I
Whether or not this case has an historical interest is a matter of
conjecture. If it has none, then the title I have given it is a
misnomer. But I think the conjecture that some historical interest
attaches to it is by no means an empty one, and all that can be urged
against it is the common though not always declared error that romance
expired fifty years at least ago, and history with it. This makes it
seem improbable that the answer to an unsolved riddle of a century
since should be found to-day in an inquiry agent's dingy office in
Bedford Street, Covent Garden. Whether or not it has so been found
the reader may judge for himself, though the evidence stops far short
of actual proof of the identity of the "Mirror of Portugal" with the
stone wherewith this case was concerned.
But first, as to the "Mirror of Portugal." This was a diamond of much
and ancient fame. It was of Indian origin, and it had lain in the
possession of the royal family of Portugal in the time of Portugal's
ancient splendour. But three hundred years ago, after the extinction
of the early line of succession, the diamond, with other jewels, fell
into the possession of Don Antonio, one of the half-dozen pretenders
who were then scrambling for the throne. Don Antonio, badly in want
of money, deposited the stone in pledge with Queen Elizabeth of
England, and never redeemed it. Thus it took its place as one of the
English Crown jewels, and so remained till the overthrow and death
of Charles the First. Queen Henrietta then carried it with her to
France, and there, to obtain money to satisfy her creditors, she sold
it to the great Cardinal Mazarin. He bequeathed it, at his death, to
the French Crown, and among the Crown jewels of France it once more
found a temporary abiding place. But once more it brought disaster
with it in the shape of a revolution, and again a king lost his head
at the executioner's hands. And in the riot and confusion of the
great Revolution of 1792 the "Mirror of Portugal," with other jewels,
vanished utterly. Where it went to, and who took it, nobody ever knew.
The "Mirror of Portugal" disappeared as suddenly and effectually as
though fused to vapour by electric combustion.
So much for the famous "Mirror." Whether or not its history is germane
to the narrative which follows, probably nobody will ever certainly
know. But that Dorrington considered that it was, his notes on the case
abundantly testify.
For some days before Dorrington's attention was in any way given
to this matter, a poorly-dressed and not altogether prepossessing
Frenchman had been haunting the staircase and tapping at the office
door, unsuccessfully attempting an interview with Dorrington, who
happened to be out, or busy, whenever he called. The man never asked
for Hicks, Dorrington's partner; but this was very natural. In the
first place, it was always Dorrington who met all strangers and
conducted all negotiations, and in the second, Dorrington had just
lately, in a case regarding a secret society in Soho, made his name
much known and respected, not to say feared, in the foreign colony of
that quarter; wherefore it was likely that a man who bore evidence of
residence in that neighbourhood should come with the name of Dorrington
on his tongue.
The weather was cold, but the man's clothes were thin and threadbare,
and he had no overcoat. His face was of a broad, low type, coarse in
feature and small in forehead, and he wore the baggy black linen peaked
cap familiar on the heads of men of his class in parts of Paris. He had
called unsuccessfully, as I have said, sometimes once, sometimes more
frequently, on each of three or four days before he succeeded in seeing
Dorrington. At last, however, he intercepted him on the stairs, as
Dorrington arrived at about eleven in the morning.
"Pardon, m'sieu," he said, laying his finger on Dorrington's arm, "it
is M. Dorrington--not?"
"Well--suppose it is, what then?" Dorrington never admitted his
identity to a stranger without first seeing good cause.
"I 'ave beesness--very great beesness; beesness of a large profit for
you if you please to take it. Where shall I tell it?"
"Come in here," Dorrington replied, leading the way to his private
room. The man did not look like a wealthy client, but that signified
nothing. Dorrington had made profitable strokes after introductions
even less promising.
The man followed Dorrington, pulled off his cap, and sat in the chair
Dorrington pointed at.
"In the first place," said Dorrington, "what's your name?"
"Ah, yas--but before--all that I tell is for ourselves alone, is it
not? It is all in confidence, eh?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Dorrington answered, with virtuous impatience.
"Whatever is said in this room is regarded as strictly confidential.
What's your name?"
"Jacques Bouvier."
"Living at----?"
"Little Norham Street, Soho."
"And now the business you speak of."
"The beesness is this. My cousin, Léon Bouvier--he is _coquin_--a
rrrascal!"
"Very likely."
"He has a great jewel--it is, I have no doubt, a diamond--of a great
value. It is not his! There is no right of him to it! It should be
mine. If you get it for me one-quarter of it in money shall be yours!
And it is of a great value."
"Where does your cousin live? What is he?"
"Beck Street, Soho. He has a shop--a café--Café des Bons Camarades. And
he give me not a crrrust--if I starve!"
It scarcely seemed likely that the keeper of a little foreign café in
a back street of Soho would be possessed of a jewel a quarter of whose
value would be prize enough to tempt Dorrington to take a new case up.
But Dorrington bore with the man a little longer. "What is this jewel
you talk of?" he asked. "And if you don't know enough about it to be
quite sure whether it is a diamond or not, what _do_ you know?"
"Listen! The stone I have never seen; but that it is a diamond makes
probable. What else so much value? And it is much value that gives my
cousin so great care and trouble--_cochon!_ Listen! I relate to you.
My father--he was charcoal-burner at Bonneuil, department of Seine.
My uncle--the father of my cousin--also was charcoal-burner. The
grandfather--charcoal-burner also; and his father and his grandfather
before him--all burners of charcoal, at Bonneuil. Now perceive. The
father of my grandfather was of the great Revolution--a young man,
great among those who stormed the Bastille, the Tuileries, the Hôtel
de Ville, brave, and a leader. Now, when palaces were burnt and
heads were falling there was naturally much confusion. Things were
lost--things of large value. What more natural? While so many were
losing the head from the shoulders, it was not strange that some should
lose jewels from the neck. And when these things were lost, who might
have a greater right to keep them than the young men of the Revolution,
the brave, and the leaders, they who did the work?"
