 | The amber gods, and other stories |  |
In a Cellar.
I.
IT was the day of Madame de St. Cyr's dinner,
an event I never missed; for, the mistress
of a mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain,
there still lingered about her the exquisite
grace and good-breeding peculiar to the old régime, that
insensibly communicates itself to the guests till they
move in an atmosphere of ease that constitutes the
charm of home. One was always sure of meeting desirable
and well-assorted people here, and a contre-temps
was impossible. Moreover, the house was not at the
command of all; and Madame de St. Cyr, with the
daring strength which, when found in a woman at all,
should, to be endurable, be combined with a sweet but
firm restraint, rode rough-shod over the parvenus of the
Empire, and was resolute enough to insulate herself
even among the old noblesse, who, as all the world
knows, insulate themselves from the rest of France.
There were rare qualities in this woman, and were I to
have selected one who with an even hand should carry a
snuffy candle through a magazine of powder, my choice
would have devolved upon her; and she would have
done it.
I often looked, and not unsuccessfully, to discern what
heritage her daughter had in these little affairs. Indeed,
to one like myself, Delphine presented the worthier
study. She wanted the airy charm of manner, the
suavity and tenderness of her mother, — a deficiency
easily to be pardoned in one of such delicate and extraordinary
beauty. And perhaps her face was the truest
index of her mind; not that it ever transparently displayed
a genuine emotion, — Delphine was too well bred
for that, — but the outline of her features had a keen
regular precision, as if cut in a gem. Her exquisite
color seldom varied, her eyes were like blue steel, she
was statue-like and stony. But had one paused there,
pronouncing her hard and impassive, he had committed
an error. She had no great capability for passion, but
she was not to be deceived; one metallic flash of her
eye would cut like a sword through the whole mesh of
entanglements with which you had surrounded her; and
frequently, when alone with her, you perceived cool
recesses in her nature, sparkling and pleasant, which
jealously guarded themselves from a nearer approach.
She was infinitely spirituelle; compared to her, Madame
herself was heavy.
At the first, I had seen that Delphine must be the wife
of a diplomate. What diplomate? For a time asking
myself the question seriously, I decided in the negative,
which did not, however, prevent Delphine from fulfilling
her destiny, since there were others. She was, after all,
like a draught of rich old wine, all fire and sweetness.
These things were not generally seen in her; I was
more favored than many; and I looked at her with
pitiless perspicacious eyes. Nevertheless, I had not the
least advantage; it was, in fact, between us, diamond
my story.
Some years previously, I had been sent on a special
mission to the government at Paris, and having finally
executed it, I resigned the post, and resolved to make my
residence there, since it is the only place on earth where
one can live. Every morning I half expect to see the
country, beyond the city, white with an encampment of
the nations, who, having peacefully flocked there over
night, wait till the Rue St. Honoré shall run out and
greet them. It surprises me, sometimes, that those pretending
to civilization are content to remain at a distance.
What experience have they of life, — not to mention gayety
and pleasure, but of the great purpose of life, — society?
Man evidently is gregarious; Fourier's fables are
founded on fact; we are nothing without our opposites,
our fellows, our lights and shadows, colors, relations, combinations,
our point d'appui, and our angle of sight. An
isolated man is immensurable; he is also unpicturesque,
unnatural, untrue. He is no longer the lord of Nature,
animal and vegetable, — but Nature is the lord of him;
the trees, skies, flowers, predominate, and he is in as bad
taste as green and blue, or as an oyster in a vase of roses.
The race swings naturally to clusters. It being admitted,
then, that society is our normal state, where is it to be obtained
in such perfection as at Paris? Show me the
urbanity, the generosity in trifles, better than sacrifice,
the incuriousness and freedom, the grace, and wit, and
honor, that will equal such as I find here. Morality, —
we were not speaking of it, — the intrusion is unnecessary;
must that word with Anglo-Saxon pertinacity dog us
round the world? A hollow mask, which Vice now and
then lifts for a breath of air, I grant you this state may be
my preference for the accompanying mask. But even
this is vanishing; such drawing-rooms as Mme. de St.
Cyr's are less and less frequent. Yet, though the delightful
spell of the last century daily dissipates itself,
and we are not now what we were twenty years ago, still
Paris is, and will be to the end of time, for a cosmopolitan,
the pivot on which the world revolves.
It was, then, as I have said, the day of Mme. de St.
Cyr's dinner. Punctually at the hour, I presented myself,
— for I have always esteemed it the least courtesy
which a guest can render, that he should not cool his
hostess's dinner.
The usual choice company waited. There was the
Marquis of G., the ambassador from home; Col. Leigh,
an attaché of that embassy; the Spanish and Belgian
ministers; — all of whom, with myself, completed a diplomatic
circle. There were also wits and artists, but no
ladies whose beauty exceeded that of the St. Cyrs. With
nearly all of this assemblage I held certain relations, so
that I was immediately at ease. G. was the only one
whom, perhaps, I would rather not have met, although
we were the best of friends. They awaited but one, the
Baron Stahl. Meanwhile Delphine stood coolly taking
the measurement of the Marquis of G., while her mother
entertained one and another guest with a low-toned flattery,
gentle interest, or lively narration, as the case might
demand.
In a country where a coup d'état was as easily given
as a box on the ear, we all attentively watched for the
arrival of one who had been sent from a neighboring
empire to negotiate a loan for the tottering throne
of this. Nor was expectation kept long on guard. In
announced.
The exaggeration of his low bow to Mme. de St. Cyr,
the gleam askance of his black eye, the absurd simplicity
of his dress, did not particularly please me. A low forehead,
straight black brows, a beardless cheek with a fine
color which gave him a fictitiously youthful appearance,
were the most striking traits of his face; his person was
not to be found fault with; but he boldly evinced his admiration
for Delphine, and with a wicked eye.
As we were introduced, he assured me, in pure English,
that he had pleasure in making the acquaintance of a gentleman
whose services were so distinguished.
I, in turn, assured him of my pleasure in meeting a
gentleman who appreciated them.
I had arrived at the house of Mme. de St. Cyr with a
load on my mind, which for four weeks had weighed
there; but before I thus spoke, it was lifted and gone.
I had seen the Baron Stahl before, although not previously
aware of it; and now, as he bowed, talked my
native tongue so smoothly, drew a glove over the handsome
hand upon whose first finger shone the only incongruity
of his attire, a broad gold ring, holding a gaudy
red stone, — as he stood smiling and expectant before me,
a sudden chain of events flashed through my mind, an instantaneous
heat, like lightning, welded them into logic.
A great problem was resolved. For a second, the breath
seemed snatched from my lips; the next, a lighter, freer
man never trod in diplomatic shoes.
I really beg your pardon, — but perhaps from long
usage, it has become impossible for me to tell a straight
story. It is absolutely necessary to inform you of events
already transpired.
In the first place, then, I, at this time, possessed a valet,
the pink of valets, an Englishman, — and not the less
valuable to me in a foreign capital, that, notwithstanding
his long residence, he was utterly unable to speak one
word of French intelligibly. Reading and writing it
readily, his thick tongue could master scarcely a syllable.
The adroitness and perfection with which he
performed the duties of his place were unsurpassable.
To a certain extent I was obliged to admit him into
my confidence; I was not at all in his. In dexterity
and despatch he equalled the advertisements. He never
condescended to don my cast-off apparel, but, disposing
of it, always arrayed himself in plain but gentlemanly
garments. These do not complete the list of Hay's capabilities.
He speculated. Respectable tenements in London
called him landlord; in the funds certain sums lay
subject to his order; to a profitable farm in Hants he
contemplated future retirement; and passing upon the
Bourse, I have received a grave bow, and have left him
in conversation with an eminent capitalist respecting consols,
drafts, exchange, and other erudite mysteries, where
I yet find myself in the A B C. Thus not only was my
valet a free-born Briton, but a landed proprietor. If the
Rothschilds blacked your boots or shaved your chin, your
emotions might be akin to mine. When this man, who
had an interest in the India traders, brought the hot
water into my dressing-room, of a morning, the Antipodes
were tributary to me. To what extent might any
little irascibility of mine drive a depression in the market!
and I knew, as he brushed my hat, whether stocks
rose or fell. In one respect, I was essentially like our
Saxon ancestors, — my servant was a villain. If I had
been merely a civilian, in any purely private capacity,
of the delicate specialties intrusted to me from the cabinet
at home, the possession of so inestimable a valet might
have bullied me beyond endurance. As it was, I found
it rather agreeable than otherwise. He was tacitly my
secretary of finance.
