IN MASQUERADE.

Press, Volume LII, Issue 9013, 28 January 1895, Page 3

IN MASQUERADE.

. .»i s HuanMee, in the Strand Magazine. - The city of Paris is in the throes of a greatt revolution. At the street corners groups stand nervously. : discussing the latest outrage, and speculating, in whispers, where and when the next may be perpetrated. The whole cjty is in a state of suppressed excitement, and seems moved by one common impulse to arise and protect itself. War has been declared 1 Not the open warfare of one nation against another ; not a rising that tbe huge armies of France can be called upon to quell; but a combat waged against the city itself by an enemy unseen, unassailable, unconquerable ; a demon who steals upon ifc unawares, and proclaims his arrival with dynamite, devastation and despair. A war of the vandals, whose mission it ■eems is to destroy the city of the world, to wreck the American's paradise, -and leave but a pile of ruins to tell the tale. ♦ For the past month the Parisians have called upon their gods and theirsecret police in vain. They are powerless against this invisible enemy ; who, now in one quarter of the city and now in another, appears with a mighty roar, demolishes one of the wonders of Paris, crushes citizens beneath the debris and disappears. They cry loudly far vengeance, upbraid their detectives, their Government and themselves, and marvel who cau be the prime mover in this work of terror. '' Who—the Anarchists % The Monarchists ? Or, who knows, perhaps the hated Germans?" In one of the rooms of the secret service office of the' Rue Jerusalem two men are seated, earnestly conversing—one a middleaged man, with an iron-grey moustache, tall, and straight as a dart; and the other young, thick set, with piercing eyes, f a cleau shaven face, and a quiet, settled look of determination in every feature. " What do you think of tbe letter ?" asks the elder man. " Cool, deuced cool; and what is more, I believe they'll do it 1" is the rejoinder of his companion, as he holds tbe paper to the light and reads:—." Monsieur,—Your public edifices are badly builr, they are crumbling and falling to pieces ; unless Ravroche and Derplantz are released there will not be one worth looking at in a week, and after that we visit you.—Saturn." " Poor Parisians!" he continues with a smile, " they must be gettiug nervous."

"Ie means this, Paul," answers the official, pacing the apartment. "The whole of these outrages are the fruit of the brain of one man; one man, who sits and schemes far away from Paris, who pulls the strings and works his figures here. Take that man, and the whole structure falls. He is the Keystone, the prime mover. He must be caught, and you, Paul, shall take him." The young man springs to his feet and salutes. " His name 1" " Jrfe has a dozeu. He is now in Venice. You will leave for there tonight ; bring him back with you and fame and position are your 4. Make a false move and you will never see Paris again." " I shall not fall." " Then gojreport yourself at Venice to the police; they will give you every assistance, although they dare not act alone. You must leave at once."

An hour afterwards a distinguished looking man in a thickly trimmed fur coat saunters on to the platform at the Qare de lEst, and boarding the waiting train, curl* himself up in the corner oC a firstclass carriage. His only fellow traveller is a gentleman of aristocratic appearance, a charming conversationalist and of unexceptional breeding, and so the time,of that most tedious journey passea pleasantly enough. They exchange cards, for Paul is now a Parisian journeying for pleasure, and when they separate at their destination he is during bis sojourn in Veaicej^Pr i ra<&* ,del 6ro, his travelling companion.. A pitiless ral.u is falling, throughout the whole of Northern Italy, a freezing mixture of aleet and water, calculated to inspire one with nothing but loathing and di gust for the much vaunted Quesn of the Adriatic. A uorth-eaet witid whistles tip the narrow jby-ways of the City of the Sea, and the muddy looking waters eddy 'in black swirls round the damp, greasy, green stained bridges and piere. The city itself is deserted, save for. one or two dejected looking figures standing in the ctffin-like gondolas, and watching the never ending, radiating circles, as the rain streams down upon the lagoons. The . melancholy drip of the" Water from the eaves of the sombre houses, , , and swish as it beats upon (he canals, and the howl of the sharp toolhed wind, all serve to make I the scene one of dreariness and desolation. A playful guat catches Paul in its icy clasp an he leaves the station, and fastens him ! J ike a vice against the wall, where from his point of vantage he takes his first view of the "Bride of the Sea"—cold, clammy and grey as the sea itself. He motions to a gondolier, and, whispering his desired destination, takes his tftiit.

