The Needless Serpent

by Arthur Sherburne Hardy

 

The Needless Serpent

BY ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY

THERE was such genuine surprise and delight in the Prefect's oath that it was a pleasure to hear it.

It was the 15th of November, and he was dining with de Sade, who, in his search for any novelty that would lighten the burden of existence, had discovered the excellent cellar and cuisine of The Fountain of Health. The occasion of the Prefect's exclamation came with the coffee. Also beset with the cares of life, he was explaining over the Burgundy the problem the solution of which was taxing the united wits of the Prefecture.

“You know our naval attaché at Berlin, Foucquet—a charming fellow with the engaging manners and open-hearted nature of men who follow the sea. It seems that some ten days ago he left Berlin for Paris on leave of absence, and that our ambassador confided to him despatches for the Foreign Office—despatches of a highly confidential character, containing information and observations for the minister's private ear. With these official papers were also certain heirlooms, family jewels, for Madame de Caraman who, you recollect, is of German descent. Owing to the recent death of her mother and the settlement of the estate, these heirlooms reverted to Madame de Caraman, and advantage was taken of this opportunity to convey them to her in the embassy pouch—a practice in my opinion much abused.

“Well, at the station in Berlin Foucquet makes the acquaintance of a lady—oh, a lady to the tips of her pink finger-nails!—in distress over the non-appearance of her maid, and takes that chivalrous first step which costs. A fascinating young person adrift on the sea of life naturally appeals to a sailor. Chance”—the Prefect's shoulders lifted—“ordains that they occupy adjacent compartments, a circumstance which relieves the monotony of a journey. At the frontier a new complication arises. The missing maid has the key to her mistress's trunk, and to rescue his protégée from the clutches of the customs Foucquet extends over her the cloak of his diplomatic immunity.”

“A modern St. Martin,” laughed de Sade.

“You should hear him describe her,” continued the Prefect, disdainfully. “An adventuress? Impossible! Of perfect breeding, modestly yet exquisitely dressed—in short, a woman of his world. They even discovered mutual friends.”

“And exchanged cards,” interjected de Sade again.

The Prefect shook his head scornfully.

“Delicacy prevents one from asking a lady for what she does not choose to reveal. He was forced to be content with a glimpse of a monogram in diamonds on her gold cigarette-case. You know those interlaced letters, so graceful and so difficult to decipher.”

De Sade's languid attention suddenly quickened.

“Really,” he exclaimed, a monogram in diamonds! How interesting!”

“Well, toward midnight Foucquet offers to withdraw. But madame, being, after all, human, is hungry. They were approaching Verdun. Would he not make a raid on the buffet for their mutual benefit? Our hero was delighted. As the train enters the station he rushes to the buffet. While making his purchases he remembers that he has left the precious despatch-box in the compartment of—ah, but such a charming woman! Nevertheless, ill at ease, he hastens his purchases and hurries back. The door of the compartment is closed. He knocks—no answer. For a moment he hesitates. Fear at last triumphs over discretion and he turns the handle. The door is locked. Thoroughly alarmed, he calls the porter, who explains that, seeing madame had gone to the buffet, he had locked the door in her absence. Momentarily reassured, Foucquet waits nervously in the corridor. But his fears return. Travelers are resuming their places; the train is about to start. Resolved at all events to secure the despatch-box, he orders the porter to open the door. The porter demurs. It is not the gentleman's compartment. He must consult the conductor. All this requires time; the train is now in motion. At last, after an argument, the door is opened—nobody, nothing!

“Foucquet is distracted. Quite beside himself, he accuses the porter. The carriage is searched. Every one passes a disagreeable quarter-hour. Obsessed by the belief that madame has been left behind accidentally and that his treasure is safe in her keeping, he persuades the conductor to stop the train at the first way-station and returns to Verdun. There a sleepy porter deposes to seeing a lady enter a motor waiting beside the platform.”

“To what do you attribute madame's interest,” inquired de Sade, holding up the Burgundy to the luster, “the despatches or the heirlooms?”