Several years ago, a diamond of wonderful size and
beauty, having wandered from the East, fell into certain
imperial coffers among our Continental neighbors; and at
the same time some extraordinary intelligence, essential
to the existence, so to speak, of that government, reached
a person there who fixed as its price this diamond. After
a while he obtained it, but, judging that prudence lay in
departure, took it to England, where it was purchased for
an enormous sum by the Duke of — as he will remain
an unknown quantity, let us say X. There are probably
not a dozen such diamonds in the world, — certainly not
three in England. It rejoiced in such flowery appellatives
as the Sea of Splendor, the Moon of Milk; and, of
course, those who had but parted with it under protest, as
it were, determined to obtain it again at all hazards; —
they were never famous for scrupulosity. The Duke of
X. was aware of this, and, for a time, the gem had lain
idle, its glory muffled in a casket; but finally, on some
grand occasion, a few months prior to the period of which
I have spoken above, it was determined to set it in the
Duchess's coronet. Accordingly, one day, it was given
by her son, the Marquis of G., into the hands of their
solicitor, who should deliver it to her Grace's jeweller.
It lay in a small shagreen case, and before the Marquis
left, the solicitor placed the case in a flat leathern box,
where lay a chain of most singular workmanship, the
clasp of which was deranged. This chain was very
brick was a tiny gem, set in a delicate filagree linked
with the next, and the whole rainbowed lustrousness
moving at your will, like the scales of some gorgeous
Egyptian serpent; — the solicitor was to take this also to
the jeweller. Having laid the box in his private desk,
Ulster, his confidential clerk, locked it, while he bowed
the Marquis down. Returning immediately, the solicitor
took the flat box and drove to the jeweller's. He found
the latter so crowded with customers, it being the fashionable
hour, as to be unable to attend to him; he,
however, took the solicitor into his inner room, a dark
fire-proof place, and there quickly deposited the box
within a safe, which stood inside another, like a Japanese
puzzle, and the solicitor, seeing the doors double-locked
and secured, departed; the other promising to attend to
the matter on the morrow.
Early the next morning, the jeweller entered his dark
room, and proceeded to unlock the safe. This being concluded,
and the inner one also thrown open, he found the
box in a last and entirely, as he had always believed, secret
compartment. Anxious to see this wonder, this Eye
of Morning, and Heart of Day, he eagerly loosened the
band and unclosed the box. It was empty. There was
no chain there; the diamond was missing. The sweat
streamed from his forehead, his clothes were saturated,
he believed himself the victim of a delusion. Calling an
assistant, every article and nook in the dark room was
examined. At last, in an extremity of despair, he sent
for the solicitor, who arrived in a breath. The jeweller's
alarm hardly equalled that of the other. In his sudden
dismay, he at first forgot the circumstances and dates
relating to the affair; afterward was doubtful. The
jeweller given into custody. Every breath the solicitor
continued to draw only built up his ruin. He swallowed
laudanum, but, by making it an overdose, frustrated his
own design. He was assured, on his recovery, that no
suspicion attached to him. The jeweller now asseverated
that the diamond had never been given to him; but
though the jeweller had committed perjury, this was,
nevertheless, strictly true. Of course, whoever had the
stone would not attempt to dispose of it at present, and,
though communications were opened with the general
European police, there was very little to work upon.
But by means of this last step the former possessors
became aware of its loss, and I make no doubt had their
agents abroad immediately.
Meanwhile, the case hung here, complicated and tantalizing,
when one morning I woke in London. No
sooner had G. heard of my arrival than he called, and,
relating the affair, requested my assistance. I confess
myself to have been interested, — foolishly so, I thought
afterward; but we all have our weaknesses, and diamonds
were mine. In company with the Marquis, I waited upon
the solicitor, who entered into the few details minutely,
calling frequently upon Ulster, a young, fresh-looking
man, for corroboration. We then drove to the jeweller's
new quarters, took him, under charge of the officers, to
his place of business, where he nervously showed me
every point that could bear upon the subject, and ended
by exclaiming, that he was ruined, and all for a stone he
had never seen. I sat quietly for a few moments. It
stood, then, thus: — G. had given the thing to the solicitor,
seen it put into the box, seen the box put into the
desk; but while the confidential clerk, Ulster, locked the
returning, took the box, without opening it again, to the
jeweller, who, in the hurry, shut it up in his safe, also
without opening it. The case was perfectly clear. These
mysterious things are always so simple! You know now,
as well as I, who took the diamond.
I did not choose to volunteer, but assented, on being
desired. The police and I were old friends; they had so
often assisted me, that I was not afraid to pay them in
kind, and accordingly agreed to take charge of the case,
still retaining their aid, should I require it. The jeweller
was now restored to his occupation, although still subjected
to a rigid surveillance, and I instituted inquiries
into the recent movements of the young man Ulster. The
case seemed to me to have been very blindly conducted.
But, though all that was brought to light concerning him
in London was perfectly fair and aboveboard, it was discovered
that, not long since, he had visited Paris, — on the
solicitor's business, of course, but gaining thereby an opportunity
to transact any little affairs of his own. This
was fortunate; for if any one could do anything in Paris,
it was myself.
It is not often that I act as a detective. But one
homogeneous to every situation could hardly play a
pleasanter part for once. I have thought that our great
masters in theory and practice, Machiavel and Talleyrand,
were hardly more, on a large scale.
I was about to return to Paris, but resolved to call
previously on the solicitor again. He welcomed me
warmly, although my suspicions had not been imparted
to him, and, with a more cheerful heart than had lately
been habitual to him, entered into an animated conversation
respecting the great case of Biter v. Bit, then absorbing
Ulster, whose remarks were always pertinent, brief, and
clear. As I sat actively discussing the topic, feeling no
more interest in it than in the end of that cigar I just cut
off, and noting exactly every look and motion of the
unfortunate youth, I recollect the curious sentiment that
filled me regarding him. What injury had he done me,
that I should pursue him with punishment? Me? I am,
and every individual is, integral with the commonwealth.
It was the commonwealth he had injured. Yet, even
then, why was I the one to administer justice? Why not
continue with my coffee in the morning, my kings and
cabinets and national chess at noon, my opera at night,
and let the poor devil go? Why, but that justice is
brought home to every member of society, — that naked
duty requires no shirking of such responsibility, — that,
had I failed here, the crime might, with reason, lie at my
door and multiply, the criminal increase himself?
Very possibly you will not unite with me; but these
little catechisms are, once in a while, indispensable, to
vindicate one's course to one's self.
This Ulster was a handsome youth; — the rogues have
generally all the good looks. There was nothing else
remarkable about him but his quickness; he was perpetually
on the alert; by constant activity, the rust was
never allowed to collect on his faculties; his sharpness
was distressing, — he appeared subject to a tense strain.
Now his quill scratched over the paper unconcernedly,
while he could join as easily in his master's conversation:
nothing seemed to preoccupy him, or he held a mind open
at every point. It is pitiful to remember him that morning,
sitting quiet, unconscious, and free, utterly in the
hands of that mighty Inquisition, the Metropolitan Police,
remotest corners of the Continent, — at the mercy of so
merciless a monster, and momently closer involved, like
some poor prey round which a spider spins its bewildering
web. It was also curious to observe the sudden suspicion
that darkened his face at some innocent remark, — the
quick shrinking and intrenched retirement, the manifest
sting and rancor, as I touched his wound with a swift
flash of my slender weapon and sheathed it again, and,
after the thrust, the espionage, and the relief at believing
it accidental. He had many threads to gather up and
hold; — little electric warnings along them must have
been constantly shocking him. He did that part well
enough; it was a mistake, to begin with; he needed
prudence. At that time I owed this Ulster nothing;
now, however, I owe him a grudge, for some of the most
harassing hours of my life were occasioned me by him.
But I shall not cherish enmity on that account. With so
promising a beginning, he will graduate and take his
degree from the loftiest altitude in his line. Hemp is a
narcotic; let it bring me forgetfulness.
In Paris I found it not difficult to trace such a person,
since he was both foreign and unaccustomed. It was ascertained
that he had posted several letters. A person
of his description had been seen to drop a letter, the superscription
of which had been read by one who picked it
up for him. This superscription was the address of the
very person who was likely to be the agent of the former
possessors of the diamond, and had attracted attention
After all, — you know the Secret Force, — it was not so
impossible to imagine what this letter contained, despite
of its cipher. Such a person also had been met among
the Jews, and at certain shops whose reputation was not
St. Cyr, on business relative to a vineyard adjoining her
château in the Gironde, which she had sold to a wine
merchant of England. I found a zest in the affair, as I
pursued it.
