It was not an easy matter to make Balsamides Bey take a fancy to Paul,
for he was, and still is, a man full of prejudice, if also full of wit.
In his well-shaped head resides an intelligence of no mean order, and
the lines graven in his pale face express thought and study, while
suggesting also an extreme love of sarcasm and a caustic, incredulous
humor. His large and deep-set blue eyes seem to look at things only to
criticise them, never to enjoy them, and his arched eyebrows bristle
like defenses set up between the world with its interests on the one
side and the inner man Balsamides on the other. Though he wears a heavy
brown mustache, it is easy to see that underneath it his thin lips curl
scornfully, and are drawn down at the extremities of his mouth. He is
very scrupulous in his appearance, whether he wears the uniform of a
Sultan's adjutant, or the morning dress of an ordinary man of the world,
or the official evening coat of the Turks, made like that of an English
clergyman, but ornamented by a string of tiny decorations attached to
the buttonhole on the left side. Gregorios Balsamides is of middle
height, slender and well built, a matchless horseman, and long inured to
every kind of hardship, though his pallor and his delicate white hands
suggest a constitution anything but hardy.
He is the natural outcome of the present state of civilization in
Turkey; and as it is not easy for the ordinary mind to understand the
state of the Ottoman Empire without long study, so it is not by any
means a simple matter to comprehend the characters produced by the
modern condition of things in the East. Balsamides Bey is a man who
seems to unite in himself as many contradictory qualities and
characteristics as are to be found in any one living man. He is a
thorough Turk in principle, but also a thorough Western Frank in
education. He has read immensely in many languages, and speaks French
and English with remarkable fluency. He has made an especial study of
modern history, and can give an important date, a short account of a
great battle, or a brief notice of a living celebrity, with an ease and
accuracy that many a student might envy. He reads French and English
novels, and probably possesses a contraband copy of Byron, whose works
are proscribed in Turkey and confiscated by the custom-house. He goes
into European society as well as among Turks, Greeks, and Armenians.
Although a Greek by descent, he loves the Turks and is profoundly
attached to the reigning dynasty, under whom his father and grandfather
lived and prospered. A Christian by birth and education, he has a
profound respect for the Mussulman faith, as being the religion of the
government he serves, and a profound hatred of the Armenian, whom he
regards as the evil genius of the Osmanli. He is a man whom many trust,
but whose chief desire seems to be to avoid all show of power. He is
often consulted on important matters, but his discretion is proof
against all attacks, and there is not a journalist nor correspondent in
Pera who can boast of ever having extracted the smallest item of
information from Balsamides Bey.
These are his good qualities, and they are solid ones, for he is a
thoroughly well-informed man, exceedingly clever, and absolutely
trustworthy. On the other hand, he is cold, sarcastic, and possibly
cruel, and occasionally he is frank almost to brutality.
On the very evening of our arrival in Pera I went to see him, for he is
an old friend of mine. I found him alone in his small lodgings in the
Grande Rue, reading a yellow-covered French novel by the light of a
German student-lamp. The room was simply furnished with a table, a
divan, three or four stiff, straight-backed chairs, and a bookcase. But
on the matted floor and divan there were two or three fine Sine carpets;
a couple of trophies of splendidly ornamented weapons adorned the wall;
by his side, upon a small eight-sided table inlaid with tortoise-shell
and mother-of-pearl, stood a silver salver with an empty coffee-cup of
beautiful workmanship,--the stand of beaten gold, and the delicate shell
of the most exquisite transparent china. He had evidently been on duty
at the palace, for he was in uniform, and had removed only his long
riding-boots, throwing himself down in his chair to read the book in
which he was interested.
On seeing me, he rose suddenly and put out his hand.
"Is it you? Where have you come from?" he cried.
"From England, to see you," I answered.
"You must stay with me," he said at once. "The spare room is ready," he
added, leading me to the door. Then he clapped his hands to call the
servant, before I could prevent him.
"But I have already been to the hotel," I protested.
"Go to Missiri's with a hamal, and bring the Effendi's luggage," he said
to the servant, who instantly disappeared.
"Caught," he exclaimed, laughing, as he opened the door and showed me my
little room. I had slept there many a night in former times, and I loved
his simple hospitality.
"You are the same as ever," I said. "A man cannot put his nose inside
your door without being caught, as you call it."
"Many a man may," he answered. "But not you, my dear fellow. Now--you
will have coffee and a cigarette. We will dine at home. There is pilaff
and kebabi and a bottle of champagne. How are you? I forgot to ask."
