“
As I turned to go he said: ‘May I ask you to sit down? Now that I know you to be of your legation, and I being, as you are aware, in the Foreign Office, an affair between us would be for both services unadvisable. Having left myself in the hands of my friends, I am now doing, as you will understand, an unusual thing; but whatever may be the result, I feel that, as a gentleman, you will hold me excused. Therewasa woman in your carriage. Of course our police found the cabman and got it out of him. I have no direct personal interest in her—none; nor can I explain myself further. I regret that in the annoyance of my failure to effect my purpose I was guilty of a grave discourtesy.If you had told me that you would send your seconds to me to-day, I should have felt that you were fully justified. I can very well afford to say that I owe you an apology; and, fortunately, my friends will have learned that I sent them to the wrong man and will return for instructions. If, however, you feel—’
“‘Oh, no,’ I said; ‘pardon me, I am quite willing to forget an unfortunate incident, and to add that the lady, by the merest accident, took shelter from the rain in my carriage. I never met her before.’
“I saw at once that he had a look of what I took to be relief. He smiled, became quite cordial, and when I added that whatever I might have said or done the night before was really unavoidable, he returned that it was quite true that he had been hasty, and that, as he had said very little to his friends, it would rest between us.
“As I rose to go, I could not help sayingthat the remarkably good looks of the woman made my conduct the more excusable.
“‘Yes,’ he said; ‘at least she is handsome, but—’ and here he paused and then added, ‘I hope before long to have the pleasure of presenting you to my wife.’
“I thanked him.”
“One moment,” said Merton, “before you go on. It is clear that the woman is a lady; that he was wildly eager to catch her, and especially at that time; that, being foiled, he lost his temper; that he believes you, or makes believe to do so; and, finally, that he is sensible enough to know that a duel with an American secretary is undesirable. You let him off easy.”
“I did, but I had the same kind of reason to avoid a hostile meeting that he has. Moreover, he is really a charming fellow, and it must have cost him something to apologize.”
“But about the woman who set all these pots a-boiling—I beg pardon, simmering—”
“Oh, the woman. I hope I may never see her again.”
“You will. That fellow Alphonse will find her.”
“I hope not. But what a mess!cherchez la femme!”
“That we must do,” laughed Merton. “The mosquitoes illustrate the proverb: only the females bite. Good, that, isn’t it? But what next? I interrupted you. You are out of it, but where do I come in? What about Porthos and that little red weasel Aramis?”
“And D’Artagnan?” I laughed.
“If you like, Greville. You are complimentary. Was that all?”
“No. The count said, ‘I will at once write to Captain Merton and apologize, but I fancy my friends have already done so.’ I was about to take leave of the count when in walked the baron, behind the biggest mustache in Paris, a ponderous person. ‘Shade of Dumas!’ I muttered; ‘Porthos! Porthos!’Behind him was a much-made-up little fellow, the colonel—your Aramis.”
“Oh, drop him. He is what the arithmeticians call a negligible quantity. What next?”
“The count said, ‘Allow me to present M. Greville of the American Legation—the Baron la Garde, my cousin, and the Colonel St. Pierre.’ We bowed, and the count said, ‘M. Greville is somewhat concerned in the affair in which you have been so kind as to act for me.’
“The two gentlemen looked a little bewildered, but bowed again and sat down, while the count added: ‘You may speak freely. I suppose M. Merton explained that he was not the person.’”
“Oh, by all that’s jolly! what a situation for the stage! A match, please. What next?”
“The baron spoke first. ‘I do not understand you, my dear count.’
“The count said: ‘Why not? It was very simple. I presume you to have said that you regretted the mistake, and then I suppose you apologized and came away to report to me. I am sorry to have sent you on a fruitless errand. Kindly tell us what passed.’
“The colonel sat up, and, as I thought, was a little embarrassed. He said: ‘With your permission, baron, I shall have the honor to relate our conversation. We put the matter, count, as you desired. You had been insulted. What explanation had M. Merton to offer? Then this amazing American said that it was not true that he had insulted you; that he had not given you his card; that he had never seen you; that it was a droll mistake—“that you were unfortunate in your friends.” I think I am correct, baron?’
“‘Yes. I so understood it.’
“‘Then you said, as I recall it, baron,that—that—there was only one word to apply to a man who could insult another and try to escape the consequences. Then he said—well, to cut it short, he would send his friends to us, and that, as he was the challenged party, it would save time if he now declared it must be rifles—or revolvers—or, yes, what he called bowie. What that is I know not.’”
“Lovely!” murmured Merton. “Go on.”
“I explained to the count’s friends that the bowie was a big knife with which our Western gentlemen chopped one another. The count sat still, with a look of repressed mirth, I choking with the fun of it, Aramis fidgeting, the baron swelling with rage. The count asked if that were all.
“Aramis went on: ‘When I assured M. Merton that the methods proposed were barbarous, he made himself unpleasant, and I was forced to say that his language was of such incorrectness—in fact, so monstrousthat as a French soldier I held him personally responsible. The animal assured me that when he was through with you and the baron, he would attend to my own case. I grieve to admit, count, that our friend the baron, usually so amiable, had previously lost his temper. That was when our brigand proposed revolvers and the knife-bowie, and said we were difficult.’
“‘I did,’ said the baron; ‘I, who am all that there is of amiable. Yes, I lost my temper.’ He stood up as he went on. ‘I said it was uncivilized, that it was no jest, but a grave matter.Mon Dieu!That man, he told me that we fought with knitting-needles, that our duels were baby-play—me—me—he said that to me! What could I reply? I said I should ask him to retract. That man laughed—à faire peur—the room shook. Then he said to excuse him, it was—so what he called “damn nonsense.” I think, colonel, I am correct? What means that, M. Greville—damn nonsense?’
“‘English for very interesting,’ said I, not wishing to aggravate the situation.
