New Arabian Nights

Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk

MR. SILAS Q. SCUDDAMORE was a young American of a simple and

harmless disposition, which was the more to his credit as he came

from New England - a quarter of the New World not precisely famous

for those qualities. Although he was exceedingly rich, he kept a

note of all his expenses in a little paper pocket-book; and he had

chosen to study the attractions of Paris from the seventh story of

what is called a furnished hotel, in the Latin Quarter. There was

a great deal of habit in his penuriousness; and his virtue, which

was very remarkable among his associates, was principally founded

upon diffidence and youth.

The next room to his was inhabited by a lady, very attractive in

her air and very elegant in toilette, whom, on his first arrival,

he had taken for a Countess. In course of time he had learned that

she was known by the name of Madame Zephyrine, and that whatever

station she occupied in life it was not that of a person of title.

Madame Zephyrine, probably in the hope of enchanting the young

American, used to flaunt by him on the stairs with a civil

inclination, a word of course, and a knock-down look out of her

black eyes, and disappear in a rustle of silk, and with the

revelation of an admirable foot and ankle. But these advances, so

far from encouraging Mr. Scuddamore, plunged him into the depths of

depression and bashfulness. She had come to him several times for

a light, or to apologise for the imaginary depredations of her

poodle; but his mouth was closed in the presence of so superior a

being, his French promptly left him, and he could only stare and

stammer until she was gone. The slenderness of their intercourse

did not prevent him from throwing out insinuations of a very

glorious order when he was safely alone with a few males.

The room on the other side of the American's - for there were three

rooms on a floor in the hotel - was tenanted by an old English

physician of rather doubtful reputation. Dr. Noel, for that was

his name, had been forced to leave London, where he enjoyed a large

and increasing practice; and it was hinted that the police had been

the instigators of this change of scene. At least he, who had made

something of a figure in earlier life, now dwelt in the Latin

Quarter in great simplicity and solitude, and devoted much of his

time to study. Mr. Scuddamore had made his acquaintance, and the

pair would now and then dine together frugally in a restaurant

across the street.

Silas Q. Scuddamore had many little vices of the more respectable

order, and was not restrained by delicacy from indulging them in

many rather doubtful ways. Chief among his foibles stood

curiosity. He was a born gossip; and life, and especially those

parts of it in which he had no experience, interested him to the

degree of passion. He was a pert, invincible questioner, pushing

his inquiries with equal pertinacity and indiscretion; he had been

observed, when he took a letter to the post, to weigh it in his

hand, to turn it over and over, and to study the address with care;

and when he found a flaw in the partition between his room and

Madame Zephyrine's, instead of filling it up, he enlarged and

improved the opening, and made use of it as a spy-hole on his

neighbour's affairs.

One day, in the end of March, his curiosity growing as it was

indulged, he enlarged the hole a little further, so that he might

command another corner of the room. That evening, when he went as

usual to inspect Madame Zephyrine's movements, he was astonished to

find the aperture obscured in an odd manner on the other side, and

still more abashed when the obstacle was suddenly withdrawn and a

titter of laughter reached his ears. Some of the plaster had

evidently betrayed the secret of his spy-hole, and his neighbour

had been returning the compliment in kind. Mr. Scuddamore was

moved to a very acute feeling of annoyance; he condemned Madame

Zephyrine unmercifully; he even blamed himself; but when he found,

next day, that she had taken no means to baulk him of his favourite

pastime, he continued to profit by her carelessness, and gratify

his idle curiosity.

That next day Madame Zephyrine received a long visit from a tall,

loosely-built man of fifty or upwards, whom Silas had not hitherto

seen. His tweed suit and coloured shirt, no less than his shaggy

side-whiskers, identified him as a Britisher, and his dull grey eye

affected Silas with a sense of cold. He kept screwing his mouth

from side to side and round and round during the whole colloquy,

which was carried on in whispers. More than once it seemed to the

young New Englander as if their gestures indicated his own

apartment; but the only thing definite he could gather by the most

scrupulous attention was this remark made by the Englishman in a

somewhat higher key, as if in answer to some reluctance or

opposition.

"I have studied his taste to a nicety, and I tell you again and

again you are the only woman of the sort that I can lay my hands

on."

In answer to this, Madame Zephyrine sighed, and appeared by a

gesture to resign herself, like one yielding to unqualified

authority.

That afternoon the observatory was finally blinded, a wardrobe

having been drawn in front of it upon the other side; and while

Silas was still lamenting over this misfortune, which he attributed

to the Britisher's malign suggestion, the concierge brought him up

a letter in a female handwriting. It was conceived in French of no

very rigorous orthography, bore no signature, and in the most

encouraging terms invited the young American to be present in a

certain part of the Bullier Ball at eleven o'clock that night.

Curiosity and timidity fought a long battle in his heart; sometimes

he was all virtue, sometimes all fire and daring; and the result of

it was that, long before ten, Mr. Silas Q. Scuddamore presented

himself in unimpeachable attire at the door of the Bullier Ball

Rooms, and paid his entry money with a sense of reckless devilry

that was not without its charm.

It was Carnival time, and the Ball was very full and noisy. The

lights and the crowd at first rather abashed our young adventurer,

and then, mounting to his brain with a sort of intoxication, put

him in possession of more than his own share of manhood. He felt

ready to face the devil, and strutted in the ballroom with the

swagger of a cavalier. While he was thus parading, he became aware

of Madame Zephyrine and her Britisher in conference behind a

pillar. The cat-like spirit of eaves-dropping overcame him at

once. He stole nearer and nearer on the couple from behind, until

he was within earshot.

