Stolen Souls

I saw he had a piece of paper in his hand and a pencil. Scribbling a few words, he folded the paper and placed it behind a large stone. My suspicions were increased when I saw him abstract something bright and shining from behind the stone and place it in his pocket. It was a revolver!

People do not generally go armed in the Cottian Alps, and I somehow felt convinced that the weapon was to be used for no lawful purpose. Perhaps the letter he had written was a message to his confederates, reporting the fact that he had secured a victim! How I regretted that I had not placed my revolver in my pocket instead of putting it in the valise he was carrying.

He was standing with his hands in his pockets, whistling a gay air and awaiting me. I was toiling up the steep path, and felt almost dead beat. The whole mountain was a mass of gigantic rocks, half buried in the sand, soft and moist from recently melted snow and the draining of the ice.

“I was looking for a franc-piece I dropped. It rolled behind that stone, and I cannot find it,” he said. Then he looked into my eyes, and asked, with an insolent air, “Don’t you believe me?”

“No.”

I did not believe him, and began to be greatly disquieted. He perceived it, and immediately became jovial and talkative. He knew me, he said – he had asked the innkeeper about me. He knew that I was a journalist; it must be a fine trade for making money by the sackful. He knew city life, for he had lived in Turin, and he always read the Secolo– it was his favourite paper. He also knew that I had written novels – another gold mine. Writers of romance, he supposed, were always seeking adventure, and poking their noses in out-of-the-way corners, and inquiring into other people’s business. Good! I was with him, and might meet with a strange experience presently.

But I paid no attention to him.

“You gentlemen come to the Alps for the fun of knowing what fatigue is,” he said. “Ah! if you only knew what it was – how much a piece of bread costs!”

He was eloquent and excitable, and spoke like a man believing himself to be followed by constant persecution.

We had almost reached the summit, when suddenly we came upon a rough pillar built of pieces of rock piled together.

“See!” he said; “there is the frontier mark.”

Then we continued walking a dozen paces or so, and were in France.

Soon afterwards we recommenced our ascent to the summit, trudging through patches of melted snow. For about half an hour we continued our rough climb, when he halted, and, scanning the mountain cautiously, said —

“Come, follow me quickly!”

“Where?” I asked. “This surely is not the road to Lanslebourg?”

“Do not argue, but come with me,” he said impatiently. “If you do not, it will be the worse for you!” he muttered between his teeth.

Linking his arm in mine, he half dragged me along to what appeared to be the face of a perpendicular rock. We passed along a narrow passage behind a great boulder, and as we did so, my strange guide gave a shrill whistle.

In a moment a cunningly-concealed door in the face of the rock opened and a wild-haired, black-bearded, brigandish-looking man emerged.

I was alarmed, for I saw I had been entrapped.

My guide uttered a few words in the Piedmontese patois, which I did not understand, whereupon the man who had opened the door exclaimed —

“The signore Inglese will please enter.”

I hesitated, but I saw that to refuse was useless, so together we went into a large dark cavern. The bolt of the door was shot back into its socket with an ominous sound, while our footsteps echoed weirdly through the distant recesses. The man took up a torch and guided us through intricate turnings, until at last we came to a door which he opened, and we found ourselves in a small natural chamber, with wonderful stalactites hanging from the roof.

Two sinister-looking men, who were seated at a rough deal table drinking and playing dominoes, rose as we entered.

Neither spoke, but the man who had admitted us poured out some cognac and handed it to me, afterwards filling the other glasses. The men lifted them to me and tossed off the contents, an example which I followed.

“We are safe here,” observed Giovanni, turning to me; “safe from the storm, the frontier guards, from everything.”

“I engaged you to conduct me to Lanslebourg, not to bring me here,” I said severely.

He smiled.

“This cave has been the grave of many men,” he replied, as he calmly selected a cigar from the box upon the table. “It may be yours.”

“What do you mean?” I cried, thoroughly alarmed.

“Surely you understand,” exclaimed the man who admitted us. “We are outlaws, brigands, contrabandists – whatever you like to call us in your language – it is quite immaterial. Come with me and I will convince you.”

Again I hesitated.

