Late in 1868 Merton rejoined the army, and I did not see him again
until in 1869, when I was American minister at The Hague. In June of
that year Colonel and Mrs. Merton became my guests. When I told Mrs.
Merton that Count le Moyne was the French ambassador in Holland, she
said to her husband:
"I told you we should meet, and really I should like to tell him how
sorry I was for him."
"I fancy," said I, "that the count will hardly think a return to that
little corner of history desirable."
"Even," said Merton, laughing, "with the belated consolation of the
penitence of successful crime."
"But I am not, I never was penitent. I was only sorry."
"Well," said I, "you will never have the chance to confess your
regret."
I was wrong. A week later the countess left cards for my guests, and
an invitation to dine followed. If Merton hesitated, Mrs. Merton did
not, and expecting to find a large official dinner, we agreed among us
that the count had been really generous and that we must all accept.
In fact, if Mrs. Merton might be embarrassed by meeting in his own
house the man she had so seriously injured, Merton and I were at ease,
seeing that we were entirely unknown to the count as having been
receivers of the property which so mysteriously disappeared.
We were met by the count and Madame le Moyne with the utmost
cordiality. To my surprise, there were no other guests. All of those
thus brought together may have felt just enough the awkwardness of the
occasion to make them quick to aid one another in dispersing the
slight feeling of aloofness natural to a situation unmatched in my
social experience.
The two women were delightful, the menu admirable, the wines past
praise. It was an artful and agreeable _lever du rideau_, and I knew
it for that when, at a word from the count, the servants left us at
the close of the meal. Then, smiling, he turned to Mrs. Merton and
said:
"Perhaps, madame, you may have understood that in asking you all here
and alone I had more than the ordinary pleasant reasons. If in the
least degree you object to my saying more, we will consider that I
have said nothing, and," he added gaily, "we shall then chat of Rachel
and the June exhibition of tulips."
It was neatly done, and Mrs. Merton at once replied: "I wish to say
for myself that I have for years desired to talk freely with you of
what is no doubt in your mind just now."
"Thank you," he returned; "and if no one else objects,"--and no one
did,--"I may say that, apart from my own eager desire to ask you
certain questions, my wife has had, for years, what I may call chronic
curiosity."
"Oh, at times acute!" cried the countess.
"Her curiosity is, as you must know, in regard to certain matters
connected with that mysterious diplomatic affair in the autumn of
1862. It cost me pretty dear."
"And me," said the countess, "many tears."
Mrs. Merton's face became serious. She was about to speak, when the
count added: "Pardon me. I am most sincere in my own wish not to
embarrass you, our guests, and if, on reflection, you feel that our
very natural curiosity ought to die a natural death, we will dismiss
the matter. Tell me, would you prefer to drop it?"
"Oh, no. I, too, am curious." And, turning to her husband, "Arthur, I
am sure you will be as well pleased as I."
Merton said: "I am entirely at your service, count. How is it,
Greville?"
"But," said the count, interposing, "what has M. Greville to do with
it, except as we know that his legation profited by madame's--may I
say--interference?"
"I like that," laughed Mrs. Merton, "interference. There is nothing so
amiable as the charity of time."
"Ah," said I, laughing, "I, too, had a trifling share in the business.
Let us all agree to be frank and to consider as confidential for some
years to come what we hear. I am as curious as the countess."
"And no wonder," said the count. "Of course enough got out to make
every _chancellerie_ in Europe wonder how Mr. Adams was able to report
the opinions and even the words of the emperor and his foreign
secretary to Lord John."
"Well," said Mrs. Merton, "I am still faintly penitent, but this is a
delightful inquisition. Pray go on. I shall be frank."
"To begin with, I may presume that you took those papers."
"Stole them," said Mrs. Merton.
"Oh, madame! Why did you not take them at once to Mr. Dayton?"
"I was too scared. I was alarmed when I saw the emperor's handwriting.
Was he cross?"
"Oh, I had later a bad quarter of an hour."
"I am sorry. And now you are quite free to tell me next--that I--well,
fibbed to you. I did. But lying is not forbidden in the decalogue."
"What about false witness?" cried the countess, amused.
"That hardly covers the ground, but," said Mrs. Merton, "I do not
defend myself."
The count laughed. "You did it admirably, and for a half-day I was in
doubt. In fact, to confess, I was in such distress that I did not know
what to do. The resume I was to make for the emperor ought to have
been made at the Foreign Office. I was rash enough to take the papers
home."
"But why did you not arrest me at once?"
"Will madame look in the glass for an answer? You were--well, a lady,
your people loyal, and I was frantic for a day. I hesitated until I
saw you driving toward the Bois de Boulogne in a storm. What followed
you know."
"Yes."
"You concealed the papers, and the police for a while thought you had
burned them. You were clever."
"Not very," said Mrs. Merton. "I tried to burn all the big double
envelops, but the men hurried me."
"I see," returned the count. "Your ruse, if it was that, deceived
them, delayed things, and then the papers somehow were removed. And
here my curiosity reaches a climax. It puzzled me for years, and, as I
know, has puzzled the police."
"But why?" asked I.
"The pistol-shots were, of course, believed to have been a means of
decoying away the guard. The old caretaker was found in her room and
the room locked. She was greatly alarmed at the cries and the shots,
and for a while would not open the door."