THE DARK ROAD

Further Adventures of Chéri-Bibi

BY

GASTON LEROUX

AUTHOR OF "THE SECRET OF THE NIGHT," "MISSING MEN," "WOLVES OF THE SEA"

CLEVELAND

THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXII CHAPTER XXIII CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER I

THE NUT

The Nut lay on the scorching beach facing the terrible sea in which the hungry sharks, the warders of his prison, were disporting. The convict was like a weary animal at rest. In truth, he had availed himself of the "relaxation" at ten o'clock to seek out a little fresh air and seclusion between two precipitous crags which cut him off from the rest of the convict settlement. If only he could live alone! No longer to hear anything. No longer to see anything! No longer to think of anything. But how could he help thinking of what he had seen, of what he had been compelled to see, that morning?

A double execution had taken place that very morning as an awful but necessary example. It was a smart piece of work by Pernambouc, the prison executioner, and his assistant, "Monsieur Désiré." . . . Oh the horror of it!

The Nut was still shuddering from the sight of it. He was a young man in the fullness of his supple strength. He lay resting on his elbows, holding his chin in the cup of his hands, apparently indulging in an impossible dream. His broad-brimmed straw hat cast its shadow over the gloom of his penetrating gaze which stole to the distant skyline. The outline of his clean-shaven face as far as could be seen indicated strength of character and shrewdness. Notwithstanding the ineffaceable marks of prison life which soon transforms the youngest convict into an old man, the Nut seemed to be scarcely more than forty years of age.

It was this combination of strength and refinement which had brought down on him the nickname of The Nut. It is a word which in the language of the Pré, or convict settlement, denotes a man whom nature has endowed with a fine bearing usually appreciated by women. "He acted as if he were the master." But the Nut's real name, Raoul de Saint-Dalmas, had been in famous criminal records some ten years before when the jury of the Seine Assize Court condemned him to death. He was a young man of good family who, after squandering his substance, had been charged with murdering his employer in order to rob him.

He owed his reprieve to his youth, to his mother, who in her despair died of grief, and to the persistence with which he proclaimed his innocence in spite of proofs which were seemingly overwhelming. And now he was in the convict settlement undergoing a sentence of penal servitude for life.

"Why do you sigh, Nut?"

He gave a start and turned round.

Bursts of coarse laughter rang out, and his eyes encountered seated round him the Parisian, the Burglar, the Caid and the Joker. His dreams had carried him so far away that he had failed to hear their approach.

The four men were his worst enemies. They never relented, and as a result he had not hesitated latterly to get himself imprisoned for months together in the île St. Joseph, the island of silence, which was near, and reserved for those who committed offenses in the convict settlement or whose feelings rebelled against the convict gang.

In order to avoid those four monsters who tormented him with their infernal mischief-making and their abominable jokes, he tried to fasten a quarrel on one of the convict guards by seriously threatening him, for which he suffered the terrible punishment of internment on the adjoining island, where the overseers themselves were not permitted to communicate with the prisoners by word of mouth, but only by signs and in writing.

He left his solitary confinement with a feeling of regret, especially as Chéri-Bibi, the astonishing bandit who had terrorized the world for so many years—Chéri-Bibi had made a friend of him—was no longer there to silence by a frown the loathsome Burglar or the Parisian himself.

Not that Chéri-Bibi was very far away. He was for the time being behind bars in the principal building, and the Nut peeping through them one morning when he was on fatigue duty, sweeping the courtyards, caught sight of him and exchanged a few secret signs of friendship. It was done in a flash, for the sergeant of the guard had entered the courtyard, and, straightway, such volleys of insults were poured forth from the rows of cells fronted with iron bars, that the hapless sergeant sounded the call for the fatigue party, and ordered the cooks' mates who were bringing along the soup to clear the courtyard, declaring in his wrath that he would leave the "lifers" to starve and rot for three days.

Above the shouting of threats and the hideous tumult the Nut could hear Chéri-Bibi's strident and vociferous laugh.

Neither the Parisian nor the Burglar nor the Caid nor the Joker would have run the risk in this way of being sent to solitary confinement. They managed to have a good time, standing in some favor with the authorities, to whom they secretly related what they wanted to know about the state of mind or the plans of escape of their fellow-convicts, reaping no little reward for their treachery.