“Let us see,” said the Prefect, checking off the facts on his fingers; “a maid who, failing to accompany her mistress, also misses the train and has the key to a trunk—which proves to be empty! a lady who has a ticket for Paris, yet who abandons the train to continue her journey in a motor opportunely arriving precisely when she plays her little trick of the buffet. Evidently, then, a plan, carefully prepared in advance, which presupposes a knowledge of the contents of the despatch-box. It is true this knowledge, howsoever obtained, applies equally to the jewels and the despatches, and undoubtedly Madame de Caraman's heirlooms justify envy. But think a moment! No ordinary thief is in a position to obtain this knowledge, or has at his disposal a charming confederate with a cigarette-case initialed in diamonds. It is conceivable that a person interested in the despatches should be aware of their possession by Foucquet, but it is not so easy to believe that a bandit envious of Madame de Caraman's heirlooms should know the means taken by the embassy to restore them to her. No; all the circumstances point to a trail leading to that bit of foreign soil in the heart of Paris called the German embassy. And here begins the comedy. Imagine the embarrassment of his Excellency, who finds himself like a common thief in possession of Madame de Caraman's jewels! One steals despatches—it is diplomacy, a province, the right of conquest; but diamonds—it is a crime! Ah,” he sighed, “if in this affair, which requires the discretion of a master—if in this affair I had Joly!”

“Joly?” queried de Sade.

“Money earned by honest toil fortifies the soul,” pursued the Prefect, following his own reflections, “but a legacy is fatal. That is what happened to Joly. His wife had the misfortune to fall heir to one, and he retired. I promoted Pichon in his place. But Pichon!” The Prefect sighed again contemptuously. “A head gets no wiser when its owner mounts upon a stool! If I had Joly I would give—”

Here mine host of The Fountain of Health—who was chef as well as proprietor, and in the pride of office never failed to serve the coffee in person in order to receive the compliments due to the masterpieces which preceded it—intervened.

“It is very easy, Monsieur le Préfet. Monsieur Joly is dining in the next room.”

It was at this juncture that the Prefect gave utterance to the famous oath of Henry IV.

“Bring him in,” snapped the Prefect.

“But,” objected mine host, “there is a difficulty. Monsieur Joly always dines here with madame on the fifteenth of November. It is an anniversary, the date of their marriage.”

“A woman,” laughed de Sade, “always in evidence. But if she also is charming—”

“Worse,” said mine host. “She's an angel.”

Pichon had once remarked, on contemplating Madame Joly, “Think of it! that with such a woman there should also be a legacy!”

M. de Sade reversed the order.

“Imagine,” he said, “that with a legacy there should also be an angel!”

The Prefect took out his card.

“Ask monsieur and madame to do us the honor of taking their coffee with us. And, in that case, another bottle.”

“What do you say, Marie?” asked M. Joly, glancing up from the Prefect's card.

Madame Joly smiled. Her husband had retired of his own free will. It had been the dream of earlier strenuous days. But she was far too wise to fasten a leash to the golden collar of a legacy.

“By all means,” she said, gathering up her furs....

When settling himself that evening in the corner of the limousine at the door of The Fountain of Health, the Prefect closed his eyes with a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Now,” he said, “we shall make progress.”

De Sade made no reply, but after a silence, throwing his finished cigar into the street, he said, casually:

“What a vulgar thing is mere beauty! But charm— Aristotle was right—it is a letter of introduction.”

The Prefect yawned wearily. He was doubtful to which of two women the remark applied. But why lug in Aristotle?

When bidding his companion good night, he raised his finger to his lips.

“Be tranquil,” nodded de Sade.

Meanwhile, in the cab on the way to Passy, M. Joly was saying, “It seems I am the specialist who is called in when the patient is dying.”

 

Promptly the following morning M. Joly, immersed in documents, was sitting at the desk which, once his own, had descended to Pichon ascending.

Standing before an open trunk, Pichon was lamenting:

“Absolutely nothing to indicate its origin. Not a maker in Paris will own it. Look! Even the maker's label has been removed.” He pointed to the space plainly revealing the spot it had occupied on the inside of the cover.