We were now fairly at sea, but before long I found we
were likely to remain there; in fact, nothing of consequence
eventuated. I began to regret having taken the
affair from the hands in which I had found it, and one
day, it being a gala or some insatiable saint's day, I was
riding, perplexed with that and other matters, and paying
small attention to the passing crowd. I was vexed and
mortified, and had fully decided to throw up the whole, —
on such hairs do things hang, — when, suddenly turning a
corner, my bridle-reins became entangled in the snaffle of
another rider. I loosened them abstractedly, and not till
it was necessary to bow to my strange antagonist, on parting,
did I glance up. The person before me was evidently
not accustomed to play the dandy; he wore his clothes ill,
sat his horse worse, and was uneasy in the saddle. The
unmistakable air of the gamin was apparent beneath the
superficies of the gentleman. Conspicuous on his costume,
and wound like an order of merit upon his breast,
glittered a chain, the chain, — each tiny brick-like gem
spiked with a hundred sparks, and building a fabric of
sturdy probabilities with the celerity of the genii in constructing
Aladdin's palace. There, a cable to haul up
the treasure, was the chain; — where was the diamond?
I need not tell you how I followed this young friend, with
what assiduity I kept him in sight, up and down, all day
long, till, weary at last of his fine sport, as I certainly was
of mine, he left his steed in stall and fared on his way
a-foot. Still pursuing, now I threaded quay and square,
one of those dark crowded lanes leading eastward from
the Pont Neuf, in the city. It was the sign of a marchand
des armures, and having provided myself with those persuasive
arguments, a sergent-de-ville and a gendarme, I
entered.
A place more characteristic it would be impossible to
find. Here were piled bows of every material, ash, and
horn, and tougher fibres, with slackened strings, and
among them peered a rusty clarion and battle-axe, while
the quivers that should have accompanied lay in a distant
corner, their arrows serving to pin long, dusty, torn banners
to the wall. Opposite the entrance, an archer in
bronze hung on tiptoe, and levelled a steel bow, whose
piercing flèche seemed sparkling with impatience to spring
from his finger and flesh itself in the heart of the intruder.
The hauberk and halberd, lance and casque, arquebuse
and sword, were suspended in friendly congeries; and
fragments of costly stuff swept from ceiling to floor,
crushed and soiled by the heaps of rusty firelocks, cutlasses,
and gauntlets thrown upon them. In one place,
a little antique bust was half hid in the folds of some
pennon, still dyed with battle-stains; in another, scattered
treasures of Dresden and Sèvres brought the drawning-room
into the campaign; and all around bivouacked rifles,
whose polished barrels glittered full of death, — pistols, variously
mounted, for an insurgent at the barricades, or for
a lost millionnaire at the gaming-table, — foils, with buttoned
bluntness, — and rapiers whose even edges were
viewless as if filed into air. Destruction lay everywhere,
at the command of the owner of this place, and, had he
possessed a particle of vivacity, it would have been hazardous
to bow beneath his doorway. It did not, I must
the owner came forward, I determined on my plan of
action.
“You have, sir,” I said, handing him a bit of paper, on
which were scrawled some numbers, “a diamond in your
possession, of such and so many carats, size, and value,
belonging to the Duke of X., and left with you by an
Englishman, Mr. Arthur Ulster. You will deliver it to
me, if you please.”
“Monsieur!” exclaimed the man, lifting his hands, and
surveying me with the widest eyes I ever saw. “A diamond!
In my possession! So immense a thing! It is
impossible. I have not even seen one of the kind. It is
a mistake. Jacques Noailles, the vender of jewels en gros,
second door below, must be the man. One should perceive
that my business is with arms, not diamonds. I
have it not; it would ruin me.”
Here he paused for a reply, but, meeting none, resumed.
“M. Arthur Ulster! — I have heard of no such
person. I never spoke with an Englishman. Bah! I
detest them! I have no dealings with them. I repeat, I
have not your jewel. Do you wish anything more of
me?”
His vehemence only convinced me of the truth of my
suspicions.
“These heroics are out of place,” I answered. “I demand
the article in question.”
“Monsieur doubts me?” he asked, with a rueful face, —
“questions my word, which is incontrovertible?” Here
he clapped his hand upon a couteau-de-chasse lying near,
but, appearing to think better of it, drew himself up, and,
with a shower of nods flung at me, added, “I deny your
accusation!” I had not accused him.
“You are at too much pains to convict yourself. I
charge you with nothing,” I said. “But this diamond
must be surrendered.”
“Monsieur is mad!” he exclaimed, “mad! he dreams!
Do I look like one who possesses such a trophy? Does
my shop resemble a mine? Look about! See! All
that is here would not bring a hundredth part of its
price. I beseech Monsieur to believe me; he has mistaken
the number, or has been misinformed.”
“We waste words. I know this diamond is here, as
well as a costly chain —”
“On my soul, on my life, on my honor,” he cried,
clasping his hands and turning up his eyes, “there is
here nothing of the kind. I do not deal in gems. A
little silk, a few weapons, a curiosity, a nicknack, comprise
my stock. I have not the diamond. I do not
know the thing. I am poor. I am honest. Suspicion
destroys me!”
“As you will find, should I be longer troubled by your
denials.”
He was inflexible, and, having exhausted every artifice
of innocence, wiped the tears from his eyes, — oh, these
French! life is their theatre, — and remained quiet. It
was getting dark. There was no gas in the place; but
in the pause a distant street-lamp swung its light dimly
round.
“Unless one desires to purchase, allow me to say that
it is my hour for closing,” he remarked, blandly, rubbing
his black-bearded chin.
“My time is valuable,” I returned. “It is late and
dark. When your shop-boy lights up —”
“Pardon, — we do not light.”
“Permit me, then, to perform that office for you. In
have not appeared to recognize.”
So saying, I scratched a match upon the floor, and, as
the sergent-de-ville and the gendarme advanced, threw the
light of the blue spirt of sulphurous flame upon them. In
a moment more the match went out, and we remained in
the demi-twilight of the distant lantern. The marchand
des armures stood petrified and aghast. Had he seen the
imps of Satan in that instant, it could have had no greater
effect.
“You have seen them?” I asked. “I regret to inconvenience
you; but unless this diamond is produced at
once, my friends will put their seal on your goods, your
property will be confiscated, yourself in a dungeon. In
other words, I allow you five minutes; at the close of that
time you will have chosen between restitution and ruin.”
He remained apparently lost in thought. He was a
big, stout man, and with one blow of his powerful fist
could easily have settled me. It was the last thing in his
mind. At length he lifted his head, — “Rosalie!” he
called.
At the word, a light foot pattered along a stone floor
within, and in a moment a little woman stood in an arch
raised by two steps from our own level. Carrying a
candle, she descended and tripped toward him. She was
not pretty, but sprightly and keen, as the perpetual attrition
of life must needs make her, and wore the everlasting
grisette costume, which displays the neatest of ankles, and
whose cap is more becoming than wreaths of garden millinery.
I am too minute, I see, but it is second nature.
The two commenced a vigorous whispering amid sundry
gestures and glances. Suddenly the woman turned, and,
laying the prettiest of little hands on my sleeve, said, with
a winning smile, —
“Is it a crime of lèse-majesté?”
This was a new idea, but might be useful.
“Not yet,” I said; “two minutes more, and I will not
answer for the consequence.”
Other whispers ensued.
“Monsieur,” said the man, leaning on one arm over
the counter, and looking up in my face, with the most
engaging frankness, — “it is true that I have such a diamond;
but it is not mine. It is left with me to be delivered
to the Baron Stahl, who comes as an agent from his
court for its purchase.”
“Yes, — I know.”
“He was to have paid me half a million francs, — not
half its worth, — in trust for the person who left it, who is
not M. Arthur Ulster, but Mme. de St. Cyr.”
Madame de St. Cyr! How under the sun — No, —
it could not be possible. The case stood as it stood
before. The rogue was in deeper water than I had
thought; he had merely employed Mme. de St. Cyr. I
ran this over in my mind, while I said, “Yes.”
“Now, sir,” I continued, “you will state the terms of
this transaction.”
“With pleasure. For my trouble I was myself to receive
patronage and five thousand francs. The Baron is
to be here directly, on other and public business. Reine
du ciel, Monsieur! how shall I meet him?”
“He is powerless in Paris; your fear is idle.”
“True. There were no other terms.”
“Nor papers?”
“The lady thought it safest to be without them. She
took merely my receipt, which the Baron Stahl will bring
to me from her before receiving this.”
“I will trouble you for it now.”
He bowed and shuffled away. At a glance from me,
the gendarme slipped to the rear of the building, where
three others were stationed at the two exits in that direction,
to caution them of the critical moment, and returned.
Ten minutes passed, — the merchant did not appear. If,
after all, he had made off with it! There had been the
click of a bolt, the half-stifled rattle of arms, as if a door
had been opened and rapidly closed again, but nothing
more.
“I will see what detains my friend,” said Mademoiselle,
the little woman.
We suffered her to withdraw. In a moment more a
quick expostulation was to be heard.