“Follow!” he commanded, taking up the torch.

Together we descended a short flight of roughly-hewn steps into a small, dark, damp-smelling cavern below. As he lifted the torch above his head, I saw that the place was occupied.

I shuddered and drew back in horror.

Upon a heap of dirty, mouldy straw, lay a woman. Her dress was ragged and faded, but she was very beautiful, with light golden hair, and a face that betokened culture and refinement. Around her neck was a curious band of a blood-red colour. Upon her countenance was a ghastly pallor, the lips were bloodless, the jaw had dropped, the eyes were fixed and had a stony, horror-stricken look in them, for she was a corpse!

“You are satisfied that we are brigands?” he asked. “Good! Now I will show you that we are contrabandists.”

Ascending the steps, we went to another part of the great cave, where he showed me kegs of cognac and wine, boxes of cigars, silks, and an assortment of dutiable merchandise.

When we returned to where the other men were sitting, one of them, the elder of the party, who spoke with authority, addressed me.

“Well,” he said, “you have seen our stronghold, and recognise the impossibility of any one escaping from here, eh?”

“Yes,” I replied; “but I cannot conceive why I have been allured here. I am a poor man, and not worth robbing.”

“That is not our intention, signore,” the contrabandist answered, with mock politeness, as he puffed a cloud of smoke from his rank cigar. “True, you have been entrapped, but if you consent to perform for us a small secret service, you are at liberty to depart; and, moreover, our good Giovanni will complete his contract, and see you safely to Lanslebourg.”

“What is the service?” I asked.

“It is not at all difficult, and you will run no risk,” he replied. He took from an ancient oak coffer a small sealed packet, and added, “We desire this taken to Briançon; will you undertake to do so?”

“What am I to do with it?” I asked.

“The thing is simple enough. You will leave here and go to Lanslebourg, thence to Briançon. Arrived there, you will remain at the Couronne d’Or, and wear this peace of edelweiss in your coat. On the day after to-morrow, a lady will call upon you and ask for the packet, as promised. She will give her name as Madame Trois Etoiles, and will give you a receipt for the packet. This you will send to Giovanni Oldrini at the Poste Restante at Bardonnechia. There the matter will end.”

“If she does not call?”

“Then you must advertise to find her, announcing that you particularly desire an interview. Of course your undertaking will be binding, and you will preserve the secret of the existence of this place under penalty of death. Do you agree?”

I glanced round the weird cavern. The last straw of my self-possession was broken, and I was prepared to promise anything in order to escape.

“Agree, signore,” urged Giovanni anxiously. “There will be no risk, no inconvenience, I assure you.”

“Very well,” I said at last; “if you stipulate this as the price of my ransom, I suppose I am compelled to submit.”

“You will swear to preserve our secret; to tell no living soul where you obtained the packet, and to deliver it without fail and with the seals intact?” the elder man asked, handing me a carved ivory crucifix.

“Yes, I swear,” I said, taking it and pressing it to my lips.

“Good!” he exclaimed; “here is the packet. Deliver it safely, for its contents, if lost, could never be replaced. Join us in another glass, and then proceed. Oldrini will go with you to the outskirts of Lanslebourg.”

I emptied another glass of brandy with the smugglers, and a few minutes later saw the sunlight and breathed the fresh mountain air again. When we were well on our downward path, I felt inclined to reprimand my guide for having taken me to the cavern; but on reflection it became plain that he was in league with the contrabandists, and that he carried on smuggling and thieving in the guise of guide.

Onward we trudged down the steep, slippery rocks, scarcely uttering a word for an hour, when suddenly from a sentry-box there appeared a French soldier with rifle presented.

He inquired our names, and why we wished to enter France. A civil reply propitiated him, and he drew himself up at “Attention!” and allowed us to proceed.

We were compelled by the steepness of the mountain to take a circuitous route, so that the descent occupied longer than we had anticipated, and when, soon after sunset, we emerged upon the high road to Lanslebourg, he halted to take leave of me.

“Pardon, signore,” exclaimed my guide. “I only took you to the cavern because it is imperative that the packet should be delivered. I ask your forgiveness;” and he raised his cap deferentially.

