The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 16/The Mystery of the Rue de Pot-de-Fer
A TRUE STORY, TOLD FROM THE LETTERS OF MADEMOISELLE AÏSSÉ.
By F. Bayford Harrison.
Part I.—The Invalid in White.
EAN FRANÇOIS ISEZ, the famous surgeon, had retired to his apartments after a professional round, and had hardly begun to eat the dinner which his old servant, Manette, served to him, when a note was brought to him. He inquired who had brought it, but the concierge had not noticed the messenger. It was one afternoon early in April, 1727; the place was Paris; and Isez was the most fashionable doctor of his day, and much in request among the fine ladies and gentlemen of France.
The note, a sheet of white paper written on in pale ink, and in a very small, uncharacteristic handwriting, contained these words—
"M. the surgeon J. F. Isez is prayed to betake himself this afternoon, at six o'clock, to the Rue du Pot-de-fer, near the Luxemburg."
There was no signature.
M. Isez threw on him his cloak with the velvet collar, called a sedan chair, and hurried away to his unknown patient.
By the time that Isez arrived at the Rue du Pot-de-fer it was quite dark. The oil lamps, swinging here and there, gave but little light. On one side of the street were the doors of old-fashioned houses; on the other a few shops and cabarets, succeeded by a long, high blank wall. As Isez' chairmen picked their stumbling steps over the cobbles, they sounded loud in the silent street, and they saw no living creature save a few dogs and cats prowling about and sniffing at the heaps of refuse thrown in the road.
But when they had proceeded about half the length of the wall, they became aware of a man's figure, standing motionless. This man, as soon as he saw Isez' chair, approached and said, "Do I speak to M. Isez?"
"Yes, I am he," replied the surgeon.
"You are late. It is long past six o'clock."
"I have only just received the note. I came at once. I did not even wait to finish my dinner."
"Dinner!" the man repeated, in a tone of infinite contempt. "Follow me."
The stranger led the way. He was plainly clothed in black, and Isez could judge nothing from his manner as to the meaning of this adventure.
They went a few steps along the street, and then the stranger opened, by some secret means, a narrow door in the wall, and motioned to Isez to enter. The surgeon did so, the door closed behind him, shutting out the man who had acted as his guide.
He found himself in a small courtyard, and facing him was the entrance of a house, a porch with a row of pillars, showing white through the darkness.
A porter appeared, and ushered Isez into a wide hall paved with marble, from which a fine staircase led to the upper stories. There was nothing remarkable about the porter, and Isez believed himself to be in the hôtel of some noble or wealthy gentleman.
"Monsieur is expected on the first floor, if he will give himself the trouble to mount," said the porter, indicating the staircase.
Isez went up. Facing him was a door, half open, through which light shone; he passed by it into an ante-chamber hung with white. It was singular, even startling.
The walls were covered with white velvet; chairs and sofas were of the same material; the carpet was of plain thick white wool, and every step which Isez made left a deep depression. A small table of white wood supported a white china lamp which burnt but feebly. Of other furniture there was none.
A lackey was in this room, a young man tall and handsome, clothed entirely in white—coat, waistcoat, breeches, stockings, shoes, all in dead-white material; his hair was thickly powdered and carefully curled, and tied with a white silk bow; white lace ruffles at his neck and wrists; his skin was of a peculiar white tint which struck the professional eye of Isez as being morbid and diseased.
"Be so good as to wipe your shoes."
"M. Isez," he said, coming to meet the surgeon, "be so good as to wipe your shoes." And he handed him a linen duster which lay beside the lamp.
"It is not neces sary," answered Isez; "I have only just got out of my chair, and my shoes are not muddy."
"Nevertheless," returned the lackey, "it must be done as a precaution. Everything in this house is of extreme cleanli-ness, and you must be so good as to wipe your shoes."
Isez shrugged his shoulders and obeyed. He rubbed his shoes with the duster, and showed the man that hardly a speck of dust came off on the cloth.
The servant bowed gravely. "This way," said he, moving down the narrow room, towards a door opposite to that by which the surgeon had entered.
Through this door Isez passed into a larger apartment, hung with white silk. It contained handsome furniture of white wood upholstered in white silk. The carpet was of roughly-woven silk. There were several marble tables; china vases, lace curtains, alabaster candlesticks, and various other ornamental articles decorated the room; and Isez saw at one glance that that though all was of the same uniform shade of white, yet all was in the highest degree handsome and expensive.
