Old Friends Part 10

May 19, 1852.

SIR AND DEAR FELLOW-BROTHER (_confrere_).-The so cordial understanding between our countries ought to expand itself into a community of the political police. But the just susceptibilities of the Old England forbid at this moment the restoration to a friendly Power of political offenders. In the name of the French police of surety I venture to present to the famous officer Bucket a prayer that he will shut his eyes, for once, on the letter, and open his heart to the spirit of the laws.

No one needs to teach Monsieur Bucket that a foreign miscreant can be given up, under all reserves, to the justice! A small vial of a harmless soporific, a closed carriage, a private cabin on board a Channel steamer-with these and a little of the adroitness so remarked in the celebrated Bucket, the affair is in the bag! (_dans le sac_). All these things are in the cords (_dans les cordes_) of my esteemed English fellow-brother; will he not employ them in the interest of a devoted colleague and a friendly Administration? We seek a malefactor of the worst species (_un chenapan de la pire espece_). This funny fellow (_drole_) calls himself Count of Fosco, and he resides in Wood Road 5, St. John's Forest; worth abode of a miscreant fit for the Forest of Bondy! He is a man bald, stout, fair, and paying well in countenance (_il paie de mine_), conceiving himself to resemble the great Napoleon.

At the first sight you would say a philanthrope, a friend of man. On his right arm he bears a small red mark, round, the brand of a society of the most dangerous. Dear Sir, you will not miss him? When once he is in our hands, faith of Lecoq, you shall tell us your news as to whether France can be grateful. Of more words there is no need.-I remain, all to you, with the a.s.surance of my most distinguished consideration,

LECOQ.

_From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq_.

May 22.

DEAR SIR,-Your polite favour to hand, and contents noted. You are a man of the world; I am a man of the world, and proud to deal with you as between man and man. The little irregularity shall be no consideration, all shall be squared, and the man wanted run in with punctuality and despatch. Expect him at Calais on the 26th current,-Faithfully yours,

C. BUCKET.

_From Count Fosco to Samuel Pickwick_, _Esq._, _G.C.M.P.C._, _Goswell Road_.

5 Forest Road, St. John's Wood, May 23.

DEAR SIR,-When we met lately at the hospitable board of our common friend, Benjamin Allen, Esq., lately elected Professor of Chemistry in the University of London, our conversation turned (if you can pa.s.s me the intoxicating favour of remembering it) on the glorious science of chemistry. For me this knowledge has ever possessed irresistible attractions, from the enormous power which it confers of heaping benefits on the suffering race of mankind. Others may rejoice in the advantages which a knowledge of it bestows-the power which can reduce a Hannibal to the level of a drummer boy, or an all-pervading Shakspeare to the intellectual estate of a vestryman, though it cannot at present reverse those processes. The consideration of the destructive as compared with the constructive forces of chemistry was present, as I recollect, to your powerful intellect on the festive occasion to which I refer. "Yes!" you said (permit me to repeat your very words)-"Yes, Count Fosco, Alexander's morning draught shall make Alexander run for his life at the first sound of the enemy's trumpet. So much chemistry can achieve; but can she help as well as harm? Nay, can she answer for it that the lemon which Professor Allen, from the best and purest of motives, has blended with this milk-punch, shall not disagree with me to-morrow morning? Can chemistry, Count Fosco, thus thwart malign const.i.tutional tendency?"

These were your words, sir, and I am now ready to answer your deep-searching question in the affirmative. Prolonged a.s.siduous application to my Art has shown me how to preserve the lemon in Milk Punch, and yet destroy, or disengage, the deleterious elements. Will you so greatly honour science, and Fosco her servant, as to sup with me on the night of the twenty-fifth, at nine o'clock, and prove (you need not dread the test) whether a true follower of knowledge or a vain babbler signs-in exile-the name of

ISIDOR OTTAVIO BALDa.s.sARE FOSCO?

_From Mr. Pickwick to the Count Fosco_.

May 24.

MY DEAR SIR,-Many thanks for your very kind invitation. Apart from the interests of science, the pleasure of your company alone would be more than enough to make me gladly accept it. I shall have the enjoyment of testing your milk-punch to-morrow night at nine, with the confident expectation that your admirable studies will have overcome a tendency which for many years has prevented me from relis.h.i.+ng, as I could wish, one of the best things in this good world. Lemon, in fact, has always disagreed with me, as Professor Allen or Sir Robert Sawyer will be able to a.s.sure you; so your valuable experiment can be put, in my case, to a crucial test.-Very faithfully yours,

SAMUEL PICKWICK.

_From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq_.

May 26, 1 A.M.