"That is the man," the Britisher was saying; "there - with the long

blond hair - speaking to a girl in green."

Silas identified a very handsome young fellow of small stature, who

was plainly the object of this designation.

"It is well," said Madame Zephyrine. "I shall do my utmost. But,

remember, the best of us may fail in such a matter."

"Tut!" returned her companion; "I answer for the result. Have I

not chosen you from thirty? Go; but be wary of the Prince. I

cannot think what cursed accident has brought him here to-night.

As if there were not a dozen balls in Paris better worth his notice

than this riot of students and counter-jumpers! See him where he

sits, more like a reigning Emperor at home than a Prince upon his

holidays!"

Silas was again lucky. He observed a person of rather a full

build, strikingly handsome, and of a very stately and courteous

demeanour, seated at table with another handsome young man, several

years his junior, who addressed him with conspicuous deference.

The name of Prince struck gratefully on Silas's Republican hearing,

and the aspect of the person to whom that name was applied

exercised its usual charm upon his mind. He left Madame Zephyrine

and her Englishman to take care of each other, and threading his

way through the assembly, approached the table which the Prince and

his confidant had honoured with their choice.

"I tell you, Geraldine," the former was saying, "the action is

madness. Yourself (I am glad to remember it) chose your brother

for this perilous service, and you are bound in duty to have a

guard upon his conduct. He has consented to delay so many days in

Paris; that was already an imprudence, considering the character of

the man he has to deal with; but now, when he is within eight-and-

forty hours of his departure, when he is within two or three days

of the decisive trial, I ask you, is this a place for him to spend

his time? He should be in a gallery at practice; he should be

sleeping long hours and taking moderate exercise on foot; he should

be on a rigorous diet, without white wines or brandy. Does the dog

imagine we are all playing comedy? The thing is deadly earnest,

Geraldine."

"I know the lad too well to interfere," replied Colonel Geraldine,

"and well enough not to be alarmed. He is more cautious than you

fancy, and of an indomitable spirit. If it had been a woman I

should not say so much, but I trust the President to him and the

two valets without an instant's apprehension."

"I am gratified to hear you say so," replied the Prince; "but my

mind is not at rest. These servants are well-trained spies, and

already has not this miscreant succeeded three times in eluding

their observation and spending several hours on end in private, and

most likely dangerous, affairs? An amateur might have lost him by

accident, but if Rudolph and Jerome were thrown off the scent, it

must have been done on purpose, and by a man who had a cogent

reason and exceptional resources."

"I believe the question is now one between my brother and myself,"

replied Geraldine, with a shade of offence in his tone.

"I permit it to be so, Colonel Geraldine," returned Prince

Florizel. "Perhaps, for that very reason, you should be all the

more ready to accept my counsels. But enough. That girl in yellow

dances well."

And the talk veered into the ordinary topics of a Paris ballroom in

the Carnival.

Silas remembered where he was, and that the hour was already near

at hand when he ought to be upon the scene of his assignation. The

more he reflected the less he liked the prospect, and as at that

moment an eddy in the crowd began to draw him in the direction of

the door, he suffered it to carry him away without resistance. The

eddy stranded him in a corner under the gallery, where his ear was

immediately struck with the voice of Madame Zephyrine. She was

speaking in French with the young man of the blond locks who had

been pointed out by the strange Britisher not half-an-hour before.

"I have a character at stake," she said, "or I would put no other

condition than my heart recommends. But you have only to say so

much to the porter, and he will let you go by without a word."

"But why this talk of debt?" objected her companion.

"Heavens!" said she, "do you think I do not understand my own

hotel?"

And she went by, clinging affectionately to her companion's arm.

This put Silas in mind of his billet.

"Ten minutes hence," thought he, "and I may be walking with as

beautiful a woman as that, and even better dressed - perhaps a real

lady, possibly a woman or title."

And then he remembered the spelling, and was a little downcast.

"But it may have been written by her maid," he imagined.

The clock was only a few minutes from the hour, and this immediate

proximity set his heart beating at a curious and rather

disagreeable speed. He reflected with relief that he was in no way

bound to put in an appearance. Virtue and cowardice were together,

and he made once more for the door, but this time of his own

accord, and battling against the stream of people which was now

moving in a contrary direction. Perhaps this prolonged resistance

wearied him, or perhaps he was in that frame of mind when merely to

continue in the same determination for a certain number of minutes

produces a reaction and a different purpose. Certainly, at least,

he wheeled about for a third time, and did not stop until he had

found a place of concealment within a few yards of the appointed

place.

Here he went through an agony of spirit, in which he several times

prayed to God for help, for Silas had been devoutly educated. He

had now not the least inclination for the meeting; nothing kept him

from flight but a silly fear lest he should be thought unmanly; but

this was so powerful that it kept head against all other motives;

and although it could not decide him to advance, prevented him from

definitely running away. At last the clock indicated ten minutes

past the hour. Young Scuddamore's spirit began to rise; he peered

round the corner and saw no one at the place of meeting; doubtless

his unknown correspondent had wearied and gone away. He became as

bold as he had formerly been timid. It seemed to him that if he

came at all to the appointment, however late, he was clear from the

charge of cowardice. Nay, now he began to suspect a hoax, and

actually complimented himself on his shrewdness in having suspected

and outmanoeuvred his mystifiers. So very idle a thing is a boy's

mind!

Armed with these reflections, he advanced boldly from his corner;

but he had not taken above a couple of steps before a hand was laid

upon his arm. He turned and beheld a lady cast in a very large

mould and with somewhat stately features, but bearing no mark of

severity in her looks.

