Part 16 (1/2)

Just below the initials appeared the beginning of a narrative, dated ”Paris,” and evidently intended to describe the duel itself with extreme minuteness. The hand-writing was that of the deceased second.

Monsieur Foulon, tire gentleman in question, stated his belief that circ.u.mstances might transpire which would render an account by an eyewitness of the hostile meeting between St. Lo and Mr. Monkton an important doc.u.ment. He proposed, therefore, as one of the seconds, to testify that the duel had been fought in exact accordance with the terms of the agreement, both the princ.i.p.als conducting themselves like men of gallantry and honor (!). And he further announced that, in order not to compromise any one, he should place the paper containing his testimony in safe hands, with strict directions that it was on no account to be opened except in a case of the last emergency.

After thus preamble, Monsieur Foulon related that the duel had been fought two days after the drawing up of the agreement, in a locality to which accident had conducted the dueling party. (The name of the place was not mentioned, nor even the neighborhood in which it was situated.) The men having been placed according to previous arrangement, the Count St. Lo had won the toss for the first fire, had advanced his ten paces, and had shot his opponent in the body. Mr. Monkton did not immediately fall, but staggered forward some six or seven paces, discharged his pistol ineffectually at the count, and dropped to the ground a dead man.

Monsieur Foulon then stated that he tore a leaf from his pocketbook, wrote on it a brief description of the manner in which Mr. Monkton had died, and pinned the paper to his clothes; this proceeding having been rendered necessary by the peculiar nature of the plan organized on the spot for safely disposing of the dead body. What this plan was, or what was done with the corpse, did not appear, for at this important point the narrative abruptly broke off.

A foot-note in the newspaper merely stated the manner in which the doc.u.ment had been obtained for publication, and repeated the announcement contained in the editor's introductory remarks, that no continuation had been found by the persons intrusted with the care of Monsieur Foulon's papers. I have now given the whole substance of what I read, and have mentioned all that was then known of Mr. Stephen Monkton's death.

When I gave the newspaper back to Alfred he was too much agitated to speak, but he reminded me by a sign that he was anxiously waiting to hear what I had to say. My position was a very trying and a very painful one. I could hardly tell what consequences might not follow any want of caution on my part, and could think at first of no safer plan than questioning him carefully before I committed myself either one way or the other.

”Will you excuse me if I ask you a question or two before I give you my advice?” said I.

He nodded impatiently.

”Yes, yes--any questions you like.”

”Were you at any time in the habit of seeing your uncle frequently?”

”I never saw him more than twice in my life--on each occasion when I was a mere child.”

”Then you could have had no very strong personal regard for him?”

”Regard for him! I should have been ashamed to feel any regard for him.

He disgraced us wherever he went.”

”May I ask if any family motive is involved in your anxiety to recover his remains?”

”Family motives may enter into it among others--but why do you ask?”

”Because, having heard that you employ the police to a.s.sist your search, I was anxious to know whether you had stimulated their superiors to make them do their best in your service by giving some strong personal reasons at headquarters for the very unusual project which has brought you here.”

”I give no reasons. I pay for the work I want done, and, in return for my liberality, I am treated with the most infamous indifference on all sides. A stranger in the country, and badly acquainted with the language, I can do nothing to help myself. The authorities, both at Rome and in this place, pretend to a.s.sist me, pretend to search and inquire as I would have them search and inquire, and do nothing more. I am insulted, laughed at, almost to my face.”

”Do you not think it possible--mind, I have no wish to excuse the misconduct of the authorities, and do not share in any such opinion myself--but do you not think it likely that the police may doubt whether you are in earnest?”

”Not in earnest!” he cried, starting up and confronting me fiercely, with wild eyes and quickened breath. ”Not in earnest! _You_ think I'm not in earnest too. I know you think it, though you tell me you don't.

Stop; before we say another word, your own eyes shall convince you. Come here--only for a minute--only for one minute!”

I followed him into his bedroom, which opened out of the sitting-room.

At one side of his bed stood a large packing-case of plain wood, upward of seven feet in length.

”Open the lid and look in,” he said, ”while I hold the candle so that you can see.”

I obeyed his directions, and discovered to my astonishment that the packing-case contained a leaden coffin, magnificently emblazoned with the arms of the Monkton family, and inscribed in old-fas.h.i.+oned letters with the name of ”Stephen Monkton,” his age and the manner of his death being added underneath.

”I keep his coffin ready for him,” whispered Alfred, close at my ear.

”Does that look like earnest?”