For my part, I could only reply that it was a question of character,
but that while she might feel regret and express her penitence in
words, a woman who had done what she had done would never express it
in acts.
Merton said, "Thank you," which seemed to me a rather odd reply. He
rose as he spoke and for a moment walked about in silence, and then
said: "By George! Greville, I felt as if I had insulted her. You think
I was right--it is quite a relief." He spoke with an amount of emotion
which appeared to me uncalled for.
"Yes, of course you were right; but what did she say?"
"'Say?' She said: 'I am not a child, sir. I did what I know to be
wrong. I did it for no personal advantage. I am punished when I think
of myself as a thief. I have already suffered otherwise. I do not
care. I did it for my country, as--as you kill men for it. I shall
abide by what I did and may God forgive me! But if you are ashamed--if
you are shocked--if you think--oh, if you fear to assist me, you will
at least consider what I have said as a confidence.' She stood up as
she answered me, and spoke out with entire absence of care about being
overheard. Ah, but I wanted to see that masked face! I said twice as
she spoke: 'Be careful. You mistake me.' She took not the least notice
of my caution. Then at last I said: 'Pray sit down. It was--it is
clear, madame, that all concerned or who may concern themselves, with
this matter must feel absolute security that there will be no weakness
anywhere. After what you have said, and with entire trust in you, we
shall at all risks see this thing through.' She said, 'Thank you,'
and did sit down.
"Then I went on: 'I want to ask you a question or two. Did the count
recognize you?'
"'I was not sure at the time, but he must have at least suspected me,
for he called next day at an unusually early hour, insisted on seeing
me, and frankly told me that on the night before, during the fire, a
document had been stolen from his table. He had remembered me as near
to the office. Did I know anything about it? I said, "How could I?" I
was dreadfully scared, but I replied that I had certainly gone through
his office and had left both doors open. Then he said, "It is too
grave a matter for equivocation, and I ask, Did you take it?" I said I
was insulted, and upon this he lost his temper and threatened all
manner of consequences.'
X
"To cut it short, Greville, she refused to be questioned, and, I
fancy, lied rather more plainly than she was willing to admit to me.
He went away furious and reasonably sure, or so I think, that she had
the papers."
"I see," said I. "He had been careless. Of course, he hesitated for a
day or two to confess his loss. But what about those papers? Where are
they? She ought to have taken them at once to the legation."
"Yes, but that is easily explained. The count called early, and after
that she felt sure that she would be promptly arrested. He was too
ashamed to go at once to any such length. He must be an indecisive
man. At all events, he took no positive action until after our
encounter and her escape, when he became still more sure where she
was going and why. You see, he lacked the good sense to confess
instantly to the head of his office. Arrest would have been
instantaneous. He waited, ashamed to confess, and I presume did not
fully inform the police he called in. Now, I suppose, he has had to
confess his loss to his superiors."
"But these papers?" said I.
"Well, don't hurry me. When she got home that night and read the
papers she had--well, taken, she saw their enormous value to our
government. Their importance increased her alarm, and the count's
visit added to her sense of need to conceal somewhere the proofs of
her guilt. After her first fatal delay of the next morning, she was
afraid to carry the papers to the legation. She could trust no one.
She believed the Emperor's minister would act at once. She knew that,
soon or late, her town house would be searched. To keep the papers
about her would not do. She must hide them at once, and then we must
hear of them; and no letters would serve her purpose. She was
panic-stricken. I fancy the count, having been careless, was as
anxious, but told no one that day. This gave her a chance until luck
played her a trick. The count's interview in the morning, while it
frightened her, had not helped him. The next day his superiors would
have to be told, and I have no doubt have been.
"Then, as you know, it came his turn to have a bit of good fortune.
Walking in haste to escape a ducking, he must have turned into the Rue
du Roi de Rome to get a cab, and was just in time to see her enter
your carriage. Very likely he did not see you at all. Indeed, we may
be sure that he did not. When, too, the count saw that, in place of
turning homeward, she was being driven toward the Bois, his suspicions
were at once aroused. I ought to say that, to avoid using her own
carriage, she had set out to walk. She was not yet watched, though she
may have thought she was, and her plan was a good one. Curious and
troubled, he caught a cabriolet and followed, as was natural enough.