"I see that you are a very self-confident lady-killer," said she;

"for you make yourself expected. But I was determined to meet you.

When a woman has once so far forgotten herself as to make the first

advance, she has long ago left behind her all considerations of

petty pride."

Silas was overwhelmed by the size and attractions of his

correspondent and the suddenness with which she had fallen upon

him. But she soon set him at his ease. She was very towardly and

lenient in her behaviour; she led him on to make pleasantries, and

then applauded him to the echo; and in a very short time, between

blandishments and a liberal exhibition of warm brandy, she had not

only induced him to fancy himself in love, but to declare his

passion with the greatest vehemence.

"Alas!" she said; "I do not know whether I ought not to deplore

this moment, great as is the pleasure you give me by your words.

Hitherto I was alone to suffer; now, poor boy, there will be two.

I am not my own mistress. I dare not ask you to visit me at my own

house, for I am watched by jealous eyes. Let me see," she added;

"I am older than you, although so much weaker; and while I trust in

your courage and determination, I must employ my own knowledge of

the world for our mutual benefit. Where do you live?"

He told her that he lodged in a furnished hotel, and named the

street and number.

She seemed to reflect for some minutes, with an effort of mind.

"I see," she said at last. "You will be faithful and obedient,

will you not?"

Silas assured her eagerly of his fidelity.

"To-morrow night, then," she continued, with an encouraging smile,

"you must remain at home all the evening; and if any friends should

visit you, dismiss them at once on any pretext that most readily

presents itself. Your door is probably shut by ten?" she asked.

"By eleven," answered Silas.

"At a quarter past eleven," pursued the lady, "leave the house.

Merely cry for the door to be opened, and be sure you fall into no

talk with the porter, as that might ruin everything. Go straight

to the corner where the Luxembourg Gardens join the Boulevard;

there you will find me waiting you. I trust you to follow my

advice from point to point: and remember, if you fail me in only

one particular, you will bring the sharpest trouble on a woman

whose only fault is to have seen and loved you."

"I cannot see the use of all these instructions," said Silas.

"I believe you are already beginning to treat me as a master," she

cried, tapping him with her fan upon the arm. "Patience, patience!

that should come in time. A woman loves to be obeyed at first,

although afterwards she finds her pleasure in obeying. Do as I ask

you, for Heaven's sake, or I will answer for nothing. Indeed, now

I think of it," she added, with the manner of one who has just seen

further into a difficulty, "I find a better plan of keeping

importunate visitors away. Tell the porter to admit no one for

you, except a person who may come that night to claim a debt; and

speak with some feeling, as though you feared the interview, so

that he may take your words in earnest."

"I think you may trust me to protect myself against intruders," he

said, not without a little pique.

"That is how I should prefer the thing arranged," she answered

coldly. "I know you men; you think nothing of a woman's

reputation."

Silas blushed and somewhat hung his head; for the scheme he had in

view had involved a little vain-glorying before his acquaintances.

"Above all," she added, "do not speak to the porter as you come

out."

"And why?" said he. "Of all your instructions, that seems to me

the least important."

"You at first doubted the wisdom of some of the others, which you

now see to be very necessary," she replied. "Believe me, this also

has its uses; in time you will see them; and what am I to think of

your affection, if you refuse me such trifles at our first

interview?"

Silas confounded himself in explanations and apologies; in the

middle of these she looked up at the clock and clapped her hands

together with a suppressed scream.

"Heavens!" she cried, "is it so late? I have not an instant to

lose. Alas, we poor women, what slaves we are! What have I not

risked for you already?"

And after repeating her directions, which she artfully combined

with caresses and the most abandoned looks, she bade him farewell

and disappeared among the crowd.

The whole of the next day Silas was filled with a sense of great

importance; he was now sure she was a countess; and when evening

came he minutely obeyed her orders and was at the corner of the

Luxembourg Gardens by the hour appointed. No one was there. He

waited nearly half-an-hour, looking in the face of every one who

passed or loitered near the spot; he even visited the neighbouring

corners of the Boulevard and made a complete circuit of the garden

railings; but there was no beautiful countess to throw herself into

his arms. At last, and most reluctantly, he began to retrace his

steps towards his hotel. On the way he remembered the words he had

heard pass between Madame Zephyrine and the blond young man, and

they gave him an indefinite uneasiness.

"It appears," he reflected, "that every one has to tell lies to our

porter."

He rang the bell, the door opened before him, and the porter in his

bed-clothes came to offer him a light.

"Has he gone?" inquired the porter.

"He? Whom do you mean?" asked Silas, somewhat sharply, for he was

irritated by his disappointment.

"I did not notice him go out," continued the porter, "but I trust

you paid him. We do not care, in this house, to have lodgers who

cannot meet their liabilities."

"What the devil do you mean?" demanded Silas rudely. "I cannot

understand a word of this farrago."

"The short blond young man who came for his debt," returned the

other. "Him it is I mean. Who else should it be, when I had your

orders to admit no one else?"

"Why, good God, of course he never came," retorted Silas.

"I believe what I believe," returned the porter, putting his tongue

into his cheek with a most roguish air.

"You are an insolent scoundrel," cried Silas, and, feeling that he

had made a ridiculous exhibition of asperity, and at the same time

bewildered by a dozen alarms, he turned and began to run upstairs.

"Do you not want a light then?" cried the porter.

But Silas only hurried the faster, and did not pause until he had

reached the seventh landing and stood in front of his own door.

