He was a terrible individual this Beadle! Though his nickname suggested a peaceful occupation, he really owed it to the frightful reputation he had won as a "_bell-ringer_"; but the bells big Ernestine"s lover was in the habit of ringing were unfortunate pedestrians whom he would rob and half murder, beating them unmercifully about the head and body.
Sometimes he would beat them to within an ace of their last gasp: occasionally he would beat the life out of them altogether if they tried to resist his brutal attacks. The Beadle was an Apache[6] of the first order of brutality.
[Footnote 6: Hooligan.]
Big Ernestine finished explaining to Nibet that he must not count on the Beadle that evening, for things were so queer and uncertain, the outlook was so gloomy that no one knew what bad business they might be in for.
Mother Toulouche asked if he had got mixed up in the Dollon affair.
Cranajour c.o.c.ked his ear at that, whilst pretending to put a great bundle of old clothes in order.
But Nibet replied:
"The Beadle has nothing whatever to do with that business.... I know what I know about all that.... He"s afraid of getting what the Cooper got, so he keeps away. He"s not far out either--you"ve got to be careful these days--queer times!"
Ernestine and Mother Toulouche bewailed the Cooper"s fate:
"Poor fellow! No sooner out of quod than back--only a fortnight"s liberty! And with a vile accusation fastened to him--smuggling and coining!"
Nibet tried to relieve their minds:
"Haven"t I told you," growled he, "that I"m going to get Maitre Henri Robart to defend him? He knows how to get round juries: he"ll get the Cooper off with an easy sentence."
Nibet looked at his watch:
"It will soon be half-past two! Got to go down! The boatman will be there before long, at the mouth of the sewer!"
Mother Toulouche, who was always in a flurry when smuggled goods were to be unloaded in her cellars, tried to dissuade Nibet:
"You"ll never be able to manage it by yourself!"
Nibet glanced at Cranajour. The warder hesitated, then said:
"Since there"s no one else, couldn"t I take Cranajour with me?"
At first objections were raised; there was a low-voiced discussion, so that the simpleton might not catch what they were saying: Cranajour had never been up to dodges of this kind: so far he had been kept out of them; besides, he was such a senseless cove, he might give things away, make a hash of it!
Nibet smiled:
"Why, it"s just because he is such a simpleton, and because he hasn"t a mite of memory that we can use him safely!"
"That"s true!" said Mother Toulouche, somewhat rea.s.sured.
She called to Cranajour:
"Come along, Cranajour, and just tell us where you dined this evening!"
The simpleton seemed to make a prodigious effort of memory, seized his head between his hands, closed his eyes, and racked his brains: after quite a long silence, he declared emphatically and with a distressed air:
"Faith, I can"t tell you now!"
Nibet, who had closely watched this performance, nodded:
"It"s quite all right," he said.
The cellars below Mother Toulouche"s store were extensive, dark, and ill-smelling. The walls glistened with exuding damp, and the ground was a sticky ma.s.s of foul mud, of all sorts of refuse, of putrefying matter.
Nibet, followed by his companion, made his way down to them: it was no easy descent, for they had to climb over cases of all kinds, and over bales and bundles that moved and rolled about. They pa.s.sed into a smaller cellar, around which were ranged long boxes of tin with rusty covers.
Cranajour, who had been given the lantern to carry, was attracted to these boxes: he lifted the cover of one of them and drew back wonderstruck, for the box was full of shining gold pieces! Nibet, with a jab and thrust in the back, interrupted Cranajour"s contemplation of this fortune:
"Nothing to faint over!" he growled. "You"re not such a simpleton then!
You know the value of yellow boys? All right, then, I"ll give you one or two, if you do your job all right! But," continued the warder, leading his companion to the further end of the second cellar, "you will have to look out if you present your banker with one of those pieces, for the little bits of shiny won"t pa.s.s everywhere--you"ve got to keep your eye open--and jolly wide, too!"
Cranajour nodded comprehension:
"False money! False money!" he murmured.
There was a very strong big door: an iron bar kept it closed. Nibet raised it with Cranajour"s help. Through the door the two men pa.s.sed into a long dark pa.s.sage, swept by a sharp rush of air. The floor of it was paved, and at the side of it flowed a pestilential stream, carrying along in its slow-moving water a quant.i.ty of miscellaneous filth: it was thick as soup with impurities.
"The little collecting sewer of the Cite," whispered Nibet. Pointing to a grey patch in the distance he put his mouth to Cranajour"s ear:
"See the daylight yonder? That"s where the sewer discharges itself into the Seine: it"s there the boatman and his load will be waiting for us presently."
Nibet stopped dead; drew Cranajour back by the sleeve, and stepped stealthily backwards to the ma.s.sive doors of the cellar. An unaccustomed noise had alarmed the warder. In profound silence the two men stood listening intently. There was no mistake! The sound of sharp regular steps could be clearly heard coming from that part of the sewer opposite the opening.
"Someone!" said Cranajour, who was all on the alert, as he had been in his attic, watching the shadow and its vagaries on the roofs of the Palais de Justice.
Nibet nodded.
The light from a dark lantern gleamed on the damp, slimy walls of the subterranean pa.s.sageway.
"Come inside," murmured Nibet, in an almost inaudible voice; and, with infinite precaution, he closed the ma.s.sive portal between the cellar and the sewer-way.
In safe hiding the two men could watch the approaching intruder: they had extinguished their lantern, and were peering through the badly joined wood of the solid door. Friend or foe? An individual moved into view. The reflected light of his lantern lit up the vaulting of the sewer-way, and showed up his face. The man was young, fair, wore a small moustache!
Hardly had he pa.s.sed the cellar door when Nibet gripped Cranajour"s arm and growled--intense rage was expressed in grip and tone--"It"s he!
Again! The journalist of the Dollon affair, of the Depot business--Jerome Fandor! Ah.... This time we"ll see!..."
Nibet"s hand plunged into his trouser pocket.
Cranajour was eagerly watching the warder"s every movement: he clearly heard the sharp snap of a pocket-knife--a long sharp knife--a deadly weapon!
Giving prudence the go-by, Nibet had opened the door, and dragging Cranajour in his wake had rushed into the sewer-way, hard on the heels of the journalist, who was slowly going in the direction of the Seine.
Nibet ground his teeth.
"I have had enough of that beast! Always on our track! Too good a chance to miss! I"m going to make a hole in his skin for him!"
In the twilight of early dawn, which penetrated the sewer near the opening, Cranajour shuddered.