"Very well, thanks," said I, as we came back to the sitting-room. "I am
always well, you know. You look pale, but that is nothing new. You have
been on duty at the palace?"
"Friday," he answered laconically, which meant that he had been at the
Selamlek, attending the Sultan to the weekly service at the mosque.
"You used to get back early in the day. Have the hours changed?"
"Man of Belial," he replied, "with us nothing changes. I was detained at
the palace. So you have come all the way from England to see me?"
"Yes,--and to ask you a question and a favor."
"You shall have the answer and my services."
"Do not promise before you have heard. 'Two acrobats cannot always dance
on the same rope,' as your proverb says."
"And 'Every sheep hangs by its own heels,'" said he. "I will take my
chance with you. First, the question, please."
"Did you ever hear of Alexander Patoff?"
Balsamides looked at me a moment, with the air of a man who is asked an
exceedingly foolish question.
"Hear of him? I have heard of nothing else for the last eighteen months.
I have an indigestion brought on by too much Alexander Patoff. Is that
your errand, Griggs? How in the world did you come to take up that
question?"
"You have been asked about him before?" I inquired.
"I tell you there is not a dog in Constantinople that has not been
kicked for not knowing where that fellow is. I am sick of him, alive or
dead. What do I care about your Patoffs? The fool could not take care of
himself when he was alive, and now the universe is turned upside down to
find his silly body. Where is he? At the bottom of the Bosphorus. How
did he get there? By the kind exertions of his brother, who then played
the comedy of tearing his hair so cleverly that his ambassador believed
him. Very simple: if you want to find his body, I can tell you how to do
it."
"How?" I asked eagerly.
"Drain the Bosphorus," he answered, with a sneer. "You will find plenty
of skulls at the bottom of it. The smallest will be his, to a dead
certainty."
"My dear fellow," I protested, "his brother did not kill him. The proof
is that Paul Patoff has come hack swearing that he will find some trace
of Alexander. He came with me, and I believe his story."
"He is only renewing the comedy,--tearing his hair on the anniversary of
the death, like a well-paid mourner. Of course, somebody has accused him
again of the murder. He will have to tear his hair every time he is
accused, in order to keep up appearances. He knows, and he alone knows,
where the dead man is."
"But if he killed him the kavass must have known it--must have helped
him. You remember the story?"
"I should think so. What does the kavass prove? Nothing. He was probably
told to go off for a moment, and now will not confess it. Money will do
anything."
"There remains the driver of the carriage," I objected. "He saw
Alexander go into Agia Sophia, but he never saw him come out."
"And is anything easier than that? A man might learn those few words in
three minutes. That proves nothing."
"There is the probability," I argued. "Many persons have disappeared in
Stamboul before now."
"Nonsense, Griggs," he answered. "You know that when anything of the
kind has occurred it has generally turned out that the missing man was
bankrupt. He disappeared to reappear somewhere else under another name.
I do not believe a word of all those romances. To you Franks we are a
nation of robbers, murderers, and thieves; we are the Turkey of Byron,
always thirsting for blood, spilling it senselessly, and crying out for
more. If that idiot allowed his brother to kill him without attracting a
crowd,--in Stamboul, in the last week of Ramazan, when everybody is out
of doors,--he deserved his fate, that is all."
"I do not believe he is dead," I said, "and I have come here to ask you
to make the acquaintance of Paul Patoff. If you still believe him to be
a murderer when you have heard him tell his story, I shall be very much
surprised."
"I should tear him to pieces if I met him," said Balsamides, with a
laugh. "The mere sight of anybody called Patoff would bring on an attack
of the nerves."
"Be serious," said I. "Do you think I would be so foolish as to interest
myself in this business unless I believed that it could be cleared of
all mystery and explained?"
"You have been in England," retorted Gregorios. "That will explain any
kind of insanity. Do you want me to pester every office in the
government with new inquiries? It will do no good. Everything has been
tried. The man is gone without leaving a trace. No amount of money will
produce information. Can I say more? Where money fails, a man need not
be so foolish as to hope anything from his intelligence."
"I am foolish enough to hope something," I replied. "If you will not
help me, I must go elsewhere. I will not give up the thing at the
start."
"Well, if I say I will help you, what do you expect me to do? Can I do
anything which has not been done already? If so, I will do it. But I
will not harness myself to a rotten cart, as the proverb says. It is
quite useless to expect anything more from the police."