A second lackey approached, also a good-looking but pallid young man. He, too, was powdered and curled, and clothed in white; but whereas the first servant had worn cloth, this man's garments were of thick ribbed silk. By this time Isez was growing somewhat accustomed to the dazzling white tones all around him, and also to the air of mystery which pervaded the house. He was not surprised, therefore, when the lackey handed him a second linen cloth and bade him wipe his shoes a second time. He did it in silence, and found not even a suspicion of dust.
This ceremony ended, the servant opened another door, and ushered Isez into a third room.
"A white mask covered his face."
Again, the room was entirely furnished in white. The walls were hung with fluted satin; the sofas and chairs were covered with broché satin; the carpet was of satin, on which was a raised pattern of flowers in velvet; a large bed with heavy satin curtains and thick quilt stood at one side of the room. A dressing-table was in the bay-window, from which every breath of air was excluded by voluminous draperies. The atmosphere was heavy, as if never purified by sunshine or breeze, but always lighted up by white wax candles in girandoles against the walls.
The inhabitant of this chamber was a strange figure which sat in a fauteuil beside the fireplace of white tiles, on which burnt an open fire of coal and wood—the only touch of colour and brightness which Isez had seen in the ghostly house. A tall, stout person this appeared to be, wearing a white satin nightcap, and a white satin dressing-gown lined with white fur. A white mask covered his face, of which only two pale-blue eyes could be seen.
As soon as this extraordinary, fantastic figure saw Isez enter, he said in a monotonous, hoarse voice, "The devil is inside my body."
Isez waited to hear more, but not another word followed. He remained standing for some time, but nothing was said by the patient, who did not even raise his eyes again, or look at the surgeon. As well as Isez could judge, three-quarters of an hour passed without a single remark on either side.
A table stood beside the invalid. On it lay a heap of gloves. He took up a white silk glove, and slowly put it on his left hand; then he put one on his right hand. Over these he put a pair of satin ones; next a pair of kid ones. By this time his hands looked enormous. The fourth pair were of white velvet; the fifth pair of fine wool; the sixth pair of ermine. The hands appeared now as those of a giant. Isez watched these doings with interest which deepened into alarm. As soon as the six pairs of gloves were on, the invalid began to take them off again, with much deliberation folding them neatly together in pairs. At length reappeared his waxen, unwholesome-looking hands.
Isez was furtively glancing round the room. In one corner stood a sword in a white scabbard; in another a musket with the stock painted white; two pistols of white wood mounted in silver lay on a side table. Isez was unarmed, and did not like what he saw; he found himself trembling, and dreaded lest he should fall. Although he had not been invited to do so, he seated himself.
A silence ensued, lasting a quarter of an hour. At the end of that time the phantom pulled a bell cord which hung near his chair. The two white lackeys entered.
"Bring bandages," said the wooden voice to them.
The men went out, and returned with several strips of linen.
"Bleed me," said the figure; "take five pounds of blood."
Isez started back, astonished at the quantity. "But, monsieur," he cried, "what physician has ordered you to be let such an enormous quantity of blood?"
"Myself."
The surgeon did not know what to do. He dared not disobey, with those lackeys and those firearms all around him; yet he could not follow out instructions which would kill the patient. He thought that to bleed from the foot would be less dangerous than from the arm.
"Warm water, if you please," he said to the lackeys; one of them brought it in a white china basin. The other then knelt and took off the phantom's fine white-thread stockings; then a second pair; and so on, until six pairs had been drawn off, as well as a pair of white fur slippers lined with white satin. Then the surgeon beheld a beautiful leg and foot, as white and delicate as those of a woman.
He began to bleed; very shortly the patient appeared unwell, and likely to faint.
"Take off his mask," said Isez, "and give him air."
The lackeys interposed, and prevented Isez from touching their master. He was laid on the floor; the surgeon bound up the foot. Presently the invalid began to recover.
"Let them warm the bed," he whispered.
This was quickly done with a white metal warming-pan, and the sick man assisted to place himself in the bed. Isez felt his pulse and perceived that all was well again, and the servants left the room. The surgeon went to the fireplace and wiped his lancet on some of the linen strips, wondering what could be the explanation of this strange adventure, when he suddenly heard steps behind him, and glancing into the mirror over the mantelpiece, beheld the patient fling himself from the bed, and, with one bound, place himself beside the terrified surgeon, who almost dropped with horror and astonishment.
