 | The amber gods, and other stories |  |
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.
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