Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Here is a Russian watch, Patoff,” I said, tapping the glass pane with my finger. Paul rose languidly and came to the table. When he saw the thing he turned pale, and gripped my arm in sudden excitement.

  “It is his,” he said, in a low voice, trying to raise the lid.

  “Alexander’s?” Paul nodded. “Pretend to be indifferent,” I said in Russian, fearing lest Marchetto should understand.

  The Jew unclosed the case and handed us the watch. Paul took it with trembling fingers and opened it at the back. There in Russian letters were engraved the words Alexander Paulovitch, from his father; the date followed. There was no doubt about it. The watch had belonged to the lost man; he had, therefore, been robbed.

  “You got this from some bankrupt Pasha, Marchetto?” I inquired. Everything offered for sale in the bazaar at second hand is said to come from the establishment of a Pasha; the statement is supposed to attract foreigners.

  Marchetto nodded and smiled.

  “A Russian Pasha,” I continued. “Did you ever hear of a Russian Pasha, Marchetto? The fellow who sold it to you lied.”

  “He who lies on the first day of Ramazán repents on the day of Bairam,” returned the Jew, quoting a Turkish proverb, and grinning. I was struck by the words. Somehow the mention of Bairam made me think of Alexander’s uncertain fate, and suggested the idea that Marchetto knew something about it.

  “Yes,” I answered, looking sharply at him; “and another proverb says that the fox ends his days in the furrier’s shop. Where did you buy the watch?”

  “Allah bilir! I have forgotten.”

  “Allah knows, undoubtedly. But you know too,” I said, laughing, and pretending to be amused. Paul had resumed his seat upon the small divan, and was listening with intense interest; but he knew it was best to leave the thing to me. Marchetto was a fat man, with red hair and red-brown eyes. He looked at me doubtfully for a moment.

  “I will buy it if you will tell me where you got it,” I said.

  “I got it” — He hesitated. “It came out of a harem,” he added suddenly, with a sort of chuckle.

  “Out of a harem!” I exclaimed, in utter incredulity. “What harem?”

  “I will not tell you,” he answered, gravely, the smile fading from his face. “I swore that I would not tell.”

  “Will you swear that it really came from a harem?” I asked.

  “I give you my word of honor,” asseverated Marchetto. “I swear by my head, by your beard” ——

  “I do not mean that,” I said quietly. “Will you swear to me, solemnly, before God, that you are telling the truth?”

  Marchetto looked at me in surprise, for no people in the world are so averse to making a solemn oath as the Hebrews, as, perhaps, no people are more exact in regard to the truth when so made to bind themselves. The man looked at me for a moment.

  “You seem very curious about that watch,” he said at last, turning away and busying himself with his stuffs.

  “Then you will not swear?” I asked, putting the watch back in its place.

  “I cannot swear to what I do not know. But I know the man who sold it to me. He is the Lala of a harem, that is certain. I will not tell you his name, nor the name of the Effendi to whose harem he belongs. Will you buy my watch? — birindjí — first quality — it is a beautiful thing. On my honor, I have never seen a finer one, though it is of silver.”

  “Not unless you will tell me where it came from,” I said firmly. “Besides, I must show it to Vartan in Pera before I buy it. Perhaps the works are not good.”

  “It is yours,” said Marchetto. “Take it. When you have had it two days you will buy it.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty liras, — twenty Turkish pounds,” answered the Jew promptly.

  “You mean five,” I said. The watch was worth ten, I thought, about two hundred and thirty francs.

  “Impossible. I would rather let you take it as a gift. It is birindjí — first quality — upon my honor. I never saw” ——

  “Rubbish, Marchetto!” I exclaimed. “Let me take it to Vartan to be examined. Then we will bargain.”

  “Take it,” he answered. “Keep it as long as you like. I know you very well, and I thank Heaven I have profited a little with you. But the price of the watch is twenty pounds. You will pay it, and all your life you will look at it and say, ‘What an honest man Marchetto is!’ By my head — it is birindjí — first quality — I never” ——

  “I have no doubt,” I answered, cutting him short. I motioned to Paul that we had better go: he rose without a word.

  “Good-by, Marchetto,” I said. “I will come back in a day or two and bargain with you.”

  “It is birindjí — by my head — first quality” — were the last words we heard as we left the Jew amongst his stuffs. Then we threaded the subterranean passages of the bazaar, and soon afterwards were walking in the direction of Galata bridge, on our way back to Pera. At last Paul spoke.

  “We are on the scent,” he said. “That fellow was speaking the truth when he said the watch came from a harem. I could see it in his face. I begin to think that Alexander did some absurdly rash thing, — followed some veiled Turkish woman, as he would have done before if I had not stopped him, — was seized, imprisoned in some cellar or other, and ultimately murdered.”

  “It looks like it,” I answered. “Of course I would not buy the watch outright, because as long as it is not paid for I have a hold upon Marchetto. I will talk to Balsamides to-night. He is very clever about those things, and he will find out the name of the black man who sold it.”

