He held the bag in his left hand, and thrust his right hand inside; when he withdrew the latter, he kept it closed, and pa.s.sed silently, with the bag, from man to man; knowing, without reference to the list, in what order their names stood. Before this, he had put an additional white bean into the bag, having been provided with several surplus ones. Each man kept his hand closed on withdrawing it. When the bag reached d.i.c.k, there was only one bean left. He did as the others had done. Then, not a word being said, the leader laid aside the bag, and all pressed close to the table, which they quite surrounded. Every right hand was laid out, palm down, on the bare oak surface. The leader was the first to disclose.

"A black bean!" he cried. "That is something, at least! Who has the red one?"

Every eye turned with intense eagerness, from the bean immediately before it, to the beans right and left,--every eye but d.i.c.k Wetheral's, that is to say, for his remained fastened, with a kind of mild astonishment, on the palm of his hand, whereon lay a bean that was red.

"Come, brother," the leader was saying, when d.i.c.k at last looked up.

"Choose a sword. I hear the carriage at the gate."

Before he had recovered from his bewilderment, d.i.c.k was pa.s.sing through the rain, towards the gate, clasping one of the swords tightly beneath his coat. At his right arm was the leader, who carried one of the other two swords, as well as a pistol in each outer pocket; at the left arm was a second man, similarly armed. Two other men mounted the coachman's place.

"Which way, monsieur?" said one of these latter, in joking imitation of a driver, when d.i.c.k and his guards were seated in the dark carriage.

"The road to Paris," said the leader, and drew the coach door after him with a bang.

CHAPTER XVII.

"STONE WALLS DO NOT A PRISON MAKE."

The chill and rainy afternoon gave way to an evening as rainy and more chill. The carriage rolled southward, past St. Ouen, and still on. Those inside spoke not a word. The men on the coachman's seat protected themselves from the rain with their cloaks as best they could, and uttered no complaint. d.i.c.k could see nothing through the carriage window, against the dark sky, but the darker forms of trees and buildings gliding by. He had too much else on his mind to appreciate the fact that he was at last about to enter Paris, the goal of his dream-journeys in childhood. At first he was in a kind of stupor, and felt like one hurled through increasing darkness towards blackest night, there to meet annihilation. Then his mind began to work, and soon was in a whirl. a.s.sa.s.sination,--he shrank from it with disgust and horror. The alternative, death,--he recoiled from the idea, as youth and hope ever must recoil. Was there no middle course? He racked his brain to find one; he found it not, yet still he racked his brain.

It was quite dark now, and they had pa.s.sed the outer barrier without d.i.c.k's noting the fact. But the houses, now close together and of different character from those of the village of La Chapelle, indicated that the carriage must be in the faubourg, at least. Presently d.i.c.k perceived that they were pa.s.sing beneath a great arch (it was the Porte St. Denis, erected under Louis XIV., though d.i.c.k knew it not); then that they turned to the right, and, a minute later, obliquely to the left, finally proceeding along a slightly narrower street than they had already traversed. A movement on the part of the man at his right seemed to indicate that the destination was near at hand. They were indeed in the Rue Clery, and approaching the Rue du Pet.i.t Carreau, although the dark streets were nameless to d.i.c.k. Suddenly he had an idea. He gave a start, as if he had awakened from a feverish sleep.

"Messieurs," he said, in a half terrified tone, "I have had a remarkable dream, a wonderfully vivid one, though I have not for a moment lost sense of my being with you in this carriage."

"It is the time for acts now, not for dreams," said the leader of the Brotherhood.

"But this dream concerns the act," said d.i.c.k, in an awe-stricken manner.

"It was rather a vision than a dream. I felt, and feel now, as if it were a message from above."

"Let us hear it, then," said the leader.

"I dreamt all had been carried out as planned, up to the moment of my striking the blow. And then the man caught the sword entering his body, and broke it in two, though the hilt was still in my hand. He drew the point from his side, and stood, very little wounded, before me, while I looked around in vain for another weapon."

"A message from G.o.d, perhaps," said the leader, "to put you on your guard against such an outcome."

"But, monsieur, I had this dream a second time, and then a third, and it was always precisely the same."

"It warns you to make the first thrust sure and deep, and to give him no opportunity of grasping your sword."

"I think, rather, it warns me to provide myself with a second sword. My keenest impression in the dream was of chagrin at finding myself without a second weapon after the first had become useless."

"You are doubtless right," said the leader. "One to whom a revelation is given is the best judge of its meaning. Buckle on one of these swords, in addition to the one you have."

d.i.c.k did as he was bid. A moment later the carriage stopped, close to the wall of a house at the left side of the street,--for Paris had not footways then, as London had, and coaches went as near the walls as their drivers pleased to take them.

One of d.i.c.k's guards got out, d.i.c.k followed, the leader came last. d.i.c.k could see that these two grasped their pistols beneath their cloaks. He was before a large and imposing house with a rounded facade. Lights shone through some of the windows. His two guards led him to the door, and one of them knocked. The time seemed incredibly long till the servant came.