On the marble chimneypiece lay five crowns. The phantom figure took them in its waxen fingers and held them out to Isez.
"Are you satisfied with the fee?"
"Yes, yes, monsieur," replied Isez, trembling, "quite satisfied."
"Then go!"
"The lackeys awaited him."
Isez did not require to be told twice. He took to his heels, and ran into the outer apartment. There the lackeys awaited him.
He gazed from one to the other.
"Is this some foolish pleasantry, some bad jest?" he asked, growing angry now that he found no bodily harm was intended him. "What does this mean?"
"Monsieur," answered one of the men, "of what have you to complain?"
"Have you not been well paid?" asked the other; "have you been injured?"
Isez found that he had nothing really to complain of; he shrugged his shoulders.
The lackeys took each a flambeau and led him with all due ceremony through the narrow antechamber, down the stairs, by the hall and the courtyard to the little door into the Rue du Pot-de-fer, where his chair awaited him.
Very thankful he was to leave the strange, phantasmal house, and to arrive safely at his own abode. He could not understand the meaning of his adventure; whether some ghastly secret was imprisoned in that white chamber, or whether the whole affair had been a practical joke. At all events, the five crowns in his pocket were real enough. He resolved not to speak to anyone of what had happened. A doctor is privileged like a priest in confession; he would keep his own counsel. So he went to his bed, and had fantastic dreams.
In the morning, before he was up, Manette was called down to speak with a young gentleman, who inquired how M. Isez found himself, after his blood-letting of a white man.
Manette knew nothing about the matter. "But I will inquire of Monsieur;" for her curiosity was aroused on her own account.
"Madame need not trouble herself," said the young man; "it is of no consequence." And bowing politely, he disappeared down the Rue de l'Aubépine.
Manette returned to her kitchen, pondered a good deal, and while her master took his coffee, told him of the young gentleman's visit. Isez perceived that his adventure was known. His tongue was untied, and he talked of it wherever he went. It became the theme of Paris conversation during a few days, and came to the ears of the King, who was as much perplexed and amused as other people. The Cardinal de Fleury sent for Isez, and made him tell the whole story with his own lips.
Mlle. Aïssé,[1] writing to Madame Calandrini soon after the adventure, says:—
"There have been a thousand conjectures, but none seem probable; for myself, I believe that it was a practical joke of some young men, who amused themselves by frightening the surgeon."
It was quite true that the surgeon had been frightened. Probably those persons who laughed at his fears would have been still more alarmed had they been in his place. A day or two after the adventure Isez found time to walk along the Rue du Pot-de-fer; he found that the door by which he had entered the mysterious house had disappeared. The blank wall was there, blanker than ever. This was strange; and Isez was unable even to find any traces in the wall to indicate where the door had been. Moreover, Manette, who knew every street in Paris, and whose eyes, though aged, were remarkably keen, declared that there never had been before, and never was afterwards, any door whatever in that blank wall.
The fashionable surgeon might almost have forgotten his adventure in the Rue du Pot-de-fer had it not been kept in his mind by other singular persons and strange events.
Part II.—The Horseman in Black.
A summons came from the Duc de Gesvres, and Isez had no choice but to obey it immediately. This famous invalid was perpetually in need of a doctor, and as his ailments were incurable, he was a valuable patient.
When taking leave of the groom of the chambers, after seeing the sick man, he ventured to remind him of the fact that the Duc owed him a large sum of money.
"You are right, monsieur," was the reply, "and M. le Duc has instructed me to pay you fifty louis on account."
Isez would have preferred the whole amount due to him, but thought it as well to take what was offered. He placed the money, in notes and gold, within the purse hanging under the skirt of his coat, and then started through the dark night on his homeward journey.
Soon after leaving the Château of St. Ouen, the road passed through a small but thick wood. Isez could hardly see the track, and held his bridle very slackly, trusting to the eyes and the sagacity of his horse to find the way in safety. Isez was feeling comfortable after a very good supper and very acceptable payment; he was thinking over the white invalid of the Rue du Pot-de-fer, when suddenly a man clothed in black, and mounted on a black horse, sprang from among the trees and seized the bridle out of the surgeon's hand.