“They are there, the gendarmes, my little one! I
should have run, but they caught me, the villains! and
replaced me in the house. Oh, sacre!” — and rolling
this word between his teeth, he came down and laid a
little box on the counter. I opened it. There was
within a large, glittering, curiously-cut piece of glass.
I threw it aside.
“The diamond!” I exclaimed.
“Monsieur had it,” he replied, stooping to pick up the
glass with every appearance of surprise and care.
“Do you mean to say you endeavored to escape with
that bawble? Produce the diamond instantly, or you
shall hang as high as Haman!” I roared.
Whether he knew the individual in question or not,
the threat was efficient; he trembled and hesitated, and
finally drew the identical shagreen case from his bosom.
“I but jested,” he said. “Monsieur will witness that I
relinquish it with reluctance.”
“I will witness that you receive stolen goods!” I cried,
in wrath.
He placed it in my hands.
“Oh!” he groaned, from the bottom of his heart, hanging
his head, and laying both hands on the counter before
him, — “it pains, it grieves me to part with it!”
“And the chain,” I said.
“Monsieur did not demand that!”
“I demand it now.”
In a moment, the chain also was given me.
“And now will Monsieur do me a favor? Will he inform
me by what means he ascertained these facts?”
I glanced at the garçon, who had probably supplied
himself with his master's finery illicitly; — he was the
means; — we have some generosity; — I thought I should
prefer doing him the favor, and declined.
I unclasped the shagreen case; the sergent-de-ville and
the gendarme stole up and looked over my shoulder; the
garçon drew near with round eyes; the little woman
peeped across; the merchant, with tears streaming over
his face, gazed as if it had been a loadstone; finally, I
looked myself. There it lay, the glowing, resplendent
thing! flashing in affluence of splendor, throbbing and
palpitant with life, drawing all the light from the little
woman's candle, from the sparkling armor around, from
the steel barbs, and the distant lantern, into its bosom.
It was scarcely so large as I had expected to see it, but
more brilliant than anything I could conceive of. I do
not believe there is another such in the world. One saw
clearly that the Oriental superstition of the sex of stones
was no fable; this was essentially the female of diamonds,
the queen herself, the principle of life, the rejoicing receptive
force. It was not radiant, as the term literally taken
implies; it seemed rather to retain its wealth, — instead
of emitting its glorious rays, to curl them back like the
scintillations, a mass of white magnificence, not
prismatic, but a vast milky lustre. I closed the case; on
reopening it, I could scarcely believe that the beautiful
sleepless eye would again flash upon me. I did not comprehend
how it could afford such perpetual richness, such
sheets of lustre.
At last we compelled ourselves to be satisfied. I left
the shop, dismissed my attendants, and, fresh from the
contemplation of this miracle, again trod the dirty, reeking
streets, crossed the bridge, with its lights, its warehouses
midway, its living torrents who poured on unconscious
of the beauty within their reach. The thought of
their ignorance of the treasure, not a dozen yards distant,
has often made me question if we all are not equally unaware
of other and greater processes of life, of more perfect,
sublimed, and, as it were, spiritual crystallizations
going on invisibly about us. But had these been told of
the thing clutched in the hand of a passer, how many of
them would have known where to turn? and we, — are
we any better?
II.
For a few days I carried the diamond about my person,
and did not mention its recovery even to my valet,
who knew that I sought it, but communicated only with
the Marquis of G., who replied, that he would be in Paris
on a certain day, when I could safely deliver it to him.
It was now generally rumored that the neighboring
government was about to send us the Baron Stahl, ambassador
concerning arrangements for a loan to maintain
the sinking monarchy in supremacy at Paris, the usual
synecdoche for France.
The weather being fine, I proceeded to call on Mme.
de St. Cyr. She received me in her boudoir, and on my
way thither I could not but observe the perfect quiet and
cloistered seclusion that pervaded the whole house, — the
house itself seeming only an adjunct of the still and sunny
garden, of which one caught a glimpse through the long
open hall-windows beyond. This boudoir did not differ
from others to which I have been admitted: the same
delicate shades; all the dainty appliances of Art for
beauty; the lavish profusion of bijouterie; and the usual
statuettes of innocence, to indicate, perhaps, the presence
of that commodity which might not be guessed at otherwise;
and burning in a silver cup, a rich perfume loaded
the air with voluptuous sweetness. Through a half-open
door an inner boudoir was to be seen, which must have
been Delphine's; it looked like her; the prevailing hue
was a soft purple, or gray; a prie-dieu, a book-shelf, and
desk, of a dark West Indian wood, were just visible. There
was but one picture, — a sad-eyed, beautiful Fate. It was
the type of her nation. I think she worshipped it. And
how apt is misfortune to degenerate into Fate! — not that
the girl had ever experienced the former, but, dissatisfied
with life, and seeing no outlet, she accepted it stoically
and waited till it should be over. She needed to be
aroused; — the station of an ambassadrice, which I desired
for her, might kindle the spark. There were no
flowers, no perfumes, no busts, in this ascetic place.
Delphine herself, in some faint rosy gauze, her fair hair
streaming round her, as she lay on a white-draped couch,
half-risen on one arm, while she read the morning's feuilleton,
was the most perfect statuary of which a room could
boast, — illumined, as I saw her, by the gay beams that
entered at the loftily-arched window, broken only by the
panes without. She resembled in kind a Nymph,
just bursting from the sea; so Pallas might have posed
for Aphrodite. Madame de St. Cyr received me with
empressement, and, so doing, closed the door of this shrine.
We spoke of various things, — of the court, the theatre,
the weather, the world, — skating lightly round the slender
edges of her secret, till finally she invited me to lunch
with her in the garden. Here, on a rustic table, stood
wine and a few delicacies, — while, by extending a hand,
we could grasp the hanging pears and nectarines, still
warm to the lip and luscious with sunshine, as we disputed
possession with the envious wasp who had established
a priority of claim.
“It is to be hoped,” I said, sipping the Haut-Brion,
whose fine and brittle smack contrasted rarely with the
delicious juiciness of the fruit, “that you have laid in a
supply of this treasure that neither moth nor rust doth corrupt,
before parting with that little gem in the Gironde.”
“Ah? You know, then, that I have sold it?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I have the pleasure of Mr. Ulster's
acquaintance.”
“He arranged the terms for me,” she said, with restraint,
— adding, “I could almost wish now that it had
not been.”
This was probably true; for the sum which she hoped
to receive from Ulster for standing sponsor to his jewel
was possibly equal to the price of her vineyard.
“It was indispensable at the time, this sale; I thought
best to hazard it on one more season. — If, after such advantages,
Delphine will not marry, why — it remains to
retire into the country and end our days with the barbarians!”
she continued, shrugging her shoulders; “I have
a house there.”
“But you will not be obliged to throw us all into despair
by such a step now,” I replied.
She looked quickly, as if to see how nearly I had approached
her citadel, — then, finding in my face no expression
but a complimentary one, “No,” she said, “I
hope that my affairs have brightened a little. One never
knows what is in store.”
Before long I had assured myself that Mme. de St.
Cyr was not a party to the theft, but had merely been
hired by Ulster, who, discovering the state of her affairs,
had not, therefore, revealed his own, — and this without
in the least implying any knowledge on my part of the
transaction. Ulster must have seen the necessity of leaving
the business in the hands of a competent person, and
Mme. de St. Cyr's financial talent was patent. There
were few ladies in Paris who would have rejected the
opportunity. Of these things I felt a tolerable certainty.
“We throng with foreigners,” said Madame, archly, as
I reached this point. “Diplomates, too. The Baron
Stahl arrives in a day.”
“I have heard,” I responded. “You are acquainted?”
“Alas! no,” she said. “I knew his father well, though
he himself is not young. Indeed, the families thought
once of intermarriage. But nothing has been said on the
subject for many years. His Excellency, I hear, will
strengthen himself at home by an alliance with the young
Countess, the natural daughter of the Emperor.”
“He surely will never be so imprudent as to rivet his
chain by such a link!”
“It is impossible to compute the dice in those despotic
countries,” she rejoined, — which was pretty well, considering
the freedom enjoyed by France at that period.
“It may be,” I suggested, “that the Baron hopes to
open this delicate subject with you yourself, Madame.”
“It is unlikely,” she said, sighing. “And for Delphine,
should I tell her his Excellency preferred scarlet, she
would infallibly wear blue. Imagine her, Monsieur, in
fine scarlet, with a scarf of gold gauze, and rustling grasses
in that unruly gold hair of hers! She would be divine!”