There he waited a moment to recover his breath, assailed by the

worst forebodings and almost dreading to enter the room.

When at last he did so he was relieved to find it dark, and to all

appearance, untenanted. He drew a long breath. Here he was, home

again in safety, and this should be his last folly as certainly as

it had been his first. The matches stood on a little table by the

bed, and he began to grope his way in that direction. As he moved,

his apprehensions grew upon him once more, and he was pleased, when

his foot encountered an obstacle, to find it nothing more alarming

than a chair. At last he touched curtains. From the position of

the window, which was faintly visible, he knew he must be at the

foot of the bed, and had only to feel his way along it in order to

reach the table in question.

He lowered his hand, but what it touched was not simply a

counterpane - it was a counterpane with something underneath it

like the outline of a human leg. Silas withdrew his arm and stood

a moment petrified.

"What, what," he thought, "can this betoken?"

He listened intently, but there was no sound of breathing. Once

more, with a great effort, he reached out the end of his finger to

the spot he had already touched; but this time he leaped back half

a yard, and stood shivering and fixed with terror. There was

something in his bed. What it was he knew not, but there was

something there.

It was some seconds before he could move. Then, guided by an

instinct, he fell straight upon the matches, and keeping his back

towards the bed lighted a candle. As soon as the flame had

kindled, he turned slowly round and looked for what he feared to

see. Sure enough, there was the worst of his imaginations

realised. The coverlid was drawn carefully up over the pillow, but

it moulded the outline of a human body lying motionless; and when

he dashed forward and flung aside the sheets, he beheld the blond

young man whom he had seen in the Bullier Ball the night before,

his eyes open and without speculation, his face swollen and

blackened, and a thin stream of blood trickling from his nostrils.

Silas uttered a long, tremulous wail, dropped the candle, and fell

on his knees beside the bed.

Silas was awakened from the stupor into which his terrible

discovery had plunged him by a prolonged but discreet tapping at

the door. It took him some seconds to remember his position; and

when he hastened to prevent anyone from entering it was already too

late. Dr. Noel, in a tall night-cap, carrying a lamp which lighted

up his long white countenance, sidling in his gait, and peering and

cocking his head like some sort of bird, pushed the door slowly

open, and advanced into the middle of the room.

"I thought I heard a cry," began the Doctor, "and fearing you might

be unwell I did not hesitate to offer this intrusion."

Silas, with a flushed face and a fearful beating heart, kept

between the Doctor and the bed; but he found no voice to answer.

"You are in the dark," pursued the Doctor; "and yet you have not

even begun to prepare for rest. You will not easily persuade me

against my own eyesight; and your face declares most eloquently

that you require either a friend or a physician - which is it to

be? Let me feel your pulse, for that is often a just reporter of

the heart."

He advanced to Silas, who still retreated before him backwards, and

sought to take him by the wrist; but the strain on the young

American's nerves had become too great for endurance. He avoided

the Doctor with a febrile movement, and, throwing himself upon the

floor, burst into a flood of weeping.

As soon as Dr. Noel perceived the dead man in the bed his face

darkened; and hurrying back to the door which he had left ajar, he

hastily closed and double-locked it.

"Up!" he cried, addressing Silas in strident tones; "this is no

time for weeping. What have you done? How came this body in your

room? Speak freely to one who may be helpful. Do you imagine I

would ruin you? Do you think this piece of dead flesh on your

pillow can alter in any degree the sympathy with which you have

inspired me? Credulous youth, the horror with which blind and

unjust law regards an action never attaches to the doer in the eyes

of those who love him; and if I saw the friend of my heart return

to me out of seas of blood he would be in no way changed in my

affection. Raise yourself," he said; "good and ill are a chimera;

there is nought in life except destiny, and however you may be

circumstanced there is one at your side who will help you to the

last."

Thus encouraged, Silas gathered himself together, and in a broken

voice, and helped out by the Doctor's interrogations, contrived at

last to put him in possession of the facts. But the conversation

between the Prince and Geraldine he altogether omitted, as he had

understood little of its purport, and had no idea that it was in

any way related to his own misadventure.

"Alas!" cried Dr. Noel, "I am much abused, or you have fallen

innocently into the most dangerous hands in Europe. Poor boy, what

a pit has been dug for your simplicity! into what a deadly peril

have your unwary feet been conducted! This man," he said, "this

Englishman, whom you twice saw, and whom I suspect to be the soul

of the contrivance, can you describe him? Was he young or old?

tall or short?"

But Silas, who, for all his curiosity, had not a seeing eye in his

head, was able to supply nothing but meagre generalities, which it

was impossible to recognise.

"I would have it a piece of education in all schools!" cried the

Doctor angrily. "Where is the use of eyesight and articulate

speech if a man cannot observe and recollect the features of his

enemy? I, who know all the gangs of Europe, might have identified

him, and gained new weapons for your defence. Cultivate this art

in future, my poor boy; you may find it of momentous service."

"The future!" repeated Silas. "What future is there left for me

except the gallows?"

"Youth is but a cowardly season," returned the Doctor; "and a man's

own troubles look blacker than they are. I am old, and yet I never

despair."

"Can I tell such a story to the police?" demanded Silas.

"Assuredly not," replied the Doctor. "From what I see already of

the machination in which you have been involved, your case is

desperate upon that side; and for the narrow eye of the authorities

you are infallibly the guilty person. And remember that we only

know a portion of the plot; and the same infamous contrivers have

doubtless arranged many other circumstances which would be elicited

by a police inquiry, and help to fix the guilt more certainly upon

your innocence."

