"_Mon ami_, you jest!"
"I never jest," Monsieur Roche snappishly replied. "Before the week is
through Paris will have a sensation, the ministry will be defeated--more
than defeated, disgraced. I have been deceived, miserably betrayed, and
by the man I trusted most. A friend of yours, madame--Gaspard Levive."
"It is not true," I cried; and the blood mounted to my cheeks in anger,
for truly Gaspard Levive was a friend of mine, one whom I delighted to
call my greatest friend.
"It is only too true," Monsieur Roche gravely answered. "I am disgraced,
and the young fool is ruined. At least not ruined," he bitterly
continued: "doubtless he will be rewarded by the new ministry."
"If this be the prelude to a commission, monsieur, I refuse it."
"There is no commission, madame; the day is hopelessly lost. I have been
betrayed by my own secretary."
We had met crossing the Place de la Concorde, and had stayed talking by
the Luxor Obelisk, and now I deliberately obscured Monsieur Roche with
my sunshade, and gazed up the vista of the Champs-Elysees to the Arc de
Triomphe. Suddenly I turned, closed my parasol with a vicious snap, and
looked angrily into his face.
"I accept the commission, monsieur; tell me all."
He placed his hand upon my arm.
"You are angry, _ma chere_, and so am I. You are wounded, and I am also.
Let it pass; there is no commission."
"Some mystery," I cried.
"No mystery and no solution; all is too wretchedly clear. You are
anxious to defend Gaspard, so am I; but it is useless; he stands
self-condemned, and we had best forget his very existence."
"Tell me," I said, stonily.
"He has stolen a document from my safe and sold it to those who can, who
will, use it to disgrace and overthrow me."
"It is false."
"A month ago France was insulted--deliberately insulted in such a manner
that it became almost a declaration of war. It was equivalent to a
challenge for war, and yet one that we dare not take up. War to France
would mean ruin. She would inevitably lose, and sink to the condition of
a second-rate power."
"Well!"
"We decided we could not go to war. We must diplomatically ignore the
slur, at least until we were more prepared; but it was a matter for
France, and not for the ministry alone. If our course of action became
known, it might be the first step towards revolution. There was no help
for it, and I privately conferred with the head of the opposition, my
greatest political enemy, Monsieur Desormes."
"One of the most unscrupulous men in France."
"One of the greatest diplomats."
"The terms are frequently synonymous, monsieur. Proceed."
"Wonderful to relate, he was with us. War was impossible--we dare not
declare it, we must accept the distasteful position--but I insisted that
his support of that policy should be given me in writing, that he should
bind himself to an adhesion to our views, so that he could not withdraw;
and he agreed, and wrote a confidential document in which he declared
that he stood firm with us for peace. That document has been stolen from
my safe by Gaspard Levive, and returned to Desormes, who now laughs in
my face, sneeringly announcing that he will publicly charge my ministry
with degrading France in the eyes of Europe, and crush us."
"You go too fast, monsieur; why stolen by Gaspard Levive?"
"Because he for a few hours had the key of my safe in his possession. It
is he or I."
"I would sooner suspect you, monsieur."
"Last night I left my keys with him. This morning before I arrived he
had a mysterious visitor, a woman--"
"Well, monsieur, what of that?"
"When I opened the safe the letter was gone, and a blank sheet of paper
substituted; that is all."
"And his explanation?"
"He refuses any. Declines even to say who the visitor was, or why she
called."
"I see no case against him," I said, soberly, but my heart was chilling
because of this unknown woman.
"That is not all," Monsieur Roche continued, "for I know who she
was--the Countess Renaze, the closest friend of Mlle. Desormes, one of
the most bewitching women in Paris, beautiful enough to tempt any man
from his duty. I found this handkerchief with her monogram and crest in
his room."
"Good-day, monsieur."
"Good-bye, _ma chere_; we've both made a mistake--good-bye."
I did not want to talk with my diplomatic friend; I did not want to talk
with any one. I left him, and walked towards the Boulevard des
Capucines, the words ringing in my ears, "We've both made a mistake." I
hated myself, I hated diplomats, and I wondered if I was so wretched
because Gaspard was false to France or because he had been false to me.
Then as I strolled, a little scene came back to my mind that I had
witnessed that morning upon the platform of the Gare du Nord. The
Countess Renaze was departing for London. I could see her now as she
leaned from the carriage window. So it could not be she who had called
upon Gaspard, and Monsieur Roche's reasoning was at fault in that
particular. Why not in more than that; why not in all?
