The Mysterious Hand; or, Subterranean Horrours!
Augustus Jacob Crandolph
Introduction & Notes by Caspar Wintermans
From Volume I:
CHAPTER II.
Fortune, dont la main couronne
Les forfaits les plus inouis,
Du faux éclat qui t’environne
Serons nous toujours éblouis?
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Trovasi ancor chi per sottrarsi a’ numi
Forma un nume del caso, e vuol, ch’ il mondo
Da una mente immortal retto non sia:
Cecita temeraria! empia follia!
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Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile,
And cry content to that which grieves my heart;
And frame my face to all occasions:
I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor;
Deceive more slily than Ulysses could;
And, like a Simon, take another Troy;
I can add colours even to the cameleon;
Change shapes with Proteus, for advantages;
And set th’aspiring Catiline to school.
Truth shall govern my pen, simplicity shall guide my narration. No tale of impossibility shall stain my veracity, and never shall I be convicted of falsehood. If I write a book that may amuse, I intend that it shall likewise instruct. If any of the characters I describe shall appear uncommon, the incidents incredible, or the situations romantick, let me not be blamed. I deserve no reproach. Nature in the innumerable movements of her admirable mechanism, in the perpetual revolutions of her immense empire, occasionally produces events that are unaccountable, and beings that are monstrous.
The Count Egfryd at this period lived in Bourdeaux, where he possessed a magnificent hotel. The Count had attained his thirtieth year. His figure was well proportioned, his face was sensible and regular, and in his whole appearance there was a striking air of dignity. His ancestors had been for ages noble, and his fortune was of princely extent. Impenetrable dissimulation, and a serenity that no accident could disturb, were peculiarly his. He was deep in design, vitious in his propensities, bold in the execution of plots, inventive in resources, persevering and indefatigable. With an assumed frankness that might deceive even the eye of penetration, a mildness that never deserted him, and a chearfulness that was constitutional, he possessed the polished graces of a refined courtier, and the intellectual advantages of an excellent education. His speech was fluent and his style elegant. The subtlety of his mind, aided by early habits of metaphysical disquisition, gave him a decided advantage in the art of persuading: but he seldom argued. His habits were voluptuous and dissipated, and the gratification of his revenge was with him an important consideration. His indulgences often partook of cruelty, and his pleasures not infrequently led him into the perpetration of crimes. But to him cruelty and crime were indifferent. He was an atheist. He had already offended against the most awful of the commandments of his Maker, and against the most solemn laws of society. He never felt remorse, and he was incapable of fear. To gratify a trifling wish he would not have hesitated to commit any atrocity, provided he could commit it with security; and of two pleasures equally grateful to him, one simple and innoxious, the other attainable only by vice, he would have preferred the latter. What I have drawn is but a faint sketch of the diabolical Egfryd; but in the course of these pages, enough will be narrated to convey with accuracy his detestable delineation. He was married, and he had one child.
An acquaintance that soon ripened into intimacy was formed between our English travellers and this family. Julia was charmed with the easy address and insinuating manners of the Count. He appeared to her the most accomplished man she had ever seen, the most ingenuous, the most noble. She observed with surprise, that the serenity of his manner, and the gentleness of his tones, had the power of banishing all agitation from the minds of those with whom he conversed: that every commotion of the passions instantly subsided at his approach, and that it was impossible to feel constraint in his presence. In her estimation he was the true model of a perfect gentleman; nor, could his depravity have been subtracted, was she much mistaken.
He, demon-like, saw the impression that he made on a female, essentially different from all those whom he had seen before, and incomparably superior to every other he had known. Already he plotted her ruin; already he indulged a deadly passion, that had for its object her total and irremediable destruction. Mr. Bolton thought of his new acquaintance with little less respect and admiration than his daughter. His unsuspecting and guileless nature yielded involuntarily to this libertine’s dangerous attentions, and in his society the good man experienced and submitted to the fascination of grace united to gaiety, unstudied politeness, modest eloquence, and knowledge that seemed little short of inexhaustible, and forgot the existence of his grief.
The Count had a castle on one of his estates in the neighbourhood of Bourdeaux: it was called the Chateau de St. Uldrich, and it afforded the happiest specimens of that species of architecture which is denominated Gothick. It was in truth a beautiful and magnificent fabrick. Thither he and the Comtesse invited the father and daughter, who consented to remain there for a month.