In a few minutes the journey is over, and Paul , eriterintc the Bureau of the Venetion police, explained his mission. " Your venture is a dangerous one," the chief says. " The man you Reek probably knows by thi* time of your journey here, but that should riot deter you, for it is by strategy you must work. ' Saturn 'is tne fancy name by which he goes. * Saturn and his Satellites' Is the pleasing 1 title under which this band of fiends have won' thousands of supporters in every country for their cursed work of Anarchy." •/Where can I find hind ? " "Find him? Ie will be difficult to move in Venice without seeing him; the title, the wealth of the Prince del Oro, is on everyone's tongue," - " The Prince, del Oro 1" exclaimed, Paul, excitedly; "then he is—" * "Saturn; precisely." "Then why have you not arrested him long 'aflto? Surely there would be no difficulty?" . - :, " None; the difficulty would be to prove that the Prince del Oro was in any way connected with Saturn. It is Saturn who must be arrested. If he proves to be the Prince, well and good; but the Prince will never turn out to be Saturn. As Saturn he mixes with his low lived followers: as the Prince he is unapproachable. Do you follow mc?" ~~ "Perfectly." . , " Well, to-morrow night a grand carnival is to be given in one of the balls in the loweet haunts of Venice. Saturn will be there amongst his satellites. Take what, help yori like, act in whatever way you clioose; there is your opportunity—use it."

Iα the densely populated and intricate j labyrinth of streets and lanes in the die- j trict of the Canal di Meatre, a carnival, is at its height—a carnival and/etc of all the ! vagabonds of Venice, and Pant is making his way to this d&ogerous quarter. " Bah !" , he cries,.as the gondola soughs through the water. VBah-l and this is Venice, j with its rippling moonlight glory, its' nights of dancing and of musis, its jetet and flambeaux. This is Venice, that artiste paint with skies of blue, wicti ; limpid waters and white marble palaces. ,, *'Di Meutre, slgnor," cries one of the gondoliers, a secret agent of the police, \ breaking in upon his monologue; then ; bringing the boat at rest against a damp and slimy quay, i»e steps ashore and assists his passenger. Fastening the boat' to a rusty iron staple, the three proceed through the narrow/ straggling lanes and alleys towards the building where revels wild and furious hold . sway, where plots, are hatched, Anarchy is rampant, wholesale massacres are chuckled { over and failures are deploredi—where : those whose instruments of death have' destroyed cities and shattered human beings are praised and feted; where lot U