"The direction of your flight through the Bois confirmed his
suspicions. He may have guessed, and he was right, that she was about
to go to her well-known little country house and meant to hide the
papers. I am trying to follow what must have been his course of
thought and would have been mine. He would catch her and get them,
even at the cost of arresting her. So far this is in part her account
and in part my inferences. As we talked thus at length, she was again
indescribably uneasy and took every one who passed for a spy."
"Well," said I, "I do not wonder. The court is cool to us. Something
hostile to our country is going on between France and England. The
English abuse is exhausting their adjectives. If they propose
intervention in any shape, Mr. Adams has instructions of which every
American should be proud."
"Good!" cried Merton. "We have not put forth our power, and people
over here do not dream of the way in which we could and would rise to
meet new foes. But here is our own little battle. I have yet to tell
you what she did and my further reflections. After you got her away
from the count, and Alphonse guided her, she walked through the rain
in the darkness to her small chalet beyond the Bois."
"But," said I, "why did not the count follow and get there, as he
could have done, before her?"
"I do not know. He was, you said, a bit dazed and his head cut.
Probably he felt it to be needful to secure aid from the police, as he
did later."
"Yes, that must have been the case."
"Her old American nurse has charge of the chalet. At times madame
spends a few days there. She explained her condition as the result of
a carriage accident, and, I fancy, must have taken her nurse into her
confidence. She did not tell me. A fire was made in her boudoir, and,
with some change of dress, she sat down to think. She knew that, soon
or late, the count must confess his loss, and then that the whole
police force of Paris would concentrate its skill first on preventing
her from using the papers, and finally on securing them. They would at
once suspect that she had made her singular dash for the chalet to
conceal the papers, as the count must have inferred. She was one woman
against the power, intelligence, and limitless resources of an army.
If the count acted with reasonable promptness, the time left her to
hide the papers was likely to be short.
"She had adopted and dropped one plan after another as she walked
through the night. Then, as she sat in despair, she had an
inspiration. The fireplace was kept, after the common American way,
full of unremoved wood ashes. It suggested a resource. To lessen the
size of the package she hastily removed the many envelops of the
contained papers and also the thick double outside cover. Then she
tied them together, raked away the newly made fire, and setting the
lessened package on the hearth, far back, piled the cold ashes over
it. It was safe from combustion. Finally, she replaced the cinders and
set on top some burning twigs and a small log or two. The fire was
soon burning brightly. For a few minutes she sat thinking that she
must burn the envelops. It was now late. The gate-bell rang. Three
hours had gone by since she left the count. In great haste she tore up
the thick outside envelops and other covers and hastily scattered
them on the flames. She did succeed in burning the larger part of the
covers, and only by accident, or rather by reason of her haste, was,
as I shall tell you, lucky enough to leave unburned a bit of the outer
cover. However, she piled on more twigs, and had settled herself by
the fire when her nurse entered in company with a man in civilian
dress and two of the police. They used little ceremony and said simply
that she was believed to have certain papers. Best to give them up and
save trouble. Of course, she denied the charge and was indignant. Then
they made a very complete search, after which two of them remained
with her, and the other, leaving, came back in an hour with a woman
who went with her to her room and there made a very rigorous personal
search of her own and her nurse's garments. She, of course, protested
vigorously. At last, returning to her boudoir, she found the man in
civilian dress kneeling beside the fire. She was in an agony of
alarm. The man had gathered the fragments of half-burned paper, and
when she entered was staring at the unconsumed corner of the outer
official envelop. Without a word, he raked away the fire and a part of
the ashes, but seeing there no evidence of interest, contented himself
with what proof he had of the destruction of the documents he sought.
The appearance of much burned paper and the brightly blazing fire, I
suppose, helped to confirm his belief. To her angry protests he
replied civilly that it was a matter for his superiors. Finally, an
officer was left in charge, but she was allowed to send for a carriage
and to return home. It is clear that they are not satisfied, and the
house has been watched ever since. Of course, the man who found the
charred fragments of the official envelop concluded that she had
burned the contents. But some one else who knows their value will
doubt."
"I suppose so. They were less clever than usual."
"No; her haste saved her. The unburned corner of the envelop fooled
the man. How could he dream that under a hot fire, cool and safe, were
papers worth a fortune?"
"Certainly this time the luck is hers," said I; "but this will not
satisfy them."