And even when their natural disposition to fight or plunder got the better of them, they merely "copped," as a punishment, the job of "taking a stroll with the wood," which meant that they had to move heavy planks from one place to another for several hours a day, merely to take them back again to the spot whence they came.

Just then, as they began to annoy the Nut, they were working in leisurely fashion at certain odds and ends intended to be exchanged, when a chance visitor appeared, for packets of tobacco or small change. Arigonde, otherwise the Parisian, had just finished engraving with a knife on a shark's jawbone the fateful words: The Convict's Tomb.

Arigonde bore a deadly hatred against the Nut for having deposed him from his position as the "man of fashion" in the Îles du Salut. Until the Nut came upon the scene it was Arigonde who wielded the scepter of elegance, if such a term may be allowed. Needless to say, this reputation for elegance depended less upon the cut of his clothes or the way in which he tied his tie than upon his manners, which were not met with in the usual run of convicts, and bore witness to his superior education. In spite of the Parisian's bragging—he was never at a loss in telling the story of his successes with the fair sex in high circles and crying up his relations in society—he seemed, compared with the Nut, none the less to be what he was to begin with—a shopman in a small firm bowing and scraping to the customers.

The Nut resumed his original posture on the beach, and it was as though he did not hear the Joker, who squeaked:

"He lacks most who sighs most."

The others grinned.

"M'sieu Nut does not condescend to enter into conversation with humble 'jail-birds' like us," went on the Joker, who had once been a clerk to a sheriff's officer and had assisted a client to murder his master. "M'sieu Nut puts on airs and graces and fancies himself a bit."

"M'sieu Nut is grieving over the misfortunes of France," interjected the rascally Burglar, a short man with disjointed limbs, who walked sideways like a crab, and was wont to enter other people's houses by way of the roof.

"The Caid, too, would like to make bang, bang on the Boches. The Caid good soldier."

The Nut bit his fingers to prevent a groan slipping from him when he heard the awful Ben Aïssa, the Mohammedan "jail-bird," a robber and procurer of girls, ask to take part in the world struggle.

Alas, did he not himself long to play a part in it? And was it not because they heard him on the evening when they learned of the declaration of war proclaim once again his innocence and his despair, and demand to be allowed to shoulder a rifle, that the wretched men in their spite made game of him?

"I've just seen the postman on his way from the town," declared the Parisian, "and he brings some very great news. It seems that Joffre wants the Nut as his Chief of Staff!"

The Nut leaped to his feet, and the four men fell back, for he was a match for them. Only they knew he shrank from the task of "pitching into jail-birds," and indeed he contented himself with shouting a few threats against them, which roused their laughter, though they kept their distance.

"Do you think you can bounce us with the things you say," sneered the Burglar. "Hold your jaw."

"All my eye and tommy rot," said the Burglar, prudently retiring into the background. "All brag."

"When you've done talking I may have something to get off my chest," said the Parisian, who did not venture to try conclusions with the Nut, but whose hatred of him was so intense that he would have liked to kill him.

He made a step towards the Nut, who clenched his fists and began to see red, when the arrival of another person put the four miscreants to flight as if by magic. There was no need for the newcomer to open his mouth. He had but to show his face.

It was Chéri-Bibi!

CHAPTER II

CHÉRI-BIBI

"Have you left the black hole?" asked the Nut.

"Yes," returned Chéri-Bibi, who held in his hand a peculiarly shaped piece of hard wood which he was carving with the point of his knife.

It was an appalling face, was Chéri-Bibi's. His amazing adventures, the long years passed in the convict settlement, broken by innumerable escapes, his fierce passions and the martyrdom of the flesh even to the corrosive marks of vitriol, had ravaged that terrible face so that no one could look upon it without a shudder.

Nevertheless ever and anon—when his gaze rested upon the Nut for instance—a curious gleam of kindliness would flicker across that death's head.

His figure in its entirety, moreover, was extraordinary. His huge fists, his square build, his shoulders which seemed to have been designed for lifting enormous weights, all combined to convey the impression of irresistible strength.