“‘Ah, thanks,’ said Aramis. ‘This American he was pleasant of a sudden, and would be happy to hear from us all. He did regret that I came third, but that after he had killed you and the baron he would be most happy to kill me.Mon Dieu!we shall see. It remains to await his friends. I shall kill him.’
“‘Pardon me,’ said the baron; ‘he belongs to me.’
“Meanwhile the count’s face was a study. What it cost him not to explode into laughter I shall never guess except by my knowledge of the internal convulsions of my own organs of mirth. But Athos—I like him. He said at last very quietly: ‘Here, gentlemen, are three duels—a fair morning’s work. May I ask you, M. Greville, if you know Captain Merton? I mean well.’”
“Lord, what a chance! What did you say?”
“I saw what he meant, and said you were a captain in our army, had been twice wounded, and were here to recruit your health; that you were of first force with the rifle and revolver, but knew nothing of the small sword.
“The baron’s shoulders were lifted and he spread out huge hands of disgust. ‘But these weapons are impossible. Only a semi-civilized people could desire to employ the weapons of savages.’
“‘Pardon me,’ I said; ‘I presume that the rifle and revolver are both used in your service; and, also, may I ask you to remember that I, too, am an American?’
“‘That does not alter my opinion. If monsieur—’
“‘Oh, stop, stop!’ cried the count. ‘M. Greville is my guest. He will allow me to reply. Do you mean to create four duels in a day? My dear cousin will recall his words.’
“‘My dear cousin’ did not like it, but said stiffly, ‘So far as M. Greville is concerned, I withdraw them.’
“I bowed and said: ‘Permit me, count. These gentlemen, as it seems to me, have put you and themselves in the position of challengers, which everywhere gives to the challenged party the right to choose his weapon. As M. Merton’s friends will abide by his decision, your own seconds must, I fancy, accept what is or would be usual with us. They have no choice except to decline and allow their refusal to be made public, as it will be, or to choose one of the three weapons so generously offered.’
“The baron glared at me, the colonel was silent, and the count said: ‘M. Greville is correct. I regret to have been the means of putting you in a false position. M. Greville has come to explain to me that in the darkness of the night, when our vehicles came together and we said some angry words, hegave me by mistake the card of M. le Capitaine Merton. M. Greville and I—you will pardon me—have amicably arranged our little trouble, as I shall tell you more fully.’”
“Oh, joy!” cried Merton; “close of fourth act. Every one on but D’Artagnan and the woman. Athos, Porthos, Aramis! What next? Was there ever anything more dramatically all that could be desired? What next?”
“The count was very pleasant, and thought only a little explanation was required to reconcile his friends and the captain. This by no means satisfied Porthos.
“The baron said he would fight with a cannon if necessary, and he will. Aramis is degenerate. He observed that it would require consideration. Then the count said: ‘The captain’s ideas are certainly somewhat original, and why not leave it to M. Greville and me and such others as we may choose?’
“I was well pleased. Whether they were or not, I cannot tell. They said, however, a variety of agreeable nothings, and I am to see the count to-morrow. He kept Porthos and Aramis and, I suspect, gave the two fools a lecture.”
“Well, well,” said Merton. “When I left the regiment I thought I was out of the world of adventure.”
“Oh, this is comic opera. I do not suppose that you really want to fight these idiots.”
“No; but I will, if they desire to be thus amused. Otherwise there will have to be some word-eating. I was not bluffing.”
“Porthos will stick it out. You won’t be too stiff-necked, I trust.”
“Oh, no. I leave myself in your hands—I mean absolutely; and I want also to say, Greville, that this queer affair ought to make us friends.”
“It has,” I returned with warmth. “You dine with the minister next week, I believe.”
“Yes, Monday.”
We talked for a few minutes of the campaigns at home, and then he returned to the subject which just now more immediately interested him. “What about that woman? I have an impression that we are not at the end, but at the beginning, of an adventure. Are you not curious?”
“Yes, I am, and my curiosity has ripened. There may be some politics in the matter, just as you say. If, as is barely possible, it is our international affairs that are involved, it is my duty to follow it up and to know more. But how to follow it up? In what way an unknown American lady can be concerned in them, I am unable to imagine. This, however, is, I think, certain, the count did not want to be involved in an affair of honor about this lady. We were to be supposed to have quarreled over cards. He wanted her to disappear from the scene. But why?”
“Well, it is late,” said Merton, looking at the clock. “Good night. I shall stay at home to-morrow until I hear from you and the count.”
I may add that Merton at once accepted the count’s explanation and called on him. The affair of Baron Porthos and my friend proved more difficult. Both declined to apologize. Somehow, it got out at the clubs, and Paris was gaily amused over paragraphs about the Wild West man who would fight only with the knife-bowie. Merton was furious, and I had hard work to keep him within bounds.
Meanwhile the count and another gentleman met me, a friend of mine, Lieutenant West, a naval officer, and made vain efforts to bring about peace or a duel with swords; at which Merton only laughed, saying that when he went “a-cat-fishing, he went a-cat-fishing,” a piece of national wisdom which I found myself incompetent to make clear tomy French friends. Aramis was easier to manage than his namesake. Meanwhile, our minister was very much troubled over the matter, and the count hardly less so. But Porthos was as inexorable as his namesake, and Merton merely obstinate. It was what the count described as animpasse.
At this time the Emperor—for this was in the fall of ’62—was busy about his Mexican venture, and our legations were disturbed by vague rumors of efforts to combine the great powers in an agreement to bring about a perilous intervention in our affairs, which at home were going badly enough, with one disaster after another. No one at the legation knew how deep the Emperor was in the matter, but there was a chill of expectation in the air, and yet no distinct evidence of the trouble which was brewing.
It was, as I have said, an essential part of my work to frequent the best houses and in every way to learn what was the tone of feeling. It was, in fact, so hostile that it was now and then hard to avoid personalquarrels. In England it was, if possible, worse. Mr. Gladstone had spoken in public, and with warm praise of Mr. Jefferson Davis and the confederation. Roebuck had described our army as the “scum of Europe.” We had few important friends in England or France. The English premier was, to say the least, unfriendly, and Lord John Russell in their Foreign Office was not much better.
