Part 7

"Only let me get this wretched problem solved, Aide, and then I will give you a commission to find me a wife. But I am hard to please," he laughed. "She must be the most beautiful woman in Paris, the most brilliant, and the most accomplished."

I think there must have been just a tinge of heightened color in my cheeks, and we were both smiling, forgetful of misfortune; but I had promised to find this paragon, and so I lightly laid my hand on his, and murmured, "Gaspard, _mon cher_, she is the very woman you shall marry."

I believe it was in his thoughts to say more, but I stopped him. "Let us get back to serious realities," I said. "Mlle. Desormes called upon you ostensibly for the Yellow Book that you promised to lend her. Was she left alone in your room?"

"For five minutes, perhaps, while I went to fetch it."

"And your room communicates with that of Monsieur Roche?"

"Yes."

"Then it is simplicity itself; in that five minutes she stole the paper."

"It is not simplicity itself Aide; far from it. Last night I locked the safe. Monsieur Roche went early, and left the key with me, and I saw the letter there when placing other documents in the safe. This morning before he arrived I unlocked it, took some papers out, and locked it again, and Monsieur Roche found it so when he arrived. So it is impossible to believe that Mlle. Desormes could have accomplished the theft."

"It seems impossible, Gaspard, because we do not know the method."

"There is but one key, and that did not leave my possession. The packet was to all intents and purposes intact this morning, the seal Monsieur Roche stamped upon it a month ago unbroken, but the contents had been stolen."

"She may have substituted a counterfeit for the original," I answered. "It is a favorite trick with a woman," and I smiled as I recollected a similar affair that had occurred between ourselves.

"And forged Monsieur Roche's private seal?"

"My dear Gaspard," I cried, irritably, "what is the use of adopting this supercilious air of obstruction? Papers are not spirited from steel safes. It must have been stolen, and it is for us to discover how, and regain it."

"I only seek to show how inexplicable the thing is," he answered.

"In detail, yes, but on the broad principle it is as plain as sunlight. Why should Monsieur Roche open the packet to-day?"

"Because of Monsieur Desormes's insolent threats of exposure and disgrace."

"Ah! now see, _mon ami_, how easy it becomes. A paper which incriminates Monsieur Desormes, which proclaims in his own writing his complicity in the policy adopted by the present ministry, was in Monsieur Roche's safe. This morning his daughter calls upon you on a preposterously transparent errand. She, one of the beauties of Paris, desires the loan of the recently issued report on Martinique; that necessitates your leaving her, and when she is gone, the paper is missing."

"The inference, on the broad principle, is that she stole it."

"Then that is the inference upon which we will base our work, _mon ami_."

"So you do not credit that in me she had a willing accomplice?"

"Should I be walking with you this afternoon if I did?" I said. "Only one thing I am sure about, and that is that Mlle. Desormes, in some inexplicable manner, stole that paper this morning, and must have it still. I am going to her at once, and next time we meet, _mon ami_, I will hand it back to you."

"You seem confident, Aide."

"And that is victory half accomplished,_ mon cher; au revoir_."

Ten minutes later I entered the court-yard of one of the mansions of the Boulevard Haussmann, and requested to see Mlle. Desormes. We were slight acquaintances, and already I counted that I had forced her to obey me, and to submit, for, although a very pretty and charming girl, she was too young and too inexperienced to be a match for a woman who was fighting for the good name of the man--But why confuse sentiment with diplomacy?

Mlle. Desormes received me in her boudoir with a smile of welcome, and thrust down amid the cushions of her chair, only half-concealed, was that eternal book on Martinique.

"Have you seen your father to-day, mademoiselle?" I asked, quietly, after a few moments' chat upon commonplaces.

"No," she cried, with a start, and then hastily added, "Has anything happened to him?"

"Nothing," I replied, reassuringly; "but have you communicated with him to-day?"

"No," she answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I desire to know," I enigmatically responded, and I could not but admire the clever look of perplexity upon her face. "As you have not done so, the matter is more easily arranged."

"What matter, madame?"