drawn for still more awful crimes against society, against justice, law and order. To-night Joy wears her gayest dress. Redhanded Murder throws away her mask and boldly flaunts herself. Auarchy to-night is on its topmost pinnacle of glorification. Paris has been shaken. - Saturn welcomes his satellites, and reimburses all with wine and' revel, with"high praise and ucre. The grand dance of the evening has jus* commenced, when Paul, in the costume of a Pierrot, and his companions give the password and enter the building. The dance of Saturn and his Sateliftsa! In the centre stands a figure clad in crimson, skinlike iv the tightness of its fit, and vivid blood red from head to foot—from the long, pointed shoes, with ruby buckles, to the deep crimson mask which completely covers the face, and the cap of liberty which completes the costume. Motionless be stands with folded arras, while iv the wildest of circles, with shrieks and yells, the mob whirls round him in ever changing figures. A medley of men and women, with faces Hushed and flaming with excitement, charge down upon him, swerve upon one side, charge again, and dance around with gestures of madness and demoniacal exultation, until at last, with sheer exhaustion, they drop out of the revel. Then a wild bacchanalian chorus, more dancing, more drinking, more excitement, and so the night flies by. Three o'clock strikes from a neighbouring campanile. As though all turned to stone, a dead hush falls upon the assembly, and Paul holds his breath in apprehension. Suddenly every light is extinguished, and from out the blackness comes a weird* chant, gaining in intensity, and each verse ending with a ahriek and the constant repetition, " Death to spies and traitors." Paralysed in every limb, Paul waits terrified, every moment expecting to feel the keen point of a stiletto pierce his flesh. The voices are coming nearer and nearer out of the darkness, and he edges backwards until he can go no further, and searches round tbe rough walls of the low roofed building for any projection by which he may raise himself and perhaps find safety. Then his fingers touch one of the slanting beams which support the roof, and making a frantic effort, he clutches it and hauls himself up until he lies full length upon It. Gradually he climbs until at last, through an open window, he can see the dark, wintry clouds and one of the call spires of Venice—a window which to reach he must take an almost impossible spring from his cramped position. The flare of a torch below startles him, and then, as others are lighted from it, he sees his two companions stretched upon their backs, with a stiletto driven full and fair to the hilt in the breast of each, A shout proclaims that he is discovered. With a rush, they make for tbe beam, and one man, with a dagger j between his teeth, drags himself up the j slanting wood work. I To hesitate: U death. . Better, Paul thinks, to lie below with a broken neck , than to be stabbed where he is. Yet there J shall be one scoundrel the less for this ex- ' ploit. He draws his revolver, and *3 his assailant is but two yards away, fires full lv his face, and, calling forth every j energy, springs for the window, to cling for a -moment with bleeding fingers to the stonework, and then by a superhuman i effort to gain a footing on the sill and ! disappear. Bruised aud breathless he ' reaches the ground, and racing to tbe , water's edge flings himself into a gondoia, ' and urges the boat out into the canal. Painfully and slowly he forces it forward. Thelpngoar is unmanageable', the speed seems a snail's pace, but he finds consolation in the fact that his pursuers have not yet caught sight of him, and are probably , searching the , narrow lanes on either > side. A pale, sickly moon is throwing* her green beams .upon- the water,* and he starts to find himself. directly in the track.. As he bends to the oar, to turn the boat into the shadow, a yell of triumph breaking out over the canal tells him it is too late. He ia discovered. and chased 1 His slight acquaintance with the manipulation .of a gondola renders' Im progress slow and laboured, while behind, aud coming gradually hearer, he hears the rush of water, as the skilled Venetians use their oars vigorously, making their boats fly after the fugitive. Oa and on they race, nearer and nearer they approach, and louder and louder echo his. enemies' , shrieks and execrations. , | Paul, with a supreme effort, twists his boat into 'a narrow waterway, and drives' it under the dark shadows of an over- j , hanging balcony, while madly the pursuing ' gondolas ru»h by. Shivering in the cold > wihdV he waits for the grey dawn to come i 'up over the domes and towers; waits, \ straining his ears to listen to every sound, ! dreading and feariDg that the relentless satellites, the implacable Anarchists, may discover his hiding place And as he waits, startled by .the drip of the water .and the moan of the wind, hte memory conjures up all the ancient crimes of Venice; its dark, mysterious prisons; its ■ Btrauge disappearances ; its sudden, awful death*). . Yes, tbey would- kill him; stab , him,, dabble.his carnival dress with his 1 own life blood, and then hurl him into tbe weedy Adiatic to wa«h out the stains. He , dave not move out of his hiding place, aud. 1 can only hope that they wijl repass the end of the canal without troubling co search its recesses. He hears their shouts afar off, , coming gradually, almost imperceptibly,, closer, and the swish of their oars as they dash from one. side to the other seeking their victim. . | '.'Hush I What was that? Surely a gondola has entered the waterway." He hears a gurgling splash, that comes nearer ! too soft for a boat, more like a swimmer | going with the tide, and yet unlike that, too. Now it ceases for a moment, and then again'itatarts; and Paul, catching hold of the stonework of the balcony, leans across to see, gently rocking from side to side in the muddy waters, a body, in the costume of a masked Pierrot, and looking like a reflection of himself in the water. * He-; draws back into the shadow, and again, , clinging to the stonework, waits. At last j the grim procession, with its smoking, flaring torches, enters the canal. The light, radiates in a circumscribed circle i round the boats, flashes high upon carveu ! stonework dark with age, but does not penetrate into the dark recess where Paul has | forced his gondola. Suddenly the carnival clad body, mooring at death itself, and looking grotesquely hideous with its black ' fringed mask, surges up against one of the boats, and the searcher leaning over the side loudly calls for " Lights 1" A circle of torches contract toward* one point, and, as if burning at some Italian obsequies, flare and flicker over the man far beyond all vengeance. Shrieks of exultation, ' mingled * with blasphemous oaths, now rise upon the air. "He is dead, the traitor is bWdl" they yell in chorus. "So perish all spies." Then from .the further .end of the canal beyond them, the blackness grows into a bases of light, and , from the haze spring more torches, and, •' stalwart and erect in a barca propelled by two gondoliers, comes Saturn in all his crimson glory. With one mighty shout the whole crowd forms, into procession once more, every lighs is dashed into tbe water, and far sway in the east a silver grey line is all that relieves ihe blackness of the scene and the cloudy fury of the wind swept sky. The silver grey line Is widening Into a , ribbon of light, the shadows axe flying, before the rising dawn. Paul leaves tbe biding place, where he has grown cramped and stiff with his long vigil, and, trusting to chance, wends his way by devious alleys, towards *the centre of Venice, ** Tht f are C more powerful' than k I thought," be mutters, "but. I shall yet' succeed. Fortune, that seemed at first to I