The maternal instinct as we have it here at Paris confounds
me. I do not comprehend it. Here was a mother
who did not particularly love her child, who would not be
inconsolable at her loss, would not ruin her own complexion
by care of her during illness, would send her through
fire and water and every torture to secure or maintain a
desirable rank, who yet would entangle herself deeply in
intrigue, would not hesitate to tarnish her own reputation,
and would, in fact, raise heaven and earth to — endow
this child with a brilliant match. And Mme. de St. Cyr
seemed to regard Delphine, still further, as a cool matter
of Art.
These little confidences, moreover, are provoking. They
put you yourself so entirely out of the question.
“Mlle. de St. Cyr's beauty is peerless,” I said, slightly
chagrined, and at a loss. “If hearts were trumps, instead
of diamonds!”
“We are poor,” resumed Madame, pathetically. “Delphine
is not an heiress. Delphine is proud. She will not
stoop to charm. Her coquetry is that of an Amazon.
Her kisses are arrows. She is Medusa!” And Madame,
her mother, shivered.
Here, with her hair knotted up and secured by a tiny
dagger, her gauzy drapery gathered in her arm, Delphine
floated down the green alley toward us, as if in a rosy
cloud. But this soft aspect never could have been more
widely contradicted than by the stony repose and cutting
calm of her beautiful face.
“The Marquis of G.,” said her mother, “he also arrives
ambassador. Has he talent? Is he brilliant? Wealthy,
of course, — but gauche?”
Therewith I sketched for them the Marquis and his
surroundings.
“It is charming,” said Madame. “Delphine, do you
attend?”
“And why?” asked Delphine, half concealing a yawn
with her dazzling hand. “It is wearisome; it matters
not to me.”
“But he will not go to marry himself in France,” said
her mother. “Oh, these English,” she added, with a
laugh, “yourself, Monsieur, being proof of it, will not
mingle blood, lest the Channel should still flow between
the little red globules! You will go? but to return
shortly? You will dine with me soon? Au revoir!”
and she gave me her hand graciously, while Delphine
bowed as if I were already gone, threw herself into a garden-chair,
and commenced pouring the wine on a stone
for a little tame snake which came out and lapped it.
Such women as Mme. de St. Cyr have a species of
magnetism about them. It is difficult to retain one's self-respect
before them, — for no other reason than that one
is, at the moment, absorbed into their individuality, and
thinks and acts with them. Delphine must have had a
strong will, and perpetual antagonism did not weaken it.
As for me, Madame had, doubtless, reasons of her own
for tearing aside these customary bands of reserve, —
reasons which, if you do not perceive, I shall not enumerate.
“Have you met with anything further in your search,
sir?” asked my valet, next morning.
“Oh, yes, Hay,” I returned, in a very good humor, —
“with great success. You have assisted me so much, that
I am sure I owe it to you to say that I have found the
diamond.”
“Indeed, sir, you are very kind. I have been interested,
but my assistance is not worth mentioning. I
thought likely it might be, you appeared so quiet.” —
The cunning dog! — “How did you find it, sir, may I
ask?”
I briefly related the leading facts, since he had been
aware of the progress of the case to that point, — without,
however, mentioning Mme. de St. Cyr's name.
“And Monsieur did not inform me!” a French valet
would have cried.
“You were prudent not to mention it, sir,” said Hay.
“These walls must have better ears than ordinary; for a
family has moved in on the first floor recently, whose actions
are extremely suspicious. But is this precious affair
to be seen?”
I took it from an inner pocket and displayed it, having
discarded the shagreen case as inconvenient.
“His Excellency must return as he came,” said I.
Hay's eyes sparkled.
“And do you carry it there, sir?” he asked, with surprise,
as I restored it to my waistcoat-pocket.
“I shall take it to the bank,” I said. “I do not like
the responsibility.”
“It is very unsafe,” was the warning of this cautious
fellow. “Why, sir! any of these swells, these pickpockets,
might meet you, run against you, — so!” said Hay,
suiting the action to the word, “and, with the little sharp
knife concealed in just such a ring as this I wear, give a
light tap, and there 's a slit in your vest, sir, but no diamond!”
deportment, Hay handed me my gloves and stick, and
smoothed my hat.
“Nonsense!” I replied, drawing on the gloves, “I
should like to see the man who could be too quick for
me. Any news from India, Hay?”
“None of consequence, sir. The indigo crop is said to
have failed, which advances the figure of that on hand, so
that one or two fortunes will be made to-day. Your hat,
sir? — your lunettes? Here they are, sir.”
“Good morning, Hay.”
“Good morning, sir.”
I descended the stairs, buttoning my gloves, paused a
moment at the door to look about, and proceeded down
the street, which was not more than usually thronged.
At the bank I paused to assure myself that the diamond
was safe. My fingers caught in a singular slit. I started.
As Hay had prophesied, there was a fine longitudinal cut
in my waistcoat, but the pocket was empty. My God!
the thing was gone. I never can forget the blank nihility
of all existence that dreadful moment when I stood fumbling
for what was not. Calm as I sit here and tell of it,
I vow to you a shiver courses through me at the very
thought. I had circumvented Stahl only to destroy myself.
The diamond was lost again. My mind flew like
lightning over every chance, and a thousand started up
like steel spikes to snatch the bolt. For a moment I was
stunned, but, never being very subject to despair, on my
recovery, which was almost at once, took every measure
that could be devised. Who had touched me? Whom
had I met? Through what streets had I come? In ten
minutes the Prefect had the matter in hand. My injunctions
were strict privacy. I sincerely hoped the mishap
recovered before the Marquis of G. arrived, — why, there
was the Seine. It is all very well to talk, — yet suicide
is so French an affair, that an Englishman does not take
to it naturally, and, except in November, the Seine is too
cold and damp for comfort, but during that month I suppose
it does not greatly differ in these respects from our
own atmosphere.
A preternatural activity now possessed me. I slept
none, ate little, worked immoderately. I spared no
efforts, for everything was at stake. In the midst of all,
G. arrived. Hay also exerted himself to the utmost; I
promised him a hundred pounds, if I found it. He never
told me that he said how it would be, never intruded the
state of the market, never resented my irritating conduct,
but watched me with narrow yet kind solicitude, and frequently
offered valuable suggestions, which, however, as
everything else did, led to nothing. I did not call on G.,
but in a week or so his card was brought up one morning
to me. “Deny me,” I groaned. It yet wanted a week
of the day on which I had promised to deliver him the
diamond. Meanwhile the Baron Stahl had reached
Paris, but he still remained in private, — few had seen
him.
The police were forever on the wrong track. To-day
they stopped the old Comptesse du Quesne and
her jewels, at the Barrière; to-morrow, with their long
needles, they riddled a package of lace destined for the
Duchess of X. herself; the Secret Service was doubled;
and to crown all, a splendid new star of the testy Prince
de Ligne was examined and proclaimed to be paste, —
the Prince swearing vengeance, if he could discover the
cause, — while half Paris must have been under arrest.
that his traps might be included, — but nothing resulted,
and I expected nothing, for, of course, I could swear that
the stone was in my pocket when I stepped into the street.
I confess I never was nearer madness, — every word and
gesture stung me like asps, — I walked on burning coals.
Enduring all this torment, I must yet meet my daily comrades,
eat ices at Tortoni's, stroll on the Boulevards, call
on my acquaintance, with the same equanimity as before.
I believe I was equal to it. Only by contrast with that
blessed time when Ulster and diamonds were unknown,
could I imagine my past happiness, my present wretchedness.
Rather than suffer it again, I would be stretched
on the rack till every bone in my skin were broken. I
cursed Mr. Arthur Ulster every hour in the day; myself,
as well; and even now the word diamond sends a cold
blast to my heart. I often met my friend the marchand
des armures. It was his turn to triumph; I fancied there
must be a hang-dog kind of air about me, as about
every sharp man who has been outwitted. It wanted
finally but two days of that on which I was to deliver
the diamond.
One midnight, armed with a dark lantern and a cloak,
I was traversing the streets alone, — unsuccessful, as
usual, just now solitary, and almost in despair. As I
turned a corner, two men were but scarcely visible a
step before me. It was a badly-lighted part of the town.
Unseen and noiseless I followed. They spoke in low
tones, — almost whispers; or rather, one spoke, — the
other seemed to nod assent.
“On the day but one after to-morrow,” I heard spoken
in English. Great Heavens! was it possible? had I
arrived at a clew? That was the day of days for me.
be exact, you see,” continued the voice, — “to prevent
detection, you gave it, ten minutes after it came into your
hands, to the butler of Madame —,” (here the speaker
stumbled on the rough pavement, and I lost the name,)
“who,” he continued, “will put it in the —” (a second
stumble acted like a hiccough) “cellar.”
“Wine-cellar,” I thought; “and what then?”
“In the —.” A third stumble was followed by a
round German oath. How easy it is for me now to fill
up the little blanks which that unhappy pavement caused!
