MILAN, June 18th.
The examination of documents began this morning. I never thought we
should have such a heap to examine, nor papers of such a length. The
first sitting passed almost entirely in classifying, in examining
signatures, in skirmishes of all kinds around this main body.
My colleagues and I are working in a room in the municipal Palazzo del
Marino, a vast deserted building used, I believe, as a storehouse. Our
leathern armchairs and the table on which the documents are arranged
occupy the middle of the room. Along the walls are several cupboards,
nests of registers and rats; a few pictures with their faces to the
wall; some carved wood scutcheons, half a dozen flagstaffs and a
triumphal arch in cardboard, now taken to pieces and rotting--gloomy
apparatus of bygone festivals.
The persons taking part in the examination besides the three Frenchmen,
are, in the first place, a little Italian judge, with a mean face,
wrinkled like a winter apple, whose eyelids always seem heavy with
sleep; secondly, a clerk, shining with fat, his dress, hair, and
countenance expressive of restrained jollity, as he dreams voluptuous
dreams of the cool drinks he means to absorb through a straw when the
hour of deliverance shall sound from the frightful cuckoo clock, a relic
of the French occupation, which ticks at the end of the room; thirdly,
a creature whose position is difficult to determine--I think he must
be employed in some registry; he is here as a mere manual laborer. This
third person gives me the idea of being very much interested in the
fortunes of Signore Porfirio Zampini, for on each occasion, when his
duties required him to bring us documents, he whispered in my ear:
“If you only knew, my lord, what a man Zampini is! what a noble heart,
what a paladin!”
Take notice that this “paladin” is a macaroni-seller, strongly suspected
of trying to hoodwink the French courts.
Amid the awful heat which penetrated the windows, the doors, even the
sun-baked walls, we had to listen to, read, and compare documents.
Gnats of a ferocious kind, hatched by thousands in the hangings of this
hothouse, flew around our perspiring heads. Their buzzing got the upper
hand at intervals when the clerk’s voice grew weary and, diminishing in
volume, threatened to fade away into snores.
The little judge rapped on the table with his paperknife and urged the
reader afresh upon his wild career. My colleague from the Record
Office showed no sign of weariness. Motionless, attentive, classing the
smallest papers in his orderly mind, he did not even feel the’ gnats
swooping upon the veins in his hands, stinging them, sucking them, and
flying off red and distended with his blood.
I sat, both literally and metaphorically, on hot coals. Just as I came
into the room, the man from the Record Office handed me a letter which
had arrived at the hotel while I was out at lunch. It was a letter from
Lampron, in a large, bulky envelope. Clearly something important must
have happened.
My fate, perhaps, was settled, and was in the letter, while I knew it
not. I tried to get it out of my inside pocket several times, for to me
it was a far more interesting document than any that concerned Zampini’s
action. I pined to open it furtively, and read at least the first few
lines. A moment would have sufficed for me to get at the point of this
long communication. But at every attempt the judge’s eyes turned slowly
upon me between their half-closed lids, and made me desist. No--a
thousand times no! This smooth-tongued, wily Italian shall have no
excuse for proving that the French, who have already such a reputation
for frivolity, are a nation without a conscience, incapable of
fulfilling the mission with which they are charged.
And yet.... there came a moment when he turned his back and began to
sort a fresh bundle with the man of records. Here was an unlooked-for
opportunity. I cut open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and found
eight pages! Still I began:
“MY DEAR FRIEND:
“In spite of my anxiety about my mother, and the care her illness
demands (to-day it is found to be undoubted congestion of the
lungs), I feel bound to tell you the story of what has happened in
the Rue Hautefeuille, as it is very important--”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Mou-il-ard,” said the little judge, half
turning toward me, “does the paper you have there happen to be number
twenty-seven, which we are looking for?”
“Oh, dear, no; it’s a private letter.”
“A private letter? I ask pardon for interrupting you.”
He gave a faint smile, closed his eyes to show his pity for such
frivolity, and turned away again satisfied, while the other members of
the Zampini Commission looked at me with interest.
The letter was important. So much the worse, I must finish it:
“I will try to reconstruct the scene for you, from the details which
I have gathered.
“The time is a quarter to ten in the morning. There is a knock at
Monsieur Plumet’s door. The door opposite is opened half-way and
Madame Plumet looks out. She withdraws in a hurry, ‘with her heart
in her mouth,’ as she says; the plot she has formed is about to
succeed or fail, the critical moment is at hand; the visitor is her
enemy, your rival Dufilleul.
“He is full of self-confidence and comes in plump and flourishing,
with light gloves, and a terrier at his heels.
“‘My portrait framed, Plumet?’
“‘Yes, my lord-yes, to be sure.’
“‘Let’s see it.’
“I have seen the famous portrait: a miniature of the newly created
baron, in fresh butter, I think, done cheap by some poor girl who
gains her living by coloring photographs. It is intended for
Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes. A delicate attention from
Dufilleul, isn’t it? While Jeanne in her innocence is dreaming of
the words of love he has ventured to utter to her, and cherishes but
one thought, one image in her heart, he is exerting his ingenuity to
perpetuate the recollection of that image’s adventures elsewhere.
