But he dried them, and controlled himself, and returned to “The
Heron” inn, and from thence traveled with his fair companion back to
Paris. Some sort of a truce was patched up before the ending of the
first day’s journey--a week, and Monsieur the Colonel and Madame were
upon almost their old terms of familiar, easy intimacy. Returned to
Paris, the tenor of the old life was resumed as though the rupture
had never happened. But the exquisite glamour of their passion had
vanished; the rose-colored mist no longer veiled the crude realities
of life. A heavy shadow brooded between the pair, and, gradually
assuming substance, thrust them, with every day that dawned, a little
farther apart. There would be days when their cooling passion would
blaze up again as fiercely as a bonfire of straw.... There would
be weeks when their intercourse would be limited to the baldest
commonplaces that may be exchanged between a politely-indifferent
husband and a civilly-contemptuous wife. The easy-going _camaraderie_
that had existed between Henriette and de Roux would never reign
between Henriette and her lover. For to attain that level of complete
mutual understanding, all rights must be abrogated--the last claim
resigned--the last shred of self-respect cast upon the winds. Dunoisse
knew that very well.
How much of self-respect remained to him as it was, he did not venture
to question. Nor did he own to himself that his life was lived in fear.
But sometimes the burnt-in memory of that November night of his return
from London would ache and throb, and at other times he would hear the
voice of his mistress saying:
“You will have yourself to thank for whatever happens now!”
Do you wonder that a man bedeviled and obsessed after this fashion
should grow moody and suspicious? That he should hear the snaky rattle
of warning from under every clump of flowers or tuft of grass? That he
should see in every man upon whom his lovely friend bestowed her smiles
a possible rival? And does it surprise you that, after a succession
of violent scenes of jealousy, Henriette should have seized an early
opportunity of confiding her disillusions and anxieties to the
sympathetic ear at the Élysée?
When it came to stretching a point to oblige a pretty woman, who was
useful to him, that woman could depend upon the goodness of Monseigneur.
“Jealousy, dear friend,” said he, with his most oracular manner, “is a
vice as incurable as crib-biting in a horse, once contracted. It was
Othello who ought to have been smothered!... Desdemona would certainly
have consoled herself with the attentions of M. Cassio....”
“Ah! but suppose Cassio in his turn had been bitten by the green-eyed
monster,” suggested Henriette, to whom Dunoisse had read the tragedy of
the lady and the Moor.
“To smother Cassio,” said Monseigneur, with his somewhat ponderous
humor, “would have been what literary critics term an ‘anticlimax.’ I
should suggest service with the Foreign Legion for the gentleman in
question,--if you are quite certain that as soon as he has gone you
will not wish him back again?”
As Henriette crumpled her beautiful eyebrows in doubt, bit her red
lips, and hesitated, he added:
“Besides--would it be wise to banish from your side a young, attractive
man who has brilliant expectations?... This question of the Widinitz
Succession--are we to hear no more of that?”
She faltered:
“I fear not, Monseigneur!... You cannot imagine the strength of his
prejudices.... He is quite convinced that to put himself at the head of
the Catholic electors of the Principality would be an insult to Heaven,
because his mother happened to be a professed nun. Ah! how I weary of
his eternal arguments.”
“Indeed!” said Monseigneur, with a curious inflection. His dull eyes
had a faded twinkle in them as they rested on the lovely speaker’s
face. She crimsoned to the wreath of roses nestling in their leaves
within her bonnet,--pulled down the flowered lace veil with a
petulant jerk of the little hand. Monseigneur hastened to soothe the
sensibilities he had ruffled.
“Take my advice,” he said, “who have so often taken yours, and found it
excellent. Do not hurry on a crisis. Wait!--and let me think out some
effective, easy method of relieving the tension of affairs.”
His tone was mellifluous as that of a dentist who thinks that the
toothache may be eased without extraction--the doubtful molar saved.
She thanked him in silvery tones, made her deep reverence, and glided
from the apartment where Monseigneur had received her; the private
cabinet upon the ground-floor of the Élysée, where the Prince-President
saw his intimate associates, interviewed his official spies and agents,
and carried out experiments in musketry with the inventor, Major Minié.
You are to understand that he had lunched early that winter day, and
was taking his cigar and coffee and Benedictine at a little table by
the fireside. He smoked and sipped, with his dainty little feet upon
a velvet footstool, and his big head lolling back against the padded
velvet back of his easy-chair.
The question of how to dispose of Henriette’s inconvenient lover
occupied this hour of leisure. The young man had had a good deal of
money, a considerable amount of which had found its way to his own
bottomless pockets. He was the only son of a wealthy father, and might
be well worth plucking again by-and-by. Even the abandoned claim of the
Widinitz Succession might prove a profitable investment--a veritable
gold-mine, to one who possessed the art of making stubborn natures
malleable. A German Serene Highness who should be devoted to one’s
interests would be a useful tool, it occurred to Monseigneur....
He had, to do him justice, an exquisite discrimination in the selection
of human instruments suitable for his hand; a knack of getting the
best from them by stimulating their jealousies; he displayed an
extraordinary cleverness in getting rid of them when blunted.... He
never kept them long enough to be worn out.
It was his pride that at first sight he invariably detected in a man
the qualities that would best serve him. In this handsome ex-Adjutant
of the 999th, for whom Madame de Roux had had such a violent
fancy--who had paid through the nose to obtain the transference of
her husband to a post in Northern Africa, and who had forked out
again for his own appointment as _aide-de-camp_ upon the Staff of the
Presidency--Monseigneur had never seen anything out of the way.
True, the man’s career at the Training Institute for Staff Officers
had been brilliant. But a reputation for brilliancy is easily gained.
