of time in such cases--it was the examination (judging by certain
expressions which escaped him) of a man who seemed to be unwilling to
trust his own experience. The new nurse arrived, before he had definitely
expressed his opinion; and the servant was instructed to keep her waiting
downstairs. In expectation of the doctor's report, Mr. Keller remained in
the bedroom. Doctor Dormann might not have noticed this circumstance, or
might not have cared to conceal what was passing in his mind. In either
case, when he spoke at last, he expressed himself in these extraordinary
terms:--
"The second suspicious illness in this house! And the second
incomprehensible end to it!"
Mr. Keller at once stepped forward, and showed himself.
"Did you mean me to hear what you have just said?" he asked.
The doctor looked at him gravely and sadly. "I must speak to you
privately, Mr. Keller. Before we leave the room, permit me to send for
the nurse. You may safely trust her to perform the last sad duties."
Mr. Keller started. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "is Mrs. Wagner dead?"
"To my astonishment, she is dead." He laid a strong emphasis on the first
part of his reply.
The nurse having received her instructions, Mr. Keller led the way to his
private room. "In my responsible position," he said, "I may not
unreasonably expect that you will explain yourself without reserve."
"On such a serious matter as this," Doctor Dormann answered, "it is my
duty to speak without reserve. The person whom you employ to direct the
funeral will ask you for the customary certificate. I refuse to give it."
This startling declaration roused a feeling of anger, rather than of
alarm, in a man of Mr. Keller's resolute character. "For what reason do
you refuse?" he asked sternly.
"I am not satisfied, sir, that Mrs. Wagner has died a natural death. My
experience entirely fails to account for the suddenly fatal termination
of the disease, in the case of a patient of her healthy constitution, and
at her comparatively early age."
"Doctor Dormann, do you suspect there is a poisoner in my house?"
"In plain words, I do."
"In plain words on my side, I ask why?"
"I have already given you my reason."
"Is your experience infallible? Have you never made a mistake?"
"I made a mistake, Mr. Keller (as it appeared at the time), in regard to
your own illness."
"What! you suspected foul play in my case too?"
"Yes; and, by way of giving you another reason, I will own that the
suspicion is still in my mind. After what I have seen this evening--and
only after that, observe--I say the circumstances of your recovery are
suspicious circumstances in themselves. Remember, if you please, that
neither I nor my colleague really understood what was the matter with
you; and that you were cured by a remedy, not prescribed by either of us.
You were rapidly sinking; and your regular physician had left you. I had
to choose between the certainty of your death, and the risk of letting
you try a remedy, with the nature of which (though I did my best to
analyze it) I was imperfectly acquainted. I ran the risk. The result has
justified me--and up to this day, I have kept my misgivings to myself. I
now find them renewed by Mrs. Wagner's death--and I speak."
Mr. Keller's manner began to change. His tone was sensibly subdued. He
understood the respect which was due to the doctor's motives at last.
"May I ask if the symptoms of my illness resembled the symptoms of Mrs.
Wagner's illness?" he said.
"Far from it. Excepting the nervous derangement, in both cases, there was
no other resemblance in the symptoms. The conclusion, to my mind, is not
altered by this circumstance. It simply leads me to the inference that
more than one poison may have been used. I don't attempt to solve the
mystery. I have no idea why your life has been saved, and Mrs. Wagner's
life sacrificed--or what motives have been at work in the dark. Ask
yourself--don't ask me--in what direction suspicion points. I refuse to
sign the certificate of death; and I have told you why."
"Give me a moment," said Mr. Keller, "I don't shrink from my
responsibility; I only ask for time to compose myself."
It was the pride of his life to lean on nobody for help. He walked to the
window; hiding all outward betrayal of the consternation that shook him
to the soul. When he returned to his chair, he scrupulously avoided even
the appearance of asking Doctor Dormann for advice.
"My course is plain," he said quietly. "I must communicate your decision
investigation that will follow. It shall be done, when the magistrates
meet to-morrow morning."
"We will go together to the town-hall, Mr. Keller. It is my duty to
inform the burgomaster that this is a case for the special safeguards,
sanctioned by the city regulations. I must also guarantee that there is
no danger to the public health, in the removal of the body from your
house."
"The immediate removal?" Mr. Keller asked.
"No! The removal twenty-four hours after death."
"To what place?"
"To the Deadhouse."
CHAPTER XVI
Acting on the doctor's information, the burgomaster issued his order. At
eight o'clock in the evening, on the third of January, the remains of
Mrs. Wagner were to be removed to the cemetery-building, outside the
Friedberg Gate of Frankfort.
Long before the present century, the dread of premature
interment--excited by traditions of persons accidentally buried
alive--was a widely-spread feeling among the people of Germany. In other
cities besides Frankfort, the municipal authorities devised laws, the
object of which was to make this frightful catastrophe impossible. In the
early part of the present century, these laws were re-enacted and revised
by the City of Frankfort. The Deadhouse was attached to the cemetery,
with a double purpose. First, to afford a decent resting-place for the
corpse, when death occurred among the crowded residences of the poorer
class of the population. Secondly, to provide as perfect a safeguard as
possible against the chances of premature burial. The use of the
Deadhouse (strictly confined to the Christian portion of the inhabitants)
was left to the free choice of surviving relatives or
representatives--excepting only those cases in which a doctor's
certificate justified the magistrate in pronouncing an absolute decision.