“He is pleased with the elaborate and costly frame which Plumet has
made for him.
“‘Very nice. How much?’
“‘One hundred and twenty francs.’
“‘Six louis? very dear.’
“‘That’s my price for this kind of work, my lord; I am very
busy just now, my lord.’
“‘Well, let it be this once. I don’t often have a picture framed;
to tell the truth, I don’t care for pictures.’
“Dufilleul admires and looks at himself in the vile portrait
which he holds outstretched in his right hand, while his left hand
feels in his purse. Monsieur Plumet looks very stiff, very unhappy,
and very nervous. He evidently wants to get his customer off the
premises.
“The rustling of skirts is heard on the staircase. Plumet turns
pale, and glancing at the half-opened door, through which the
terrier is pushing its nose, steps forward to close it. It is too
late.
“Some one has noiselessly opened it, and on the threshold stands
Mademoiselle Jeanne in walking-dress, looking, with bright eyes and
her most charming smile, at Plumet, who steps back in a fright, and
Dufilleul, who has not yet seen her.
“‘Well, sir, and so I’ve caught you!’
“Dufilleul starts, and involuntarily clutches the portrait to his
waistcoat.
“‘Mademoiselle--No, really, you have come--?’
“‘To see Madame Plumet. What wrong is there in that?’
“‘None whatever--of course not.’
“‘Not the least in the world, eh? Ha, ha! What a trifle flurries
you. Come now, collect yourself. There is nothing to be frightened
at. As I was coming upstairs, your dog put his muzzle out; I
guessed he was not alone, so I left my maid with Madame Plumet, and
came in at the right-hand door instead of the left. Do you think it
improper?’
“‘Oh, no, Mademoiselle.’
“‘However, I am inquisitive, and I should like to see what you are
hiding there.’
“‘It’s a portrait.’
“‘Hand it to me.’
“‘With pleasure; unfortunately it’s only a portrait of myself.’
“‘Why unfortunately? On the contrary, it flatters you--the nose is
not so long as the original; what do you say, Monsieur Plumet?’
“‘Do you think it good?’
“‘Very.’
“‘How do you like the frame?’
“‘It’s very pretty.’
“‘Then I make you a present of it, Mademoiselle.’
“‘Why! wasn’t it intended for me?’
“‘I mean--well! to tell the truth, it wasn’t; it’s a wedding
present, a souvenir--there’s nothing extraordinary in that, is
there?’
“‘Nothing whatever. You can tell me whom it’s for, I suppose?’
“‘Don’t you think that you are pushing your curiosity too far?’
“‘Well, really!’
“‘Yes, I mean it.’
“‘Since you make such a secret of it, I shall ask Monsieur Plumet to
tell me. Monsieur Plumet, for whom is this portrait?’
“Plumet, pale as death, fumbled at his workman’s cap, like a naughty
child.
“‘Why, you see, Mademoiselle--I am only a poor framemaker.’
“‘Very well! I shall go to Madame Plumet, who is sure to know, and
will not mind telling me.’
“Madame Plumet, who must have been listening at the door, came in at
that moment, trembling like a leaf, and prepared to dare all.
“I beg you won’t, Mademoiselle,’ broke in Dufilleul; ‘there is no
secret. I only wanted to tease you. The portrait is for a friend
of mine who lives at Fontainebleau.’
“‘His name?’
“‘Gonin--he’s a solicitor.’
“‘It was time you told me. How wretched you both looked. Another
time tell me straight out, and frankly, anything you have no reason
to conceal. Promise you won’t act like this again.’
“‘I promise.’
“‘Then, let us make peace.’
“She held out her hand to him. Before he could grasp it, Madame
Plumet broke in:
“‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I can not have you deceived like this in
my house. Mademoiselle, it is not true!’
“‘What is not true, Madame?’
“‘That this portrait is for Monsieur Gonin, or anybody else at
Fontainebleau.’
“Mademoiselle Charnot drew back in surprise.
“‘For whom, then?’
“‘An actress.’
“‘Take care what you are saying, Madame.’
“‘For Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes.’
“‘Lies!’ cried Dufilleul. ‘Prove it, Madame; prove your story,
please!’
“‘Look at the back,’ answered Madame Plumet, quietly.
“Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had not put down the miniature, turned it
over, read what was on the back, grew deathly pale, and handed it to
her lover.
“‘What does it say?’ said Dufilleul, stooping over it.
“It said: ‘From Monsieur le Baron D-----to Mademoiselle T-----,
Boulevard Haussmann. To be delivered on Thursday.’
“‘You can see at once, Mademoiselle, that this is not my writing.
It’s an abominable conspiracy. Monsieur Plumet, I call upon you to
give your wife the lie. She has written what is false; confess it!’
“The frame-maker hid his face in his hands and made no reply.