"This, mademoiselle. You called at Le Quai d'Orsay this morning and brought something away with you that you ought not to have done. Now the position is simple. You will give it to me, and no more will be said. If you do not, I shall compel you."

"Compel!" she cried, with a glint of spirit in her eyes. "Compel, madame."

"Compel, mademoiselle."

For an instant she seemed inclined to resent my emphatic demand, but with a careless shrug of the shoulders she turned to me again, and handed me that wretched book on Martinique.

I only drew my breath and gazed at her, my temper rising dangerously as I realized the utter uselessness of the course I had taken with this woman. A sudden surprise, because I had judged her young and inexperienced.

"I will not question your right, madame," she cried, with a fine touch of scorn. "You say you have come for that book, and I have given it to you. Shall we now say _au revoir_?"

"You must be deeply interested in Martinique," I viciously exclaimed; and she flushed until the color spread all over her cheeks, even invaded with a warm tint the whiteness of her neck, and yet, like a school-girl, she hung her head, and answered nothing.

"When the pretty women of Paris take to the study of government reports," I continued, with a sneer, endeavoring to irritate her until she spoke hastily, and perhaps gave me my opportunity, "there must indeed be other reasons in the background. Martinique doubtless possesses unique attractions for you, mademoiselle."

"This is shameful," she cried, springing passionately to her feet, "and from you, Madame Lerestelle, one whom I have always admired."

"Tush!" I cried, impatiently; and I too rose and faced her. "Why did you call upon Monsieur Levive this morning? Only for a book on Martinique--only that?"

She gazed into my eyes with a strange look of surprise, and then her lips twitched for a second, and as she held her forefinger up to me she had the effrontery to smile in my face.

"_Ma cherie_," she cried, with a laugh; "you're jealous."

"Mademoiselle!"

"Tut, tut!" she cried. "Now don't deny it, because it is the only possible excuse for the way you have been talking to me. But a woman can easily excuse jealousy when she is not in love with the same man."

I was numbed with indignation at the manner in which this _ingenue_ played with me, and she had had the audacity to place her arm around my waist.

"Confidence for confidence, _ma chere_," she murmured. "My father discovered that Monsieur Decasse and I loved each other, and had him transferred to Martinique, and," she looked up into my face, "even dry official reports of the progress of the island are interesting to me, because the man I love is there, and may even have written them."

Diplomacy vanished. I felt as helpless as a child in the hands of this innocent, whose ready tongue found such excuses, and with a spasm of rage I caught her by the wrist.

"Let us finesse no more, mademoiselle," I cried, sharply, "for the time is gone. I care for Martinique as much as you do, and you know what I have called for as well as I. Not this Yellow Book you brought away as an excuse, but the paper missing from Monsieur Roche's room. Will you give me that or not?"

"I do not understand you," she quietly replied.

"Give me that document which you, at your father's instigation, stole this morning."

She drew herself away, and her slight, girlish figure seemed to grow in dignity before me.

"How dare you?" she said. "How dare you?"

"I dare anything, when you have ruined the man I love. Give me that paper?"

"You are mad!"

"Mad or not, mademoiselle, I do not leave this house--"

"Monsieur Desormes desires to see you in his study, mademoiselle."

The servant withdrew, and I turned again to her.

"And now," I cried, and my blood throbbed hotly in my veins, "now you will still say you know nothing of this theft?"

"I say nothing now," she scornfully retorted. "You shall come with me and hear what I have to say."

She walked almost unconcernedly towards the door, and then turned and faced me.

"Follow me, Madame Lerestelle," she cried, and in bitter tones added, "and follow me closely, lest a day should come when you will assert I gave my father the clew of what he should speak to you."

And, with no qualms of conscience, I followed her, and so closely that we entered Monsieur Desormes's study together.

He was what those who are foreigners to us would describe as "the typical Frenchman." Though his years must have been fifty, he looked scarcely forty, and his upright military carriage, his dark mustache waxed to dagger points, and close-cropped hair, made him appear even younger still. He was what his appearance proclaimed him, an urbane, clever, and unscrupulous diplomat. He rose and graciously bowed to me, even as though I were an expected guest.