“You share your receipts with this butler. On the
day I obtain it,” he added, and I now perceived his
foreign accent, “I hand you one hundred thousand
francs; afterward, monthly payments till you have received
the stipulated sum. But how will this butler
know me, in season to prevent a mistake? Hem! —
he might give it to the other!”
My hearing had been trained to such a degree that I
would have promised to catch any given dialogue of
the spirits themselves, but the whisper that answered him
eluded me. I caught nothing but a faint sibillation.
“Your ring?” was the rejoinder. “He shall be instructed
to recognize it? Very well. It is too large, —
no, that will do, it fits the first finger. There is nothing
more. I am under infinite obligations, sir; they shall
be remembered. Adieu!”
The two parted; which should I pursue? In desperation
I turned my lantern upon one, and illumined a face
fresh with color, whose black eyes sparkled askance after
the retreating figure, under straight black brows. In a
moment more he was lost in a false cul-de-sac, and I found
it impossible to trace the other.
I was scarcely better off than before; but it seemed to
me that I had obtained something, and that now it was
wisest to work this vein. “The butler of Madame —.”
There were hundreds of thousands of Madames in town.
I might call on all, and be as old as the Wandering Jew
at the last call. The cellar. Wine-cellar, of course, —
that came by a natural connection with butler, — but
whose? There was one under my own abode; certainly
I would explore it. Meanwhile, let us see the entertainments
for Wednesday. The Prefect had a list of these.
For some I found I had cards; I determined to allot a
fraction of time to as many as possible; my friends in the
Secret Service would divide the labor. Among others,
Madame de St. Cyr gave a dinner, and, as she had been
in the affair, I determined not to neglect her on this occasion,
although having no definite idea of what had been,
or plan of what should be done. I decided not to speak
of this occurrence to Hay, since it might only bring him
off some trail that he had struck.
Having been provided with keys, early on the following
evening I entered the wine-cellar, and, concealed in an
empty cask that would have held a dozen of me, waited for
something to turn up. Really, when I think of myself, a
diplomate, a courtier, a man-about-town, curled in a dusty,
musty wine-barrel, I am moved with vexation and laughter.
Nothing, however, turned up, — and at length I retired
baffled. The next night came, — no news, no
identification of my black-browed man, no success; but
I felt certain that something must transpire in that cellar.
I don't know why I had pitched upon that one in particular,
but, at an earlier hour than on the previous night, I
again donned the cask. A long time must have elapsed;
dead silence filled the spacious vaults, except where now
or some newer wine bubbled round the bung of its
barrel with a faint effervescence. I had no intention of
leaving this place till morning, but it suddenly appeared
like the most woful waste of time. The master of this
tremendous affair should be abroad and active; who
knew what his keen eyes might detect; what loss his
absence might occasion in this nick of time? And here
he was, shut up and locked in a wine-cellar! I began to
be very nervous; I had already, with aid, searched every
crevice of the cellar; and now I thought it would be
some consolation to discover the thief, if I never regained
the diamond. A distant clock tolled midnight. There
was a faint noise, — a mouse? — no, it was too prolonged;
— nor did it sound like the fiz of Champagne; —
a great iron door was turning on its hinges; a man with
a lantern was entering; another followed, and another.
They seated themselves. In a few moments, appearing
one by one and at intervals, some thirty people were in
the cellar. Were they all to share in the proceeds of the
diamond? With what jaundiced eyes we behold things!
I myself saw all that was only through the lens of this
diamond, of which not one of these men had ever heard.
As the lantern threw its feeble glimmer on this group,
and I surveyed them through my loophole, I thought I
had never seen so wild and savage a picture, such enormous
shadows, such bold outline, such a startling flash on
the face of their leader, such light retreating up the
threatening arches. More resolute brows, more determined
words, more unshrinking hearts, I had not met.
In fact, I found myself in the centre of a conspiracy, a
society as vidinctive as the Jacobins, as unknown and
terrible as the Marianne of to-day. I was thunderstruck,
the loyalest in estimation, ministers and senators, millionnaires
who had no reason for discontent, dandies whose
reason was supposed to be devoted to their tailors, poets
and artists of generous aspiration and suspected tendencies,
and one woman, — Delphine de St. Cyr. Their
plans were brave, their determination lofty, their conclave
serious and fine; yet as slowly they shut up their
hopes and fears in the black masks, one man bent toward
the lantern to adjust his. When he lifted his face before
concealing it, I recognized him also. I had met him
frequently at the Bureau of Police; he was, I believe,
Secretary of the Secret Service.
I had no sympathy with these people. I had sufficient
liberty myself, I was well enough satisfied with the
world, I did not care to revolutionize France; but my
heart rebelled at the mockery, as this traitor and spy,
this creature of a system by which I gained my fame,
showed his revolting face and veiled it again. And Delphine,
what had she to do with them? One by one, as
they entered, they withdrew, and I was left alone again.
But all this was not my diamond.
Another hour elapsed. Again the door opened, and
remained ajar. Some one entered, whom I could not
see. There was a pause, — then a rustle, — the door
creaked ever so little. “Art thou there?” lisped a
shrill whisper, — a woman, as I could guess.
“My angel, it is I,” was returned, a semitone lower.
She approached, he advanced, and the consequence was
a salute resonant as the smack with which a Dutch burgomaster
may be supposed to set down his mug. I was
prepared for anything. Ye gods! if it should be Delphine!
But the base suspicion was birth-strangled as
between these lovers under difficulties was tender and
affecting beyond expression. I had felt guilty enough
when an unwilling auditor of the conspirators, — since,
though one employs spies, one does not therefore act that
part one's self, but on emergencies, — an unwillingness
which would not, however, prevent my turning to advantage
the information gained; but here, to listen to this rehearsal
of woes and blisses, this ah mon Fernand, this aria
in an area, growing momently more fervent, was too much.
I overturned the cask, scrambled upon my feet, and fled
from the cellar, leaving the astounded lovers to follow,
while, agreeably to my instincts, and regardless of the
diamond, I escaped the embarrassing predicament.
At length it grew to be noon of the appointed day.
Nothing had transpired; all our labor was idle. I felt,
nevertheless, more buoyant than usual, — whether because
I was now to put my fate to the test, or that to-day
was the one of which my black-browed man had spoken,
and I therefore entertained a presentiment of good fortune,
I cannot say. But when, in unexceptionable
toilet, I stood on Mme. de St. Cyr's steps, my heart
sunk. G. was doubtless already within, and I thought
of the marchand des armures' exclamation, “Queen of
Heaven, Monsieur! how shall I meet him!” I was
plunged at once into the profoundest gloom. Why had
I undertaken the business at all? This interference, this
good-humor, this readiness to oblige, — it would ruin me
yet! I forswore it, as Falstaff forswore honor. Why
needed I to meddle in the mêlée? Why — But I was
no catechumen. Questions were useless now. My emotions
are not chronicled on my face, I flatter myself; and
with my usual repose I saluted our hostess. Greeting G.
allusion he received as a point of etiquette, I was conversing
with Mrs. Leigh, when the Baron Stahl was announced.
I turned to look at his Excellency. A glance
electrified me. There was my dark-browed man of the
midnight streets. It must, then, have been concerning
the diamond that I had heard him speak. His countenance,
his eager glittering eye, told that to-day was as
eventful to him as to me. If he were here, I could well
afford to be. As he addressed me in English, my certainty
was confirmed; and the instant in which I observed
the ring, gaudy and coarse, upon his finger, made confirmation
doubly sure. I own I was surprised that anything
could induce the Baron to wear such an ornament. Here
he was actually risking his reputation as a man of taste, as
an exquisite, a leader of haut ton, a gentleman, by the detestable
vulgarity of this ring. But why do I speak so
of the trinket? Do I not owe it a thrill of as fine joy as
I ever knew? Faith! it was not unfamiliar to me. It
had been a daily sight for years. In meeting the Baron
Stahl I had found the diamond.
The Baron Stahl was, then, the thief? Not at all.
My valet, as of course you have been all along aware,
was the thief.
My valet, moreover, was my instructor; he taught me
not again to scour Cathay for what might be lying under
my hand at home. Nor have I since been so acute as to
overreach myself. Yet I can explain such intolerable
stupidity only by remembering that when one has been in
the habit of pointing his telescope at the stars, he is not
apt to turn it upon pebbles at his feet.
The Marquis of G. took down Mme. de St. Cyr; Stahl
preceded me, with Delphine. As we sat at table, G. was
Delphine; below her, the Baron; so that we were nearly
vis-a-vis. I was now as fully convinced that Mme. de St.