"I expect nothing from them. I believe that Alexander is alive, and has
been hidden by somebody rich enough and strong enough to baffle
pursuit."
"What put that into your head?" asked my companion, looking at me with
sudden curiosity.
"Nothing but the reduction of the thing to the last analysis. Either he
is dead, or he is alive. As you say, he could hardly have been killed on
such a night without attracting attention. Besides, the motives for
Paul's killing him were wholly inadequate. No, let me go on. Therefore
I say that he was taken alive."
"Where?"
"In Santa Sophia."
"But then," argued Balsamides, "the driver would have seen him carried
out."
"Yes," I admitted. "That is the difficulty. But he might perhaps have
been taken through the porch; at all events, he must have gone down the
stairs alone, taking the lantern."
"They found the lantern," said Gregorios. "You did not know that? A long
time afterwards the man who opens the towers confessed that when he had
gone up with the brothers and the kavass he had found that his taper was
burnt out. He picked up the kavass's lantern and carried it down,
meaning to return with the next party of foreigners. No other foreigners
came, and when he went up to find the Patoffs they were gone and the
carriage was gone. He kept the lantern, until the offers of reward
induced him to give it up and tell his story."
"That proves nothing, except that Alexander went down-stairs in the
dark."
"I have an idea, Griggs!" cried Balsamides, suddenly changing his tone.
"It proves this,--that Alexander did not necessarily go down the steps
at all."
"I do not understand."
"There is another way out of that gallery. Did you know that? At the
other end, in exactly the same position, hidden in the deep arch, there
is a second door. There is also a winding staircase, which leads to the
street on the opposite side of the mosque. Foreigners are never admitted
by that side, but it is barely possible that the door may have been
open. Alexander Patoff may have gone down that way, thinking it was the
staircase by which he had come up."
"You see," I said, delighted at this information, "everything is not
exhausted yet."
"No, I begin to think we are nearer to an explanation. If that door was
open,--which, however, is very improbable,--he could have gone down and
have got into the street without passing the carriage, which stood on
the other side of the mosque. But, after all, we are no nearer to
knowing what ultimately became of him."
"Would it be possible to find out whether the door was really open, and,
if so, who passed that way?" I inquired.
"We shall see," said Gregorios. "I will change my mind. I will make the
acquaintance of your Russian friend. I know him by sight, though I never
spoke to him. When I have talked the matter over with him I will tell
you what I think about it. Let us go to dinner."
I felt that I had overcome the first great difficulty in persuading
Balsamides to take some interest in my errand. He is one of those men
who are very hard to move, but who, when once they are disposed to act
at all, are ready to do their best. Moreover, the existence of the
second staircase, leading from the gallery to the street, at once
explained how Alexander might have left the church unobserved by the
coachman. I wondered why no one had thought of this. It had probably not
suggested itself to any one, because strangers are never admitted from
that side, and because the door is almost always closed.
Gregorios did not refer to the subject again that evening, but amused
himself by asking me all manner of questions about the state of England.
We fell to talking about European politics, and the hours passed very
pleasantly until midnight.
On the next day I went to see Paul, and told him the result of my first
step. He appeared very grateful.
"It seems hard that my life should be ruined by this thing," he said
wearily. "Any prospect of news is delightful, however small. I am under
a sort of curse,--as much as though I had really had something to do
with poor Alexander's death. It comes up in all sorts of ways. Unless we
can solve the mystery, I shall never be really free."
"We will solve it," I said, in order to reassure him. "Nothing shall be
left undone, and I hope that in a few weeks you may feel relieved from
all this anxiety."
"It is more than anxiety; it is pain," he answered. I supposed that he
was thinking of Hermione, and was silent. Presently he proposed to go
out. It was a fine day in February, though the snow was on the ground
and filled the ruts in the pavement of the Grande Rue de Pera. Every one
was wrapped in furs and every one wore overshoes, without which it is
impossible to go out in winter in Constantinople. The streets were
crowded with that strange multitude seen nowhere else in the world; the
shops were full of people of all sorts, from the ladies of the embassies
to the veiled Turkish ladies, who have small respect for the regulation
forbidding them to buy in Frank establishments. At Galata Serai the huge
Kurdish hamals loitered in the sun, waiting for a job, their ropes and
the heavy pillows on which they carry their burdens lying at their feet.
