The Golden Spoon
"Nous avons tous assez de force pour supporter les maux
d'autrui."
A few days later I received a letter from Madame de Clericy. "I
write," it ran, "to tell you of the satisfaction that Lucille and I
have found in the improvements you initiated here. I laugh--mon
ami--when I think of all that you did in three days. It seems as if a
strong and energetic wind--such as I imagine your English breezes to
be--had blown across my old home, leaving it healthier, purer, better;
leaving also those within it somewhat breathless and surprised. I
suppose that many Englishmen are like you, and suspect that they will
some day master the world. We have had visitors, among others Alphonse
Giraud, whom I believe you do not yet know. If contrasts are mutually
attractive, then you will like him. I wonder if you know, or suspect,
that he is more or less an acknowledged aspirant to Lucille's hand,
but--"
Madame de Clericy had run her pen through the last word, leaving it,
however, legible. And here she began a new subject, asking me, indeed,
to write and give her news of the Vicomte. I am no indoor man or
subtle analyst of a motive--much less of a woman's motive, if, indeed,
women are so often possessed of such, as some believe--but the
obliterated word and Madame de Clericy's subsequent embarkation on a
new subject made me pause while I deciphered her letter.
It had originally been arranged that the Vicomte should follow the
ladies to La Pauline, leaving me in Paris to attend to my duties, but
the sudden political crisis led to a delay in his departure. In truth,
I gathered from Madame's letter that he must have written to her
saying that the visit was at present impossible. Madame, in fact,
asked me to advise her by return of the state of the Vicomte's health,
and plainly told me that if business matters were worrying him she
would return to Paris without delay.
And if Madame returned she would bring Lucille with her, and thus put
an end to the aspirations of Alphonse Giraud, for the prosecution of
which the seclusion of La Pauline afforded excellent opportunity. I
had but to write a word to bring all this about. Did Madame de Clericy
know all that she placed within my power? Did she know, and yet place
it there purposely? Who can tell? I remembered Lucille's
coldness--her departure without one word of explanation. I recollected
that the twenty million francs at that moment in the Hôtel Clericy
would, in due course, be part of Alphonse Giraud's fortune. I was
mindful, lastly, that in England we are taught to ride straight, and I
sat down and wrote to Madame that her husband was in good health, and
that I quite hoped to see him depart in a few days for La Pauline. I
will not deny that the letter went into the post-box followed by a
curse.
We may, however, write letters and post them. We may--if we be great
men--indite despatches and give them into the hands of trusty
messengers, and a little twirl of Fortune's wheel will send all our
penmanship to the winds.
While I was smoking a pipe and deciphering a long communication
received from the gentleman who further entangled my affairs in
England, a visitor was announced to me.
"Monsieur Alphonse Giraud."
"Why?" I wondered as I rose to receive this gentleman. "Why, Monsieur
Alphonse Giraud?"
He was already in the doorway, and, I made no doubt, had conceived an
ultra-British toilet for the occasion. For outwardly he was more
English than myself. He came forward, holding out his hand, and I
thought of Madame's words. Were we to become friends?
"Monsieur Howard," he said, "I have to apologise. Mon Dieu!--to think
that you have been in Paris three months, and I have never called to
place myself at your disposition! And a friend of Alfred Gayerson, of
that good, stout John Turner--of half a dozen hardy English friends of
mine."
I was about to explain that his oversight had a good excuse in the
fact that my existence must have been unknown to him, but he silenced
me with his two outstretched hands, waving a violent negation.
"No--no!" he said, smiting himself grievously on the chest. "I have no
excuse. You say that I was ignorant of your existence--then it was my
business to find it out. Ignorance is often a crime. An English
gentleman--a sportsman--a fox-hunter! For you chase the fox, I know. I
see it in your brown face. And you belong to the English Jockey
Club--is it not so?"
I admitted that it was so, and Alphonse Giraud's emotion was such that
he could only press my hand in silence.
"Ah, well!" he cried almost immediately, with the utmost gaiety. "We
have begun late, but that is no reason why it should not be a good
friendship--is it?"
And he took the chair I offered with such hearty good-will that my
cold English sympathy was drawn towards him.
"I came but yesterday from the South," he went on. "Indeed, from La
Pauline, where I have been paying a delightful visit. Madame de
Clericy--so kind--and Mademoiselle Lucille--"
He twisted up the unsuccessful side of his mustache, and gave a quick
little sigh. Then he remembered his scarf, and attended to the
horseshoe pin that adorned it.
"You know my father," he said, suddenly, "the--er--Baron Giraud. He
has been more fortunate than myself in making your acquaintance
earlier."
I bowed and said what was necessary.
"A kind man--a dear man," said the Baron's son. "But no sportsman.
Figure to yourself--he fears an open window."
He laughed and shrugged his little shoulders.
"I dare say many Englishmen would not understand him."
"I am not of those," replied I. "I understand him and appreciate his
many able qualities."
From which it will be seen that I can lie as well as any man.
"The poor dear has been called to Paris, on his affairs. Not that I
understand them. I have no head for affairs. Even my tailor cheats
me--but what will you? He can cut a good coat, and one must forgive
him. My father's hotel in the Champs Elysées is uninhabitable at the
moment. The whitewashers!--and they sing so loud and so false, as
whitewashers ever do. The poor man is desolated in an _appartement_ in
the Hôtel Bristol. I am all right. I have my own lodging--a mere
bachelor kennel--where I hope to see you soon and often."
He threw his card on the table, rising to go, and timing his departure
with that tact and grace which is only compassed by Frenchmen or
Spaniards.
Scarcely had I regained my room, after duly admiring Alphonse Giraud's
smart dog-cart, when the servant again appeared. The Baron Giraud had
arrived to see the Vicomte, who happened to be out. The affairs of the
Baron were urgent, and he desired to see me--was, indeed, awaiting me
with impatience in Monsieur de Clericy's study.
