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Messengers of Evil

<h2>XXII</h2> <h3>AN EXECUTION</h3> "Not much water about, is there?" "That's so, old 'un.... If I'd known, it's boats I'd have taken to!" "Bah! Your shoes are big enough. That's not saying it's weather for a Christian to be out in!" "Don't you grumble, old 'un! The more it comes down cats and dogs, the fewer stumps will be stirring out doors!... But a comrade or two will be on the prowl, eh?" "Right-o, old bird!... Keep a lookout!... Sure he'll come this way?" "You bet your nut he will!... He got my bit of a scrawl this morning...." "What then?" "Shut up! Shut up! Folks coming!" <hr style='width: 45%;' /> The night was inky black. Rain fell with sudden violence, threshed and driven by icy gusts of wind. The hour was late: the rue Raffet deserted save for the two men who had ventured out into the tempestuous darkness. They advanced with difficulty, side by side, speaking low. Rough customers to deal with. Their faces were emaciated from excessive drinking: their eyes gleamed, their voices were hoarse: a brutal pair! But their movements were souple and lively: they walked with that ungainly swagger affected by the light-fingered gentry and the criminals of the underworld of Paris. "And what did you say in your scrawl?" "Oh, medlars! Take-ins! You know!... I didn't put my fist to it, though!" "Who then?" "You ask that?" "I'm no wizard! If it wasn't your fist, whose then?" "My woman...." "Ernestine?" "Yes. Ernestine." They struggled on through the squally darkness. Then one of the two broke the silence. "You're not jealous, Beadle, making your girl write letters to such folk?" That sinister hooligan, the Beadle, burst out laughing. "Jealous? Me? Jealous of Ernestine? You make me laugh, you really do, old Beard!" But Beard did not share his companion's mirth. He leaned against a palisade to take breath, while a little sheltered from the fierce onslaughts of the wind. "I tell you what," he said in a gruff and threatening voice: "I don't like such dodges—like those of this evening...." "Why so, monsieur?" "Why, because, after all, it's a comrade!" "But he's betrayed—a traitor he is!" "What do we know about it?" The Beadle nodded; reflected. "What does anyone know about it?" he said at last.... "Why, when the comrades told us, weren't they surprised, one and all? Nibet, Toulouche, even Mimile—they didn't hesitate, not one of them!... Well then, old 'un, as all the pals were of one mind, why hesitate? What's the use of discussing!... but, between you and me, I don't relish it either—it bothers me to go for a pal!..." Just then the tempest redoubled its fury: it seemed to the cowering men as though all the devils of the storm were galloping down the wind. Somewhere there was a moon, for scurrying clouds were dancing a witches' saraband across a faintly clearer sky. The unseen moon was mastering the obscurity of this midnight hour. By now, the two sinister beings were nearing the rue du Docteur-Blanche. They were passing a garden, in which tall poplars, caught by the squall, took fantastic shapes: they were nightmare trees, terrifyingly strange. "No more to be said," remarked the Beadle. "The scene is set!... Where is the meeting place?" "A hundred yards from there—a little before the corner of the boulevard Montmorency...." "Good! And the trap?" "It waits for us a little further off." "Who's aboard it?" "Mimile." "That's good." The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet. The watch had begun. Gripped by the cold they waited in silence.... The minutes passed slowly, slowly, in the deserted street ... The Beard put his hand on the Beadle's shoulder.... A vague sound could be heard in the distance: the steps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rue Raffet in their direction. "It is he!" whispered the Beadle. "It is he!" affirmed the Beard. "He's not oversteady on his feet!" "Perhaps he's ill shod!" The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tension of the moment—a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs the hands to deal that death—but not yet: it was a reaction against their sense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour! Now a man's advancing figure could be discerned. He came nearer. He was plainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar of his coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast. "Hey! You down there! The gang!" cried the Beard, hailing the oncoming figure. "Ah, it's you?" "Yes, it's