“For what reason is it imperative?” I inquired.

“I regret I cannot tell you,” he replied. “Addio, signore. Remember your trust, and keep your promise, or – ”

He did not finish the sentence, but shrugged his shoulders significantly, and, handing me my valise, turned and left me.

Two days later, I was sitting idly smoking at a little table outside the Couronne d’Or inn at Briançon, that curious little town inside the great fortress that commands the pass of Mont Genevre. The Alps were purple in the glorious sunset. The sun had long ago been hidden by the mountains behind, on whose tops the ice and snow glistened. Then, as the calm twilight came on, a pale, rosy light suffused the eastern sky, the moon rose, the aspens shook, the outlines of the valley shaded off into darkness and uncertainty, and the last glow sank into the deepening blue.

Having telegraphed to my friends, arranging to meet them at Grenoble on the morrow, I sat silent, thoughtful, and expectant.

Suddenly a musical voice behind exclaimed in English.

“The signore wears the edelweiss, I observe.”

“Yes,” I replied, turning and confronting a tall, handsome, middle-aged lady, attired in deep black. She was evidently of the upper class, and spoke English with an accent scarcely perceptible. A fact which struck me as very remarkable was that around her neck she wore a band of blood-red silk exactly the same as that upon the corpse in the brigand’s cave! What could it denote?

“I presume I am not mistaken in addressing you. I am Madame Trois Etoiles.”

“I have been expecting you,” I said.

“You have been commissioned to deliver something to me, have you not?” she asked, seating herself in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Yes. I must confess, however, that my mission is a somewhat mysterious one.” And I drew the packet from my pocket.

“Mine is also mysterious,” she laughed nervously. “But tell me, who gave it to you?”

“Unfortunately, I must not tell, madame; I am sworn to secrecy,” I replied. Then I asked, “Why is it imperative that the packet should be conveyed to you in this manner?”

“Ah, signore, I am as ignorant as yourself. Besides, I also have taken an oath. It was a stipulation that I should explain nothing. I was to meet you here and receive the packet – to act as messenger, in fact. That is all.”

“Then we cannot exchange confidences,” I said disappointedly.

She shook her head.

“Very well; there is the mysterious packet;” and I handed it to her.

Then I tore a leaf from my pocket-book, and, together with a pencil, handed it to my strange visitor, who wrote in Italian the words, “Received of Signore the Englishman, the packet with seals intact. – Madame * * *”

Passing the paper back to me, she drew on the glove she had removed, and, rising, wished me a haughty adieu, remarking that she was obliged to leave for Modane by the diligence which would start almost immediately from the Hôtel de Ville.

I raised my hat, and after a graceful bow she turned, and, walking away along the quiet, old-world street, was soon lost in the gathering gloom.

One evening, quite recently, I was sitting in the Trattoria di Piazza San Carlo, that great, gilded restaurant that overlooks the handsome square in the centre of Turin. Major Malaspina, of the National Guard, was with me, and we were chatting over our coffee and cigars. Giulio Malaspina is an old friend whom I first met ten years ago, when, in the performance of my journalistic duties, I visited the cholera hospitals of Naples with King Humbert and Queen Margherita. Mainly through him, various facilities were afforded me for visiting the hospitals and passing the military cordon as often as I pleased, hence our acquaintance ripened into warm and lasting friendship. Short and thick-set, with closely-cropped, iron-grey hair, and a fierce, bristly moustache, he is a merry little man, and at the present time the most popular officer of the Turin garrison.

He was glancing through the Tribuna, which the waiter had just brought, while I sat lazily contemplating the groups of diners through a veil of tobacco smoke.

“Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, removing the cigar from his lips and looking up from the paper. “I see they’ve captured a band of robbers in the Carpathians. It is really remarkable that brigands should exist in Europe in these highly civilised days.”

“Are there any in the Alps?” I asked, half inclined to relate my extraordinary experience, but suddenly remembering that I had bound myself to secrecy.

“There were, but there are none now. I assisted in clearing out the last band. They were clever, daring scoundrels, who exhibited much remarkable ingenuity. The discovery of the gang caused a good deal of sensation about two years ago. But of course you were in England at that time; possibly you heard nothing about it?”

