Messengers of Evil. Marcel Allain

Béju. 'Oh, heavens above! If only the poor young man would recover!'

      Silently the doctor, aided by the superintendent and a policeman, transported young Dollon into the next room.

      'Air!' cried the doctor, 'give him air! Open all the windows! It seems to me a case of suspended animation! There is partial suffocation. This will probably yield to energetic treatment.'

      Whilst good Madame Béju, whose legs were shaking under her, was carrying out the doctor's orders, the superintendent of police kept watch to see that nothing was touched. The doctor's attention was concentrated on Jacques Dollon. Monsieur Agram was searching for some indication which might throw light on the drama. So far he had been unable to formulate any hypothesis. Should the moribund painter return to consciousness, the explanation he could give would certainly clear up the situation. At this point in the superintendent's cogitations, the doctor called out:

      'He lives! He lives! Bring me a glass of water!'

      Jacques Dollon was returning to consciousness! Slowly, painfully, his features contracting as at the remembrance of a horrible nightmare, the young man stretched his limbs, opened his eyes: he turned a dull gaze on those about him, a gaze which became one of stupefaction when he perceived these unknown faces gathered round his bed. His eyes fell on his housekeeper. He murmured:

      'Mme. … Bé-ju … je … ,' and fell back into unconsciousness.

      'Is he dead?' whispered Monsieur Agram.

      The doctor smiled:

      'Be reassured, monsieur: he lives; but he finds it terribly difficult to wake up. He has certainly swallowed some powerful narcotic and is still under its influence; but its effects will soon pass off now.'

      The good doctor spoke the truth.

      In a short time Jacques Dollon, making a violent effort, sat up. Casting scared and bewildered glances about him, he cried:

      'Who are you? What do you want of me? … Ah, the ruffians! The bandits!'

      'There is nothing to fear, monsieur. I am simply the doctor they have called in to attend to you! Be calm! … You must recover your senses, and tell us what has happened!'

      Jacques Dollon pressed his hands to his forehead, as though in pain:

      'How heavy my head is!' he muttered. 'What has happened to me? … Let me see! … Wait. … Ah … yes … that's it!'

      At a sign from the doctor, the superintendent had stationed himself beside the bed, behind the young painter.

      Keeping a finger on his patient's pulse, the doctor asked him, in a fatherly fashion, to tell him all about it.

      'It is like this,' replied Jacques Dollon. … 'Yesterday evening I was sitting in my arm-chair reading. It was getting late. I had been working hard. … I was tired. … All of a sudden I was surrounded by masked men, clothed in long black garments: they flung themselves on me. Before I could make a movement I was gagged, bound with cords. … I felt something pointed driven into my leg—into my arm. … Then an overpowering drowsiness overcame me, the strangest visions passed before my eyes; I lost consciousness rapidly. … I wanted to move, to cry out … in vain … there was no strength in me … powerless … and that's all!'

      'Is there nothing more?' asked the doctor.

      After a minute's reflection Jacques answered:

      'That is all.'

      He now seemed fully awake. He moved: the movement was evidently painful: 'It hurts,' he said, instinctively putting his hand on his left thigh.

      'Let us see what is wrong,' said the doctor, and was preparing to examine the place when a voice from the studio called:

      'Monsieur!'

      It was Monsieur Agram's secretary. The magistrate left his post by the bed and went into the studio.

      'Monsieur,' said the secretary, 'I have just found this paper under the chair in which Monsieur Dollon was: will you acquaint yourself with its contents?'

      The magistrate seized the paper: it was a letter, couched in the following terms:

      Dear Madame,

      If you do not fear to climb the heights of Montmartre some evening, will you come to see the painted pottery I am preparing for the Salon: you will be welcome, and will confer on us a great pleasure. I say 'us,' because I have excellent news of Elizabeth, who is returning shortly: perhaps she will be here to receive you with me.

      I am your respectful and devoted Jacques Dollon.

      The magistrate was frowning as he handed back the letter to his secretary, saying: 'Keep it carefully.' Then he went into the bedroom, where the doctor was talking to the invalid. The doctor turned to Monsieur Agram:

      'Monsieur Dollon has just asked me who you are: I did not think I ought to hide from him that you are a superintendent of police, monsieur.'

      'Ah!' cried Jacques Dollon. 'Can you help me to discover what happened to me last night?'

      'You have just told us yourself, monsieur,' replied the magistrate. … 'But have you nothing further to tell us? Can you not recollect whether or no you had a visitor before the arrival of the men who attacked you?'

      'Why, no, monsieur, no one called.'

      The doctor here intervened:

      'The pain in the leg, Monsieur Dollon complained of, need not cause any anxiety. It is a very slight superficial wound. A slight swelling above the broken skin possibly indicates an intra-muscular puncture, which might have been made by someone unaccustomed to such operations, for it is a clumsy performance. It is a queer business! … '

      Monsieur Agram, who had been steadily observing Jacques Dollon, persisted:

      'Is there not a gap, monsieur, in your recollections of what occurred? … Were you quite alone yesterday evening? Were you not expecting anyone? … Are you certain that you did not have a visitor? Did not someone pay you a visit—someone you had asked to come and see you?'

      Jacques Dollon opened his eyes—eyes of stupefaction—and stared at the superintendent:

      'No, monsieur.'

      'It is that——' went on Monsieur Agram. Then stopping short, and drawing the doctor aside, he asked:

      'Do you consider him in a fit state to bear a severe moral shock? … A confrontation?'

      The doctor glanced at his patient:

      'He appears to me to be quite himself again: you can act as you see fit, monsieur.'

      Jacques Dollon, astonished at this confabulation, and vaguely uneasy, was, in fact, able to get up without help.

      'Be good enough to go into your studio, monsieur,' said the magistrate.

      Jacques Dollon complied without a word. No sooner did he cross the threshold than he recoiled, terror-struck.

      He was shaking from head to foot; his lips were quivering; every feature expressed horrified shrinking from the spectacle confronting him.

      'The—the—the Baroness de Vibray!' he barely articulated: 'how can it be possible?'

      The superintendent of police did not lose a single movement made by the young painter, keeping a lynx-eyed watch on every expression that flitted across his countenance. He said:

      'It certainly is the Baroness de Vibray, dead—assassinated, no doubt. How do you explain that?'

      'But,' retorted Jacques Dollon, who appeared overwhelmed: 'I do not know! I do not understand!'

      The magistrate replied:

      'Yet, did you not invite her to your studio? Had you not asked her to come some evening soon? Had you not certain pieces of painted pottery to show her?'

      'That