The Prisoner in the Mask Read online

  ‘Gentlemen, I give you the toast: François le Troisième, Roi de France.’

  As he ceased there was a second’s silence, then the room rang with thunderous applause, and voices shouting: ‘The King! The King! François the Third. Long live the King!’

  It was at that moment that the double doors burst open and the police charged in.

  14

  NIGHT OF DISASTER

  Who had betrayed them de Quesnoy never discovered. Since Dampierre had enrolled as many as thirty enthusiastic adherents pledged to support the Prince, it seemed certain that he must have approached at least a few others without success; and, perhaps, quite a number. Once having broached the matter to them he could have done no more than do as he had with the Count—put them under a moral obligation to refrain from talking of it.

  At least ninety per cent of the cavalry students were practising Catholics which, as a result of Combes’s pogrom on priests and nuns, meant that nearly all of them now had monarchist sympathies; so it could be taken for granted that most of those who had rejected Dampierre’s overtures had done so not from antagonism to them, but from caution. It might possibly be that one of them was a sincere Republican, and had felt it to be his duty to report the matter to the authorities; but de Quesnoy thought it much more likely that one of them, or perhaps one of the young men who had just drunk de Vendôme’s health with such enthusiasm, had been indiscreet. It might even be that Dampierre had boastfully confided to the young woman he was keeping his hopes for himself from his friendship with the future King of France, and that she had passed on what he had told her to her father, the Socialist Deputy.

  One thing was certain. The police had not broken in on the spur of the moment to suppress a riotous assembly. There was nothing riotous about it; and nightly in Paris now at meetings organised by the Action Française a restoration of the monarchy was openly being advocated. Not only had the police learned of Dampierre’s activities but also they must since have followed the matter up and formed a very shrewd idea of what was likely to happen at the dinner. Obviously they had bided their time and posted someone outside the doors of the dining-room to wait until the toast was proposed, before rushing in to seize red-handed these enemies of the Republic.

  Had de Vendôme not been present no magistrate could have taken a very serious view of the proceedings. All through the last century, except during the years when the throne had been occupied, the healths of claimants and pretenders to it had been drunk with acclaim in innumerable private houses, and quite frequently at semi-private gatherings such as this. The authorities had never attempted to prevent it, any more than those in England during the latter half of the eighteenth century had tried to stop people still loyal to the Stuarts passing their wine across a finger-bowl in public and private and so, symbolically, drinking to ‘The King over the Water’.

  But in this case a body of young officers had toasted a claimant to the throne in person. And he was still standing there in their midst, smilingly accepting their homage as the police broke in. Some policeman, or police spy, must have bent at the keyhole listening to Dampierre’s speech, and would be prepared to give a résumé of it in evidence. That meant that everyone in the room would be found guilty of both conspiracy and treason. De Quesnoy’s mouth suddenly went dry as, having summed the situation up in a matter of seconds, he visualised the consequences.

  Few of the young officers present could have been said to be drunk, but nearly all of them had consumed during the evening a bottle and a half, or more, of wine. On top of that their minds had been stimulated by the excitement of hailing the man they hoped would be their future King; so they were in no mood to submit tamely to arrest.

  Still standing on his chair, Dampierre shouted over the heads of his companions at the leading police officer: ‘Get out of here! This is a private party.’

  The officer, who was a Captain of Gendarmes, halted a few paces inside the door, with his men bunched up behind him. Pulling his revolver from its black holster, he cried:

  ‘Messieurs. In the name of the Law I arrest you for subversive activities against the Republic. Put your hands up, all of you. Put your hands above your heads.’

  A young officer named de Rougemont, who had the physique of a small bull but only an apology for a chin and a sharply-receding forehead, was standing within a few feet of the Captain. Springing forward, he seized the policeman’s wrist and, in a trice, had wrested the revolver from him. Next moment there ensued pandemonium.