frown, is favouring mc now ; they will believe that I am dead, and, when retting content in their;fancied security, the capture of Del Oro and- his gang will be easy. I wish I could take the fellow himself slnglehanded. Ah, what glory, what reward to rid mankind of this pest I To crash the organUation beneath one's feel, trample it into dust, and scatter its fragments for ever; and I—l, Paul Dacheaux, should be great and honoured. Fail? I cannot fall—l dare not go back to the Hue Jerusalem and use that wordnever! a thousand times never! If I could but meet Dal Oro now, I would chance all and seize him. Aristocrat or Anarchist, he shall not escape mc. ,.

Ahead of him, standing in the shelter of a narrow doorway, two men seem to be on the point of parting, and he can just overhear the conclusion of their conversation. The shorter of them speaks :— " The three spies are dead, and, for the present, we are safe from surprise." "For the present, yes," Del Oro replies ; "but we must shift our quarters. Tomorrow nighb the Grand Council meets; till then, ow revoir." The men separate, and Paul, keeping well behind, follows the taller, whom he knows ie Saturn and—the Prince del Oro. Shall he make a, rush for. him now, he wonders,' make one fierce onslaught, and trust to fate who shall be victor and who vanquished ? Perhaps better to waitwait, follow, and track the Anarchist leader; follow and see where Saturn merges into the Prince, and, in the very act, surprise and cake him. Instinctively hie hand goes into the pocket of his jacket and fastens itself upon the handcuffs. "It shall not," he nmtcer.i, "be iguominious defeat after all; it shall be success—success alone and single-handed." Saturn at last halts before a house standing, upon the very verge of one of the canale, and, taking a key, opens the heavy, iron clamped door. As it gives, with one mighty bound Paul covers the few yards between, and, hurling himself upon Saturn, locks hie arms around him like a vice, and bears him backwards, then, catching ab the hands that wildly clutch the air, there is a short, sharp tussle, a smothered curse, and Saturn the Anarchist, Del Oro the aristocrat lies helpless on the ground. "Ah, Prince," says Paul sarcastically, " the same is up;. you have had your day; but you wIH not leave all your friends behind, for to-morrow night we raid the Grand Council." Paris. Tfate crowd waits in the Place de la Roquette, waits as it has waited for days past, for the last grim act in the tragic justice of France, to see vengeance meted out to Anarchy; it has waited, and to-day the time is ripe. Afar oft, over the sea of heads, there gleams the arrow of lighc which is to flash once more ere long, and with it, like a destroying angel, oring death. The crowd sways and murmurs as the great door of the prison is thrown open, and a,, tight compact knot, with one niau walking bareheaded and bare necked iv the midst appears. For an instant there is a dead calm; then so swift the eye can scarce perceive it, the silver arrow rushes through the air, and with its flight a thrill passes through the whole multitude, like the leaves of a poplar shivering in the breeze. ; .. :: Then the crowd'melts away.