"Your visit is a pleasure as illimitable in its delight as in its surprise, madame," he softly murmured.

"Yet a most unfitting moment for pedantic compliments," Mlle. Desormes warmly interjected; and I marvelled at the rage that still blazed within her eyes.

"I called on Monsieur Levive at the Quai d'Orsay this morning," she continued, turning sharply upon her father; "why I did so concerns but you and me alone. To-day a paper has been stolen from Monsieur Roche's room, which adjoins Monsieur Levive's, and I am charged with the theft."

Monsieur Desormes's eyebrows shot upward. "You?" he ejaculated.

"I," she answered, in cold passion. "I am accused of this theft. My name is linked with that of Monsieur Levive, as the one who tempted him to dishonor. My name--can you realize the stigma, monsieur?"

"I can realize no connection of circumstances," he replied, contemptuously, and she crossed the room, and, laying her hand upon his desk, looked him full in the face.

"It seems that this paper incriminated you," she exclaimed; and I saw that then he started.

"It is a paper that pledged you to support, or, at any rate, not to oppose, the ministry, monsieur," I interrupted; "and it has been stolen."

"I am aware of that, madame. I decided that it was better for France not to keep that pledge."

"But not better for me," mademoiselle cried, "and I am even before France."

"It is your own folly that has caused you to be suspected," he responded.

"It is the devices that men call dishonesty and statesmen diplomacy," she answered; and he put his arm around her waist and drew her back until she was seated upon the edge of his chair.

"Pretty little girls must not use cynical epigrams," he said, softly, as one petting a spoiled child. "Now, come, what is it you want?"

"I want nothing," she burst out, indignantly, "but I demand justice. I demand to be freed from this insinuation of theft. I do not ask, I demand, that Monsieur Levive, who is innocent, shall be relieved from suspicion, and you shall confess how you have stolen this paper."

"Purloined, _ma petite_," he exclaimed, as he playfully pinched her ear.

"Stolen," she doggedly repeated. "Stolen, not caring whom you ruined, man or woman."

"Tut, tut; what an undiplomatic little girl she is," he laughed, with a wonderful depth of fondness in his tone; and then he rose, and, after pacing the room for a minute, turned to me.

"Madame Lerestelle," he exclaimed, "I am known in political life as the most unscrupulous man in France; that is the reputation I have won, and the one I live to retain. As a man, I admire Monsieur Roche; as a politician, I despise him. I consider that his theories are imbecilic, his policy meaningless, and his ministry an insult to the country--"

"Monsieur, I differ--"

"Madame, I respect you the more. You are a friend of Monsieur Roche's, but, because I think what I do think, I will annihilate him. Because I work for the glory of France, and not for my own ends, I have stooped to pledge my written word only to steal it back."

"Diplomacy," mademoiselle murmured, with a world of scorn, and he shook his head reprovingly, then placed his hand quietly upon her arm.

"But my daughter shall not be suspected of connivance with me, and still more, no innocent man shall suffer. Monsieur Levive is incapable of betraying a trust. Even you, madame," and he shot a meaning glance at me, "could not persuade him to break his faith, and you know it."

I bowed my head, and wondered how it was Monsieur Desormes was not universally admired.

"He shall not be disgraced; no shadow of a slur shall rest upon him, for I, madame, will write an explanation that shall satisfy Monsieur Roche, and you shall give it to him yourself."

I bowed my thanks, and he sat down at his desk, and, drawing a sheet of official paper towards him, rapidly covered it and handed it to me. It commenced with the usual courtesies which we have such an innate liking for addressing one another with, and then the letter continued: "Because others who are innocent, monsieur, have been suspected, I am prepared to place in your possession the name of the man and his method. His name is--"

The writing finished there, and I held out my hand for the second sheet, which he had completed while I read.

"You will not ask it, madame?" Monsieur Desormes suggested.

"As you will, monsieur. I have your word that your letter will entirely free those who are innocent from suspicion?"

"You have the word of a--"

"Diplomat?" mademoiselle interrupted, with her anger still smouldering.

"Of a Frenchman," monsieur finished, as he folded the sheets and sealed the envelope.