Meanwhile I came to know and like the Count le Moyne, who was a warm Napoleonist, and whom I had to see often, either on our impossible duel or on diplomatic business. During this familiar intercourse, I began to notice that he was distracted and, I thought, worried.
When I spoke of it to Merton, he said, “That’s the woman.” He had no reason to think so, but he was one of the rare men whose intuitions are apt to be correct. This business of the duel went on for a week.
To go back a little, I should have said that at the end of his two days’ leave Alphonse appeared and asked for three days more. He had no report to make, and went away again.
On the next day but one I was writing letters in my salon, and Merton was growling over the unpleasant news our papers were bringing us. Suddenly Alphonse appeared. He waited without a word until I said, “You have found her.”
“Yes; it was all that there is of simple. Monsieur had said she is an American—I went to the American church.”
Merton looked at me, smiling, as he remarked, “Like all the great things, it was simple.”
“I saw the lady come out after the morning service. When I began to follow her at a distance I saw that she was also followed by one of the best men of the police. I know him well. I also perceived that, as it seemedto me, the lady was uneasy, and, I think, aware that she was watched.”
Here Merton stopped him. “You are sure that is the same woman you saw in the carriage.”
“Monsieur, when once this lady has been seen, she is not to be forgotten.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the captain; “I told you so, Greville. But go on, Alphonse.”
“And cut it short,” said I, impatient.
Alphonse paused. “Circumstances, monsieur, oblige me to speak in some detail. I was two years in the service. Those who watch and follow madame are of the best. I know them. Therefore there is something serious.”
“And her name?” I asked.
“Mme. Bellegarde, Rue de St. Victor, No. 31—a small private hôtel. I regret not to be able to report more fully, but I am well known as monsieur’s valet. To appear too curious would be unwise.”
I regarded my valet with increasing respect, while Merton ejaculated, “Damn such a country!” and I asked:
“Is that all?”
“Yes, monsieur; but circumstances—”
“Oh, that will do,” I said. “You may go.”
When alone with Merton, he said to me, “You must call on her.”
“No,” I said; “she is suspected of something and I, at least for a time, was taken to be an accomplice. That would never do.”
“You are right,” returned Merton, thoughtfully; “quite right. You must keep quiet. The matter, whatever it may be, is still unsettled; but I am resolute to find what this woman has done, and why she is watched like a suspected thief. I never was more curious.”
For a moment we considered the situation in silence. At last Merton said, “Ifthis woman goes out into society, might you not chance to meet her?”
“Yes, but I never as yet have done so, and I remember faces well. I may meet her any day, or never meet her at all, but any direct approach we must give up. The more I think of it, the graver it appears. If it be a police affair, no letter reaches her unopened. Rest assured of that. She is like a fly in a cobweb. Chance may help us, but so far the luck has been against us.”
“No,” said Merton; “the game is not played out. There is something they don’t know, and they are, therefore, no better off than we.”
With this he went away and Alphonse returned. The man was plainly troubled. He said he could do no more, and that when he had made his report to the police that day he had been told to keep a closer watch on me and my letters. Might he show them a note or two?
I said, laughing: “Yes; there are two replies to invitations and a note to my tailor.”
That would do, and might he venture to say that monsieur would be well advised to keep out of the matter?
I thanked him, and there the thing stood over for several days longer.
Two days later I dined at one of the great Bonapartist houses. I was late, and as the guests were about to go to dinner, our hostess said, “Let me present you to a fellow countrywoman, M. Greville of the American Legation—Mme. Bellegarde.” I was so taken aback that I could hardly find words to speak to her until we sat down together at dinner. She, too, was equally agitated. I talked awhile to my left-hand neighbor, but presently her adjoining table companion spoke to her and being thus set free, I said to Mme. Bellegarde in English, speaking low:
“You are my countrywoman, and are, as I know, in trouble. What is it? After wemet I learned your name, but I have been prudent enough to refrain from calling.”
She said: “Yes; you are right. I am in trouble, and of my own making. In my distress that awful night I did not want to give my name to a stranger, and now to recognize in my companion one of our own legation is really a piece of great good fortune. We cannot talk here. I may be able to be of service to the legation—to my country, but we dare not talk here. What I have to say is long. You must not call on me, but we must meet. Come to the masked ball at the palace to-morrow—no, not you. Some one who is not of the legation—some one you can trust. It is a masquerade as you must know. I shall wear a mask—a black domino with a red rose on one sleeve, a white one on the other. Let your friend say, ‘Lincoln.’ I shall answer, ‘America.’ But do let him be careful.”
I said, “Yes; I will arrange it.”
“Oh, thank you. Talk now of something else.”
I said, “Yes, in a moment.” It occurred to me that I might use Merton. “My friend will be in our army uniform, an entirely unsuspected man. How pretty those flowers are!”
I found her charming, a widow, and if I might judge from her jewels, one at ease in regard to money. Before we left, after dinner, I had a few minutes more of talk with her in the drawing-room. She was free from the look of care I had observed when presented.
“Good-by,” I said, as we parted, “and be assured that you have friends.”
“Oh, thank you!” she murmured. “But I am involving others in my difficulties. I wish I had never done it. Good night.” I went home, curious and perplexed.
Early in the morning of the next day I went to the rooms of our first secretary. Inreply to my request, he said he had two cards for the ball at my disposal, and would arrange matters with the master of ceremonies. I accepted one card for Merton, and went away well pleased and regretful that I found it better, as she had done, to leave this singular errand to another.
I made haste to call on Merton, and finding him in, related my fortunate meeting with Mme. Bellegarde, and told him what she expected us to do. He was much pleased, and I happy in finding for our purpose a man whom no one was likely to watch. I urged him, however, to be cautious, and went away, arranging that he should call on me after the ball, even though his visit might be far on in the night. I was too curious and too anxious to wait longer.