“No; tell me,” I said anxiously. “I’m always interested in stories of brigands.”

“Plots for novels, eh?” he said, laughing merrily, contemplating the fine diamond that glittered on his finger. “Well,” he began, “for a long time it had been known that a number of contrabandists were smuggling goods from France over the almost impassable summit of Mont Cenis.”

“They were Piedmontese brigands, then?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes. Travellers had been robbed, diligences on the Modane road had been stopped, baggage rifled, and various depredations were being constantly reported. It was evident that they were in league with some receivers of stolen property at Milan, but the ingenious manner in which they disposed of their booty baffled all efforts to discover the identity of the thieves. Probably they would have continued their nefarious operations unmolested until the present time, had they not committed a most daring robbery, which very nearly culminated in a public scandal. Per Bacco! there is more comedy than tragedy in the story. You must be discreet if I relate it to you, for it is not generally known, and if it got about, a good deal of displeasure might be created at the Ministry at Rome.”

And, amused at his own thoughts, he laughed heartily.

“It happened about three years ago,” he continued, “that the King, while inspecting the crown jewels, discovered that the small jewelled cross which surmounts the great historic diamond of enormous value that forms the apex of the royal crown was loose, and, moreover, the great gem itself required resetting. After much consideration, it was at length resolved to entrust the work to a renowned jeweller in Paris, and the portion of the insignia was dispatched thither by royal messenger. The latter, it appears, took train by way of Turin and the Mont Cenis tunnel, but on arrival at the Alpine frontier, found that some repairs were being carried out in the tunnel, which necessitated it being closed to all traffic for several days. He was unable to walk through, because there had been a landslip. That the crown should be renovated without delay was imperative, as it was required for an important State ceremonial, therefore the messenger resolved to go by mule over the mountain to Modane. On the way, however, he and his guide were attacked, and the contrabandists carried away, among other things, the precious packet containing the most valuable portion of the regal crown!”

The major’s eyes twinkled merrily, and he laughed immoderately. Suddenly, noticing my grave, anxious expression, he said —

“Ah, of course you are interested! Dio mio! it was a huge joke. You desire to hear the dénouement? Well, you may easily imagine His Majesty’s wrath when the matter was reported to him; but the gravity of the situation lay in the fact that any hue and cry raised would create a public scandal, and in all probability cause the thieves to destroy the jewels. Had the newspapers got wind of the theft, the whole of Europe would be laughing at Italy’s ludicrous discomfiture. For several weeks the frontier guards kept a sharp look-out on the mountains, but no traces of the thieves could be discovered, therefore at Rome a good deal of anxiety began to be felt. At length, however, the King himself received a letter from the scoundrels, stating that they had discovered the nature of their booty, and as loyal subjects of His Majesty, and upholders of the dignity of the kingdom, they desired to return the portion of the crown. They stipulated, however, that the packet containing the jewels would only be given up to the Countess di Palermo, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and that if she called on a certain evening at an inn at Briançon, the packet would be duly delivered to her. Cool, audacious impudence, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said; “but how ineffably loyal they were!”

“Most extraordinary rascals! Of course the King gave a pledge that no attempt would be made to trace whence the jewels came, and that the Countess alone would keep the appointment. She did so; and, remarkable to relate, the packet was handed to her by some wayfaring Englishman, whose name never transpired. In that manner the most valuable of the crown jewels was recovered, greatly to the satisfaction of His Majesty, the Council of Ministers, and all who were in the secret.”