"And now," he continued, as he addressed it to Monsieur Roche and handed it to me, "there is a favor I must crave of you. I am an implacable enemy, but, I hope, not a false friend. You must give me twenty-four hours, so that the plans I have matured may not be frustrated."

"I scarcely comprehend, monsieur."

"If a man has been an enemy to Monsieur Roche, and an ally with me, I must protect him."

"That is your only object?"

"You have my word, madame."

"Then you have mine, monsieur. This letter shall not be delivered until to-morrow evening."

He raised my fingers to his lips with a smile of satisfaction, and I, having whispered to mademoiselle that after all it was scarcely worth while mentioning Martinique, and gained a smile of mingled thanks and forgiveness, departed, satisfied with the success of my mission, and happy in the knowledge that I had played for the highest stakes that it had been my lot to know--played and won.

There are Boulevard cynics who would declare that, being a woman, I must be miserable because I did not know the name of the thief or the miraculous method he employed. Others, more cynical still, who would say that I cared nothing, because I counted upon coaxing all from _mon cher_ Gaspard; but it would be false. I cared nothing for him who had stolen; my thoughts were all with him whose honor I had saved. For that reason I grudged the delay, but, tried more sorely than ever in my life before, it was not until the following night, enclosed with a note of my own, that I sent Monsieur Desormes's confession to Monsieur Roche.

And as I sat after it had gone, still free from curiosity as to the thief, still proud of my success for Gaspard's sake, the thought, for the first time, came that the Premier was also deeply indebted to me, for his ministry was saved.

I paid fastidious attention to my toilet, for one dared not look anything but one's best at Madame de Vousset's receptions, and Gaspard was such a frequent visitor.

Yet I never looked worse to my own mind, and all the satisfaction seemed to be with Therese.

"_Mais oui! madame, c'est superb_," she cried, with an exaggerated gesture of admiration; and although she possessed many faults, I never had to chide her for lack of truthfulness.

"Monsieur Roche, madame," she announced a moment later, and I said I would receive him in my boudoir, feeling gratified that he should not be lacking in the swift expression of his thanks.

Yet when I greeted him he seemed perplexed, and taking the packet I had sent him from his pocket, he read aloud my own note: "The enclosed letter from Monsieur Desormes will explain the theft of the paper, and prove the innocence of Gaspard, whom you so unjustly accused."

I nodded.

"Do you know the contents of Monsieur Desormes's letter, madame?"

"Partially. 'Because others who are innocent, monsieur, have been suspected, I am prepared to place in your possession the name of the man.' That is what Monsieur Desormes wrote."

Monsieur Roche gravely shook his head and handed the letter to me, and I took it with a chill at my heart, dreading that I had been deceived.

I opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper--blank.

Save at the bottom of the second sheet, where--as a sign of the writing which in the day that had passed had faded, just legible--could be discerned "sormes."

That was all that was left of the words that a day before covered the sheet. The end of the man's signature. The rest had vanished.

I pointed it out to Monsieur Roche, and the perplexity upon his face grew to startled surprise as he caught my meaning glance.

"The last time I saw those sheets, monsieur, they were covered with writing."

"Ah!"

"Monsieur Desormes has been as good as his word; he has saved an innocent man from ruin. His pledge to you was written with this same ink, and faded away a few hours afterwards, leaving only the blank sheet. He has been as good as his word."

"And as good as his intent," Monsieur Roche responded. "He will overthrow the ministry. But for you, _ma chere_, this is a night of glowing and thrilling victory. Allow me to see you to your carriage."

THE END

BY THOMAS A. JANVIER

IN THE SARGASSO SEA. A Novel.

A particularly good story of adventure.... The appeal to the red blood in a man's veins is persistent, and the book is full of that vivid color which Mr. Janvier's style enables him to suggest by picturesque phrase. The movement is incessant.--_Philadelphia Press._

Those who like wild romance will enjoy the book from start to finish.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

THE AZTEC TREASURE-HOUSE. A Romance of Contemporaneous Antiquity. Illustrated by Frederic Remington.