“A square label,” observed M. Joly. “Measure it, Pichon.”

Pichon produced a rule and M. Joly entered the figures in his note-book. Turning to his desk again, he selected from among the documents released from the paper-weight the photographic copy of a letter. It consisted of a single sentence, unaddressed and unsigned:

Do not judge me unkindly. Wait.

“A prayer and a promise,” he mused. “'Wait.' What an eloquent little word! I see you have been tampering with private correspondence, Pichon.”

Pichon shrugged his shoulders.

“You forwarded the original?”

“Why not?”

Folding the paper with the eloquent little word, without replying, M. Joly tucked it carefully in an inner pocket and took out his watch.

“Eleven. The hour set by the Prefect,” he said, buttoning up his coat.

On entering the Prefect's room he waited in silence for the moment when his presence should be recognized. To keep him thus waiting was a habit of his chief which he bore with patience, for it had frequently afforded him precious time for reflection.

Taking at length an envelope from the papers littering the desk, the Prefect extended his hand: “A letter for you, Monsieur Joly. Read it, read it,” he said, testily.

After observing the foreign postmark on the envelope, M. Joly extracted its contents and put on his spectacles.

Thursday, at nine in the evening, if your windows are dark, I will prove to you that I am not what I seem.

“Thursday— That is to-day. You will take your precautions accordingly. You have no observation to make?”

“None, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“But you must think as I do, that a distinguished person I do not name is anxious to be rid of what he did not foresee would come into his possession—a possession which is embarrassing.”

“It is possible.”

“Why only possible?”

“Because, if your theory is correct, it is for the interest of the person you do not name that you should believe in a common thief, whereas to return Madame de Caraman's jewels would be a confession.”

The Prefect went to the window. “I had thought of that also.” (M. Joly smiled—under his skin.) “However that may be—whether we have to do with a thief who has the good luck to secure more than he bargained for—what is more marketable than heirlooms—or—” He broke off abruptly. “There must be no scandal, no publicity.”

“There will be none, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“Have your way, Monsieur Joly. I do not forget your aversion for theories. You know I have confidence in you.”

Reading on the Prefect's back the sign of dismissal, M. Joly retired softly and, descending the gloomy stairway, stepped out into the November sun.

It was a pleasure to be alive. It was a pleasure, too, to be in harness again. “In the stream one enjoys the landscape even better than on the bank,” he said to himself. He made an assenting gesture to the lifted whip on the cab at the head of the line and gave the address of Foucquet to the driver.

At Foucquet's apartment a valet informed him that his master was breakfasting at the club. “A previous engagement, with Monsieur de Sade,” he added, loftily, seeing his visitor disposed to linger.

M. Joly re-entered his cab. Why should de Sade not breakfast with Foucquet? “We shall be three instead of two,” he said, giving the new address to the coachman.

For reasons of his own, M. de Sade had ordered breakfast in a private room.

“I learned only yesterday,” he was saying when the doorkeeper brought in M. Joly's card, “you were in town—on leave, I suppose.”

“I go back to my ship,” replied Foucquet, moodily. “Joly—Joly—” looking up from the card. “I do not know him. Say I am engaged.”

“On the contrary,” interposed de Sade, quietly, “ask the gentleman to come in. Pardon me,” he said, laying his hand on Foucquet's sleeve, “I know Monsieur Joly. He is from the Prefecture, and I counsel you to receive him.”

Foucquet stared at him in astonishment. “You know!” he gasped.

“My dear friend, I dined last night with the Prefect. In the life of every secret there is a moment when, like the chick, it cracks its shell. If I am breakfasting with you this morning it is because I have an idea—that I may be of service to you. I assure you, on my honor, this visit of Monsieur Joly is a complete surprise, a pure coincidence. But, since he is here, receive him. You may have every confidence in his discretion. If you wish me to retire—”

“Sit down,” murmured Foucquet, grasping his arm—for M. Joly stood in the doorway.