But my next thought condemned Gaspard almost beyond appeal, for I
remembered that, as the train started, the Countess dropped her lace
handkerchief from between her fingers, and, too late to hand it back,
her friend, Mlle. Desormes, the daughter of Monsieur Roche's enemy,
picked it up. It was she who had called upon Gaspard immediately
afterwards, and had coaxed or tricked him into delivering the paper to
her; and I, who would have given all to prove Gaspard's innocence, had
found evidence to condemn him even more strongly.
I stopped in sudden surprise, for the man whom I would have avoided
stood before me.
"You have heard I am ruined and disgraced," he said, for he could not
but perceive the constraint in my manner.
"I have just left Monsieur Roche. How could you be so mad?"
His lips twitched even as though my words came as a shock to him.
"I thought one woman would believe me. I was on my way to ask for your
assistance."
"Assistance is impossible, monsieur, with half-hearted confidences. A
lady called upon you, and you refuse her name."
"Monsieur Roche discovered that it was the Countess Renaze."
"It was Mlle. Desormes," I said, coldly. Gaspard's face turned even a
shade paler, and his eyes fell before my gaze.
"You know that?" he said, in astonishment.
"Yes; why did you not tell Monsieur Roche?"
"Because there are circumstances in which explanation may be counted as
half-confession."
"Indeed."
"I was appalled at the accusation, and such an admission must have
stamped my guilt. Think, the daughter of the very man who had tricked
us, Monsieur Roche's implacable enemy. It was impossible, and so I kept
silent."
"It was a criminal silence, a worse falsehood than a spoken untruth. Why
did she call?"
Gaspard flushed, and after a moment's pause spoke in a voice that was
hesitating and constrained.
"I had promised to lend her a government book upon the island of
Martinique."
And then--for I could scarce restrain a smile--it was so ridiculous for
one of the belles of Paris to take to the study of official reports; he
hotly continued: "Now you see why I did not tell Monsieur Roche the
truth, for even you do not believe it. It seems too childish, too
ridiculous."
"It seems too childish to be false, _mon ami_," I answered; "but are you
sure there was not some little--what shall I say when a beautiful woman
and a clever man are concerned?--some little--"
"You need say nothing, Aide," he answered, looking me straight in the
face; "you know there was not."
And my heart seemed to suddenly grow so light that I forgot the serious
business that troubled us.
"Well, _mon cher_ Gaspard, I think it is a mistake; a promising diplomat
ought to have tendencies towards matrimony, because it is so
respectable."
"Only let me get this wretched problem solved, Aide, and then I will
give you a commission to find me a wife. But I am hard to please," he
laughed. "She must be the most beautiful woman in Paris, the most
brilliant, and the most accomplished."
I think there must have been just a tinge of heightened color in my
cheeks, and we were both smiling, forgetful of misfortune; but I had
promised to find this paragon, and so I lightly laid my hand on his, and
murmured, "Gaspard, _mon cher_, she is the very woman you shall marry."
I believe it was in his thoughts to say more, but I stopped him. "Let us
get back to serious realities," I said. "Mlle. Desormes called upon you
ostensibly for the Yellow Book that you promised to lend her. Was she
left alone in your room?"
"For five minutes, perhaps, while I went to fetch it."
"And your room communicates with that of Monsieur Roche?"
"Yes."
"Then it is simplicity itself; in that five minutes she stole the
paper."
"It is not simplicity itself Aide; far from it. Last night I locked the
safe. Monsieur Roche went early, and left the key with me, and I saw the
letter there when placing other documents in the safe. This morning
before he arrived I unlocked it, took some papers out, and locked it
again, and Monsieur Roche found it so when he arrived. So it is
impossible to believe that Mlle. Desormes could have accomplished the
theft."
"It seems impossible, Gaspard, because we do not know the method."
"There is but one key, and that did not leave my possession. The packet
was to all intents and purposes intact this morning, the seal Monsieur
Roche stamped upon it a month ago unbroken, but the contents had been
stolen."
"She may have substituted a counterfeit for the original," I answered.
"It is a favorite trick with a woman," and I smiled as I recollected a
similar affair that had occurred between ourselves.
"And forged Monsieur Roche's private seal?"
"My dear Gaspard," I cried, irritably, "what is the use of adopting this
supercilious air of obstruction? Papers are not spirited from steel
safes. It must have been stolen, and it is for us to discover how, and
regain it."
