CHAPTER XV. THE ROBBER.
The simplest and most direct style of narrative
is doubtless the most pleasing. It is legitimately,
however, only adapted to those romances in
which the hero is never lost sight of, and when,
therefore, there is no necessity of returning to bring
forward incidents that have been delayed to advance
other portions of the story. As this novel is not
dependant for its interest solely upon one train
of events following another in regular order of
progression, but upon several parts which go to
make up one whole, we are occasionally under the
necessity of deviating from the directness of narrative,
to return and take up the threads which we
have but temporarily dropped, but which are necessary
for the farther progress and completeness
of our woof of fiction.
We therefore return to Pascalet and Jacques,
and explain the cause of the appearance of the latter
as a prisoner. When the creaking lock was
turned on them by the eager and delighted fingers
of Domine Joseph Gerret as he admitted the
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chevalier into his dwelling, they stood for a few
moments together without speaking. At length
Pascalet, leaning carelessly against the wall, began
to question Jacques of his native valley and of his
adventures.
“Now, mort de ma vie!” he suddenly exclaimed
in French, after Jacques had given an account of
his career as a soldier, “if thou dost not deserve
to die for being a rebel, and then swearing by thy
foul beard that thou wert a true man!”
“Have patience, most worthy friend and countryman
Pascalet! I made not oath that I was no
rebel; but, look ye! only that I be a true man,
like thyself.”
“Ciel! if thou hadst sworn thou wert a true
goose thou wouldst have hit it. But hark ye, Sir
Rebel, thy life shall be spared, and thou mayst
yet go home and spend thy old age in tending
ducks and chickens; but thou shalt earn thy carcass!”
“That will I, by my beard! if it be to march
into a cannon's mouth at the point o' baggonet.”
“Out upon the boaster! Thou durst not look into
a pitcher's mouth, lest thou shouldst pitch in and
drown thyself. Hark ye,” he added, coming close
and whispering in his ear; “thou hast helped me
rob birds' nests and unearth foxes ere now?”
“Yes, birds' nests; but, by my beard! only
birds' nests, good Pascalet.”
“True. Mort de ma vie! true; a foxcub would
have scared the life out o' thee! Say, thou hast
helped me rob?”
“Thou didst pound me to do't, valiant Pascalet,
or I wouldn't ha' done't,” said Jacques, in a deprecating
tone.
“Wouldst thou not?” he cried, fiercely; “thou
shalt now rob with me, or thou'lt not get off with a
pounding. Wilt do't?”
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“Mort dum ma vee! will I,” said Jacques, with
desperate courage. “Mort dum ma vee! 'tis a
brave oath, by my beard! braver than Luc Giles
could swear by.”
“Luc Giles? Sacre! I had forgotten my old
comrade Luc. Where is he, peasant?”
“Dead, by this hand!” answered Jacques,
stoutly.
“Dead by thy hand?” he said, fiercely grasping
the breast of the trembling braggadocio.
“No, good Pascalet, I slew him not. He fell
in battle, but not by my hand.”
“Fool that I am, I might have known it,” he
said, thrusting him from him. Then going up to
him and suddenly taking him by the ear, he said,
“Didst mark that old man just now?”
“Ay, did I, worthy Pascalet.”
“And the keys at his wrist?”
“The keys I marked not, valiant Pascalet.”
“No matter. Those keys will unlock a mint of
gold. The old man's a miser, and he has heaps
of the coin, Jacques. I am inclined to transfer a
portion of his wealth into my pocket. Thou shalt
aid me. Hear'st thou?”
“I hear, your valiancy. But,” added Jacques,
hesitatingly, as Pascalet set his ear at liberty, “thou
wilt not harm the poor man?”
“What is that to thee? Do as I bid thee. Stand
thou here by the door, and, if any one approaches,
clap thy hands twice to give me warning. I shall
hear thee. When I come back, take what I give
thee, and follow me without a word. Dost hear?”
“Verily do I, brave countryman! But how art
thou first to enter? 'Tis locked as tight as old porter
Nicholas ever locked bolt at St. Claude; and
methinks I did hear something like a bar.”