"If you mean that your respectable great-grandfather stole something,
you needn't explain it any more," Dorrington said. "I quite understand."
"I do not say stole; when there is a great revolution a thing is
anybody's. But it would not be convenient to tell of it at the time,
for the new Government might believe everything to be its own. These
things I do not know, you will understand--I suggest an explanation,
that is all. After the great Revolution, my great-grandfather lives
alone and quiet, and burns the charcoal as before. Why? The jewel is
too great to sell so soon. So he gives it to his son and dies. He also,
my grandfather, still burns the charcoal. Again, why? Because, as I
believe, he is too poor, too common a man to go about openly to sell
so great a stone. More, he loves the stone, for with that he is always
rich; and so he burns his charcoal and lives contented as his father
had done, and he is rich, and nobody knows it. What then? He has two
sons. When he dies, which son does he leave the stone to? Each one says
it is for himself--that is natural. I say it was for my father. But
however that may make itself, my father dies suddenly. He falls in a
pit--by accident, says his brother; not by accident, says my mother;
and soon after, she dies too. By accident too, perhaps you ask? Oh
yes, by accident too, no doubt." The man laughed disagreeably. "So I
am left alone, a little boy, to burn charcoal. When I am a bigger boy
there comes the great war, and the Prussians besiege Paris. My uncle,
he, burning charcoal no more, goes at night, and takes things from the
dead Prussians. Perhaps they are not always quite dead when he finds
them--perhaps he makes them so. Be that as it will, the Prussians take
him one dark night; and they stand him against a garden wall, and pif!
paf! they shoot him. That is all of my uncle; but he dies a rich man,
and nobody knows. What does his wife do? She has the jewel, and she
has a little money that has been got from the dead Prussians. So when
the war is over, she comes to London with my cousin, the bad Léon,
and she has the café--Café des Bons Camarades. And Léon grows up, and
his mother dies, and he has the café, and with the jewel is a rich
man--nobody knowing; nobody but me. But, figure to yourself; shall I
burn charcoal and starve at Bonneuil with a rich cousin in London--rich
with a diamond that should be mine? Not so. I come over, and Léon, at
first he lets me wait at the café. But I do not want that--there is the
stone, and I can never see it, never find it. So one day Léon finds me
looking in a box, and--chut! out I go. I tell Léon that I will share
the jewel with him or I will tell the police. He laughs at me--there is
no jewel, he says--I am mad. I do not tell the police, for that is to
lose it altogether. But I come here and I offer you one quarter of the
diamond if you shall get it."
"Steal it for you, eh?"
Jacques Bouvier shrugged his shoulders. "The word is as you please,"
he said. "The jewel is not his. And if there is delay it will be gone.
Already he goes each day to Hatton Garden, leaving his wife to keep the
Café des Bons Camarades. Perhaps he is selling the jewel to-day! Who
can tell? So that it will be well that you begin at once."
"Very well. My fee in advance will be twenty guineas."
"What? _Dieu!_--I have no money, I tell you! Get the diamond, and there
is one quarter--twenty-five per cent.--for you!"
"But what guarantee do you give that this story of yours isn't all
a hoax? Can you expect me to take everything on trust, and work for
nothing?"
The man rose and waved his arms excitedly. "It is true, I say!" he
exclaimed. "It is a fortune! There is much for you, and it will pay! I
have no money, or you should have some. What can I do? You will lose
the chance if you are foolish!"
"It rather seems to me, my friend, that I shall be foolish to give
valuable time to gratifying your cock-and-bull fancies. See here now.
I'm a man of business, and my time is fully occupied. You come here
and waste half an hour or more of it with a long rigmarole about some
valuable article that you say yourself you have never seen, and you
don't even know whether it is a diamond or not. You wander at large
over family traditions which you may believe yourself or may not.
You have no money, and you offer no fee as a guarantee of your _bonâ
fides_, and the sum of the thing is that you ask me to go and commit
a theft--to purloin an article you can't even describe, and then to
give you three-quarters of the proceeds. No, my man, you have made a
mistake. You must go away from here at once, and if I find you hanging
about my door again I shall have you taken away very summarily. Do you
understand? Now go away."
"_Mon Dieu!_ But----"
"I've no more time to waste," Dorrington answered, opening the door and
pointing to the stairs. "If you stay here any longer you'll get into
trouble."
[Illustration: "SIR YOU ARE A VER' BIG FOOL--A FOOL!"]
Jacques Bouvier walked out, muttering and agitating his hands. At
the top stair he turned and, almost too angry for words, burst out,
"Sir--you are a ver' big fool--a fool!" But Dorrington slammed the
door.
He determined, however, if he could find a little time, to learn a
little more of Léon Bouvier--perhaps to put a man to watch at the
Café des Bons Camarades. That the keeper of this place in Soho should
go regularly to Hatton Garden, the diamond market, was curious, and
Dorrington had met and analysed too many extraordinary romances to put
aside unexamined Jacques Bouvier's seemingly improbable story. But,
having heard all the man had to say, it had clearly been his policy
to get rid of him in the way he had done. Dorrington was quite ready
to steal a diamond, or anything else of value, if it could be done
quite safely, but he was no such fool as to give three-quarters of his
plunder--or any of it--to somebody else. So that the politic plan was
to send Jacques Bouvier away with the impression that his story was
altogether pooh-poohed and was to be forgotten.