are the murderer’s tracks!” I said; “he visits this house every night. Yesterday he came at two in the morning; last night he returned, and he will undoubtedly be back again this evening.”
The bailiff and Madoc examined the footprints without a word.
“How do you know that these are the murderer’s tracks?” asked the chief of police, doubtfully. Thereupon I told him of the man’s appearance in our loft. I pointed out to them the little window above us through which I had watched him as he fled in the moonlight, and which Wilfred had not seen, as he remained in bed. I admitted that it was mere chance that had led me to the discovery of the tracks made the night before.
“It is strange!” muttered the bailiff; “this greatly modifies the position of the accused. But how do you explain the presence of the robber in the cellar?”
“That robber was myself.” I now related briefly everything that had taken place from the time of my comrades’ arrest until the moment of my flight from the inn. “That will do,” said the bailiff; and, turning toward the chief of police, he added: “I must admit, Madoc, that the depositions of these musicians never seemed to me very conclusive of their guilt; moreover, their passports established an alibi difficult to controvert. Nevertheless, young man,” turning to me, “in spite of the plausibility of the proofs you have given us, you must remain in our power until they are verified. Keep him in sight, Madoc, and take your measures accordingly.” The bailiff descended the stairs thoughtfully, and, refolding his papers, he said, without continuing the examination: “Let the accused be taken back to the prison!” And with a scornful glance at the landlady, he departed, followed by the secretary. Madoc alone remained with two officials.
“Madame,” he said to Dame Grédel, “maintain the strictest secrecy about what has happened, and give this brave young man the same room he occupied night before last.” Madoc’s look and emphasis admitted of no reply. Dame Grédel swore she would do whatever was required of her if she could only be rid of the robbers! Madoc replied: “We shall stay here all day and to-night to protect you. Go about your work in peace, and begin by giving us some breakfast. My good fellow, you will give us the pleasure of dining with us?” My situation did not permit me to decline. I accepted accordingly, and we soon found ourselves seated before a leg of ham and a jug of Rhine wine. Other people arrived from time to time, and endeavored to elicit the confidence of Dame Grédel and Annette, but they maintained a discreet silence, for which they deserve no little credit. We spent the afternoon smoking our pipes and emptying our mugs; no one paid any attention to us.
The chief of police, in spite of his sallow face, piercing glance, pale lips, and sharp nose, was excellent company after a bottle or two; he told us some excellent stories, and at every word of his the other two burst out laughing. I remained gloomy and silent. “Come, young fellow!” he said with a smile, “forget for a little the death of your respectable grandmother. Take a drop, and put your troublesome thoughts to flight.”
Others joined in the conversation, and the time passed in the midst of tobacco smoke, the clinking of glasses, and the ringing of mugs. But at nine o’clock, after the watchman’s visit, the expression of things changed. Madoc rose and said: “Well, my friends, let us proceed to business. Fasten the doors and shutters quietly! You, ladies, may go to bed!” His two tattered followers looked more like robbers themselves than like props of law and order. Each drew a club with a knob of lead attached to one end, from his trousers’ leg, and Madoc tapped his breast pocket to make sure that his pistol was there. This done, he bid me lead them to the loft. We climbed the stairs. Having reached the little room, where thoughtful little Annette had taken care to light a fire, Madoc, cursing between his teeth, hastened to throw water on the coals; then motioning to the pile of straw, he said to me: “You may go to sleep if you like.”
He sat down, together with his two acolytes, at the end of the room close to the wall, and they put out the light. I lay down on the straw, breathing a prayer to the Almighty to send hither the assassin. After midnight the silence became so profound that you would never have suspected three men were there with wide-open eyes, on the alert for the slightest sound. The hours wore slowly away. I could not sleep. A thousand terrible ideas teemed in my brain. One o’clock—two o’clock—three o’clock struck, and nothing appeared. At three o’clock one of the officials stirred slightly. I thought the man had come at last. But again all was still. I began to think that Madoc would take me for an impostor, and that in the morning things would fare badly with me; thus, instead of helping my companions, I should only be fettered with them.
The time seemed to me to pass very rapidly after three o’clock. I wished the night might last forever, that the only ray of hope might not be gone. I was starting to go over all these thoughts for the fiftieth time, when, suddenly, without my having heard a sound, the window opened and two eyes glistened in the opening. Nothing stirred in the loft. “The others are asleep,” I thought. The head remained in the opening, listening. The wretch seemed to suspect something. My heart galloped and the blood coursed through my veins. I dared not even breathe. A few moments passed thus. Then, suddenly, the man seemed to make up his mind. He let himself down into the loft with the same caution as on the preceding night. On the instant a terrible cry, short, piercing, blood-curdling, resounded through the house. “We’ve got him!”
The whole house shook from cellar to attic; cries, struggles, and hoarse shouts, coupled with muttered oaths, filled the loft. The man roared like, a wild beast, and his opponents breathed painfully as they battled with his terrible strength. Then there was a crash that made the flooring creak, and I heard nothing more but a gritting of teeth and a rattle of chains. “A light here!” cried the formidable Madoc. And as the sulphur burned, illuminating the place with its bluish light, I vaguely distinguished the forms of the three officials kneeling above the prostrate man. One of them was holding him by the throat, another had sunk his knees into his chest, and Madoc encircled his wrists with handcuffs hard enough to crush them. The man, in his shirt sleeves as before, seemed inert, save that one of his powerful legs, naked from the knee to the ankle, raised up from time to time and struck the floor with a convulsive movement. His eyes were literally starting from his head, and his lips were covered with a bloody foam. Scarcely had I lighted the taper when the officials exclaimed, thunderstruck: “Our Dean!” All three got up and stood staring at each other, white with astonishment. The bloodshot eyes of the murderer turned on Madoc. He tried to speak, and after a moment I heard him murmur: “What a terrible dream! My God, what a terrible dream!” Then he sighed and became motionless.
I approached to take a look at him. It was indeed the man who had given us advice on the road to Heidelberg. Perhaps he had had a presentiment that we would be the means of his destruction, for people do sometimes have these terrible borebodings. As he did not stir, and a tiny stream of blood flowed on the dusty floor, Madoc, rousing himself from his stupor, bent over him and tore away his shirt; we then saw that he had stabbed himself to the heart with his great knife. “Ho! ho!” cried Madoc, with a sinister smile, “our Dean has cheated the gallows. You others stay here while I go and notify the bailiff.” He picked up his hat, that had fallen off during the mêlée, and left without another word. I remained opposite the corpse, with the two others.
The news spread like wildfire. It was a sensation for the neighborhood. Dean Daniel Van den Berg enjoyed a fortune and a reputation so well established that many people refused to believe in the abominable instincts which dominated him. The matter was discussed from every conceivable point of view. Some held that he was a somnambulist and irresponsible for his acts; others that he was a murderer through love of blood, having no other possible motive for committing these crimes. Perhaps both were right, for it is an undeniable fact that moral being, will, soul, whatever name you choose to call it by, is wanting in the somnambulist. The animal nature left to itself naturally yields to the dictates of its pacific or sanguinary instincts. Be that as it may, my comrades were at once restored to liberty. Little Annette was quoted for a long time after as a model of devotion. She was even sought in marriage by
