Читать книгу The Court of St. Simon - E. Phillips Oppenhein - Страница 7

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THE smaller room, disclosed by the rolling back of the folding doors, was brilliantly illuminated, and from their darkened point of vantage seemed to D'Argminac to be something like the stage of a theatre. It was almost devoid of furniture, and the floor was covered with some sort of linoleum. There was a straight broad platform in the middle, on which the man whom they had brought there was sitting. By his side stood the person who was acting as jailer. A smaller man, with black, close-cropped hair, gold spectacles, and the air of a physician, came from the background. He leaned over to Monsieur Simon.

"The man is healthy," he announced. "Pulse and heart action are perfectly normal. He has two hundred and seventy francs, a gold watch, and some unimportant articles in his pocket."

Monsieur Simon sighed. "It is very little," he said. "Destroy everything except the money. Rather a bad case, I am afraid, doctor."

The other nodded. "I have heard of the fellow," he remarked. "He has a shocking reputation."

Their prisoner tried now to rise to his feet. His tie and collar were disarranged, his bulbous eyes were strained in the effort to see into the darkened room.

"Where am I?" he cried. "Is this a hospital? Has anything happened to me?"

Monsieur Simon spoke from the shadows. "Jean Henneguy," he said, "you are before the Court of St. Simon. Have you ever heard of it?"

"The Court of St. Simon," the man muttered angrily. "Is this some silly trick?"

Monsieur Simon sighed. "It is no trick," he said. "I will not explain our title, for I fancy that your reading, Jean Henneguy, has not extended to the ancient history of the world. Let me tell you simply that you are in the presence of those who amuse themselves in their spare moments by endeavoring to equate some of the miserable unfairnesses of life. It is not much that we can do, but here and there, Jean Henneguy, we take hold of a man as we have taken hold of you, whose life does not please us or his fellow men, and in our small way we do some trifling thing towards righting the balance."

"Is this a mad-house?" the man growled.

"No, no!" Monsieur Simon declared soothingly. "You are mistaken. It is precisely what I say. Now listen, and tell me if you recognize yourself. You are Jean Henneguy, of the Porte St. Martin. You are a manufacturer of thread, you employ forty young girls, and your wage bill is the lowest in the district. Your income is perhaps a hundred thousand francs. You tell your wife that it is not fifty. You have friends here and friends there on whom you squander money; your wife is a neglected and broken-spirited woman. You have never been known to spend a centime except for your own gratification, you have never been known to assist a human being or to perform a single act of kindness. Your life is an offence to the community. It is a peculiar offence to us, Jean Henneguy, that on the night when we were so fortunate as to bring you here, you should have been carrying upon your person only the sum of two hundred and seventy francs."

The man began to bluster. "But this is imbecility!" he exclaimed. "It is a robbers' den this, then. You want my money, eh?"

"A little more than your money, Jean Henneguy," Monsieur Simon continued calmly. "It is not enough. If you had been found to-night with ten thousand or even five thousand francs about you, we might have considered such an offering. But two hundred and seventy francs and a gold watch, Jean Henneguy, against the whole list of your misdeeds, is a trifling matter indeed!"

The man was beginning to get uneasy. He was straining his eyes in the effort to see the faces of the men with whom he talked.

"Well, well," he said, "who you are, and how it is you know anything of me or my life, I don't understand. What matter! Am I a prisoner? I wish to go. If I am to be robbed, I may as well put up with it. Keep my money and let me go."

"It is not enough, Jean Henneguy," Monsieur Simon repeated regretfully. "This is a court of justice, but, alas! our powers are limited. We cannot compel you to give more than you have upon you. Even here payment can be exacted from you only up to the pitch of unconsciousness. No, you will not meet with justice to-night, Jean Henneguy, although it is our privilege to deal out some slight measure of punishment."

The man's eyes began to roll. "What do you mean?" he growled.

"Give him twelve lashes," Monsieur Simon ordered—"twenty if he shouts like that. The gag!"

The man's yell was abruptly stifled. The folding doors were slowly returning to their original place. Monsieur Simon strolled towards the switch of the electric lights and pressed it with his forefinger.

"You see, after all, my dear D'Argminac," he remarked, passing his cigarette case to the younger man, "that we are moralists. To judge from our costumes and our methods, people might, perhaps, call us hard names. That would be foolish, for we do not deserve them. Dear me, what a babel! I am afraid that there is still another sin to be charged up to our friend. I am really afraid that he is a coward."

From the inner room came a succession of half-stifled cries, pathetic sobbing, as though some animal were caught in a trap. The soft swish of a whip cut through the air, beating time moment for moment with those hysterical murmurs of agony. D'Argminac felt suddenly sick.

"You would like to come behind the scenes with me, no doubt, and see this creature punished?" Monsieur Simon suggested. "I am afraid he is but a poor subject. He cries all the time like a rabbit."

D'Argminac set his teeth. "Cannot we see from here?" he asked.

"Just as you like," Monsieur Simon replied carelessly. "I thought that perhaps you would prefer closer quarters."

He readjusted his mask, turned out the lights, touched a bell, and the folding doors once more rolled back. Henneguy was lying with his face downward, writhing upon the platform. They had drawn a sheet over him. He seemed still to be sobbing in a half-choked manner.

"Take away his gag," Monsieur Simon ordered. "Let us hear if he has anything to say."

They removed it and the sheet. The man's face was horrible. The perspiration was standing in great globules all over his forehead, a dull streak of color glowed across his livid cheeks.