“Gentlemen,” he said, affably, “I ask your indulgence. As Monsieur de Sade is aware, the Prefect has done me the honor to place this affair in my hands.” Then, to Foucquet, “I have come to place myself in yours.”

“What do you wish of me?” asked Foucquet. He was pacing the floor nervously, a prey to the eternal struggle between reason and passion. He had been tricked, fooled, by a woman. To deny it was futile, to confess it humiliating, and the empire of this woman persisted. Memories pleaded for her.

“Frankness, in return for frankness,” replied M. Joly.

“But I have made my deposition. I have absolutely nothing to add.”

“True, but persons are more illuminating than documents. Reflect a moment. You are not a criminal. No one accuses you, but you are a material witness who has committed, let us say, an indiscretion. I remind you also that in the partnership circumstances have forced upon us our interests are the same.”

Foucquet made a gesture of revolt. “So be it, since you insist. I first met madame at the Berlin station. She was distressed because her maid did not appear. Seeing she was in trouble, I accosted her. 'Madame,' I said, 'if I can be of service, command me.' She thanked me and we entered the train, which was about to start. The door of her compartment was closed and I saw no more of her till we reached the frontier. Having diplomatic immunity, I did not enter the customs. I was walking on the platform when she appealed to me. They wished to examine her trunk. Her maid had the key. One of those official brutes who fear to use authority was obstinate. He threatened to detain her. I made myself known. 'Does this lady also belong to the embassy?' he asked. 'No,' I replied, 'but I know her.'”

“I should have answered the idiot 'yes,'” said de Sade.

“They were closing the doors of the carriages. 'It is of no importance,' she said. 'Rather than be delayed I will abandon it.' We took our places and the train moved on. Naturally, her compartment being next to mine, we fell into conversation. We discovered mutual acquaintances, in Berlin, in Vienna, in Paris, and I observed on her cigarette-case a monogram in diamonds—”

“And emeralds.” It was de Sade who spoke.

Foucquet, mystified, stopped short.

“Continue, if you please,” said M. Joly, ignoring the interruption.

“I begged permission to examine it. 'It is a souvenir,' she replied, laughingly, 'which, like the box on your knees, is never out of my possession.' One does not insist when a lady—”

“Foucquet,” broke in de Sade again, “do you mind if I describe this lady for the benefit of Monsieur Joly, who is wondering why, after dining last night with the Prefect, I am breakfasting with you this morning? I will tell you why—because of a coincidence. Last spring, returning from the Riviera, I passed a few days at Aix and strolled one evening into the Casino. The usual crowd surrounded the green table where the bourgeois were stupidly losing their francs. It always amazes me that people of intelligence should disregard in gambling the prudence which governs them in other pursuits of money. Obviously, the chances are against them. It is the green table which pays for the luxury of their surroundings. But why not take the best chance offered? That was precisely what one of the players was doing—losing her francs intelligently.

“What first attracted me was her fascinating personality—the hair of Titian, like burnished copper, the complexion of a sea-shell, and a spirit, a charm—like wine. To see her” (this to Foucquet) “is to understand everything. She was playing single francs persistently on the same number, increasing her stake exactly at the point where, if winning, she recovered previous losses and something besides. Whenever winning, she began again with her single franc. If there were no limit she would never lose. All this you say is simplicity itself—yes, except madame.

“The odds were eight to one and the limit twenty francs. I took out my pencil. By a simple calculation I found that before reaching it she had twenty-seven chances, which is not so bad. Luck was against her. Twenty-six times she lost—a total of one hundred and fifty-nine francs. Without hesitation she laid down the limit—and won.

“'One franc to the good!' I exclaimed, involuntarily. She looked up at the sound of my voice, smiled understandingly, and, gathering up the eight napoleons pushed toward her by the rake of the croupier, passed into the music-room.

“What interested me then was a charming woman amusing herself intelligently. What interests me now is that on the green cloth beside her purse and gloves was a cigarette-case with a monogram in diamonds and emeralds.”