The lean dogs sat up and glared hungrily at the huge joints of meat
which the butchers' lads carried through the crowd, forcing their way
past the delicate Western ladies, who drew back in horror at the sight
of so much raw beef, and through knots of well-dressed men standing
before the cafes in the narrow street. Numberless soldiers moved in the
crowd, tall, fair Turks, with broad shoulders and blue eyes, in the
shabby uniform of the foot-guards, but looking as though they could
fight as well as any smart Prussian grenadier, as indeed they can when
they get enough to eat. Now and then a closed sedan-chair moved rapidly
along, borne by sturdy Kurds, and occasionally a considerable
disturbance was caused by the appearance of a carriage. Paul and I
strolled down the steep street, past Galata Tower and down into Galata
itself.
"Shall we cross?" asked Paul, as we reached the bridge.
"Let us go up the Bosphorus," I said. "There will probably be a steamer
before long."
He assented readily enough. It was about eleven o'clock in the
morning,--five by the Turkish clocks,--and the day was magnificent. The
sun was high, and illuminated everything in the bright, cold air, so
that the domes and minarets of the city were white as snow, with bluish
shadows, while the gilded crescents and spires glistened with unnatural
brilliancy in the clear winter's daylight. It is hard to say whether
Stamboul is more beautiful at any one season of the year than during the
other three, for every season brings with it some especial loveliness,
some new phase of color. You may reach Serai point on a winter's morning
in a driving snow-storm, so that everything is hidden in the gray veil
of the falling flakes; suddenly the clouds will part and the sunlight
will fall full upon the city, so that it seems as if every mosque and
spire were built of diamonds. Or you may cross to Scutari in the early
dawn of a morning in June, when the sky is like a vast Eastern flower,
dark blue in the midst overhead, the petals shaded with every tint to
the faint purple on the horizon; and every hue in turn passes over the
fantastic buildings, as the shadows gradually take color from the sky,
and the soft velvety water laps up the light in broad pools and delicate
streaks of tinted reflection. It is always beautiful, always new; but of
all times, I think the hour when the high sun illuminates most
distinctly everything on land and sea is the time when Stamboul is most
splendid and queenly.
The great ferry-boat heaved and thumped the water, and swung slowly off
the wooden pier, while we stood on the upper deck watching the scene
before us. For two men as familiar with Constantinople in all its
aspects as we were, it seemed almost ridiculous to go on board a steamer
merely for the sake of being carried to the mouth of the Black Sea and
back again. But I have always loved the Bosphorus, and I thought it
would amuse Paul to pass the many landings, and to see the crowds of
passengers, and to walk about the empty deck. He was tired with the
journey and harassed in mind, and for those ills the open air is the
best medicine.
He appeared to enjoy it, and asked me many questions about the palaces
and villas on both shores, for I was better acquainted with the place
than he. It seemed to interest him to know that such a villa belonged to
such a Pasha, that such another was the property of an old princess of
evil fame, while the third had seen strange doings in the days of
Mehemet Ali, and was now deserted or inhabited only by ghosts of the
past,--the resort of ghouls and jins from the neighboring grave-yards.
As we lay a moment at the pier of Yeni Koej,--"New town" sounds less
interesting,--we watched the stream of passengers, and I thought Paul
started slightly as a tall, smooth-faced, and hideous negro suddenly
turned and looked up to where we stood on the deck, as he left the
steamer. I might have been mistaken, but it was the only approach to an
incident of interest which occurred that day. We reached the upper part
of the Bosphorus, and at Yeni Mahalle, within sight of the Black Sea,
the ferry-boat described a wide circle and turned once more in the
direction of Stamboul.
"I feel better," said Paul, as we reached Galata bridge and elbowed our
way ashore through the crowd. "We will go again."
"By all means," I answered.
From that time during several weeks we frequently made excursions into
Stamboul and up the Bosphorus, and the constant enjoyment of the open
air did Paul good. But I could see that wherever we went he watched the
people with intense interest; following some individual with his eyes in
silence, or trying to see into dark archways and through latticed
windows, staring at the files of passengers who came on board the boats
or went ashore at the different landings, and apparently never relaxing
his attention. The people grew familiar to me, too, and gradually it
appeared that Paul was constructing a method for our peregrinations. It
was he, and not I, who suggested the direction of our expeditions, and I
noticed that he chose certain places on certain days. On Monday, for
instance, he never failed to propose a visit to the bazaars, on Tuesday
we generally went up the Bosphorus, on Wednesday into Stamboul. On
Friday afternoons, when the weather was fine, we used to ride out to the
Sweet Waters of Europe; for Friday is the Mussulman's day of rest, and
on that day all who are able love to go out to the Kiat-hane--the
"paper-mill,"--where they pass the afternoon in driving and walking,
eating sweetmeats, smoking, drinking coffee, watching gypsy girls dance,
or listening to the long-winded tales of professional story-tellers.