Thither I hastened, and found the great financier in that state of
perturbation and perspiration which the political crisis seemed to
have rendered chronic. He was, however, sufficiently himself to
remember that I was a paid dependent.
"How is this?" he cried. "I call to see the Vicomte on important
affairs, and he is out."
"It is," I replied, "that the Vicomte de Clericy is not a man of
affairs, but a gentleman of station and birth--that this is not an
office, but a nobleman's private house."
And I suppose I looked towards the door, for the Baron gasped out
something that might have been an apology, and looked redder in the
face.
"But, my good sir," he whined distractedly, "it is a matter of the
utmost gravity. It is a crisis in the money market. A turn of the
wheel may make me a poor man. Where is the Vicomte? Where are my
twenty million francs?"
"The Vicomte has gone out, as is his custom before déjeûner, and your
twenty millions are, so far as I know, safe in this house. I have not
the keeping of either."
"But you took the responsibility," snapped the Baron.
"For all that I am worth--namely, one hundred and twenty pounds a
year, out of which I have to find my livery."
"Can you go out and find the Vicomte? I will wait here," asked the
Baron, in the utmost distress. It is indeed love that makes the world
go round--love of money.
"I know where he is usually to be found," was my reply, "and can go
and seek him. I will return here in half an hour if I fail to find
him."
"Yes--yes; go, my good sir--go! And God be with you!" With which
inappropriate benediction he almost pushed me out of the room.
On making inquiries of the servants, I found my task more difficult
than I had anticipated. Monsieur de Clericy had not taken the
carriage, as was his habit. He had gone out on foot, carrying, as the
butler told me, a bundle of papers in his hand.
"They had the air of business papers of value--so closely he held
them," added the man.
He had taken the direction of the Boulevard, with the intention, it
appeared, of calling a cab. I hurried, however, to the Vicomte's
favourite club, and learned that he had not been seen there. His
habits being more or less known to me, I prosecuted my search in such
quarters as seemed likely, but without success.
At the Cercle de l'Union I ran against John Turner, who was reading
the _Times_ there.
"Ah!" he said, "young Howard. Come to lunch, I suppose. You look
hungry--gad, what a twist you had that day! Just in time. I can tell
you what is worth eating."
"Thanks; you know such advice is wasted on a country boor like myself.
No; I came seeking the Vicomte de Clericy. Have you seen him?"
"Ah! you are still with old Clericy; thought you were up to some
mischief--so d--d quiet. Then Mademoiselle is kind?"
"Mademoiselle is away," I answered. "Do you know anything of the Baron
Giraud?"
"Do I know anything of the devil," growled John Turner, returning to
the perusal of his newspaper. "Are he and old Clericy putting their
heads together? I would not trust Giraud with ten sous so far as the
club door."
"Exactly!"
"Then he and old Clericy _are_ at it--are they?" said John Turner,
looking at me over the _Times_ with his twinkling eyes. "And you,
Monsieur, _le secrétaire_, are anxious about your patron. Ha, ha! You
have a lot to learn yet, Master Dick."
I looked impatiently at the clock. Twenty minutes had already been
wasted in my fruitless search.
"Then you haven't seen de Clericy?"
"No--my good boy--I haven't. And if you cannot find him you may be
sure that it is because he does not want to be found."
The words followed me as I left the room. It seemed that John Turner
believed in no man.
There was nothing for it but to return to the Rue des Palmiers, and
tell the Baron that I had failed to find my patron. The cab I had
hired was awaiting me, and in a few minutes I was rattling across the
bridge of the Holy Fathers.
"Monsieur le Vicomte returned a few minutes ago," the butler told me.
"He has gone to the study, and is now with the Baron Giraud. The
Vicomte asked that you should go to him at once."
The atmosphere of the old house seemed gloomy and full of foreboding
as I ran up the stairs. The servant stood at the open door and watched
me. In that unknown world behind the green baize door more is known
than we suspect, and there is often no surprise there when we who live
above stairs are dumbfounded.
In my haste I forgot to knock at Monsieur de Clericy's door before
opening it--indeed, I think it was ajar.
"My good friend," I heard as I entered the room, "collect yourself. Be
calm. We are together in a great misfortune--the money has been
stolen!"
The voice was that of my patron. I went in and closed the door behind
me. For it seemed, to my fancy, that there were other doors ajar upon
the landing, and listeners on the stairs.
The two old men were facing each other, the one purple in the visage,
with starting eyes, the other white and quiet.
"Stolen?" echoed the Baron in a thick voice, and with a wild look
round the room. "Then I am ruined!"
The old Vicomte spread out his trembling hands in despair, a gesture
that seemed to indicate a crumbling away of the world beneath us.
The Baron Giraud turned and looked at me. He did not recognise me for
quite ten seconds.
[Illustration: "IT IS DEATH," I ANSWERED, WITH MY HAND INSIDE THE
BARON'S SHIRT. "WHO STOLE THAT MONEY?" THE VICOMTE LOOKED AT ME.
"CHARLES MISTE," HE SAID.]
"Then it is not you," he said, thickly. "As you are there. You did not
steal it."
"No--I did not steal it," I answered quietly, for there was a look in
his face that I did not understand, while it frightened me. Suddenly
his eyes shot red--his face was almost black. He fell forward into my
arms, and I tore his collar off as I laid him to the ground.
"Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" the Vicomte was crying as he ran hither and
thither, wringing his hands, while I attended, unskillfully enough, to
the stricken man. "Ah, mon Dieu! what is this?"
"It is death," I answered, with my hand inside the Baron's shirt. "Who
stole that money?"
The Vicomte looked at me.
"Charles Miste," he said.