It was after three in the morning when he aroused me from the nap into which I had fallen.
“By George!” he cried, “she is a delightfuland a brave woman. I told you so; but, good heavens! she is in a sad scrape.”
“Well, what is it? Has she robbed the Bank of France?”
“Worse. I told you it was some diplomatic tangle. I was right. It is a big one.”
“For Heaven’s sake, go on!”
“She is beautiful.”
“Of course; I know that. But what happened?”
“I said she was beautiful.”
“Yes, twice, and you have never seen her face.”
“No, but you told me so. However, I went early and waited about the door until she came in. I kept her in sight. It wasn’t easy. A half-hour later I got my chance. She had been left by her last partner near a small picture-gallery, and was chatting with an old lady. I said, ‘It is my dance, I believe.’ She rose at once. As we moved away I whispered, ‘Lincoln,’ and on her replying,‘America,’ she guided me through the gallery and at last into a small conservatory and behind some orange-trees. No one was near. ‘One moment,’ she said; ‘even here I am not free.’ I saw no evidence of her being watched, but she was, I fancied, in an agony of apprehension. As I mentioned my name and tried to reassure her, she let fall her black domino saying, ‘Quick, push it under that sofa!’ She wore beneath it a pearl-colored silk domino, and, of course, was still masked.”
“By George!” said I, “a woman of resources. How clever that was!”
Merton went on: “Then we sat down, I saying: ‘Be cool, and don’t hurry. You are entirely secure.’ She did go on, and what a story! She said:
“‘On the night before I involved Mr Greville in trouble, I went to an evening party at Count le Moyne’s. I was never there before, or only to call on the countess,and at that time talked a few minutes with the count. They have been here hardly more than a month. When I arrived there was a great crush in the hall and on the stair. As I waited to get rid of my wraps the count came through the crowd and passed me. He had, I suppose, been belated at the Foreign Office. He seemed to be in haste and went behind a screen and into a room on the side of the hall. A little later the music up-stairs ceased. I heard cries of fire. People rushed down the stairway screaming. There was a jam in the hall and a terrible crush at the outer doors. A curtain had been blown across a console and taken fire; that was all, but the alarm and confusion were dreadful. Women fainted. One or two men made brutal efforts to escape. I have a temperament which leaves me pretty cool in real danger. There was none but what the terror of these people created. I was hustled about and, with others, drivenagainst the Chinese screen which covered the doorway of the count’s office. I said he had entered it—yes, I told you that. As the alarm grew, it must have reached him, for he came out and had to use violence to push the screen away so as to let him pass. The tumult was at its height as he went by me crying, ‘Mon Dieu!’ He ran along a back passageway and disappeared. There were other women near, but I was so placed as to be able to slip behind the screen he had pushed away. I am afraid that he recognized me. As I thus took refuge in the doorway the screen was crushed against it, and I was caught. Of course I was excited, but I was cool compared with the people outside. I tried the door behind me and felt it open. Then I saw that I was in the count’s private office. On the table a lamp was burning. As I was crossing the room to try a side-door entrance into the garden, I caught sight of a large paper envelopon the table. I could not help seeing the largely written inscription. I paused. In an instant I realized that I was in an enemy’s country and had a quick sense of anger as I read: “Foreign Office. Confidential. Recognition of the Confederate States. Note remarks by his Majesty the Emperor. Make full digest at once. Haste required! Drouyn de Lhuys.” I stood still. For a moment, believe me, I forgot the fire—everything. I suppose the devil was at my side.’
“‘A good devil,’ said I.
“She said: ‘Oh, please not to laugh. It was terrible. If you had lived in France these two years you would know. I have been all summer in the utmost distress about my country. I have been insulted and mocked because of our failures. Women can be very cruel. The desirability of France and England acknowledging the Confederacy was almost daily matter of talk among the people I met. Here before me, in mypower, was information sure to be valuable to our legation—to my country. I little dreamed of its importance. I did not reflect. I acted on impulse. I seized the big envelop and drew my cloak around me. The package was bulky and heavy.’”
“Good heavens! Merton,” said I, “She stole it!”
“Stole it! Nonsense! It was war—glorious.”
I shook my head in disapproval, and had at once a vast longing to see our worried and anxious envoys profit by the beautiful thief’s outrageous robbery.
Merton continued: “I will go on to state it as well as I can in her own words. She said: ‘I stood a moment in doubt, but the noise in the hall increased. The screen was driven in fragments against the door. I might be caught at any moment. That would mean ruin. I tried the side door. It was not locked, and in a moment I foundmyself outside, in the garden. I went around to the front of the house, and in a minute or two secured a cabriolet and was driven home. Then my worst troubles began. I had acted on impulse. It was wrong. I was a thief. Was it not wrong? Oh, I know it was wicked! To think, sir, that I should have done such a thing!’
“When she spoke out in this way,” said Merton, “I saw that if we were to help her, it was essential that we should know whether she was becoming irresolute. To test her I said: ‘But, madame, you could have given it back to the count next day. You may be sure he would never have told; and now, poor man, he is in a terrible scrape, and that unlucky Foreign Office! It is not yet too late. Why not return the papers?’
“For a moment I felt ashamed, because even before I made this effort to see if it was worth while to take the grave risks which I saw before us, I knew that she was sobbing.”
“It was worth while. But what,” I asked, “did she say?” If Merton had said that she was weakening, I should have felt some relief and more disappointment.
He asked in turn, “What do you think she said?”
For my part, I could only reply that it was a question of character, but that while she might feel regret and express her penitence in words, a woman who had done what she had done would never express it in acts.
Merton said, “Thank you,” which seemed to me a rather odd reply. He rose as he spoke and for a moment walked about in silence, and then said: “By George! Greville, I felt as if I had insulted her. You think I was right—it is quite a relief.” He spoke with an amount of emotion which appeared to me uncalled for.
“Yes, of course you were right; but what did she say?”
