They took me at my word and placed
a gendarme with a bared sabre at the gateway by the hedge.
"Give me your parole," said poor
Durand, "and I will let you go where you wish." But I refused, and began
prowling about the cottage looking for clews. I found lots of things that
some people would have considered most important, such as ashes from the
Red Admiral's pipe, footprints in a dusty vegetable bin, bottles smelling
of Pouldu cider, and dust--oh, lots of dust!--but I was not an expert,
only a stupid, everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick
shooting boots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope,
although the Red Admiral's microscope stood on the table close at hand.
At last I found what I had been
looking for, some long wisps of straw, curiously depressed and flattened
in the middle, and I was certain I had found the evidence that would settle
Yves Terrec for the rest of his life. It was plain as the nose on your
face. The straws were sabot straws, flattened where to foot had pressed
them, and sticking straight out where they projected beyond the sabot.
Now nobody in St. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman who lived
near St. Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat
straw! This straw, or rather these straws, were from the stalks of the
red wheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildas knew,
Yves Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; and when, three
hours later, a hoarse shouting from the Bannalec Road brought me to the
window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec, bloody, dishevelled, hatless,
with his strong arms bound behind him, walking with bent head between two
mounted gendarmes. The crowd around him swelled every minute, crying: Parricide!
parricide! Death to the murderer!" As he passed my window I saw great clods
of mud on his dusty sabots, from the heels of which projected wisps of
red wheat straw. Then I walked back into the Red Admiral's study, determined
to find what the microscope would show on the wheat straws. I examined
one very carefully, and then, my eyes aching, I rested my chin on my hand
and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as fortunate as some detectives,
for there was no evidence that the straws had ever been used in a sabot
at all. Furthermore, directly across the hallway stood a carved Breton
chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, from beneath the closed
lid, dozens of similar red wheat straws projected, bent exactly as mine
were bent by the weight of the lid.
I yawned in disgust. It was apparent
that I was not cut out to be a detective, and I bitterly pondered over
the difference between clews in real life and clews in a detective story.
After a while I rose, walked over to the chest and opened the lid. The
interior was wadded with the read wheat straws, and on this waddling lay
two curious glass jars, two or three small vials, several empty bottles
labelled chloroform, a collecting jar of cyanide of potassium, and a book.
In a farther corner of the chest were some letters bearing English stamps,
and also the torn coverings of two parcels, all from England, and all directed
to the Red Admiral under his proper name of "Sieur Louis Jean Terrec, St.
Gildas, par Moëlan, Finistére."
All these traps I carried over
to the desk, shut the lid of the chest, and sat down to read the letters.
They were written in commercial French, evidently by an Englishman.
Freely translated, the contents
of the first letter were as follows:
"LONDON, June 12, 1894.
"DEAR MONSIEUR (sic): Your kind
favour of the 19th inst. received and contents noted. The latest work on
the Lepidoptera of England is Blowzer's How to catch British Butterflies,
with notes and tables, and an introduction by Sir Thomas Sniffer. The price
of this work (in one volume, calf) is [BREAKPOINT POUND SIGN]5 or 125 francs
of French money. A post-office order will receive our prompt attention.
We beg to remain,
"FRADLEY & TOOMER,
"470 Regent Square, London, W.
The next letter was even
less interesting. It merely stated that the money had been received and
the book would be forwarded. The third engaged my attention, and I shall
quote it, the translation being a free one:
"DEAR SIR: Your letter of the
1st of July was duly received, and we at once referred it to Mr. Fradley
himself. Mr. Fradley being much interested in your question, sent your
letter to Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological Society, whose
note Blowzer refers to on page 630, in his How to catch British Butterflies.
We have just received an answer from Professor Schweineri, which we translate
into French--(see inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs to present
you two jars of cythyl, prepared under his supervision. We forward the
same to you. Trusting that you will find everything satisfactory, we remain,
"FRADLEY & TOOMER."
The inclosed slip read as
"Messrs. FRADLEY & TOOMER,
When I finished this letter I folded
it up and put it in my pocket with the others. Then I opened Blowzer's
valuable work, How to catch British Butterflies, and turned to page 630.
"GENTLEMEN: Cythaline, a complex
hydrocarbon, was first used by Professor Schnoot, of Antwerp, a year ago.
I discovered an analogous formula about the same time and named it cythyl.
I had used it with great success everywhere. It is as certain as a magnet.
I beg to present you three small jars, and would be pleased to have you
forward two of them to your correspondent in St. Gildas with my compliments.
Blowzer's quotation of me, on page 630 of his glorious work, How to catch
British Butterflies, is correct.
P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S."
Now, although the Red Admiral
could only have acquired the book very recently, and although all the other
pages were perfectly clean, this particular page was thumbed black, and
heavy pencil marks inclosed a paragraph at the bottom of the page. This
is the paragraph:
"Professor Schweineri says:
'Of the two old methods used by collectors for the capture of the swift-winged,
high-flying Apatura Iris, or Purple Emperor, the first, which was using
a long-handled net, proved unsuccessful once in a thousand times; and the
second, the placing of bait upon the ground, such as decayed meat, dead
cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable, even for an enthusiastic collector,
but also very uncertain. Once in five hundred times would the splendid
butterfly leave the tops of his favourite oak trees to circle about the
fetid bait offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure bait to draw this
beautiful butterfly to the ground, where it can be easily captured. An
ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer under an oak tree, will draw
to it every Apatura Iris within a radius of twenty miles. So, if any collector
who possesses a little cythyl, even though it be in a sealed bottle in
his pocket--if such a collector does not find a single Apatura Iris fluttering
close about him within an hour, let him be satisfied that the Apatura Iris
does not inhabit his country.'"