Almost every day had its regular excursion, and it was clear to me that
he always chose the place where on that day of the week there was likely
to be the greatest crowd.
Meanwhile Balsamides, in whose house I continued to live, alternately
laughed at me for believing Paul's story, and expressed in the next
breath a hope that Alexander might yet be found. He had been to Santa
Sophia, and had ascertained that the other staircase was usually opened
on the nights when the mosque was illuminated, for the convenience of
the men employed in lighting the lamps, and this confirmed his theory
about the direction taken by Alexander when he left the gallery. But
here all trace ceased again, and Balsamides was almost ready to give up
the search, when an incident occurred which renewed our energy and hope,
and which had the effect of rousing Paul to the greatest excitement.
We were wandering under the gloomy arches of the vast bazaar one day,
and had reached the quarter where the Spanish Jews have their shops and
collect their wonderful mass of valuables, chiefly antiquities, offering
them for sale in their little dens, and ever hungry for a bargain. We
strolled along, smoking and chatting as we went, when a Jew named
Marchetto, with whom I had had dealings in former days and who knew me
very well, came suddenly out into the broad covered way, and invited us
into his shop. He said he had an object of rare beauty which he was sure
I would buy. We went in, and sat down on a low divan against the wall.
The sides of the little shop were piled to the ceiling with neatly
folded packages of stuffs, embroideries, and prayer carpets. In one
corner stood a shabby old table with a glass case, under which various
objects of gold and silver were exposed for sale. The whole place
smelled strongly of Greek tobacco, but otherwise it was clean and neat.
A little raised dome in the middle of the ceiling admitted light and
air.
Marchetto disappeared for a moment, and instantly returned with two cups
of Turkish coffee on a pewter salver, which he deposited on a stool
before us. He evidently meant business, for he began to talk of the
weather, and seemed in no hurry to show us the object he had vaguely
mentioned. At last I asked for it, which I would certainly not have done
had I meant to buy it. It proved to be a magnificent strip of Rhodes
tapestry, of the kind formerly made for the Knights of Malta, but not
manufactured since the last century. It consists always of Maltese
crosses, of various sizes and designs, embroidered in heavy dark red
silk upon strips of coarse strong linen about two feet wide, or of the
same design worked upon square pieces for cushions. The value of this
tapestry is very great, and is principally determined by the fineness of
the stitch and the shade of red in the silk used.
Marchetto's face fell as we admired his tapestry, for he knew that we
would not begin a bargain by conceding the smallest merit to the object
offered. But he put a brave face on the matter, and began to show us
other things: a Giordes carpet, a magnificent piece of old Broussa gold
embroidery on pale blue satin, curious embroideries on towels, known as
Persian lace,--indeed, every variety of ancient stuff. Tired of sitting
still, I rose and turned over some of the things myself. In doing so I
struck my elbow against the old glass case in the corner, and looked to
see whether I had broken it. In so doing my eye naturally fell upon the
things laid out on white paper beneath the glazed frame. Among them I
saw a watch which attracted my attention. It was of silver, but very
beautifully engraved and adorned in Russian _niello_. The ribbed knob
which served to wind it was of gold. Altogether the workmanship was very
fine, and the watch looked new.
"Here is a Russian watch, Patoff," I said, tapping the glass pane with
my finger. Paul rose languidly and came to the table. When he saw the
thing he turned pale, and gripped my arm in sudden excitement.
"It is his," he said, in a low voice, trying to raise the lid.
"Alexander's?" Paul nodded. "Pretend to be indifferent," I said in
Russian, fearing lest Marchetto should understand.
The Jew unclosed the case and handed us the watch. Paul took it with
trembling fingers and opened it at the back. There in Russian letters
were engraved the words ALEXANDER PAULOVITCH, FROM HIS FATHER; the date
followed. There was no doubt about it. The watch had belonged to the
lost man; he had, therefore, been robbed.
"You got this from some bankrupt Pasha, Marchetto?" I inquired.