me, comrade." "And you too, Beadle?" "As you say...." "What do you want of me? Since my arrest and escape from the Salad Basket, I'm not anxious to stroll about this neighbourhood—out with it!" The Beard said in a joking tone: "You don't suspect, then? Speak out, Jules!..." Jules—for it was indeed he—shook his head. "My word, I have no idea what you want!... Who wrote to me this morning? Ernestine?" Neither the Beadle nor Beard replied. The three men stood talking in the deserted street, bending their heads and backs under the rain, which was now pouring harder than ever. "Come on then! Make haste!" said Jules. "Come now, tell me what's the point—what's up—spit it out, comrades!... I don't want to be soaked to the skin, you know!" The Beadle forced the pace: he lifted his great hairy sinewy hand, brought it down heavily on Jules' shoulder, and in a changed voice, harsh, rough, imperative, he commanded: "You must follow us!" Already he had his man fast. The unsuspicious Jules did not grasp the situation in the least. "Follow you?" he asked. "As to that, certainly not!... No more walking for me in such weather. Wait for a sunny day, say I!... But whatever is the matter with you—eh?... What?... Why are you sticking out your jaws at me like this? Out with it, my lambs!... Where am I to follow you?... You won't say, Messieurs Beadle and Beard? "You won't say?..." Beard moved a step and got behind Jules unnoticed. He repeated in the same tone, harsh, threatening: "You've got to follow us, I tell you!" Instinctively Jules tried to turn round. The Beadle's strong grip kept him motionless. Then he understood. He was afraid. "What's come to you?" he cried in a trembling voice. The Beadle cut him short. "Enough! Will you follow us? Yes or no?" Jules was going to say "no!" but he had not the time! Quick as lightning the Beadle flung a long scarf round his neck, stuck his knee into his victim's back, and pulled! Jules uttered a faint groan; but, half stifled, nearly strangled, he had not the strength to attempt the slightest self-defence. Directly he was flung backwards on the ground, where he measured his length and lay nearly stunned, Beard jumped on him, knelt on his chest, and pinioned him. Jules lay motionless. The Beard now began tying up the legs of their victim. "Pass me a scarf!" "There it is, old 'un!" "Very good, I am going to apply a 'Be Discreet.'" The "Be Discreet" of the Beard was a gag, which he rolled round the servant's head in expert fashion. "Feet firm?" asked the Beard. "Oh, jolly fine!" said the Beadle. He turned his man over as though he were a bale of goods. Now he tied his victim's hands behind his back. "Is it far to go to the jaunting car?" "No—for two sous, that's it!" A motor-car was indeed coming slowly and noiselessly along rue Raffet: it was a sumptuous car! "And if it is not he?" "Stick him up against the bank ... dark as it is, there's every chance he won't be seen." Rapidly, the doughty two stuck Jules against the bank at the side of the road: the unfortunate creature had fainted. Then they took out their cigarettes, and going a few steps away, they pretended to be sheltering themselves in order to strike a light. They need not have taken this precaution. The car stopped in front of them. The familiar voice of Mimile was heard: "Got the rabbit then?" "Yes, old 'un!" "Pitch it into the balloon then!" "The balloon?" questioned the Beadle. "Whatever's that?" Emilet laughed. "At times, my brothers, your ignorance, mechanically speaking, is crass!... The balloon is the back part of my car, I'd have you know." The Beard sniggered. "Good!... Pick it up! Now, Beadle!" The two seized the body of Jules by shoulders and feet, and flung it brutally into the limousine. A rug, negligently flung over the body of the trussed Jules, hid him from observation. "Now we'll embark," announced Emilet. As a precaution, the young hooligan asked: "The bloke snores?" "Yes," replied the Beadle. "He is travelling in No Nightmare Land...." The Beadle laughed. But Emilet was alarmed. "You haven't snuffed him out, have you?" "No danger of it! He's only shamming!" "Off, then!" said Emilet. They rolled away at top speed. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> The bandits' lair had been well chosen by their chiefs. It was a vast cellar, with a vaulted roof, and earthen walls bedewed with an icy humidity. Axes, mattocks, shovels, rakes, and watering cans lay scattered on the ground: these were worn out tools: they had not served their purpose for many a day. The lantern, a kind of cresset protected by a wire globe, was suspended from the roof by a string. It shed a faint and wavering light, creating weird shadows in that far-stretching space, too vast for the insufficient illumination. Directly beneath the cresset lantern, inside the circle of light it threw upon the ground, a fantastic group of human creatures pressed close to one another, drinking, shouting, chattering, singing. A clean-shaven man, whose suspicious little eyes were perpetually blinking, turned to a young woman. "Look here, Ernestine, my beauty, are you certain the Beadle understood that we should be waiting for him here?" Big Ernestine, who was crouching on the ground and warming her hands at a wood fire, throwing up clouds of smoke, shrugged her shoulders. "Stop it, do! You say things over and over again, like a clock, Nibet!... Since I've told you yes—yes it is—there now, and be hanged to you!... You don't by chance fancy the Beadle has been made a mouthful of, do you?" Roars of laughter greeted this. Nibet was not one of the inner circle; he was not much of a favourite in the band of Numbers. It is true that they reckoned him a comrade, useful, faithful, that they felt safe with him; but they bore him a grudge because of his regular employment, because of his position, because he was an official.... And, first and last, his warder's uniform impressed the jail birds unpleasantly. But Nibet was not the man to allow himself to be intimidated. "All the same," said he, "I ask where the three of them have got to?... If they know the mushroom bed, they should have been back long ago!" He shouted to an old woman. "Eh, Toulouche, tell us the time!" But Mother Toulouche shook her head. "I haven't a watch!" There was a murmur of protestation. The seven or eight hooligans assembled there awaiting the return of the Beard and the Beadle, sent with Emilet to kidnap Jules, could not believe that. Mother Toulouche had told the truth. The Sailor caught the old woman by the shoulders and shook her, and went on shaking her. "Liar! Aren't you ashamed to be in a funk with us?... Ever since this blessed Mother Toulouche has sold winkles and many other things, ever since she began to make a little purse for herself, which must be a big purse by now, a purse everyone here has sweated to fill to the brim, she has always distrusted us!... You say you haven't a watch! I tell you, you've got dozens of 'em!..." Big Ernestine interrupted. "It's a half-hour over the hour agreed...." A shudder ran through the assembly: Nibet, finger on lip, made a sign that they were to listen. Then, in the mushroom bed, no longer in use, which the band of Numbers had recently adopted as their meeting place, a profound silence fell.... "There they are!" said Nibet. Big Ernestine leaped up, left the fire, advanced to the far end of the cellar, and imitated the cry of a screech owl to perfection. There was a similar cry in response. "It's all right. They're here!" she said. She returned to the fire and sat down. But Nibet seized the girl and forced her to get up again. "Go along with you! Quick march!" he said roughly. She protested. Nibet stopped her. "Oh, we can't stand listening to you!... Ho there, Sailor!... Come here!... Sit down on this plank! You, the Beadle, and me—we're to be the judges.... Beard makes the accusation: and, if her heart tells her to, Ernestine will defend him." "I'd rather spit at the tell-tale!... You can tear him to bits as far as I'm concerned!" cried the girl. "There's nothing disgusts me so much as a tell-tale!" The hooligans crowded round big Ernestine. They applauded her ironically; for they all knew that, once upon a time, she had been strongly suspected of having dealings with, what they called, "The dirty lot at the Bobby's Nest." <hr style='width: 45%;' /> Silence fell once more. They could hear the rasp of the rope unrolling from a hand windlass attached to an enormous bucket. This was the primitive lift. Moments passed. The hooligans had formed a circle beneath the black hole where the bucket moved up and down. "It goes, old Beard?" questioned Nibet, gazing upwards. "It goes, old bloke!" "Brought the game?" "That's what we're sending down now!..." "That's a bit of all right!" Sailor now seized the trussed Jules from the bucket and flung him on the ground. "Damaged goods, that—eh?" he laughed evilly. The Beadle, Beard, and Emilet were coming down in turn. The group below bent curiously over the prisoner. "He's soft—that