“‘Say?’ She said: ‘I am not a child, sir.I did what I know to be wrong. I did it for no personal advantage. I am punished when I think of myself as a thief. I have already suffered otherwise. I do not care. I did it for my country, as—as you kill men for it. I shall abide by what I did and may God forgive me! But if you are ashamed—if you are shocked—if you think—oh, if you fear to assist me, you will at least consider what I have said as a confidence.’ She stood up as she answered me, and spoke out with entire absence of care about being overheard. Ah, but I wanted to see that masked face! I said twice as she spoke: ‘Be careful. You mistake me.’ She took not the least notice of my caution. Then at last I said: ‘Pray sit down. It was—it is clear, madame, that all concerned or who may concern themselves, with this matter must feel absolute security that there will be no weakness anywhere. After what you have said, and with entire trust in you, weshall at all risks see this thing through.’ She said, ‘Thank you,’ and did sit down.
“Then I went on: ‘I want to ask you a question or two. Did the count recognize you?’
“‘I was not sure at the time, but he must have at least suspected me, for he called next day at an unusually early hour, insisted on seeing me, and frankly told me that on the night before, during the fire, a document had been stolen from his table. He had remembered me as near to the office. Did I know anything about it? I said, “How could I?” I was dreadfully scared, but I replied that I had certainly gone through his office and had left both doors open. Then he said, “It is too grave a matter for equivocation, and I ask, Did you take it?” I said I was insulted, and upon this he lost his temper and threatened all manner of consequences.’
“
To cut it short, Greville, she refused to be questioned, and, I fancy, lied rather more plainly than she was willing to admit to me. He went away furious and reasonably sure, or so I think, that she had the papers.”
“I see,” said I. “He had been careless. Of course, he hesitated for a day or two to confess his loss. But what about those papers? Where are they? She ought to have taken them at once to the legation.”
“Yes, but that is easily explained. The count called early, and after that she felt sure that she would be promptly arrested. He was too ashamed to go at once to any such length. He must be an indecisive man. At all events, he took no positive action until after our encounter and her escape, when hebecame still more sure where she was going and why. You see, he lacked the good sense to confess instantly to the head of his office. Arrest would have been instantaneous. He waited, ashamed to confess, and I presume did not fully inform the police he called in. Now, I suppose, he has had to confess his loss to his superiors.”
“But these papers?” said I.
“Well, don’t hurry me. When she got home that night and read the papers she had—well, taken, she saw their enormous value to our government. Their importance increased her alarm, and the count’s visit added to her sense of need to conceal somewhere the proofs of her guilt. After her first fatal delay of the next morning, she was afraid to carry the papers to the legation. She could trust no one. She believed the Emperor’s minister would act at once. She knew that, soon or late, her town house would be searched. To keep the papersabout her would not do. She must hide them at once, and then we must hear of them; and no letters would serve her purpose. She was panic-stricken. I fancy the count, having been careless, was as anxious, but told no one that day. This gave her a chance until luck played her a trick. The count’s interview in the morning, while it frightened her, had not helped him. The next day his superiors would have to be told, and I have no doubt have been.
“Then, as you know, it came his turn to have a bit of good fortune. Walking in haste to escape a ducking, he must have turned into the Rue du Roi de Rome to get a cab, and was just in time to see her enter your carriage. Very likely he did not see you at all. Indeed, we may be sure that he did not. When, too, the count saw that, in place of turning homeward, she was being driven toward the Bois, his suspicions were at once aroused. I ought to say that, toavoid using her own carriage, she had set out to walk. She was not yet watched, though she may have thought she was, and her plan was a good one. Curious and troubled, he caught a cabriolet and followed, as was natural enough.
“The direction of your flight through the Bois confirmed his suspicions. He may have guessed, and he was right, that she was about to go to her well-known little country house and meant to hide the papers. I am trying to follow what must have been his course of thought and would have been mine. He would catch her and get them, even at the cost of arresting her. So far this is in part her account and in part my inferences. As we talked thus at length, she was again indescribably uneasy and took every one who passed for a spy.”
“Well,” said I, “I do not wonder. The court is cool to us. Something hostile to our country is going on between France andEngland. The English abuse is exhausting their adjectives. If they propose intervention in any shape, Mr. Adams has instructions of which every American should be proud.”
“Good!” cried Merton. “We have not put forth our power, and people over here do not dream of the way in which we could and would rise to meet new foes. But here is our own little battle. I have yet to tell you what she did and my further reflections. After you got her away from the count, and Alphonse guided her, she walked through the rain in the darkness to her small chalet beyond the Bois.”
“But,” said I, “why did not the count follow and get there, as he could have done, before her?”
“I do not know. He was, you said, a bit dazed and his head cut. Probably he felt it to be needful to secure aid from the police, as he did later.”
“Yes, that must have been the case.”
“Her old American nurse has charge of the chalet. At times madame spends a few days there. She explained her condition as the result of a carriage accident, and, I fancy, must have taken her nurse into her confidence. She did not tell me. A fire was made in her boudoir, and, with some change of dress, she sat down to think. She knew that, soon or late, the count must confess his loss, and then that the whole police force of Paris would concentrate its skill first on preventing her from using the papers, and finally on securing them. They would at once suspect that she had made her singular dash for the chalet to conceal the papers, as the count must have inferred. She was one woman against the power, intelligence, and limitless resources of an army. If the count acted with reasonable promptness, the time left her to hide the papers was likely to be short.