"Your money!" said the highwayman.
"No, no," gasped Isez, terrified and powerless.
"Your money!" repeated the robber, holding a pistol to the surgeon's head.
His teeth chattering too much to allow him to expostulate, and unarmed as he was, Isez, never very valorous, gave up his purse containing the fifty louis.
The highwayman then pulled out Isez' watch, to which was attached a gold seal, and transferred them to his own pocket. Next, he bade the unfortunate man dismount, and grasped the bridle of the surgeon's horse.
"'Your money!'"
"You can walk home. Good-night."
And away rode the robber, humming an air from the ballet called "Les Eléments," while poor Isez stood on the path, deprived of his money, his watch and seal, and his trusty steed. What could he do in the middle of a dark night, and a league from the outskirts of Paris? There was nothing for it but to go on foot, and, very sadly and wearily, he began to walk. He was too much distressed to be able to think clearly, and he hardly noticed how he was going. But soon he emerged from the little wood, and found himself on an open road.
A short distance brought him to a house—a good, though not grand house—with an iron gate in the middle of its front.
"I will ask whose house it is," said the surgeon, "and beg permission to rest awhile and recruit myself."
When he knocked at the gate, an old man-servant responded to the summons.
"My good friend," groaned Isez, "I have been robbed by a highwayman. Will your master allow me to come in and rest awhile?"
"We cannot admit strangers," answered the man; "it is late."
Isez groaned again. "What is the name of your master, my friend?"
"He is M. le Colonel Hénon-Durant."
"Ah, is it so! Then he knows me well. We were good friends long ago. Tell him that Jean François Isez craves shelter for the night."
The janitor retired, and presently appeared the Colonel, a brave and good man, for whom Isez had the highest respect and the sincerest affection. At once the surgeon was led in, and brought to a pleasant room, where supper was laid.
"I give you welcome," said the Colonel, courteously; "pray be seated, and partake of supper. We will wait no longer for my son, who is late this evening."
Isez thanked his host, but declined to eat, only accepting a glass of claret. He told his adventure, and the unfortunate loss of his money and purse.
"My purse and my house are at your disposal, my good friend," said Hénon-Durant; "remain here this night, and to-morrow accept such a sum as may serve your necessities. You can repay it at your convenience."
Isez thanked the Colonel with gratitude; and had begun to inquire as to the family of his friend, when a young man entered whom he at once recognised as the highwayman who had robbed him.
"My son, Eugène," said Colonel Hénon-Durant, presenting the youth to Isez.
The latter was too much astonished to utter a word, except to plead fatigue and to ask to be shown to his room. The Colonel attended him to the door of a bedchamber, and there left him.
Alone, he felt utterly bewildered. Was he in the house of a cut-throat? Was the father as bad as the son? Was the brave, generous old soldier an accomplice with a highwayman? or was Isez deceived by an accidental likeness between the robber and Eugène Durant? His first thought was to rush away from this dangerous house. But every door was by this time barred, and he dared not attempt it.
The surgeon gasped for air. He opened the casement and let the cool breeze blow on his forehead. While standing by the window he heard, as he thought, the whinnying of his own horse. He responded by a whistle which he often employed to cheer the faithful animal. A further whinny made it certain to Isez' mind that his horse was in the stable of Colonel Durant's house, and that there was no room for doubt of the identity of Eugène Durant and the black highwayman.
But Isez could not bring himself to believe that his respected old friend was to blame in the matter. Goodness is not always hereditary. Troubled and alarmed, the surgeon could not lie down, but sat through the night in an easy-chair, and as soon as daylight appeared, quietly left his room and sought that which on the previous evening the Colonel had pointed out as his own.
When Isez opened the door he saw a plainly furnished apartment, and on the curtainless bed the figure of the fine old officer, sleeping calmly and restfully. This sight confirmed Isez in his opinion that Colonel Durant knew nothing of his son's nightly robberies.
"It was your son who robbed me."
"Durant, my dear old friend," said Isez, in a low voice, "will you listen to me for a little while?"
In a moment Durant was wide awake. He sat up, and saw by Isez' countenance that something was wrong.
"Durant, I have a sad and terrible thing to say to you; can you bear to hear it?"
"Speak plainly, what is it?"
"Dear friend, it was your son who robbed me last night."
