that the presence of this branch line was an explanation of the train disaster. But this was not so, as subsequent events will prove. In fact, so simple a solution of the problem would soon have been discovered by the station men.

Wandering along the road which followed the track, Théophraste had noticed the little side track, and he had seen that the switch had been left unlocked. This would have had no significance to him before he had the interview with Mme. Petito, but now he saw an excellent opportunity of getting at Signor Petito, who was on the train. He of course could not get on the train while it was in motion. He would open the switch and wait for the train to come up. The engineer would be sure to see it and stop his train. Here was his opportunity.

This was simple enough, and he did as he intended. He turned the switch, and, going along the track, hid behind the bushes to await the express. He waited and waited for a long time, but no express came. He became impatient, and looked up and down the track, hoping to hear it, or see its smoke.

However, after half an hour, he rose, and, although tired of waiting, went down the track to see what had happened. He had gone about half the distance to the station, when he met a train-fitter who was going along the track to look for the train. Asking him what had become of the train, he turned back up the line, and arriving at the point where he had been hiding, he discovered the baggage car and carriage which were to be found a few minutes later by the trainmen from the station.

In his astonishment he asked how they could have got there without passing him. He had not left the track, so it could not have passed him.

Suddenly he saw the head of a man at the carriage door; the head had no ears, and so he quickly recognized it as that of Signor Petito. He climbed up into the carriage, all excitement, and searching the carriage, suddenly had an idea. He would disguise himself in Signor Petito’s clothes! He quickly undressed, and stripping the dead body of all its clothes put them on, and tied his own up in a bundle. He then descended from the carriage, and fumbling in the pockets of the dead man’s clothes, drew out an old pocketbook. He became feverishly excited as he searched through the papers, seeking some trace of his treasures. But he found nothing, and he found it difficult to hide his disappointment, for Signor Petito had carried the secret of the treasure to the grave.

Mme. Petito was unable to give him any information, for soon after hearing of her husband’s death she became insane, and remained so to the end of her days.

CHAPTER XXVIII
Not To Be Explained!

AS Théophraste was searching through the pocketbook of Signor Petito, he had wandered unconsciously away from the track into the fields. Upon returning, he was astonished to find the carriage had disappeared. He looked up and down the track, but could find no trace of it. Which was the most astonishing, the disappearance or the apparition of the train? He could not make it out, and the events had thrown him into a state bordering on prostration.

He went down the track, examined the switch, and put it back in its original position and locked it, taking the key with him.

He walked on to the upper station, but with the exception of the signalman everybody had gone out in search of the train. He interrogated him, but could only learn that the train had been reported but never came.

Théophraste insisted. “They certainly did report the express to you from the preceding station?”

“Yes, sir. I am certain. Look at my signal. It is still put to allow the train to pass. The station master and all the men of the station preceding saw the express pass and telegraphed to us. In short, monsieur, you see my little yellow arm. A catastrophe between the preceding station and this one is not possible; there is not a single bridge or viaduct. I was mounted on the ladder that you see leaning against that great vat. From there one can see the whole line, as far as the other station. I saw our people gesticulating on the line, but did not see the train.”

“Strange, very strange!”

“Yes, indeed. You must trust my little yellow arm.”

“Inexplicable.”

“There is nothing more inexplicable.”

“There are things more inexplicable still than that which have happened.”

“What, then?”

“A carriage without a locomotive appeared and disappeared, and no one could tell from whence it came. It disappeared, as it appeared.... Did you not see a carriage with a man at the door pass by here?”

“Monsieur,” said the signalman angrily, “you mock me! You are exaggerating because you do not believe the story of the express which did not come. But look, monsieur, at my signal; that is proof enough. It cannot make a mistake.”

M. Longuet replied to the signalman: “If you did not see the express, neither did I.”

In that “neither did I” commenced the inward thoughts of M. Longuet, who went away in Signor Petito’s clothes. M. Longuet had an idea. His misfortune was so extreme and so incurable that he resolved to die for the others. With a little cunning this was possible, since he had reclothed himself in Signor Petito’s clothes. Nothing would hinder him from leaving his on the bank of the first river he came to.