When I finished reading this note
I sat for a long while thinking hard. Then I examined the two jars. They
were labelled "Cythyl." One was full, the other nearly full.
"The rest must be on the corpse of the Red Admiral," I thought, "no matter
if it is in a corked bottle--"
I took all the things back to
the chest, laid them carefully on the straw, and closed the lid. The gendarme
sentinel at the gate saluted me respectfully as I crossed over to the Groix
Inn. The Inn was surrounded by an excited crowd, and the hallway was choked
with gendarmes and peasants. On every side they greeted me cordially, announcing
that the read murderer was caught; but I pushed by them without a word
and ran upstairs to find Lys. She opened her door when I knocked and threw
both arms about my neck. I took her to my breast and kissed her. After
a moment I asked her if she would obey me no matter what I commanded, and
she said she would, with a proud humility that touched me.
"Then go at once to Yvette in
St. Julien," I said. "Ask her to harness the dog-cart and drive; you to
the convent in Quimperlé. Wait for me there. Will you do this without
questioning me, my darling?"
She raised her face to mine.
"Kiss me," she said innocently; the next moment she had vanished.
I walked deliberately into the
Purple Emperor's room and peered into the gauze-covered box which held
the chrysalis of Apatura Iris. It was as I expected. The chrysalis was
empty and transparent, and a great crack ran down the middle of its back,
but, on the netting inside the box, a magnificent butterfly slowly waved
its burnished purple wings; for the chrysalis had given up its silent tenant,
the butterfly symbol of immortality. Then a great fear fell upon me. I
know now that it was the fear of the Black Priest, but neither then more
for years after did I know that the Black Priest had ever lived on earth.
As I bent over the box I heard a confused murmur outside the house which
ended in a furious shout of "Parricide!" and I heard the gendarmes ride
away behind a wagon which rattled sharply on the flinty highway. I went
to the window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, two gendarmes
at either side of him, and all around the wagon rode mounted gendarmes
whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.
"Parricide!" they howled. "Let
I stepped back and opened the
gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmly I took the splendid butterfly
by its closed fore wings and lifted it unharmed between my thumb and forefinger.
Then, holding it concealed behind my back, I went down into the café.
Of all the crowd that had filled
it, shouting for the death of Yves Terrec, only three persons remained
seated in front of the huge empty fireplace. They were the Brigadier Durand,
Max Fortin, the chemist from Quimperlé, and the Purple Emperor.
The latter looked abashed when I entered, but I paid no attention to him
and walked straight to the chemist.
"Monsieur Fortin," I said, "do
you know much about hydrocarbons?"
"They are my specialty," he said
"Have you ever heard of such
a thing as cythyl?"
"Schweineri's cythyl? Oh, yes!
We use it in perfumery."
"Good!" I said. "Has it an odour?"
"No--and, yes. One is always
aware of its presence, but really nobody can affirm it has an odour. It
is curious," he continued, looking at me, "it is a very curious you should
have asked me that, for all day I have been imagining I detected the presence
"Do you imagine so now?" I asked.
"Yes, more than ever."
I sprang to the front door and
tossed out the butterfly. The splendid creature beat the air for a moment,
flitted uncertainly hither and thither, and then, to my astonishment, sailed
majestically back into the café and alighted on the hearthstone.
For a moment I was nonpulssed, but when my eyes rested on the Purple Emperor
I comprehended in a flash.
"Lift the hearthstone!" I cried
to the Brigadier Durand; "pry it up with your scabbard!"
The Purple Emperor suddenly fell
forward in his chair, his face ghastly white, his jaw loose with terror.
"What is cythyl?" I shouted,
seizing him by the arm; but he plunged heavily from his chair, face downward
on the floor, and at the same moment a cry from the chemist made me turn.
There stood the Brigadier Durand, one hand supporting the hearthstone,
one hand raised in horror. There stood Max Fortin, the chemist, rigid with
excitement, and below, in the hollow bed where the hearthstone had rested,
lay a crushed mass of bleeding human flesh, from the midst of which stared
a cheap glass eye. I seized the Purple Emperor and dragged him to his feet.
"Look!" I cried; "look at your
old friend, the Red Admiral!" but he only smiled in a vacant way, and rolled
his head muttering; "Bait for butterflies! Cythyl! Oh, no, no, no! You
can't do it, Admiral, d'ye see. I alone own the Purple Emperor! I alone
am the Purple Emperor!"
And the same carriage that bore
me to Quimperlé to claim my bride, carried him to Quimper, gagged
and bound, a foaming, howling lunatic.
. . . . . . .
This, then, is the story of the
Purple Emperor. I might tell you a pleasanter story if I chose; but concerning
the fish that I had hold of, whether it was a salmon, a frilse, or a sea
trout, I may not say, because I have promised Lys, and she has promised
me, that no power on earth shall wring from our lips the mortifying confession
that the fish escaped.