The Man in Grey

The Man in Grey
Being episodes of the Chouan Conspiracies in Normandy during the
First Empire
by Baroness Orczy
(1919)

Table of Contents
Proem
Silver-leg
The Spaniard
The Mystery of Marie Vaillant
The Emeralds of Mademoiselle Philipa
The Bourbon Prince
The Mystery of a Woman's Heart
The League of Knaves
The Arrow Poison
The Last Adventure

Proem
It has been a difficult task to piece together the fragmentary documents

which alone throw a light--dim and flickering at the best--upon that
mysterious personality known to the historians of the Napoleonic era as
the Man in Grey. So very little is known about him. Age, appearance,
domestic circumstances, everything pertaining to him has remained a
matter of conjecture--even his name! In the reports sent by the
all-powerful Minister to the Emperor he is invariably spoken of as "The
Man in Grey." Once only does Fouche refer to him as "Fernand."
Strange and mysterious creature! Nevertheless, he played an important
part--the most important, perhaps in bringing to justice some of those
reckless criminals who, under the cloak of Royalist convictions and
religious and political aims, spent their time in pillage, murder and
arson.
Strange and mysterious creatures, too, these men so aptly named
Chouans--that is, "chats-huants"; screech-owls--since they were a terror
by night and disappeared within their burrows by day. A world of
romance lies buried within the ruins of the chateaux which gave them
shelter--Tournebut, Bouvesse, Donnai, Plelan. A world of mystery
encompasses the names of their leaders and, above all, those of the
women--ladies of high degree and humble peasants alike--often heroic,
more often misguided, who supplied the intrigue, the persistence, the
fanatical hatred which kept the fire of rebellion smouldering and
spluttering even while it could not burst into actual flame. D'Ache
Cadoudal, Frotte, Armand le Chevallier, Marquise de Combray, Mme.
Aquet de Ferolles--the romance attaching to these names pales beside
that which clings to the weird anonymity of their
henchmen--"Dare-Death," "Hare-Lip," "Fear-Nought," "Silver-Leg,"
and so on. Theirs were the hands that struck whilst their leaders
planned--they were the screech-owls who for more than twenty years
terrorised the western provinces of France and, in the name of God and
their King, committed every crime that could besmirch the Cause
which they professed to uphold.
Whether they really aimed at the restoration of the Bourbon kings and
at bolstering up the fortunes of an effete and dispossessed monarchy
with money wrung from peaceable citizens, or whether they were a

mere pack of lawless brigands made up of deserters from the army and
fugitives from conscription, of felons and bankrupt aristocrats, will for
ever remain a bone of contention between the apologists of the old
regime and those of the new.
With partisanship in those strangely obscure though comparatively
recent episodes of history we have nothing to do. Facts
alone--undeniable and undenied--must be left to speak for themselves.
It was but meet that these men--amongst whom were to be found the
bearers of some of the noblest names in France--should be tracked
down and brought to justice by one whose personality has continued to
be as complete an enigma as their own.

Silver-leg
I
"Forward now! And at foot-pace, mind, to the edge of the wood -- or
----"
The ominous click of a pistol completed the peremptory command.
Old Gontran, the driver, shook his wide shoulders beneath his heavy
caped coat and gathered the reins once more in his quivering hands; the
door of the coach was closed with a bang; the postilion scrambled into
the saddle; only the passenger who had so peremptorily been ordered
down from the box-seat beside the driver had not yet climbed back into
his place. Well! old Gontran was not in a mood to fash about the
passengers. His horses, worried by the noise, the shouting, the click of
firearms and the rough handling meted out to them by strange hands in
the darkness, were very restive. They would have liked to start off at
once at a brisk pace so as to leave these disturbers of their peace as far
behind them as possible, but Gontran was holding them in with a firm
hand and they had to walk -- walk! -- along this level bit of road, with
the noisy enemy still present in their rear.
The rickety old coach gave a lurch and started on its way; the clanking

of loose chains, the grinding of the wheels in the muddy roads, the
snorting and travail of the horses as they finally settled again into their
collars, drowned the coachman's muttered imprecations.
"A fine state of things, forsooth!" he growled to himself more
dejectedly than savagely. "What the Emperor's police are up to no one
knows. That such things can happen is past belief. Not yet six o'clock
in the afternoon, and Alençon