Even in the event of valid objections to the Deadhouse as a last
resting-place on the way to the grave, the doctor in attendance on the
deceased person was subjected to certain restrictions in issuing his
certificate. He was allowed to certify the death informally, for the
purpose of facilitating the funeral arrangements. But he was absolutely
forbidden to give his written authority for the burial, before the
expiration of three nights from the time of the death; and he was further
bound to certify that the signs of decomposition had actually begun to
show themselves. Have these multiplied precautions, patiently applied in
many German cities, through a long lapse of years, ever yet detected a
case in which Death has failed to complete its unintelligible work? Let
the answer be found in the cells of the dead. Pass, with the mourners,
through the iron gates--hear and see!
On the evening of the third, as the time approached for the arrival of
the hearse, the melancholy stillness in the house was only broken by Mr.
Keller's servants, below-stairs. Collecting together in one room, they
talked confidentially, in low voices. An instinctive horror of silence,
in moments of domestic distress, is, in all civilized nations, one of the
marked characteristics of their class.
"In ten minutes," said Joseph, "the men from the cemetery will be here to
take her away. It will be no easy matter to carry her downstairs on the
couch."
"Why is she not put in her coffin, like other dead people?" the housemaid
asked.
"Because the crazy creature she brought with her from London is allowed
to have his own way in the house," Joseph answered irritably. "If I had
been brought to the door drunk last night, I should have been sent away
this morning. If I had been mad enough to screech out, 'She isn't dead;
not one of you shall put her in a coffin!'--I should have richly deserved
a place in the town asylum, and I should have got my deserts. Nothing of
the sort for Master Jack. Mr. Keller only tells him to be quiet, and
looks distressed. The doctor takes him away, and speaks to him in another
room--and actually comes back converted to Jack's opinion!"
"You don't mean to tell us," exclaimed the cook, "that the doctor said
she wasn't dead?"
"Of course not. It was he who first found out that she _was_ dead--I only
mean that he let Jack have his own way. He asked me for a foot rule, and
he measured the little couch in the bedroom. 'It's no longer than the
till the time comes for the burial.' Those were his own words; and when
the nurse objected to it, what do you think he said?--'Hold your tongue!
A couch is a pleasanter thing all the world over than a coffin.' "
"Blasphemous!" said the cook--"that's what I call it."
"Ah, well, well!" the housemaid remarked, "couch or coffin, she looks
beautiful, poor soul, in her black velvet robe, with the winter flowers
in her pretty white hands. Who got the flowers? Madame Fontaine, do you
think?"
"Bah! Madame Fontaine, indeed! Little Crazybrains went out (instead of
eating the good dinner I cooked for him), and got the flowers. He
wouldn't let anybody put them into her hands but himself--at least, so
the nurse said. Has anybody seen Madame Housekeeper? Was she downstairs
at dinner to-day, Joseph?"
"Not she! You mark my words," said Joseph, "there's some very serious
reason for her keeping her room, on pretense of being ill."
"Can you give any guess what it is?"
"You shall judge for yourself," Joseph answered. "Did I tell you what
happened yesterday evening, before Jack was brought home by the nurse's
brother? I answered a ring at the door-bell--and there was Mr. Fritz in a
towering passion, with Miss Minna on his arm looking ready to drop with
fatigue. They rang for some wine; and I heard what he said to his father.
It seems that Madame Fontaine had gone out walking in the dark and the
cold (and her daughter with her), without rhyme or reason. Mr. Fritz met
them, and insisted on taking Miss Minna home. Her mother didn't seem to
care what he said or did. She went on walking by herself, as hard as she
could lay her feet to the ground. And what do you suppose her excuse was?
Her nerves were out of order! Mr. Fritz's notion is that there is
something weighing on her mind. An hour afterwards she came back to the
house--and I found reason to agree with Mr. Fritz."
"Tell us all about it, Joseph! What did she do?"
"You shall hear. It happened, just after I had seen crazy Jack safe in
his bed. When I heard the bell, I was on my way downstairs, with a
certain bottle in my hand. One of you saw the nurse's brother give it to
me, I think? How he and Crazybrains came into possession of it, mind you,
is more than I know."
"It looked just like the big medicine-bottle that cured Mr. Keller," said
the cook.