  As the police surged in the officers surged forward to throw them out. Like two tidal waves clashing head on, they met in the open space at the foot of the table.

  De Quesnoy was some way back. His brain was working overtime. Swiftly, he realised that the outcome of the affray was of comparatively little importance. If the police succeeded in lugging the officers off to prison, that would be that. But if the officers succeeded in overcoming the police their escape could be only temporary; for it was certain that the police would have a list of the names of those who had been present at the dinner and would arrest them next day.

  The thing that mattered was, if possible, to save de Vendôme. The others, defended by their counsel as young, irresponsible, led astray, and having toasted a pretender to the throne only when they were drunk should, as they would be tried by court martial, get away with a caution or, at worst, a few months’ confinement to barracks with specially onerous duties. But the Prince, if arrested, would be accused of plotting the overthrow of the government, and having involved the others in a conspiracy to assist him in so doing. For that he might easily be sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment in a fortress.

  Even as these thoughts flashed through the Count’s mind, matters took a more serious turn for all concerned. As de Rougemont snatched the Captain’s revolver several of the other gendarmes drew theirs. Two levelled them at de Rougemont, who had swiftly reversed the weapon he had captured and now held it by the butt. Thinking, no doubt, that they meant to shoot him, he fired first.

  The policeman nearest to him received the bullet in the throat. With a strangled cry he staggered back, then fell. The second policeman fired at De Rougemont but hit him only in the left shoulder. Three or four others who had drawn their guns now aimed them at his head. Realising that in the next few moments he must be shot dead, he emptied the remaining five bullets from the revolver at random among those who menaced him.

  Every one of his bullets found a mark. The right-hand side of the human wedge formed by the attacking police was thrown into complete confusion. One, shot through the head, died instantly; two others, each of whom had received two bullets in the body, lurched and crumpled. Their nearest comrades caught them as they fell but could not get them out of the crush to staunch the bleeding from their wounds because the doorway was choked with more police trying to force their way into the room.

  In spite of the terrible diversion de Rougemont had created he did not escape. One bullet smashed through his cheek-bone and another through his forehead; a third sang past his ear and killed an officer who was just behind him. Within a space of a few seconds three men had been shot dead and three others seriously wounded. Grimly de Quesnoy re-assessed the situation. Now, it might be the guillotine for any of them that the upscrupulous government liked to pick upon and, at best, a long prison sentence for them all.

  But he had not merely been looking on during the few moments since the police had burst into the room. While the swift thoughts were chasing one another through his mind, he had run to the nearest window. It was stuck and he could not get it open. Having wrestled with it ineffectively he tried the next. The twist and wrench he gave the iron handle was so violent that, this centre window being in frequent use, the half that opened flew inward causing him nearly to fall backwards. Recovering his balance he slipped through it on to a narrow balcony that had a wrought-iron balustrade.

  It was dark outside, but not too dark for him to see as he peered over that there was a crowd of people in
the courtyard. They were mostly hotel servants brought out there by the din, but a shaft of light from a downstairs window showed that there were police among them; so there was no escape that way, even if one could have accomplished the fifteen-feet drop without serious injury.

  Swinging about, his glance roved over the dense, writhing mass of men at the other end of the room, searching for the Prince. After a moment he saw him. The room was not broad enough for all the combatants to take part at once in the hand-to-hand struggle that was now being waged. The officers were three deep and de Vendôme was among them in the third row. Running down one side of the long table de Quesnoy seized him by the arm and dragged him back.

  Turning, the Prince exclaimed: ‘Oh, it’s you; How terrible this is! Had I had the least idea—’

  ‘You hadn’t,’ de Quesnoy cut him short. ‘Don’t blame yourself. But somehow you must get away. How, God knows, as yet! Meanwhile come back here and get down behind the piano.’

  De Vendôme’s eyes flashed: ‘How dare you! Is it likely that I would crouch in a corner and let my comrades do all the fighting for me?’

