← catalogue

Castles in the Air

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy · English · Gutenberg #12461 · 375,525 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Castles in the Air
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Castles in the Air

Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12461]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12461

Credits: Jim Tinsley and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASTLES IN THE AIR ***

CASTLES IN THE AIR

By Baroness Emmuska Orczy




CONTENTS

 FOREWORD
 CASTLES IN THE AIR
 CHAPTER I. — A ROLAND FOR HIS OLIVER
 CHAPTER II. — A FOOL’S PARADISE
 CHAPTER III. — ON THE BRINK
 CHAPTER IV. — CARISSIMO
 CHAPTER V. — THE TOYS
 CHAPTER VI. — HONOUR AMONG——
 CHAPTER VII. — AN OVER-SENSITIVE HEART




FOREWORD


In presenting this engaging rogue to my readers, I feel that I owe
them, if not an apology, at least an explanation for this attempt at
enlisting sympathy in favour of a man who has little to recommend him
save his own unconscious humour. In very truth my good friend Ratichon
is an unblushing liar, thief, a forger—anything you will; his vanity is
past belief, his scruples are non-existent. How he escaped a convict
settlement it is difficult to imagine, and hard to realize that he
died—presumably some years after the event recorded in the last chapter
of his autobiography—a respected member of the community, honoured by
that same society which should have raised a punitive hand against him.
Yet this I believe to be the case. At any rate, in spite of close
research in the police records of the period, I can find no mention of
Hector Ratichon. “Heureux le peuple qui n’a pas d’histoire” applies,
therefore, to him, and we must take it that Fate and his own sorely
troubled country dealt lightly with him.

Which brings me back to my attempt at an explanation. If Fate dealt
kindly, why not we? Since time immemorial there have been worse
scoundrels unhung than Hector Ratichon, and he has the saving grace—
which few possess—of unruffled geniality. Buffeted by Fate, sometimes
starving, always thirsty, he never complains; and there is all through
his autobiography what we might call an “Ah, well!” attitude about his
outlook on life. Because of this, and because his very fatuity makes us
smile, I feel that he deserves forgiveness and even a certain amount of
recognition.

The fragmentary notes, which I have only very slightly modified, came
into my hands by a happy chance one dull post-war November morning in
Paris, when rain, sleet and the north wind drove me for shelter under
the arcades of the Odéon, and a kindly vendor of miscellaneous printed
matter and mouldy MSS. allowed me to rummage amongst a load of old
papers which he was about to consign to the rubbish heap. I imagine
that the notes were set down by the actual person to whom the genial
Hector Ratichon recounted the most conspicuous events of his chequered
career, and as I turned over the torn and musty pages, which hung
together by scraps of mouldy thread, I could not help feeling the
humour—aye! and the pathos—of that drabby side of old Paris which was
being revealed to me through the medium of this rogue’s adventures. And
even as, holding the fragments in my hand, I walked home that morning
through the rain something of that same quaint personality seemed once
more to haunt the dank and dreary streets of the once dazzling Ville
Lumière. I seemed to see the shabby bottle-green coat, the nankeen
pantaloons, the down-at-heel shoes of this “confidant of Kings”; I
could hear his unctuous, self-satisfied laugh, and sensed his furtive
footstep whene’er a gendarme came into view. I saw his ruddy, shiny
face beaming at me through the sleet and the rain as, like a veritable
squire of dames, he minced his steps upon the boulevard, or, like a
reckless smuggler, affronted the grave dangers of mountain fastnesses
upon the Juras; and I was quite glad to think that a life so full of
unconscious humour had not been cut short upon the gallows. And I
thought kindly of him, for he had made me smile.

There is nothing fine about him, nothing romantic; nothing in his
actions to cause a single thrill to the nerves of the most
unsophisticated reader. Therefore, I apologize in that I have not held
him up to a just obloquy because of his crimes, and I ask indulgence
for his turpitudes because of the laughter which they provoke.

EMMUSKA ORCZY. _Paris, 1921_.




CASTLES IN THE AIR




CHAPTER I. — A ROLAND FOR HIS OLIVER

1.

My name is Ratichon—Hector Ratichon, at your service, and I make so
bold as to say that not even my worst enemy would think of minimizing
the value of my services to the State. For twenty years now have I
placed my powers at the disposal of my country: I have served the
Republic, and was confidential agent to Citizen Robespierre; I have
served the Empire, and was secret factotum to our great Napoléon; I
have served King Louis—with a brief interval of one hundred days— for
the past two years, and I can only repeat that no one, in the whole of
France, has been so useful or so zealous in tracking criminals, nosing
out conspiracies, or denouncing traitors as I have been.

And yet you see me a poor man to this day: there has been a
persistently malignant Fate which has worked against me all these
years, and would—but for a happy circumstance of which I hope anon to
tell you—have left me just as I was, in the matter of fortune, when I
first came to Paris and set up in business as a volunteer police agent
at No. 96 Rue Daunou.

My apartment in those days consisted of an antechamber, an outer office
where, if need be, a dozen clients might sit, waiting their turn to
place their troubles, difficulties, anxieties before the acutest brain
in France, and an inner room wherein that same acute brain—mine, my
dear Sir—was wont to ponder and scheme. That apartment was not
luxuriously furnished—furniture being very dear in those days—but there
were a couple of chairs and a table in the outer office, and a cupboard
wherein I kept the frugal repast which served me during the course of a
long and laborious day. In the inner office there were more chairs and
another table, littered with papers: letters and packets all tied up
with pink tape (which cost three sous the metre), and bundles of
letters from hundreds of clients, from the highest and the lowest in
the land, you understand, people who wrote to me and confided in me
to-day as kings and emperors had done in the past. In the antechamber
there was a chair-bedstead for Theodore to sleep on when I required him
to remain in town, and a chair on which he could sit.

And, of course, there was Theodore!

Ah! my dear Sir, of him I can hardly speak without feeling choked with
the magnitude of my emotion. A noble indignation makes me dumb.
Theodore, sir, has ever been the cruel thorn that times out of number
hath wounded my over-sensitive heart. Think of it! I had picked him out
of the gutter! No! no! I do not mean this figuratively! I mean that,
actually and in the flesh, I took him up by the collar of his tattered
coat and dragged him out of the gutter in the Rue Blanche, where he was
grubbing for trifles out of the slime and mud. He was frozen, Sir, and
starved—yes, starved! In the intervals of picking filth up out of the
mud he held out a hand blue with cold to the passers-by and
occasionally picked up a sou. When I found him in that pitiable
condition he had exactly twenty centimes between him and absolute
starvation.

And I, Sir Hector Ratichon, the confidant of two kings, three autocrats
and an emperor, took that man to my bosom—fed him, clothed him, housed
him, gave him the post of secretary in my intricate, delicate,
immensely important business—and I did this, Sir, at a salary which, in
comparison with his twenty centimes, must have seemed a princely one to
him.

His duties were light. He was under no obligation to serve me or to be
at his post before seven o’clock in the morning, and all that he had to
do then was to sweep out the three rooms, fetch water from the well in
the courtyard below, light the fire in the iron stove which stood in my
inner office, shell the haricots for his own mess of pottage, and put
them to boil. During the day his duties were lighter still. He had to
run errands for me, open the door to prospective clients, show them
into the outer office, explain to them that his master was engaged on
affairs relating to the kingdom of France, and generally prove himself
efficient, useful and loyal—all of which qualities he assured me, my
dear Sir, he possessed to the fullest degree. And I believed him, Sir;
I nurtured the scorpion in my over-sensitive bosom! I promised him ten
per cent. on all the profits of my business, and all the remnants from
my own humble repasts—bread, the skins of luscious sausages, the bones
from savoury cutlets, the gravy from the tasty carrots and onions. You
would have thought that his gratitude would become boundless, that he
would almost worship the benefactor who had poured at his feet the full
cornucopia of comfort and luxury. Not so! That man, Sir, was a snake in
the grass—a serpent—a crocodile! Even now that I have entirely severed
my connexion with that ingrate, I seem to feel the wounds, like
dagger-thrusts, which he dealt me with so callous a hand. But I have
done with him—done, I tell you! How could I do otherwise than to send
him back to the gutter from whence I should never have dragged him? My
goodness, he repaid with an ingratitude so black that you, Sir, when
you hear the full story of his treachery, will exclaim aghast.

Ah, you shall judge! His perfidy commenced less than a week after I had
given him my third best pantaloons and three sous to get his hair cut,
thus making a man of him. And yet, you would scarcely believe it, in
the matter of the secret documents he behaved toward me like a
veritable Judas!

Listen, my dear Sir.

I told you, I believe, that I had my office in the Rue Daunou. You
understand that I had to receive my clients—many of whom were of
exalted rank—-in a fashionable quarter of Paris. But I actually lodged
in Passy—being fond of country pursuits and addicted to fresh air—in a
humble hostelry under the sign of the “Grey Cat”; and here, too,
Theodore had a bed. He would walk to the office a couple of hours
before I myself started on the way, and I was wont to arrive as soon
after ten o’clock of a morning as I could do conveniently.

On this memorable occasion of which I am about to tell you—it was
during the autumn of 1815—I had come to the office unusually early, and
had just hung my hat and coat in the outer room, and taken my seat at
my desk in the inner office, there to collect my thoughts in
preparation for the grave events which the day might bring forth, when,
suddenly, an ill-dressed, dour-looking individual entered the room
without so much as saying, “By your leave,” and after having pushed
Theodore—who stood by like a lout—most unceremoniously to one side.
Before I had time to recover from my surprise at this unseemly
intrusion, the uncouth individual thrust Theodore roughly out of the
room, slammed the door in his face, and having satisfied himself that
he was alone with me and that the door was too solid to allow of
successful eavesdropping, he dragged the best chair forward—the one,
sir, which I reserve for lady visitors.

He threw his leg across it, and, sitting astride, he leaned his elbows
over the back and glowered at me as if he meant to frighten me.

“My name is Charles Saurez,” he said abruptly, “and I want your
assistance in a matter which requires discretion, ingenuity and
alertness. Can I have it?”

I was about to make a dignified reply when he literally threw the next
words at me: “Name your price, and I will pay it!” he said.

What could I do, save to raise my shoulders in token that the matter of
money was one of supreme indifference to me, and my eyebrows in a
manner of doubt that M. Charles Saurez had the means wherewith to repay
my valuable services? By way of a rejoinder he took out from the inner
pocket of his coat a greasy letter-case, and with his exceedingly grimy
fingers extracted therefrom some twenty banknotes, which a hasty glance
on my part revealed as representing a couple of hundred francs.

“I will give you this as a retaining fee,” he said, “if you will
undertake the work I want you to do; and I will double the amount when
you have carried the work out successfully.”

Four hundred francs! It was not lavish, it was perhaps not altogether
the price I would have named, but it was very good, these hard times.
You understand? We were all very poor in France in that year 1815 of
which I speak.

I am always quite straightforward when I am dealing with a client who
means business. I pushed aside the litter of papers in front of me,
leaned my elbows upon my desk, rested my chin in my hands, and said
briefly:

“M. Charles Saurez, I listen!”

He drew his chair a little closer and dropped his voice almost to a
whisper.

“You know the Chancellerie of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?” he
asked.

“Perfectly,” I replied.

“You know M. de Marsan’s private office? He is chief secretary to M. de
Talleyrand.”

“No,” I said, “but I can find out.”

“It is on the first floor, immediately facing the service staircase,
and at the end of the long passage which leads to the main staircase.”

“Easy to find, then,” I remarked.

“Quite. At this hour and until twelve o’clock, M. de Marsan will be
occupied in copying a document which I desire to possess. At eleven
o’clock precisely there will be a noisy disturbance in the corridor
which leads to the main staircase. M. de Marsan, in all probability,
will come out of his room to see what the disturbance is about. Will
you undertake to be ready at that precise moment to make a dash from
the service staircase into the room to seize the document, which no
doubt will be lying on the top of the desk, and bring it to an address
which I am about to give you?”

“It is risky,” I mused.

“Very,” he retorted drily, “or I’d do it myself, and not pay you four
hundred francs for your trouble.”

“Trouble!” I exclaimed, with withering sarcasm.

“Trouble, you call it? If I am caught, it means penal servitude—New
Caledonia, perhaps—”

“Exactly,” he said, with the same irritating calmness; “and if you
succeed it means four hundred francs. Take it or leave it, as you
please, but be quick about it. I have no time to waste; it is past nine
o’clock already, and if you won’t do the work, someone else will.”

For a few seconds longer I hesitated. Schemes, both varied and wild,
rushed through my active brain: refuse to take this risk, and denounce
the plot to the police; refuse it, and run to warn M. de Marsan; refuse
it, and— I had little time for reflection. My uncouth client was
standing, as it were, with a pistol to my throat—with a pistol and four
hundred francs! The police might perhaps give me half a louis for my
pains, or they might possibly remember an unpleasant little incident in
connexion with the forgery of some Treasury bonds which they have never
succeeded in bringing home to me—one never knows! M. de Marsan might
throw me a franc, and think himself generous at that!

All things considered, then, when M. Charles Saurez suddenly said,
“Well?” with marked impatience, I replied, “Agreed,” and within five
minutes I had two hundred francs in my pocket, with the prospect of two
hundred more during the next four and twenty hours. I was to have a
free hand in conducting my own share of the business, and M. Charles
Saurez was to call for the document at my lodgings at Passy on the
following morning at nine o’clock.

2.

I flatter myself that I conducted the business with remarkable skill.
At precisely ten minutes to eleven I rang at the Chancellerie of the
Ministry for Foreign Affairs. I was dressed as a respectable
commissionnaire, and I carried a letter and a small parcel addressed to
M. de Marsan. “First floor,” said the concierge curtly, as soon as he
had glanced at the superscription on the letter. “Door faces top of the
service stairs.”

I mounted and took my stand some ten steps below the landing, keeping
the door of M. de Marsan’s room well in sight. Just as the bells of
Notre Dame boomed the hour I heard what sounded like a furious
altercation somewhere in the corridor just above me. There was much
shouting, then one or two cries of “Murder!” followed by others of
“What is it?” and “What in the name of ——— is all this infernal row
about?” Doors were opened and banged, there was a general running and
rushing along that corridor, and the next minute the door in front of
me was opened also, and a young man came out, pen in hand, and shouting
just like everybody else:

“What the ——— is all this infernal row about?”

“Murder, help!” came from the distant end of the corridor, and M. de
Marsan—undoubtedly it was he—did what any other young man under the
like circumstances would have done: he ran to see what was happening
and to lend a hand in it, if need be. I saw his slim figure
disappearing down the corridor at the very moment that I slipped into
his room. One glance upon the desk sufficed: there lay the large
official-looking document, with the royal signature affixed thereto,
and close beside it the copy which M. de Marsan had only half
finished—the ink on it was still wet. Hesitation, Sir, would have been
fatal. I did not hesitate; not one instant. Three seconds had scarcely
elapsed before I picked up the document, together with M. de Marsan’s
half-finished copy of the same, and a few loose sheets of Chancellerie
paper which I thought might be useful. Then I slipped the lot inside my
blouse. The bogus letter and parcel I left behind me, and within two
minutes of my entry into the room I was descending the service
staircase quite unconcernedly, and had gone past the concierge’s lodge
without being challenged. How thankful I was to breathe once more the
pure air of heaven. I had spent an exceedingly agitated five minutes,
and even now my anxiety was not altogether at rest. I dared not walk
too fast lest I attracted attention, and yet I wanted to put the river,
the Pont Neuf, and a half dozen streets between me and the Chancellerie
of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. No one who has not gone through
such an exciting adventure as I have just recorded can conceive what
were my feelings of relief and of satisfaction when I at last found
myself quietly mounting the stairs which led to my office on the top
floor of No. 96 Rue Daunou.

3.

Now, I had not said anything to Theodore about this affair. It was
certainly arranged between us when he entered my service as
confidential clerk and doorkeeper that in lieu of wages, which I could
not afford to pay him, he would share my meals with me and have a bed
at my expense in the same house at Passy where I lodged; moreover, I
would always give him a fair percentage on the profits which I derived
from my business. The arrangement suited him very well. I told you that
I picked him out of the gutter, and I heard subsequently that he had
gone through many an unpleasant skirmish with the police in his day,
and if I did not employ him no one else would.

After all, he did earn a more or less honest living by serving me. But
in this instance, since I had not even asked for his assistance, I felt
that, considering the risks of New Caledonia and a convict ship which I
had taken, a paltry four hundred francs could not by any stretch of the
imagination rank as a “profit” in a business—and Theodore was not
really entitled to a percentage, was he?

So when I returned I crossed the ante-chamber and walked past him with
my accustomed dignity; nor did he offer any comment on my get-up. I
often affected a disguise in those days, even when I was not engaged in
business, and the dress and get-up of a respectable commissionnaire was
a favourite one with me. As soon as I had changed I sent him out to
make purchases for our luncheon—five sous’ worth of stale bread, and
ten sous’ worth of liver sausage, of which he was inordinately fond. He
would take the opportunity on the way of getting moderately drunk on as
many glasses of absinthe as he could afford. I saw him go out of the
outer door, and then I set to work to examine the precious document.

Well, one glance was sufficient for me to realize its incalculable
value! Nothing more or less than a Treaty of Alliance between King
Louis XVIII of France and the King of Prussia in connexion with certain
schemes of naval construction. I did not understand the whole
diplomatic verbiage, but it was pretty clear to my unsophisticated mind
that this treaty had been entered into in secret by the two monarchs,
and that it was intended to prejudice the interests both of Denmark and
of Russia in the Baltic Sea.

I also realized that both the Governments of Denmark and Russia would
no doubt pay a very considerable sum for the merest glance at this
document, and that my client of this morning was certainly a secret
service agent—otherwise a spy—of one of those two countries, who did
not choose to take the very severe risks which I had taken this
morning, but who would, on the other hand, reap the full reward of the
daring coup, whilst I was to be content with four hundred francs!

Now, I am a man of deliberation as well as of action, and at this
juncture—feeling that Theodore was still safely out of the way—I
thought the whole matter over quietly, and then took what precautions I
thought fit for the furthering of my own interests.

To begin with, I set to work to make a copy of the treaty on my own
account. I have brought the study of calligraphy to a magnificent
degree of perfection, and the writing on the document was easy enough
to imitate, as was also the signature of our gracious King Louis and of
M. de Talleyrand, who had countersigned it.

If you remember, I had picked up two or three loose sheets of paper off
M. de Marsan’s desk; these bore the arms of the Chancellerie of Foreign
Affairs stamped upon them, and were in every way identical with that on
which the original document had been drafted. When I had finished my
work I flattered myself that not the greatest calligraphic expert could
have detected the slightest difference between the original and the
copy which I had made.

The work took me a long time. When at last I folded up the papers and
slipped them once more inside my blouse it was close upon two. I
wondered why Theodore had not returned with our luncheon, but on going
to the little anteroom which divides my office from the outer door,
great was my astonishment to see him lolling there on the rickety chair
which he affectioned, and half asleep. I had some difficulty in rousing
him. Apparently he had got rather drunk while he was out, and had then
returned and slept some of his booze off, without thinking that I might
be hungry and needing my luncheon.

“Why didn’t you let me know you had come back?” I asked curtly, for
indeed I was very cross with him.

“I thought you were busy,” he replied, with what I thought looked like
a leer.

I have never really cared for Theodore, you understand.

However, I partook of our modest luncheon with him in perfect amity and
brotherly love, but my mind was busy all the time. I began to wonder if
Theodore suspected something; if so, I knew that I could not trust him.
He would try and ferret things out, and then demand a share in my
hard-earned emoluments to which he was really not entitled. I did not
feel safe with that bulky packet of papers on me, and I felt that
Theodore’s bleary eyes were perpetually fixed upon the bulge in the
left-hand side of my coat. At one moment he looked so strange that I
thought he meant to knock me down.

So my mind was quickly made up.

After luncheon I would go down to my lodgings at Passy, and I knew of a
snug little hiding-place in my room there where the precious documents
would be quite safe until such time as I was to hand them—or one of
them—to M. Charles Saurez.

This plan I put into execution, and with remarkable ingenuity too.

While Theodore was busy clearing up the debris of our luncheon, I not
only gave him the slip, but as I went out I took the precaution of
locking the outer door after me, and taking the key away in my pocket.
I thus made sure that Theodore could not follow me. I then walked to
Passy—a matter of two kilometres—and by four o’clock I had the
satisfaction of stowing the papers safely away under one of the tiles
in the flooring of my room, and then pulling the strip of carpet in
front of my bed snugly over the hiding-place.

Theodore’s attic, where he slept, was at the top of the house, whilst
my room was on the ground floor, and so I felt that I could now go back
quite comfortably to my office in the hope that more remunerative work
and more lavish clients would come my way before nightfall.

4.

It was a little after five o’clock when I once more turned the key in
the outer door of my rooms in the Rue Daunou.