“Dost think I have seen the world to no
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purpose?” said Pascalet, taking from beneath his belt
a steel instrument of curious construction, with
many grooves and slides. “I saw the shape of the
door-key,” he continued, taking from his pocket a
bag of loose wards, from which, after several trials,
he selected a set and fitted them firmly to the key.
“Now see how I'll get in! There is no bar. I
heard him remove it, but am sure he did not replace
it, unless 'twas done softer than a fly could
tread.”
He then applied the key to the door; it entered
the lock; but, after several attempts to turn it, he
drew it out with an oath and fitted a second ward.
Again applying it, the bolt yielded with a creaking
sound as he slowly turned the key, and, to the surprise
of Jacques, the door swung open. Pascalet
then, after holding his finger up warningly to
Jacques, and ordering him to guard the door and
secure his retreat, glided in. With the stealthy
pace of a cat he moved along the passage, feeling
his way by the walls until he came to the foot of
the stairs. On his former mission he had been
admitted even into the room of the conspirators,
and was familiar, therefore, with the details of the
passage: with this advantage, he was enabled to
mount the stairs with celerity and without noise.
The light from the room in which the conspirators
were assembled found its way through many a gap
between the upright boards of the partition and beneath
the door; a faint glimmer also was emitted
from the keyhole of the door in which Domine Joseph
was industriously at work clipping the superfluous
metal from the currency.
Pascalet paused a moment to ascertain accurately
his position in relation to the different rooms; and
then stealing softly to the miser's door, he placed
his eye to the keyhole, but could see only the naked
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fireplace, although he could hear the nibbling sound
made by the miser, who was at work at his bench,
and occasionally the faint ring of the precious metal.
Grasping the hilt of his dagger, while his eye
gleamed with a murderous light, he drew it half
way out of his bosom to bring it more readily within
reach of his hand. Then measuring the size of
the keyhole with his eye, he searched in his bag,
muttering,
“Ciel! I didn't see his key, and must guess at
the ward! But n'importe. Trust to thy name-sake,
Le Diable, as thou hast often done before,
Pascalet! By the holy twelve! it works,” he added,
within his teeth, when, on inserting the well-oiled
ward, the bolt gave way without noise to the
steady pressure. The door partially opened as the
bolt left its bed, and through the crevice Pascalet
saw the old man at his bench intently occupied in
his labour, with his piles of gold and silver glittering
before him. He looked down and clinched his
dagger; then, glancing again at the miser, seemed
to hesitate whether he should become both assassin
and robber. The helpless appearance of his victim
seemed to plead even to him for lenity. Replacing
his stiletto, which he had taken from his
bosom, he drew up his sleeves, and opened and contracted
his fingers, as a leopard does its claws
when about to spring upon its prey; then applying
his foot lightly against the door, it flew wide
open—in two bounds, that gave back no sound as
his unshod feet touched the floor, he was at the old
man's side, with his fingers clasped around his
throat.
His eyes started from their sockets; his lips
vainly essayed to articulate; a sovereign which he
had just taken up fell to the floor; the clippers
dropped from his hand; pain and terror were
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horribly depicted on his withered visage. For an instant
Pascalet held him thus; then, gradually relaxing
his grasp before life should escape, he held
him by the throat with one hand, while, suspending
his knife over him with the other, he threatened him
with instant death if he moved or spoke. Joseph
clasped his hands and silently pleaded for mercy.
Pascalet knew not the meaning of the word. Leading
him, exhausted by terror and suffering, to his
cott, he caused him to lie down upon his face. “I'll
bury my dagger in thy withered carcass,” he whispered
in his Franco-English—but, for the sake of
energy, we give the purer English—in his ear, “if
thou stir hand or foot. Tell me where thou hast
hidden thy gold, or thou diest.”
“Gold? Oh, I'm not worth a ha'pence in the
world!”
“Thou liest! and, speak above thy breath again,
and thou shalt taste my knife! 'Twas of my mercy
thou didst not feel its edge e'en now instead of
the gripe of my fingers. Whose gold is this, if
not thine?”
“Oh, the colony's, the colony's—sent to me to
be weighed,” he cried, rolling his eyes in despair
towards the pile.