MY DEAR SIR,-We have taken your man without difficulty. Bald, benevolent-looking, stout, perhaps fancies himself like Napoleon; if so, is deceived. We nabbed him asleep over his liquor and alone, at the address you meant to give, 5 Forest Road, St. John's Wood. The house was empty, servants out, not a soul but him at home. He speaks English well for a foreigner, and tries to make out he is a British subject. Was rather confused when took, and kept e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. "Cold Punch," apparently with the hope of persuading us that such was his name or alias. He also called for one Sam-probably an accomplice. He travels to Calais to-day as a lunatic patient in a strait-waistcoat, under charge of four "keepers" belonging to the force; and I trust that you have made preparations for receiving your prisoner, and that our management of the case has given satisfaction. What I like is doing business with a man like you. We may not be so smart nor so clever at disguises as the French profession, but we flatter ourselves we are punctual and cautious.-Faithfully yours,

C. BUCKET.

_From Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Perker_, _Solicitor_, _Gray's Inn_.

Sainte Pelagie, May 28.

DEAR PERKER,-For heaven's sake come over here at once, bringing some one who can speak French, and bail me out, or whatever the process of their law may be. I have been arrested, illegally and without warrant, at the house of a scientific friend, Count Fosco, where I had been supping. As far as I can understand, I am accused of a plot against the life of the Emperor of the French; but the whole proceedings have been unintelligible and arbitrary to a degree. I cannot think that an English citizen will be allowed to perish by the guillotine-innocent and practically unheard!

Please bring linen and brushes, &c., but not Sam, who would be certain to embroil himself with the French police. I am writing to the _Times_ and Lord Palmerston.-Sincerely yours,

SAMUEL PICKWICK.

_From Monsieur Lecoq to Inspector Bucket_.

May 27.

SIR,-There has arrived a frightful misunderstanding. The man you have sent us is not Fosco. Of Fosco he has only the baldness, the air benevolent, and the girth. The brand on his right arm is no more than the mark of vaccination. Brought before the Commissary of Police, the prisoner, who has not one word of French, was heard through an interpreter. He gives himself the name of Piquouique, _rentier_, English; and he appeals to his Amba.s.sador. Of papers he had letters bearing the name Samuel Pickwick, and, on his b.u.t.tons, the letters P.C., which we suspect are the badge of a secret society. But this is not to the point; for it is certain that, whatever the crimes of this brigand, he is _not_ Fosco, but an Englishman. That he should be found in the domicile of Fosco when that droll had evaded is suspicious (_louche_), and his explanation does not permit itself to be understood. I have fear that we enjoy bad luck, and that M. Palmerston will make himself to be heard on this matter.

Accept, Monsieur, the a.s.surance of my high consideration.

LECOQ.

P.S.-Our comrade, the Count Smorltork, of the Police of Manners (_police des moeurs_), has come to present himself. Confronted with the bandit, he gives him reason, and offers his faith that the man is Piquouique, with whom he encountered himself when on a mission of secrecy to England it is now some years. What to do? (_Que faire_?)

XXII.

_From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis_.

Mr. Quatermain offers the correct account of two celebrated right and left shots, also an adventure of the stranger in the Story of an African Farm.

DEAR CURTIS,-You ask me to give you the true account, in writing, of those right and left shots of mine at the two lions, the crocodile, and the eagle. The brutes are stuffed now, in the hall at home-the lions each on a pedestal, and the alligator on the floor with the eagle in his jaws-much as they were when I settled them and saved the Stranger. All sorts of stories have got into the papers about the business, which was simple enough; so, though no hand with a pen, I may as well write it all out.

I was up on the k.n.o.bkerry River, prospecting for diamonds, in Omomborombunga's country. I had n.o.body with me but poor Jim-jim, who afterwards met with an awful death, otherwise he would have been glad to corroborate my tale, if it needed it. One night I had come back tired to camp, when I found a stranger sitting by the fire. He was a dark, fat, Frenchified little chap, and you won't believe me, but it is a fact that he wore gloves. I asked him to stay the night, of course, and inspanned the waggons in laager, for Omomborombunga's impis were out, swearing to wash their spears in the blood of The Great White Liar-a Portuguese traveller probably; if not, I don't know who he can have been; perhaps this stranger: he gave no name. Well, we had our biltong together, and the Stranger put himself outside a good deal of the very little brandy I had left. We got yarning, so to speak, and I told him a few of the curious adventures that naturally fall to the lot of a man in those wild countries. The Stranger did not say much, but kept playing with a huge carved walking-stick that he had. Presently he said, "Look at this stick; I bought it from a boy on a South African Farm. Do you understand what the carvings mean?"

"Hanged if I do!" I said, after turning it about.

"Well, do you see that figure?" and he touched a thing like a Noah out of a child's ark. "That was a hunter like you, my friend, but not in all respects. That hunter pursued a vast white bird with silver wings, sailing in the everlasting blue."

"Everlasting bos.h.!.+" said I; "there is no bird of the kind on the veldt."

"That bird was Truth," says the Stranger, "and, judging from the anecdote you tell me about the Babyan woman and the Zulu medicine-man, it is a bird _you_ don't trouble yourself with much, my friend."

This was a pretty cool thing to say to a man whose veracity is known like a proverb from Sheba's b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the Zambesi.