Theodore did not seem in the least to resent having been locked in for
two hours. I think he must have been asleep most of the time. Certainly
I heard a good deal of shuffling when first I reached the landing
outside the door; but when I actually walked into the apartment with an
air of quiet unconcern Theodore was sprawling on the chair-bedstead,
with eyes closed, a nose the colour of beetroot, and emitting sounds
through his thin, cracked lips which I could not, Sir, describe
graphically in your presence.

I took no notice of him, however, even though, as I walked past him, I
saw that he opened one bleary eye and watched my every movement. I went
straight into my private room and shut the door after me. And here, I
assure you, my dear Sir, I literally fell into my favourite chair,
overcome with emotion and excitement. Think what I had gone through!
The events of the last few hours would have turned any brain less keen,
less daring than that of Hector Ratichon. And here was I, alone at
last, face to face with the future. What a future, my dear Sir! Fate
was smiling on me at last. At last I was destined to reap a rich reward
for all the skill, the energy, the devotion, which up to this hour I
had placed at the service of my country and my King—or my Emperor, as
the case might be—without thought of my own advantage. Here was I now
in possession of a document—two documents—each one of which was worth
at least a thousand francs to persons whom I could easily approach. One
thousand francs! Was I dreaming? Five thousand would certainly be paid
by the Government whose agent M. Charles Saurez admittedly was for one
glance at that secret treaty which would be so prejudicial to their
political interests; whilst M. de Marsan himself would gladly pay
another five thousand for the satisfaction of placing the precious
document intact before his powerful and irascible uncle.

Ten thousand francs! How few were possessed of such a sum in these
days! How much could be done with it! I would not give up business
altogether, of course, but with my new capital I would extend it and,
there was a certain little house, close to Chantilly, a house with a
few acres of kitchen garden and some fruit trees, the possession of
which would render me happier than any king. . . . I would marry! Oh,
yes! I would certainly marry—found a family. I was still young, my dear
Sir, and passably good looking. In fact there was a certain young
widow, comely and amiable, who lived not far from Passy, who had on
more than one occasion given me to understand that I was more than
passably good looking. I had always been susceptible where the fair sex
was concerned, and now . . . oh, now! I could pick and choose! The
comely widow had a small fortune of her own, and there were others! . .
.

Thus I dreamed on for the better part of an hour, until, soon after six
o’clock, there was a knock at the outer door and I heard Theodore’s
shuffling footsteps crossing the small anteroom. There was some
muttered conversation, and presently my door was opened and Theodore’s
ugly face was thrust into the room.

“A lady to see you,” he said curtly.

Then, he dropped his voice, smacked his lips, and winked with one eye.
“Very pretty,” he whispered, “but has a young man with her whom she
calls Arthur. Shall I send them in?”

I then and there made up my mind that I would get rid of Theodore now
that I could afford to get a proper servant. My business would in
future be greatly extended; it would become very important, and I was
beginning to detest Theodore. But I said “Show the lady in!” with
becoming dignity, and a few moments later a beautiful woman entered my
room.

I was vaguely conscious that a creature of my own sex walked in behind
her, but of him I took no notice. I rose to greet the lady and invited
her to sit down, but I had the annoyance of seeing the personage whom
deliberately she called “Arthur” coming familiarly forward and leaning
over the back of her chair.

I hated him. He was short and stout and florid, with an
impertinent-looking moustache, and hair that was very smooth and oily
save for two tight curls, which looked like the horns of a young goat,
on each side of the centre parting. I hated him cordially, and had to
control my feelings not to show him the contempt which I felt for his
fatuousness and his air of self-complacency. Fortunately the beautiful
being was the first to address me, and thus I was able to ignore the
very presence of the detestable man.

“You are M. Ratichon, I believe,” she said in a voice that was dulcet
and adorably tremulous, like the voice of some sweet, shy young thing
in the presence of genius and power.

“Hector Ratichon,” I replied calmly. “Entirely at your service,
Mademoiselle.” Then I added, with gentle, encouraging kindliness,
“Mademoiselle...?”

“My name is Geoffroy,” she replied, “Madeleine Geoffroy.”

She raised her eyes—such eyes, my dear Sir!—of a tender, luscious grey,
fringed with lashes and dewy with tears. I met her glance. Something in
my own eyes must have spoken with mute eloquence of my distress, for
she went on quickly and with a sweet smile. “And this,” she said,
pointing to her companion, “is my brother, Arthur Geoffroy.”

An exclamation of joyful surprise broke from my lips, and I beamed and
smiled on M. Arthur, begged him to be seated, which he refused, and
finally I myself sat down behind my desk. I now looked with unmixed
benevolence on both my clients, and then perceived that the lady’s
exquisite face bore unmistakable signs of recent sorrow.

“And now, Mademoiselle,” I said, as soon as I had taken up a position
indicative of attention and of encouragement, “will you deign to tell
me how I can have the honour to serve you?”

“Monsieur,” she began in a voice that trembled with emotion, “I have
come to you in the midst of the greatest distress that any human being
has ever been called upon to bear. It was by the merest accident that I
heard of you. I have been to the police; they cannot—will not—act
without I furnish them with certain information which it is not in my
power to give them. Then when I was half distraught with despair, a
kindly agent there spoke to me of you. He said that you were attached
to the police as a voluntary agent, and that they sometimes put work in
your way which did not happen to be within their own scope. He also
said that sometimes you were successful.”

“Nearly always, Mademoiselle,” I broke in firmly and with much dignity.
“Once more I beg of you to tell me in what way I may have the honour to
serve you.”

“It is not for herself, Monsieur,” here interposed M. Arthur, whilst a
blush suffused Mlle. Geoffroy’s lovely face, “that my sister desires to
consult you, but for her fiancé M. de Marsan, who is very ill indeed,
hovering, in fact, between life and death. He could not come in person.
The matter is one that demands the most profound secrecy.”

“You may rely on my discretion, Monsieur,” I murmured, without showing,
I flatter myself, the slightest trace of that astonishment which, at
mention of M. de Marsan’s name, had nearly rendered me speechless.

“M. de Marsan came to see me in utmost distress, Monsieur,” resumed the
lovely creature. “He had no one in whom he could—or rather
dared—confide. He is in the Chancellerie for Foreign Affairs. His uncle
M. de Talleyrand thinks a great deal of him and often entrusts him with
very delicate work. This morning he gave M. de Marsan a valuable paper
to copy—a paper, Monsieur, the importance of which it were impossible
to overestimate. The very safety of this country, the honour of our
King, are involved in it. I cannot tell you its exact contents, and it
is because I would not tell more about it to the police that they would
not help me in any way, and referred me to you. How could they, said
the chief Commissary to me, run after a document the contents of which
they did not even know? But you will be satisfied with what I have told
you, will you not, my dear M. Ratichon?” she continued, with a pathetic
quiver in her voice and a look of appeal in her eyes which St. Anthony
himself could not have resisted, “and help me to regain possession of
that paper, the final loss of which would cost M. de Marsan his life.”

To say that my feeling of elation of a while ago had turned to one of
supreme beatitude would be to put it very mildly indeed. To think that
here was this lovely being in tears before me, and that it lay in my
power to dry those tears with a word and to bring a smile round those
perfect lips, literally made my mouth water in anticipation—for I am
sure that you will have guessed, just as I did in a moment, that the
valuable document of which this adorable being was speaking, was snugly
hidden away under the flooring of my room in Passy. I hated that
unknown de Marsan. I hated this Arthur who leaned so familiarly over
her chair, but I had the power to render her a service beside which
their lesser claims on her regard would pale.

However, I am not the man to act on impulse, even at a moment like
this. I wanted to think the whole matter over first, and . . . well . .
. I had made up my mind to demand five thousand francs when I handed
the document over to my first client to-morrow morning. At any rate,
for the moment I acted—if I may say so—with great circumspection and
dignity.

“I must presume, Mademoiselle,” I said in my most business-like manner,
“that the document you speak of has been stolen.”

“Stolen, Monsieur,” she assented whilst the tears once more gathered in
her eyes, “and M. de Marsan now lies at death’s door with a terrible
attack of brain fever, brought on by shock when he discovered the
loss.”

“How and when was it stolen?” I asked.

“Some time during the morning,” she replied. “M. de Talleyrand gave the
document to M. de Marsan at nine o’clock, telling him that he wanted
the copy by midday. M. de Marsan set to work at once, laboured
uninterruptedly until about eleven o’clock, when a loud altercation,
followed by cries of ‘Murder!’ and of ‘Help!’ and proceeding from the
corridor outside his door, caused him to run out of the room in order
to see what was happening. The altercation turned out to be between two
men who had pushed their way into the building by the main staircase,
and who became very abusive to the gendarme who ordered them out. The
men were not hurt; nevertheless they screamed as if they were being
murdered. They took to their heels quickly enough, and I don’t know
what has become of them, but . . .”

“But,” I concluded blandly, “whilst M. de Marsan was out of the room
the precious document was stolen.”

“It was, Monsieur,” exclaimed Mlle. Geoffroy piteously. “You will find
it for us . . . will you not?”

Then she added more calmly: “My brother and I are offering ten thousand
francs reward for the recovery of the document.”

I did not fall off my chair, but I closed my eyes. The vision which the
lovely lady’s words had conjured up dazzled me.

“Mademoiselle,” I said with solemn dignity, “I pledge you my word of
honour that I will find the document for you and lay it at your feet or
die in your service. Give me twenty hours, during which I will move
heaven and earth to discover the thief. I will go at once to the
Chancellerie and collect what evidence I can. I have worked under M. de
Robespierre, Mademoiselle, under the great Napoléon, and under the
illustrious Fouché! I have never been known to fail, once I have set my
mind upon a task.”

“In that case you will earn your ten thousand francs, my friend,” said
the odious Arthur drily, “and my sister and M. de Marsan will still be
your debtors. Are there any questions you would like to ask before we
go?”

“None,” I said loftily, choosing to ignore his sneering manner. “If
Mademoiselle deigns to present herself here to-morrow at two o’clock I
will have news to communicate to her.”

You will admit that I carried off the situation in a becoming manner.
Both Mademoiselle and Arthur Geoffroy gave me a few more details in
connexion with the affair. To these details I listened with well
simulated interest. Of course, they did not know that there were no
details in connexion with this affair that I did not know already. My
heart was actually dancing within my bosom. The future was so
entrancing that the present appeared like a dream; the lovely being
before me seemed like an angel, an emissary from above come to tell me
of the happiness which was in store for me. The house near
Chantilly—the little widow—the kitchen garden—the magic words went on
hammering in my brain. I longed now to be rid of my visitors, to be
alone once more, so as to think out the epilogue of this glorious
adventure. Ten thousand francs was the reward offered me by this
adorable creature! Well, then, why should not M. Charles Saurez, on his
side, pay me another ten thousand for the same document, which was
absolutely undistinguishable from the first?

Ten thousand, instead of two hundred which he had the audacity to offer
me!

Seven o’clock had struck before I finally bowed my clients out of the
room. Theodore had gone. The lazy lout would never stay as much as five
minutes after his appointed time, so I had to show the adorable
creature and her fat brother out of the premises myself. But I did not
mind that. I flatter myself that I can always carry off an awkward
situation in a dignified manner. A brief allusion to the inefficiency
of present-day servants, a jocose comment on my own simplicity of
habits, and the deed was done. M. Arthur Geoffroy and Mademoiselle
Madeleine his sister were half-way down the stairs. A quarter of an
hour later I was once more out in the streets of Paris. It was a
beautiful, balmy night. I had two hundred francs in my pocket and there
was a magnificent prospect of twenty thousand francs before me! I could
afford some slight extravagance. I had dinner at one of the fashionable
restaurants on the quay, and I remained some time out on the terrace
sipping my coffee and liqueur, dreaming dreams such as I had never
dreamed before. At ten o’clock I was once more on my way to Passy.

5.

When I turned the corner of the street and came is sight of the squalid
house where I lodged, I felt like a being from another world. Twenty
thousand francs—a fortune!—was waiting for me inside those dingy walls.
Yes, twenty thousand, for by now I had fully made up my mind. I had two
documents concealed beneath the floor of my bedroom—one so like the
other that none could tell them apart. One of these I would restore to
the lovely being who had offered me ten thousand francs for it, and the
other I would sell to my first and uncouth client for another ten
thousand francs!

Four hundred! Bah! Ten thousand shall you pay for the treaty, my friend
of the Danish or Russian Secret Service! Ten thousand!—it is worth that
to you!

In that happy frame of mind I reached the front door of my dingy abode.
Imagine my surprise on being confronted with two agents of police, each
with fixed bayonet, who refused to let me pass.

“But I lodge here,” I said.

“Your name?” queried one of the men. “Hector Ratichon,” I replied.
Whereupon they gave me leave to enter.

It was very mysterious. My heart beat furiously. Fear for the safety of
my precious papers held me in a death-like grip. I ran straight to my
room, locked the door after me, and pulled the curtains together in
front of the window. Then, with hands that trembled as if with ague, I
pulled aside the strip of carpet which concealed the hiding-place of
what meant a fortune to me.

I nearly fainted with joy; the papers were there—quite safely. I took
them out and replaced them inside my coat.

Then I ran up to see if Theodore was in. I found him in bed. He told me
that he had left the office whilst my visitors were still with me, as
he felt terribly sick. He had been greatly upset when, about an hour
ago, the maid-of-all-work had informed him that the police were in the
house, that they would allow no one—except the persons lodging in the
house—to enter it, and no one, once in, would be allowed to leave. How
long these orders would hold good Theodore did not know.

I left him moaning and groaning and declaring that he felt very ill,
and I went in quest of information. The corporal in command of the
gendarmes was exceedingly curt with me at first, but after a time he
unbent and condescended to tell me that my landlord had been denounced
for permitting a Bonapartiste club to hold its sittings in his house.
So far so good. Such denunciations were very frequent these days, and
often ended unpleasantly for those concerned, but the affair had
obviously nothing to do with me. I felt that I could breathe again. But
there was still the matter of the consigne. If no one, save the persons
who lodged in the house, would be allowed to enter it, how would M.
Charles Saurez contrive to call for the stolen document and,
incidentally, to hand me over the ten thousand francs I was hoping for?
And if no one, once inside the house, would be allowed to leave it, how
could I meet Mlle. Geoffroy to-morrow at two o’clock in my office and
receive ten thousand francs from her in exchange for the precious
paper?

Moreover the longer the police stayed in this house and poked their
noses about in affairs that concerned hardworking citizens like
myself—why—the greater the risk would be of the matter of the stolen
document coming to light.

It was positively maddening.

I never undressed that night, but just lay down on my bed, thinking.
The house was very still at times, but at others I could hear the tramp
of the police agents up and down the stairs and also outside my window.
The latter gave on a small, dilapidated back garden which had a wooden
fence at the end of it. Beyond it were some market gardens belonging to
a M. Lorraine. It did not take me very long to realize that that way
lay my fortune of twenty thousand francs. But for the moment I remained
very still. My plan was already made. At about midnight I went to the
window and opened it cautiously. I had heard no noise from that
direction for some time, and I bent my ear to listen.

Not a sound! Either the sentry was asleep, or he had gone on his round,
and for a few moments the way was free. Without a moment’s hesitation I
swung my leg over the sill.

Still no sound. My heart beat so fast that I could almost hear it. The
night was very dark. A thin mist-like drizzle was falling; in fact the
weather conditions were absolutely perfect for my purpose. With utmost
wariness I allowed myself to drop from the window-ledge on to the soft
ground below.

If I was caught by the sentry I had my answer ready: I was going to
meet my sweetheart at the end of the garden. It is an excuse which
always meets with the sympathy of every true-hearted Frenchman. The
sentry would, of course, order me back to my room, but I doubt if he
would ill-use me; the denunciation was against the landlord, not
against me.

Still not a sound. I could have danced with joy. Five minutes more and
I would be across the garden and over that wooden fence, and once more
on my way to fortune. My fall from the window had been light, as my
room was on the ground floor; but I had fallen on my knees, and now, as
I picked myself up, I looked up, and it seemed to me as if I saw
Theodore’s ugly face at his attic window. Certainly there was a light
there, and I may have been mistaken as to Theodore’s face being
visible. The very next second the light was extinguished and I was left
in doubt.

But I did not pause to think. In a moment I was across the garden, my
hands gripped the top of the wooden fence, I hoisted myself up—with
some difficulty, I confess—but at last I succeeded. I threw my leg over
and gently dropped down on the other side.

Then suddenly two rough arms encircled my waist, and before I could
attempt to free myself a cloth was thrown over my head, and I was
lifted up and carried away, half suffocated and like an insentient
bundle.

When the cloth was removed from my face I was half sitting, half lying,
in an arm-chair in a strange room which was lighted by an oil lamp that
hung from the ceiling above. In front of me stood M. Arthur Geoffroy
and that beast Theodore.

M. Arthur Geoffroy was coolly folding up the two valuable papers for
the possession of which I had risked a convict ship and New Caledonia,
and which would have meant affluence for me for many days to come.

It was Theodore who had removed the cloth from my face. As soon as I
had recovered my breath I made a rush for him, for I wanted to strangle
him. But M. Arthur Geoffroy was too quick and too strong for me. He
pushed me back into the chair.

“Easy, easy, M. Ratichon,” he said pleasantly; “do not vent your wrath
upon this good fellow. Believe me, though his actions may have deprived
you of a few thousand francs, they have also saved you from lasting and
biting remorse. This document, which you stole from M. de Marsan and so
ingeniously duplicated, involved the honour of our King and our
country, as well as the life of an innocent man. My sister’s fiancé
would never have survived the loss of the document which had been
entrusted to his honour.”

“I would have returned it to Mademoiselle to-morrow,” I murmured.

“Only one copy of it, I think,” he retorted; “the other you would have
sold to whichever spy of the Danish or Russian Governments happened to
have employed you in this discreditable business.”

“How did you know?” I said involuntarily.

“Through a very simple process of reasoning, my good M. Ratichon,” he
replied blandly. “You are a very clever man, no doubt, but the
cleverest of us is at times apt to make a mistake. You made two, and I
profited by them. Firstly, after my sister and I left you this
afternoon, you never made the slightest pretence of making inquiries or
collecting information about the mysterious theft of the document. I
kept an eye on you throughout the evening. You left your office and
strolled for a while on the quays; you had an excellent dinner at the
Restaurant des Anglais; then you settled down to your coffee and
liqueur. Well, my good M. Ratichon, obviously you would have been more
active in the matter if you had not known exactly where and when and
how to lay your hands upon the document, for the recovery of which my
sister had offered you ten thousand francs.”

I groaned. I had not been quite so circumspect as I ought to have been,
but who would have thought—

“I have had something to do with police work in my day,” continued M.
Geoffroy blandly, “though not of late years; but my knowledge of their
methods is not altogether rusty and my powers of observation are not
yet dulled. During my sister’s visit to you this afternoon I noticed
the blouse and cap of a commissionnaire lying in a bundle in a corner
of your room. Now, though M. de Marsan has been in a burning fever
since he discovered his loss, he kept just sufficient presence of mind
at the moment to say nothing about that loss to any of the Chancellerie
officials, but to go straight home to his apartments in the Rue Royale
and to send for my sister and for me. When we came to him he was
already partly delirious, but he pointed to a parcel and a letter which
he had brought away from his office. The parcel proved to be an empty
box and the letter a blank sheet of paper; but the most casual inquiry
of the concierge at the Chancellerie elicited the fact that a
commissionaire had brought these things in the course of the morning.
That was your second mistake, my good M. Ratichon; not a very grave
one, perhaps, but I have been in the police, and somehow, the moment I
caught sight of that blouse and cap in your office, I could not help
connecting it with the commissionnaire who had brought a bogus parcel
and letter to my future brother-in-law a few minutes before that
mysterious and unexplained altercation took place in the corridor.”

Again I groaned. I felt as a child in the hands of that horrid creature
who seemed to be dissecting all the thoughts which had run riot through
my mind these past twenty hours.

“It was all very simple, my good M. Ratichon,” now concluded my
tormentor still quite amiably. “Another time you will have to be more
careful, will you not? You will also have to bestow more confidence
upon your partner or servant. Directly I had seen that
commissionnaire’s blouse and cap, I set to work to make friends with M.
Theodore. When my sister and I left your office in the Rue Daunou, we
found him waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. Five francs
loosened his tongue: he suspected that you were up to some game in
which you did not mean him to have a share; he also told us that you
had spent two hours in laborious writing, and that you and he both
lodged at a dilapidated little inn, called the ‘Grey Cat,’ in Passy. I
think he was rather disappointed that we did not shower more questions,
and therefore more emoluments, upon him. Well, after I had denounced
this house to the police as a Bonapartiste club, and saw it put under
the usual consigne, I bribed the corporal of the gendarmerie in charge
of it to let me have Theodore’s company for the little job I had in
hand, and also to clear the back garden of sentries so as to give you a
chance and the desire to escape. All the rest you know. Money will do
many things, my good M. Ratichon, and you see how simple it all was. It
would have been still more simple if the stolen document had not been
such an important one that the very existence of it must be kept a
secret even from the police. So I could not have you shadowed and
arrested as a thief in the usual manner! However, I have the document
and its ingenious copy, which is all that matters. Would to God,” he
added with a suppressed curse, “that I could get hold equally easily of
the Secret Service agent to whom you, a Frenchman, were going to sell
the honour of your country!”