“She had adopted and dropped one plan after another as she walked through the night. Then, as she sat in despair, she had an inspiration. The fireplace was kept, after the common American way, full of unremoved wood ashes. It suggested a resource. To lessen the size of the package she hastily removed the many envelops of the contained papers and also the thick double outside cover. Then she tied them together, raked away the newly made fire, and setting the lessened package on the hearth, far back, piled the cold ashes over it. It was safe from combustion. Finally, she replaced the cinders and set on top some burning twigs and a small log or two. The fire was soon burning brightly. For a few minutes she sat thinking that she must burn the envelops. It was now late. The gate-bell rang. Three hours had gone by since she left the count. In great haste she tore up the thick outside envelops and other covers and hastilyscattered them on the flames. She did succeed in burning the larger part of the covers, and only by accident, or rather by reason of her haste, was, as I shall tell you, lucky enough to leave unburned a bit of the outer cover. However, she piled on more twigs, and had settled herself by the fire when her nurse entered in company with a man in civilian dress and two of the police. They used little ceremony and said simply that she was believed to have certain papers. Best to give them up and save trouble. Of course, she denied the charge and was indignant. Then they made a very complete search, after which two of them remained with her, and the other, leaving, came back in an hour with a woman who went with her to her room and there made a very rigorous personal search of her own and her nurse’s garments. She, of course, protested vigorously. At last, returning to her boudoir, she found the man in civilian dress kneelingbeside the fire. She was in an agony of alarm. The man had gathered the fragments of half-burned paper, and when she entered was staring at the unconsumed corner of the outer official envelop. Without a word, he raked away the fire and a part of the ashes, but seeing there no evidence of interest, contented himself with what proof he had of the destruction of the documents he sought. The appearance of much burned paper and the brightly blazing fire, I suppose, helped to confirm his belief. To her angry protests he replied civilly that it was a matter for his superiors. Finally, an officer was left in charge, but she was allowed to send for a carriage and to return home. It is clear that they are not satisfied, and the house has been watched ever since. Of course, the man who found the charred fragments of the official envelop concluded that she had burned the contents. But some one else who knows their value will doubt.”
“I suppose so. They were less clever than usual.”
“No; her haste saved her. The unburned corner of the envelop fooled the man. How could he dream that under a hot fire, cool and safe, were papers worth a fortune?”
“Certainly this time the luck is hers,” said I; “but this will not satisfy them.”
“No. More than once since they have been over the house and garden and utterly devastated it, so says her nurse. They searched a tool-house and a small conservatory. Madame Bellegarde has been cool enough to go there for flowers, but is in the utmost apprehension. And now ten days have passed.”
“Is that all?”
“No. She has been questioned pretty brutally over and over, but as yet they have not searched her town house. They are sure that the papers are in the villa.”
“Well, what next?” I asked.
“She says we must get those papers. That is our business.”
“It will be difficult,” I returned; “and there should be no delay. It must be done, and done soon. You or I would have found her cache.”
“No, I should not; but if those people are still in doubt, as seems to be the case, and decide that no one but a fool would have burned the documents, some fellow with a little more imaginative capacity to put himself in her place will find them.
“By the way,” added Merton, “she described the house to me. Now let us think it over. I shall be here at nine to-morrow morning. When I return, you will give me your own thoughts about it. Given a house already watched day and night, how to get a paper out of it? No one will be allowed to leave it without being overhauled. The old nurse, you may be sure, will be searched and followed, even when she goes to market. Tocommunicate with madame would not be easy, and would give us no further help and only hurt her. It is so grave a matter that the police, after another search, will arrest Mme. Bellegarde secretly and, if possible, scare her into confession. We have no time to lose. It must be done, too, in some simple way. For her sake we must avoid violence, and whatever is done must be done by us.”
“But, Merton, how can we get into the house, even if we enter the garden unseen?”
“Oh, I forgot to say that she has said she would contrive to tell her nurse to leave the conservatory unlocked, and also the door between it and the house. I told you she has been there twice. On each occasion she was watched, but was allowed to enter and pick flowers. She feels sure of being able to warn the nurse. We must give her a day. But why do they not arrest her? That would have been my first move.”
I replied: “Her late husband’s people areBonapartists and very influential. It would have to be explained, and the situation is an awkward one. The mere destruction of the papers is not what they most desire; neither do they want the loss known, and very likely they desire to conceal it as long as possible from the Emperor. I have been unable to think of any plan. Has the night left you any wiser?”
“I? Yes, indeed. I have a plan—a good one and simple. When I was a boy and coveted apples, one fellow got over the fence and attracted the attention of the farmer, while the other secured apples in a far corner of the orchard. Don’t you see?”
“No, I do not.”
“Well, it is simple. Just see how easy it is. We attract the attention of the guards, and then one of us goes into the house.”
“But,” said I, “if he meets there a resolute guard.”
“And if,” said Merton, “the guard is metby a more resolute man, let us say, with a revolver.”
“Merton, it is a thing to be done without violence.”
“Or not at all?” queried Merton, with what I may call an examining glance.
“No, I did not say that.”
The captain, I suppose, understood my state of mind, for he said: “I feel as you do. You are quite right; but if it becomes needful to use positive means,—I say positive means to get these papers,—then—” I shook my head and he went on, “You may rest assured that I shall use no violence unless I am obliged to do so.”
“You will have no chance,” said I, “because I, as a member of the legation, must be the one to enter the house. No one else should. You may readily see why.”
Merton was disappointed, and in fact said so, while admitting that I was in the right. He looked grave as he added: “We are playinga game, you and I, in which, quite possibly, the fate of our country is involved, and, also, the character and fate of a woman. If we win, no one can convict her of having taken these papers. On their side there will be no hesitation. There should be none on ours.”
I said nothing to relieve his evident doubt as to the spirit with which I had undertaken a perilous venture. I, on my part, simply insisted that the larger risk must be mine. He finally assented with a laugh, saying he was sorry to miss the fun of it. After some careful consideration of his plan and of our respective shares in carrying it out, he went away, leaving me to my reflections. They would, I presume, have amused and surprised the man who had just left me. I had led a quiet, studious life, and never once had I been where it was requisite to face great danger or possible death. I had often wondered whether I possessed the formof courage which makes certain men more competent, the greater the peril. As I sat I confessed to myself an entire absence of the joy in risks with which Merton faced our venture, but at the same time I knew that I was not sorry for a chance to satisfy myself in regard to an untested side of my own character. I knew, too, that I should be afraid, but would that lessen my competence? I had a keen interest in the matter, and was well aware that there was very real danger and possible disgrace if we were caught in a position which we could not afford to explain.