 

The Prefect had done M. Joly an injustice. His active brain was alive with fluid hypotheses. It was only when hardening into theories that he became suspicious of them.

He had not forgotten Madame de Caraman's German descent. She had been notified that her treasure was to be sent through the embassy. It was quite possible for her to have anticipated its delivery, acquiring at the same time the despatches. It happened that he knew Madame de Caraman well, for he had been concerned in the recovery of a necklace with which, under the influence of suggestion, she had in her sleep adorned a statue of Venus in the park of her residence in Bourg-la-Reine. But, admitting that she knew of the despatches intrusted to Foucquet, it was incredible that a neurotic, to whom nothing in the world mattered but her “feelings,” should be capable of a coup de main so daring.

Pichon, to whom the word “German” was a red rag, was of another opinion. Such a woman was a fitting tool for a master-hand. True, she had offered, with the Prefect's consent, a vaguely worded reward of one hundred thousand francs for “jewels lost between Berlin and Paris.” Pichon maintained it was quite safe to offer a reward for what one had already. To his suggestion that the house in Bourg-la-Reine should be searched, the Prefect, who was a friend of Madame de Caraman, had exploded so violently that Pichon trembled for his official head. Moreover, careful inquiry gave no support to his theory. Madame de Caraman had no relations with the German embassy. Her husband, an archeologist, was in Egypt. Her only visitors were intimates above suspicion.

What interested M. Joly more than all these vagaries was the missing label of the empty trunk. It danced continually before his eyes, a rectangle ten by twenty centimeters, on which his fertile imagination had written the word “Luxembourg”—the postmark of the letter in his pocket.

He had intended to deal frankly with Foucquet, to lay the intercepted correspondence openly on the table. Foucquet, however, had not responded to his invitation for frankness. He had made no reference to the message with the eloquent little word. Was he then still suffering from that malady to which “a prayer and a promise” is a stimulant instead of an antidote? For this reason and because of de Sade's interruption, M. Joly had remained silent.

From the interview at the club he returned to the Prefecture.

“Pichon,” he said, “you will see that this letter goes to its address. If you are curious, read it. This evening, at half past eight, you will station yourself, invisibly, near Foucquet's apartment. If before nine the windows become dark you will know a visitor is expected. Do nothing to alarm this visitor, but on no account lose sight of it—for the present the gender is doubtful. I am about to make a little journey.”

Curious! Pichon was on edge. A journey! Where? What was his idea?

“Ideas! Who knows where they come from, Pichon? Has a dog ideas? They would bother him enormously. I am an old dog who follows his nose.”

He spent the afternoon sleeping, as dogs sleep, in the Luxembourg express, and the following morning in the exploration of the city, for all the world a bourgeois contemplating travel, but captious in the selection of luggage. Trunks with oval or diamond-shaped labels, though warranted to last a lifetime, failed to please him. He was losing time and patience. At the end of both, no sooner was a lid lifted than he closed it and turned away.

“But monsieur has not examined it,” expostulated the irate shopkeeper.

“In selecting a trunk,” replied M. Joly, “I am governed by the maker's label. It must be a rectangle. Yours is round.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the astounded shop-man, thinking he had to do with a madman whom it was well to be rid of, “if monsieur is so particular he may find what he desires in the shop across the street.”

To his amazement, while watching to see how his rival would deal with this eccentric customer, M. Joly seemed to be disposing of trunks instead of acquiring them, for shortly after his disappearance the trunk on the cab followed him into the rival establishment.

The return of an article once paid for and delivered is a test of human nature. Between offending a customer and losing a profit, the choice is difficult. M. Joly was apologetic. He had no complaint to make. He did not represent the purchaser. The trunk had gone astray in the customs. He was seeking its owner. Restoration was his benevolent object. With this explanation, after consultation with assistants and ledger, the desired address was forthcoming and M. Joly, 17 Rue du Rempart engraved on his memory, resumed his travels, delighted and perplexed. That a woman capable of the ingenuity which had despoiled Foucquet should openly purchase an incriminating accessory from a near-by dealer and brazenly post a letter from the place of her residence was an incredible stupidity. The trail was too plain. Frequently, indeed, in his experience stupidity or desperation had put him on the track. How often, for a moment of gratification, passion had risked the discovery of the crime it had incited!