"I am then lost, indeed!" cried Silas.

"I have not said so," answered Dr. Noel "for I am a cautious man."

"But look at this!" objected Silas, pointing to the body. "Here is

this object in my bed; not to be explained, not to be disposed of,

not to be regarded without horror."

"Horror?" replied the Doctor. "No. When this sort of clock has

run down, it is no more to me than an ingenious piece of mechanism,

to be investigated with the bistoury. When blood is once cold and

stagnant, it is no longer human blood; when flesh is once dead, it

is no longer that flesh which we desire in our lovers and respect

in our friends. The grace, the attraction, the terror, have all

gone from it with the animating spirit. Accustom yourself to look

upon it with composure; for if my scheme is practicable you will

have to live some days in constant proximity to that which now so

greatly horrifies you."

"Your scheme?" cried Silas. "What is that? Tell me speedily,

Doctor; for I have scarcely courage enough to continue to exist."

Without replying, Doctor Noel turned towards the bed, and proceeded

to examine the corpse.

"Quite dead," he murmured. "Yes, as I had supposed, the pockets

empty. Yes, and the name cut off the shirt. Their work has been

done thoroughly and well. Fortunately, he is of small stature."

Silas followed these words with an extreme anxiety. At last the

Doctor, his autopsy completed, took a chair and addressed the young

American with a smile.

"Since I came into your room," said he, "although my ears and my

tongue have been so busy, I have not suffered my eyes to remain

idle. I noted a little while ago that you have there, in the

corner, one of those monstrous constructions which your fellow-

countrymen carry with them into all quarters of the globe - in a

word, a Saratoga trunk. Until this moment I have never been able

to conceive the utility of these erections; but then I began to

have a glimmer. Whether it was for convenience in the slave trade,

or to obviate the results of too ready an employment of the bowie-

knife, I cannot bring myself to decide. But one thing I see

plainly - the object of such a box is to contain a human body.

"Surely," cried Silas, "surely this is not a time for jesting."

"Although I may express myself with some degree of pleasantry,"

replied the Doctor, "the purport of my words is entirely serious.

And the first thing we have to do, my young friend, is to empty

your coffer of all that it contains."

Silas, obeying the authority of Doctor Noel, put himself at his

disposition. The Saratoga trunk was soon gutted of its contents,

which made a considerable litter on the floor; and then - Silas

taking the heels and the Doctor supporting the shoulders - the body

of the murdered man was carried from the bed, and, after some

difficulty, doubled up and inserted whole into the empty box. With

an effort on the part of both, the lid was forced down upon this

unusual baggage, and the trunk was locked and corded by the

Doctor's own hand, while Silas disposed of what had been taken out

between the closet and a chest of drawers.

"Now," said the Doctor, "the first step has been taken on the way

to your deliverance. To-morrow, or rather to-day, it must be your

task to allay the suspicions of your porter, paying him all that

you owe; while you may trust me to make the arrangements necessary

to a safe conclusion. Meantime, follow me to my room, where I

shall give you a safe and powerful opiate; for, whatever you do,

you must have rest."

The next day was the longest in Silas's memory; it seemed as if it

would never be done. He denied himself to his friends, and sat in

a corner with his eyes fixed upon the Saratoga trunk in dismal

contemplation. His own former indiscretions were now returned upon

him in kind; for the observatory had been once more opened, and he

was conscious of an almost continual study from Madame Zephyrine's

apartment. So distressing did this become, that he was at last

obliged to block up the spy-hole from his own side; and when he was

thus secured from observation he spent a considerable portion of

his time in contrite tears and prayer.

Late in the evening Dr. Noel entered the room carrying in his hand

a pair of sealed envelopes without address, one somewhat bulky, and

the other so slim as to seem without enclosure.

"Silas," he said, seating himself at the table, "the time has now

come for me to explain my plan for your salvation. To-morrow

morning, at an early hour, Prince Florizel of Bohemia returns to

London, after having diverted himself for a few days with the

Parisian Carnival. It was my fortune, a good while ago, to do

Colonel Geraldine, his Master of the Horse, one of those services,

so common in my profession, which are never forgotten upon either

side. I have no need to explain to you the nature of the

obligation under which he was laid; suffice it to say that I knew

him ready to serve me in any practicable manner. Now, it was

necessary for you to gain London with your trunk unopened. To this

the Custom House seemed to oppose a fatal difficulty; but I

bethought me that the baggage of so considerable a person as the

Prince, is, as a matter of courtesy, passed without examination by

the officers of Custom. I applied to Colonel Geraldine, and

succeeded in obtaining a favourable answer. To-morrow, if you go

before six to the hotel where the Prince lodges, your baggage will

be passed over as a part of his, and you yourself will make the

journey as a member of his suite."

"It seems to me, as you speak, that I have already seen both the

Prince and Colonel Geraldine; I even overheard some of their

conversation the other evening at the Bullier Ball."

"It is probable enough; for the Prince loves to mix with all

societies," replied the Doctor. "Once arrived in London," he

pursued, "your task is nearly ended. In this more bulky envelope I

have given you a letter which I dare not address; but in the other

you will find the designation of the house to which you must carry

it along with your box, which will there be taken from you and not

trouble you any more."

"Alas!" said Silas, "I have every wish to believe you; but how is

it possible? You open up to me a bright prospect, but, I ask you,

is my mind capable of receiving so unlikely a solution? Be more

generous, and let me further understand your meaning."

The Doctor seemed painfully impressed.