"It _was_ the bottle; and, what is more, it smelt of wine, instead of
medicine, and it was empty. Well, I opened the door to Madame
Housekeeper, with the bottle in my hand. The instant she set eyes on it,
she snatched it away from me. She looked--I give you my word of honor,
she looked as if she could have cut my throat. "You wretch!"--nice
language to use to a respectable servant, eh?--"You wretch" (she says),
"how did you come by this?" I made her a low bow. I said, "Civility costs
nothing, ma'am; and sometimes buys a great deal" (severe, eh?). I told
her exactly what had happened, and exactly what Schwartz had said. And
then I ended with another hard hit. "The next time anything of yours is
put into my hands," I said, "I shall leave it to take care of itself." I
don't know whether she heard me; she was holding the bottle up to the
light. When she saw it was empty--well! I can't tell you, of course, what
was passing in her mind. But this I can swear; she shivered and shuddered
as if she had got a fit of the ague; and pale as she was when I let her
into the house, I do assure you she turned paler still. I thought I
should have to take _her_ upstairs next. My good creatures, she's made of
iron! Upstairs she went. I followed her as far as the first landing, and
saw Mr. Keller waiting--to tell her the news of Mrs. Wagner's death, I
suppose. What passed between them I can't say. Mr. Fritz tells me she has
never left her room since; and his father has not even sent a message to
know how she is. What do you think of that?"
"I think Mr. Fritz was mistaken, when he told you she had never left her
room," said the housemaid. "I am next to certain I heard her whispering,
early this morning, with crazy Jack. Do you think she will follow the
hearse to the Deadhouse, with Mr. Keller and the doctor?"
"Hush!" said Joseph. As he spoke, the heavy wheels of the hearse were
heard in the street. He led the way to the top of the kitchen stairs.
"Wait here," he whispered, "while I answer the door--and you will see."
Upstairs, in the drawing-room, Fritz and Minna were alone. Madame
Fontaine's door, closed to everyone, was a closed door even to her
daughter.
Fritz had refused to let Minna ask a second time to be let in. "It will
soon be your husband's privilege, my darling, to take care of you and
comfort you," he said. "At this dreadful time, there must be no
separation between you and me."
His arm was round her; her head rested on his shoulder. She looked up at
him timidly.
"Are you not going with them to the cemetery?" she asked.
"I am going to stay with you, Minna."
"You were angry yesterday, Fritz, when you met
me with my mother. Don't
think the worse of her, because she is ill and troubled in her mind. You
will make allowances for her as I do--won't you?"
"My sweet girl, there is nothing I won't do to please you! Kiss me,
Minna. Again! again!"
On the higher floor of the house, Mr. Keller and the doctor were waiting
in the chamber of death.
Jack kept his silent watch by the side of the couch, on which the one
human creature who had befriended him lay hushed in the last earthly
repose. Still, from time to time, he whispered to himself the sad
senseless words, "No, no, no--not dead, Mistress! Not dead yet!"
There was a soft knock at the door. The doctor opened it. Madame Fontaine
stood before him. She spoke in dull monotonous tones--standing in the
doorway; refusing, when she was invited by a gesture, to enter the room.
"The hearse has stopped at the door," she said. "The men wish to ask you
if they can come in."
It was Joseph's duty to make this announcement. Her motive for
forestalling him showed itself dimly in her eyes. They were not on Mr.
Keller; not on the doctor; not on the couch. From the moment when the
door had been opened to her, she fixed her steady look on Jack. It never
moved until the bearers of the dead hid him from her when they entered
the room.
The procession passed out. Jack, at Mr. Keller's command, followed last.
Standing back at the doorway, Madame Fontaine caught him by the arm as he
came out.
"You were half asleep this morning," she whispered. "You are not half
asleep now. How did you get the blue-glass bottle? I insist on knowing."
"I won't tell you!"
Madame Fontaine altered her tone.
"Will you tell me who emptied the bottle? I have always been kind to
you--it isn't much to ask. Who emptied it?"
His variable temper changed; he lifted his head proudly. Absolutely sure
of his mistress's recovery, he now claimed the merit that was his due.
_"I_ emptied it!"
"How did you empty it?" she asked faintly. "Did you throw away what was
in it? Did you give it to anybody?"
He seized her in his turn--and dragged her to the railing of the
corridor. "Look there!" he cried, pointing to the bearers, slowly
carrying their burden down the stairs. "Do you see her, resting on her
little sofa till she recovers? I gave it to her!"
He left her, and descended the stairs. She staggered back against the
wall of the corridor. Her sight seemed to be affected. She groped for the
stair-rail, and held by it. The air was wafted up through the open
street-door. It helped her to rally her energies. She went down steadily,
step by step, to the first landing--paused, and went down again. Arrived
in the hall, she advanced to Mr. Keller, and spoke to him.
"Are you going to see the body laid in the Deadhouse?"
"Yes."
"Is there any objection to my seeing it too?"
"The authorities have no objection to admitting friends of the deceased
person," Mr. Keller answered. He looked at her searchingly, and added,
"Do _you_ go as a friend?"
It was rashly said; and he knew it. The magistrates had decided that the
first inquiries should be conducted with the greatest secrecy. For that
day, at least, the inmates of the house were to enjoy their usual liberty
of action (under private superintendence), so that no suspicion might be
excited in the mind of the guilty person. Conscious of having trifled
with the serious necessity of keeping a guard over his tongue, Mr. Keller
waited anxiously for Madame Fontaine's reply.
Not a word fell from her lips. There was a slight hardening of her face,