"I only seek to show how inexplicable the thing is," he answered.
"In detail, yes, but on the broad principle it is as plain as sunlight.
Why should Monsieur Roche open the packet to-day?"
"Because of Monsieur Desormes's insolent threats of exposure and
disgrace."
"Ah! now see, _mon ami_, how easy it becomes. A paper which incriminates
Monsieur Desormes, which proclaims in his own writing his complicity in
the policy adopted by the present ministry, was in Monsieur Roche's
safe. This morning his daughter calls upon you on a preposterously
transparent errand. She, one of the beauties of Paris, desires the loan
of the recently issued report on Martinique; that necessitates your
leaving her, and when she is gone, the paper is missing."
"The inference, on the broad principle, is that she stole it."
"Then that is the inference upon which we will base our work, _mon
ami_."
"So you do not credit that in me she had a willing accomplice?"
"Should I be walking with you this afternoon if I did?" I said. "Only
one thing I am sure about, and that is that Mlle. Desormes, in some
inexplicable manner, stole that paper this morning, and must have it
still. I am going to her at once, and next time we meet, _mon ami_, I
will hand it back to you."
"You seem confident, Aide."
"And that is victory half accomplished,_ mon cher; au revoir_."
Ten minutes later I entered the court-yard of one of the mansions of the
Boulevard Haussmann, and requested to see Mlle. Desormes. We were slight
acquaintances, and already I counted that I had forced her to obey me,
and to submit, for, although a very pretty and charming girl, she was
too young and too inexperienced to be a match for a woman who was
fighting for the good name of the man--But why confuse sentiment with
diplomacy?
Mlle. Desormes received me in her boudoir with a smile of welcome, and
thrust down amid the cushions of her chair, only half-concealed, was
that eternal book on Martinique.
"Have you seen your father to-day, mademoiselle?" I asked, quietly,
after a few moments' chat upon commonplaces.
"No," she cried, with a start, and then hastily added, "Has anything
happened to him?"
"Nothing," I replied, reassuringly; "but have you communicated with him
to-day?"
"No," she answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I desire to know," I enigmatically responded, and I could not
but admire the clever look of perplexity upon her face. "As you have not
done so, the matter is more easily arranged."
"What matter, madame?"
"This, mademoiselle. You called at Le Quai d'Orsay this morning and
brought something away with you that you ought not to have done. Now the
position is simple. You will give it to me, and no more will be said. If
you do not, I shall compel you."
"Compel!" she cried, with a glint of spirit in her eyes. "Compel,
madame."
"Compel, mademoiselle."
For an instant she seemed inclined to resent my emphatic demand, but
with a careless shrug of the shoulders she turned to me again, and
handed me that wretched book on Martinique.
I only drew my breath and gazed at her, my temper rising dangerously as
I realized the utter uselessness of the course I had taken with this
woman. A sudden surprise, because I had judged her young and
inexperienced.
"I will not question your right, madame," she cried, with a fine touch
of scorn. "You say you have come for that book, and I have given it to
you. Shall we now say _au revoir_?"
"You must be deeply interested in Martinique," I viciously exclaimed;
and she flushed until the color spread all over her cheeks, even invaded
with a warm tint the whiteness of her neck, and yet, like a school-girl,
she hung her head, and answered nothing.
"When the pretty women of Paris take to the study of government
reports," I continued, with a sneer, endeavoring to irritate her until
she spoke hastily, and perhaps gave me my opportunity, "there must
indeed be other reasons in the background. Martinique doubtless
possesses unique attractions for you, mademoiselle."
"This is shameful," she cried, springing passionately to her feet, "and
from you, Madame Lerestelle, one whom I have always admired."
"Tush!" I cried, impatiently; and I too rose and faced her. "Why did you
call upon Monsieur Levive this morning? Only for a book on
Martinique--only that?"
She gazed into my eyes with a strange look of surprise, and then her
lips twitched for a second, and as she held her forefinger up to me she
had the effrontery to smile in my face.
"_Ma cherie_," she cried, with a laugh; "you're jealous."
"Mademoiselle!"
"Tut, tut!" she cried. "Now don't deny it, because it is the only
possible excuse for the way you have been talking to me. But a woman can
easily excuse jealousy when she is not in love with the same man."
I was numbed with indignation at the manner in which this _ingenue_
played with me, and she had had the audacity to place her arm around my
waist.