"Monsieur Victor Mayet, clerk in the General Control Office, begs an immediate interview with Monsieur Necker, regarding a matter of the utmost importance," said d.i.c.k, with a steadiness that surprised himself.

The servant went away. Another, and seemingly longer, interval ensued.

At last the servant came back and told d.i.c.k to follow.

d.i.c.k stepped forward, and his two guards returned to the coach. The servant showed the way up a staircase with a handsome bal.u.s.trade, and thence through one of the doors that opened from the corridor, to a rich and elegant apartment, its ceiling painted with mythological pictures, its walls decorated with arabesques and medallions. At a magnificently carved and ornamented desk at the farther end of the room, sat a gentleman of striking appearance, slender and n.o.ble-looking, but haughty and stiff. The splendid armchair in which he sat was turned sidewise towards the desk, so that the gentleman, who leaned upon one elbow, faced d.i.c.k as the latter entered. d.i.c.k stood at a distance, and bowed low, the distance being warranted by the singularly cold look of the gentleman in the chair. It served, in the soft candle-light, to keep d.i.c.k's features vague.

d.i.c.k cast a look at the servant, whereupon the gentleman motioned the latter from the room. Then, his coat still clutched tight over his swords, d.i.c.k said:

"Is it Monsieur Necker I have the honor of addressing?"

"If you are a clerk in the General Control Office you must know that it is," said the gentleman, in a dry tone.

"But I am not a clerk in the General Control Office," said d.i.c.k, quietly. "I am, through a strange accident, the chosen instrument of a secret society whose object is to kill you. Don't think I am a madman.

What I say is perfectly true. I have taken an oath that requires me to make an attempt upon your life. But that obligation, through lack of foresight, does not forbid my giving you means of defending yourself; therefore," and here d.i.c.k opened wide his coat, and held forth a sword, "I offer you one of these swords, and beg you to stand on guard. Don't call for help. If you do that, I must save myself by having at you immediately. Take the sword, I advise you, for I certainly intend to attack you."

Monsieur Necker had risen, and he stood looking at d.i.c.k in the most profound astonishment.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'OH, YOU HAVE A VISITOR! MON DIEU, SILVIUS!'"]

"Why do you keep us waiting, papa?" came a voice from a suddenly opened doorway, and a moment later a slender figure followed the voice into the room. "Oh, you have a visitor! _Mon Dieu_, Silvius!"

"_Mon Dieu_, Amaryllis!" d.i.c.k's lips went through the motions of these words, but what he uttered were rather the shadows or ghosts of words than words themselves. He continued unconsciously to hold out the sword towards her father, while gazing at her.

"What does it mean, papa?" she asked, in a hushed voice that betokened vague alarm. "Silvius, what are you doing with those swords?"

d.i.c.k's wits returned. "Cannot you see, mademoiselle? I have been chosen by a certain society to make your father a present of them, in token of the society's feelings towards him." Whereupon d.i.c.k, to show Necker that everything had been changed by the revelation that he was Germaine's father, moved courteously to the desk, laid both swords thereon, and stepped back.

"Leave us alone, my child," said Necker, gently; "and beg your mother to grant me another half-hour."

"Very well," said the girl, and then, still somewhat puzzled, but with a parting smile for both d.i.c.k and her father, she disappeared through the doorway.

"And now you will be good enough to explain this scene?" said Necker, in a tone of authority, having put himself between the swords and d.i.c.k.

"All that I said, before the arrival of mademoiselle, was perfectly true," replied d.i.c.k. "But now that I find you are her father, what I proposed is impossible."

"It is strange you should have known my daughter and not known who her father was."

"I made her acquaintance at some children's games, and without learning her name."

"That a youth who amuses himself at children's games should amuse himself also by belonging to an a.s.sa.s.sination society, is a novel idea, to say the least."

"It is a very strange story, monsieur. But if you will take the trouble to look out into the street, you will see a carriage waiting; with it are four men who must be already impatient for my return to them. When I do return, if I tell them you are alive, they will kill me. If I tell them you are dead, they will guard me closely while they await confirmation through the public news. When they find that I lied, they will kill me."

"It begins to appear as if these men ought to be arrested," said Necker, ringing a bell. He then sat down at the desk and wrote a note, d.i.c.k standing all the while at a respectful distance. A servant entered, and, in response to a slight gesture from Necker, went close to the latter, and received some low-spoken instructions, of which d.i.c.k caught only the word "police." The servant then took the note, and hastened from the room. Throughout this time, Necker had kept an oblique glance on d.i.c.k.

Now that he had not only saved Germaine's father on the present occasion but had also given him warning against future attempts, d.i.c.k had no mind to betray the Brotherhood further. He saw himself between Scylla and Charybdis. On the one hand was the danger of his being called upon to figure as a witness against men who had spared his own life, and of being mistaken by the world as a common informer. On the other hand was the probability of his being sought and punished with death by the Brotherhood, for, though four of its members might be arrested, there remained a dozen others as resolute, to hunt him down wherever he should take refuge.