CHAPTER XXIV. HIS SINS FOUND HIM OUT.

That same evening at the Gare de Lyons, a minute before the train started out of the station, a man dressed in a gray overcoat and wearing a soft felt traveling hat was hustled by the conductor into a coupe which until then had been tenanted by one solitary traveler. A shade of annoyance passed over the face of the latter as the door opened. It was evident that he had hoped to remain in undisturbed possession of the compartment. But he soon regained his equanimity. For from the fussy manner in which the intruder collected and arranged in the netting his impediments, among which was a lunch-basket, he surmised that he had to deal with a petit bourgeois, probably a small shop-keeper, who was totally unaccustomed to travel any farther than Bougival or Asnieres.

A conversation quickly sprang up between the two, and the man in gray displayed the greatest interest and unfeigned astonishment at the recital of his companion's adventures in foreign lands, and especially in Egypt and the Soudan. In response to a further inquiry, the latter explained that his knowledge of those countries was due to the fact of his having held a high position on the staff of General Lord Wolseley during the Nile expedition of 1884 for the rescue of Gordon.

In return for these confidences the man in gray stated that he was a wholesale grocer in the Faubourg Montmartre, and that he was on his way to visit a married sister who was established at Avignon. He added confidentially that he [Pg 196] had never in his life been farther away from Paris than Fontainebleau.

Shortly after they passed Melun the alleged grocer opened his lunch-basket and began to feast on some cold chicken, wine, and a box of sardines, which probably came from his shop in the Faubourg Montmartre. Suddenly he appeared to remember the fact that his fellow-traveler might possibly be hungry, too, and rather shyly asked if monsieur would do him the honor of joining him in his repast. This invitation was readily accepted, and a bottle of excellent Burgundy followed by a dram of old cognac, put the two men in such good humor that they began to grow more and more confidential.

The man in gray imparted to his companion all kinds of little tricks in the grocery trade, such as mingling sand with brown sugar, oleomargarine with fresh table butter, and he even acknowledged, to the great amusement of the other, that he had a Japanese in his employ to carefully open the boxes of prime tea received from China and Japan, who after having mixed the contents with some tea of very inferior quality, recanted them in such an adept manner that it was impossible for the retail grocers to detect the fact that they had ever been opened or their contents adulterated.

On the other hand Lord Wolseley's alleged staff officer horrified his grocer friend by a detailed description of the Soudanese method of killing their enemies, namely, by a swift, sweeping stroke across the throat with an exceedingly sharp knife, and which is invariably yielded from behind, so that the slayer escapes being deluged by the blood of his victim.

“When one has the knack,” added he, with a significant sweep of his hand, “one can almost sever the head with such a stroke.”

Meanwhile both of the men had been smoking some exceedingly [Pg 197] fine Manilla cheroots, which it is well known are slightly washed with opium, and which the grocer had offered to his new acquaintance. By and by they both dropped off into a deep sleep, the slumbers of the alleged staff officer being far more heavy than those of his companion, as it was easy to perceive by his stertorous breathing. Indeed, it almost sounded as if he was under the influence of some particularly strong narcotic.

Suddenly the grocer stealthily opened his eyes, and, having assured himself that his fellow-traveler was asleep, proceeded to examine the contents not only of his pockets but also of his valise. An exclamation of satisfaction burst from his lips as he found the objects of his search, which, as he held them up to the dim light of the lamp, it was easy to perceive consisted of valuable jewelry.

As he raised his face toward the lamp for the purpose of examining his booty his false beard fell off and revealed the features of Frederick von Waldberg.

The sleeping man who had been drugged both by means of the brandy and of the cigar which had been offered to him was Pranzini, who over a year later was guillotined for the murder of a demi-mondaine named Marie Regnault, who, together with her maid and the latter's child, were found in her apartment of the Rue Montaigne, slain in identically the same fashion in which Marie Aguetant had been killed two days previous to Pranzini's and Frederick's departure together from Paris. All four victims had been murdered with the same sweeping backward stroke of the knife so graphically described by Pranzini to the alleged grocer.

When the train steamed into Dijon, Frederick gathered up all his belongings and got out.

Pranzini did not awake till after leaving Avignon, and only discovered after his arrival in Marseilles that he had been robbed. Of course, under the circumstances, he was [Pg 198] unable to apply to the police for assistance, for these jewels were those stolen from Marie Aguetant, whom he, Pranzini, had killed, but for whose murder “Prado” suffered death.

Frederick, after leaving Dijon, made his way across country to Bordeaux, and from thence to Madrid, where he pawned the jewels, with the help of a woman of the name of Ximenes.

It was mainly on the evidence adduced by this very woman, to the effect that the jewels in question had been pawned by Linska de Castillon, alias “Prado” (the name which he gave on his arrest), that he was condemned for the murder of Marie Aguetant, which he had not committed, but of which Pranzini alone was guilty.

Pranzini always bore a grudge against l'homme en gris (the man in the gray coat), whose name he did not know, but whom he accused of having been his accomplice in the triple murder of the Rue Montaigne.

Frederick, on the other hand, when the trial of Pranzini took place, recognized in the features of the prisoner those of his traveling companion from whom he had stolen the jewels subsequently identified as those of Marie Aguetant.

For obvious reasons he remained silent at the time.

But why did he not speak when, later on, his own life was at stake? The only explanation of this mysterious silence is to be found in the last lines of the confession which he intrusted to Louis Berard. They are, word for word, as follows:

“I know that I yet could save myself. Why should I not say the truth, that Pranzini, the assassin of Marie Regnault, was also the slayer of Marie Aguetant, of whose murder I am unjustly accused! My reason for remaining silent and for refusing to sign my recours en grace (appeal for mercy) is that I am heartily sick of life. I am bound, in any case, to be condemned to penal servitude for robbery; a second time I would not escape from Noumea. My life is [Pg 199] destroyed; all my ambitions are dead—I have nothing more to live for in this world. I am happy to leave it. The guillotine, toward which I am going, is a just retribution for other crimes. My sins have found me out.

“(Signed)

Count Frederick von Waldberg.”

Such is the extraordinary history of the man who was guillotined on the 4th of December, 1888, under the alias of “Prado,” and who, having escaped punishment for the innumerable atrocities he had committed, finally suffered death for a crime of which he was innocent.

Louis Berard.

The End