Chương Chương 57 · THE PERSPICACITY OF MASTER SCAUFFLAIRE

From the town-hall he betook himself to the extremity of the town, to a

Fleming named Master Scaufflaer, French Scaufflaire, who let out

“horses and cabriolets as desired.”

In order to reach this Scaufflaire, the shortest way was to take the

little-frequented street in which was situated the parsonage of the

parish in which M. Madeleine resided. The curé was, it was said, a

worthy, respectable, and sensible man. At the moment when M. Madeleine

arrived in front of the parsonage there was but one passer-by in the

street, and this person noticed this: After the mayor had passed the

priest’s house he halted, stood motionless, then turned about, and

retraced his steps to the door of the parsonage, which had an iron

knocker. He laid his hand quickly on the knocker and lifted it; then he

paused again and stopped short, as though in thought, and after the

lapse of a few seconds, instead of allowing the knocker to fall

abruptly, he placed it gently, and resumed his way with a sort of haste

which had not been apparent previously.

M. Madeleine found Master Scaufflaire at home, engaged in stitching a

harness over.

“Master Scaufflaire,” he inquired, “have you a good horse?”

“Mr. Mayor,” said the Fleming, “all my horses are good. What do you

mean by a good horse?”

“I mean a horse which can travel twenty leagues in a day.”

“The deuce!” said the Fleming. “Twenty leagues!”

“Yes.”

“Hitched to a cabriolet?”

“Yes.”

“And how long can he rest at the end of his journey?”

“He must be able to set out again on the next day if necessary.”

“To traverse the same road?”

“Yes.”

“The deuce! the deuce! And it is twenty leagues?”

M. Madeleine drew from his pocket the paper on which he had pencilled

some figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures were 5, 6, 8½.

“You see,” he said, “total, nineteen and a half; as well say twenty

leagues.”

“Mr. Mayor,” returned the Fleming, “I have just what you want. My

little white horse—you may have seen him pass occasionally; he is a

small beast from Lower Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They wanted to

make a saddle-horse of him at first. Bah! He reared, he kicked, he laid

everybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious, and no one

knew what to do with him. I bought him. I harnessed him to a carriage.

That is what he wanted, sir; he is as gentle as a girl; he goes like

the wind. Ah! indeed he must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas

to be a saddle-horse. Every one has his ambition. ‘Draw? Yes. Carry?

No.’ We must suppose that is what he said to himself.”

“And he will accomplish the trip?”

“Your twenty leagues all at a full trot, and in less than eight hours.

But here are the conditions.”

“State them.”

“In the first place, you will give him half an hour’s breathing spell

midway of the road; he will eat; and some one must be by while he is

eating to prevent the stable boy of the inn from stealing his oats; for

I have noticed that in inns the oats are more often drunk by the stable

men than eaten by the horses.”

“Some one will be by.”

“In the second place—is the cabriolet for Monsieur le Maire?”

“Yes.”

“Does Monsieur le Maire know how to drive?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Monsieur le Maire will travel alone and without baggage, in

order not to overload the horse?”

“Agreed.”

“But as Monsieur le Maire will have no one with him, he will be obliged

to take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen.”

“That is understood.”

“I am to have thirty francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for

also—not a farthing less; and the beast’s food to be at Monsieur le

Maire’s expense.”

M. Madeleine drew three napoleons from his purse and laid them on the

table.

“Here is the pay for two days in advance.”

“Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy, and would

fatigue the horse. Monsieur le Maire must consent to travel in a little

tilbury that I own.”

“I consent to that.”

“It is light, but it has no cover.”

“That makes no difference to me.”

“Has Monsieur le Maire reflected that we are in the middle of winter?”

M. Madeleine did not reply. The Fleming resumed:—

“That it is very cold?”

M. Madeleine preserved silence.

Master Scaufflaire continued:—

“That it may rain?”

M. Madeleine raised his head and said:—

“The tilbury and the horse will be in front of my door to-morrow

morning at half-past four o’clock.”