  We separated, and I went to find my friend; but he was on duty and would not return until evening. I spent the rest of the day in making visits, trying to get rid of the time. On returning to the house of Gregorios I found a letter from John Carvel, the first I had received from him since I had left England. It ran as follows: —

  My dear Griggs: Since you left us something very extraordinary and unexpected has taken place, and considering the part you took in our household affairs, you should not be kept in the dark. I have suffered more annoyance in connection with my unfortunate sister-in-law than I can ever tell you; and the thing has culminated in a sort of transformation scene, such as you certainly never expected any more than I did. What will you say when I tell you that Madame Patoff has suddenly emerged from her rooms in all respects a sane woman? You will not be any less surprised — unless Paul has confided in you — to hear that he asked Hermione to marry him before leaving us, and that Hermione did not refuse him! I am so nervous that I have cut three meets in the last month.

  Of course you will want to know how all this came out. I do not see how I can manage to write so long a letter as this must be. But the labor improbus knocks the stuffing out of all difficulties, as you put it in your neat American way. I dare say I shall survive. If I do not, the directions for my epitaph are, “Here lies the body of Anne Patoff’s brother-in-law.” If you could see me, you would appreciate the justice of the inscription.

  Madame Patoff is perfectly sane; dines with us, drives out, walks, talks, and reads like any other human being, — in which she differs materially from Chrysophrasia, who does all these things as they were never done, before or after the flood. We do not know what to make of the situation, but we try to make the best of it. It came about in this way. Hermione had taken a fancy to pay her aunt a visit, a day or two after you had left. Mrs. North was outside, as usual, reading or working in the next room. It chanced that the door was left open, or not quite closed. Mrs. North had the habit of listening to what went on, professionally, because it was her business to watch the case. As she sat there working, she heard Madame Patoff’s voice, talking consecutively. She had never heard her talk before, more than to say “Yes,” or “No,” or “It is a fine day,” or “It rains.” She rose and went near the door. Her patient was talking very connectedly about a book she had been reading, and Hermione was answering her as though not at all surprised at
the conversation. Then, presently, Hermione began to beg her to come out into the house and to live with the rest of us, since she was now perfectly sane. Mrs. North was thunderstruck, but did not lose her head. She probably did the best thing she could have done, as the event proved. She entered the room very quietly, — she is always so quiet, — and said in the most natural way in the world, “I am so glad you are better, Madame Patoff. Excuse me, Miss Hermione left the door open and I heard you talking.” The old lady started and looked at her a moment. Then she turned away, and presently, looking rather white, she answered the nurse: “Thank you, Mrs. North, I am quite well. Will you send for Professor Cutter?” So Cutter was sent for, and when he had seen her he sent for me, and told me that my sister-in-law was in a lucid state, but that it would be just as well not to excite her. If she chose to leave her room she might, he said, but she ought to be watched. “The deuce!” said I, “this is most extraordinary!” “Exactly,” said he, “most extraordinary.”

  The lucid moment lasted, and she has been perfectly sane ever since. She goes about the house, touching everything and admiring everything, and enjoys driving with me in the dog-cart. I do not know what to make of it. I asked Hermione how it began. She only said that she thought her aunt had been better when she was with her, and then it had come very suddenly. The other day Madame Patoff asked about Paul, and I told her he had gone to the East with you. But she did not seem to know anything about you, though I told her you had seen her. “Poor Paul,” she said, “I should like to see him so much. He is the only one left.” She was sad for a moment, but that was all. Cutter said it was very strange; that her insanity must have been caused in some way by the shock she had when she threw herself out of the window in Germany. Perhaps so. At all events she is sane now, and Cutter says she will not be crazy again. I hope he is right. She appeared very grateful for all I had done for her, and I believe she has written to Paul. Queer story, is it not?

  Now for the sequel. Hermione came to me one morning in the library, and confessed that Paul had asked her to marry him, and that she had not exactly refused. Girls’ ideas about those things are apt to be very inexact when they are in love with a man and do not want to own it. Of course I said I was glad she had not accepted him; but when I put it to her in that way she seemed more uncertain than ever. The end of it was that she said she could not marry him, however much she liked him, unless he could put an end to a certain foolish tale which is told against him. I dare say you have heard that he had been half suspected of helping his brother out of the world. Was there ever such nonsense? That was what Chrysophrasia meant with her disgusting personalities about Cain and Abel. I dare say you remember. I do not mind telling you that I like Paul very much more than I expected to when he first came. He has a hard shell, but he is a good fellow, and as innocent of his brother’s death as I am. But — they are cousins, and Paul’s mother has certainly been insane. Of course insanity brought on by an accident can never be hereditary; but then, there is Chrysophrasia, who is certainly very odd. However, Paul is a fine fellow, and I will think of it. Mrs. Carvel likes him even better than I do. I would have preferred that Hermione should marry an out-and-out Englishman, but I always said she should marry the man she loved, if he were a gentleman, and I will not go back on my word. They will not have much to live on, for I believe Paul has refused to touch a penny of his brother’s fortune, believing that he may yet be found.