Having arrived at the chateau, Julia employed two whole days in traversing the galleries and the apartments, in admiring the numerous decorations of the building, and interrogating the Count and her father upon the more prominent objects of her curiosity. In another chapter I shall give a description of the chateau, by which it will appear, that her admiration was not the wonder of infancy or ignorance, but a just tribute to real excellence.
Julia, however, had time and inclination to devote the third evening after her arrival to the duties of friendship. The following letter to the earliest of her acquaintances, which, by accident, came lately into my possession, will serve to shew the state of her mind at this time.
“My Dear Eliza,
“At length I have an hour to myself—that hour shall be your’s. You will expect, in the first place, I know, to hear something about my health. Know then that I am quite well. Such rattling, such flying as I have had! I thought I should like travelling, but it far exceeds my most sanguine expectations. Though the days are now long, I think each of them infinitely too short. I have been in one continued bustle since I left England. My papa bids me be composed, and Ellen requests me to leave every thing to her. It is all in vain. I cannot be quiet. But don’t suppose that I am become industrious since I saw you; on the contrary, I am sorry to tell you that I never work, and I cannot read. How can I work, read, draw, or play, or any thing else while we keep moving about so? But now that we are to remain in one spot for some weeks, I will try to do some good.
“Oh! Eliza, I have so much to tell you, much, that I don’t know where to begin. Shall I tell you first of Theodore? (so my father calls Monsieur Dalbert.) No, I did not see him till we arrived at Bourdeaux. Shall I commence with the Chateau de St. Uldrich? or shall I——? My dear Eliza, you must excuse me. I know not what I am saying, doing, thinking. But come, I must mention something.
“You must know then that when we arrived at Bourdeaux, my father went to pay his respects to the Marquise de Narsey; she visited me the next morning, and in the evening we all went to the theatre to see a new piece. This new piece, you must know, was the prettiest thing I ever saw; and so my father and the Marchioness thought. He, who, you know, is so curious, inquired the name of the author—and who should this prove to be but Monsieur Dalbert! But who is Monsieur Dalbert? Why, my dear, his father was General Dalbert’s son, that was disinherited by him for marrying a poor Frenchwoman. The General being our friend and neighbour in England, my father took some trouble to find out the author, and he invited him to dine at our hotel.
“I had expected a nasty, pedantick, self-sufficient fellow, and therefore took no great pains at my toilette. I was sitting behind the drawing-room door when he entered, and only think of my surprise on seeing, instead of the person I had pictured to myself, one of the handsomest and most elegant young men I ever saw. He accosted my father in English, and addressed me in the same language, with that air of ease and politeness that we do not frequently see in England. You see I already assume the airs of a traveller.
“In his countenance and accents, there was a charm that I cannot describe to you. I soon found he had spoken English merely in compliment to us, for insensibly we all in a short time conversed in French. I don’t know how it was, but every time that I spoke, or that he looked at me, I felt a something of embarrassment, together with a faltering of my speech, that I am not accustomed to. A more polite or agreeable man, however, I never met. But enough of Mr. Dalbert. No, one word more—he has, my dear Eliza, without exception, the finest black eyes, the whitest teeth, and the prettiest hands I ever saw. The epithet that best applies to him, I think, is interesting. Nobody can be more free from that lively gesticulation which Frenchmen generally possess than he. He is, as they say, sans façon. He is uncommonly tall; I am sure he is above six feet; and, to complete his picture, he is very brown, and very thin; he is, besides, perfectly well made. Poor fellow, he has for years supported his mother and himself entirely by the labours of his pen. I understand his mother is at present in the country. My father thinks him one of the best writers of the present day; and certainly that dramatick piece we saw was admirable. I should tell you there is a calmness about him, mingled with a slight portion of melancholy, that would please you infinitely. But shall I never have done with this man?
“We have met with another charming man, the Count d’Egfryd. But he is married. He and the Comtesse are excessively attentive to us. I don’t know how we shall be able to repay all their civilities. The Count is one of the most amiable men in the world—but the Comtesse, between you and me, I don’t admire with enthusiasm. Her manners and disposition are diametrically opposite to mine, and therefore we shall never be called the inseparables. However, nothing can exceed her politeness or attention. We are now at their castle, about ten miles from Bourdeaux. It is a Gothick building, but such a building! No, never did you see any thing half so handsome. But it is very late, and I am getting sleepy. Good night, and believe me your sincere friend,
“Julia Bolton.