As a Chasseur d’Afrique he had served with distinction in the wars of
Algeria--when transferred to the Line he had excellently discharged his
regimental duties. Of hundreds of other men the same might be said....
The subject of his reflections was on duty that morning.... Monseigneur
stretched out the neat, small hand that held his cigar, and touched
a little golden chiming-bell. Dunoisse appeared in obedience to the
summons, crossed the deep-piled carpet with long, light, noiseless
footsteps, and placed, with a respectful hand, clad in the regulation
white kid glove, a pile of letters on the little coffee-table, beside
the elbow of Monseigneur.
Monseigneur, generally skeptical as regarded things unseen, firmly
believed in his guiding genius. That invisible personage, he was
subsequently convinced, dictated the question he suddenly put to
Dunoisse; an interrogation that broached his own long-cherished
purpose, and gave a clue to the deep and dark and secret workings of
his strange, cold, snaky mind.
“Monsieur--supposing that France had determined to espouse the
interests of the Sultan of Turkey, to the point of becoming his ally
in war--waged with Russia in alliance with a certain insular maritime
Power, upon the debatable ground of Eastern Europe--how should she
proceed so as to insure to her Army the maximum of advantage with the
minimum of loss?... Do not answer hastily I beg of you.... Reflect
before you reply.”
Dunoisse thought for a minute, and gave the answer, clearly and
promptly, and very much to the point. It shortened Monseigneur’s
breathing inconveniently, and brought a shiny gray dampness out upon
the dough-colored surface of him, as though a snail had crawled there
and left its track of slime. But it was not his habit to betray
emotion. Those years spent in captivity had taught him self-control.
His small, flat eyes, usually so devoid of luster, assumed the shallow
glitter of aluminium. He said, composedly, urbanely, stroking his heavy
brown mustache:
“The most plausible theories sometimes evaporate when one tries to set
them down on paper. You would oblige me very much, my dear Colonel, by
putting yours in black upon white....”
Dunoisse bowed, and said he thought it would be possible to oblige
Monseigneur. His theory, set forth in half-a-dozen pages of small, neat
manuscript, illustrated by plans, and maps with dotted lines traced in
divers-colored inks upon them, was laid before Monseigneur on the very
next day.... Monseigneur studied these papers with close attention;
rolled them up, retied, and locked them away in a secret hiding-place.
And said, regarding his own features in a Venetian mirror that hung
above the _secrétaire_, a precious article in pearl and ebony, that had
held the toys and _bibelots_ of Marie Antoinette, and the love-letters
of Josephine:
“My friend, you have been saved by your lucky star from committing an
irreparable error. This young man is a genius of the first water. Even
to gratify the wish of a still singularly-charming woman, you would be
mad, my friend, to part with Colonel Dunoisse!”
Thenceforwards, Dunoisse’s active duties as assistant _aide-de-camp_
gave place to the more sedentary occupations of Military Private
Secretary, with a step in rank, a salary raised in accordance with
his elevation in the estimation of his employer. It being presently
discovered that he was master of Arabic, Turkish, Albanian Greek,
German, Russian, and English, and possessed besides of a fair command
of the Slavonic dialects of Roumania and Bulgaria, the office of
Private Military Interpreter was created, and conferred on him by
Monseigneur.
There was a little study, looking on a corner of the leafy gardens of
the Palace, which communicated by a hidden door with Monseigneur’s
private cabinet. Dunoisse was installed in this snug den, into which
none of the associates of Monseigneur ever thought of penetrating. And
with his notes, and maps, and works of reference about him, was given a
free hand, and bidden to carry out his plan.
And now at last the studies prosecuted in spare hours at the Training
Institute for Staff Officers; those years of dogged, diligent
acquirement of knowledge, began to bear fruit.... At last the man
had found the severe, arduous employment that gave full play to his
brilliant faculties. His face grew strange to his associates and
friends, as his task absorbed him more....
Masses of papers, methodically filed and docketed, accumulated about
Dunoisse. A vast correspondence in many European and several Oriental
languages was carried on by him. He became the center of a vast web
of intelligence, the active brain of a formidable working system that
centralized in the little room adjoining the private cabinet with the
bullet-chipped cornices; crossed the Alps and leaped the Carpathians;
threw a spider-line from Odessa to Bucharest--linked Sevastopol with
Batum--and traveled back again _viâ_ the great roaring world-fair of
Constantinople to the cabinet at the Élysée.
Men of many nationalities, tongues, and colors, and convictions,
came and went, by day and night; gave their information, received
instructions, verbal or otherwise, took their money, and departed.
But they never came or went in couples, nor was the business of one
known to the next. A Roumanian, one Michaëlis Giusko--formerly an
assistant-lecturer and teacher of the Slavish languages at the Training
Institute for Staff Officers, and a Barbary Jew, Israel Ben Hamon, with
whom Dunoisse had studied Arabic in North Africa, became presently his
assistants, bound to secrecy under oath.
Giusko had been found starving in a Montmartre garret; the Barbary Jew
Dunoisse had accidentally encountered upon one of his periodical visits
to Paris, to treat with the paper-merchants for the sale of rags from
Tunis and the Levant. Both men were bound to their junior by ties of
gratitude; the Israelite because his wife Miriam, now dead, had been
saved by Dunoisse, when a young officer of Chasseurs d’Afrique, from
robbery and outrage at the hands of some drunken Zouaves at Blidah; the
Slav because all hope had left him, and he had been upon the point of
suicide, when his old pupil had appeared before his gaunt and desperate
eyes. But though both were trustworthy, neither of these men was to be
trusted completely, according to the secret instructions of Monseigneur.
Nor had Dunoisse, who day and night sat spinning at the colossal
web of Monseigneur’s private purpose, and hatching out the egg of
that potentate’s secret plan, any definite knowledge of the breed of
basilisk that would presently chip the shell.