Then it was that—though broken in spirit and burning with thoughts of
the punishment I would mete out to Theodore—my full faculties returned
to me, and I queried abruptly:

“What would you give to get him?”

“Five hundred francs,” he replied without hesitation. “Can you find
him?”

“Make it a thousand,” I retorted, “and you shall have him.”

“How?”

“Will you give me five hundred francs now,” I insisted, “and another
five hundred when you have the man, and I will tell you?”

“Agreed,” he said impatiently.

But I was not to be played with by him again. I waited in silence until
he had taken a pocket-book from the inside of his coat and counted out
five hundred francs, which he kept in his hand.

“Now—” he commanded.

“The man,” I then announced calmly, “will call on me for the document
at my lodgings at the hostelry of the ‘Grey Cat’ to-morrow morning at
nine o’clock.”

“Good,” rejoined M. Geoffroy. “We shall be there.”

He made no demur about giving me the five hundred francs, but half my
pleasure in receiving them vanished when I saw Theodore’s bleary eyes
fixed ravenously upon them.

“Another five hundred francs,” M. Geoffroy went on quietly, “will be
yours as soon as the spy is in our hands.”

I did get that further five hundred of course, for M. Charles Saurez
was punctual to the minute, and M. Geoffroy was there with the police
to apprehend him. But to think that I might have had twenty thousand—!

And I had to give Theodore fifty francs on the transaction, as he
threatened me with the police when I talked of giving him the sack.

But we were quite good friends again after that until— But you shall
judge.




CHAPTER II. — A FOOL’S PARADISE

1.

Ah! my dear Sir, I cannot tell you how poor we all were in France in
that year of grace 1816—so poor, indeed, that a dish of roast pork was
looked upon as a feast, and a new gown for the wife an unheard-of
luxury.

The war had ruined everyone. Twenty-two years! and hopeless humiliation
and defeat at the end of it. The Emperor handed over to the English; a
Bourbon sitting on the throne of France; crowds of foreign soldiers
still lording it all over the country—until the country had paid its
debts to her foreign invaders, and thousands of our own men still
straggling home through Germany and Belgium—the remnants of Napoléon’s
Grand Army—ex-prisoners of war, or scattered units who had found their
weary way home at last, shoeless, coatless, half starved and perished
from cold and privations, unfit for housework, for agriculture, or for
industry, fit only to follow their fallen hero, as they had done
through a quarter of a century, to victory and to death.

With me, Sir, business in Paris was almost at a standstill. I, who had
been the confidential agent of two kings, three democrats and one
emperor; I, who had held diplomatic threads in my hands which had
caused thrones to totter and tyrants to quake, and who had brought more
criminals and intriguers to book than any other man alive—I now sat in
my office in the Rue Daunou day after day with never a client to darken
my doors, even whilst crime and political intrigue were more rife in
Paris than they had been in the most corrupt days of the Revolution and
the Consulate.

I told you, I think, that I had forgiven Theodore his abominable
treachery in connexion with the secret naval treaty, and we were the
best of friends—that is, outwardly, of course. Within my inmost heart I
felt, Sir, that I could never again trust that shameless traitor—that I
had in very truth nurtured a serpent in my bosom. But I am proverbially
tender-hearted. You will believe me or not, I simply could not turn
that vermin out into the street. He deserved it! Oh, even he would have
admitted when he was quite sober, which was not often, that I had every
right to give him the sack, to send him back to the gutter whence he
had come, there to grub once more for scraps of filth and to stretch a
half-frozen hand to the charity of the passers by.

But I did not do it, Sir. No, I did not do it. I kept him on at the
office as my confidential servant; I gave him all the crumbs that fell
from mine own table, and he helped himself to the rest. I made as
little difference as I could in my intercourse with him. I continued to
treat him almost as an equal. The only difference I did make in our
mode of life was that I no longer gave him bed and board at the
hostelry where I lodged in Passy, but placed the chair-bedstead in the
anteroom of the office permanently at his disposal, and allowed him
five sous a day for his breakfast.

But owing to the scarcity of business that now came my way, Theodore
had little or nothing to do, and he was in very truth eating his head
off, and with that, grumble, grumble all the time, threatening to leave
me, if you please, to leave my service for more remunerative
occupation. As if anyone else would dream of employing such an
out-at-elbows mudlark—a jail-bird, Sir, if you’ll believe me.

Thus the Spring of 1816 came along. Spring, Sir, with its beauty and
its promises, and the thoughts of love which come eternally in the
minds of those who have not yet wholly done with youth. Love, Sir! I
dreamed of it on those long, weary afternoons in April, after I had
consumed my scanty repast, and whilst Theodore in the anteroom was
snoring like a hog. At even, when tired out and thirsty, I would sit
for a while outside a humble café on the outer boulevards, I watched
the amorous couples wander past me on their way to happiness. At night
I could not sleep, and bitter were my thoughts, my revilings against a
cruel fate that had condemned me—a man with so sensitive a heart and so
generous a nature—to the sorrows of perpetual solitude.

That, Sir, was my mood, when on a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon
toward the end of April, I sat mooning disconsolately in my private
room and a timid rat-tat at the outer door of the apartment roused
Theodore from his brutish slumbers. I heard him shuffling up to the
door, and I hurriedly put my necktie straight and smoothed my hair,
which had become disordered despite the fact that I had only indulged
in a very abstemious déjeuner.

When I said that the knock at my door was in the nature of a timid
rat-rat I did not perhaps describe it quite accurately. It was timid,
if you will understand me, and yet bold, as coming from one who might
hesitate to enter and nevertheless feels assured of welcome. Obviously
a client, I thought.

Effectively, Sir, the next moment my eyes were gladdened by the sight
of a lovely woman, beautifully dressed, young, charming, smiling but to
hide her anxiety, trustful, and certainly wealthy.

The moment she stepped into the room I knew that she was wealthy; there
was an air of assurance about her which only those are able to assume
who are not pestered with creditors. She wore two beautiful diamond
rings upon her hands outside her perfectly fitting glove, and her
bonnet was adorned with flowers so exquisitely fashioned that a
butterfly would have been deceived and would have perched on it with
delight.

Her shoes were of the finest kid, shiny at the toes like tiny mirrors,
whilst her dainty ankles were framed in the filmy lace frills of her
pantalets.

Within the wide brim of her bonnet her exquisite face appeared like a
rosebud nestling in a basket. She smiled when I rose to greet her, gave
me a look that sent my susceptible heart a-flutter and caused me to
wish that I had not taken that bottle-green coat of mine to the Mont de
Piété only last week. I offered her a seat, which she took, arranging
her skirts about her with inimitable grace.

“One moment,” I added, as soon as she was seated, “and I am entirely at
your service.”

I took up pen and paper—an unfinished letter which I always keep handy
for the purpose—and wrote rapidly. It always looks well for a lawyer or
an _agent confidentiel_ to keep a client waiting for a moment or two
while he attends to the enormous pressure of correspondence which, if
allowed to accumulate for five minutes, would immediately overwhelm
him. I signed and folded the letter, threw it with a nonchalant air
into a basket filled to the brim with others of equal importance,
buried my face in my hands for a few seconds as if to collect my
thoughts, and finally said:

“And now, Mademoiselle, will you deign to tell me what procures me the
honour of your visit?”

The lovely creature had watched my movements with obvious impatience, a
frown upon her exquisite brow. But now she plunged straightway into her
story.

“Monsieur,” she said with that pretty, determined air which became her
so well, “my name is Estelle Bachelier. I am an orphan, an heiress, and
have need of help and advice. I did not know to whom to apply. Until
three months ago I was poor and had to earn my living by working in a
milliner’s shop in the Rue St. Honoré. The concierge in the house where
I used to lodge is my only friend, but she cannot help me for reasons
which will presently be made clear to you. She told me, however, that
she had a nephew named Theodore, who was clerk to M. Ratichon, advocate
and confidential agent. She gave me your address; and as I knew no one
else I determined to come and consult you.”

I flatter myself, that though my countenance is exceptionally mobile, I
possess marvellous powers for keeping it impassive when necessity
arises. In this instance, at mention of Theodore’s name, I showed
neither surprise nor indignation. Yet you will readily understand that
I felt both. Here was that man, once more revealed as a traitor.
Theodore had an aunt of whom he had never as much as breathed a word.
He had an aunt, and that aunt a concierge—_ipso facto_, if I may so
express it, a woman of some substance, who, no doubt, would often have
been only too pleased to extend hospitality to the man who had so
signally befriended her nephew; a woman, Sir, who was undoubtedly
possessed of savings which both reason and gratitude would cause her to
invest in an old-established and substantial business run by a
trustworthy and capable man, such, for instance, as the bureau of a
confidential agent in a good quarter of Paris, which, with the help of
a little capital, could be rendered highly lucrative and beneficial to
all those, concerned.

I determined then and there to give Theodore a piece of my mind and to
insist upon an introduction to his aunt. After which I begged the
beautiful creature to proceed.

“My father, Monsieur,” she continued, “died three months ago, in
England, whither he had emigrated when I was a mere child, leaving my
poor mother to struggle along for a livelihood as best she could. My
mother died last year, Monsieur, and I have had a hard life; and now it
seems that my father made a fortune in England and left it all to me.”

I was greatly interested in her story.

“The first intimation I had of it, Monsieur, was three months ago, when
I had a letter from an English lawyer in London telling me that my
father, Jean Paul Bachelier—that was his name, Monsieur—had died out
there and made a will leaving all his money, about one hundred thousand
francs, to me.”

“Yes, yes!” I murmured, for my throat felt parched and my eyes dim.

Hundred thousand francs! Ye gods!

“It seems,” she proceeded demurely, “that my father put it in his will
that the English lawyers were to pay me the interest on the money until
I married or reached the age of twenty-one. Then the whole of the money
was to be handed over to me.”

I had to steady myself against the table or I would have fallen over
backwards! This godlike creature, to whom the sum of one hundred
thousand francs was to be paid over when she married, had come to me
for help and advice! The thought sent my brain reeling! I am so
imaginative!

“Proceed, Mademoiselle, I pray you,” I contrived to say with dignified
calm.

“Well, Monsieur, as I don’t know a word of English, I took the letter
to Mr. Farewell, who is the English traveller for Madame Cécile, the
milliner for whom I worked. He is a kind, affable gentleman and was
most helpful to me. He was, as a matter of fact, just going over to
England the very next day. He offered to go and see the English lawyers
for me, and to bring me back all particulars of my dear father’s death
and of my unexpected fortune.”

“And,” said I, for she had paused a moment, “did Mr. Farewell go to
England on your behalf?”

“Yes, Monsieur. He went and returned about a fortnight later. He had
seen the English lawyers, who confirmed all the good news which was
contained in their letter. They took, it seems, a great fancy to Mr.
Farewell, and told him that since I was obviously too young to live
alone and needed a guardian to look after my interests, they would
appoint him my guardian, and suggested that I should make my home with
him until I was married or had attained the age of twenty-one. Mr.
Farewell told me that though this arrangement might be somewhat
inconvenient in his bachelor establishment, he had been unable to
resist the entreaties of the English lawyers, who felt that no one was
more fitted for such onerous duties than himself, seeing that he was
English and so obviously my friend.”

“The scoundrel! The blackguard!” I exclaimed in an unguarded outburst
of fury. . . .

“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” I added more calmly, seeing that the
lovely creature was gazing at me with eyes full of astonishment not
unmixed with distrust, “I am anticipating. Am I to understand, then,
that you have made your home with this Mr. Farewell?”

“Yes, Monsieur, at number sixty-five Rue des Pyramides.”

“Is he a married man?” I asked casually.

“He is a widower, Monsieur.”

“Middle-aged?”

“Quite elderly, Monsieur.”

I could have screamed with joy. I was not yet forty myself.

“Why!” she added gaily, “he is thinking of retiring from business—he
is, as I said, a commercial traveller—in favour of his nephew, M.
Adrien Cazalès.”

Once more I had to steady myself against the table. The room swam round
me. One hundred thousand francs!—a lovely creature!—an unscrupulous
widower!—an equally dangerous young nephew. I rose and tottered to the
window. I flung it wide open—a thing I never do save at moments of
acute crises.

The breath of fresh air did me good. I returned to my desk, and was
able once more to assume my habitual dignity and presence of mind.

“In all this, Mademoiselle,” I said in my best professional manner, “I
do not gather how I can be of service to you.”

“I am coming to that, Monsieur,” she resumed after a slight moment of
hesitation, even as an exquisite blush suffused her damask cheeks. “You
must know that at first I was very happy in the house of my new
guardian. He was exceedingly kind to me, though there were times
already when I fancied . . .”

She hesitated—more markedly this time—and the blush became deeper on
her cheeks. I groaned aloud.

“Surely he is too old,” I suggested.

“Much too old,” she assented emphatically.

Once more I would have screamed with joy had not a sharp pang, like a
dagger-thrust, shot through my heart.

“But the nephew, eh?” I said as jocosely, as indifferently as I could.
“Young M. Cazalès? What?”

“Oh!” she replied with perfect indifference. “I hardly ever see him.”

Unfortunately it were not seemly for an avocat and the _agent
confidentiel_ of half the Courts of Europe to execute the measures of a
polka in the presence of a client, or I would indeed have jumped up and
danced with glee. The happy thoughts were hammering away in my mind:
“The old one is much too old—the young one she never sees!” and I could
have knelt down and kissed the hem of her gown for the exquisite
indifference with which she had uttered those magic words: “Oh! I
hardly ever see him!”—words which converted my brightest hopes into
glowing possibilities.

But, as it was, I held my emotions marvellously in check, and with
perfect sang-froid once more asked the beauteous creature how I could
be of service to her in her need.

“Of late, Monsieur,” she said, as she raised a pair of limpid, candid
blue eyes to mine, “my position in Mr. Farewell’s house has become
intolerable. He pursues me with his attentions, and he has become
insanely jealous. He will not allow me to speak to anyone, and has even
forbidden M. Cazalès, his own nephew, the house. Not that I care about
that,” she added with an expressive shrug of the shoulders.

“He has forbidden M. Cazalès the house,” rang like a paean in my ear.
“Not that she cares about that! Tra la, la, la, la, la!” What I
actually contrived to say with a measured and judicial air was:

“If you deign to entrust me with the conduct of your affairs, I would
at once communicate with the English lawyers in your name and suggest
to them the advisability of appointing another guardian. . . . I would
suggest, for instance . . . er . . . that I . . .”

“How can you do that, Monsieur?” she broke in somewhat impatiently,
“seeing that I cannot possibly tell you who these lawyers are?”

“Eh?” I queried, gasping.

“I neither know their names nor their residence in England.”

Once more I gasped. “Will you explain?” I murmured.

“It seems, Monsieur, that while my dear mother lived she always refused
to take a single sou from my father, who had so basely deserted her. Of
course, she did not know that he was making a fortune over in England,
nor that he was making diligent inquiries as to her whereabouts when he
felt that he was going to die. Thus, he discovered that she had died
the previous year and that I was working in the atelier of Madame
Cécile, the well-known milliner. When the English lawyers wrote to me
at that address they, of course, said that they would require all my
papers of identification before they paid any money over to me, and so,
when Mr. Farewell went over to England, he took all my papers with him
and . . .”

She burst into tears and exclaimed piteously:

“Oh! I have nothing now, Monsieur—nothing to prove who I am! Mr.
Farewell took everything, even the original letter which the English
lawyers wrote to me.”

“Farewell,” I urged, “can be forced by the law to give all your papers
up to you.”

“Oh! I have nothing now, Monsieur—he threatened to destroy all my
papers unless I promised to become his wife! And I haven’t the least
idea how and where to find the English lawyers. I don’t remember either
their name or their address; and if I did, how could I prove my
identity to their satisfaction? I don’t know a soul in Paris save a few
irresponsible millinery apprentices and Madame Cécile, who, no doubt,
is hand in glove with Mr. Farewell. I am all alone in the world and
friendless. . . . I have come to you, Monsieur, in my distress . . .
and you will help me, will you not?”

She looked more adorable in grief than she had ever done before.

To tell you that at this moment visions floated in my mind, before
which Dante’s visions of Paradise would seem pale and tame, were but to
put it mildly. I was literally soaring in heaven. For you see I am a
man of intellect and of action. No sooner do I see possibilities before
me than my brain soars in an empyrean whilst conceiving daring plans
for my body’s permanent abode in elysium. At this present moment, for
instance—to name but a few of the beatific visions which literally
dazzled me with their radiance—I could see my fair client as a lovely
and blushing bride by my side, even whilst Messieurs X. and X., the two
still unknown English lawyers, handed me a heavy bag which bore the
legend “One hundred thousand francs.” I could see . . . But I had not
the time now to dwell on these ravishing dreams. The beauteous creature
was waiting for my decision. She had placed her fate in my hands; I
placed my hand on my heart.

“Mademoiselle,” I said solemnly, “I will be your adviser and your
friend. Give me but a few days’ grace, every hour, every minute of
which I will spend in your service. At the end of that time I will not
only have learned the name and address of the English lawyers, but I
will have communicated with them on your behalf, and all your papers
proving your identity will be in your hands. Then we can come to a
decision with regard to a happier and more comfortable home for you. In
the meanwhile I entreat you to do nothing that may precipitate Mr.
Farewell’s actions. Do not encourage his advances, but do not repulse
them, and above all keep me well informed of everything that goes on in
his house.”

She spoke a few words of touching gratitude, then she rose, and with a
gesture of exquisite grace she extracted a hundred-franc note from her
reticule and placed it upon my desk.

“Mademoiselle,” I protested with splendid dignity, “I have done nothing
as yet.”

“Ah! but you will, Monsieur,” she entreated in accents that completed
my subjugation to her charms. “Besides, you do not know me! How could I
expect you to work for me and not to know if, in the end, I should
repay you for all your trouble? I pray you to take this small sum
without demur. Mr. Farewell keeps me well supplied with pocket money.
There will be another hundred for you when you place the papers in my
hands.”

I bowed to her, and, having once more assured her of my unswerving
loyalty to her interests, I accompanied her to the door, and anon saw
her graceful figure slowly descend the stairs and then disappear along
the corridor.

Then I went back to my room, and was only just in time to catch
Theodore calmly pocketing the hundred-franc note which my fair client
had left on the table. I secured the note and I didn’t give him a black
eye, for it was no use putting him in a bad temper when there was so
much to do.

2.

That very same evening I interviewed the concierge at No. 65 Rue des
Pyramides. From him I learned that Mr. Farewell lived on a very small
income on the top floor of the house, that his household consisted of a
housekeeper who cooked and did the work of the apartment for him, and
an odd-job man who came every morning to clean boots, knives, draw
water and carry up fuel from below. I also learned that there was a
good deal of gossip in the house anent the presence in Mr. Farewell’s
bachelor establishment of a young and beautiful girl, whom he tried to
keep a virtual prisoner under his eye.

The next morning, dressed in a shabby blouse, alpaca cap, and trousers
frayed out round the ankles, I—Hector Ratichon, the confidant of
kings—was lounging under the porte-cochere of No. 65 Rue des Pyramides.
I was watching the movements of a man, similarly attired to myself, as
he crossed and recrossed the courtyard to draw water from the well or
to fetch wood from one of the sheds, and then disappeared up the main
staircase.

A casual, tactful inquiry of the concierge assured me that that man was
indeed in the employ of Mr. Farewell.

I waited as patiently and inconspicuously as I could, and at ten
o’clock I saw that my man had obviously finished his work for the
morning and had finally come down the stairs ready to go home. I
followed him.

I will not speak of the long halt in the cabaret du Chien Noir, where
he spent an hour and a half in the company of his friends, playing
dominoes and drinking eau-de-vie whilst I had perforce to cool my heels
outside. Suffice it to say that I did follow him to his house just
behind the fish-market, and that half an hour later, tired out but
triumphant, having knocked at his door, I was admitted into the squalid
room which he occupied.

He surveyed me with obvious mistrust, but I soon reassured him.

“My friend Mr. Farewell has recommended you to me,” I said with my
usual affability. “I was telling him just awhile ago that I needed a
man to look after my office in the Rue Daunou of a morning, and he told
me that in you I would find just the man I wanted.”

“Hm!” grunted the fellow, very sullenly I thought. “I work for Farewell
in the mornings. Why should he recommend me to you? Am I not giving
satisfaction?”

“Perfect satisfaction,” I rejoined urbanely; “that is just the point.
Mr. Farewell desires to do you a good turn seeing that I offered to pay
you twenty sous for your morning’s work instead of the ten which you
are getting from him.”

I saw his eyes glisten at mention of the twenty sous.