Chateau de St. Uldrich.”
Theodore Dalbert, after the departure of Mr. Bolton and Julia from Bourdeaux, was melancholy and uneasy. He felt depressed without knowing why, and thought of his English friends at one time with affection, at another time with regret. His studies no longer amused him. He could not sit at home. He could not remain abroad.
In this mood he was entering the narrow street in which was his humble habitation, on the second day after the departure of his friends, when, as he passed by a dark passage, a man, muffled in a large coat, suddenly darted on him with a stiletto, and aimed a blow at his breast. Theodore, most fortunately, had a book within his coat, through the leaves of which the instrument pierced even to his skin. But for this the blow must have been mortal. It was intended to be so.
The assassin had not time to repeat his attack. Swift as lightning, his intended victim caught and disarmed the murderous hand and with his parapluie warded off a similar blow from a second ruffian, who now advanced.
The first, Theodore, though alarmed, rushed on with irresistible vigour, and pierced with the stiletto that had been a moment before directed against himself. The wretch dropped with a groan, pouring out his heart’s blood. The contest now was more equal; it was between two men, each armed alike. Theodore, accustomed to fencing from his infancy, immediately saw the mode of fight he should adopt; this was to retreat, and to defend himself till his adversary should give him an opening; accordingly he did so, and in less than a minute his foe, wounded, prostrate, and disarmed, lay before him. Curious to know the motive for such an outrage, he conducted the miscreant to his apartment, dressed his wound, and having made him sit down, considered with attention his countenance and person.
A figure more uncouth, or a face less human, can hardly be conceived. The former heavy, shapeless, and gigantick; the latter black, lowering, and malignant. His eyes alone would have rendered him diabolical; small, dark, and unsteady, their squint was never to be caught; sheltered by jaw-bones of brutal projection, and brows of preternatural and gloomy exuberance, they shot their felon glances with ominous obliquity. His lips, which were never closed, displayed a cavern not to be surveyed without disgust, and were extended in swollen masses from one ear to the other. His nose was broad, flat, and rough. His ears, raw and discoloured, seemed monstrous excrescences of flesh, rather hanging from than growing to the head, with a weight that sunk them to the shoulders. His cheeks displayed numerous eruptive marks of gross intemperance, and his forehead was wrinkled into a thousand folds, and every fold contained a frown. His skin was foul and sallow. His hair was black and crispy. He had the stutter of habitual and designing falsehood, and his voice was deep, hoarse, and savage. To look at the monster without horror was impossible; to meet him in a lonely place without feeling alarm, was to be superior to the weakness of fear.
Such was the person to whom Theodore, with a composed countenance and with mild accents, addressed himself. And here, as well as on future occasions, I shall take the liberty granted to all historians, of rendering into the language which I employ, what was originally uttered in another tongue—“What has happened this night,” said Theodore, “or any thing I now say, the thought of your companion lying dead, or the recollection of my clemency, will have no effect on you. I will not prosecute you, because my principles forbid my becoming an accessory in taking away the life of any one; and if you were to be tried you would be executed. My principles I shall not explain to you. It is probable you would not understand me. All I require of you is to tell me what induced you to attempt my assassination. What injury has any one to accuse me of? Who employed you? Who and what was your companion? Who are you? and what benefit were you to reap from my death? Speak with confidence and candour. By my honour I will never reveal what you shall communicate to me this night, without your permission.”
The man, at language so unexpected, looked surprised and incredulous. A momentary expression, resembling the sneer of contempt, passed across his brutal visage. He coughed, hemmed, raised his shoulders, scratched his nasty head with one hand, the other he drew across his nostrils, elevated his frightful eyebrows, awkwardly endeavoured to give to his feeling of security some appearance of gratitude, and shook the apartment by the vulgar motion of his enormous feet, which, as he sat, danced with lively action on the floor.—“Sir,” said he, “I know not of any harm you have done, nor any enemy of your’s. All that I know is that I was to get a thousand livres, and my companion as much more, if we despatched you.”—“From whom?”—“I know not, Sir.”—“Who employed you?”—“I don’t know, Sir.”—“Don’t know!”—“Why, Sir, the story I have to tell you is a queer one. I will tell you, because it is impossible not to trust you; and because I can invent no tale at present that would impose on you. My employer is unknown to me. I can’t even guess who he is. He gives me my orders in such a way that I can never discover him, and he pays me so well that I never disobey him. Besides if I did, I should never be employed again, and it’s not improbable but that I should be murdered for my pains.”