Everything offered for sale in the bazaar at second hand is said to come
from the establishment of a Pasha; the statement is supposed to attract
foreigners.
Marchetto nodded and smiled.
"A Russian Pasha," I continued. "Did you ever hear of a Russian Pasha,
Marchetto? The fellow who sold it to you lied."
"He who lies on the first day of Ramazan repents on the day of Bairam,"
returned the Jew, quoting a Turkish proverb, and grinning. I was struck
by the words. Somehow the mention of Bairam made me think of Alexander's
uncertain fate, and suggested the idea that Marchetto knew something
about it.
"Yes," I answered, looking sharply at him; "and another proverb says
that the fox ends his days in the furrier's shop. Where did you buy the
watch?"
"Allah bilir! I have forgotten."
"Allah knows, undoubtedly. But you know too," I said, laughing, and
pretending to be amused. Paul had resumed his seat upon the small divan,
and was listening with intense interest; but he knew it was best to
leave the thing to me. Marchetto was a fat man, with red hair and
red-brown eyes. He looked at me doubtfully for a moment.
"I will buy it if you will tell me where you got it," I said.
"I got it"--He hesitated. "It came out of a harem," he added suddenly,
with a sort of chuckle.
"Out of a harem!" I exclaimed, in utter incredulity. "What harem?"
"I will not tell you," he answered, gravely, the smile fading from his
face. "I swore that I would not tell."
"Will you swear that it really came from a harem?" I asked.
"I give you my word of honor," asseverated Marchetto. "I swear by my
head, by your beard"----
"I do not mean that," I said quietly. "Will you swear to me, solemnly,
before God, that you are telling the truth?"
Marchetto looked at me in surprise, for no people in the world are so
averse to making a solemn oath as the Hebrews, as, perhaps, no people
are more exact in regard to the truth when so made to bind themselves.
The man looked at me for a moment.
"You seem very curious about that watch," he said at last, turning away
and busying himself with his stuffs.
"Then you will not swear?" I asked, putting the watch back in its place.
"I cannot swear to what I do not know. But I know the man who sold it to
me. He is the Lala of a harem, that is certain. I will not tell you his
name, nor the name of the Effendi to whose harem he belongs. Will you
buy my watch?--birindji--first quality--it is a beautiful thing. On my
honor, I have never seen a finer one, though it is of silver."
"Not unless you will tell me where it came from," I said firmly.
"Besides, I must show it to Vartan in Pera before I buy it. Perhaps the
works are not good."
"It is yours," said Marchetto. "Take it. When you have had it two days
you will buy it."
"How much?"
"Twenty liras,--twenty Turkish pounds," answered the Jew promptly.
"You mean five," I said. The watch was worth ten, I thought, about two
hundred and thirty francs.
"Impossible. I would rather let you take it as a gift. It is
birindji--first quality--upon my honor. I never saw"----
"Rubbish, Marchetto!" I exclaimed. "Let me take it to Vartan to be
examined. Then we will bargain."
"Take it," he answered. "Keep it as long as you like. I know you very
well, and I thank Heaven I have profited a little with you. But the
price of the watch is twenty pounds. You will pay it, and all your life
you will look at it and say, 'What an honest man Marchetto is!' By my
head--it is birindji--first quality--I never"----
"I have no doubt," I answered, cutting him short. I motioned to Paul
that we had better go: he rose without a word.
"Good-by, Marchetto," I said. "I will come back in a day or two and
bargain with you."
"It is birindji--by my head--first quality"--were the last words we
heard as we left the Jew amongst his stuffs. Then we threaded the
subterranean passages of the bazaar, and soon afterwards were walking in
the direction of Galata bridge, on our way back to Pera. At last Paul
spoke.
"We are on the scent," he said. "That fellow was speaking the truth when
he said the watch came from a harem. I could see it in his face. I begin
to think that Alexander did some absurdly rash thing,--followed some
veiled Turkish woman, as he would have done before if I had not stopped
him,--was seized, imprisoned in some cellar or other, and ultimately
murdered."
"It looks like it," I answered. "Of course I would not buy the watch
outright, because as long as it is not paid for I have a hold upon
Marchetto. I will talk to Balsamides to-night. He is very clever about
those things, and he will find out the name of the black man who sold
it."