On the following morning I was at breakfast, when Alphonse said to me: “I made last night sir, pretense of following monsieur, and discovered that another man was doing the same thing. Circumstances permitted me to observe that he was stupid, but monsieur will perceive that either I am mistrusted by the police, or that the affair of madame is growing more difficult and has so far baffled the detectives. The count must have mentioned your name to them.” There he paused and busied himself with the coffee-urn, and, for my part, I sat still, wondering whether I had not better be more entirely frank with this unusual valet. He knew enough to be very dangerous, and now stood at ease, evidently expecting some comment on my part. I hadasked Merton to breakfast, and a half-hour later he came in, apologizing and laughing.
“Well,” he said, “I am late. I had Lieutenant West to see me, and, to my grief, Aramis is out of it and has explained, and so on; but Porthos is inexorable. I said at last I was so tired of them all that I should accept rapiers if the big man would give me time. The fact is, we must first dispose of this other business. A wound, or what not, might cripple me. I am not a bad hand with the sword, and I take lessons twice a day. But now about the other affair. This duel is a trifle to it.”
Alphonse had meanwhile gone, at a word from me, and I was free to open my mind to Merton. He did not hesitate a moment. “Call him back,” he said, “and let me talk to him.”
Alphonse reappeared.
“I gave you three hundred francs,” said Merton.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Where is it?”
“My mother has it.”
“Very good. Are you for the emperor?”
The man’s face changed. “M. le Capitaine knows that a man must live. I was of the police, but my father was shot in the coup d’état. I am a republican.”
“If so,” said Merton, “for what amount would you sell your republican body and soul?”
“As to my body, monsieur, that is for sale cheap.”
“And souls are not dear in France,” said Merton.
“Yes, monsieur; but the price varies.”
“What would you say to—well, a thousand francs down and a thousand in three months?”
“If monsieur would explain.”
I did not dislike his caution, but I still had a residue of doubt as to the man whowas serving two masters. Merton had none. He went on:
“We mean to be plain with you. We are caught in the net of a big and dangerous business.”
“I had thought as much,” said Alphonse. “Would M. le Capitaine explain? No doubt there are circumstances—”
“Precisely. A woman has done what makes it necessary for us to recover a certain document despite the police and the government. Understand that if we succeed you get two thousand francs and run meanwhile risks of a very serious nature.”
“And my master?”
“Oh, he may lose his position. You and I and madame may be worse off.”
“As to my position,” I said, “leave me out of the question. We shall all take risks.”
“Then I accept,” said Alphonse. “Monsieur has been most kind to my mother, and circumstances have always attracted me—monsieurwill understand. What am I to do?”
“You are to examine the outside of Madame Bellegarde’s villa by day and at night—to-night—and report to us to-morrow morning. I have a scheme for entering it and securing the document we want, but of that we will speak when we hear your report. I have already ridden around the place. I am trusting you entirely.”
“No, monsieur, not quite entirely,” said Alphonse, smiling.
Merton understood this queer fellow as I did not, for, as I sat wondering what he meant, my friend said quietly: “No we have not told you where the papers are concealed nor what they are. And you want to know?”
A sudden panic seemed to fall on the valet. He winked rapidly, looked to right and left, and then cried in a decisive way, with open hands upraised as if to push awaysomething: “No, monsieur, no. Circumstances make it not to be desired.”
From that moment I trusted the man. “Is that all, monsieur?” he said.
“No. I do not want you to act without knowing that we, all of us, are about to undertake what is against the law and may bring death or, to you at least, the galleys.”
“I accept.” He said it very quietly. “What other directions has monsieur, or am I merely to report about the house and the guards? It is easy.”
“Yes, that is all at present. The danger comes later. Let us hear at nine to-morrow morning.”
His report at that time was clear and not very reassuring. There were guards at or near the gateway. At night a patrol moved at times around the outside. He saw a man enter the garden and remain within. He could not say whether there was another onein the house. It was likely. Madame Bellegarde had driven to the villa. She had been allowed to enter, and came out with a basket of flowers. As no one went in with her, it was pretty sure that they trusted some one within to watch her.
Merton said: “And now, Alphonse, have you any plan, any means by which we can enter that house at night and get away safe without violent methods?”
“If there was no one within.”
“But we do not know, and that we must risk.”
“It would be necessary,” said Alphonse, “to get the police away from the gate for a time, and, if I am not mistaken, their orders will be capture, dead or alive. They believe your papers are still hidden in that house and that an effort may be made to secure them. You observe, monsieur, that all this care would never be taken in an ordinary case. If monsieur proposes to enter thehouse and take away certain papers, the guard may resist, and in that case—”
“In that case,” laughed Merton, “circumstances—”
“Monsieur does not desire me to enter the house.”
I said promptly that we did not. Alphonse seemed relieved, and Merton went on to state with care his own plan. Alphonse listened with the joy of an expert, adding suggestions and twice making very good comments on our arrangements. It would be necessary he thought, to wait for a stormy night, but already it was overclouded.
Alphonse went away to see his mother and to make his own preparations for the share assigned to him in an adventure to which I looked forward with keen interest and with small satisfaction.
Not so Merton. When the valet left us, the captain said: “We are utterly in the hands of that man.”
“Yes,” I returned thoughtfully.
“If he knew,” said Merton, “he might—”
“No. That he did not want to know what these papers are was an expression of his own doubt concerning the extent to which he might trust himself. I think we must trust him.”
“Yes,” returned the captain. “Whether or not we have been wise to use him, I rather doubted, but now I do not. The limitations of the moral code of a man like Alphonse are strange enough. It is hard to guess beforehand what he will do and what he will not. However, we are in for it. You have a revolver?”
“No.”
“I will lend you mine.”
I said I should be glad to borrow it, but I may say that I took care, before we set out, to see that the barrels were not loaded. I might use it to threaten, but was resolute not to fire on any one, even if not to do soinvolved failure of our purpose. I, too, had my moral limitations.