At No. 17 Rue du Rempart he noted that its windows overlooked the park, a fashionable quarter. The buttons on the coat of the concierge were shining, a spotless carpet covered the stairway. With every step surmounted perplexity increased. Ushered into a salon whose furnishings were as irreproachable as the costume described by Foucquet, he was gazing thoughtfully about him when a woman drew aside the curtains screening the adjoining room.

She stood with an expression of wonder on her face, of amused expectancy, the eyes untroubled, the brow under the hair, so correctly designated by de Sade, unclouded. For once in his life M. Joly experienced a difficulty in opening a conversation.

“Madame,” he began, “if what I am about to say proves painful to you, rest assured I regret it.”

A smile broke on the parted lips. “Really? I have a presentiment that you come from the Prefecture and are going to make me pay for a folly.”

“Follies, madame, interest only the fools who commit them. With crimes, it is otherwise.”

The genuine laugh which greeted this statement completed M. Joly's discomfiture.

“Crime! What a horrible word! For folly I pay cheerfully, but for crimes not on my conscience—never! You are laboring under a delusion, monsieur—”

“Joly, madame.”

“—Monsieur Joly. Let us hear about this crime which torments you. Afterward I promise to interest you in follies, though you do not commit them. But first be seated.”

M. Joly assumed his official manner. “Some two weeks ago you took the Paris express in Berlin, where your maid failed—”

“Ah, but that was Franchette's crime, not mine.”

“In the train you made the acquaintance of Monsieur Foucquet—”

“A charming fellow—an indiscretion, perhaps, but not a crime.”

“At the frontier you had difficulties with the customs.”

“Always at frontiers I have difficulties with the customs. Is not that also your experience?”

“And abandoned a trunk, purchased of Bottin—”

“Well, why not? Would you have me pass a miserable night at the frontier for a trunk which is empty? Listen, Monsieur Joly. You get on so badly with your crime, allow me to try my hand with a folly. Certainly I bought a trunk of Bottin, a cheap one, for Franchette, who always insists that at the last minute there will not be room for everything.”

Such levity! and such assurance!

“Will you kindly explain to me why, of all your luggage, only this empty trunk accompanied you?”

“Really, Monsieur Joly, your curiosity is insatiable. When I have satisfied it I shall have paid for folly in full measure. Because I always register luggage through to my destination, and because this bothersome trunk was in Franchette's room when the porter came and was forgotten. We come now to Verdun, do we not? where I confess to the crime of hunger. Monsieur Foucquet was so amiable! To gratify it he offered to go to the buffet. In his absence they moved the carriage. He was gone so unconscionably long that I thought, like Franchette, he could not find it. I became nervous and descended to the platform. But before doing so I rang for the porter, to lock the compartment, for I had noticed on the seat the leather box of which Monsieur Foucquet was so careful. I had teased him about it. If not under his arm it was on his knees. As the porter did not appear I took the box with me. Was not that nice of me? for I assure you it was frightfully heavy. There was another train proceeding in the opposite direction. Foucquet—nowhere to be seen! Among all those rooms and people I became confused, going out an the wrong side. Nowhere could I discover our carriage. I inquired of a gentleman who was less polite than Monsieur Foucquet. 'Ah, madame,' he said, brutally, slamming the door, 'your train has gone. This is the express for Germany.' It was true. I crossed to the other side. The red light of my train was vanishing. 'Mon Dieu! What an adventure!' I cried.

“Beside the platform a motor was standing, a private one, but I was desperate. You are interested?”

“Immoderately,” said M. Joly.

The silvery laugh was repeated.