"Confidence for confidence, _ma chere_," she murmured. "My father
discovered that Monsieur Decasse and I loved each other, and had him
transferred to Martinique, and," she looked up into my face, "even dry
official reports of the progress of the island are interesting to me,
because the man I love is there, and may even have written them."
Diplomacy vanished. I felt as helpless as a child in the hands of this
innocent, whose ready tongue found such excuses, and with a spasm of
rage I caught her by the wrist.
"Let us finesse no more, mademoiselle," I cried, sharply, "for the time
is gone. I care for Martinique as much as you do, and you know what I
have called for as well as I. Not this Yellow Book you brought away as
an excuse, but the paper missing from Monsieur Roche's room. Will you
give me that or not?"
"I do not understand you," she quietly replied.
"Give me that document which you, at your father's instigation, stole
this morning."
She drew herself away, and her slight, girlish figure seemed to grow in
dignity before me.
"How dare you?" she said. "How dare you?"
"I dare anything, when you have ruined the man I love. Give me that
paper?"
"You are mad!"
"Mad or not, mademoiselle, I do not leave this house--"
"Monsieur Desormes desires to see you in his study, mademoiselle."
The servant withdrew, and I turned again to her.
"And now," I cried, and my blood throbbed hotly in my veins, "now you
will still say you know nothing of this theft?"
"I say nothing now," she scornfully retorted. "You shall come with me
and hear what I have to say."
She walked almost unconcernedly towards the door, and then turned and
faced me.
"Follow me, Madame Lerestelle," she cried, and in bitter tones added,
"and follow me closely, lest a day should come when you will assert I
gave my father the clew of what he should speak to you."
And, with no qualms of conscience, I followed her, and so closely that
we entered Monsieur Desormes's study together.
He was what those who are foreigners to us would describe as "the
typical Frenchman." Though his years must have been fifty, he looked
scarcely forty, and his upright military carriage, his dark mustache
waxed to dagger points, and close-cropped hair, made him appear even
younger still. He was what his appearance proclaimed him, an urbane,
clever, and unscrupulous diplomat. He rose and graciously bowed to me,
even as though I were an expected guest.
"Your visit is a pleasure as illimitable in its delight as in its
surprise, madame," he softly murmured.
"Yet a most unfitting moment for pedantic compliments," Mlle. Desormes
warmly interjected; and I marvelled at the rage that still blazed within
her eyes.
"I called on Monsieur Levive at the Quai d'Orsay this morning," she
continued, turning sharply upon her father; "why I did so concerns but
you and me alone. To-day a paper has been stolen from Monsieur Roche's
room, which adjoins Monsieur Levive's, and I am charged with the theft."
Monsieur Desormes's eyebrows shot upward. "You?" he ejaculated.
"I," she answered, in cold passion. "I am accused of this theft. My name
is linked with that of Monsieur Levive, as the one who tempted him to
dishonor. My name--can you realize the stigma, monsieur?"
"I can realize no connection of circumstances," he replied,
contemptuously, and she crossed the room, and, laying her hand upon his
desk, looked him full in the face.
"It seems that this paper incriminated you," she exclaimed; and I saw
that then he started.
"It is a paper that pledged you to support, or, at any rate, not to
oppose, the ministry, monsieur," I interrupted; "and it has been
stolen."
"I am aware of that, madame. I decided that it was better for France not
to keep that pledge."
"But not better for me," mademoiselle cried, "and I am even before
France."
"It is your own folly that has caused you to be suspected," he
responded.
"It is the devices that men call dishonesty and statesmen diplomacy,"
she answered; and he put his arm around her waist and drew her back
until she was seated upon the edge of his chair.
"Pretty little girls must not use cynical epigrams," he said, softly, as
one petting a spoiled child. "Now, come, what is it you want?"
"I want nothing," she burst out, indignantly, "but I demand justice. I
demand to be freed from this insinuation of theft. I do not ask, I
demand, that Monsieur Levive, who is innocent, shall be relieved from
suspicion, and you shall confess how you have stolen this paper."
"Purloined, _ma petite_," he exclaimed, as he playfully pinched her ear.
"Stolen," she doggedly repeated. "Stolen, not caring whom you ruined,
man or woman."
"Tut, tut; what an undiplomatic little girl she is," he laughed, with a
wonderful depth of fondness in his tone; and then he rose, and, after
pacing the room for a minute, turned to me.