"Boy," he answered, "you do not know how hard a thing you ask of

me. But be it so. I am now inured to humiliation; and it would be

strange if I refused you this, after having granted you so much.

Know, then, that although I now make so quiet an appearance -

frugal, solitary, addicted to study - when I was younger, my name

was once a rallying-cry among the most astute and dangerous spirits

of London; and while I was outwardly an object for respect and

consideration, my true power resided in the most secret, terrible,

and criminal relations. It is to one of the persons who then

obeyed me that I now address myself to deliver you from your

burden. They were men of many different nations and dexterities,

all bound together by a formidable oath, and working to the same

purposes; the trade of the association was in murder; and I who

speak to you, innocent as I appear, was the chieftain of this

redoubtable crew."

"What?" cried Silas. "A murderer? And one with whom murder was a

trade? Can I take your hand? Ought I so much as to accept your

services? Dark and criminal old man, would you make an accomplice

of my youth and my distress?"

The Doctor bitterly laughed.

"You are difficult to please, Mr. Scuddamore," said he; "but I now

offer you your choice of company between the murdered man and the

murderer. If your conscience is too nice to accept my aid, say so,

and I will immediately leave you. Thenceforward you can deal with

your trunk and its belongings as best suits your upright

conscience."

"I own myself wrong," replied Silas. "I should have remembered how

generously you offered to shield me, even before I had convinced

you of my innocence, and I continue to listen to your counsels with

gratitude."

"That is well," returned the Doctor; "and I perceive you are

beginning to learn some of the lessons of experience."

"At the same time," resumed the New-Englander, "as you confess

yourself accustomed o this tragical business, and the people to

whom you recommend me are your own former associates and friends,

could you not yourself undertake the transport of the box, and rid

me at once of its detested presence?"

"Upon my word," replied the Doctor, "I admire you cordially. If

you do not think I have already meddled sufficiently in your

concerns, believe me, from my heart I think the contrary. Take or

leave my services as I offer them; and trouble me with no more

words of gratitude, for I value your consideration even more

lightly than I do your intellect. A time will come, if you should

be spared to see a number of years in health of mind, when you will

think differently of all this, and blush for your to-night's

behaviour."

So saying, the Doctor arose from his chair, repeated his directions

briefly and clearly, and departed from the room without permitting

Silas any time to answer.

The next morning Silas presented himself at the hotel, where he was

politely received by Colonel Geraldine, and relieved, from that

moment, of all immediate alarm about his trunk and its grisly

contents. The journey passed over without much incident, although

the young man was horrified to overhear the sailors and railway

porters complaining among themselves about the unusual weight of

the Prince's baggage. Silas travelled in a carriage with the

valets, for Prince Florizel chose to be alone with his Master of

the Horse. On board the steamer, however, Silas attracted his

Highness's attention by the melancholy of his air and attitude as

he stood gazing at the pile of baggage; for he was still full of

disquietude about the future.

"There is a young man," observed the Prince, "who must have some

cause for sorrow."

"That," replied Geraldine, "is the American for whom I obtained

permission to travel with your suite."

"You remind me that I have been remiss in courtesy," said Prince

Florizel, and advancing to Silas, he addressed him with the most

exquisite condescension in these words:- "I was charmed, young sir,

to be able to gratify the desire you made known to me through

Colonel Geraldine. Remember, if you please, that I shall be glad

at any future time to lay you under a more serious obligation."

And he then put some questions as to the political condition of

America, which Silas answered with sense and propriety.

"You are still a young man," said the Prince; "but I observe you to

be very serious for your years. Perhaps you allow your attention

to be too much occupied with grave studies. But, perhaps, on the

other hand, I am myself indiscreet and touch upon a painful

subject."

"I have certainly cause to be the most miserable of men," said

Silas; "never has a more innocent person been more dismally

abused."

"I will not ask you for your confidence," returned Prince Florizel.

"But do not forget that Colonel Geraldine's recommendation is an

unfailing passport; and that I am not only willing, but possibly

more able than many others, to do you a service."

Silas was delighted with the amiability of this great personage;

but his mind soon returned upon its gloomy preoccupations; for not

even the favour of a Prince to a Republican can discharge a

brooding spirit of its cares.

The train arrived at Charing Cross, where the officers of the

Revenue respected the baggage of Prince Florizel in the usual

manner. The most elegant equipages were in waiting; and Silas was

driven, along with the rest, to the Prince's residence. There

Colonel Geraldine sought him out, and expressed himself pleased to

have been of any service to a friend of the physician's, for whom

he professed a great consideration.

"I hope," he added, "that you will find none of your porcelain

injured. Special orders were given along the line to deal tenderly

with the Prince's effects."

And then, directing the servants to place one of the carriages at

the young gentleman's disposal, and at once to charge the Saratoga

trunk upon the dickey, the Colonel shook hands and excused himself

on account of his occupations in the princely household.

Silas now broke the seal of the envelope containing the address,

and directed the stately footman to drive him to Box Court, opening

off the Strand. It seemed as if the place were not at all unknown

to the man, for he looked startled and begged a repetition of the

order. It was with a heart full of alarms, that Silas mounted into

the luxurious vehicle, and was driven to his destination. The

entrance to Box Court was too narrow for the passage of a coach; it

was a mere footway between railings, with a post at either end. On

one of these posts was seated a man, who at once jumped down and

exchanged a friendly sign with the driver, while the footman opened

the door and inquired of Silas whether he should take down the

Saratoga trunk, and to what number it should be carried.

"If you please," said Silas. "To number three."