"Pardon!" he begged. "Pardon, Messieurs! I will pay. I will give five hundred francs—five hundred francs—no, a thousand—if you will put me in a cab and send me home. I will ask no questions, I swear that I will do nothing. I will send the money wherever you will. I am not strong. I cannot stand this. I shall die—oh, my God, I shall die!"

Monsieur Simon listened with immovable face. The girl by his side laughed openly, her white teeth flashing in the dim light.

"It is a pity," Monsieur Simon remarked to D'Argminac, "that to-night we should have had to deal with a coward. Often we have men who, whatever their faults may be, possess courage. Not so this poor lump of flesh! How many lashes did we say?"

"Twelve, sir," answered the man who stood by the side of the platform.

"And how many has he had?"

"Eight, sir."

"You hear?" continued Monsieur Simon, addressing the man who lay writhing upon the platform. "You have four more lashes to receive, Jean Henneguy. Think of that, and remember that you are being punished now for the life you have led. Remember that a single good action committed by you during the last twelve years would have meant a lash the less. If one could learn a single favorable thing concerning you and your pig-like existence, you should be spared, but there has been nothing. You have eaten and drunk, you have fed out of the trough, you have satisfied every coarse appetite which your nature has begotten. You have shown kindness to none. You have not once stretched out your hand to help a poorer brother. It is an inadequate payment that you make to-night, but it is something. Proceed."

The man who was armed with the whip stepped forward. His victim struggled violently.

"Did I say a thousand francs?" he shrieked. "I will give five thousand to any hospital, to any charitable work you will. I will not say that I have been robbed—I swear it. Monsieur—you there whom I cannot see—listen, I pray you! Have mercy! For Heaven's sake, have mercy!"

Monsieur Simon seemed as though he had not heard a word. Turning to D'Argminac, "Perhaps," he suggested, "it would amuse you to wield for a moment the whip? If so, do not hesitate to step upon the platform. No? Then continue, Pierre."

The whip sang through the air. The gag was back in its place, but the man's frantic, half-stifled shriek was like the death cry of a dumb animal. D'Argminac turned and fled into the back portion of the room. Monsieur Simon, with a smile, followed him. The folding doors were closed, the lights shone once more out in the room.

"So, my young friend," he remarked pleasantly, "we have, I trust, succeeded. We have at least shaken that expression of weariness from your face. Once more you look as though life held things which counted. Pardon me, you will drink some wine?"

D'Argminac accepted the glass with shaking fingers. His face was livid, he was feeling horribly sick. "Can't we—can't I get away?" he begged.

"By all means," Monsieur Simon assented. "If it would amuse you to return here afterwards—"

"No!" D'Argminac interrupted. "No, I should like to go home at once! It doesn't matter about my clothes." "As you will," Monsieur Simon answered. "Your clothes shall be returned to your rooms. You will, perhaps, give us the pleasure of your company again before long. Mademoiselle my sister and I are always enchanted."

"I thank you," muttered D'Argminac.

They stood now upon the doorstep. The automobile was waiting. They all three entered.

"You are leaving him here?" D'Argminac whispered.

"But certainly," replied Monsieur Simon. "This is all part of a scheme, my young friend, a perfectly organized scheme. My people know exactly what to do with him."

"But won't he—don't they go to the police afterwards?" D'Argminac asked.

Monsieur Simon shrugged his shoulders. "To tell you the truth, some of them do, but their stories sound strangely, you know. They are drugged in a peculiar manner when they come, and we give them just a little more of the drug when they leave, and they are found practically where we picked them up, robbed, and, to all appearance, recovering from a drunken slumber. Their story, if they venture to tell it, doesn't sound very credible, and for the rest, I will bet you a hundred louis, if you will, Monsieur d'Argminac, that you shall set out tomorrow from your rooms and you shall search all Paris and you will find no trace of the house from which we started, or the hospital we have just left."

"But it is a risk, surely it is a risk!" exclaimed the young man. "There is always a chance that you might be recognized and discovered."

Monsieur Simon sighed. "You talk like a child," he murmured softly. "We came out to-night to try and stir your pulses a little. Is anything in life which creates emotion done without risk? It is all a matter of degree. You risk your life every time you cross the Boulevard. Yes, we chance something, of course, but not so much as you think. The Court of St. Simon is one of the jokes of the magistrates' rooms here. No one believes in it, of course. In a moment or two, Monsieur Eugène, we shall put you down at the corner of the Rue Galilee, and as a matter of form, I must request that your little adventure of to-night remains a secret."

"You trust me, then?"

Monsieur Simon smiled. "There was one who tried to talk," he remarked, "a year ago. He was brought to the hospital and he did not get off quite so lightly as our friend Jean Henneguy, who in a very short time will be found lying, badly beaten and robbed but alive, in the gutter of the street where we found him."

"Will you bring me with you again?" the boy asked. "You mean it?" Monsieur Simon replied.

"I mean it," D'Argminac asserted, though his voice, even when he had asked the question, trembled.

"We will see," Monsieur Simon answered. "We may come across one another again. Let it depend upon the humor we are in."

"May I know your name?" the young man asked. "They call you Monsieur Simon, but one knows—"

"Monsieur Simon is the name by which I am known at night. It is the name which belongs to our acquaintance. Descend here, if you please, Monsieur, and au revoir!"

Eugène d'Argminac was left standing at the comer of his street in the cool dawn-light. The automobile was already rushing on towards the Champs Elysées. Even here, through the stillness of the early morning, he fancied for a moment that he could hear the horrible cry of the beaten man. With a shiver he hurried into his apartments.