  The Count was much the stronger of the two. Giving the younger man a violent push he threw him off his balance, then swung him round and tripped him, so that he sprawled into the angle that the piano made with the wall. Standing over him, he cried angrily:

  ‘Ventre du Pape, boy; do as I tell you! Your case was bad enough before that fool de Rougemont started shooting. Now, if Combes likes to pin one of these killings on to you, he can send you to spit in the basket. There is no sense in getting your head chopped off while there is the least chance to save it.’

  The Prince struggled to his knees, but he had now gone very pale, and gasped out: ‘I … I suppose you’re right. But I’d rather die than have the others think me a coward.’

  ‘So would any fool with more courage than sense,’ snapped the Count. ‘But he who fights and runs away.… The question is, where the hell can we run to?’

  As he spoke he was watching from across the top of the piano the development of the fight. Screams, shouts, curses blended in a hideous uproar. None of the officers was armed, so after the killing of de Rougemont the police had put up their guns. But they were now using their truncheons, and the conflict raged with undiminished violence. Several of the officers’ heads had already been broken, that of Dampierre’s among them; but the breaking of heads was not all on one side. The young giant, de Jassy, had seized a heavy chair by its back and, whirling it above his head as though it weighed no more than a camp stool, was bashing with its legs at the line of angry faces before him. Several of the officers, too, had now grabbed up bottles and were using them as clubs.

  With growing anxiety de Quesnoy saw that the police were getting the best of it. There were too many of them for the students to make, as he had hoped, a break-out through the bottle-neck of the doorway, and there was no other entrance to the room. The police, too, were using their experience of suppressing riots to overcome the officers. Two of them would suddenly rush at one of the young men and each grab him by an arm; then, while their companions protected them, they would drag their captive forward through the door to the ante-room and slip a pair of handcuffs on to him.

  After five minutes of this fierce encounter, of the thirty officers who had sat down to dinner less than half were still free and fighting. The rest were dead, lying on the floor bleeding and groaning with smashed heads, or captives. With a sinking heart, the Count decided that it was now or never. While all the police were still occupied, he must make his bid to get the Prince away.

  Looking down, he asked: ‘Do you know the position of Madame Syveton’s bedroom window, or that of her husband?’

  De Vendôme stared up at him round-eyed with astonishment.

  ‘Answer me!’ snapped the Count. ‘I know of your affaire with her, and this is no time for chivalrous denials. Her good name is safe enough with me.’

  ‘I… I don’t know where Syveton’s room is,’ the Prince faltered, ‘but hers is on the second floor at the back. It is the end room, reached through her boudoir.’

  ‘Good! I thought that was probably the case. Now listen carefully. If I succeed in getting you away from here you are to make for their house. Go in by the garden and remain hidden there until all the lights in the house are out. Do nothing for at least an hour after that, to give the servants time to get soundly to sleep. Then collect some small gravel and throw it a piece at a time at Madame Syveton’s window. When that rouses her and she comes to the window to see who it is, ask her to come down to you. Tell her then all that has occurred and that she should pass it all on to her husband. You can spend the rest of the night in the pavilion. I’ve no doubt they will be able to keep you hidden there for some days, until arrangements can be made to have you smuggled out of France and back to Spain.’

  ‘What about you? I don’t see how either of us is going to get out of here; but if I can you can too.’

  ‘If I do get away I’ll join you in the Syvetons’ pavilion. Anyhow for the night. But the odds are I won’t. My part in this is to protect your rear; so that you can get a good start. I mean to—’

  De Vendôme broke in with an unhappy protest. ‘I can’t let you sacrifice yourself. I refuse to run off while—’

  ‘You must,’ the Count replied in a kinder tone, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze. ‘My life is not in danger whereas yours is. Besides, it is your duty to save yourself. This betrayal tonight has blown all our present plans sky high; but in a few years’ time another chance may arise for you to save France by becoming her King.’