This would constitute a suicidal act, according to the law.

M. Longuet was moved to the thought of addressing a letter to Marceline and Adolphe. On the banks of what river would he put his clothes? How could he re-enter Paris? However, these thoughts passed through his head momentarily, for there was only one thing which was really of importance to him, and that was the explanation of the disappearance of the train.

This explanation was given to Théophraste by M. Mifroid, under the circumstances which we shall now report.

CHAPTER XXIX
M. Milford Recognizes Cartouche

AT midnight an artisan was singing in a square in Paris, at the side of the ancient Quarter d’Enfer, the hymn which several months later became so popular, the “International.” That artisan was working with several companions repairing the track, which had sustained certain damages, following the construction of a new drain. The track was bent in certain places, and even a house in that situation, a heavy new house of seven stories, was leaning. The city engineers were much concerned by this state of affairs. They knew that in this quarter the catacombs projected their innumerable tunnels, their thousands of drains, and that certain buildings were in a very precarious state.

There are ancient Gallic-Roman quarries under those tottering walls, and so they determined on some work to make these houses secure.

The day which interests us saw the end of this work. The artisan who sang the “International” had, with his companions, completed the stopping of a hole in the subterranean vault that they had previously strengthened with very heavy pillars, several meters high.

It was just about twilight when they relinquished their work, and the workman who sang the “International” had almost finished stopping up the hole at that hour.

At the same hour, not far away on the square, in front of an electrical lamp store, a few people stood about on the pavement, and M. Mifroid was buying a few lamps for his men. He had paid for them and was just leaving the store with his package, when he saw in front of the store a young man with white hair. He was so taken aback that he slipped into his pockets, without having paid for them, several electrical lamps. Always courageous, M. Mifroid bounded toward the man, crying: “It is Cartouche!” He had recognized him, for since the revenge of the calf, all the commissioners of police had the portrait of Cartouche in their pockets. We should add that Mme. Longuet herself, and M. Lecamus, immediately after the reading relative to the calf, had shut M. Longuet up, with the design of sending an urgent communication to the nearest Commissariat.

Then M. Mifroid, who had known our hero as Théophraste, when he had dined with him, and who recognized him as Cartouche, cried out in bounding toward him: “It is Cartouche!”

Théophraste had known for days what the police wanted with him, and when he saw Mifroid and heard the words “It is Cartouche!” he said to himself: “It is time for me to get out of this.” And he ran down the street.

The commissioner ran on behind him, and was just grabbing him by the collar, when they both fell down the hole which the workman was filling.

The man had left for a few minutes to drink with his companions at the saloon near by, and on his return he completed his work, not knowing that the two men had fallen, and so they were imprisoned.

CHAPTER XXX
M. Mifroid’s Theory

WHEN M. Mifroid recovered sufficiently from the shock of his fall, the first thing that worried him was that he would be “out of the game.” Even at the moment of his fall his presence of mind did not fail him, and he knew that he was falling into one of the thousand-year-old quarries, which crossed under Paris in their intricate meanderings. He experienced that feeling accompanied by a light, painful torpor which follows a swoon caused by shock.

He was in the catacombs!

His first thought was to try and find the lights which he had just bought, and so find out how the passage lay. He felt sure that they must have fallen through the hole with him. The darkness seemed to weigh heavily on his eyelids, and a great feeling of depression came over him. Without getting up, for by an imprudent movement he would lose the knowledge of the exact place where he had fallen, he spread his hands about him and was relieved to find his package again. He feared at first that the lamps would be broken, but soon felt that it was not so; and breaking open the package, he pressed the button on one of the lamps. The cavern was lighted with a fairy brightness, and he could not keep from smiling as he thought of the unfortunates who, shut up in some cavern, generally drag themselves along, holding their breath, behind a paltry snuff of a candle, which at any moment might flicker out.

He got up then and examined the vault. He knew of the work of repairing the track, and knew that they neared the end, but when he saw that the hole through which he had fallen was closed, a feeling akin to fear came over him.