“The colony's? Then I'll be debtor to the state
the full sum, and not burden my conscience by robbing
a poor wretch,” he said, advancing to the bench
heaped with coins. “Ha, mort de vie!” he exclaimed,
as he detected the tray of clippings; “is
this the way thou servest the state's money? I'll
drag thee before the governor, and have thee hung
higher than ever Haman was.”
“Mercy, good youth,” said Joseph, his eye
brightening; “'tis not the state's! I meant it in
jest. And, since thou sayst it will go against thy
conscience to rob a poor wretch, 'tis mine own!”
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“Ciel! thou art, then, no poor wretch if thou
ownest all this gold; so my conscience will be clear
on this score.”
“But 'twill make me a poor wretch if thou rob
me!”
“Then, when thou art made a poor wretch, I
will not rob thee. So conscience hath it both
ways.”
Domine Joseph groaned in bitterness of spirit.
Pascalet, unheeding him, proceeded, still keeping
an eye on his victim, who seemed to be paralyzed
as if under the gaze of a basilisk, to convey the
dollars and sovereigns to his pocket, without being
nice in selecting the clipped from the unclipped.
“Now, old Nicodemus,” he said, “I'll leave thee
thy clippings for thy pains. But thou hast more
than this coin, I'll warrant me.”
“As true as there's a Heaven above and a judgment-day
to come! I have not another penny. I
am impoverished, and must beg my bread about
the streets. Oh, mercy, good youth! mercy! Do
not rob an old wretch; think on thy conscience!”
“Have I not argued that point with thee? so,
hush, and give me thy keys,” he added, approaching
the cott, where the old man had lain trembling
and groaning, with his eyes directed towards the
robber, as sovereign after sovereign disappeared in
the capacious repositories in the habiliments of Pascalet.
“Untie that thong, or my knife shall do it
for thee.”
“'Tis but the key to the outer door. Oh, mercy!
oh!”
Pascalet pressed his hand roughly upon his
mouth, and with his dagger cut the string. Having
possession of the keys, he began to examine
the room. After making an unsuccessful search,
he suddenly advanced upon the miser, and said,
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with terrible emphasis, placing his mouth close to
his ear,
“Tell me where lies thy money, or thou diest!”
and the point of the dagger pressed painfully
against the skin of his victim.
Domine Joseph, as if terrified into compliance,
pointed to the chimney, crying, in the accents of
despair, “There! there!”
Pascalet seized the light to explore it, and the
old man's face lighted up with something like a
smile at the temporary delay he had gained. He
closely searched the fireplace, turning up every
loose brick, and even looking up the chimney, but
in vain. “Old man,” he said, advancing to him
fiercely, “thou hast deceived me!” He raised
his arm to strike the dagger into his back, when
Joseph, in the extremity of unfeigned alarm, cried
out,
“Mercy! mercy! I'll tell thee!”
“Where?”
“Be-beneath my—my cott.”
Pascalet bent down, and, seeing the box, his
eyes sparkled with pleasure. Finding that it was
secured to a bolt, he made the old man, lest he
should assail him while at work, lie on his face
upon the floor. Dom. Joseph stretched himself
upon the boards as if he were lying down to die,
trembling and tortured with the prospect of losing
his wealth, yet his eyes anxiously and with curiosity
watching every movement of the robber as he
displaced the cott, kneeled, fitted the key to the
lock, and raised the lid. Then did the heart of Joseph
Gerret grow faint within him; but, as he
heard the silver ring in the sacrilegious hands of
Pascalet, who surveyed his treasure with delight
and wonder, he cast his eyes desperately upon the
blunderbuss which hung at the head of his bed.
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He then glanced upon the wellknit frame of Pascalet
and his glittering dagger, and, shutting his
eyes despairingly, groaned aloud.
Pascalet, after surveying for a moment the glittering
heaps he had discovered, proceeded to transfer
them to his own person. He filled his pockets,
and then, stripping from his neck his yellow handkerchief,
commenced filling it with Spanish dollars.
He at length became so absorbed in this delightful
occupation, that he forgot Domine Joseph, his own
situation, and, indeed, everything but the piles of
money before him. Not so Domine Joseph. As
his alarm subsided his alertness and presence of
mind increased, and he began to mediate, even at
the risk of his own life, defending his property.
