The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes (books to read now .TXT) 📕

of the transience not only of human life, but what means so much more to most sentient human beings, the transience of such measure of happiness as we poor mortals are allowed to enjoy.

His imagination conjured up Nancy Dampier as he had first seen her standing in Virginie Poulain’s little room. She had been a vision of lovely girlhood, and yes, far more than that—though he had not known it then—of radiant content.

And now?

His unspoken question was answered by Mrs. Dampier’s return into the room. He looked at her searchingly. Yes, she was lovely—her beauty rather heightened than diminished, as is so often the case with a very young woman, by the ordeal she was going through, but all the glow and radiance were gone from her face.

“I ought to have told you before,” he said impulsively, “that—that among the men who were taken to the Morgue yesterday morning there was no one who in the least answered to the description you have given me of Mr. Dampier—so much the Commissary of Police was able to inform me most positively.”

And Nancy drew a long convulsive breath of relief.

They went down to the courtyard, and across to the porte cochère. While they did so Gerald Burton was unpleasantly conscious that they were being watched; watched from behind the door which led into the garden, for there stood Jules, a broom as almost always in his hand: watched from the kitchen window, where Madame Poulain stood with arms akimbo: watched from behind the glass pane of the little office which was only occupied when Monsieur Poulain was engaged in the pleasant task of making out his profitable weekly bills.

But not one of the three watchers came forward and offered to do them even the usual, trifling service of hailing a cab.

The two passed out into the narrow street and walked till they came to the square where stood, at this still early hour of the morning, long rows of open carriages.

“I think we’d better drive?” said Gerald Burton questioningly.

And his companion answered quickly, “Oh yes! I should like to get there as quickly as possible.” And then her pale face flushed a little. “Mr. Burton, will you kindly pay for me?”

She put her purse, an absurd, delicately tinted little beaded purse which had been one of her wedding presents, into his hand.

Gerald took it without demur. Had he been escorting an American girl, he would have insisted on being paymaster, but some sure instinct had already taught him how to treat Nancy Dampier—he realised she preferred not adding a material to the many immaterial obligations she now owed the Burton family.

A quarter of an hour’s quick driving brought them within sight of the low, menacing-looking building which is so curiously, in a sense so beautifully, situated on the left bank of the Seine, to the right of Notre Dame.

“Mrs. Dampier? I beg you not to get out of the carriage till I come and fetch you,” said Gerald earnestly, “there is no necessity for you to come into the Morgue unless—” he hesitated.

“I know what you mean,” she said quietly. “Unless you see someone there who might be Jack. Yes, Mr. Burton, I’ll stay quietly in the carriage till you come and fetch me. It’s very good of you to have thought of it.”

But when they drew up before the great closed door two or three of the incorrigible beggars who spend their days in the neighbourhood of the greater Paris churches, came eagerly forward.

Here were a fine couple, a good-looking Englishman and his bride. True, they were about to be cheated out of their bit of fun, but they might be good for a small dole—so thought the shrewder of those idlers who seemed, as the carriage drew up, to spring out of the ground.

One of them strolled up to Gerald. “M’sieur cannot go into the Morgue unless he has a permit,” he said with a whine.

Gerald shook the man off, and rang at the closed door. It seemed a long time before it was opened by a man dressed like a Paris workman, that is in a bright blue blouse and long baggy white trousers.

“I want to view any bodies which were brought in yesterday. I fear I am a little early?”

He slipped a five franc piece into the man’s hand. But the silver key which unlocks so many closed doors in Paris only bought this time a civil answer.

“Impossible, monsieur! I should lose my place. I could not do it for a thousand francs.” And then in answer to the American’s few words of surprise and discomfiture,—“Yes, it’s quite true that we were open to the public till three years ago. But it’s easier to get into the Elysée than it is to get into the Morgue, nowadays.” He waited a moment, then he murmured under his breath, “Of course if monsieur cares to say that he is looking for someone who has disappeared, and if he will provide a description, the more commonplace the better, then—well, monsieur may be able to obtain a permit! At any rate monsieur has only to go along to the office where permits are issued to find that what I say is true. If only monsieur will bring me a permit I will gladly show monsieur everything there is to be seen.” The man became enthusiastic. “Not only are there the bodies to see! We also possess relics of many great criminals; and as for our refrigerating machines—ah, monsieur, they are really in their way wonders! Well worth, as I have sometimes heard people say, coming all the way to Paris to see!”