When he made an effort the muscles under his convict's jumper stood out in startling prominence. He invariably wore this jumper. No one had ever seen him, as they had seen his fellow-convicts, at work or walking about stripped to the waist. It was said that upon his chest was tattooed the mystery of his life and that these marks expressed the secret of his heart. Chéri-Bibi was a man of great reserve in love affairs. This man, whose crimes were beyond computation, had always possessed, as the phrase goes, irreproachable morals.

Chéri-Bibi and the Nut imagined that they were alone. They did not observe the Burglar warily retrace his steps and hide behind a rock in order to keep an eye on them and overhear their conversation. Chéri-Bibi sat down beside the Nut and proceeded with the carving of his piece of wood.

"What's that?" asked the Nut.

"That's the key to freedom," returned Chéri-Bibi.

"What do you say?" exclaimed the Nut, turning pale.

Chéri-Bibi heaved a sigh that might have softened the hardest heart.

"I like you, old chum, and should have been glad of your company," he said in a voice that failed him somewhat, "but I see clearly enough that you are worrying yourself to death here. Cheer up. You will soon be free. You will be able to go back to France, old man."

The Nut knew that when Chéri-Bibi spoke he spoke to some purpose. He believed in him; and he was buoyed up by an immense hope.

"Back to France," he gasped.

"Twenty-two!" whispered Chéri-Bibi.

Twenty-two signified in convict language: "Look out!"

The Nut turned his head slightly and caught sight of the figure of a convict guard passing not far away from them, his rifle slung over his shoulder. The man cast a glance in their direction and disappeared, strolling along the sea-front. The Burglar still occupied his post of observation.

"I may tell you that I shall provide you with the papers of an honest man. You shall have everything necessary to start afresh and be happy."

"Heavens above!" moaned the Nut.

He took a long look at Chéri-Bibi. Chéri-Bibi was weeping. The Nut felt a thrill pass through him. Tears in the eyes of Chéri-Bibi! It was a sight to which he was unaccustomed. Chéri-Bibi stuck his fists into his eyes, as a punishment, doubtless, for that moment of weakness, and uttered a frightful oath.

"Why don't you get away with me?" asked the Nut.

"Because I should be in your way, old man. You'll soon forget all about Chéri-Bibi, I assure you."

"Never!" exclaimed the Nut. "You are the only man here who has been decent to me. You have always stood up for me."

"Stood up for you! You don't need anyone to stand up for you. Under your somewhat ladylike ways you are as strong as I am. If you had given those fellows who are always jawing at you a sound thrashing they would have soon stopped humbugging you. But you are too much of the gentleman to fight them. For that matter, that's what attracted me to you. I like people who have been well brought up; and then I like an honest man, and you are an honest man. I believe you when you tell me that you are innocent. I remember the time when I hadn't yet used the knife. Oh, it remains impressed on my memory, does that first blow. I always carried a knife in my belt. I was a journeyman butcher in Le Pollet. Do you know Le Pollet? It's near Dieppe. No doubt you've been to the races there in the summer. You were always a smart chap. . . . Why are you so pale again?"

"Because I'm thinking of the races at Dieppe," returned the Nut, closing his eyes.

"Yes, those were jolly days. Believe me, that was the place for smartly dressed people. The pink of fashion, swagger officials in full fig, and English swells. And the chorus girls, what brazen hussies! . . . But to come back to my first affair with a knife, which happened on the cliff at Dieppe. Some blackguard was about to do in a decent fellow. I arrived on the scene. I tried to get at the blackguard with my knife, but killed the honest man instead. And I was sentenced. Fatalitas! That was the beginning of all my troubles. But I don't want to think about them, nor about France nor anything else. I have perpetrated more murders than there are fingers on my hands. But always with the best intentions! You know what I mean; it was hard luck. Fatalitas! So it's better for me to remain here forever, don't you think? A penal settlement, you see, was made for me; it's my hearth and home. You, you are young, and that's quite another pair of shoes. You can build up a new life. Marry an honest woman and make her happy. Take my advice, and keep away from the

other sort of women. You've had your lesson in that particular, I dare say."

"You bet!" returned the Nut smiling, greatly astonished to hear such moral sentiments from Chéri-Bibi's mouth. "But you haven't yet told me what you are making."

