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Chapter X
The Golden Spoon
"Nous avons tous assez de force pour supporter les maux d'autrui."
A few days later I received a letter from Madame de Clericy. "Iwrite," it ran, "to tell you of the satisfaction that Lucille and Ihave found in the improvements you initiated here. I laugh--monami--when I think of all that you did in three days. It seems as if astrong and energetic wind--such as I imagine your English breezes tobe--had blown across my old home, leaving it healthier, purer, better;leaving also those within it somewhat breathless and surprised. Isuppose that many Englishmen are like you, and suspect that they willsome day master the world. We have had visitors, among others AlphonseGiraud, whom I believe you do not yet know. If contrasts are mutuallyattractive, then you will like him. I wonder if you know, or suspect,that he is more or less an acknowledged aspirant to Lucille's hand,but--"
Madame de Clericy had run her pen through the last word, leaving it,however, legible. And here she began a new subject, asking me, indeed,to write and give her news of the Vicomte. I am no indoor man orsubtle analyst of a motive--much less of a woman's motive, if, indeed,women are so often possessed of such, as some believe--but theobliterated word and Madame de Clericy's subsequent embarkation on anew subject made me pause while I deciphered her letter.
It had originally been arranged that the Vicomte should follow theladies to La Pauline, leaving me in Paris to attend to my duties, butthe sudden political crisis led to a delay in his departure. In truth,I gathered from Madame's letter that he must have written to hersaying that the visit was at present impossible. Madame, in fact,asked me to advise her by return of the state of the Vicomte's health,and plainly told me that if business matters were worrying him shewould return to Paris without delay.
And if Madame returned she would bring Lucille with her, and thus putan end to the aspirations of Alphonse Giraud, for the prosecution ofwhich the seclusion of La Pauline afforded excellent opportunity. Ihad but to write a word to bring all this about. Did Madame de Clericyknow all that she placed within my power? Did she know, and yet placeit there purposely? Who can tell? I remembered Lucille'scoldness--her departure without one word of explanation. I recollectedthat the twenty million francs at that moment in the Hotel Clericywould, in due course, be part of Alphonse Giraud's fortune. I wasmindful, lastly, that in England we are taught to ride straight, and Isat down and wrote to Madame that her husband was in good health, andthat I quite hoped to see him depart in a few days for La Pauline. Iwill not deny that the letter went into the post-box followed by acurse.
We may, however, write letters and post them. We may--if we be greatmen--indite despatches and give them into the hands of trustymessengers, and a little twirl of Fortune's wheel will send all ourpenmanship to the winds.
While I was smoking a pipe and deciphering a long communicationreceived from the gentleman who further entangled my affairs inEngland, a visitor was announced to me.
"Monsieur Alphonse Giraud."
"Why?" I wondered as I rose to receive this gentleman. "Why, MonsieurAlphonse Giraud?"
He was already in the doorway, and, I made no doubt, had conceived anultra-British toilet for the occasion. For outwardly he was moreEnglish than myself. He came forward, holding out his hand, and Ithought of Madame's words. Were we to become friends?
"Monsieur Howard," he said, "I have to apologise. Mon Dieu!--to thinkthat you have been in Paris three months, and I have never called toplace myself at your disposition! And a friend of Alfred Gayerson, ofthat good, stout John Turner--of half a dozen hardy English friends ofmine."
I was about to explain that his oversight had a good excuse in thefact that my existence must have been unknown to him, but he silencedme with his two outstretched hands, waving a violent negation.
"No--no!" he said, smiting himself grievously on the chest. "I have noexcuse. You say that I was ignorant of your existence--then it was mybusiness to find it out. Ignorance is often a crime. An Englishgentleman--a sportsman--a fox-hunter! For you chase the fox, I know. Isee it in your brown face. And you belong to the English JockeyClub--is it not so?"
I admitted that it was so, and Alphonse Giraud's emotion was such thathe could only press my hand in silence.
"Ah, well!" he cried almost immediately, with the utmost gaiety. "Wehave begun late, but that is no reason why it should not be a goodfriendship--is it?"
And he took the chair I offered with such hearty good-will that mycold English sympathy was drawn towards him.
"I came but yesterday from the South," he went on. "Indeed, from LaPauline, where I have been paying a delightful visit. Madame deClericy--so kind--and Mademoiselle Lucille--"
He twisted up the unsuccessful side of his mustache, and gave a quicklittle sigh. Then he remembered his scarf, and attended to thehorseshoe pin that adorned it.
"You know my father," he said, suddenly, "the--er--Baron Giraud. Hehas been more fortunate than myself in making your acquaintanceearlier."
I bowed and said what was necessary.
"A kind man--a dear man," said the Baron's son. "But no sportsman.Figure to yourself--he fears an open window."
He laughed and shrugged his little shoulders.
"I dare say many Englishmen would not understand him."
"I am not of those," replied I. "I understand him and appreciate hismany able qualities."
From which it will be seen that I can lie as well as any man.
"The poor dear has been called to Paris, on his affairs. Not that Iunderstand them. I have no head for affairs. Even my tailor cheatsme--but what will you? He can cut a good coat, and one must forgivehim. My father's hotel in the Champs Elysees is uninhabitable at themoment. The whitewashers!--and they sing so loud and so false, aswhitewashers ever do. The poor man is desolated in an _appartement_ inthe Hotel Bristol. I am all right. I have my own lodging--a merebachelor kennel--where I hope to see you soon and often."
He threw his card on the table, rising to go, and timing his departurewith that tact and grace which is only compassed by Frenchmen orSpaniards.
Scarcely had I regained my room, after duly admiring Alphonse Giraud'ssmart dog-cart, when the servant again appeared. The Baron Giraud hadarrived to see the Vicomte, who happened to be out. The affairs of theBaron were urgent, and he desired to see me--was, indeed, awaiting mewith impatience in Monsieur de Clericy's study.