Now some meters of earth separated him from the outside world, unless it was possible for him to get up to this place which they had filled in. He, however, flashed his light around, and after surveying the walls and the vaults, he came across a prostrate body. The sight at first gave him a shock, but on examination he found it to be the body of M. Longuet-the body of the new Cartouche. He examined it and noticed that it did not bear a single trace of serious wounds. The man was stunned, as he had been himself, and without doubt he would not be slow in coming out of that swoon. He recalled that M. Lecamus had presented him to his friend in the Champs Elysées, and behold, he was now mixed up with him like the worst kind of assassins.

Just then M. Longuet breathed a sigh, stretched his arm, and complained of some pains. He arose, and, saluting M. Mifroid, asked him where they were. M. Mifroid told him. He did not seem at all distressed, but drawing forth his portfolio, he traced some lines which resembled a plan, and showed them to M. Mifroid, saying:

“M. le Commissioner, we are at the bottom of the catacombs. It is an extraordinary event. How we are going to get out I do not know, but that which is distressing me most at the present moment is what has happened to the express train.” M. Mifroid demanded some explanation, and M. Longuet related to him, with the closest detail, the disappearance and re-appearance of the carriage and the train. For the better understanding of the track he drew a plan out as follows:

A H D C B

This he showed to M. Mifroid.

He explained how the train had disappeared between A and B. How he had turned the switch at H and waited at D for the train to pass on to the side track. He described how the train had never come, and how the carriage had appeared and disappeared.

M. Mifroid became greatly interested, and begged him to repeat the story. “And when did this happen?” asked he. “It has not yet been reported to me.”

“It happened several hours ago,” said Théophraste, “and it should have been reported by now.”

M. Mifroid examined the plan for about five minutes, and after reflecting for a while, asked Théophraste a few questions. Suddenly he burst out laughing and said: “Why, what a difficult problem. I have solved it in five minutes.

“You said there were five men at A and five men at B. It passes through B, but not A. You were at D, and because you did not see, it did not pass? Consequently, your train vanished. Well, I say the train exists between A and B, and must be somewhere between B and I, that is sure; the train is in the sandhill.”

“I swear not!” said Théophraste. “I was at D expecting the train, and I did not leave the track.”

“It can be nowhere else, for five men saw it pass B and the five men at A are equally certain it didn’t pass them. Therefore I say that as only you were at D it passed that point, and undoubtedly switched off on I, since it could not be otherwise. By a necessary chance, while the first cars of the train were engulfed in the sand hillock, which covered it up (imagine that the line H is too short for the engineer to have had time to avoid the accident), the yoke chain of the last car was broken, and so the last carriage was forced by the baggage car to descend as far as D, on the track, which was slightly up-grade, since it wrent into a sand hillock. Then after going down to H and back to D, you saw the carriage and Signor Petito in the doorway. Your Signor Petito opened the carriage door, perhaps to throw himself out, as soon as he was aware of the imminent catastrophe, and as the latter caused a shock, it closed the door on the head of your Signor Petito.

“Now, having despoiled Signor Petito of his clothing, you walk into the fields to read his papers. When you return the carriage is no longer there. Now, then. Since there was a declivity, and since there was a wind, the carriage, after having rolled as far as H, is found on the line A-B, where the trainmen certainly have found it by this time. Do you understand now? Do you understand all except that you did not see the train pass D? You are deaf sometimes, M. Longuet?”

“I have already had the honor of telling you so.”

“Imagine that you were deaf while you were waiting for the train at D. You did not hear then?”

“No, but I should have seen it.”

“Already you did not hear it. That is much. Possibly you turned your head for three seconds. Three seconds, that is to say, one second and thirty hundredths longer than is necessary to see an express train of four carriages pass before you, which, being late, made 120 to the hour. M. Longuet, the train disappeared, or, rather, seemed to disappear, because you were deaf and turned your head for a brief space of time.”

M. Longuet raised his arms to the limit toward the vaults of the catacombs.