sort is!" cried Ernestine. And tapping him on the face with her foot, big Ernestine tried to make Jules show signs of life. Beard dropped out of the bucket and stopped the game. "Let's see, Ernestine?... Stop it now!" After gripping the hand of each comrade in turn, after hugging a bottle and draining it in a long draught, emptying it to the dregs, Beard flung it aside. "Let's get to work—no time to waste!... If we finish him off, we'll have to get rid of him before morning!" Sailor lifted Jules with the aid of two comrades. They propped him against a massive pillar of wood which supported the cellar roof. They bound their wretched victim to it with strong cords. Meanwhile, Ernestine was unwinding the gag. "Take your places on the tribunal!" commanded Nibet. "And you others, a glass of pick-me-up for the fellow!" The pick-me-up intended to restore Jules to consciousness was brought by Mother Toulouche, under the form of a large earthen pot full of cold water. She dashed the water in the prisoner's face. Jules slowly opened his eyes and regained his wits, amidst an ominous silence. The band watched his return to life with evil smiles: they quietly watched his pallid face turn a livid green with terror. The wretched creature could not utter a syllable. He stared wildly at those about him, his friends of yesterday, at those seated on the mock judgment bench who, crouching forward, were observing him with sardonic smiles. Nibet put a question. "You hear and understand us, Jules?" "Pity!" howled the victim. Nibet was indifferent to the cry. "He understands!... For my part, I am all for keeping to a proper procedure.... I would not have agreed to sit in judgment on him if he had been unable to defend himself.... We don't act that way down here!" Turning to his acolytes for signs of their approval, he continued: "Beard! The word is with you! Let us hear why he has been brought up to judgment!... Tell us what he is accused of!... Bring up all there is against him!" Beard, who was marching up and down between the hooligan tribunal and the accused, who was half dead, and incapable of making a rational statement, stopped, squared himself with an air of satisfaction, and began his speech for the prosecution. "Jules, has anyone ever done you any harm here?... Has anyone played cowardly tricks on you?... Set traps to catch you in?... Have you ever been cheated out of your fair share of the spoil?... Is there anything you can bring up against us?... No?... Well, here's what we have against you ... it's not worth while lying about it either!... You are the one who has taken the wind out of our sails over the Danidoff affair ... do you confess that?" In a voice barely intelligible Jules gasped out: "Beard ... I don't understand you!... I have done nothing—nothing.... What have you against me?..." Beard took his time. Planted before the prisoner, with hip stuck out and hand in pocket, the other hand raised in tragic invocation towards his comrades: "You have heard?... Monsieur does not understand!... He has not the pluck to be open and aboveboard!" Turning again to the wretched captive, he continued: "Well, I'm going to explain ... it was you, wasn't it, who had to put through the robbery of the lady's jewels?... Well, do you know what you did? Do you want me to tell you?... Instead of lending us a hand as was promised and sworn, you kept the cake for yourself!... In other words, you, and some of your sort, serving at the ball, put your heads together, and shut up the lady in the room they found her in; and that way, you got out of sharing with us!... So we have been done in the eye over that deal!... The proof that you have comrades we know nothing about is, that yesterday when you were done in, they found a way to get you out of the Salad Basket!... It wasn't us!... But to return to the Danidoff robbery ... oh, you must have laughed then!... But everyone has his turn ... you are going to laugh on the wrong side of your mouth now!... Do you know what they call it—what you've done—dared to do?" In the same strangled voice, Jules managed to get out the words: "But it's not true!... I swear to you ..." Beard did not listen. "There's not one of our lot who would give me the lie!... To behave like that is treachery!... You have betrayed the Numbers. There it is in a nutshell!... What have you to reply to that?" For the third time, Jules repeated in a hoarse whisper, for he felt life was gradually leaving him: an awful fear gripped him, he saw he was completely done