“I’d best go and tell him then that I am taking on your work,” he said;
and his tone was no longer sullen now.

“Quite unnecessary,” I rejoined. “I arranged everything with Mr.
Farewell before I came to you. He has already found someone else to do
his work, and I shall want you to be at my office by seven o’clock
to-morrow morning. And,” I added, for I am always cautious and
judicious, and I now placed a piece of silver in his hand, “here are
the first twenty sous on account.”

He took the money and promptly became very civil, even obsequious. He
not only accompanied me to the door, but all the way down the stairs,
and assured me all the time that he would do his best to give me entire
satisfaction.

I left my address with him, and sure enough, he turned up at the office
the next morning at seven o’clock precisely.

Theodore had had my orders to direct him in his work, and I was left
free to enact the second scene of the moving drama in which I was
determined to play the hero and to ring down the curtain to the sound
of the wedding bells.

3.

I took on the work of odd-job man at 65 Rue des Pyramides. Yes, I! Even
I, who had sat in the private room of an emperor discussing the
destinies of Europe.

But with a beautiful bride and one hundred thousand francs as my goal I
would have worked in a coal mine or on the galleys for such a guerdon.

The task, I must tell you, was terribly irksome to a man of my
sensibilities, endowed with an active mind and a vivid imagination. The
dreary monotony of fetching water and fuel from below and polishing the
boots of that arch-scoundrel Farewell would have made a less stout
spirit quail. I had, of course, seen through the scoundrel’s game at
once. He had rendered Estelle quite helpless by keeping all her papers
of identification and by withholding from her all the letters which, no
doubt, the English lawyers wrote to her from time to time. Thus she was
entirely in his power. But, thank heaven! only momentarily, for I,
Hector Ratichon, argus-eyed, was on the watch. Now and then the
monotony of my existence and the hardship of my task were relieved by a
brief glimpse of Estelle or a smile of understanding from her lips; now
and then she would contrive to murmur as she brushed past me while I
was polishing the scoundrel’s study floor, “Any luck yet?” And this
quiet understanding between us gave me courage to go on with my task.

After three days I had conclusively made up my mind that Mr. Farewell
kept his valuable papers in the drawer of the bureau in the study.
After that I always kept a lump of wax ready for use in my pocket. On
the fifth day I was very nearly caught trying to take an impression of
the lock of the bureau drawer. On the seventh I succeeded, and took the
impression over to a locksmith I knew of, and gave him an order to have
a key made to fit it immediately. On the ninth day I had the key.

Then commenced a series of disappointments and of unprofitable days
which would have daunted one less bold and less determined. I don’t
think that Farewell ever suspected me, but it is a fact that never once
did he leave me alone in his study whilst I was at work there polishing
the oak floor. And in the meanwhile I could see how he was pursuing my
beautiful Estelle with his unwelcome attentions. At times I feared that
he meant to abduct her; his was a powerful personality and she seemed
like a little bird fighting against the fascination of a serpent.
Latterly, too, an air of discouragement seemed to dwell upon her lovely
face. I was half distraught with anxiety, and once or twice, whilst I
knelt upon the hard floor, scrubbing and polishing as if my life
depended on it, whilst he—the unscrupulous scoundrel—sat calmly at his
desk, reading or writing, I used to feel as if the next moment I must
attack him with my scrubbing-brush and knock him down senseless whilst
I ransacked his drawers. My horror of anything approaching violence
saved me from so foolish a step.

Then it was that in the hour of my blackest despair a flash of genius
pierced through the darkness of my misery. For some days now Madame
Dupont, Farewell’s housekeeper, had been exceedingly affable to me.
Every morning now, when I came to work, there was a cup of hot coffee
waiting for me, and, when I left, a small parcel of something
appetizing for me to take away.

“Hallo!” I said to myself one day, when, over a cup of coffee, I caught
sight of her small, piggy eyes leering at me with an unmistakable
expression of admiration. “Does salvation lie where I least expected
it?”

For the moment I did nothing more than wink at the fat old thing, but
the next morning I had my arm round her waist—a metre and a quarter,
Sir, where it was tied in the middle—and had imprinted a kiss upon her
glossy cheek. What that love-making cost me I cannot attempt to
describe. Once Estelle came into the kitchen when I was staggering
under a load of a hundred kilos sitting on my knee. The reproachful
glance which she cast at me filled my soul with unspeakable sorrow.

But I was working for her dear sake; working that I might win her in
the end.

A week later Mr. Farewell was absent from home for the evening. Estelle
had retired to her room, and I was a welcome visitor in the kitchen,
where Madame Dupont had laid out a regular feast for me. I had brought
a couple of bottles of champagne with me and, what with the
unaccustomed drink and the ogling and love-making to which I treated
her, a hundred kilos of foolish womanhood was soon hopelessly addled
and incapable. I managed to drag her to the sofa, where she remained
quite still, with a beatific smile upon her podgy face, her eyes
swimming in happy tears.

I had not a moment to lose. The very next minute I was in the study and
with a steady hand was opening the drawers of the bureau and turning
over the letters and papers which I found therein.

Suddenly an exclamation of triumph escaped my lips.

I held a packet in my hand on which was written in a clear hand: “The
papers of Mlle. Estelle Bachelier.” A brief examination of the packet
sufficed. It consisted of a number of letters written in English, which
language I only partially understand, but they all bore the same
signature, “John Pike and Sons, solicitors,” and the address was at the
top, “168 Cornhill, London.” It also contained my Estelle’s birth
certificate, her mother’s marriage certificate, and her police
registration card.

I was rapt in the contemplation of my own ingenuity in having thus
brilliantly attained my goal, when a stealthy noise in the next room
roused me from my trance and brought up vividly to my mind the awful
risks which I was running at this moment. I turned like an animal at
bay to see Estelle’s beautiful face peeping at me through the half-open
door.

“Hist!” she whispered. “Have you got the papers?”

I waved the packet triumphantly. She, excited and adorable, stepped
briskly into the room.

“Let me see,” she murmured excitedly.

But I, emboldened by success, cried gaily:

“Not till I have received compensation for all that I have done and
endured.”

“Compensation?”

“In the shape of a kiss.”

Oh! I won’t say that she threw herself in my arms then and there. No,
no! She demurred. All young girls, it seems, demur under the
circumstances; but she was adorable, coy and tender in turns, pouting
and coaxing, and playing like a kitten till she had taken the papers
from me and, with a woman’s natural curiosity, had turned the English
letters over and over, even though she could not read a word of them.

Then, Sir, in the midst of her innocent frolic and at the very moment
when I was on the point of snatching the kiss which she had so
tantalizingly denied me, we heard the opening and closing of the front
door.

Mr. Farewell had come home, and there was no other egress from the
study save the sitting-room, which in its turn had no other egress but
the door leading into the very passage where even now Mr. Farewell was
standing, hanging up his hat and cloak on the rack.

4.

We stood hand in hand—Estelle and I—fronting the door through which Mr.
Farewell would presently appear.

“To-night we fly together,” I declared.

“Where to?” she whispered.

“Can you go to the woman at your former lodgings?”

“Yes!”

“Then I will take you there to-night. To-morrow we will be married
before the Procureur du Roi; in the evening we leave for England.”

“Yes, yes!” she murmured.

“When he comes in I’ll engage him in conversation,” I continued
hurriedly. “You make a dash for the door and run downstairs as fast as
you can. I’ll follow as quickly as may be and meet you under the
porte-cochere.”

She had only just time to nod assent when the door which gave on the
sitting-room was pushed open, and Farewell, unconscious at first of our
presence, stepped quietly into the room.

“Estelle,” he cried, more puzzled than angry when he suddenly caught
sight of us both, “what are you doing here with that lout?”

I was trembling with excitement—not fear, of course, though Farewell
was a powerful-looking man, a head taller than I was. I stepped boldly
forward, covering the adored one with my body.

“The lout,” I said with calm dignity, “has frustrated the machinations
of a knave. To-morrow I go to England in order to place Mademoiselle
Estelle Bachelier under the protection of her legal guardians,
Messieurs Pike and Sons, solicitors, of London.”

He gave a cry of rage, and before I could retire to some safe
entrenchment behind the table or the sofa, he was upon me like a mad
dog. He had me by the throat, and I had rolled backwards down on to the
floor, with him on the top of me, squeezing the breath out of me till I
verily thought that my last hour had come. Estelle had run out of the
room like a startled hare. This, of course, was in accordance with my
instructions to her, but I could not help wishing then that she had
been less obedient and somewhat more helpful.

As it was, I was beginning to feel a mere worm in the grip of that
savage scoundrel, whose face I could perceive just above me, distorted
with passion, whilst hoarse ejaculations escaped his trembling lips:

“You meddlesome fool! You oaf! You toad! This for your interference!”
he added as he gave me a vigorous punch on the head.

I felt my senses reeling. My head was swimming, my eyes no longer could
see distinctly. It seemed as if an unbearable pressure upon my chest
would finally squeeze the last breath out of my body.

I was trying to remember the prayers I used to murmur at my mother’s
knee, for verily I thought that I was dying, when suddenly, through my
fading senses, came the sound of a long, hoarse cry, whilst the floor
was shaken as with an earthquake. The next moment the pressure on my
chest seemed to relax. I could hear Farewell’s voice uttering language
such as it would be impossible for me to put on record; and through it
all hoarse and convulsive cries of: “You shan’t hurt him—you limb of
Satan, you!”

Gradually strength returned to me. I could see as well as hear, and
what I saw filled me with wonder and with pride. Wonder at Ma’ame
Dupont’s pluck! Pride in that her love for me had given such power to
her mighty arms! Aroused from her slumbers by the sound of the scuffle,
she had run to the study, only to find me in deadly peril of my life.
Without a second’s hesitation she had rushed on Farewell, seized him by
the collar, pulled him away from me, and then thrown the whole weight
of her hundred kilos upon him, rendering him helpless.

Ah, woman! lovely, selfless woman! My heart a prey to remorse, in that
I could not remain in order to thank my plucky deliverer, I
nevertheless finally struggled to my feet and fled from the apartment
and down the stairs, never drawing breath till I felt Estelle’s hand
resting confidingly upon my arm.

5.

I took her to the house where she used to lodge, and placed her under
the care of the kind concierge who was Theodore’s aunt. Then I, too,
went home, determined to get a good night’s rest. The morning would be
a busy one for me. There would be the special licence to get, the cure
of St. Jacques to interview, the religious ceremony to arrange for, and
the places to book on the stagecoach for Boulogne _en route_ for
England—and fortune.

I was supremely happy and slept the sleep of the just. I was up betimes
and started on my round of business at eight o’clock the next morning.
I was a little troubled about money, because when I had paid for the
licence and given to the cure the required fee for the religious
service and ceremony, I had only five francs left out of the hundred
which the adored one had given me. However, I booked the seats on the
stage-coach and determined to trust to luck. Once Estelle was my wife,
all money care would be at an end, since no power on earth could stand
between me and the hundred thousand francs, the happy goal for which I
had so ably striven.

The marriage ceremony was fixed for eleven o’clock, and it was just
upon ten when, at last, with a light heart and springy step, I ran up
the dingy staircase which led to the adored one’s apartments. I knocked
at the door. It was opened by a young man, who with a smile courteously
bade me enter. I felt a little bewildered—and slightly annoyed. My
Estelle should not receive visits from young men at this hour. I pushed
past the intruder in the passage and walked boldly into the room
beyond.

Estelle was sitting upon the sofa, her eyes bright, her mouth smiling,
a dimple in each cheek. I approached her with outstretched arms, but
she paid no heed to me, and turned to the young man, who had followed
me into the room.

“Adrien,” she said, “this is kind M. Ratichon, who at risk of his life
obtained for us all my papers of identification and also the valuable
name and address of the English lawyers.”

“Monsieur,” added the young man as he extended his hand to me, “Estelle
and I will remain eternally your debtors.”

I struck at the hand which he had so impudently held out to me and
turned to Estelle with my usual dignified calm, but with wrath
expressed in every line of my face.

“Estelle,” I said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Oh,” she retorted with one of her provoking smiles, “you must not call
me Estelle, you know, or Adrien will smack your face. We are indeed
grateful to you, my good M. Ratichon,” she continued more seriously,
“and though I only promised you another hundred francs when your work
for me was completed, my husband and I have decided to give you a
thousand francs in view of the risks which you ran on our behalf.”

“Your husband!” I stammered.

“I was married to M. Adrien Cazalès a month ago,” she said, “but we had
perforce to keep our marriage a secret, because Mr. Farewell once vowed
to me that unless I became his wife he would destroy all my papers of
identification, and then—even if I ever succeeded in discovering who
were the English lawyers who had charge of my father’s money—I could
never prove it to them that I and no one else was entitled to it. But
for you, dear M. Ratichon,” added the cruel and shameless one, “I
should indeed never have succeeded.”

In the midst of this overwhelming cataclysm I am proud to say that I
retained mastery over my rage and contrived to say with perfect calm:

“But why have deceived me, Mademoiselle? Why have kept your marriage a
secret from me? Was I not toiling and working and risking my life for
you?”

“And would you have worked quite so enthusiastically for me,” queried
the false one archly, “if I had told you everything?”

I groaned. Perhaps she was right. I don’t know.

I took the thousand francs and never saw M. and Mme. Cazalès again.

But I met Ma’ame Dupont by accident soon after. She has left Mr.
Farewell’s service.

She still weighs one hundred kilos.

I often call on her of an evening.

Ah, well!




CHAPTER III. — ON THE BRINK

1.

You would have thought that after the shameful way in which Theodore
treated me in the matter of the secret treaty that I would then and
there have turned him out of doors, sent him back to grub for scraps
out of the gutter, and hardened my heart once and for all against that
snake in the grass whom I had nurtured in my bosom.

But, as no doubt you have remarked ere this, I have been burdened by
Nature with an over-sensitive heart. It is a burden, my dear Sir, and
though I have suffered inexpressibly under it, I nevertheless agree
with the English poet, George Crabbe, whose works I have read with a
great deal of pleasure and profit in the original tongue, and who avers
in one of his inimitable “Tales” that it is “better to love amiss than
nothing to have loved.”

Not that I loved Theodore, you understand? But he and I had shared so
many ups and downs together of late that I was loath to think of him as
reduced to begging his bread in the streets. Then I kept him by me, for
I thought that he might at times be useful to me in my business.

I kept him to my hurt, as you will presently see.

In those days—I am now speaking of the time immediately following the
Restoration of our beloved King Louis XVIII to the throne of his
forbears—Parisian society was, as it were, divided into two distinct
categories: those who had become impoverished by the revolution and the
wars of the Empire, and those who had made their fortunes thereby.
Among the former was M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour, a handsome young
officer of cavalry; and among the latter was one Mauruss Mosenstein, a
usurer of the Jewish persuasion, whose wealth was reputed in millions,
and who had a handsome daughter biblically named Rachel, who a year ago
had become Madame la Marquise de Firmin-Latour.

From the first moment that this brilliant young couple appeared upon
the firmament of Parisian society I took a keen interest in all their
doings. In those days, you understand, it was in the essence of my
business to know as much as possible of the private affairs of people
in their position, and instinct had at once told me that in the case of
M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour such knowledge might prove very
remunerative.

Thus I very soon found out that M. le Marquis had not a single louis of
his own to bless himself with, and that it was Papa Mosenstein’s
millions that kept up the young people’s magnificent establishment in
the Rue de Grammont.

I also found out that Mme. la Marquise was some dozen years older than
Monsieur, and that she had been a widow when she married him. There
were rumours that her first marriage had not been a happy one. The
husband, M. le Compte de Naquet, had been a gambler and a spendthrift,
and had dissipated as much of his wife’s fortune as he could lay his
hands on, until one day he went off on a voyage to America, or goodness
knows where, and was never heard of again. Mme. la Comtesse, as she
then was, did not grieve over her loss; indeed, she returned to the
bosom of her family, and her father—a shrewd usurer, who had amassed an
enormous fortune during the wars—succeeded, with the aid of his
apparently bottomless moneybags, in having his first son-in-law
declared deceased by Royal decree, so as to enable the beautiful Rachel
to contract another, yet more brilliant alliance, as far as name and
lineage were concerned, with the Marquis de Firmin-Latour.

Indeed, I learned that the worthy Israelite’s one passion was the
social advancement of his daughter, whom he worshipped. So, as soon as
the marriage was consummated and the young people were home from their
honeymoon, he fitted up for their use the most extravagantly sumptuous
apartment Paris had ever seen. Nothing seemed too good or too luxurious
for Mme. la Marquise de Firmin-Latour. He desired her to cut a
brilliant figure in Paris society—nay, to be the Ville Lumiere’s
brightest and most particular star. After the town house he bought a
chateau in the country, horses and carriages, which he placed at the
disposal of the young couple; he kept up an army of servants for them,
and replenished their cellars with the choicest wines. He threw money
about for diamonds and pearls which his daughter wore, and paid all his
son-in-law’s tailors’ and shirt-makers’ bills. But always the money was
his, you understand? The house in Paris was his, so was the chateau on
the Loire; he lent them to his daughter. He lent her the diamonds, and
the carriages, and the boxes at the opera and the Français. But here
his generosity ended. He had been deceived in his daughter’s first
husband; some of the money which he had given her had gone to pay the
gambling debts of an unscrupulous spendthrift. He was determined that
this should not occur again. A man might spend his wife’s money—indeed,
the law placed most of it at his disposal in those days—but he could
not touch or mortgage one sou that belonged to his father-in-law. And,
strangely enough, Mme. la Marquise de Firmin-Latour acquiesced and
aided her father in his determination. Whether it was the Jewish blood
in her, or merely obedience to old Mosenstein’s whim, it were
impossible to say. Certain it is that out of the lavish pin-money which
her father gave her as a free gift from time to time, she only doled
out a meagre allowance to her husband, and although she had everything
she wanted, M. le Marquis on his side had often less than twenty francs
in his pocket.

A very humiliating position, you will admit, Sir, for a dashing young
cavalry officer. Often have I seen him gnawing his finger-nails with
rage when, at the end of a copious dinner in one of the fashionable
restaurants—where I myself was engaged in a business capacity to keep
an eye on possibly light-fingered customers—it would be Mme. la
Marquise who paid the bill, even gave the pourboire to the waiter. At
such times my heart would be filled with pity for his misfortunes, and,
in my own proud and lofty independence, I felt that I did not envy him
his wife’s millions.

Of course, he borrowed from every usurer in the city for as long as
they would lend him any money; but now he was up to his eyes in debt,
and there was not a Jew inside France who would have lent him one
hundred francs.

You see, his precarious position was as well known as were his
extravagant tastes and the obstinate parsimoniousness of M. Mosenstein.

But such men as M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour, you understand, Sir,
are destined by Nature first and by fortuitous circumstances afterwards
to become the clients of men of ability like myself. I knew that sooner
or later the elegant young soldier would be forced to seek the advice
of someone wiser than himself, for indeed his present situation could
not last much longer. It would soon be “sink” with him, for he could no
longer “swim.”

And I was determined that when that time came he should turn to me as
the drowning man turns to the straw.

So where M. le Marquis went in public I went, when possible. I was
biding my time, and wisely too, as you will judge.

2.

Then one day our eyes met: not in a fashionable restaurant, I may tell
you, but in a discreet one situated on the slopes of Montmartre. I was
there alone, sipping a cup of coffee after a frugal dinner. I had
drifted in there chiefly because I had quite accidentally caught sight
of M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour walking arm-in-arm up the Rue Lepic
with a lady who was both youthful and charming—a well-known dancer at
the opera. Presently I saw him turn into that discreet little
restaurant, where, in very truth, it was not likely that Mme. la
Marquise would follow him. But I did. What made me do it, I cannot say;
but for some time now it had been my wish to make the personal
acquaintance of M. de Firmin-Latour, and I lost no opportunity which
might help me to attain this desire.

Somehow the man interested me. His social and financial position was
peculiar, you will admit, and here, methought, was the beginning of an
adventure which might prove the turning-point in his career and . . .
my opportunity. I was not wrong, as you will presently see. Whilst
silently eating my simple dinner, I watched M. de Firmin-Latour.

He had started the evening by being very gay; he had ordered champagne
and a succulent meal, and chatted light-heartedly with his companion,
until presently three young women, flashily dressed, made noisy
irruption into the restaurant.

M. de Firmin-Latour’s friend hailed them, introduced them to him, and
soon he was host, not to one lady, but to four, and instead of two
dinners he had to order five, and more champagne, and then
dessert—peaches, strawberries, bonbons, liqueurs, flowers, and what
not, until I could see that the bill which presently he would be called
upon to pay would amount to far more than his quarterly allowance from
Mme. la Marquise, far more, presumably, than he had in his pocket at
the present moment.

My brain works with marvellous rapidity, as you know. Already I had
made up my mind to see the little comedy through to the end, and I
watched with a good deal of interest and some pity the clouds of
anxiety gathering over M. de Firmin-Latour’s brow.