“Wait. There is more coming. The chauffeur was reasonable. His patron was in the train for Paris. He saw a chance to pocket something. For a preposterous sum he agreed to bring me here. Naturally my first thought was to restore to Monsieur Foucquet what belonged to him. How? not even knowing his name. Would you have me advertise for an amiable gentleman in the personal column? It was necessary to open the box of Pandora. At last, with the assistance of a locksmith, we succeeded. To discover Monsieur Foucquet's address it was also necessary to examine its contents. I wrote him at once. The problem was a difficult one. There are limits to my folly. If I converse with a stranger when traveling I do not penetrate to his apartment, even as a penitent. Franchette had returned. 'Franchette,' I said, 'you are going to Paris, to No. 12 Rue Bassano. At nine in the evening you will inquire for a certain Foucquet. It is important to deliver to him these papers, alone, in person. You will know he is alone if his windows are dark.' Franchette is a clever girl to whom I do not confide everything. These papers are no longer on my conscience. Franchette returned to-day. Would you like to question her?”

“First—”

“Oh, as many as you please.”

“In Monsieur Foucquet's box were also—”

“Yes, a wonderful collection. They repose now in the vault of the Bank of Luxembourg. Here is the receipt”—she went to the desk by the window. “I did not think it wise to trust Franchette with such a responsibility. Though clever, she also is capable of follies. I have instructed the bank to communicate with Madame de Caraman, whose advertisement I saw in the paper.”

“One question more. Will you explain to me why you removed the label of Bottin from your purchase?”

“I? How absurd! That must be one of Franchette's follies. We will ask her.”

An exceedingly pretty maid with an intelligent face answered the bell.

“Franchette, this gentleman wishes to know why you destroyed the label on the trunk we bought of Bottin.”

“Oh, madame, such a vulgar trunk! And such a ridiculous name! It annoyed me.”

“Tell monsieur your adventures in Paris.”

The speaking eyes opened wide. “Adventures? There were none. I delivered the papers, just as madame directed.”

“That will do, Franchette. You see, monsieur, a clever girl, who has her prejudices. Now are you satisfied? I wrote Monsieur Foucquet I was not what I seemed. Well, am I?”

“Madame,” said M. Joly, rising, “do you happen to remember playing one evening in the Casino at Aix?”

“I? Certainly. Another crime, I suppose.”

“A gentleman who observed you that evening still preserves the recollection of a charming woman amusing herself intelligently. I wish to subscribe to his opinion.”

“You are a gallant man, Monsieur Joly. Say to your friend that if he had spoken his thought I might have remembered him.”

“And to Monsieur Foucquet?”

The pink of the sea-shell deepened.

“Nothing.”

At the door of No. 17 Rue du Rempart M. Joly ran into the arms of Pichon.

Listening the following evening to the recital of her husband's adventures in Luxembourg, Madame Joly laughed softly.

“I thought so all the time,” she said, when he had finished.

There was nothing exactly humiliating in this remark. It was only inconsequential, and for some minutes M. Joly, in a search for its premises, was silent.

“Then you were not concerned for the peace of Europe?”

“Not seriously.”

“Nor for Madame de Caraman's heirlooms?”

“Not really.”

M. Joly was lost in thought. So, “all the time,” while he was pursuing the missing label among the trunk-makers of Luxembourg, she had “thought so”!

“It is true,” he said, a little bitterly, “all's well that ends well. Madame de Caraman recovers her heirlooms without paying the reward. There is joy at the Ministry. Foucquet is triumphant. Every one is satisfied.”

“Except Pichon.”

“Pichon!”

“Certainly, since there is no criminal.”

M. Joly relaxed. Pichon had indeed been disappointed. An investigation which failed to produce a criminal was a travesty of justice.

“But, Marie,” he persisted, “why did you 'think so'?”

“I really cannot tell you,” she said, innocently.

For the thousandth time the same answer! Consequences without antecedents—effects without causes! What an amazing thing a woman was! He saw again the woman of the Berlin-Paris express who “amused herself intelligently”—then, by memory's magical transformation, Marie, where he first saw her, by the fountain in the Medici gardens—the Garden of Eden! There was a woman there also.

“What a pity,” he said to himself, “to spoil so charming a fable by introducing a serpent—and so needless!”