Cyr's cellar was the one, as the day before I had been
that the other was; I longed to reach it. Hay had given
the stone to a butler — doubtless this — the moment of its
theft; but, not being aware of Mme. de St. Cyr's previous
share in the adventure, had probably not afforded her
another. And thus I concluded her to be ignorant of the
game we were about to play; and I imagined, with the
interest that one carries into a romance, the little preliminary
scene between the Baron and Madame that must
have already taken place, being charmed by the cheerfulness
with which she endured the loss of the promised
reward.
As the Baron entered the dining-room, I saw him
withdraw his glove, and move the jewelled hand across
his hair while passing the solemn butler, who gave it a
quick recognition; — the next moment we were seated.
There were only wines on the table, clustered around a
central ornament, — a bunch of tall silver rushes and flag-leaves,
on whose airy tip danced fleurs-de-lis of frosted
silver, a design of Delphine's, — the dishes being on sidetables,
from which the guests were served as they signified
their choice of the variety on their cards. Our number
not being large, and the custom so informal, rendered it
pleasant.
I had just finished my oysters and was pouring out a
glass of Chablis, when another plate was set before the
Baron.
“His Excellency has no salt,” murmured the butler, —
at the same time placing one beside him. A glance, at
entrance, had taught me that most of the service was uniform;
solitary, and unlike the others. What a fool had I been!
Those gaps in the Baron's remarks caused by the paving-stones,
how easily were they to be supplied!
“Madame?”
Madame de St. Cyr.
“The cellar?”
A salt-cellar.
How quick the flash that enlightened me while I surveyed
the salière!
“It is exquisite! Am I never to sit at your table but
some new device charms me?” I exclaimed. “Is it
your design, Mademoiselle?” I said, turning to Delphine.
Delphine, who had been ice to all the Baron's advances,
only curled her lip. “Des babioles!” she said.
“Yes, indeed!” cried Mme. de St. Cyr, extending her
hand for it. “But none the less her taste. Is it not a
fairy thing? A Cellini! Observe this curve, these lines!
but one man could have drawn them!” — and she held it
for our scrutiny. It was a tiny hand and arm of ivory,
parting the foam of a wave and holding a golden shell, in
which the salt seemed to have crusted itself as if in some
secretest ocean-hollow. I looked at the Baron a moment;
his eyes were fastened upon the salière, and all the color
had forsaken his cheeks, — his face counted his years.
The diamond was in that little shell. But how to obtain
it? I had no novice to deal with; nothing but finesse
would answer.
“Permit me to examine it?” I said. She passed it to
her left hand for me to take. The butler made a step
forward.
“Meanwhile, Madame,” said the Baron, smiling, “I
have no salt.”
The instinct of hospitality prevailed; — she was about
to return it. Might I do an awkward thing? Unhesitatingly.
Reversing my glass, I gave my arm a wider
sweep than necessary, and, as it met her hand with violence,
the salière fell. Before it touched the floor I
caught it. There was still a pinch of salt left, — nothing
more.
“A thousand pardons!” I said, and restored it to the
Baron.
His Excellency beheld it with dismay; it was rare to
see him bend over and scrutinize it with starting eyes.
“Do you find there what Count Arnaldos begs in the
song,” asked Delphine, — “the secret of the sea, Monsieur?”
He handed it to the butler, observing, “I find here
no —”
“Salt, Monsieur?” replied the man, who did not doubt
but all had gone right, and replinished it.
Had one told me in the morning that no intricate manœuvres,
but a simple blunder, would effect this, I might
have met him in the Bois de Boulogne.
“We will not quarrel,” said my neighbor, lightly, with
reference to the popular superstition.
“Rather propitiate the offended deities by a crumb
tossed over the shoulder,” added I.
“Over the left?” asked the Baron, to intimate his
knowledge of another idiom, together with a reproof for
my gaucherie.
“À gauche, — quelquefois c'est justement à droit,” I
replied.
“Salt in any pottage,” said Madame, a little uneasily,
“is like surprise in an individual; it brings out the flavor
of every ingredient, so my cook tells me.”
“It is a preventive of palsy,” I remarked, as the slight
trembling of my adversary's finger caught my eye.
“And I have noticed that a taste for it is peculiar
to those who trace their blood,” continued Madame.
“Let us, therefore, elect a deputation to those mines
near Cracow,” said Delphine.
“To our cousins, the slaves there?” laughed her
mother.
“I must vote to lay your bill on the table, Mademoiselle,”
I rejoined.
“But with a boule blanche, Monsieur?”
“As the salt has been laid on the floor,” said the
Baron.
Meanwhile, as this light skirmishing proceeded, my
sleeve and Mme. de St. Cyr's dress were slightly powdered,
but I had not seen the diamond. The Baron,
bolder than I, looked under the table, but made no discovery.
I was on the point of dropping my napkin to
accomplish a similar movement, when my accommodating
neighbor dropped hers. To restore it, I stooped. There
it lay, large and glowing, the Sea of Splendor, the Moon
of Milk, the Torment of my Life, on the carpet, within
half an inch of a lady's slipper. Mademoiselle de St.
Cyr's foot had prevented the Baron from seeing it; now
it moved and unconsciously covered it. All was as I
wished. I hastily restored the napkin, and looked steadily
at Delphine, — so steadily, that she perceived some
meaning, as she had already suspected a game. By my
sign she understood me, pressed her foot upon the stone
and drew it nearer. In France we do not remain at
table until unfit for a lady's society, — we rise with them.
Delphine needed to drop neither napkin nor handkerchief;
she composedly stooped and picked up the stone,
so quickly that no one saw what it was.
“And the diamond?” said the Baron to the butler,
rapidly, as he passed.
“It was in the salière!” whispered the astonished
creature.
In the drawing-room I sought the Marquis.
“To-day I was to surrender you your property,” I
said; “it is here.”
“Do you know,” he replied, “I thought I must have
been mistaken?”
“Any of our volatile friends here might have been,” I
resumed; “for us it is impossible. Concerning this,
when you return to France, I will relate the incidents;
at present, there are those who will not hesitate to take
life to obtain its possession. A conveyance leaves in
twenty minutes; and if I owned the diamond, it should
not leave me behind. Moreover, who knows what a day
may bring forth? To-morrow there may be an émeute.
Let me restore the thing as you withdraw.”
The Marquis, who is not, after all, the Lion of England,
pausing a moment to transmit my words from his
ear to his brain, did not afterward delay to make inquiries
or adieux, but went to seek Mme. de St. Cyr and wish
her good-night, on his departure from Paris. As I
awaited his return, which I knew would not be immediate,
Delphine left the Baron and joined me.
“You beckoned me?” she asked.
“No, I did not.”
“Nevertheless, I come by your desire, I am sure.”
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “I am not in the custom of
doing favors; I have forsworn them. But before you
return me my jewel, I risk my head and render one last
one, and to you.”
“Do not, Monsieur, at such price,” she responded, with
a slight mocking motion of her hand.
“Delphine! those resolves, last night, in the cellar,
were daring, they were noble, yet they were useless.”
She had not started, but a slight tremor ran over her
person and vanished while I spoke.
“They will be allowed to proceed no farther, — the axe
is sharpened; for the last man who adjusted his mask was
a spy, — was the Secretary of the Secret Service.”
Delphine could not have grown paler than was usual
with her of late. She flashed her eye upon me.
“He was, it may be, Monsieur himself,” she said.
“I do not claim the honor of that post.”
“But you were there, nevertheless, — a spy!”
“Hush, Delphine! It would be absurd to quarrel. I
was there for the recovery of this stone, having heard that
it was in a cellar, — which, stupidly enough, I had insisted
should be a wine-cellar.”
“It was, then —”
“In a salt-cellar, — a blunder which, as you do not
speak English, you cannot comprehend. I never mix
with treason, and did not wish to assist at your pastimes.
I speak now, that you may escape.”
“If Monsieur betrays his friends, the police, why
should I expect a kinder fate?”
“When I use the police, they are my servants, not my
friends. I simply warn you, that, before sunrise, you
will be safer travelling than sleeping, — safer next week
in Vienna than in Paris.”
“Thank you! And the intelligence is the price of the
diamond? If I had not chanced to pick it up, my throat,”
and she clasped it with her fingers, “had been no slenderer
than the others?”
“Delphine, will you remember, should you have occasion
to do so in Vienna, that it is just possible for an Englishman
to have affections, and sentiments, and, in fact,
sensations? that, with him, friendship can be inviolate,
and to betray it an impossibility? And even were it
not, I, Mademoiselle, have not the pleasure to be classed
by you as a friend.”
“You err. I esteem Monsieur highly.”
I was impressed by her coolness.
“Let me see if you comprehend the matter,” I demanded.
“Perfectly. The arrest will be used to-night, the guillotine
to-morrow.”
“You will take immediate measures for flight?”