The dinner party lasted some considerable time; then the inevitable
cataclysm occurred. The ladies were busy chattering and rouging their
lips when the bill was presented. They affected to see and hear
nothing: it is a way ladies have when dinner has to be paid for; but I
saw and heard everything. The waiter stood by, silent and obsequious at
first, whilst M. le Marquis hunted through all his pockets. Then there
was some whispered colloquy, and the waiter’s attitude lost something
of its correct dignity. After that the proprietor was called, and the
whispered colloquy degenerated into altercation, whilst the ladies—not
at all unaware of the situation—giggled amongst themselves. Finally, M.
le Marquis offered a promissory note, which was refused.

Then it was that our eyes met. M. de Firmin-Latour had flushed to the
roots of his hair. His situation was indeed desperate, and my
opportunity had come. With consummate sang-froid, I advanced towards
the agitated group composed of M. le Marquis, the proprietor, and the
head waiter. I glanced at the bill, the cause of all this turmoil,
which reposed on a metal salver in the head waiter’s hand, and with a
brief:

“If M. le Marquis will allow me . . .” I produced my pocket-book.

The bill was for nine hundred francs.

At first M. le Marquis thought that I was about to pay it—and so did
the proprietor of the establishment, who made a movement as if he would
lie down on the floor and lick my boots. But not so. To begin with, I
did not happen to possess nine hundred francs, and if I did, I should
not have been fool enough to lend them to this young scapegrace. No!
What I did was to extract from my notebook a card, one of a series
which I always keep by me in case of an emergency like the present one.
It bore the legend: “Comte Hercule de Montjoie, secrétaire particulier
de M. le Duc d’Otrante,” and below it the address, “Palais du
Commissariat de Police, 12 Quai d’Orsay.” This card I presented with a
graceful flourish of the arm to the proprietor of the establishment,
whilst I said with that lofty self-assurance which is one of my finest
attributes and which I have never seen equalled:

“M. le Marquis is my friend. I will be guarantee for this trifling
amount.”

The proprietor and head waiter stammered excuses. Private secretary of
M. le Duc d’Otrante! Think of it! It is not often that such personages
deign to frequent the restaurants of Montmartre. M. le Marquis, on the
other hand, looked completely bewildered, whilst I, taking advantage of
the situation, seized him familiarly by the arm, and leading him toward
the door, I said with condescending urbanity:

“One word with you, my dear Marquis. It is so long since we have met.”

I bowed to the ladies.

“Mesdames,” I said, and was gratified to see that they followed my
dramatic exit with eyes of appreciation and of wonder. The proprietor
himself offered me my hat, and a moment or two later M. de
Firmin-Latour and I were out together in the Rue Lepic.

“My dear Comte,” he said as soon as he had recovered his breath, “how
can I think you? . . .”

“Not now, Monsieur, not now,” I replied. “You have only just time to
make your way as quickly as you can back to your palace in the Rue de
Grammont before our friend the proprietor discovers the several
mistakes which he has made in the past few minutes and vents his wrath
upon your fair guests.”

“You are right,” he rejoined lightly. “But I will have the pleasure to
call on you to-morrow at the Palais du Commissariat.”

“Do no such thing, Monsieur le Marquis,” I retorted with a pleasant
laugh. “You would not find me there.”

“But—” he stammered.

“But,” I broke in with my wonted business-like and persuasive manner,
“if you think that I have conducted this delicate affair for you with
tact and discretion, then, in your own interest I should advise you to
call on me at my private office, No. 96 Rue Daunou. Hector Ratichon, at
your service.”

He appeared more bewildered than ever.

“Rue Daunou,” he murmured. “Ratichon!”

“Private inquiry and confidential agent,” I rejoined. “My brains are at
your service should you desire to extricate yourself from the
humiliating financial position in which it has been my good luck to
find you, and yours to meet with me.”

With that I left him, Sir, to walk away or stay as he pleased. As for
me, I went quickly down the street. I felt that the situation was
absolutely perfect; to have spoken another word might have spoilt it.
Moreover, there was no knowing how soon the proprietor of that humble
hostelry would begin to have doubts as to the identity of the private
secretary of M. le Duc d’Otrante. So I was best out of the way.

3.

The very next day M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour called upon me at my
office in the Rue Daunou. Theodore let him in, and the first thing that
struck me about him was his curt, haughty manner and the look of
disdain wherewith he regarded the humble appointments of my business
premises. He himself was magnificently dressed, I may tell you. His
bottle-green coat was of the finest cloth and the most perfect cut I
had ever seen. His kerseymere pantaloons fitted him without a wrinkle.
He wore gloves, he carried a muff of priceless zibeline, and in his
cravat there was a diamond the size of a broad bean.

He also carried a malacca cane, which he deposited upon my desk, and a
gold-rimmed spy-glass which, with a gesture of supreme affectation, he
raised to his eye.

“Now, M. Hector Ratichon,” he said abruptly, “perhaps you will be good
enough to explain.”

I had risen when he entered. But now I sat down again and coolly
pointed to the best chair in the room.

“Will you give yourself the trouble to sit down, M. le Marquis?” I
riposted blandly.

He called me names—rude names! but I took no notice of that . . . and
he sat down.

“Now!” he said once more.

“What is it you desire to know, M. le Marquis?” I queried.

“Why you interfered in my affairs last night?”

“Do you complain?” I asked.

“No,” he admitted reluctantly, “but I don’t understand your object.”

“My object was to serve you then,” I rejoined quietly, “and later.”

“What do you mean by ‘later’?”

“To-day,” I replied, “to-morrow; whenever your present position becomes
absolutely unendurable.”

“It is that now,” he said with a savage oath.

“I thought as much,” was my curt comment.

“And do you mean to assert,” he went on more earnestly, “that you can
find a way out of it?”

“If you desire it—yes!” I said.

“How?”

He drew his chair nearer to my desk, and I leaned forward, with my
elbows on the table, the finger-tips of one hand in contact with those
of the other.

“Let us begin by reviewing the situation, shall we, Monsieur?” I began.

“If you wish,” he said curtly.

“You are a gentleman of refined, not to say luxurious tastes, who finds
himself absolutely without means to gratify them. Is that so?”

He nodded.

“You have a wife and a father-in-law who, whilst lavishing costly
treasures upon you, leave you in a humiliating dependence on them for
actual money.”

Again he nodded approvingly.

“Human nature,” I continued with gentle indulgence, “being what it is,
you pine after what you do not possess—namely, money. Houses,
equipages, servants, even good food and wine, are nothing to you beside
that earnest desire for money that you can call your own, and which, if
only you had it, you could spend at your pleasure.”

“To the point, man, to the point!” he broke in impatiently.

“One moment, M. le Marquis, and I have done. But first of all, with
your permission, shall we also review the assets in your life which we
will have to use in order to arrive at the gratification of your
earnest wish?”

“Assets? What do you mean?”

“The means to our end. You want money; we must find the means to get it
for you.”

“I begin to understand,” he said, and drew his chair another inch or
two closer to me.

“Firstly, M. le Marquis,” I resumed, and now my voice had become
earnest and incisive, “firstly you have a wife, then you have a
father-in-law whose wealth is beyond the dreams of humble people like
myself, and whose one great passion in life is the social position of
the daughter whom he worships. Now,” I added, and with the tip of my
little finger I touched the sleeve of my aristocratic client, “here at
once is your first asset. Get at the money-bags of papa by threatening
the social position of his daughter.”

Whereupon my young gentleman jumped to his feet and swore and abused me
for a mudlark and a muckworm and I don’t know what. He seized his
malacca cane and threatened me with it, and asked me how the devil I
dared thus to speak of Mme. la Marquise de Firmin-Latour. He cursed,
and he stormed and he raved of his sixteen quarterings and of my
loutishness. He did everything in fact except walk out of the room.

I let him go on quite quietly. It was part of his programme, and we had
to go through the performance. As soon as he gave me the chance of
putting in a word edgeways I rejoined quietly:

“We are not going to hurt Madame la Marquise, Monsieur; and if you do
not want the money, let us say no more about it.”

Whereupon he calmed down; after a while he sat down again, this time
with his cane between his knees and its ivory knob between his teeth.

“Go on,” he said curtly.

Nor did he interrupt me again whilst I expounded my scheme to him—one
that, mind you, I had evolved during the night, knowing well that I
should receive his visit during the day; and I flatter myself that no
finer scheme for the bleeding of a parsimonious usurer was ever devised
by any man.

If it succeeded—and there was no reason why it should not—M. de
Firmin-Latour would pocket a cool half-million, whilst I, sir, the
brain that had devised the whole scheme, pronounced myself satisfied
with the paltry emolument of one hundred thousand francs, out of which,
remember, I should have to give Theodore a considerable sum.

We talked it all over, M. le Marquis and I, the whole afternoon. I may
tell you at once that he was positively delighted with the plan, and
then and there gave me one hundred francs out of his own meagre purse
for my preliminary expenses.

The next morning we began work.

I had begged M. le Marquis to find the means of bringing me a few
scraps of the late M. le Comte de Naquet’s—Madame la Marquise’s first
husband—handwriting. This, fortunately, he was able to do. They were a
few valueless notes penned at different times by the deceased gentleman
and which, luckily for us all, Madame had not thought it worth while to
keep under lock and key.

I think I told you before, did I not? what a marvellous expert I am in
every kind of calligraphy, and soon I had a letter ready which was to
represent the first fire in the exciting war which we were about to
wage against an obstinate lady and a parsimonious usurer.

My identity securely hidden under the disguise of a commissionnaire, I
took that letter to Mme. la Marquise de Firmin-Latour’s sumptuous abode
in the Rue de Grammont.

M. le Marquis, you understand, had in the meanwhile been thoroughly
primed in the rôle which he was to play; as for Theodore, I thought it
best for the moment to dispense with his aid.

The success of our first skirmish surpassed our expectations.

Ten minutes after the letter had been taken upstairs to Mme. la
Marquise, one of the maids, on going past her mistress’s door, was
startled to hear cries and moans proceeding from Madame’s room. She
entered and found Madame lying on the sofa, her face buried in the
cushions, and sobbing and screaming in a truly terrifying manner. The
maid applied the usual restoratives, and after a while Madame became
more calm and at once very curtly ordered the maid out of the room.

M. le Marquis, on being apprised of this mysterious happening, was much
distressed; he hurried to his wife’s apartments, and was as gentle and
loving with her as he had been in the early days of their honeymoon.
But throughout the whole of that evening, and, indeed, for the next two
days, all the explanation that he could get from Madame herself was
that she had a headache and that the letter which she had received that
afternoon was of no consequence and had nothing to do with her
migraine.

But clearly the beautiful Rachel was extraordinarily agitated. At night
she did not sleep, but would pace up and down her apartments in a state
bordering on frenzy, which of course caused M. le Marquis a great deal
of anxiety and of sorrow.

Finally, on the Friday morning it seemed as if Madame could contain
herself no longer. She threw herself into her husband’s arms and
blurted out the whole truth. M. le Comte de Naquet, her first husband,
who had been declared drowned at sea, and therefore officially deceased
by Royal decree, was not dead at all. Madame had received a letter from
him wherein he told her that he had indeed suffered shipwreck, then
untold misery on a desert island for three years, until he had been
rescued by a passing vessel, and finally been able, since he was
destitute, to work his way back to France and to Paris. Here he had
lived for the past few months as best he could, trying to collect
together a little money so as to render himself presentable before his
wife, whom he had never ceased to love.

Inquiries discreetly conducted had revealed the terrible truth, that
Madame had been faithless to him, had light-heartedly assumed the death
of her husband, and had contracted what was nothing less than a
bigamous marriage. Now he, M. de Naquet, standing on his rights as
Rachel Mosenstein’s only lawful husband, demanded that she should
return to him, and as a prelude to a permanent and amicable
understanding, she was to call at three o’clock precisely on the
following Friday at No. 96 Rue Daunou, where their reconciliation and
reunion was to take place.

The letter announcing this terrible news and making this preposterous
demand she now placed in the hands of M. le Marquis, who at first was
horrified and thunderstruck, and appeared quite unable to deal with the
situation or to tender advice. For Madame it meant complete social
ruin, of course, and she herself declared that she would never survive
such a scandal. Her tears and her misery made the loving heart of M. le
Marquis bleed in sympathy. He did all he could to console and comfort
the lady, whom, alas! he could no longer look upon as his wife. Then,
gradually, both he and she became more composed. It was necessary above
all things to make sure that Madame was not being victimized by an
impostor, and for this purpose M. le Marquis generously offered himself
as a disinterested friend and adviser. He offered to go himself to the
Rue Daunou at the hour appointed and to do his best to induce M. le
Comte de Naquet—if indeed he existed—to forgo his rights on the lady
who had so innocently taken on the name and hand of M. le Marquis de
Firmin-Latour. Somewhat more calm, but still unconsoled, the beautiful
Rachel accepted this generous offer. I believe that she even found five
thousand francs in her privy purse which was to be offered to M. de
Naquet in exchange for a promise never to worry Mme. la Marquise again
with his presence. But this I have never been able to ascertain with
any finality. Certain it is that when at three o’clock on that same
afternoon M. de Firmin-Latour presented himself at my office, he did
not offer me a share in any five thousand francs, though he spoke to me
about the money, adding that he thought it would look well if he were
to give it back to Madame, and to tell her that M. de Naquet had
rejected so paltry a sum with disdain.

I thought such a move unnecessary, and we argued about it rather
warmly, and in the end he went away, as I say, without offering me any
share in the emolument. Whether he did put his project into execution
or not I never knew. He told me that he did. After that there followed
for me, Sir, many days, nay, weeks, of anxiety and of strenuous work.
Mme. la Marquise received several more letters from the supposititious
M. de Naquet, any one of which would have landed me, Sir, in a vessel
bound for New Caledonia. The discarded husband became more and more
insistent as time went on, and finally sent an ultimatum to Madame
saying that he was tired of perpetual interviews with M. le Marquis de
Firmin-Latour, whose right to interfere in the matter he now wholly
denied, and that he was quite determined to claim his lawful wife
before the whole world.

Madame la Marquise, in the meanwhile, had passed from one fit of
hysterics into another. She denied her door to everyone and lived in
the strictest seclusion in her beautiful apartment of the Rue de
Grammont. Fortunately this all occurred in the early autumn, when the
absence of such a society star from fashionable gatherings was not as
noticeable as it otherwise would have been. But clearly we were working
up for the climax, which occurred in the way I am about to relate.

4.

Ah, my dear Sir, when after all these years I think of my adventure
with that abominable Marquis, righteous and noble indignation almost
strikes me dumb. To think that with my own hands and brains I literally
put half a million into that man’s pocket, and that he repaid me with
the basest ingratitude, almost makes me lose my faith in human nature.
Theodore, of course, I could punish, and did so adequately; and where
my chastisement failed, Fate herself put the finishing touch.

But M. de Firmin-Latour . . .!

However, you shall judge for yourself.

As I told you, we now made ready for the climax; and that climax, Sir,
I can only describe as positively gorgeous. We began by presuming that
Mme. la Marquise had now grown tired of incessant demands for
interviews and small doles of money, and that she would be willing to
offer a considerable sum to her first and only lawful husband in
exchange for a firm guarantee that he would never trouble her again as
long as she lived.

We fixed the sum at half a million francs, and the guarantee was to
take the form of a deed duly executed by a notary of repute and signed
by the supposititious Comte de Naquet. A letter embodying the demand
and offering the guarantee was thereupon duly sent to Mme. la Marquise,
and she, after the usual attack of hysterics, duly confided the matter
to M. de Firmin-Latour.

The consultation between husband and wife on the deplorable subject was
touching in the extreme; and I will give that abominable Marquis credit
for playing his rôle in a masterly manner. At first he declared to his
dear Rachel that he did not know what to suggest, for in truth she had
nothing like half a million on which she could lay her hands. To speak
of this awful pending scandal to Papa Mosenstein was not to be thought
of. He was capable of repudiating the daughter altogether who was
bringing such obloquy upon herself and would henceforth be of no use to
him as a society star.

As for himself in this terrible emergency, he, of course, had less than
nothing, or his entire fortune would be placed—if he had one—at the
feet of his beloved Rachel. To think that he was on the point of losing
her was more than he could bear, and the idea that she would soon
become the talk of every gossip-monger in society, and mayhap be put in
prison for bigamy, wellnigh drove him crazy.

What could be done in this awful perplexity he for one could not think,
unless indeed his dear Rachel were willing to part with some of her
jewellery; but no! he could not think of allowing her to make such a
sacrifice.

Whereupon Madame, like a drowning man, or rather woman, catching at a
straw, bethought her of her emeralds. They were historic gems, once the
property of the Empress Marie-Thérèse, and had been given to her on her
second marriage by her adoring father. No, no! she would never miss
them; she seldom wore them, for they were heavy and more valuable than
elegant, and she was quite sure that at the Mont de Piété they would
lend her five hundred thousand francs on them. Then gradually they
could be redeemed before papa had become aware of their temporary
disappearance. Madame would save the money out of the liberal allowance
she received from him for pin-money. Anything, anything was preferable
to this awful doom which hung over her head.

But even so M. le Marquis demurred. The thought of his proud and
fashionable Rachel going to the Mont de Piété to pawn her own jewels
was not to be thought of. She would be seen, recognized, and the
scandal would be as bad and worse than anything that loomed on the
black horizon of her fate at this hour.

What was to be done? What was to be done?

Then M. le Marquis had a brilliant idea. He knew of a man, a very
reliable, trustworthy man, attorney-at-law by profession, and therefore
a man of repute, who was often obliged in the exercise of his
profession to don various disguises when tracking criminals in the
outlying quarters of Paris. M. le Marquis, putting all pride and
dignity nobly aside in the interests of his adored Rachel, would borrow
one of these disguises and himself go to the Mont de Piété with the
emeralds, obtain the five hundred thousand francs, and remit them to
the man whom he hated most in all the world, in exchange for the
aforementioned guarantee.

Madame la Marquise, overcome with gratitude, threw herself, in the
midst of a flood of tears, into the arms of the man whom she no longer
dared to call her husband, and so the matter was settled for the
moment. M. le Marquis undertook to have the deed of guarantee drafted
by the same notary of repute whom he knew, and, if Madame approved of
it, the emeralds would then be converted into money, and the interview
with M. le Comte de Naquet fixed for Wednesday, October 10th, at some
convenient place, subsequently to be determined on—in all probability
at the bureau of that same ubiquitous attorney-at-law, M. Hector
Ratichon, at 96 Rue Daunon.

All was going on excellently well, as you observe. I duly drafted the
deed, and M. de Firmin-Latour showed it to Madame for her approval. It
was so simply and so comprehensively worded that she expressed herself
thoroughly satisfied with it, whereupon M. le Marquis asked her to
write to her shameful persecutor in order to fix the date and hour for
the exchange of the money against the deed duly signed and witnessed.
M. le Marquis had always been the intermediary for her letters, you
understand, and for the small sums of money which she had sent from
time to time to the factitious M. de Naquet; now he was to be entrusted
with the final negotiations which, though at a heavy cost, would bring
security and happiness once more in the sumptuous palace of the Rue de
Grammont.

Then it was that the first little hitch occurred. Mme. la
Marquise—whether prompted thereto by a faint breath of suspicion, or
merely by natural curiosity—altered her mind about the appointment. She
decided that M. le Marquis, having pledged the emeralds, should bring
the money to her, and she herself would go to the bureau of M. Hector
Ratichon in the Rue Daunou, there to meet M. de Naquet, whom she had
not seen for seven years, but who had once been very dear to her, and
herself fling in his face the five hundred thousand francs, the price
of his silence and of her peace of mind.

At once, as you perceive, the situation became delicate. To have
demurred, or uttered more than a casual word of objection, would in the
case of M. le Marquis have been highly impolitic. He felt that at once,
the moment he raised his voice in protest: and when Madame declared
herself determined he immediately gave up arguing the point.

The trouble was that we had so very little time wherein to formulate
new plans. Monsieur was to go the very next morning to the Mont de
Piété to negotiate the emeralds, and the interview with the fabulous M.
de Naquet was to take place a couple of hours later; and it was now
three o’clock in the afternoon.

As soon as M. de Firmin-Latour was able to leave his wife, he came
round to my office. He appeared completely at his wits’ end, not
knowing what to do.

“If my wife,” he said, “insists on a personal interview with de Naquet,
who does not exist, our entire scheme falls to the ground. Nay, worse!
for I shall be driven to concoct some impossible explanation for the
non-appearance of that worthy, and heaven only knows if I shall succeed
in wholly allaying my wife’s suspicions.

“Ah!” he added with a sigh, “it is doubly hard to have seen fortune so
near one’s reach and then to see it dashed away at one fell swoop by
the relentless hand of Fate.”

Not one word, you observe, of gratitude to me or of recognition of the
subtle mind that had planned and devised the whole scheme.

But, Sir, it is at the hour of supreme crises like the present one that
Hector Ratichon’s genius soars up to the empyrean. It became great,
Sir; nothing short of great; and even the marvellous schemes of the
Italian Macchiavelli paled before the ingenuity which I now displayed.