We separated, and I went to find my friend; but he was on duty and would
not return until evening. I spent the rest of the day in making visits,
trying to get rid of the time. On returning to the house of Gregorios I
found a letter from John Carvel, the first I had received from him since
I had left England. It ran as follows:--
* * *
MY DEAR GRIGGS: Since you left us something very extraordinary and
unexpected has taken place, and considering the part you took in our
household affairs, you should not be kept in the dark. I have suffered
more annoyance in connection with my unfortunate sister-in-law than I
can ever tell you; and the thing has culminated in a sort of
transformation scene, such as you certainly never expected any more than
I did. What will you say when I tell you that Madame Patoff has suddenly
emerged from her rooms in all respects a sane woman? You will not be any
less surprised--unless Paul has confided in you--to hear that he asked
Hermione to marry him before leaving us, and that Hermione did not
refuse him! I am so nervous that I have cut three meets in the last
month.
Of course you will want to know how all this came out. I do not see how
I can manage to write so long a letter as this must be. But the _labor
improbus_ knocks the stuffing out of all difficulties, as you put it in
your neat American way. I dare say I shall survive. If I do not, the
directions for my epitaph are, "Here lies the body of Anne Patoff's
brother-in-law." If you could see me, you would appreciate the justice
of the inscription.
Madame Patoff is perfectly sane; dines with us, drives out, walks,
talks, and reads like any other human being,--in which she differs
materially from Chrysophrasia, who does all these things as they were
never done, before or after the flood. We do not know what to make of
the situation, but we try to make the best of it. It came about in this
way. Hermione had taken a fancy to pay her aunt a visit, a day or two
after you had left. Mrs. North was outside, as usual, reading or working
in the next room. It chanced that the door was left open, or not quite
closed. Mrs. North had the habit of listening to what went on,
professionally, because it was her business to watch the case. As she
sat there working, she heard Madame Patoff's voice, talking
consecutively. She had never heard her talk before, more than to say
"Yes," or "No," or "It is a fine day," or "It rains." She rose and went
near the door. Her patient was talking very connectedly about a book she
had been reading, and Hermione was answering her as though not at all
surprised at the conversation. Then, presently, Hermione began to beg
her to come out into the house and to live with the rest of us, since
she was now perfectly sane. Mrs. North was thunderstruck, but did not
lose her head. She probably did the best thing she could have done, as
the event proved. She entered the room very quietly,--she is always so
quiet,--and said in the most natural way in the world, "I am so glad you
are better, Madame Patoff. Excuse me, Miss Hermione left the door open
and I heard you talking." The old lady started and looked at her a
moment. Then she turned away, and presently, looking rather white, she
answered the nurse: "Thank you, Mrs. North, I am quite well. Will you
send for Professor Cutter?" So Cutter was sent for, and when he had
seen her he sent for me, and told me that my sister-in-law was in a
lucid state, but that it would be just as well not to excite her. If she
chose to leave her room she might, he said, but she ought to be watched.
"The deuce!" said I, "this is most extraordinary!" "Exactly," said he,
"most extraordinary."
The lucid moment lasted, and she has been perfectly sane ever since. She
goes about the house, touching everything and admiring everything, and
enjoys driving with me in the dog-cart. I do not know what to make of
it. I asked Hermione how it began. She only said that she thought her
aunt had been better when she was with her, and then it had come very
suddenly. The other day Madame Patoff asked about Paul, and I told her
he had gone to the East with you. But she did not seem to know anything
about you, though I told her you had seen her. "Poor Paul," she said, "I
should like to see him so much. He is the only one left." She was sad
for a moment, but that was all. Cutter said it was very strange; that
her insanity must have been caused in some way by the shock she had when
she threw herself out of the window in Germany. Perhaps so. At all
events she is sane now, and Cutter says she will not be crazy again. I
hope he is right. She appeared very grateful for all I had done for her,
and I believe she has written to Paul. Queer story, is it not?
Now for the sequel. Hermione came to me one morning in the library, and
confessed that Paul had asked her to marry him, and that she had not
exactly refused. Girls' ideas about those things are apt to be very
inexact when they are in love with a man and do not want to own it. Of
course I said I was glad she had not accepted him; but when I put it to
her in that way she seemed more uncertain than ever. The end of it was
that she said she could not marry him, however much she liked him,
unless he could put an end to a certain foolish tale which is told
against him. I dare say you have heard that he had been half suspected
of helping his brother out of the world. Was there ever such nonsense?
That was what Chrysophrasia meant with her disgusting personalities
about Cain and Abel. I dare say you remember. I do not mind telling you
that I like Paul very much more than I expected to when he first came.