Chéri-Bibi did not answer immediately, but raising his eyes to the jetty, the head of which sheltering the small natural harbor, could be seen, said:

"Take a squint yonder."

The Nut turned his gaze to the harbor. A large motor launch, evidently from the wood-cutting establishments at St. Laurent-du-Maroni, drew alongside. An officer landed and was received on the jetty by a number of officials.

"See what's taking place," went on Chéri-Bibi. "What do you make of it?"

"Well," returned the Nut, "it's the officer who has just finished his tour of inspection. They must be asking him for news of the war. It doesn't seem to be good news. They don't look a bit pleased with themselves."

"What then?"

"The lieutenant is stooping towards the launch."

"Ah, there you are," said Chéri-Bibi. "Well, what else?"

"The engineer is standing on the deck-house and has handed him something which he is putting in his pocket."

"Stop! You've seen enough and now have a look at this."

Chéri-Bibi pointed to the piece of wood upon which he was no longer working.

"This is an exact copy of the thing that the inspecting officer put in his pocket. Do you know what that thing is? It is an indispensable part of the motor, and without it the engine won't go. When he has it in his pocket he is easy in his mind. There's no hope of the convicts making use of the launch. When I went on fatigue duty to St. Laurent I had the opportunity of examining that part. I assure you that this one is the fellow to it, and if anything is missing, I'll make it this evening."

"This evening!" exclaimed the Nut.

"Yes, old man, you shall be free this evening, I give you my word. I've finished digging a hole in my hut. We shall see some fun this evening. Look out! . . . Warders coming. They're sounding the fall in."

The two men sprang up. The Nut was behind Chéri-Bibi, quivering with a new hope. They went off to line up with the other men of their section in a sunk road which was dominated by a government office. It was here that they were employed in laying out a new road across the island.

During the whole of that day every movement by the Nut and Chéri-Bibi was spied upon by the Burglar, and not a word was exchanged by them which was not either overheard or guessed by him.

The Burglar said, between times, to the Parisian, the Caid and the Joker:

"Hold yourself in readiness. Something's going to happen to-night when we're having a game of dice."

After the last muster at six o'clock the convicts turned their steps towards their prison almost with an air of cheerfulness. The day's work was done. The men were then locked up in their prison, which consisted of one large dormitory, and were left to do as they pleased, sleep or drink or play games, free from the presence of the guards. Chéri-Bibi, the Nut, the Parisian, the Burglar, the Caid and the Joker shared the same dormitory with some twenty other men. That evening the officer made a tour of inspection.

Standing in line in front of a double row of hammocks, they listened to his remarks. He told them that he would not allow any noise in the prison. They might consider themselves in their own homes, with doors closed, but they were there for sleeping purposes, and if any complaint was made against them, he would send the entire section to the cages in the main building.

Before leaving he asked:

"Has any man anything to bring to my notice?"

The Nut stepped forward.

"There's a rumor, monsieur, that bad news has been received from France."

"What interest can that be to you?" returned the officer harshly. "Men like you have nothing more to do with France."

The Nut grew pale. A threatening murmur swept through the ranks. The guards enforced silence by drawing their revolvers. Nevertheless one of the men could not refrain from shouting:

"Give us a rifle and you'd soon see that we know how to die like other men."

"You are not fit to shoulder a rifle," retorted the officer, and he walked away.

The door closed after him. The convicts raised their clenched fists in the air. A tumult of oaths filled the dormitory. The Nut flung himself into his hammock and covered his face with his hands.

For men like the Nut, who had been laid low by the hand of fate, the hours spent in the dormitory, however popular they might be with other men because of the absence of all restraint, were undoubtedly the most merciless which human justice could inflict. The herding together of these men was an abominable sight. Every passion and vice, kept alive by drink and gambling, had full rein. It was a veritable inferno. Fortunately for the Nut fate, which was so cruel in other respects, had vouchsafed Chéri-Bibi to him as his comrade. His presence and the terror which he inspired forced the men to leave the Nut comparatively undisturbed. As he lay in his hammock, he closed his eyes to shut out the vision of those hideous faces, but he could not stop his ears. And it was too awful. Bottles of rum, playing cards, money, appeared from no one knew where, and the nightly revel began.