Half an hour’s reflection had sufficed. I had made my plans, and I had
measured the full length of the terrible risks which I ran. Among these
New Caledonia was the least. But I chose to take the risks, Sir; my
genius could not stoop to measuring the costs of its flight. While M.
de Firmin-Latour alternately raved and lamented I had already planned
and contrived. As I say, we had very little time: a few hours wherein
to render ourselves worthy of Fortune’s smiles. And this is what I
planned.

You tell me that you were not in Paris during the year 1816 of which I
speak. If you had been, you would surely recollect the sensation caused
throughout the entire city by the disappearance of M. le Marquis de
Firmin-Latour, one of the most dashing young officers in society and
one of its acknowledged leaders. It was the 10th day of October. M. le
Marquis had breakfasted in the company of Madame at nine o’clock. A
couple of hours later he went out, saying he would be home for
déjeuner. Madame clearly expected him, for his place was laid, and she
ordered the déjeuner to be kept back over an hour in anticipation of
his return. But he did not come. The afternoon wore on and he did not
come. Madame sat down at two o’clock to déjeuner alone. She told the
major-domo that M. le Marquis was detained in town and might not be
home for some time. But the major-domo declared that Madame’s voice, as
she told him this, sounded tearful and forced, and that she ate
practically nothing, refusing one succulent dish after another.

The staff of servants was thus kept on tenterhooks all day, and when
the shadows of evening began to draw in, the theory was started in the
kitchen that M. le Marquis had either met with an accident or been
foully murdered. No one, however, dared speak of this to Madame la
Marquise, who had locked herself up in her room in the early part of
the afternoon, and since then had refused to see anyone. The major-domo
was now at his wits’ end. He felt that in a measure the responsibility
of the household rested upon his shoulders. Indeed he would have taken
it upon himself to apprise M. Mauruss Mosenstein of the terrible
happenings, only that the worthy gentleman was absent from Paris just
then.

Mme. la Marquise remained shut up in her room until past eight o’clock.
Then she ordered dinner to be served and made pretence of sitting down
to it; but again the major-domo declared that she ate nothing, whilst
subsequently the confidential maid who had undressed her vowed that
Madame had spent the whole night walking up and down the room.

Thus two agonizing days went by; agonizing they were to everybody.
Madame la Marquise became more and more agitated, more and more
hysterical as time went on, and the servants could not help but notice
this, even though she made light of the whole affair, and desperate
efforts to control herself. The heads of her household, the major-domo,
the confidential maid, the chef de cuisine, did venture to drop a hint
or two as to the possibility of an accident or of foul play, and the
desirability of consulting the police; but Madame would not hear a word
of it; she became very angry at the suggestion, and declared that she
was perfectly well aware of M. le Marquis’s whereabouts, that he was
well and would return home almost immediately.

As was only natural, tongues presently began to wag. Soon it was common
talk in Paris that M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour had disappeared from
his home and that Madame was trying to put a bold face upon the
occurrence. There were surmises and there was gossip— oh! interminable
and long-winded gossip! Minute circumstances in connexion with M. le
Marquis’s private life and Mme. la Marquise’s affairs were freely
discussed in the cafés, the clubs and restaurants, and as no one knew
the facts of the case, surmises soon became very wild.

On the third day of M. le Marquis’s disappearance Papa Mosenstein
returned to Paris from Vichy, where he had just completed his annual
cure. He arrived at Rue de Grammont at three o’clock in the afternoon,
demanded to see Mme. la Marquise at once, and then remained closeted
with her in her apartment for over an hour. After which he sent for the
inspector of police of the section, with the result that that very same
evening M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour was found locked up in an humble
apartment on the top floor of a house in the Rue Daunou, not ten
minutes’ walk from his own house. When the police—acting on information
supplied to them by M. Mauruss Mosenstein—forced their way into that
apartment, they were horrified to find M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour
there, tied hand and foot with cords to a chair, his likely calls for
help smothered by a woollen shawl wound loosely round the lower part of
his face.

He was half dead with inanition, and was conveyed speechless and
helpless to his home in the Rue de Grammont, there, presumably, to be
nursed back to health by Madame his wife.

5.

Now in all this matter, I ask you, Sir, who ran the greatest risk? Why,
I—Hector Ratichon, of course—Hector Ratichon, in whose apartment M. de
Firmin-Latour was discovered in a position bordering on absolute
inanition. And the proof of this is, that that selfsame night I was
arrested at my lodgings at Passy, and charged with robbery and
attempted murder.

It was a terrible predicament for a respectable citizen, a man of
integrity and reputation, in which to find himself; but Papa Mosenstein
was both tenacious and vindictive. His daughter, driven to desperation
at last, and terrified that M. le Marquis had indeed been foully
murdered by M. de Naquet, had made a clean breast of the whole affair
to her father, and he in his turn had put the minions of the law in
full possession of all the facts; and since M. le Comte de Naquet had
vanished, leaving no manner of trace or clue of his person behind him,
the police, needing a victim, fell back on an innocent man.
Fortunately, Sir, that innocence clear as crystal soon shines through
every calumny. But this was not before I had suffered terrible
indignities and all the tortures which base ingratitude can inflict
upon a sensitive heart.

Such ingratitude as I am about to relate to you has never been equalled
on this earth, and even after all these years, Sir, you see me overcome
with emotion at the remembrance of it all. I was under arrest,
remember, on a terribly serious charge, but, conscious of mine own
innocence and of my unanswerable system of defence, I bore the
preliminary examination by the juge d’instruction with exemplary
dignity and patience. I knew, you see, that at my very first
confrontation with my supposed victim the latter would at once say:

“Ah! but no! This is not the man who assaulted me.”

Our plan, which so far had been overwhelmingly successful, had been
this.

On the morning of the tenth, M. de Firmin-Latour having pawned the
emeralds, and obtained the money for them, was to deposit that money in
his own name at the bank of Raynal Frères and then at once go to the
office in the Rue Daunou.

There he would be met by Theodore, who would bind him comfortably but
securely to a chair, put a shawl around his mouth and finally lock the
door on him. Theodore would then go to his mother’s and there remain
quietly until I needed his services again.

It had been thought inadvisable for me to be seen that morning anywhere
in the neighbourhood of the Rue Daunou, but that perfidious reptile
Theodore ran no risks in doing what he was told. To begin with he is a
past master in the art of worming himself in and out of a house without
being seen, and in this case it was his business to exercise a double
measure of caution. And secondly, if by some unlucky chance the police
did subsequently connect him with the crime, there was I, his employer,
a man of integrity and repute, prepared to swear that the man had been
in my company at the other end of Paris all the while that M. le
Marquis de Firmin-Latour was, by special arrangement, making use of my
office in the Rue Daunou, which I had lent him for purposes of
business.

Finally it was agreed between us that when M. le Marquis would
presently be questioned by the police as to the appearance of the man
who had assaulted and robbed him, he would describe him as tall and
blond, almost like an Angliche in countenance. Now I possess—as you
see, Sir—all the finest characteristics of the Latin race, whilst
Theodore looks like nothing on earth, save perhaps a cross between a
rat and a monkey.

I wish you to realize, therefore, that no one ran any risks in this
affair excepting myself. I, as the proprietor of the apartment where
the assault was actually supposed to have taken place, did run a very
grave risk, because I could never have proved an alibi. Theodore was
such a disreputable mudlark that his testimony on my behalf would have
been valueless. But with sublime sacrifice I accepted these risks, and
you will presently see, Sir, how I was repaid for my selflessness. I
pined in a lonely prison-cell while these two limbs of Satan concocted
a plot to rob me of my share in our mutual undertaking.

Well, Sir, the day came when I was taken from my prison-cell for the
purpose of being confronted with the man whom I was accused of having
assaulted. As you will imagine, I was perfectly calm. According to our
plan the confrontation would be the means of setting me free at once. I
was conveyed to the house in the Rue de Grammont, and here I was kept
waiting for some little time while the juge d’instruction went in to
prepare M. le Marquis, who was still far from well. Then I was
introduced into the sick-room. I looked about me with the perfect
composure of an innocent man about to be vindicated, and calmly gazed
on the face of the sick man who was sitting up in his magnificent bed,
propped up with pillows.

I met his glance firmly whilst M. le Juge d’instruction placed the
question to him in a solemn and earnest tone:

“M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour, will you look at the prisoner before
you and tell us whether you recognize in him the man who assaulted
you?”

And that perfidious Marquis, Sir, raised his eyes and looked me
squarely—yes! squarely—in the face and said with incredible assurance:

“Yes, Monsieur le Juge, that is the man! I recognize him.”

To me it seemed then as if a thunderbolt had crashed through the
ceiling and exploded at my feet. I was like one stunned and dazed; the
black ingratitude, the abominable treachery, completely deprived me of
speech. I felt choked, as if some poisonous effluvia—the poison, Sir,
of that man’s infamy—had got into my throat. That state of inertia
lasted, I believe, less than a second; the next I had uttered a hoarse
cry of noble indignation.

“You vampire, you!” I exclaimed. “You viper! You . . .”

I would have thrown myself on him and strangled him with glee, but that
the minions of the law had me by the arms and dragged me away out of
the hateful presence of that traitor, despite my objurgations and my
protestations of innocence. Imagine my feelings when I found myself
once more in a prison-cell, my heart filled with unspeakable bitterness
against that perfidious Judas. Can you wonder that it took me some time
before I could collect my thoughts sufficiently to review my situation,
which no doubt to the villain himself who had just played me this
abominable trick must have seemed desperate indeed? Ah! I could see it
all, of course! He wanted to see me sent to New Caledonia, whilst he
enjoyed the fruits of his unpardonable backsliding. In order to retain
the miserable hundred thousand francs which he had promised me he did
not hesitate to plunge up to the neck in this heinous conspiracy.

Yes, conspiracy! for the very next day, when I was once more hailed
before the juge d’instruction, another confrontation awaited me: this
time with that scurvy rogue Theodore. He had been suborned by M. le
Marquis to turn against the hand that fed him. What price he was paid
for this Judas trick I shall never know, and all that I do know is that
he actually swore before the juge d’instruction that M. le Marquis de
Firmin-Latour called at my office in the late forenoon of the tenth of
October; that I then ordered him—Theodore—to go out to get his dinner
first, and then to go all the way over to Neuilly with a message to
someone who turned out to be non-existent. He went on to assert that
when he returned at six o’clock in the afternoon he found the office
door locked, and I—his employer—presumably gone. This at first greatly
upset him, because he was supposed to sleep on the premises, but seeing
that there was nothing for it but to accept the inevitable, he went
round to his mother’s rooms at the back of the fish-market and remained
there ever since, waiting to hear from me.

That, Sir, was the tissue of lies which that jailbird had concocted for
my undoing, knowing well that I could not disprove them because it had
been my task on that eventful morning to keep an eye on M. le Marquis
whilst he went to the Mont de Piété first, and then to MM. Raynal
Frères, the bankers where he deposited the money. For this purpose I
had been obliged to don a disguise, which I had not discarded till
later in the day, and thus was unable to disprove satisfactorily the
monstrous lies told by that perjurer.

Ah! I can see that sympathy for my unmerited misfortunes has filled
your eyes with tears. No doubt in your heart you feel that my situation
at that hour was indeed desperate, and that I—Hector Ratichon, the
confidant of kings, the benefactor of the oppressed—did spend the next
few years of my life in a penal settlement, where those
arch-malefactors themselves should have been. But no, Sir! Fate may be
a fickle jade, rogues may appear triumphant, but not for long, Sir, not
for long! It is brains that conquer in the end . . . brains backed by
righteousness and by justice.

Whether I had actually foreseen the treachery of those two
rattlesnakes, or whether my habitual caution and acumen alone prompted
me to take those measures of precaution of which I am about to tell
you, I cannot truthfully remember. Certain it is that I did take those
precautions which ultimately proved to be the means of compensating me
for most that I had suffered.

It had been a part of the original plan that, on the day immediately
following the tenth of October, I, in my own capacity as Hector
Ratichon, who had been absent from my office for twenty-four hours,
would arrive there in the morning, find the place locked, force an
entrance into the apartment, and there find M. le Marquis in his
pitiable plight. After which I would, of course, immediately notify the
police of the mysterious occurrence.

That had been the rôle which I had intended to play. M. le Marquis
approved of it and had professed himself quite willing to endure a
twenty-four-hours’ martyrdom for the sake of half a million francs.
But, as I have just had the honour to tell you, something which I will
not attempt to explain prompted me at the last moment to modify my plan
in one little respect. I thought it too soon to go back to the Rue
Daunou within twenty-four hours of our well-contrived coup, and I did
not altogether care for the idea of going myself to the police in order
to explain to them that I had found a man gagged and bound in my
office. The less one has to do with these minions of the law the
better. Mind you, I had envisaged the possibility of being accused of
assault and robbery, but I did not wish to take, as it were, the very
first steps myself in that direction. You might call this a matter of
sentiment or of prudence, as you wish.

So I waited until the evening of the second day before I got the key
from Theodore. Then before the concierge at 96 Rue Daunou had closed
the porte-cochere for the night, I slipped into the house unobserved,
ran up the stairs to my office and entered the apartment. I struck a
light and made my way to the inner room where the wretched Marquis hung
in the chair like a bundle of rags. I called to him, but he made no
movement. As I had anticipated, he had fainted for want of food. Of
course, I was very sorry for him, for his plight was pitiable, but he
was playing for high stakes, and a little starvation does no man any
harm. In his case there was half a million at the end of his brief
martyrdom, which could, at worst, only last another twenty-four hours.
I reckoned that Mme. la Marquise could not keep the secret of her
husband’s possible whereabouts longer than that, and in any event I was
determined that, despite all risks, I would go myself to the police on
the following day.

In the meanwhile, since I was here and since M. le Marquis was
unconscious, I proceeded then and there to take the precaution which
prudence had dictated, and without which, seeing this man’s treachery
and Theodore’s villainy, I should undoubtedly have ended my days as a
convict. What I did was to search M. le Marquis’s pockets for anything
that might subsequently prove useful to me.

I had no definite idea in the matter, you understand; but I had vague
notions of finding the bankers’ receipt for the half-million francs.

Well, I did not find that, but I did find the receipt from the Mont de
Piété for a parure of emeralds on which half a million francs had been
lent. This I carefully put away in my waistcoat pocket, but as there
was nothing else I wished to do just then I extinguished the light and
made my way cautiously out of the apartment and out of the house. No
one had seen me enter or go out, and M. le Marquis had not stirred
while I went through his pockets.

6.

That, Sir, was the precaution which I had taken in order to safeguard
myself against the machinations of traitors. And see how right I was;
see how hopeless would have been my plight at this hour when Theodore,
too, turned against me like the veritable viper that he was. I never
really knew when and under what conditions the infamous bargain was
struck which was intended to deprive me of my honour and of my liberty,
nor do I know what emolument Theodore was to receive for his treachery.
Presumably the two miscreants arranged it all some time during that
memorable morning of the tenth even whilst I was risking my life in
their service.

As for M. de Firmin-Latour, that worker of iniquity who, in order to
save a paltry hundred thousand francs from the hoard which I had helped
him to acquire, did not hesitate to commit such an abominable crime, he
did not long remain in the enjoyment of his wealth or of his peace of
mind.

The very next day I made certain statements before M. le Juge
d’instruction with regard to M. Mauruss Mosenstein, which caused the
former to summon the worthy Israelite to his bureau, there to be
confronted with me. I had nothing more to lose, since those execrable
rogues had already, as it were, tightened the rope about my neck, but I
had a great deal to gain—revenge above all, and perhaps the gratitude
of M. Mosenstein for opening his eyes to the rascality of his
son-in-law.

In a stream of eloquent words which could not fail to carry conviction,
I gave then and there in the bureau of the juge d’instruction my
version of the events of the past few weeks, from the moment when M. le
Marquis de Firmin-Latour came to consult me on the subject of his
wife’s first husband, until the hour when he tried to fasten an
abominable crime upon me. I told how I had been deceived by my own
employé, Theodore, a man whom I had rescued out of the gutter and
loaded with gifts, how by dint of a clever disguise which would have
deceived his own mother he had assumed the appearance and personality
of M. le Comte de Naquet, first and only lawful lord of the beautiful
Rachel Mosenstein. I told of the interviews in my office, my earnest
desire to put an end to this abominable blackmailing by informing the
police of the whole affair. I told of the false M. de Naquet’s threats
to create a gigantic scandal which would forever ruin the social
position of the so-called Marquis de Firmin-Latour. I told of M. le
Marquis’s agonized entreaties, his prayers, supplications, that I would
do nothing in the matter for the sake of an innocent lady who had
already grievously suffered. I spoke of my doubts, my scruples, my
desire to do what was just and what was right.

A noble expose of the situation, Sir, you will admit. It left me hot
and breathless. I mopped my head with a handkerchief and sank back,
gasping, in the arms of the minions of the law. The juge d’instruction
ordered my removal, not back to my prison-cell but into his own
ante-room, where I presently collapsed upon a very uncomfortable bench
and endured the additional humiliation of having a glass of water held
to my lips. Water! when I had asked for a drink of wine as my throat
felt parched after that lengthy effort at oratory.

However, there I sat and waited patiently whilst, no doubt, M. le Juge
d’Instruction and the noble Israelite were comparing notes as to their
impression of my marvellous speech. I had not long to wait. Less than
ten minutes later I was once more summoned into the presence of M. le
Juge; and this time the minions of the law were ordered to remain in
the antechamber. I thought this was of good augury; and I waited to
hear M. le Juge give forth the order that would at once set me free.
But it was M. Mosenstein who first addressed me, and in very truth
surprise rendered me momentarily dumb when he did it thus:

“Now then, you consummate rascal, when you have given up the receipt of
the Mont de Piété which you stole out of M. le Marquis’s pocket you may
go and carry on your rogueries elsewhere and call yourself mightily
lucky to have escaped so lightly.”

I assure you, Sir, that a feather would have knocked me down. The
coarse insult, the wanton injustice, had deprived me of the use of my
limbs and of my speech. Then the juge d’instruction proceeded dryly:

“Now then, Ratichon, you have heard what M. Mauruss Mosenstein has been
good enough to say to you. He did it with my approval and consent. I am
prepared to give an _ordonnance de non-lieu_ in your favour which will
have the effect of at once setting you free if you will restore to this
gentleman here the Mont de Piété receipt which you appear to have
stolen.”

“Sir,” I said with consummate dignity in the face of this reiterated
taunt, “I have stolen nothing—”

M. le Juge’s hand was already on the bell-pull.

“Then,” he said coolly, “I can ring for the gendarmes to take you back
to the cells, and you will stand your trial for blackmail, theft,
assault and robbery.”

I put up my hand with an elegant and perfectly calm gesture.

“Your pardon, M. le Juge,” I said with the gentle resignation of
undeserved martyrdom, “I was about to say that when I re-visited my
rooms in the Rue Daunou after a three days’ absence, and found the
police in possession, I picked up on the floor of my private room a
white paper which on subsequent examination proved to be a receipt from
the Mont de Piété for some valuable gems, and made out in the name of
M. le Marquis de Firmin-Latour.”

“What have you done with it, you abominable knave?” the irascible old
usurer rejoined roughly, and I regret to say that he grasped his
malacca cane with ominous violence.

But I was not to be thus easily intimidated.

“Ah! voilà, M. le Juge,” I said with a shrug of the shoulders. “I have
mislaid it. I do not know where it is.”

“If you do not find it,” Mosenstein went on savagely, “you will find
yourself on a convict ship before long.”

“In which case, no doubt,” I retorted with suave urbanity, “the police
will search my rooms where I lodge, and they will find the receipt from
the Mont de Piété, which I had mislaid. And then the gossip will be all
over Paris that Mme. la Marquise de Firmin-Latour had to pawn her
jewels in order to satisfy the exigencies of her first and only lawful
husband who has since mysteriously disappeared; and some people will
vow that he never came back from the Antipodes, whilst others—by far
the most numerous—will shrug their shoulders and sigh: ‘One never
knows!’ which will be exceedingly unpleasant for Mme. la Marquise.”

Both M. Mauruss Mosenstein and the juge d’instruction said a great deal
more that afternoon. I may say that their attitude towards me and the
language that they used were positively scandalous. But I had become
now the master of the situation and I could afford to ignore their
insults. In the end everything was settled quite amicably. I agreed to
dispose of the receipt from the Mont de Piété to M. Mauruss Mosenstein
for the sum of two hundred francs, and for another hundred I would
indicate to him the banking house where his precious son-in-law had
deposited the half-million francs obtained for the emeralds. This
latter information I would indeed have offered him gratuitously had he
but known with what immense pleasure I thus put a spoke in that knavish
Marquis’s wheel of fortune.