“In such a way that you can’t discover him! explain yourself.”—“Oh! if I knew him, it would be the best day to me I ever saw. By threatening to peach I could have any sum of money, for I’m sure he’s woundy rich. I was a smuggler, please your honour, at Toulon, and I had got some little reputation, I believe, though I say it, for my spirit. But that’s neither here nor there. I had been more than once in prison, but I need not lose time in telling you about that. It is now about fourteen months since I got a letter in an odd sort of hand; I believe I have it about me; I will show it to you. Let me look for it. It will explain all this here business. Aye, here it is.”
Saying this, he produced from an old pocket-book a dirty piece of paper, which with some difficulty Theodore read. It was to the following effect—“Gaspar Pontgebre, I have seen you, and I know your character. You are poor. Become my agent, and you shall never want for money. Inquire every Friday at the post-office of St. Marc for any letter directed to you. Whatever you shall be enjoined to do in the letters you will there receive, execute with promptitude and precision. I now enclose you four hundred livres as an earnest of my generosity. Indiscretion or disobedience will cost you your life. You shall never be employed without receiving a gratuity. Some of my commands will require the agency of two persons. On Sunday next at two you will meet Conrad D’Aufrine at the cabaret with the green door, near the convent of Dominicans, Fauxbourg du Plendey. He is an Italian, and a bravo by profession. He will wear a red waistcoat. I shall instruct him how to know you. Accost him, and ask to see my letter to him. Show him this. Do what I shall in that point out, and on the Friday after you shall have performed those orders, you will find a letter for you in the office with five hundred livres.”
“Dark and horrible scheme! Did you meet this Conrad?”—“I did, Sir. He it is who now lies dead in the street. We did many a job for our unknown employer, and were always handsomely paid. The last required of us you will read in this letter, which I received yesterday.”
He now produced a letter, which was in the hand-writing of the unknown. It ran thus—“Gaspar Pontgebre, a young man, named Theodore Dalbert, lives on the first floor of the house No. 23, Rue St. Sulpice, in Bourdeaux. He is an author. He wears black, is twenty-five years of age, six feet high, brown and thin, with dark hair, black eyes, and straight nose. He is handsome. His deportment is grave and dignified, and his countenance mild and engaging. I hate him. Watch him, know him, murder him. I enclose two hundred livres. You shall have two thousand more, to be divided between you and Conrad, on the Friday after I shall have learned your success. Be particularly attentive to this order. No command you ever received was half so important to me. Dare to disobey. Dare to tamper with him. Dare even to whisper your employment, and inevitable destruction shall overwhelm you. I shall pursue, I shall find, I shall strike; no power shall protect, no flight preserve you. Know, miscreants, that with respect to you I am omnipotent. But know, likewise, that if you obey me but a little while longer, a happy independence shall certainly await you.” Theodore shuddered as he read this infernal scroll, of which the writing was evidently disguised.
“You see, Sir,” said the assassin, “what danger I run in showing you these letters, but as for his threats, I don’t care that for them,” snapping his fingers. “He thinks to frighten me into silence, but I can tell him, that but for his presents this would have little effect. Conrad and I were thinking, no later than yesterday, of publishing something about his commissions, in order if possible to discover, by means of any attack that should be made upon us, some clue by which to find him out. But Conrad thought we played a surer game in holding our tongues, and Conrad was a clever fellow.”
“Well,” said Theodore, “I thank you, friend, for your information. I told you I should never reveal your secret without your permission. I never will; but I am not without hopes that you will give me leave. Humble as I am, I undertake to procure for you a decent maintenance, and to ensure your safety. It behoves every man to unfold if possible an atrocious mystery of this kind, and you more than all others, having been the instrument employed. It is a reparation you owe to society. I would willingly abstain from another argument. I know it is ungenerous to allude to favours bestowed; but on this singular occasion permit me to remind you of the debts of gratitude you owe to me. Pay this debt. Bind me to your interests for ever. Confer a favour on me. Absolve me from my promise, and suffer me to keep these letters.”