  ‘Very well then,’ the Prince agreed reluctantly. ‘Tell me what you intend to do?’

  ‘I mean to jump over their heads; and as soon as you have seen me land you are to jump after me.’

  Again de Vendôme’s blue eyes popped with astonishment; but de Quesnoy pulled him up and hurried him to the window end of the table. As they reached it, he said quickly:

  ‘I ought to be able to land well outside the doors. How many police there are in the ante-room it is impossible to say. That’s where our gamble comes in. I imagine, though, that they are taking our poor friends downstairs one by one as they overpower them; so there may be only one or two. Anyway, it will be my part to tackle them and keep them busy while you run straight through. When you reach the landing don’t go downstairs. There are sure to be more of them with a prison van outside. Dash upstairs then along the upper floor until you find a service staircase. Come down it cautiously and out to the yard. There are police there, too, but they will be watching the windows, and provided you keep in the shadows, you ought to be able to slip away.’

  Swift as their talk had been, it had occupied a good two minutes. During this time another policeman had gone down, his face battered and bleeding, to join the horrid tangle of dead and still writhing bodies on the floor; but the police had dragged three more officers through into the ante-room.

  Realising that not a moment must now be lost, lest the remaining officers, seeing that the battle was going so hopelessly against them, should suddenly decide to surrender, de Quesnoy said no more. Giving de Vendôme an encouraging smile, he scrambled up on to the table.

  It was no affair of trestles, but a great mahogany piece of many legs and leaves, six feet wide and thirty long, at which successive generations had celebrated red-letter days of all kinds for well over a hundred years. Grabbing an empty champagne bottle by the neck, the Count ran swiftly down the table, then sprang from its end high into the air.

  Until the very last moment no one except de Vendôme had an inkling of his intention. Officers and police, cursing, wrestling, striking at one another, were still embroiled in a dozen individual combats as he sailed over their heads. He landed with a thud a good two yards beyond the open doors, staggered and pitched forward on all fours.

  Luckily for him there were only two policemen in the anteroom and both were struggling to get handcuffs on to an officer named Mor
eau-Sala. Picking himself up, the Count rushed in, swung the empty bottle on high and brought it crashing down on the kepi of the nearest policeman. The bottle shattered, and the man went down like a pole-axed ox.

  At the sound of a thump behind him, de Quesnoy swivelled round. It was de Vendôme, who had landed almost in his tracks, and was now lurching to his feet.

  ‘Quick!’ the Count shouted. ‘The doors! The doors!’

  Together they covered the few paces towards them. Six feet beyond the doors the fight still raged. The majority of the battling police had glimpsed the two figures that had sprung over their heads, but were so heavily engaged that they dared not turn to see what had become of them. The Captain of gendarmes had early been smitten down, but his Lieutenant and two Sergeants who were directing operations from the rear swung about and were now within a yard of the Prince.

  ‘Poor devil’ was the thought that flashed through de Quesnoy’s mind, as his eyes met those of the Lieutenant from a distance of about eight feet. ‘He is only doing his duty; but I must do mine.’ Then he flung the jagged neck of the bottle, which he was holding, straight into the Lieutenant’s face.

  With a screech of agony the wretched man reeled away. The two Sergeants halted in their tracks. The Count’s act had saved the situation for the Prince. Each of them seized one half of the double door and swung it shut.

  ‘Go!’ cried de Quesnoy. ‘Now’s your chance! Run for it! Good luck!’ And he shot the bolts of the heavy doors, imprisoning the still-fighting officers and police in the dining-room.

  But as he turned about he saw that two more policemen, just returned from taking a captive downstairs, had entered the anteroom. They now blocked de Vendôme’s path. One of them drew his revolver and pointed it at him. The Prince leapt at the policeman and they went down together. The revolver went off as they crashed to the floor. The bullet passed harmlessly over the Prince’s shoulder; but Moreau-Sala gave a piercing cry and fell shot through the back.