"No. More than once since they have been over the house and garden and
utterly devastated it, so says her nurse. They searched a tool-house
and a small conservatory. Madame Bellegarde has been cool enough to go
there for flowers, but is in the utmost apprehension. And now ten days
have passed."
"Is that all?"
"No. She has been questioned pretty brutally over and over, but as yet
they have not searched her town house. They are sure that the papers
are in the villa."
"Well, what next?" I asked.
"She says we must get those papers. That is our business."
"It will be difficult," I returned; "and there should be no delay. It
must be done, and done soon. You or I would have found her cache."
"No, I should not; but if those people are still in doubt, as seems to
be the case, and decide that no one but a fool would have burned the
documents, some fellow with a little more imaginative capacity to put
himself in her place will find them.
"By the way," added Merton, "she described the house to me. Now let us
think it over. I shall be here at nine to-morrow morning. When I
return, you will give me your own thoughts about it. Given a house
already watched day and night, how to get a paper out of it? No one
will be allowed to leave it without being overhauled. The old nurse,
you may be sure, will be searched and followed, even when she goes to
market. To communicate with madame would not be easy, and would give
us no further help and only hurt her. It is so grave a matter that the
police, after another search, will arrest Mme. Bellegarde secretly
and, if possible, scare her into confession. We have no time to lose.
It must be done, too, in some simple way. For her sake we must avoid
violence, and whatever is done must be done by us."
"But, Merton, how can we get into the house, even if we enter the
garden unseen?"
"Oh, I forgot to say that she has said she would contrive to tell her
nurse to leave the conservatory unlocked, and also the door between it
and the house. I told you she has been there twice. On each occasion
she was watched, but was allowed to enter and pick flowers. She feels
sure of being able to warn the nurse. We must give her a day. But why
do they not arrest her? That would have been my first move."
I replied: "Her late husband's people are Bonapartists and very
influential. It would have to be explained, and the situation is an
awkward one. The mere destruction of the papers is not what they most
desire; neither do they want the loss known, and very likely they
desire to conceal it as long as possible from the Emperor. I have been
unable to think of any plan. Has the night left you any wiser?"
"I? Yes, indeed. I have a plan--a good one and simple. When I was a
boy and coveted apples, one fellow got over the fence and attracted
the attention of the farmer, while the other secured apples in a far
corner of the orchard. Don't you see?"
"No, I do not."
"Well, it is simple. Just see how easy it is. We attract the attention
of the guards, and then one of us goes into the house."
"But," said I, "if he meets there a resolute guard."
"And if," said Merton, "the guard is met by a more resolute man, let
us say, with a revolver."
"Merton, it is a thing to be done without violence."
"Or not at all?" queried Merton, with what I may call an examining
glance.
"No, I did not say that."
The captain, I suppose, understood my state of mind, for he said: "I
feel as you do. You are quite right; but if it becomes needful to use
positive means,--I say positive means to get these papers,--then--" I
shook my head and he went on, "You may rest assured that I shall use
no violence unless I am obliged to do so."
"You will have no chance," said I, "because I, as a member of the
legation, must be the one to enter the house. No one else should. You
may readily see why."
Merton was disappointed, and in fact said so, while admitting that I
was in the right. He looked grave as he added: "We are playing a
game, you and I, in which, quite possibly, the fate of our country is
involved, and, also, the character and fate of a woman. If we win, no
one can convict her of having taken these papers. On their side there
will be no hesitation. There should be none on ours."
I said nothing to relieve his evident doubt as to the spirit with
which I had undertaken a perilous venture. I, on my part, simply
insisted that the larger risk must be mine. He finally assented with a
laugh, saying he was sorry to miss the fun of it. After some careful
consideration of his plan and of our respective shares in carrying it
out, he went away, leaving me to my reflections. They would, I
presume, have amused and surprised the man who had just left me. I had
led a quiet, studious life, and never once had I been where it was
requisite to face great danger or possible death. I had often wondered
whether I possessed the form of courage which makes certain men more
competent, the greater the peril. As I sat I confessed to myself an
entire absence of the joy in risks with which Merton faced our
venture, but at the same time I knew that I was not sorry for a chance
to satisfy myself in regard to an untested side of my own character. I
knew, too, that I should be afraid, but would that lessen my
competence? I had a keen interest in the matter, and was well aware
that there was very real danger and possible disgrace if we were
caught in a position which we could not afford to explain.