We lost a day, but on the following night there was such a storm as satisfied us to the full.
About eight o’clock we drove to a little restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne, dined quietly, and about nine set out on foot to walk to the villa. There was a brief lull in the storm, but very soon the rain fell again heavily, and as, of course, we took no umbrellas, we were soon wet to the skin.
Making sure that we were not followed, we approached the garden cautiously through the wood, the rain falling in torrents. At the edge of the forest, near a well known fountain, beyond the house, we met by appointment my man, Alphonse. He was dressed as an old woman and had an empty basket on his arm. Together we moved through the wood and shrubbery until we were opposite the side of the gardenand about a hundred feet from where the wall turned at a right angle.
Here, facing an avenue, the wall was broken midway by the arch of the entrance gateway. The wind blew toward us, and we could hear now and then the sound of voices.
Alphonse said: “Two; there are two at the gate.”
“Hush,” said I, as a man came around the angle and along the narrow way between us and the garden wall.
“Wait, monsieur; he will come again.” In some ten minutes he reappeared, as before.
“Now,” said Merton, and in a pour of wildly driven rain Alphonse disappeared. He found his way through the wood and in to the main avenue, which in front of the gate turned to the left and passed around the farther side of the grounds. Then he walked up to the gate. Before long weheard words of complaint. Would the guards tell her—This was all gleefully related afterward. She had lost her way. Yes, a little glass of absinthe—only one. She was not used to it. And she had the money for her market sales, and alas! so she was all wrong and must go back. The guards laughed. No doubt it was the absinthe. The old woman was reeling now and then. Wouldn’t one of them show her the way? No. And was it down the avenue? Yes. With this she set off unsteadily along the road to the left. They called out that it was the wrong way, and then, laughing, dismissed her.
When once around the remote angle of the wall, Alphonse slipped aside into the forest, got rid of gown and basket, and moving through the wood, took up his station on the side of the main avenue of approach to the villa, and out of sight of the guards. Here he waited until a few minutes later he was joined by the captain.
Meanwhile I stood in the wood with Merton. I think he enjoyed it. I did not. A first attempt at burglary is not in all its aspects heroic, and I was wet, chilled, and anxious.
“First actor on,” murmured Merton. “Should like to have seen that interview. Can’t be actor and audience both.”
I hazily reflected that for myself I was both, and that the actor had just then a sharp fit of stage-scare. I let him run on unanswered, while the rain poured down my back.
At last he said: “I think Alphonse has had time enough.”
“Hardly,” said I. I did not want to talk. I was longing to do something—to begin. The punctual guard went by twenty feet away, the smoke of his pipe blown toward us.
“I never liked pipe-smoking on the picket-line,” said Merton. “You can smell it of a damp night at any distance. Remind me totell you a story about it. Heavens!” he cried, as a flash of lightning for an instant set everything in noon-day clearness, “I hope we shall not have much of that. Keep down, Greville. Ever steal apples? Strike that repeater.” I did so. “It’s a good deal like waiting for the word to charge. I remember that once we labeled ourselves for recognition in case we did not come out alive. Just after that I fell ill.”
“Hush!” I said. “There he is again.”
“All right; give him a moment,” said Merton, “and now you have a full half-hour. Come.”
We crossed the narrow road and stood below the garden wall. He gave me the aid of his bent knee and then his shoulder, and I was at once lying flat on the garden wall. My repeater rang 10:15, and then, as I lay, I heard voices. This time there were two men. They paused on the road just below me to light cigarettes. One of them consigned theweather to a place where it might have proved more agreeable. The other said Jean had a pleasanter station in the house. This was not very reassuring news, but I was in for it and wildly eager to be through with a perilous adventure.
As they disappeared, I dropped from the wall into the garden and fell with an alarming crash, rolling over on a pile of flower-pots. There was such a clatter as on any quiet night must have been surely heard. For a moment I lay still, and then, hearing no signals of alarm, I rose and groped along the wall to the door of the conservatory. It was not locked. Pausing on the step outside for a moment, I took off my shoes and secured them by tying them to a belt I wore for this purpose. Then I went in. I found the door of the house ajar, and entering, knew that I was in the drawing-room. I moved with care, in the gloom, through the furniture, and, aided by a flash of lightning,found my way into the hall. Before me, to left, across the hall, was a small room. The door was open. I smelled very vile pipe-smoke and heard footfalls overhead, but no sound of voices. I became at once hopeful that I should have to deal with but one man. I opened cautiously a window in the little room and sat down to listen and wait. I had been given a half-hour. My repeater at last struck 10:45. Meanwhile the clouds broke in places, and there were now gleams of unwelcome moonlight and now gusts of wind-driven rain.
I rose and shut to a crack the door of the room and waited. Beyond the wall, to my right, I heard of a sudden a wild shriek of “Murder! murder! Help! help!” shrill, feminine, convincing. Then came a pistol-shot, then another, and in a moment a third more remote, and, far away, the cries of men.
My time had come. That the gate guards would make for the direction of the soundwe had felt sure, but what would happen in regard to the house guard was left to chance. At all events, he would be isolated for a time. To my relief, the ruse answered. I shut the window noiselessly as I heard my host running down the stairway.
He opened the hall door in haste and was dimly seen from my window hurrying toward the gate. I rushed into the hall, bolted the hall door, and ran up-stairs. The old nurse had been prepared for my coming and met me on the first landing.
“Quick,” I said. “You expected me. The boudoir.” She had her good Yankee wits about her, and in a minute I was kneeling, wildly anxious, and groping in the ashes. Thrusting the package of paper within my shirt-bosom, I ran down-stairs, and as she came after, I cried that I had locked the hall door, and to unlock it when I was gone. “Be quick,” I added, “and lock the conservatory door behind me. No onehas been seen by you. Go to your own room.” Pausing to put on my shoes, I fled across the garden, neither hearing nor seeing the guard who must have joined his fellows outside.