Malaspina puffed vigorously at his cigar for a few seconds, and then continued —

“The recklessness of the outlaws was amazing. Robbery and extortion became more frequent, and thefts were committed with as cool determination as if the scoundrels held special licence from the King. At length the Minister of Police decided that such a state of things should no longer be allowed to continue. Hence it was that I found myself at the head of a company of Bersaglieri, scouring the mountains from Mont Blanc to Mont Rosa. After much fruitless search, we discovered that the stronghold of the bandits was a remarkable cave almost on the summit of the Cenis, at a point accessible only by a secret by-path. Having carefully laid our plans, we advanced to the attack early one morning. Unfortunately, the mountain afforded no cover, therefore our presence must have been immediately detected. Eventually, however, we battered down the door of their hiding-place, and entered. To our surprise, we found the cavern was an enormous one, and it took us a considerable time to explore its recesses. In the meantime, the occupants, whoever they were, must have escaped by another exit, for we never saw them, and they have not been apprehended to this day. In the cavern I found quantities of contraband goods stored, and every evidence of extensive smuggling. One discovery I made was indeed horrible, yet on closer investigation it proved as grimly humorous as the other incidents. Into a lower chamber I had descended with a light, and found, to my amazement, the body of a beautiful woman, who had evidently been kept a prisoner, and had died under harsh treatment. Apparently she had expired quite recently, for there were no signs of decomposition. At first I felt inclined to retreat, but the expression in the wide-open, staring eyes attracted my attention, and I bent and touched the face. It was clammy and cold, but quite hard. A portion of it came off in my hand. Dio! I had been deceived – it was of wax!”

“Wax?” I cried, astonished.

“Yes. Inquiries I subsequently made showed that a travelling waxwork show on its way across the frontier had been attacked a couple of years before, and among other things stolen was this wax figure. With cunning ingenuity, the contrabandists had contrived to transform the ruddy visage of a wax ‘Desdemona’ into the pallid countenance of a corpse, which they placed upon a heap of filthy straw in the damp, dark lower chamber. Around its neck, for some reason unaccountable, they had placed a scarlet band, similar to that always worn by the Countess di Palermo to conceal a cicatrice. The object, I suppose, was to show the corpse to travellers, whom they entrapped in order to extort money from them by threatening to keep them in the Dantean dungeon, and starving them to death.”

“A most ingenious device,” I said in abject astonishment. “The cave is now deserted, I suppose?”

“The cave? Pouf!” and he raised both his hands with a movement indicative of an explosion. “Acting under orders from Rome, a party of engineers blew it up with dynamite. As regards the thieves, no one knows what became of them. It must be admitted, however, that they had one redeeming characteristic – that of loyalty to their exemplary sovereign!”

And Major Malaspina laughed, sipped his vermouth, and lapsed into the full enjoyment of his long cigar.

Chapter Fourteen.

A Child of the Sun

Sadness and joy, despair and ecstasy, were never so linked as they are in my soul to-night.

Many men have gone mad upon far less provocation, and yet I am calm – so calm with this whirligig of emotions that I surprise myself.

Ah! it will not be long ere it is all over. Death will bring oblivion, the game will stop; and though joy, ecstasy, and delight all flee, sadness, misery, and despair will be banished with them. Remorse will cease to gnaw – that everlasting longing for what can never be will end its torture, and I shall be at peace.

But if there should not be rest beyond the grave? Bah! I’m upset, and I imagined I was calm. There is a superlative in suffering as in everything, else, and I have reached it. Death at its worst can have no further horrors.

Three drops from this phial in my hand into that glass of cognac at my elbow, and my ticket is made out. One gulp, and I shall have started on my journey.

Ah! it was not an unpleasant draught – slightly bitter, perhaps. The spirit was strong – a bitter potion, a sweet release.

It is merely a question of time; a few minutes now, and I shall be carried from the here to the hereafter.

How strangely my memory stirs! Am I dreaming? Or am I really growing young again?

It is the evening of a hot August day. The sun has disappeared in a blaze of crimson and gold. The breeze rises, and the broad. Plage at Scheveningen is swept by the refreshing wind scudding across the North Sea. Long, sharp-crested, snowy waves are breaking into hissing spray on the shore, and, chased in by the heavy weather, the picturesque Dutch fishing-smacks fly like gulls to reach the anchorage behind the lighthouse towards Loosduinen.

The Casino is ablaze with light on top of the high dune dominating the villas and hotels that line the beach. There is dancing this evening, for the season is “at its height,” as Le Petit Courrier says.

Men of the haut ton are promenading on the broad terrace, and gazing on the file of fair ladies who are arriving, one after the other, in ball dress. They are mainly Belgians in queer hats, and Parisians in limp cravats, but there are some Dutch and English among them, and these are none the less merry.