Sick at heart Gerald Burton turned away—not, however, before he had explained gravely that his wish in coming to the Morgue was not to gratify idle curiosity, but to seek a friend whose disappearance since the morning before was causing acute anxiety.

The man looked at him doubtfully—somehow this young gentleman did not look as people generally look who come to the Morgue on serious business. The janitor was only too familiar with the signs—the air of excitement, of dejection, of suspense, the reddened eyelids…. But, “In that case I am sure to see monsieur again within a few minutes,” he said politely.

Nancy had stepped down from the carriage. “Well?” she said anxiously. “Well, won’t he let you in?”

“We shall have to get an order. The office is only just over there, opposite Notre Dame. Shall we dismiss the cab?”

“Yes,” she said. “I would far rather walk across.” Still followed by a troop of ragged idlers, they hastened across the great space in front of Notre Dame and so to the office of the Morgue.

At first the tired official whose not always easy duty it is to discriminate between the morbid sightseer and the anxious relative or friend, did not believe the American’s story. He, too, evidently thought that Gerald and the latter’s charming, daintily dressed companion were simply desirous of seeing every sight, however horrible, that Paris has to offer. But when he heard the name “Dampier,” his manner suddenly changed. There came over his face a sincere look of pity and concern.

“You made enquiries concerning this gentleman yesterday?” he observed, and Gerald Burton, rather surprised, though after all he need not have been, assented. Then the Commissary of Police had been to some trouble for him after all? He, Gerald, had done the man an injustice.

“We have had five bodies already brought in this morning,” said the clerk thoughtfully. “But I’m sure that none of them answers to the description we have had of madame’s husband. Let me see—Monsieur Dampier is aged thirty-four—he is tall, dressed in a grey suit, or possibly a brown suit of clothes, with a shock of fair hair?”

And again Gerald Burton was surprised how well the man remembered.

The other went into another room and came back with a number of grey cards in his hand. He began to mumble over the descriptions, and suddenly Gerald stopped him.

“That might be the person we are looking for!” he exclaimed. “I mean the description you’ve just read out—that of the Englishman?”

“Oh no, monsieur! I assure you that the body here described is that of a quite young man.” And as the American looked at him doubtfully, he added, “But still, if you wish to make absolutely sure I will make out a permit; and madame can stay here while you go across to the Morgue.” Again he looked pityingly at Mrs. Dampier.

Nancy shook her head. “Tell him I mean to go too,” she said quietly.

The man looked at her with an odd expression. “I should not myself care to take my wife or my sister to the Morgue, monsieur. Believe me her husband is not there. Do try and dissuade the poor lady.” As he spoke he averted his eyes from Nancy’s flushed face.

Gerald Burton hesitated: it was really kind of this good fellow to feel so much for a stranger’s distress.

“Won’t you stay here and let me go alone to that place? I think you can trust me. You see there is only one body there which in any way answers to the description.”

“Yes, I quite understand that, but I’d rather go too.” Her lips quivered. “You see you’ve never seen Jack, Mr. Burton.”

“I’m afraid this lady is quite determined to go too,” said the young American in a low voice; and without making any further objection, the Frenchman filled in a form and silently handed it to Gerald Burton.

And then something happened which was perhaps more untoward and strange than Gerald realised.

He and Mrs. Dampier were already well started across the great sunny space in front of Notre Dame, when suddenly he felt himself tapped on the shoulder by the man from whom they had just parted.

“Monsieur, monsieur!” said the French official breathlessly, “I forgot a most important point. Visitors to the Morgue are not allowed to see all the bodies exposed in our mortuary. When the place was closed to the public we went from one extreme to the other. The man whose description you think approximates to that of the gentleman you are looking for is Number 4. Tell the guardian to show you Number 4.”

Then he turned on his heel, without awaiting the other’s thanks; and as he walked away, the Frenchman said aloud, not once but many times, “Pauvre petite dame!” And then again and again, “Paume petite dame!”

But his conscience was clear. He had done his very best to prevent that obstinate young American subjecting the “poor little lady” to the horrible ordeal she was about to go through. Once more he spoke aloud—“They have no imagination—none at all—these Yankees!” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.