“‘What, Plumet, have you nothing to say for me?’
“Mademoiselle Charnot was leaving the room.
“‘Where are you going, Mademoiselle? Stay, you will soon see that
they lie!’
“She was already half-way across the landing when Dufilleul caught
her and seized her by the hand.
“‘Stay, Jeanne, stay!’
“‘Let me go, sir!’
“‘No, hear me first; this is some horrible mistake. I swear’
“At this moment a high-pitched voice was heard on the staircase.
“‘Well, George, how much longer are you going to keep me?’
“Dufilleul suddenly lost countenance and dropped Mademoiselle
Charnot’s hand.
“The young girl bent over the banisters, and saw, at the bottom of
the staircase, exactly underneath her, a woman looking up, with head
thrown back and mouth still half-opened. Their eyes met. Jeanne at
once turned away her gaze.
“Then, turning to Madame Plumet, who leaned motionless against the
wall:
“‘Come, Madame,’ she said, ‘we must go and choose a hat.’ And she
closed the dressmaker’s door behind her.
“This, my friend, is the true account of what happened in the Rue
Hautefeuille. I learned the details from Madame Plumet in person,
who could not contain herself for joy as she described the success
of her conspiracy, and how her little hand had guided old Dame
Fortune’s. For, as you will doubtless have guessed, the meeting
between Jeanne and her lover, so dreaded by the framemaker, had been
arranged by Madame Plumet unknown to all, and the damning
inscription was also in her handwriting.
“I need not add that Mademoiselle Charnot, upset by the scene, had a
momentary attack of faintness. However, she soon regained her usual
firm and dignified demeanor, which seems to show that she is a woman
of energy.
“But the interest of the story does not cease here. I think the
betrothal is definitely at an end. A betrothal is always a
difficult thing to renew, and after the publicity which attended the
rupture of this one, I do not see how they can make it up again.
One thing I feel sure of is, that Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot will
never change her name to Madame Dufilleul.
“Do not, however, exaggerate your own chances. They will be less
than you think for some time yet. I do not believe that a young
girl who has thus been wounded and deceived can forget all at once.
There is even the possibility of her never forgetting--of living
with her sorrow, preferring certain peace of mind, and the simple
joys of filial devotion, to all those dreams of married life by
which so many simple-hearted girls have been cruelly taken in.
“In any case do not think of returning yet, for I know you are
capable of any imprudence. Stay where you are, examine your
documents, and wait.
“My mother and I are passing through a bitter trial. She is ill, I
may say seriously ill. I would sooner bear the illness than my
present anxiety.
“Your friend,
“SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.
“P. S.--Just as I was about to fasten up this letter, I got a note
from Madame Plumet to tell me that Monsieur and Mademoiselle Charnot
have left Paris. She does not know where they have gone.”
I became completely absorbed over this letter. Some passages I read a
second time; and the state of agitation into which it threw me did not
at once pass away. I remained for an indefinite time without a notion
of what was going on around me, entirely wrapped up in the past or the
future.
The Italian attendant brought me back to the present with a jerk of his
elbow. He was replacing the last register in the huge drawers of the
table. He and I were alone. My colleagues had left, and our first
sitting had come to an end without my assistance, though before my
eyes. They could not have gone far, so, somewhat ashamed of my want of
attention, I put on my hat, and went to find them and apologize. The
little attendant caught me by the sleeve, and gave a knowing smile at
the letter which I was slipping into my pocketbook.
“E d’una donna?” he asked.
“What’s that to you?”
“I am sure of it; a letter from a man would never take so long to read;
and, ‘per Bacco’, you were a time about it! ‘Oh, le donne, illustre
signore, le downe!’”
“That’s enough, thank you.”
I made for the door, but he threw himself nimbly in my way, grimacing,
raising his eyebrows, one finger on his ribs. “Listen, my lord, I can
see you are a true scholar, a man whom fame alone can tempt. I could
get your lordship such beautiful manuscripts--Italian, Latin, German
manuscripts that never have been edited, my noble lord!”
“Stolen, too!” I replied, and pushed past him.
I went out, and in the neighboring square, amicably seated at the same
table, under the awning of a cafe, I found my French colleagues and the
Italian judge. At a table a little apart the clerk was sucking something
through a straw. And they all laughed as they saw me making my way
toward them through the still scorching glare of the sun.
MILAN, June 25th.
Our mission was concluded to-day. Zampini is a mere rogue. Brought face
to face with facts he could not escape from, he confessed that he had
intended to “have a lark” with the French heirs by claiming to be the
rightful heir himself, though he lacked two degrees of relationship to
establish his claim.
We explained to him that this little “lark” was a fraudulent act which
exposed him at least to the consequence of having to pay the costs of
the action. He accepted our opinion in the politest manner possible. I
believe he is hopelessly insolvent. He will pay the usher in macaroni,
and the barrister in jests.
My colleagues, the record man and the translator, leave Milan to-morrow.
I shall go with them.