“As to the matter of this, do you mind me,” replied the murderer, “I don’t well understand what you be about, not I. I believe you are what they call a mighty good kind of gentleman, and all that; and only I am not in the habit of liking people, I should perhaps approve of you hugely; but you are somehow softish, I observe, with submission, and I must thank you for my letters, and to hold your tongue if you please, as you promised. If you was to go for to talk about this, it would be after bringing an old house about my ears, and therefore I must wish you good night.”
He folded up his letters and was going.—“There is one question I would ask you,” said Theodore, “before you go. Has your employer communicated to you any mode by which you may convey information to him?”—“Convey information to him? aye, that he has. The second letter I ever got from him told me how I was to send any message to him I might have to communicate, and, sure enough, it is a comical method. You have heard of the Place de Sable, Sir?”—“That deserted place among the marshes. I know it.”—“It is commanded by all the back windows in the market-place, you know, perhaps.”—“It is.”—“Well, Sir, when I have any thing to say, I go to the Place de Sable, where being knee deep in mud, I am sure to meet nobody. With a long white pole in each hand, and standing on a spot described to me, I give my message by certain signals pointed out in a letter of instructions I received for that purpose. I am sure that, provided I do this on Sunday, at twelve o’ clock, my employer is looking at me—reading me, I might say. But as there are a thousand windows, through any one of which he may look, and a thousand hills about, on any one of which he may be placed, it is impossible to guess where he actually is. Besides, when I have any thing to communicate, I must, the night before, shoot three rockets from my house; one at ten, one at eleven, and one at twelve o’clock.”—“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Theodore, sinking into a chair, “such a contrivance!”—“Good night, Sir,” said the ruffian abruptly, who now retired as fast as his wound and its attendant pain and weakness would permit him, and shut the door.
Merciful Heaven! repeated Theodore, what superlative and unprecedented art! What horrible villainy! But am I, who, under all circumstances, have been the champion of innocence, and the assertor of virtue, to be initiated involuntarily into the black and hellish mysteries of guilt and treachery? Am I to learn a dark and dangerous transaction, and keep it secret? Am I to become the confidant of an assassin? Am I to know a conspiracy which threatens the happiness and security of society, and not reveal it? Shall I not become in the estimation of the virtuous, a conspirator myself? Shall I not, by a mistaken discretion, save the guilty and expose the innocent to destruction? Alas! such is my situation, that to perform a problematical duty, I should be guilty of a positive crime. Can I tell what I have heard this night without becoming the accuser of that assassin? and can I accuse him without exposing him to publick execution? To death? But who has a right to rob any man of life? What society, however numerous, has authority to do so? Every wretch that expiates his crimes at the tree or on the wheel, is in my opinion a victim to cruelty and prejudice. Human life is inviolable. The abstract reasoning of philosophy demonstrates this to the enlightened mind, and the practical experience of publick justice proves it to the ignorant. Not only has society no right to take away the life of any of its members, it is even guilty of impolicy, not to speak of barbarity, in attempting it.
Oh Beccaria,* Beccaria! When will thy mild and admirable system be understood by the besotted multitude? When will thy enlightened book be read by the rulers of the earth? Gaspar shall never be accused by me. Mercy prohibits it. But for the sanguinary laws of this country, I might have stepped forward between him and his victims, but here in France it must not be. Gaspar, I will keep my promise. Not a word of this transaction shall issue from these lips, or be written by these fingers. With respect to myself, and to ensure my own preservation, what must I resolve? I am in danger of ruin and assassination. I am detested by a monster, who hesitates to perpetrate no crime however atrocious, and whose interest it now is to murder me. Be it so. Shall I for this sacrifice my independence, my peace of mind? Shall virtue and innocence for ever yield to vice and violence? Forbid it, magnanimity, forbid it Heaven! I will live as usual, walk out as usual, and trust to Providence and this arm for my preservation. So saying and so thinking, the proud and virtuous Theodore went to bed and slept till morning, and no sentiments of anger or of fear disturbed his repose.
At one the next day the Count Egfryd waited on him, and invited him to the Chateau de St. Uldrich in so polite and kind a manner, that he knew not how to refuse. Unknown to him, or in spite of him, a wish to be near Miss Bolton predominated in his breast, and he accepted the invitation.