"Great heaven!" muttered the Colonel; "impossible!"
"It is better," said Isez, speaking rapidly, "that you should learn it from me than from the law, which would be less merciful than I am. Sooner or later he must fall into the hands of justice. That your son should take up this abominable trade is almost incredible—"
"Impossible !" sighed the poor father again, and fell back on his pillow insensible.
Isez fanned him, and sprinkled his face with water, and presently saw him recovered from the swoon.
When his strength returned, Durant sprang from the bed, hurried on clothing, and rushed towards the door, crying, "The coward, the thief! My son a robber! My son a highwayman! My son a felon! I thank God that his mother is dead, and that he has no sister. I will not have such a son. He shall die. Let me pass, Isez, let me pass! I will kill him!"
And, thrusting aside the surgeon, who tried to restrain him, Durant rushed from the room, and up the stairs into the apartment where the young man lay sleeping, or pretending to sleep.
On the table near the window lay Isez' watch, and his seal bearing his monogram, The father paused to examine them. There was no doubt of the infamy of the handsome young fellow, who now was standing in the middle of the floor, clothed in the black garments which he had worn the previous night.
"Wretch ! Scoundrel!" cried the Colonel "is it for this that I have been the most loving of fathers? How long have you pursued the trade of robber? But you shall pursue it no longer!"
"There was a flash."
Eugène Durant saw that he had lost the game. He pushed past his father, but at the door was met by Isez, who barred his way. At the same moment, Colonel Durant saw that two pistols lay beside the watch and seal. He lifted one of them; there was a flash; and his son fell bleeding into the arms of Isez.
Not even this pitiable sight—his son murdered and weltering in his blood—could assuage Durant's anger. He poured out fierce words, and filled the house with his cries of rage and reproach. It was only when Isez, staunching the wound, removed one after another the blood-stained rags, which the silent servants brought to him, and when that handsome young face grew whiter and calmer, when the eyes took a fixed glassy stare and the lips trying to speak could but whisper; it was only when death shadowed the face and figure of his child, that Colonel Durant ceased to utter reproaches, and bowed his head in sorrow.
"Father," murmured the pallid lips; "forgive me, if you can."
Durant made no reply.
The dying man spoke again, but no one could hear what he said.
A second time he tried to make himself heard, but in vain. Isez leaned over him and listened; he caught only the words, "Rue du Pot-de-fer."
And then, without another sound or sign, with only one great gasp, the youth died.
Durant was as one stunned. He was led away by his servants, while Isez disposed decently on the bed the corpse of the wretched young man. He had hardly finished this task when Durant came into the room, dressed in his uniform and wearing his orders, his bearing erect, his gait steady, and his eye firm and clear.
"Our horses are ready," said he to Isez, "your horse and mine. You return home. I go to the authorities to give myself up for murder."
What could Isez reply? They rode away together, and as soon as they entered Paris the Colonel went off at a trot, while Isez rode on quietly to his home. He found Manette much alarmed by his absence during the night.
"Was the Duke very bad, dying? Or did you fall in with highwaymen?" This she asked with a smile. Isez made no actual answer, but asked for his coffee. As usual, the old woman was a long time preparing it, and when Isez found fault with her she echoed his complaints, and endorsed his threats. But at length she brought the coffee, so well made that he forgave her all delays and while he drank she talked.
"I have made up my old quarrel with the concierge, monsieur. She is a good woman, and has a brother who lives in the Rue du Pot-de-fer. As soon as she mentioned her brother I made it up with her."
"But why?" said Isez; "do you want to marry him?"
"Ah, monsieur must have his joke," laughed Manette; "no, but I could not rest until I found out about the house where monsieur went that evening in April. The brother says that the door by which monsieur entered was never there but the one night. A bit of the wall was knocked down, and a door set up; and after monsieur had been and gone the door was taken away, and the wall rebuilt with the old bricks, so that no one could see that any tricks had been played with it."
"Ah, my good Manette, but why all that mystery? And is there no front to the house?"
"Of the reason for the mystery I know nothing; but the brother says that the of the house is No. 7, Rue du Pèlerin."
"Perhaps," returned Isez, indifferently; but he went out immediately and took his way to the Rue du Pèlerin. He felt persuaded that when Eugène Durant spoke with his dying breath those words, "Rue du Pot-de-fer," he referred to the house where Isez had found the white invalid. There must be some connection between that strange being and the young man who had so disgraced himself, and had come to so tragic an end at the hand of his own father.