The worthy Israelite further agreed to pay me an annuity of two hundred
francs so long as I kept silent upon the entire subject of Mme. la
Marquise’s first husband and of M. le Marquis’s rôle in the mysterious
affair of the Rue Daunou. For thus was the affair classed amongst the
police records. No one outside the chief actors of the drama and M. le
Juge d’Instruction ever knew the true history of how a dashing young
cavalry officer came to be assaulted and left to starve for three days
in the humble apartment of an attorney-at-law of undisputed repute. And
no one outside the private bureau of M. le Juge d’Instruction ever knew
what it cost the wealthy M. Mosenstein to have the whole affair
“classed” and hushed up.

As for me, I had three hundred francs as payment for work which I had
risked my neck and my reputation to accomplish. Three hundred instead
of the hundred thousand which I had so richly deserved: that, and a
paltry two hundred francs a year, which was to cease the moment that as
much as a rumour of the whole affair was breathed in public. As if I
could help people talking!

But M. le Marquis did not enjoy the fruits of his villainy, and I had
again the satisfaction of seeing him gnaw his finger-nails with rage
whenever the lovely Rachel paid for his dinner at fashionable
restaurants. Indeed Papa Mosenstein tightened the strings of his
money-bags even more securely than he had done in the past. Under
threats of prosecution for theft and I know not what, he forced his
son-in-law to disgorge that half-million which he had so pleasantly
tucked away in the banking house of Raynal Frères, and I was indeed
thankful that prudence had, on that memorable morning, suggested to me
the advisability of dogging the Marquis’s footsteps. I doubt not but
what he knew whence had come the thunderbolt which had crushed his last
hopes of an independent fortune, and no doubt too he does not cherish
feelings of good will towards me.

But this eventuality leaves me cold. He has only himself to thank for
his misfortune. Everything would have gone well but for his treachery.
We would have become affluent, he and I and Theodore. Theodore has gone
to live with his mother, who has a fish-stall in the Halles; she gives
him three sous a day for washing down the stall and selling the fish
when it has become too odorous for the ordinary customers.

And he might have had five hundred francs for himself and remained my
confidential clerk.




CHAPTER IV. — CARISSIMO

1.

You must not think for a moment, my dear Sir, that I was ever actually
deceived in Theodore. Was it likely that I, who am by temperament and
habit accustomed to read human visages like a book, was it likely, I
say, that I would fail to see craftiness in those pale, shifty eyes,
deceit in the weak, slobbering mouth, intemperance in the whole aspect
of the shrunken, slouchy figure which I had, for my subsequent sorrow,
so generously rescued from starvation?

Generous? I was more than generous to him. They say that the poor are
the friends of the poor, and I told you how poor we were in those days!
Ah! but poor! my dear Sir, you have no conception! Meat in Paris in the
autumn of 1816 was 24 francs the kilo, and milk 1 franc the quarter
litre, not to mention eggs and butter, which were delicacies far beyond
the reach of cultured, well-born people like myself.

And yet throughout that trying year I fed Theodore—yes, I fed him. He
used to share onion pie with me whenever I partook of it, and he had
haricot soup every day, into which I allowed him to boil the skins of
all the sausages and the luscious bones of all the cutlets of which I
happened to partake. Then think what he cost me in drink! Never could I
leave a half or quarter bottle of wine but he would finish it; his
impudent fingers made light of every lock and key. I dared not allow as
much as a sou to rest in the pocket of my coat but he would ferret it
out the moment I hung the coat up in the outer room and my back was
turned for a few seconds. After a while I was forced—yes, I, Sir, who
have spoken on terms of equality with kings—I was forced to go out and
make my own purchases in the neighbouring provision shops. And why?
Because if I sent Theodore and gave him a few sous wherewith to make
these purchases, he would spend the money at the nearest cabaret in
getting drunk on absinthe.

He robbed me, Sir, shamefully, despite the fact that he had ten per
cent, commission on all the profits of the firm. I gave him twenty
francs out of the money which I had earned at the sweat of my brow in
the service of Estelle Bachelier. Twenty francs, Sir! Reckoning two
hundred francs as business profit on the affair, a generous provision
you will admit! And yet he taunted me with having received a thousand.
This was mere guesswork, of course, and I took no notice of his taunts:
did the brains that conceived the business deserve no payment? Was my
labour to be counted as dross?—the humiliation, the blows which I had
to endure while he sat in hoggish content, eating and sleeping without
thought for the morrow? After which he calmly pocketed the twenty
francs to earn which he had not raised one finger, and then demanded
more.

No, no, my dear Sir, you will believe me or not, that man could not go
straight. Times out of count he would try and deceive me, despite the
fact that, once or twice, he very nearly came hopelessly to grief in
the attempt.

Now, just to give you an instance. About this time Paris was in the
grip of a gang of dog-thieves as unscrupulous and heartless as they
were daring. Can you wonder at it? with that awful penury about and a
number of expensive “tou-tous” running about the streets under the very
noses of the indigent proletariat? The ladies of the aristocracy and of
the wealthy bourgeoisie had imbibed this craze for lap-dogs during
their sojourn in England at the time of the emigration, and being women
of the Latin race and of undisciplined temperament, they were just then
carrying their craze to excess.

As I was saying, this indulgence led to wholesale thieving. Tou-tous
were abstracted from their adoring mistresses with marvellous
adroitness; whereupon two or three days would elapse while the adoring
mistress wept buckets full of tears and set the police of M. Fouché,
Duc d’Otrante, by the ears in search of her pet. The next act in the
tragi-comedy would be an anonymous demand for money—varying in amount
in accordance with the known or supposed wealth of the lady—and an
equally anonymous threat of dire vengeance upon the tou-tou if the
police were put upon the track of the thieves.

You will ask me, no doubt, what all this had to do with Theodore. Well!
I will tell you.

You must know that of late he had become extraordinarily haughty and
independent. I could not keep him to his work. His duties were to sweep
the office—he did not do it; to light the fires—I had to light them
myself every morning; to remain in the anteroom and show clients in—he
was never at his post. In fact he was never there when I did want him:
morning, noon and night he was out—gadding about and coming home, Sir,
only to eat and sleep. I was seriously thinking of giving him the sack.
And then one day he disappeared! Yes, Sir, disappeared completely as if
the earth had swallowed him up. One morning—it was in the beginning of
December and the cold was biting—I arrived at the office and found that
his chair-bed which stood in the antechamber had not been slept in; in
fact that it had not been made up overnight. In the cupboard I found
the remnants of an onion pie, half a sausage, and a quarter of a litre
of wine, which proved conclusively that he had not been in to supper.

At first I was not greatly disturbed in my mind. I had found out quite
recently that Theodore had some sort of a squalid home of his own
somewhere behind the fish-market, together with an old and wholly
disreputable mother who plied him with drink whenever he spent an
evening with her and either he or she had a franc in their pocket.
Still, after these bouts spent in the bosom of his family he usually
returned to sleep them off at my expense in my office.

I had unfortunately very little to do that day, so in the late
afternoon, not having seen anything of Theodore all day, I turned my
steps toward the house behind the fish-market where lived the mother of
that ungrateful wretch.

The woman’s surprise when I inquired after her precious son was
undoubtedly genuine. Her lamentations and crocodile tears certainly
were not. She reeked of alcohol, and the one room which she inhabited
was indescribably filthy. I offered her half a franc if she gave me
authentic news of Theodore, knowing well that for that sum she would
have sold him to the devil. But very obviously she knew nothing of his
whereabouts, and I soon made haste to shake the dirt of her abode from
my heels.

I had become vaguely anxious.

I wondered if he had been murdered somewhere down a back street, and if
I should miss him very much.

I did not think that I would.

Moreover, no one could have any object in murdering Theodore. In his
own stupid way he was harmless enough, and he certainly was not
possessed of anything worth stealing. I myself was not over-fond of the
man—but I should not have bothered to murder him.

Still, I was undoubtedly anxious, and slept but little that night
thinking of the wretch. When the following morning I arrived at my
office and still could see no trace of him, I had serious thoughts of
putting the law in motion on his behalf.

Just then, however, an incident occurred which drove all thoughts of
such an insignificant personage as Theodore from my mind.

I had just finished tidying up the office when there came a peremptory
ring at the outer door, repeated at intervals of twenty seconds or so.
It meant giving a hasty glance all round to see that no fragments of
onion pie or of cheap claret lingered in unsuspected places, and it
meant my going, myself, to open the door to my impatient visitor.

I did it, Sir, and then at the door I stood transfixed. I had seen many
beautiful women in my day—great ladies of the Court, brilliant ladies
of the Consulate, the Directorate and the Empire—but never in my life
had I seen such an exquisite and resplendent apparition as the one
which now sailed through the antechamber of my humble abode.

Sir, Hector Ratichon’s heart has ever been susceptible to the charms of
beauty in distress. This lovely being, Sir, who now at my invitation
entered my office and sank with perfect grace into the arm-chair, was
in obvious distress. Tears hung on the fringe of her dark lashes, and
the gossamer-like handkerchief which she held in her dainty hand was
nothing but a wet rag. She gave herself exactly two minutes wherein to
compose herself, after which she dried her eyes and turned the full
artillery of her bewitching glance upon me.

“Monsieur Ratichon,” she began, even before I had taken my accustomed
place at my desk and assumed that engaging smile which inspires
confidence even in the most timorous; “Monsieur Ratichon, they tell me
that you are so clever, and—oh! I am in such trouble.”

“Madame,” I rejoined with noble simplicity, “you may trust me to do the
impossible in order to be of service to you.”

Admirably put, you will admit. I have always been counted a master of
appropriate diction, and I had been quick enough to note the plain band
of gold which encircled the third finger of her dainty left hand,
flanked though it was by a multiplicity of diamond, pearl and other
jewelled rings.

“You are kind, Monsieur Ratichon,” resumed the beauteous creature more
calmly. “But indeed you will require all the ingenuity of your
resourceful brain in order to help me in this matter. I am struggling
in the grip of a relentless fate which, if you do not help me, will
leave me broken-hearted.”

“Command me, Madame,” I riposted quietly.

From out the daintiest of reticules the fair lady now extracted a very
greasy and very dirty bit of paper, and handed it to me with the brief
request: “Read this, I pray you, my good M. Ratichon.” I took the
paper. It was a clumsily worded, ill-written, ill-spelt demand for five
thousand francs, failing which sum the thing which Madame had lost
would forthwith be destroyed.

I looked up, puzzled, at my fair client.

“My darling Carissimo, my dear M. Ratichon,” she said in reply to my
mute query.

“Carissimo?” I stammered, yet further intrigued.

“My darling pet, a valuable creature, the companion of my lonely
hours,” she rejoined, once more bursting into tears. “If I lose him, my
heart will inevitably break.”

I understood at last.

“Madame has lost her dog?” I asked.

She nodded.

“It has been stolen by one of those expert dog thieves, who then levy
blackmail on the unfortunate owner?”

Again she nodded in assent.

I read the dirty, almost illegible scrawl through more carefully this
time. It was a clumsy notification addressed to Mme. la Comtesse de
Nolé de St. Pris to the effect that her tou-tou was for the moment
safe, and would be restored to the arms of his fond mistress provided
the sum of five thousand francs was deposited in the hands of the
bearer of the missive.

Minute directions were then given as to where and how the money was to
be deposited. Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé was, on the third day from this
at six o’clock in the evening precisely, to go in person and alone to
the angle of the Rue Guénégaud and the Rue Mazarine, at the rear of the
Institut.

There two men would meet her, one of whom would have Carissimo in his
arms; to the other she must hand over the money, whereupon the pet
would at once be handed back to her. But if she failed to keep this
appointment, or if in the meanwhile she made the slightest attempt to
trace the writer of the missive or to lay a trap for his capture by the
police, Carissimo would at once meet with a summary death.

These were the usual tactics of experienced dog thieves, only that in
this case the demand was certainly exorbitant. Five thousand francs!
But even so . . . I cast a rapid and comprehensive glance on the
brilliant apparition before me—the jewelled rings, the diamonds in the
shell-like ears, the priceless fur coat—and with an expressive shrug of
the shoulders I handed the dirty scrap of paper back to its fair
recipient.

“Alas, Madame,” I said, taking care that she should not guess how much
it cost me to give her such advice, “I am afraid that in such cases
there is nothing to be done. If you wish to save your pet you will have
to pay. . .”

“Ah! but, Monsieur,” she exclaimed tearfully, “you don’t understand.
Carissimo is all the world to me, and this is not the first time, nor
yet the second, that he has been stolen from me. Three times, my good
M. Ratichon, three times has he been stolen, and three times have I
received such peremptory demands for money for his safe return; and
every time the demand has been more and more exorbitant. Less than a
month ago M. le Comte paid three thousand francs for his recovery.”

“Monsieur le Comte?” I queried.

“My husband, Sir,” she replied, with an exquisite air of hauteur. “M.
le Comte de Nolé de St. Pris.”

“Ah, then,” I continued calmly, “I fear me that Monsieur de Nolé de St.
Pris will have to pay again.”

“But he won’t!” she now cried out in a voice broken with sobs, and
incontinently once more saturated her gossamer handkerchief with her
tears.

“Then I see nothing for it, Madame,” I rejoined, much against my will
with a slight touch of impatience, “I see nothing for it but that
yourself . . .”

“Ah! but, Monsieur,” she retorted, with a sigh that would have melted a
heart of stone, “that is just my difficulty. I cannot pay . . .”

“Madame,” I protested.

“Oh! if I had money of my own,” she continued, with an adorable gesture
of impatience, “I would not worry. Mais voilà: I have not a silver
franc of my own to bless myself with. M. le Comte is over generous. He
pays all my bills without a murmur—he pays my dressmaker, my furrier;
he loads me with gifts and dispenses charity on a lavish scale in my
name. I have horses, carriages, servants—everything I can possibly want
and more, but I never have more than a few hundred francs to dispose
of. Up to now I have never for a moment felt the want of money. To-day,
when Carissimo is being lost to me, I feel the entire horror of my
position.”

“But surely, Madame,” I urged, “M. le Comte . . .”

“No, Monsieur,” she replied. “M. le Comte has flatly refused this time
to pay these abominable thieves for the recovery of Carissimo. He
upbraids himself for having yielded to their demands on the three
previous occasions. He calls these demands blackmailing, and vows that
to give them money again is to encourage them in their nefarious
practices. Oh! he has been cruel to me, cruel!—for the first time in my
life, Monsieur, my husband has made me unhappy, and if I lose my
darling now I shall indeed be broken-hearted.”

I was silent for a moment or two. I was beginning to wonder what part I
should be expected to play in the tragedy which was being unfolded
before me by this lovely and impecunious creature.

“Madame la Comtesse,” I suggested tentatively, after a while, “your
jewellery . . . you must have a vast number which you seldom wear . . .
five thousand francs is soon made up. . . .”

You see, Sir, my hopes of a really good remunerative business had by
now dwindled down to vanishing point. All that was left of them was a
vague idea that the beautiful Comtesse would perhaps employ me as an
intermediary for the sale of some of her jewellery, in which case . . .
But already her next words disillusioned me even on that point.

“No, Monsieur,” she said; “what would be the use? Through one of the
usual perverse tricks of fate, M. le Comte would be sure to inquire
after the very piece of jewellery of which I had so disposed, and
moreover . . .”

“Moreover—yes, Mme. la Comtesse?”

“Moreover, my husband is right,” she concluded decisively. “If I give
in to those thieves to-day and pay them five thousand francs, they
would only set to work to steal Carissimo again and demand ten thousand
francs from me another time.”

I was silent. What could I say? Her argument was indeed unanswerable.

“No, my good M. Ratichon,” she said very determinedly after a while. “I
have quite decided that you must confound those thieves. They have
given me three days’ grace, as you see in their abominable letter. If
after three days the money is not forthcoming, and if in the meanwhile
I dare to set a trap for them or in any way communicate with the
police, my darling Carissimo will be killed and my heart be broken.”

“Madame la Comtesse,” I entreated, for of a truth I could not bear to
see her cry again.

“You must bring Carissimo back to me, M. Ratichon,” she continued
peremptorily, “before those awful three days have elapsed.”

“I swear that I will,” I rejoined solemnly; but I must admit that I did
it entirely on the spur of the moment, for of a truth I saw no prospect
whatever of being able to accomplish what she desired.

“Without my paying a single louis to those execrable thieves,” the
exquisite creature went on peremptorily,

“It shall be done, Madame la Comtesse.”

“And let me tell you,” she now added, with the sweetest and archest of
smiles, “that if you succeed in this, M. le Comte de Nolé de St. Pris
will gladly pay you the five thousand francs which he refuses to give
to those miscreants.”

Five thousand francs! A mist swam before my eyes,

“Mais, Madame la Comtesse . . .” I stammered.

“Oh!” she added, with an adorable uptilting of her little chin, “I am
not promising what I cannot fulfil. M. le Comte de Nolé only said this
morning, apropos of dog thieves, that he would gladly give ten thousand
francs to anyone who succeeded in ridding society of such pests.”

I could have knelt down on the hard floor, Sir, and . . .

“Well then, Madame,” was my ready rejoinder, “why not ten thousand
francs to me?”

She bit her coral lips . . . but she also smiled. I could see that my
personality and my manners had greatly impressed her.

“I will only be responsible for the first five thousand,” she said
lightly. “But, for the rest, I can confidently assure you that you will
not find a miser in M. le Comte de Nolé de St. Pris.”

I could have knelt down on the hard floor, Sir, and kissed her
exquisitely shod feet. Five thousand francs certain! Perhaps ten! A
fortune, Sir, in those days! One that would keep me in comfort—nay,
affluence, until something else turned up. I was swimming in the
empyrean and only came rudely to earth when I recollected that I should
have to give Theodore something for his share of the business. Ah!
fortunately that for the moment he was comfortably out of the way!
Thoughts that perhaps he had been murdered after all once more coursed
through my brain: not unpleasantly, I’ll admit. I would not have raised
a finger to hurt the fellow, even though he had treated me with the
basest ingratitude and treachery; but if someone else took the trouble
to remove him, why indeed should I quarrel with fate?

Back I came swiftly to the happy present. The lovely creature was
showing me a beautifully painted miniature of Carissimo, a King Charles
spaniel of no common type. This she suggested that I should keep by me
for the present for purposes of identification. After this we had to go
into the details of the circumstances under which she had lost her pet.
She had been for a walk with him, it seems, along the Quai Voltaire,
and was returning home by the side of the river, when suddenly a number
of workmen in blouses and peaked caps came trooping out of a side
street and obstructed her progress. She had Carissimo on the lead, and
she at once admitted to me that at first she never thought of
connecting this pushing and jostling rabble with any possible theft.
She held her ground for awhile, facing the crowd: for a few moments she
was right in the midst of it, and just then she felt the dog straining
at the lead. She turned round at once with the intention of picking him
up, when to her horror she saw that there was only a bundle of
something weighty at the end of the lead, and that the dog had
disappeared.

The whole incident occurred, the lovely creature declared, within the
space of thirty seconds; the next instant the crowd had scattered in
several directions, the men running and laughing as they went. Mme. la
Comtesse was left standing alone on the quay. Not a passer-by in sight,
and the only gendarme visible, a long way down the Quai, had his back
turned toward her. Nevertheless she ran and hied him, and presently he
turned and, realizing that something was amiss, he too ran to meet her.
He listened to her story, swore lustily, but shrugged his shoulders in
token that the tale did not surprise him and that but little could be
done. Nevertheless he at once summoned those of his colleagues who were
on duty in the neighbourhood, and one of them went off immediately to
notify the theft at the nearest commissariat of police. After which
they all proceeded to a comprehensive scouring of the many tortuous
sidestreets of the quartier; but, needless to say, there was no sign of
Carissimo or of his abductors.

That night my lovely client went home distracted.

The following evening, when, broken-hearted, she wandered down the
quays living over again the agonizing moments during which she lost her
pet, a workman in a blue blouse, with a peaked cap pulled well over his
eyes, lurched up against her and thrust into her hand the missive which
she had just shown me. He then disappeared into the night, and she had
only the vaguest possible recollection of his appearance.

That, Sir, was the substance of the story which the lovely creature
told me in a voice oft choked with tears. I questioned her very closely
and in my most impressive professional manner as to the identity of any
one man among the crowd who might have attracted her attention, but all
that she could tell me was that she had a vague impression of a wizened
hunchback with evil face, shaggy red beard and hair, and a black patch
covering the left eye.

2.

Not much data to go on, you will, I think, admit, and I can assure you,
Sir, that had I not possessed that unbounded belief in myself which is
the true hall-mark of genius, I would at the outset have felt
profoundly discouraged.

As it was, I found just the right words of consolation and of hope
wherewith to bow my brilliant client out of my humble apartments, and
then to settle down to deep and considered meditation. Nothing, Sir, is
so conducive to thought as a long, brisk walk through the crowded
streets of Paris. So I brushed my coat, put on my hat at a becoming
angle, and started on my way.