“No, — I do not see that life has value. I shall be
the debtor of him who takes it.”
“A large debt. Delphine, I exact a promise of you.
I do not care to have endangered myself for nothing. It
is not worth while to make your mother unhappy. Life
is not yours to throw away. I appeal to your magnanimity.”
“`Affections, sentiments, sensations!'” she quoted.
“Your own danger for the affection, — it is an affair
of the heart! Mme. de St. Cyr's unhappiness, — there
is the sentiment. You are angry, Monsieur, — that must
be the sensation.”
“Delphine, I am waiting.”
“Ah, well. You have mentioned Vienna, — and why?
Liberals are countenanced there?”
“Not in the least. But Madame l'Ambassadrice will
be countenanced.”
“I do not know her.”
“We are not apt to know ourselves.”
“Monsieur, how idle are these cross-purposes!” she
said, folding her fan.
“Delphine,” I continued, taking the fan, “tell me
frankly which of these two men you prefer, — the Marquis
or his Excellency.”
“The Marquis? He is antiphlogistic, — he is ice.
Why should I freeze myself? I am frozen now, — I
need fire!”
Her eyes burned as she spoke, and a faint red flushed
her cheek.
“Mademoiselle, you demonstrate to me that life has yet
a value to you.”
“I find no fire,” she said, as the flush fell away.
“The Baron?”
“I do not affect him.”
“You will conquer your prejudice in Vienna.”
“I do not comprehend you, Monsieur; — you speak in
riddles, which I do not like.”
“I will speak plainer. But first let me ask you for
the diamond.”
“The diamond? It is yours? How am I certified of
it? I find it on the floor; you say it was in my mother's
salière; it is her affair, not mine. No, Monsieur, I do
not see that the thing is yours.”
Certainly there was nothing to be done but to relate
the story, which I did, carefully omitting the Baron's
name. At its conclusion, she placed the prize in my
hand.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” she said; “without doubt you
should receive it. And this agent of the government, —
one could turn him like hot iron in this vice, — who was
he?”
“The Baron Stahl.”
All this time G. had been waiting on thorns, and, leaving
her now, I approached him, displayed for an instant
the treasure on my palm, and slipped it into his. It
was done. I bade farewell to this Eye of Morning
and Heart of Day, this thing that had caused me such
pain and perplexity and pleasure, with less envy and
more joy than I thought myself capable of. The relief
and buoyancy that seized me, as his hand closed upon
it, I shall not attempt to portray. An abdicated king
was not freer.
The Marquis departed, and I, wandering round the
salon, was next stranded upon the Baron. He was yet
hardly sure of himself. We talked indifferently for a few
moments, and then I ventured on the great loan. He was,
as became him, not communicative, but scarcely thought it
would be arranged. I then spoke of Delphine.
“She is superb!” said the Baron, staring at her
boldly.
She stood opposite, and, in her white attire on the background
of the blue curtain, appeared like an impersonation
of Greek genius relieved upon the blue of an Athenian
heaven. Her severe and classic outline, her pallor, her
downcast lids, her absorbed look, only heightened the resemblance.
Her reverie seemed to end abruptly, the
same red stained her cheek again, her lips curved in a
proud smile, she raised her glowing eyes and observed us
regarding her. At too great distance to hear our words,
she quietly repaid our glances in the strength of her new
decision, and then, turning, began to entertain those next
her with an unwonted spirit.
“She has needed,” I replied to the Baron, “but one
thing, — to be aroused, to be kindled. See, it is done!
I have thought that a life of cabinets and policy might
beauty.”
“It is unhappy that both should be wasted,” said the
Baron. “She, of course, will never marry.”
“Why not?”
“For various reasons.”
“One?”
“She is poor.”
“Which will not signify to your Excellency. Another?”
“She is too beautiful. One would fall in love with
her. And to love one's own wife — it is ridiculous!”
“Who should know?” I asked.
“All the world would suspect and laugh.”
“Let those laugh that win.”
“No, — she would never do as a wife; but then as —”
“But then in France we do not insult hospitality!”
The Baron transferred his gaze to me for a moment,
then tapped his snuff-box, and approached the circle
round Delphine.
It was odd that we, the arch enemies of the hour,
could speak without the intervention of seconds; but I
hoped that the Baron's conversation might be diverting, —
the Baron hoped that mine might be didactic.
They were very gay with Delphine. He leaned on the
back of a chair and listened. One spoke of the new gallery
of the Tuileries, and the five pavilions, — a remark
which led us to architecture.
“We all build our own houses,” said Delphine, at last,
“and then complain that they cramp us here, and the wind
blows in there, while the fault is not in the order, but in
us, who increase here and shrink there without reason.”
“You speak in metaphors,” said the Baron.
“Precisely. A truth is often more visible veiled than
nude.”
“We should soon exhaust the orders,” I interposed;
“for who builds like his neighbor?”
“Slight variations, Monsieur! Though we take such
pains to conceal the style, it is not difficult to tell the order
of architecture chosen by the builders in this room.
My mother, for instance, — you perceive that her pavilion
would be the florid Gothic.”
“Mademoiselle's is the Doric,” I said.
“Has been,” she murmured, with a quick glance.
“And mine, Mademoiselle?” asked the Baron, indifferently.
“Ah, Monsieur,” she returned, looking serenely upon
him, “when one has all the winning cards in hand and
yet loses the stake, we allot him un pavillon chinois,” —
which was the polite way of dubbing him Court Fool.
The Baron's eyes fell. Vexation and alarm were visible
on his contracted brow. He stood in meditation for
some time. It must have been evident to him that Delphine
knew of the recent occurrences, — that here in
Paris she could denounce him as the agent of a felony,
the participant of a theft. What might prevent it?
Plainly but one thing: no woman would denounce her
husband. He had scarcely contemplated this step on
arrival.
The guests were again scattered in groups round the
room. I examined an engraving on an adjacent table.
Delphine reclined as lazily in a fauteuil as if her life did
not hang in the balance. The Baron drew near.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you allotted me just now a
cap and bells. If two should wear it? — if I should invite
another into my pavillon chinois? — if I should propose
the ancient family of St. Cyr? — if, in short, Mademoiselle,
I should request you to become my wife?”
“Eh, bien, Monsieur, — and if you should?” I heard
her coolly reply.
But it was no longer any business of mine. I rose and
sought Mme. de St. Cyr, who, I thought, was slightly uneasy,
perceiving some mystery to be afloat. After a few
words, I retired.
Archimedes, as perhaps you have never heard, needed
only a lever to move the world. Such a lever I had put
into the hands of Delphine, with which she might move,
not indeed the grand globe, with its multiplied attractions,
relations, and affinities, but the lesser world of circumstances,
of friends and enemies, the circle of hopes, fears,
ambitions. There is no woman, as I believe, but could
have used it.
The next day was scarcely so quiet in the city as usual.
The great loan had not been negotiated. Both the Baron
Stahl and the English minister had left Paris, — and there
was a coup d'état.
But the Baron did not travel alone. There had been
a ceremony at midnight in the Church of St. Sulpice, and
her Excellency the Baroness Stahl, née de St. Cyr, accompanied
him.
It is a good many years since. I have seen the diamond
in the Duchess of X.'s coronet, once, when a young
queen put on her royalty, — but I have never seen Delphine.
The Marquis begged me to retain the chain, and
I gave myself the pleasure of presenting it, through her
mother, to the Baroness Stahl. I hear, that, whenever
she desires to effect any cherished object which the Baron
appears to possess a magical power, and its potent spell
enslaves the Baron as the lamp and ring of Eastern tales
enslaved the Afrites. The life she leads has aroused her.
She is no longer the impassive Silence; she has found
her fire. I hear of her as the charm of a brilliant court,
as the soul of a nation of intrigue. Of her beauty one
does not speak, but her talent is called prodigious. What
impels me to ask the idle question, If it were well to save
her life for this? Undoubtedly she fills a station which,
in that empire, must be the summit of a woman's ambition.
Delphine's Liberty was not a principle, but a dissatisfaction.
The Baroness Stahl is vehement, is Imperialist,
is successful. While she lives, it is on the top of
the wave; when she dies — ah! what business has
Death in such a world?
As I said, I have never seen Delphine since her marriage.
The beautiful statuesque girl occupies a niche
into which the blazing and magnificent intrigante cannot
crowd. I do not wish to be disillusioned. She has read
me a riddle, — Delphine is my Sphinx.
As for Mr. Hay, — I once said the Antipodes were
tributary to me, not thinking that I should ever become
tributary to the Antipodes. But such is the case; since,
partly through my instrumentality, that enterprising individual
has been located in their vicinity, where diamonds
are not to be had for the asking, and the greatest rogue is
not a Baron.
| The amber gods, and other stories | |