No. 7, Rue du Pèlerin was an ordinary-looking house, standing flush with other middle-class houses, and having nothing remarkable about it. The jalousies of the windows were closed, and the whole place appeared uninhabited. A stout, middle-aged woman appeared to be the concierge. She was unwilling to admit Isez; and it was only after long parleying and many assurances that he had been there before as surgeon to an invalid, that she allowed him to enter. As soon as he had permission to do so, he ascended the stairs, and on the first floor found the doors locked and barred. He knocked several times, but no reply came. He was about to ascend another flight and make further efforts, when a man came running down the stairs, and was recognised by Isez as one of the lackeys whom he had seen on the night of his adventure.
"Monsieur," said Isez, addressing the man, who was now in ordinary dress, "I have come to inquire after the health of the gentleman in white. It is about time that he was again let blood."
"He has given no orders on the subject," was the man's reply.
"I have also a message for him," said Isez; "I spent last night at the house of Colonel Hénon-Durant."
The countenance of the man showed surprise and interest. "Come with me." They went up the stairs and entered the ante-chamber, where now the white furniture was soiled and shabby.
"Be seated, M. Isez," said the lackey, "and tell me what you have to say."
Isez then told the story of what had happened on the previous evening, but without naming the name of the black horseman. As he spoke he saw that the man's interest was aroused and increased. At the point of the robbery a cunning smile played over the face of the servant, but at the account of the death of the young Eugène Durant the man held his breath and listened with the most eager excitement,
"What—what was the name?"
"Eugène Hénon-Durant, son of Colonel"
"It is he!" exclaimed the man. "Dead, dead!"
"Your master?" said Isez.
"My master, and dead—all over—the strange masquerade, the rollicking life, the escapades on the roads, the purses of gold, the splendid furniture, the practical jokes, the magnificent suppers—and he is dead, and all is over! Well, better that than a madhouse, to which it must have come at last!"
"Was he then insane?" asked Isez.
"At times. Oh, his life was a strange one. Perhaps for a week living quietly with his father; then some night he would take to the road, either with us or alone, and he would ride in here in the early morning with money and valuables, and he would send us out to bring in all that was expensive and delicious, and we would feast and gamble and live the wildest life while the money lasted, after which would begin again the round of Colonel Durant's quiet home, and the road once more. And he is dead, and what shall we do?"
"On that evening in April," said Isez, "when I was last here, was the young gentleman in his right mind?"
"Sir, drink and play made him often insane. He had once a wild fancy to fill this house with everything white; and when that was done, he found himself ill at ease, and sent me with a note to summon you to bleed him. After that evening funds got low. Our whiteness was quickly smirched. He and I robbed many a traveller, and many a mail. My fellow-lackey generally kept house here with the concierge guarding the front door, and a porter guarding the garden entrance. But if Eugène is dead, then all is over. We must take care of ourselves. Sir, we must go, lest the officers of justice find us."
With those words the man passed into the second room. There sat the other lackey, practising some trick by which to cheat at cards.
"Eugène is dead; let us save ourselves!"
The two men went into the bedroom—formerly that of the unhappy Eugène. They snatched up the firearms which stood in the corners, and opening what looked like the door of a cupboard, stepped out on a landing of the main staircase. They ran down, and Isez saw them no more. Whether they continued to act as highwaymen, he never knew, but he thought that they were hardly likely to repent and amend.
The surgeon gazed with a sort of sad wonder on the soiled white furniture, on a heap of dirty white gloves, and another of dirty white stockings. Drink and play and insanity explained the mystery of the Rue du Pot-de-fer, as they explain many another mystery. Shaking his head as he went, Isez left the ghastly apartments, and by the main staircase arrived at the hall door. It stood ajar, as it had been left by the lackeys. Isez closed it, and walked away.
Mlle. Aïssé, in writing[2] of the murder of Eugène Hénon-Durant by his father, says that the Colonel "went immediately to ask for pardon; everyone was of opinion that it should be granted. A good man finding his son to be a highwayman is overwhelmed with such grief that his brain may well give way under it."
But Jean François Isez never forgot the invalid in white, and the highwayman in black—one and the same miserable young man.