  But the plot thickens. What do you suppose Macaulay has been doing? He has written a letter to his old chief, Lord Mavourneen, who always liked him so much, begging to be sent to Constantinople. The ambassador had a secretary out there of the same standing who wanted to go to Paris, so the matter was arranged at the Foreign Office, and Macaulay is going out at once. Naturally the female establishment set up a howl that they must spend the summer on the Bosphorus; that I had taken them everywhere else, and that no one of them could die happy without having seen Constantinople. The howl lasted a week. Then I went the way of all flesh, and gave in. Mrs. Carvel wanted to see Macaulay, Madame Patoff wanted to see the place where poor Alexander disappeared, Hermione wanted to see Paul, and Chrysophrasia wanted to see the Golden Horn and dance upon the glad waters of the joyous Bosphorus in the light caïque of commerce. I am rather glad I have submitted. I think that Hermione’s affection is serious, — she looks ill, poor child, — and I want to see more of Paul before deciding. Of course, with Macaulay in one embassy and Paul in another, we shall see everything; and Mary says I am growing crusty over my books. You understand now how all this has occurred.

  Now I want your advice, for you not only know Constantinople, but you are living there. Do you advise us to come at once and spend the spring, or to come later and stay all summer? Is there anything to eat? Must I bring a cook? Can I get a house, or must we encamp in a hotel? What clothes does one wear? In short, tell me everything you know, on a series of post cards or by telegraph, — for you hate writing letters more than I do. I await your answer with anxiety, as we shall regulate our movements by what you say. All send affectionate messages to you and to Paul, to whom please read this letter.

  Yours ever, John Carvel.

  I had not recovered from my astonishment in reading this long epistle, when Gregorios came in and sat down by the fire. His entrance reminded me of the watch, and for the moment banished John Carvel and his family from my thoughts. I showed him the thing, and told him what Marchetto had said.

  “We have him now!” he exclaimed, examining the name and date with interest, though he could not read the Russian characters.

  “It is not so sure,” I said. “He will never tell the name of the negro.”

  “No; but we can see the fellow easily enough, I fancy,” returned Balsamides. “You do not know how these things are done. It is most probable that Marchetto has not paid him for the watch. Things of that sort are generally not paid for until they have been sold out of the shop. Marchetto would not give him a good price for the watch until he knew what it would fetch, and the man would not take a small sum because he believes it to be valuable. The chances are that the Lala comes from time to time to inquire if it is sold, and Marchetto shows it to him to prove that he has not got any money for it.”

  “That sounds rather far-fetched,” I observed. “Marchetto may have had it in his keeping ever since Alexander disappeared. The Lala would not wait as long as that. He would take it to some one else.”

  “No, I do not believe so,” said Gregorios thoughtfully. “Besides, it may not have been brought to the Jew more than a week ago. Those fellows do not part with jewelry unless they need money. It is a pretty thing, too, and would attract the attention of any foreigner.”

  “How can you manage to watch Marchetto so closely as to get a sight of the man?”

  “Bribe the Jew in the next shop; or, still better, pay a hamál to spend his time in the neighborhood. The man probably comes once a week on a certain day. Keep the watch. The next time he comes it will be gone, but Marchetto will not have been paid for it and will refuse to pay the Lala. There will inevitably be a hubbub and a noise over it. The hamál can easily find out the name of the negro, who is probably well known in the bazaar.”

  “But suppose that I am right, and it is already paid for?” I objected.

  “It is very unlikely. I know these people better than you do. At all events, we will put the hamál there to watch for the row. If it does not come off in a month, I will begin to think you are right.”

  Gregorios is a true Oriental. He possesses the inborn instinct of the bazaar.

  XIII.

  THAT NIGHT I went in search of Paul, and found him standing silent and alone in the corner of a drawing-room at one of the embassies. There was a great reception and a dance, and all the diplomats had turned out officially to see that portion of the native Pera society which is invited on such occasions.

  There is a brilliancy about such affairs in Constantinople which is hardly rivaled elsewhere. The display of jewels i
s something wonderful, for the great Fanariote families are still rich, in spite of the devastations of the late war, and the light of their hereditary diamonds and pearls is not hidden under a bushel. There is beauty, too, of the Oriental and Western kind, and plenty of it. The black eyes and transparently white complexions of the Greek ladies, their raven hair and heavy brows, their magnificent calm and their languid attitudes, contrast strangely with the fair women of many countries, whose husbands, or fathers, or brothers, or uncles are attached to the different embassies. The uniforms, too, are often superb, and the display of decorations is amazing. The conversation is an enlargement on the ordinary idea of Babel, for almost every known language is spoken within the limits of the ball-room.

  I found Paul alone, with an abstracted expression on his face, as he stood aside from the crowd, unnoticed in his corner.

  “My dear fellow,” I said, “I believe I may congratulate you.”

  “Upon what?” he asked, in some surprise.

  “Let us get out of this crowd,” I answered. “I have a letter from John Carvel, which you ought to read.”

  We threaded the rooms till we reached a small boudoir, occupied only by one or two couples, exceedingly interested in each other.

  “Read that,” said I. It was the best thing I could do for him, I thought. He might be annoyed to find that I knew his secret, but he could not fail to rejoice at the view John took of the engagement. His face changed many times in expression, as he read the letter carefully. When he had finished he was silent and held it in his hand.