The footman and the man who had been sitting on the post, even with

the aid of Silas himself, had hard work to carry in the trunk; and

before it was deposited at the door of the house in question, the

young American was horrified to find a score of loiterers looking

on. But he knocked with as good a countenance as he could muster

up, and presented the other envelope to him who opened.

"He is not at home," said he, "but if you will leave your letter

and return to-morrow early, I shall be able to inform you whether

and when he can receive your visit. Would you like to leave your

box?" he added.

"Dearly," cried Silas; and the next moment he repented his

precipitation, and declared, with equal emphasis, that he would

rather carry the box along with him to the hotel.

The crowd jeered at his indecision and followed him to the carriage

with insulting remarks; and Silas, covered with shame and terror,

implored the servants to conduct him to some quiet and comfortable

house of entertainment in the immediate neighbourhood.

The Prince's equipage deposited Silas at the Craven Hotel in Craven

Street, and immediately drove away, leaving him alone with the

servants of the inn. The only vacant room, it appeared, was a

little den up four pairs of stairs, and looking towards the back.

To this hermitage, with infinite trouble and complaint, a pair of

stout porters carried the Saratoga trunk. It is needless to

mention that Silas kept closely at their heels throughout the

ascent, and had his heart in his mouth at every corner. A single

false step, he reflected, and the box might go over the banisters

and land its fatal contents, plainly discovered, on the pavement of

the hall.

Arrived in the room, he sat down on the edge of his bed to recover

from the agony that he had just endured; but he had hardly taken

his position when he was recalled to a sense of his peril by the

action of the boots, who had knelt beside the trunk, and was

proceeding officiously to undo its elaborate fastenings.

"Let it be!" cried Silas. "I shall want nothing from it while I

stay here."

"You might have let it lie in the hall, then," growled the man; "a

thing as big and heavy as a church. What you have inside I cannot

fancy. If it is all money, you are a richer man than me."

"Money?" repeated Silas, in a sudden perturbation. "What do you

mean by money? I have no money, and you are speaking like a fool."

"All right, captain," retorted the boots with a wink. "There's

nobody will touch your lordship's money. I'm as safe as the bank,"

he added; "but as the box is heavy, I shouldn't mind drinking

something to your lordship's health."

Silas pressed two Napoleons upon his acceptance, apologising, at

the same time, for being obliged to trouble him with foreign money,

and pleading his recent arrival for excuse. And the man, grumbling

with even greater fervour, and looking contemptuously from the

money in his hand to the Saratoga trunk and back again from the one

to the other, at last consented to withdraw.

For nearly two days the dead body had been packed into Silas's box;

and as soon as he was alone the unfortunate New-Englander nosed all

the cracks and openings with the most passionate attention. But

the weather was cool, and the trunk still managed to contain his

shocking secret.

He took a chair beside it, and buried his face in his hands, and

his mind in the most profound reflection. If he were not speedily

relieved, no question but he must be speedily discovered. Alone in

a strange city, without friends or accomplices, if the Doctor's

introduction failed him, he was indubitably a lost New-Englander.

He reflected pathetically over his ambitious designs for the

future; he should not now become the hero and spokesman of his

native place of Bangor, Maine; he should not, as he had fondly

anticipated, move on from office to office, from honour to honour;

he might as well divest himself at once of all hope of being

acclaimed President of the United States, and leaving behind him a

statue, in the worst possible style of art, to adorn the Capitol at

Washington. Here he was, chained to a dead Englishman doubled up

inside a Saratoga trunk; whom he must get rid of, or perish from

the rolls of national glory!

I should be afraid to chronicle the language employed by this young

man to the Doctor, to the murdered man, to Madame Zephyrine, to the

boots of the hotel, to the Prince's servants, and, in a word, to

all who had been ever so remotely connected with his horrible

misfortune.

He slunk down to dinner about seven at night; but the yellow

coffee-room appalled him, the eyes of the other diners seemed to

rest on his with suspicion, and his mind remained upstairs with the

Saratoga trunk. When the waiter came to offer him cheese, his

nerves were already so much on edge that he leaped half-way out of

his chair and upset the remainder of a pint of ale upon the table-

cloth.

The fellow offered to show him to the smoking-room when he had

done; and although he would have much preferred to return at once

to his perilous treasure, he had not the courage to refuse, and was

shown downstairs to the black, gas-lit cellar, which formed, and

possibly still forms, the divan of the Craven Hotel.

Two very sad betting men were playing billiards, attended by a

moist, consumptive marker; and for the moment Silas imagined that

these were the only occupants of the apartment. But at the next

glance his eye fell upon a person smoking in the farthest corner,

with lowered eyes and a most respectable and modest aspect. He

knew at once that he had seen the face before; and, in spite of the

entire change of clothes, recognised the man whom he had found

seated on a post at the entrance to Box Court, and who had helped

him to carry the trunk to and from the carriage. The New-Englander

simply turned and ran, nor did he pause until he had locked and

bolted himself into his bedroom.

There, all night long, a prey to the most terrible imaginations, he

watched beside the fatal boxful of dead flesh. The suggestion of

the boots that his trunk was full of gold inspired him with all

manner of new terrors, if he so much as dared to close an eye; and

the presence in the smoking-room, and under an obvious disguise, of

the loiterer from Box Court convinced him that he was once more the

centre of obscure machinations.