“Of course, Monsieur le Maire,” replied Scaufflaire; then, scratching a

speck in the wood of the table with his thumb-nail, he resumed with

that careless air which the Flemings understand so well how to mingle

with their shrewdness:—

“But this is what I am thinking of now: Monsieur le Maire has not told

me where he is going. Where is Monsieur le Maire going?”

He had been thinking of nothing else since the beginning of the

conversation, but he did not know why he had not dared to put the

question.

“Are your horse’s forelegs good?” said M. Madeleine.

“Yes, Monsieur le Maire. You must hold him in a little when going down

hill. Are there many descends between here and the place whither you

are going?”

“Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half-past four o’clock

to-morrow morning,” replied M. Madeleine; and he took his departure.

The Fleming remained “utterly stupid,” as he himself said some time

afterwards.

The mayor had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened

again; it was the mayor once more.

He still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air.

“Monsieur Scaufflaire,” said he, “at what sum do you estimate the value

of the horse and tilbury which you are to let to me,—the one bearing

the other?”

“The one dragging the other, Monsieur le Maire,” said the Fleming, with

a broad smile.

“So be it. Well?”

“Does Monsieur le Maire wish to purchase them or me?”

“No; but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me back

the sum at my return. At what value do you estimate your horse and

cabriolet?”

“Five hundred francs, Monsieur le Maire.”

“Here it is.”

M. Madeleine laid a bank-bill on the table, then left the room; and

this time he did not return.

Master Scaufflaire experienced a frightful regret that he had not said

a thousand francs. Besides the horse and tilbury together were worth

but a hundred crowns.

The Fleming called his wife, and related the affair to her. “Where the

devil could Monsieur le Maire be going?” They held counsel together.

“He is going to Paris,” said the wife. “I don’t believe it,” said the

husband.

M. Madeleine had forgotten the paper with the figures on it, and it lay

on the chimney-piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it. “Five,

six, eight and a half? That must designate the posting relays.” He

turned to his wife:—

“I have found out.”

“What?”

“It is five leagues from here to Hesdin, six from Hesdin to Saint-Pol,

eight and a half from Saint-Pol to Arras. He is going to Arras.”

Meanwhile, M. Madeleine had returned home. He had taken the longest way

to return from Master Scaufflaire’s, as though the parsonage door had

been a temptation for him, and he had wished to avoid it. He ascended

to his room, and there he shut himself up, which was a very simple act,

since he liked to go to bed early. Nevertheless, the portress of the

factory, who was, at the same time, M. Madeleine’s only servant,

noticed that the latter’s light was extinguished at half-past eight,

and she mentioned it to the cashier when he came home, adding:—

“Is Monsieur le Maire ill? I thought he had a rather singular air.”

This cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Madeleine’s

chamber. He paid no heed to the portress’s words, but went to bed and

to sleep. Towards midnight he woke up with a start; in his sleep he had

heard a noise above his head. He listened; it was a footstep pacing

back and forth, as though some one were walking in the room above him.

He listened more attentively, and recognized M. Madeleine’s step. This

struck him as strange; usually, there was no noise in M. Madeleine’s

chamber until he rose in the morning. A moment later the cashier heard

a noise which resembled that of a cupboard being opened, and then shut

again; then a piece of furniture was disarranged; then a pause ensued;

then the step began again. The cashier sat up in bed, quite awake now,

and staring; and through his window-panes he saw the reddish gleam of a

lighted window reflected on the opposite wall; from the direction of

the rays, it could only come from the window of M. Madeleine’s chamber.

The reflection wavered, as though it came rather from a fire which had

been lighted than from a candle. The shadow of the window-frame was not

shown, which indicated that the window was wide open. The fact that

this window was open in such cold weather was surprising. The cashier

fell asleep again. An hour or two later he waked again. The same step

was still passing slowly and regularly back and forth overhead.

The reflection was still visible on the wall, but now it was pale and

peaceful, like the reflection of a lamp or of a candle. The window was

still open.

This is what had taken place in M. Madeleine’s room.