He therefore saw with no little pleasure that the
attention of the robber was wholly fixed upon his
treasure, and that, in the eagerness of transferring
it, he had not only forgotten to watch him, but had
laid down his dagger by his side. He desperately
resolved to gain possession of the weapon. Therefore,
to ascertain what prospect he had of succeeding,
he made a slight noise with his shoe upon the
floor. The robber did not notice it. He then
moved his whole person, but Pascalet only heard
the sound of his gold and silver. A third and somewhat
noisier movement attracted no attention; and
the old man, imboldened by these successes, muttered
something like a prayer, and his face became
rigid with desperate determination as he drew himself
along the floor towards the bed, which stood between
him and the robber. Inch by inch he worked
himself along under the cott until he came within
reach of the dagger. He stretched forth his arm
and seized it in his long, bony fingers with the resolute
grasp which the terrible urgency of the occasion
gave him, and then, with equal coolness, drew
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himself back from beneath the cott until he could
stand upright. He now grasped the dagger more
firmly, rose to his feet, and, leaning over the bed,
raised it in the air.
“Mort de vie!” said Pascalet to himself, “I
shall ride in my gilded coach.”
The next instant the dagger was buried to the
hilt in his back. He fell as he was transferring
the last gold coin to his handkerchief, glared wildly
at the old man, clinching his fingers as if he would
grasp him, and then, with a curse trembling on his
lips, he died.
Jacques, to whom we now return, after remaining
a few minutes at the door, deeply pondered on
the events in which he had been involved, and his
reflections took the following philosophical cast.
“I begin to think I'm a great ass, as I have often
been told that I am. Why can't I get the knack
of this roaring and blustering, this swearing and
loud talking, this cutting of throats and killing with
bullets, like some of my comrades, and, more especially,
this Pascalet le Diable? I am ever at
the beck and nod of some one. Here was Luc
Giles: his parts didn't lie in his tongue, for, by my
beard! and by mort de ma vie! as sweareth this
Pascalet, I have sworn as stoutly as Luc, betimes,
and yet I could never make woman, cat, or chicken
heed me. Then here's this little jackanapes,
Zacharie! He blusters, and has a way o' speaking
quick and short, and makes one mind him
whether he will or no; and yet he's the lesser by
fifty pounds, and ought to obey me; but, somehow,
I can't get the knack o' making people mind.
They are always sure to turn upon me and make
me do their own bidding. When it comes in my
throat to speak valiantly, quick, short, and sharp,
there it sticks, and I can't make a single word be
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forthcoming for the life o' me. When I got clear
o' this Zacharie, who should come but this Pascalet
le Diable to kick me about as he did when I was
a boy. Do this, he says, and do that, says he, and
I can never do enough for his bidding. Now here
he's gone into this honest man's house to rob, and
perhaps to murder, and bids me wait. Now is the
time to take myself off; but, then, I fear his dirk if
he catch me. But, then, I fear his dirk if I stay;
and if he rob and murder, and make me carry his
spoil, I shall have my neck stretched for certain.
I may yet as it is. From what I can learn, there's
a great conspiracy hatching here 'gainst the government.
I'd best inform, and go place myself
under proper protection; but, then, if I'm ever
caught! I should fear to get into the hands of
that black-looking master of Pascalet, though he
did save my life; but that was to row the boat.
Oh, mercie! if I only knew what to do! If I go I
shall be killed; if I stay I shall be killed. Blessed
Marie and St. Claude! deliver me from evil.”
At this moment a party of soldiers coming up
the street relieved him from further care about
himself by taking him under their charge. Inspired
by one of the incipient fits of valour which
from time to time possessed him, he at first manfully
struggled, but at last was bound; and, we regret
to record, roughly treated for this display of
valour.
“Whether I fight or don't fight, 'tis all the
same,” he sighed; “I'm always the football.”
Then, overhearing some of the soldiers talk freely
of hemp for spies, fear of his life gave him eloquence
to plead for it, and in the full exercise of
this laudable act he was brought, as we have, in a
former chapter, seen, to the quarters of Washington,
and subsequently into the presence of Eugenie.
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Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1838], Burton, or, The sieges. Volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf157v2].