I walked as far as Suresnes, and I thought. After that, feeling
fatigued, I sat on the terrace of the Café Bourbon, overlooking the
river. There I sipped my coffee and thought. I walked back into Paris
in the evening, and still thought, and thought, and thought. After that
I had some dinner, washed down by an agreeable bottle of wine—did I
mention that the lovely creature had given me a hundred francs on
account?—then I went for a stroll along the Quai Voltaire, and I may
safely say that there is not a single side and tortuous street in its
vicinity that I did not explore from end to end during the course of
that never to be forgotten evening.

But still my mind remained in a chaotic condition. I had not succeeded
in forming any plan. What a quandary, Sir! Oh! what a quandary! Here
was I, Hector Ratichon, the confidant of kings, the right hand of two
emperors, set to the task of stealing a dog—for that is what I should
have to do—from an unscrupulous gang of thieves whose identity, abode
and methods were alike unknown to me. Truly, Sir, you will own that
this was a herculean task.

Vaguely my thoughts reverted to Theodore. He might have been of good
counsel, for he knew more about thieves than I did, but the ungrateful
wretch was out of the way on the one occasion when he might have been
of use to me who had done so much for him. Indeed, my reason told me
that I need not trouble my head about Theodore. He had vanished; that
he would come back presently was, of course, an indubitable fact;
people like Theodore never vanish completely. He would come back and
demand I know not what, his share, perhaps, in a business which was so
promising even if it was still so vague.

Five thousand francs! A round sum! If I gave Theodore five hundred the
sum would at once appear meagre, unimportant. Four thousand five
hundred francs!—it did not even _sound_ well to my mind.

So I took care that Theodore vanished from my mental vision as
completely as he had done for the last two days from my ken, and as
there was nothing more that could be done that evening, I turned my
weary footsteps toward my lodgings at Passy.

All that night, Sir, I lay wakeful and tossing in my bed, alternately
fuming and rejecting plans for the attainment of that golden goal—the
recovery of Mme. de Nolé’s pet dog. And the whole of the next day I
spent in vain quest. I visited every haunt of ill-fame known to me
within the city. I walked about with a pistol in my belt, a hunk of
bread and cheese in my pocket, and slowly growing despair in my heart.

In the evening Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé called for news of Carissimo,
and I could give her none. She cried, Sir, and implored, and her tears
and entreaties got on to my nerves until I felt ready to fall into
hysterics. One more day and all my chances of a bright and wealthy
future would have vanished. Unless the money was forthcoming on the
morrow, the dog would be destroyed, and with him my every hope of that
five thousand francs. And though she still irradiated charm and luxury
from her entire lovely person, I begged her not to come to the office
again, and promised that as soon as I had any news to impart I would at
once present myself at her house in the Faubourg St. Germain.

That night I never slept one wink. Think of it, Sir! The next few hours
were destined to see me either a prosperous man for many days to come,
or a miserable, helpless, disappointed wretch. At eight o’clock I was
at my office. Still no news of Theodore. I could now no longer dismiss
him from my mind. Something had happened to him, I could have no doubt.
This anxiety, added to the other more serious one, drove me to a state
bordering on frenzy. I hardly knew what I was doing. I wandered all day
up and down the Quai Voltaire, and the Quai des Grands Augustins, and
in and around the tortuous streets till I was dog-tired, distracted,
half crazy.

I went to the Morgue, thinking to find there Theodore’s dead body, and
found myself vaguely looking for the mutilated corpse of Carissimo.
Indeed, after a while Theodore and Carissimo became so inextricably
mixed up in my mind that I could not have told you if I was seeking for
the one or for the other and if Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé was now
waiting to clasp her pet dog or my man-of-all-work to her exquisite
bosom.

She in the meanwhile had received a second, yet more peremptory,
missive through the same channel as the previous one. A grimy deformed
man, with ginger-coloured hair, and wearing a black patch over one eye,
had been seen by one of the servants lolling down the street where
Madame lived, and subsequently the concierge discovered that an
exceedingly dirty scrap of paper had been thrust under the door of his
lodge. The writer of the epistle demanded that Mme. la Comtesse should
stand in person at six o’clock that same evening at the corner of the
Rue Guénégaud, behind the Institut de France. Two men, each wearing a
blue blouse and peaked cap, would meet her there. She must hand over
the money to one of them, whilst the other would have Carissimo in his
arms. The missive closed with the usual threats that if the police were
mixed up in the affair, or the money not forthcoming, Carissimo would
be destroyed.

Six o’clock was the hour fixed by these abominable thieves for the
final doom of Carissimo. It was now close on five. In a little more
than an hour my last hope of five or ten thousand francs and a smile of
gratitude from a pair of lovely lips would have gone, never again to
return. A great access of righteous rage seized upon me. I determined
that those miserable thieves, whoever they were, should suffer for the
disappointment which I was now enduring. If I was to lose five thousand
francs, they at least should not be left free to pursue their evil
ways. I would communicate with the police; the police should meet the
miscreants at the corner of the Rue Guénégaud. Carissimo would die; his
lovely mistress would be brokenhearted. I would be left to mourn yet
another illusion of a possible fortune, but they would suffer in gaol
or in New Caledonia the consequences of all their misdeeds.

Fortified by this resolution, I turned my weary footsteps in the
direction of the gendarmerie where I intended to lodge my denunciation
of those abominable thieves and blackmailers. The night was dark, the
streets ill-lighted, the air bitterly cold. A thin drizzle, half rain,
half snow, was descending, chilling me to the bone.

I was walking rapidly along the river bank with my coat collar pulled
up to my ears, and still instinctively peering up every narrow street
which debouches on the quay. Then suddenly I spied Theodore. He was
coming down the Rue Beaune, slouching along with head bent in his usual
way. He appeared to be carrying something, not exactly heavy, but
cumbersome, under his left arm. Within the next few minutes he would
have been face to face with me, for I had come to a halt at the angle
of the street, determined to have it out with the rascal then and there
in spite of the cold and in spite of my anxiety about Carissimo.

All of a sudden he raised his head and saw me, and in a second he
turned on his heel and began to run up the street in the direction
whence he had come. At once I gave chase. I ran after him—and then,
Sir, he came for a second within the circle of light projected by a
street lanthorn. But in that one second I had seen that which turned my
frozen blood into liquid lava—a tail, Sir!—a dog’s tail, fluffy and
curly, projecting from beneath that recreant’s left arm.

A dog, Sir! a dog! Carissimo! the darling of Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé’s
heart! Carissimo, the recovery of whom would mean five thousand francs
into my pocket! Carissimo! I knew it! For me there existed but one dog
in all the world; one dog and one spawn of the devil, one arch-traitor,
one limb of Satan! Theodore!

How he had come by Carissimo I had not time to conjecture. I called to
him. I called his accursed name, using appellations which fell far
short of those which he deserved. But the louder I called the faster he
ran, and I, breathless, panting, ran after him, determined to run him
to earth, fearful lest I should lose him in the darkness of the night.
All down the Rue Beaune we ran, and already I could hear behind me the
heavy and more leisured tramp of a couple of gendarmes who in their
turn had started to give chase.

I tell you, Sir, the sound lent wings to my feet. A chance—a last
chance—was being offered me by a benevolent Fate to earn that five
thousand francs, the keystone to my future fortune. If I had the
strength to seize and hold Theodore until the gendarmes came up, and
before he had time to do away with the dog, the five thousand francs
could still be mine.

So I ran, Sir, as I had never run before; the beads of perspiration
poured down from my forehead; the breath came stertorous and hot from
my heaving breast.

Then suddenly Theodore disappeared!

Disappeared, Sir, as if the earth had swallowed him up! A second ago I
had seen him dimly, yet distinctly through the veil of snow and rain
ahead of me, running with that unmistakable shuffling gait of his,
hugging the dog closely under his arm. I had seen him—another effort
and I might have touched him!—now the long and deserted street lay dark
and mysterious before me, and behind me I could hear the measured tramp
of the gendarmes and their peremptory call of “Halt, in the name of the
King!”

But not in vain, Sir, am I called Hector Ratichon; not in vain have
kings and emperors reposed confidence in my valour and my presence of
mind. In less time than it takes to relate I had already marked with my
eye the very spot—down the street—where I had last seen Theodore. I
hurried forward and saw at once that my surmise had been correct. At
that very spot, Sir, there was a low doorway which gave on a dark and
dank passage. The door itself was open. I did not hesitate. My life
stood in the balance but I did not falter. I might be affronting within
the next second or two a gang of desperate thieves, but I did not
quake.

I turned into that doorway, Sir; the next moment I felt a stunning blow
between my eyes. I just remember calling out with all the strength of
my lungs: “Police! Gendarmes! A moi!” Then nothing more.

3.

I woke with the consciousness of violent wordy warfare carried on
around me. I was lying on the ground, and the first things I saw were
three or four pairs of feet standing close together. Gradually out of
the confused hubbub a few sentences struck my reawakened senses.

“The man is drunk.”

“I won’t have him inside the house.”

“I tell you this is a respectable house.” This from a shrill feminine
voice. “We’ve never had the law inside our doors before.”

By this time I had succeeded in raising myself on my elbow, and, by the
dim light of a hanging lamp somewhere down the passage, I was pretty
well able to take stock of my surroundings.

The half-dozen bedroom candlesticks on a table up against the wall, the
row of keys hanging on hooks fixed to a board above, the glass
partition with the words “Concierge” and “Réception” painted across it,
all told me that this was one of those small, mostly squalid and
disreputable lodging houses or hotels in which this quarter of Paris
still abounds.

The two gendarmes who had been running after me were arguing the matter
of my presence here with the proprietor of the place and with the
concierge.

I struggled to my feet. Whereupon for the space of a solid two minutes
I had to bear as calmly as I could the abuse and vituperation which the
feminine proprietor of this “respectable house” chose to hurl at my
unfortunate head. After which I obtained a hearing from the bewildered
minions of the law. To them I gave as brief and succinct a narrative as
I could of the events of the past three days. The theft of
Carissimo—the disappearance of Theodore—my meeting him a while ago,
with the dog under his arm—his second disappearance, this time within
the doorway of this “respectable abode,” and finally the blow which
alone had prevented me from running the abominable thief to earth.

The gendarmes at first were incredulous. I could see that they were
still under the belief that my excitement was due to over-indulgence in
alcoholic liquor, whilst Madame the proprietress called me an
abominable liar for daring to suggest that she harboured thieves within
her doors. Then suddenly, as if in vindication of my character, there
came from a floor above the sound of a loud, shrill bark.

“Carissimo!” I cried triumphantly. Then I added in a rapid whisper,
“Mme. la Comtesse de Nolé is rich. She spoke of a big reward for the
recovery of her pet.”

These happy words had the effect of stimulating the zeal of the
gendarmes. Madame the proprietress grew somewhat confused and
incoherent, and finally blurted it out that one of her lodgers—a highly
respectable gentleman—did keep a dog, but that there was no crime in
that surely.

“One of your lodgers?” queried the representative of the law. “When did
he come?”

“About three days ago,” she replied sullenly.

“What room does he occupy?”

“Number twenty-five on the third floor.”

“He came with his dog?” I interposed quickly, “a spaniel?”

“Yes.”

“And your lodger, is he an ugly, slouchy creature—with hooked nose,
bleary eyes and shaggy yellow hair?”

But to this she vouchsafed no reply.

Already the matter had passed out of my hands. One of the gendarmes
prepared to go upstairs and bade me follow him, whilst he ordered his
comrade to remain below and on no account to allow anyone to enter or
leave the house. The proprietress and concierge were warned that if
they interfered with the due execution of the law they would be
severely dealt with; after which we went upstairs.

For a while, as we ascended, we could hear the dog barking furiously,
then, presently, just as we reached the upper landing, we heard a loud
curse, a scramble, and then a piteous whine quickly smothered.

My very heart stood still. The next moment, however, the gendarme had
kicked open the door of No. 25, and I followed him into the room. The
place looked dirty and squalid in the extreme—just the sort of place I
should have expected Theodore to haunt. It was almost bare save for a
table in the centre, a couple of rickety chairs, a broken-down bedstead
and an iron stove in the corner. On the table a tallow candle was
spluttering and throwing a very feeble circle of light around.

At first glance I thought that the room was empty, then suddenly I
heard another violent expletive and became aware of a man sitting close
beside the iron stove. He turned to stare at us as we entered, but to
my surprise it was not Theodore’s ugly face which confronted us. The
man sitting there alone in the room where I had expected to see
Theodore and Carissimo had a shaggy beard of an undoubted ginger hue.
He had on a blue blouse and a peaked cap; beneath his cap his lank hair
protruded more decided in colour even than his beard. His head was sunk
between his shoulders, and right across his face, from the left eyebrow
over the cheek and as far as his ear, he had a hideous crimson scar,
which told up vividly against the ghastly pallor of his face.

But there was no sign of Theodore!

At first my friend the gendarme was quite urbane. He asked very
politely to see Monsieur’s pet dog. Monsieur denied all knowledge of a
dog, which denial only tended to establish his own guilt and the
veracity of mine own narrative. The gendarme thereupon became more
peremptory and the man promptly lost his temper.

I, in the meanwhile, was glancing round the room and soon spied a wall
cupboard which had obviously been deliberately screened by the
bedstead. While my companion was bringing the whole majesty of the law
to bear upon the miscreant’s denegations I calmly dragged the bedstead
aside and opened the cupboard door.

An ejaculation from my quivering throat brought the gendarme to my
side. Crouching in the dark recess of the wall cupboard was
Carissimo—not dead, thank goodness! but literally shaking with terror.
I pulled him out as gently as I could, for he was so frightened that he
growled and snapped viciously at me. I handed him to the gendarme, for
by the side of Carissimo I had seen something which literally froze my
blood within my veins. It was Theodore’s hat and coat, which he had
been wearing when I chased him to this house of mystery and of
ill-fame, and wrapped together with it was a rag all smeared with
blood, whilst the same hideous stains were now distinctly visible on
the door of the cupboard itself.

I turned to the gendarme, who at once confronted the abominable
malefactor with the obvious proofs of a horrible crime. But the
depraved wretch stood by, Sir, perfectly calm and with a cynicism in
his whole bearing which I had never before seen equalled!

“I know nothing about that coat,” he asserted with a shrug of the
shoulders, “nor about the dog.”

The gendarme by this time was purple with fury.

“Not know anything about the dog?” he exclaimed in a voice choked with
righteous indignation. “Why, he . . . he barked!”

But this indisputable fact in no way disconcerted the miscreant.

“I heard a dog yapping,” he said with consummate impudence, “but I
thought he was in the next room. No wonder,” he added coolly, “since he
was in a wall cupboard.”

“A wall cupboard,” the gendarme rejoined triumphantly, “situated in the
very room which you occupy at this moment.”

“That is a mistake, my friend,” the cynical wretch retorted, undaunted.
“I do not occupy this room. I do not lodge in this hotel at all.”

“Then how came you to be here?”

“I came on a visit to a friend who happened to be out when I arrived. I
found a pleasant fire here, and I sat down to warm myself. Your noisy
and unwarranted irruption into this room has so bewildered me that I no
longer know whether I am standing on my head or on my heels.”

“We’ll show you soon enough what you are standing on, my fine fellow,”
the gendarme riposted with breezy, cheerfulness. “Allons!”

I must say that the pampered minion of the law arose splendidly to the
occasion. He seized the miscreant by the arm and took him downstairs,
there to confront him with the proprietress of the establishment, while
I—with marvellous presence of mind—took possession of Carissimo and hid
him as best I could beneath my coat.

In the hall below a surprise and a disappointment were in store for me.
I had reached the bottom of the stairs when the shrill feminine accents
of Mme. the proprietress struck unpleasantly on my ear.

“No! no! I tell you!” she was saying. “This man is not my lodger. He
never came here with a dog. There,” she added volubly, and pointing an
unwashed finger at Carissimo who was struggling and growling in my
arms, “there is the dog. A gentleman brought him with him last
Wednesday, when he inquired if he could have a room here for a few
nights. Number twenty-five happened to be vacant, and I have no
objection to dogs. I let the gentleman have the room, and he paid me
twenty sous in advance when he took possession and told me he would
keep the room three nights.”

“The gentleman? What gentleman?” the gendarme queried, rather inanely I
thought.

“My lodger,” the woman replied. “He is out for the moment, but he will
be back presently I make no doubt. The dog is his. . . .”

“What is he like?” the minion of the law queried abruptly.

“Who? the dog?” she retorted impudently.

“No, no! Your lodger.”

Once more the unwashed finger went up and pointed straight at me.

“He described him well enough just now; thin and slouchy in his ways.
He has lank, yellow hair, a nose perpetually crimson—with the cold no
doubt—and pale, watery eyes. . . .”

“Theodore,” I exclaimed mentally.

Bewildered, the gendarme pointed to his prisoner.

“But this man . . . ?” he queried.

“Why,” the proprietress replied. “I have seen Monsieur twice, or was it
three times? He would visit number twenty-five now and then.”

I will not weary you with further accounts of the close examination to
which the representative of the law subjected the personnel of the
squalid hotel. The concierge and the man of all work did indeed confirm
what the proprietress said, and whilst my friend the gendarme —puzzled
and floundering—was scratching his head in complete bewilderment, I
thought that the opportunity had come for me to slip quietly out by the
still open door and make my way as fast as I could to the sumptuous
abode in the Faubourg St. Germain, where the gratitude of Mme. de Nolé,
together with five thousand francs, were even now awaiting me.

After Madame the proprietress had identified Carissimo, I had once more
carefully concealed him under my coat. I was ready to seize my
opportunity, after which I would be free to deal with the matter of
Theodore’s amazing disappearance. Unfortunately just at this moment the
little brute gave a yap, and the minion of the law at once interposed
and took possession of him.

“The dog belongs to the police now, Sir,” he said sternly.

The fatuous jobbernowl wanted his share of the reward, you see.

4.

Having been forced thus to give up Carissimo, and with him all my hopes
of a really substantial fortune, I was determined to make the
red-polled miscreant suffer for my disappointment, and the minions of
the law sweat in the exercise of their duty.

I demanded Theodore! My friend, my comrade, my right hand! I had seen
him not ten minutes ago, carrying in his arms this very dog, whom I had
subsequently found inside a wall cupboard beside a blood-stained coat.
Where was Theodore? Pointing an avenging finger at the red-headed
reprobate, I boldly accused him of having murdered my friend with a
view to robbing him of the reward offered for the recovery of the dog.

This brought a new train of thought into the wooden pates of the
gendarmes. A quartet of them had by this time assembled within the
respectable precincts of the Hôtel des Cadets. One of them—senior to
the others—at once dispatched a younger comrade to the nearest
commissary of police for advice and assistance.

Then he ordered us all into the room pompously labelled “Réception,”
and there proceeded once more to interrogate us all, making copious
notes in his leather-bound book all the time, whilst I, moaning and
lamenting the loss of my faithful friend and man of all work, loudly
demanded the punishment of his assassin.

Theodore’s coat, his hat, the blood-stained rag, had all been brought
down from No. 25 and laid out upon the table ready for the inspection
of M. the Commissary of Police.

That gentleman arrived with two private agents, armed with full powers
and wrapped in the magnificent imperturbability of the law. The
gendarme had already put him _au fait_ of the events, and as soon as he
was seated behind the table upon which reposed the “pièces de
conviction,” he in his turn proceeded to interrogate the ginger-pated
miscreant.

But strive how he might, M. the Commissary elicited no further
information from him than that which we all already possessed. The man
gave his name as Aristide Nicolet. He had no fixed abode. He had come
to visit his friend who lodged in No. 25 in the Hôtel des Cadets. Not
finding him at home he had sat by the fire and had waited for him. He
knew absolutely nothing of the dog and absolutely nothing of the
whereabouts of Theodore.

“We’ll soon see about that!” asserted M. the Commissary.

He ordered a perquisition of every room and every corner of the hotel,
Madame the proprietress loudly lamenting that she and her respectable
house would henceforth be disgraced for ever. But the thieves—whoever
they were—were clever. Not a trace of any illicit practice was found on
the premises—and not a trace of Theodore.

Had he indeed been murdered? The thought now had taken root in my mind.
For the moment I had even forgotten Carissimo and my vanished five
thousand francs.

Well, Sir! Aristide Nicolet was marched off to the depot—still
protesting his innocence. The next day he was confronted with Mme. la
Comtesse de Nolé, who could not say more than that he might have formed
part of the gang who had jostled her on the Quai Voltaire, whilst the
servant who had taken the missive from him failed to recognize him.

Carissimo was restored to the arms of his loving mistress, but the
reward for his recovery had to be shared between the police and myself:
three thousand francs going to the police who apprehended the thief,
and two thousand to me who had put them on the track.

It was not a fortune, Sir, but I had to be satisfied. But in the
meanwhile the disappearance of Theodore had remained an unfathomable
mystery. No amount of questionings and cross-questionings, no amount of
confrontations and perquisitions, had brought any new matter to light.
Aristide Nicolet persisted in his statements, as did the proprietress
and the concierge of the Hôtel des Cadets in theirs. Theo

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/12461