SECRETS REVEALED
On a night such as this, one does not stand on formalities. There was a
light burning in the mystery cottage on Tyler street. The girls entered
without knocking.
The scene which struck their eyes was most dramatic. On a long, low couch
lay the aged Frenchman. Beside his bed, her hair disheveled, her garments
blackened and scorched by fire, knelt the child. She was silently
sobbing. The man, for all one could see, might be dead, so white and
still did he lie.
Yet as the girls, still dressed in great coats and rubber hats, stepped
into the room, his eyes opened; his lips moved and the girls heard him
murmur:
"Ah, the firemen. Now my books will burn, the house will go. They all
will burn. But like Montcalm at Quebec, I shall not live to see my
defeat."
"No, no, no!" the child sprang to her feet. "They must not burn! They
shall not burn!"
"Calm yourself," said Lucile, advancing into the room and removing her
coat as she did so. "It is only I, your friend, Lucile. The fire is two
blocks away and there is reason to hope that this part of Tyler street
will be saved. The huge concrete building is burning out from within but
is standing rugged as a great rock. It is your protection."
"Ah, then I shall die happy," breathed the man.
"No! No! No!" almost screamed the child. "You shall not die."
"Hush, my little one," whispered the man. "Do not question the wisdom of
the Almighty. My hour has come. Soon I shall be with my sires and with my
sons and grandsons; with all the brave ones who have so nobly defended
our beloved France.
"And as for you, my little one, you have here two friends and all my
books. It is in the tin box behind the books, my will. I have no living
kin. I have made you my heir. The books are worth much money. You are
well provided for. Your friends here will see that they are not stolen
from you, will you not?"
Florence and Lucile, too touched to trust themselves to speak, bowed
their heads.
"As for myself," the man went on in a hoarse whisper, "I have but one
regret.
"Come close," he beckoned to Lucile. "Come very close. I have something
more to tell you."
Lucille moved close to him, something seeming to say to her, "Now you are
to hear the gargoyle's secret."
"Not many days ago," he began, "I told you some of my life, but not all.
I could not. My heart was too sore. Now I wish to tell you all. You
remember that I said I took my books to Paris. That is not quite true. I
started with all of them but not all arrived. One box of them, the most
precious of all, was stolen while on the way and a box of cheap and
worthless books put in its place.
"Heartbroken at this loss, I traced the robbers as best I could at last
to find that the books had been carried overseas to America.
"I came to America. They had been sold, scattered abroad. The thief
eluded me, but the books I could trace. By the gargoyle in the corner and
by the descriptions of dealers in rare books, I located many of them.
"Those who had them had paid handsomely for them. They would not believe
an old man's story. They would not give them up.
"I brought suit in the courts. It was no use. No one would believe me.
"Young lady," the old man's voice all but died away as his feeble fingers
clutched at the covers, "young lady, every man has some wish which he
hopes to fulfill. He may desire to become rich, to secure power, to write
a book, to paint a great picture. There is always something. As for me, I
wished but one thing, a very little thing: to die with the books, those
precious volumes I had inherited. The foolish wish of a childish old man,
perhaps, but that was my wish. The war has taken my family. They cannot
gather by my bedside; I have only my books. And, thanks to this child,"
he attempted to place his hand on the child's bowed head, "thanks to her,
there are but few missing at this, the last moment."
For a little there was silence in the room, then the whisper began again,
this time more faint:
"Perhaps it was wrong, the way I taught the child to get the books. But
they were really my own. I had not sold one of them. They were all my
own. She knows where they came from. When I am gone, if that is the way
of America, they may all be returned."
Lucile hesitated for a moment, then bent over the dying man.
"The books," she whispered. "Were two of them very small ones?"
The expression on the dying man's face grew eager as he answered, "Yes,
yes, very small and very rare. One was a book about fishing and the
other--ah, that one!--that was the rarest of all. It had been written in by
the great Napoleon and had been presented by him to one of his marshals,
my uncle."
Lucile's hand came out from behind her back. In it were two books.
"Are these the ones?" she asked.
"Yes, yes," he breathed hoarsely. "Those are the very most precious ones.
I die--I die happy."
For a second the glassy eyes stared, then lighted up with a smile that
was beautiful to behold.
"Ah!" he breathed, "I am happy now, happy as when a child I played
beneath the grapevines in my own beloved France."
Those were his last words. A moment later, Lucile turned to lead the
silently weeping child into another room. As she did so, she encountered
a figure standing with bowed head.
It was the studious looking boy who had donned the fireman's coat and
followed them.
"Harry Brock!" she whispered. "How did you come here?"
"I came in very much the same manner that you came," he said quietly. "I
have been where you have been many times of late. I did not understand,
but I thought you needed protection and since I thought of myself as the
best friend you had among the men at the university, I took that task
upon myself. I have been in this room, unnoticed, for some time. I heard
what he said and now I think I understand. Please allow me to
congratulate you and--and to thank you. You have strengthened my faith
in--in all that is good and beautiful."
He stepped awkwardly aside and allowed her to pass.