He has a hard shell, but he is a good fellow, and as innocent of his
brother's death as I am. But--they are cousins, and Paul's mother has
certainly been insane. Of course insanity brought on by an accident can
never be hereditary; but then, there is Chrysophrasia, who is certainly
very odd. However, Paul is a fine fellow, and I will think of it. Mrs.
Carvel likes him even better than I do. I would have preferred that
Hermione should marry an out-and-out Englishman, but I always said she
should marry the man she loved, if he were a gentleman, and I will not
go back on my word. They will not have much to live on, for I believe
Paul has refused to touch a penny of his brother's fortune, believing
that he may yet be found.
But the plot thickens. What do you suppose Macaulay has been doing? He
has written a letter to his old chief, Lord Mavourneen, who always liked
him so much, begging to be sent to Constantinople. The ambassador had a
secretary out there of the same standing who wanted to go to Paris, so
the matter was arranged at the Foreign Office, and Macaulay is going out
at once. Naturally the female establishment set up a howl that they must
spend the summer on the Bosphorus; that I had taken them everywhere
else, and that no one of them could die happy without having seen
Constantinople. The howl lasted a week. Then I went the way of all
flesh, and gave in. Mrs. Carvel wanted to see Macaulay, Madame Patoff
wanted to see the place where poor Alexander disappeared, Hermione
wanted to see Paul, and Chrysophrasia wanted to see the Golden Horn and
dance upon the glad waters of the joyous Bosphorus in the light caique
of commerce. I am rather glad I have submitted. I think that Hermione's
affection is serious,--she looks ill, poor child,--and I want to see
more of Paul before deciding. Of course, with Macaulay in one embassy
and Paul in another, we shall see everything; and Mary says I am growing
crusty over my books. You understand now how all this has occurred.
Now I want your advice, for you not only know Constantinople, but you
are living there. Do you advise us to come at once and spend the spring,
or to come later and stay all summer? Is there anything to eat? Must I
bring a cook? Can I get a house, or must we encamp in a hotel? What
clothes does one wear? In short, tell me everything you know, on a
series of post cards or by telegraph,--for you hate writing letters more
than I do. I await your answer with anxiety, as we shall regulate our
movements by what you say. All send affectionate messages to you and to
Paul, to whom please read this letter.
Yours ever, JOHN CARVEL.
* * *
I had not recovered from my astonishment in reading this long epistle,
when Gregorios came in and sat down by the fire. His entrance reminded
me of the watch, and for the moment banished John Carvel and his family
from my thoughts. I showed him the thing, and told him what Marchetto
had said.
"We have him now!" he exclaimed, examining the name and date with
interest, though he could not read the Russian characters.
"It is not so sure," I said. "He will never tell the name of the negro."
"No; but we can see the fellow easily enough, I fancy," returned
Balsamides. "You do not know how these things are done. It is most
probable that Marchetto has not paid him for the watch. Things of that
sort are generally not paid for until they have been sold out of the
shop. Marchetto would not give him a good price for the watch until he
knew what it would fetch, and the man would not take a small sum because
he believes it to be valuable. The chances are that the Lala comes from
time to time to inquire if it is sold, and Marchetto shows it to him to
prove that he has not got any money for it."
"That sounds rather far-fetched," I observed. "Marchetto may have had it
in his keeping ever since Alexander disappeared. The Lala would not wait
as long as that. He would take it to some one else."
"No, I do not believe so," said Gregorios thoughtfully. "Besides, it may
not have been brought to the Jew more than a week ago. Those fellows do
not part with jewelry unless they need money. It is a pretty thing, too,
and would attract the attention of any foreigner."
"How can you manage to watch Marchetto so closely as to get a sight of
the man?"
"Bribe the Jew in the next shop; or, still better, pay a hamal to spend
his time in the neighborhood. The man probably comes once a week on a
certain day. Keep the watch. The next time he comes it will be gone, but
Marchetto will not have been paid for it and will refuse to pay the
Lala. There will inevitably be a hubbub and a noise over it. The hamal
can easily find out the name of the negro, who is probably well known in
the bazaar."
"But suppose that I am right, and it is already paid for?" I objected.
"It is very unlikely. I know these people better than you do. At all
events, we will put the hamal there to watch for the row. If it does not
come off in a month, I will begin to think you are right."
Gregorios is a true Oriental. He possesses the inborn instinct of the
bazaar.