"Madame Lerestelle," he exclaimed, "I am known in political life as the
most unscrupulous man in France; that is the reputation I have won, and
the one I live to retain. As a man, I admire Monsieur Roche; as a
politician, I despise him. I consider that his theories are imbecilic,
his policy meaningless, and his ministry an insult to the country--"
"Monsieur, I differ--"
"Madame, I respect you the more. You are a friend of Monsieur Roche's,
but, because I think what I do think, I will annihilate him. Because I
work for the glory of France, and not for my own ends, I have stooped to
pledge my written word only to steal it back."
"Diplomacy," mademoiselle murmured, with a world of scorn, and he shook
his head reprovingly, then placed his hand quietly upon her arm.
"But my daughter shall not be suspected of connivance with me, and still
more, no innocent man shall suffer. Monsieur Levive is incapable of
betraying a trust. Even you, madame," and he shot a meaning glance at
me, "could not persuade him to break his faith, and you know it."
I bowed my head, and wondered how it was Monsieur Desormes was not
universally admired.
"He shall not be disgraced; no shadow of a slur shall rest upon him, for
I, madame, will write an explanation that shall satisfy Monsieur Roche,
and you shall give it to him yourself."
I bowed my thanks, and he sat down at his desk, and, drawing a sheet of
official paper towards him, rapidly covered it and handed it to me. It
commenced with the usual courtesies which we have such an innate liking
for addressing one another with, and then the letter continued: "Because
others who are innocent, monsieur, have been suspected, I am prepared to
place in your possession the name of the man and his method. His name
is--"
The writing finished there, and I held out my hand for the second sheet,
which he had completed while I read.
"You will not ask it, madame?" Monsieur Desormes suggested.
"As you will, monsieur. I have your word that your letter will entirely
free those who are innocent from suspicion?"
"You have the word of a--"
"Diplomat?" mademoiselle interrupted, with her anger still smouldering.
"Of a Frenchman," monsieur finished, as he folded the sheets and sealed
the envelope.
"And now," he continued, as he addressed it to Monsieur Roche and handed
it to me, "there is a favor I must crave of you. I am an implacable
enemy, but, I hope, not a false friend. You must give me twenty-four
hours, so that the plans I have matured may not be frustrated."
"I scarcely comprehend, monsieur."
"If a man has been an enemy to Monsieur Roche, and an ally with me, I
must protect him."
"That is your only object?"
"You have my word, madame."
"Then you have mine, monsieur. This letter shall not be delivered until
to-morrow evening."
He raised my fingers to his lips with a smile of satisfaction, and I,
having whispered to mademoiselle that after all it was scarcely worth
while mentioning Martinique, and gained a smile of mingled thanks and
forgiveness, departed, satisfied with the success of my mission, and
happy in the knowledge that I had played for the highest stakes that it
had been my lot to know--played and won.
There are Boulevard cynics who would declare that, being a woman, I must
be miserable because I did not know the name of the thief or the
miraculous method he employed. Others, more cynical still, who would say
that I cared nothing, because I counted upon coaxing all from _mon cher_
Gaspard; but it would be false. I cared nothing for him who had stolen;
my thoughts were all with him whose honor I had saved. For that reason I
grudged the delay, but, tried more sorely than ever in my life before,
it was not until the following night, enclosed with a note of my own,
that I sent Monsieur Desormes's confession to Monsieur Roche.
And as I sat after it had gone, still free from curiosity as to the
thief, still proud of my success for Gaspard's sake, the thought, for
the first time, came that the Premier was also deeply indebted to me,
for his ministry was saved.
I paid fastidious attention to my toilet, for one dared not look
anything but one's best at Madame de Vousset's receptions, and Gaspard
was such a frequent visitor.
Yet I never looked worse to my own mind, and all the satisfaction seemed
to be with Therese.
"_Mais oui! madame, c'est superb_," she cried, with an exaggerated
gesture of admiration; and although she possessed many faults, I never
had to chide her for lack of truthfulness.
"Monsieur Roche, madame," she announced a moment later, and I said I
would receive him in my boudoir, feeling gratified that he should not be
lacking in the swift expression of his thanks.
Yet when I greeted him he seemed perplexed, and taking the packet I had
sent him from his pocket, he read aloud my own note: "The enclosed
letter from Monsieur Desormes will explain the theft of the paper, and
prove the innocence of Gaspard, whom you so unjustly accused."