Part 65 (1/2)

He wears a frock coat closely b.u.t.toned, and comes on with a light, rapid step, suspecting nothing. The sergeant gives the word--the soldiers spring to their feet--I draw back into the gloom of the shop-and only Muller remains, smoking his cigarette and lounging against the door-post.

Then Lenoir crosses over, and Muller, affecting to observe him for the first time, looks up, and without lifting his hat, says loudly:--

”_Comment_! have I the honor of saluting Monsieur Lenoir?”

Whereupon Lenoir, thrown off his guard by the suddenness of the address, hesitates--seems about to reply--checks himself--quickens his pace, and pa.s.ses without a word.

The next instant he is surrounded. The b.u.t.t ends of four muskets rattle on the pavement--the sergeant's hand is on his shoulder--the sergeant's voice rings in his ear.

”Number two hundred and seven, you are my prisoner!”

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

THE END OF BRAS BE FER.

LENOIR's first impulse was to struggle in silence; then, finding escape hopeless, he folded his arms and submitted.

”So, it is Monsieur Muller who has done me this service,” he said coldly; but with a flash in his eye like the sudden glint in the eye of a cobra di capello. ”I will take care not to be unmindful of the obligation.”

Then, turning impatiently upon the sergeant:--

”Have you no carriage at hand?” he said, sharply; ”or do you want to collect a crowd in the street?”

The cab, however, which had been waiting a few doors lower down, drove up while he was speaking. The sergeant hurried him in; the half-dozen loiterers who had already gathered about us pressed eagerly forward; two of the soldiers and the sergeant got inside; Muller and I scrambled up beside the driver; word was given ”to the Prefecture of Police;” and we drove rapidly away down the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, through the arch of Louis Quatorze, out upon the bright noisy Boulevard, and on through thoroughfares as brilliant and crowded as at midday, towards the quays and the river.

Arrived at the Quai des Ortevres, we alighted at the Prefecture, and were conducted through a series of ante-rooms and corridors into the presence of the same bald-headed Chef de Bureau whom we had seen on each previous occasion. He looked up as we came in, pressed the spring of a small bell that stood upon his desk, and growled something in the ear of a clerk who answered the summons.

”Sergeant,” he said, pompously, ”bring the prisoner under the gas-burner.”

Lenoir, without waiting to be brought, took a couple of steps forward, and placed himself in the light.

Monsieur le Chef then took out his double eye-gla.s.s, and proceeded to compare Lenoir's face, feature by feature, with a photograph which he took out of his pocket-book for the purpose.

”Are you prepared, Monsieur,” he said, addressing Muller for the first time--”are you, I say, prepared to identify the prisoner upon oath?”

”Within certain limitations--yes,” replied Muller.

”Certain limitations!” exclaimed the Chef, testily. ”What do you mean by 'certain limitations?' Here is the man whom you accuse, and here is the photograph. Are you, I repeat, prepared to make your deposition before Monsieur le Prefet that they are one and the same person?”

”I am neither more nor less prepared, Monsieur,” said Muller, ”than you are; or than Monsieur le Prefet, when he has the opportunity of judging.

As I have already had the honor of informing you, I saw the prisoner for the first time about two months since. Having reason to believe that he was living in Paris under an a.s.sumed name, and wearing a decoration to which he had no right, I prosecuted certain inquiries about him. The result of those inquiries led me to conclude that he was an escaped convict from the Bagnes of Toulon. Never having seen him at Toulon, I was unable to prove this fact without a.s.sistance. You, Monsieur, have furnished that a.s.sistance, and the proof is now in your hand. It only remains for Monsieur le Prefet and yourself to decide upon its value.”

”Give me the photograph, Monsieur Marmot,” said a pale little man in blue spectacles, who had come in un.o.bserved from a door behind us, while Muller was speaking.

The bald-headed Chef jumped up with great alacrity, bowed like a second Sir Pertinax, and handed over the photograph.

”The peculiar difficulty of this case, Monsieur le Prefet” ... he began.

The Prefet waved his hand.