Midnight had sounded some time, when, impelled by uneasy

suspicions, Silas opened his bedroom door and peered into the

passage. It was dimly illuminated by a single jet of gas; and some

distance off he perceived a man sleeping on the floor in the

costume of an hotel under-servant. Silas drew near the man on

tiptoe. He lay partly on his back, partly on his side, and his

right forearm concealed his face from recognition. Suddenly, while

the American was still bending over him, the sleeper removed his

arm and opened his eyes, and Silas found himself once more face to

face with the loiterer of Box Court.

"Good-night, sir," said the man, pleasantly.

But Silas was too profoundly moved to find an answer, and regained

his room in silence.

Towards morning, worn out by apprehension, he fell asleep on his

chair, with his head forward on the trunk. In spite of so

constrained an attitude and such a grisly pillow, his slumber was

sound and prolonged, and he was only awakened at a late hour and by

a sharp tapping at the door.

He hurried to open, and found the boots without.

"You are the gentleman who called yesterday at Box Court?" he

asked.

Silas, with a quaver, admitted that he had done so.

"Then this note is for you," added the servant, proffering a sealed

envelope.

Silas tore it open, and found inside the words: "Twelve o'clock."

He was punctual to the hour; the trunk was carried before him by

several stout servants; and he was himself ushered into a room,

where a man sat warming himself before the fire with his back

towards the door. The sound of so many persons entering and

leaving, and the scraping of the trunk as it was deposited upon the

bare boards, were alike unable to attract the notice of the

occupant; and Silas stood waiting, in an agony of fear, until he

should deign to recognise his presence.

Perhaps five minutes had elapsed before the man turned leisurely

about, and disclosed the features of Prince Florizel of Bohemia.

"So, sir," he said, with great severity, "this is the manner in

which you abuse my politeness. You join yourselves to persons of

condition, I perceive, for no other purpose than to escape the

consequences of your crimes; and I can readily understand your

embarrassment when I addressed myself to you yesterday."

"Indeed," cried Silas, "I am innocent of everything except

misfortune."

And in a hurried voice, and with the greatest ingenuousness, he

recounted to the Prince the whole history of his calamity.

"I see I have been mistaken," said his Highness, when he had heard

him to an end. "You are no other than a victim, and since I am not

to punish you may be sure I shall do my utmost to help. And now,"

he continued, "to business. Open your box at once, and let me see

what it contains."

Silas changed colour.

"I almost fear to look upon it," he exclaimed.

"Nay," replied the Prince, "have you not looked at it already?

This is a form of sentimentality to be resisted. The sight of a

sick man, whom we can still help, should appeal more directly to

the feelings than that of a dead man who is equally beyond help or

harm, love or hatred. Nerve yourself, Mr. Scuddamore," and then,

seeing that Silas still hesitated, "I do not desire to give another

name to my request," he added.

The young American awoke as if out of a dream, and with a shiver of

repugnance addressed himself to loose the straps and open the lock

of the Saratoga trunk. The Prince stood by, watching with a

composed countenance and his hands behind his back. The body was

quite stiff, and it cost Silas a great effort, both moral and

physical, to dislodge it from its position, and discover the face.

Prince Florizel started back with an exclamation of painful

surprise.

"Alas!" he cried, "you little know, Mr. Scuddamore, what a cruel

gift you have brought me. This is a young man of my own suite, the

brother of my trusted friend; and it was upon matters of my own

service that he has thus perished at the hands of violent and

treacherous men. Poor Geraldine," he went on, as if to himself,

"in what words am I to tell you of your brother's fate? How can I

excuse myself in your eyes, or in the eyes of God, for the

presumptuous schemes that led him to this bloody and unnatural

death? Ah, Florizel! Florizel! when will you learn the discretion

that suits mortal life, and be no longer dazzled with the image of

power at your disposal? Power!" he cried; "who is more powerless?

I look upon this young man whom I have sacrificed, Mr. Scuddamore,

and feel how small a thing it is to be a Prince."

Silas was moved at the sight of his emotion. He tried to murmur

some consolatory words, and burst into tears.

The Prince, touched by his obvious intention, came up to him and

took him by the hand.

"Command yourself," said he. "We have both much to learn, and we

shall both be better men for to-day's meeting."

Silas thanked him in silence with an affectionate look.

"Write me the address of Doctor Noel on this piece of paper,"

continued the Prince, leading him towards the table; "and let me

recommend you, when you are again in Paris, to avoid the society of

that dangerous man. He has acted in this matter on a generous

inspiration; that I must believe; had he been privy to young

Geraldine's death he would never have despatched the body to the

care of the actual criminal."

"The actual criminal!" repeated Silas in astonishment.

"Even so," returned the Prince. "This letter, which the

disposition of Almighty Providence has so strangely delivered into

my hands, was addressed to no less a person than the criminal

himself, the infamous President of the Suicide Club. Seek to pry

no further in these perilous affairs, but content yourself with

your own miraculous escape, and leave this house at once. I have

pressing affairs, and must arrange at once about this poor clay,

which was so lately a gallant and handsome youth."

Silas took a grateful and submissive leave of Prince Florizel, but

he lingered in Box Court until he saw him depart in a splendid

carriage on a visit to Colonel Henderson of the police. Republican

as he was, the young American took off his hat with almost a

sentiment of devotion to the retreating carriage. And the same

night he started by rail on his return to Paris.

Here (observes my Arabian author) is the end of THE HISTORY OF THE

PHYSICIAN AND THE SARATOGA TRUNK. Omitting some reflections on the

power of Providence, highly pertinent in the original, but little

suited to our occiddental taste, I shall only add that Mr.

Scuddamore has already begun to mount the ladder of political fame,

and by last advices was the Sheriff of his native town.