Thither I hastened, and found the great financier in that state ofperturbation and perspiration which the political crisis seemed tohave rendered chronic. He was, however, sufficiently himself toremember that I was a paid dependent.
"How is this?" he cried. "I call to see the Vicomte on importantaffairs, and he is out."
"It is," I replied, "that the Vicomte de Clericy is not a man ofaffairs, but a gentleman of station and birth--that this is not anoffice, but a nobleman's private house."
And I suppose I looked towards the door, for the Baron gasped outsomething that might have been an apology, and looked redder in theface.
"But, my good sir," he whined distractedly, "it is a matter of theutmost gravity. It is a crisis in the money market. A turn of thewheel may make me a poor man. Where is the Vicomte? Where are mytwenty million francs?"
"The Vicomte has gone out, as is his custom before dejeuner, and yourtwenty millions are, so far as I know, safe in this house. I have notthe keeping of either."
"But you took the responsibility," snapped the Baron.
"For all that I am worth--namely, one hundred and twenty pounds ayear, out of which I have to find my livery."
"Can you go out and find the Vicomte? I will wait here," asked theBaron, in the utmost distress. It is indeed love that makes the worldgo round--love of money.
"I know where he is usually to be found," was my reply, "and can goand seek him. I will return here in half an hour if I fail to findhim."
"Yes--yes; go, my good sir--go! And God be with you!" With whichinappropriate benediction he almost pushed me out of the room.
> On making inquiries of the servants, I found my task more difficultthan I had anticipated. Monsieur de Clericy had not taken thecarriage, as was his habit. He had gone out on foot, carrying, as thebutler told me, a bundle of papers in his hand.
"They had the air of business papers of value--so closely he heldthem," added the man.
He had taken the direction of the Boulevard, with the intention, itappeared, of calling a cab. I hurried, however, to the Vicomte'sfavourite club, and learned that he had not been seen there. Hishabits being more or less known to me, I prosecuted my search in suchquarters as seemed likely, but without success.
At the Cercle de l'Union I ran against John Turner, who was readingthe _Times_ there.
"Ah!" he said, "young Howard. Come to lunch, I suppose. You lookhungry--gad, what a twist you had that day! Just in time. I can tellyou what is worth eating."
"Thanks; you know such advice is wasted on a country boor like myself.No; I came seeking the Vicomte de Clericy. Have you seen him?"
"Ah! you are still with old Clericy; thought you were up to somemischief--so d--d quiet. Then Mademoiselle is kind?"
"Mademoiselle is away," I answered. "Do you know anything of the BaronGiraud?"
"Do I know anything of the devil," growled John Turner, returning tothe perusal of his newspaper. "Are he and old Clericy putting theirheads together? I would not trust Giraud with ten sous so far as theclub door."
"Exactly!"
"Then he and old Clericy _are_ at it--are they?" said John Turner,looking at me over the _Times_ with his twinkling eyes. "And you,Monsieur, _le secretaire_, are anxious about your patron. Ha, ha! Youhave a lot to learn yet, Master Dick."
I looked impatiently at the clock. Twenty minutes had already beenwasted in my fruitless search.
"Then you haven't seen de Clericy?"
"No--my good boy--I haven't. And if you cannot find him you may besure that it is because he does not want to be found."
The words followed me as I left the room. It seemed that John Turnerbelieved in no man.
There was nothing for it but to return to the Rue des Palmiers, andtell the Baron that I had failed to find my patron. The cab I hadhired was awaiting me, and in a few minutes I was rattling across thebridge of the Holy Fathers.
"Monsieur le Vicomte returned a few minutes ago," the butler told me."He has gone to the study, and is now with the Baron Giraud. TheVicomte asked that you should go to him at once."
The atmosphere of the old house seemed gloomy and full of forebodingas I ran up the stairs. The servant stood at the open door and watchedme. In that unknown world behind the green baize door more is knownthan we suspect, and there is often no surprise there when we who liveabove stairs are dumbfounded.
In my haste I forgot to knock at Monsieur de Clericy's door beforeopening it--indeed, I think it was ajar.
"My good friend," I heard as I entered the room, "collect yourself. Becalm. We are together in a great misfortune--the money has beenstolen!"
The voice was that of my patron. I went in and closed the door behindme. For it seemed, to my fancy, that there were other doors ajar uponthe landing, and listeners on the stairs.
The two old men were facing each other, the one purple in the visage,with starting eyes, the other white and quiet.
"Stolen?" echoed the Baron in a thick voice, and with a wild lookround the room. "Then I am ruined!"
The old Vicomte spread out his trembling hands in despair, a gesturethat seemed to indicate a crumbling away of the world beneath us.
The Baron Giraud turned and looked at me. He did not recognise me forquite ten seconds.
"IT IS DEATH," I ANSWERED, WITH MY HAND INSIDE THEBARON'S SHIRT. "WHO STOLE THAT MONEY?" THE VICOMTE LOOKED AT ME."CHARLES MISTE," HE SAID.]
"Then it is not you," he said, thickly. "As you are there. You did notsteal it."
"No--I did not steal it," I answered quietly, for there was a look inhis face that I did not understand, while it frightened me. Suddenlyhis eyes shot red--his face was almost black. He fell forward into myarms, and I tore his collar off as I laid him to the ground.
"Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" the Vicomte was crying as he ran hither andthither, wringing his hands, while I attended, unskillfully enough, tothe stricken man. "Ah, mon Dieu! what is this?"
"It is death," I answered, with my hand inside the Baron's shirt. "Whostole that money?"
The Vicomte looked at me.
"Charles Miste," he said.