for. "I swear I did not do that!... I didn't rob the princess.... I don't even know who did!" Jules was, perhaps, speaking the truth, but he took the worst way to defend himself.... If he had had pluck and wit enough to take the Beard's accusation with a high hand, if he had met threats with violent denial and assertion, it is quite possible he might have made an impression in his favour; but he cried for pity and for mercy from men who were pitiless! He was afraid!... His fear was shown by the convulsive trembling which agitated his wretched body, by his ghastly pallor, by the cold drops of sweat rolling down his forehead.... He was no longer a man: it was a lamentable bit of human wreckage the hooligans had before them!... And the more lamentable this wreck showed itself to be, the less worthy of their interest it seemed! When Jules gasped out once again: "I swear to you it was not I! No!... I did not do it!" The hooligans, moved by a common impulse, rose, indignant, furious, mad with rage. "That's a good one, that is!" yelled Nibet, who, beside himself with rage, suddenly forgot his avowed respect for judicial forms. "Since he is determined to tell lies, and hasn't the pluck to say what he's done, there's only one thing for us to do, and that's to stop his mouth up!... Ernestine, put the plug back!" And as the girl once more rolled the scarf round and round the head of the miserable Jules, Nibet turned to his comrades. "Now then? One hasn't any need to waste more time over it!... We know all the story—not so?... It's settled, I tell you!... A fellow who has done what he has done, what does he deserve?... You answer first, Mother Toulouche, since you are the oldest?..." Mother Toulouche stretched out a trembling hand, as though calling on Heaven to witness an oath. "I," said the old woman, with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I don't hesitate!... Comrades who flinch, sneaks who betray, get rid of them, say I!... I condemn him to death!..." The old woman's sentence was greeted with loud applause. Nibet resumed. "It is said!... It is unanimous!... Make a quick finish, my lads!... Since each has been injured, let each take his revenge! I say: Death by the hammer!" In that smoke-thickened air rose a chorus of hate and of vengeance. "Death by the hammer! Death by the hammer!" <hr style='width: 45%;' /> In that noisome lair of the bandits a horrible scene ensued. Mother Toulouche went groping in a dark corner. She searched for, and found, a blacksmith's hammer. She lifted it with trembling hands, and planting herself in front of the victim, more dead than alive, she said in a menacing voice: "You did harm to the Numbers! You wronged them! Here goes for that then!" The hammer described a quarter of a circle in the air and descended in a smashing blow on the wretched victim's face! The awful punishment had begun! According to age, one after another, the hooligans passed on the hammer, and, in a blind passion of hate, beat followed beat on the agonising body of Jules! At last the terrible agony was over and done! The passion of hate, the lust for revenge had burnt themselves out. Jules had expiated the crime they had imputed to him! The band were the victims of a paralysing fatigue. Emilet flung the blood-stained hammer into a far corner of their den. "Well done!" said he. "He has paid the price!" Emilet's eyes fell on Nibet. He was leaning against the wall, and, with folded arms, was watching the scene in which he had taken no part. Walking up to the warder, Emilet demanded: "Ho! Ho! You backed out of it, did you, my boy?... You didn't have a throw, did you?... No?..." Nibet grinned sardonically. "Don't talk rubbish, Emilet!... If I have stood aside, I had my reasons for doing so.... We haven't done with Jules yet!... Not by a long chalk!... Now that he's been killed, he's got to be got rid of—isn't that true?... Look at yourselves, my lambs! You are covered with red!... It will take you all of an hour to make yourselves presentable!... Now, look at me! I'm neat and clean ... and I have a plan ... a famous plan to rid us of that corpse there! Now, just you stir your stumps, Emilet!... I am going off to make preparations!... I'll give you ten minutes to make yourself fit to be seen ... it's we two are to be the undertakers; and I swear to you, that we will give them no end of trouble to the curiosity mongers at Police Headquarters!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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