This powerful story may well be ranked among the wonder books. No story-reader should miss it, for it is different from anything he has ever read.--_Christian at Work_, N. Y.

THE UNCLE OF AN ANGEL, and Other Stories.

Janvier stands in the first rank as a writer of short stories, and a new volume coming from him is sure to meet with success. In the present instance it well deserves to, for the stories it contains, from the one which gives it its title to the last between the covers, are among his best.--_Christian at Work_, N. Y.

IN OLD NEW YORK. With 13 Maps and 58 Illustrations.

Mr. Janvier has presented his material with an artist's eye for effect, making a most happily conceived and skilfully executed historical monograph.--_Advance_, Chicago.

THE ODD NUMBER SERIES

THE GULISTAN: Being the Rose-Garden of Shaikh Sa'di. Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

THE NEW GOD. By Richard Voss. Translated by Mary A. Robinson.

THE GREEN BOOK. By Maurus Jokai. Translated by Mrs. Waugh.

BLACK DIAMONDS. By Maurus Jokai. Translated by Frances A. Gerard.

DONA PERFECTA. By B. Perez Galdos. Translated by Mary J. Serrano.

PARISIAN POINTS OF VIEW. By Ludovic Halevy. Translated by E. V. B. Matthews.

DAME CARE. By Hermann Sudermann. Translated by Bertha Overbeck.

TALES OF TWO COUNTRIES. By Alexander Kielland. Translated by William Archer.

TEN TALES BY FRANCOIS COPPEE. Translated by Walter Learned. Illustrated.

MODERN GHOSTS. By Guy de Maupassant and others. Translated.

THE HOUSE BY THE MEDLAR-TREE. By Giovanni Veroa. Translated by Mary A. Craig.

PASTELS IN PROSE. Translated by Stuart Merrill. Illustrated by H. W. McVickar.

MARIA: A South American Romance. By Jorge Isaacs. Translated by Rollo Ogden.

THE ODD NUMBER. Tales by Guy de Maupassant. Translated by Jonathan Sturges.

By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

A YEAR FROM A REPORTER'S NOTE-BOOK. Illustrated by R. Caton Woodville, T. de Thulstrup, and Frederic Remington, and from Photographs taken by the Author.

THREE GRINGOS IN VENEZUELA AND CENTRAL AMERICA. Illustrated.

ABOUT PARIS. Illustrated by C. D. Gibson.

THE PRINCESS ALINE. Illustrated by C. D. Gibson.

THE EXILES, AND OTHER STORIES. Illustrated.

VAN BIBBER, AND OTHERS. Illustrated by C. D. Gibson.

THE WEST FROM A CAR-WINDOW. Illustrated by Frederic Remington.

OUR ENGLISH COUSINS. Illustrated.

THE RULERS OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. Illustrated.

Mr. Davis has eyes to see, is not a bit afraid to tell what he sees, and is essentially good natured.... Mr. Davis's faculty of appreciation and enjoyment is fresh and strong: he makes vivid pictures.--_Outlook_, N. Y.

Richard Harding Davis never writes a short story that he does not prove himself a master of the art.--_Chicago Times._

By RUTH McENERY STUART

MORIAH'S MOURNING, and Other Half-Hour Sketches. Illustrated.

IN SIMPKINSVILLE. Character Tales. Illustrated.

SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS, and Other Tales. Illustrated.

CARLOTTA'S INTENDED, and Other Tales. Illustrated.

A GOLDEN WEDDING, and Other Tales. Illustrated.

THE STORY OF BABETTE: A Little Creole Girl.

Mrs. Stuart is one of some half-dozen American writers who are doing the best that is being done for English literature at the present time. Her range of dialect is extraordinary; but, after all, it is not the dialect that constitutes the chief value of her work. That will be found in its genuineness, lighted up as it is by superior intelligence and imagination and delightful humor.--_Chicago Tribune._

Mrs. Stuart is a genuine humorist.--_N. Y. Mail and Express._

Few surpass Mrs. Stuart in dialect studies of negro life and character.--_Detroit Free Press._

By A. CONAN DOYLE

THE REFUGEES. A Tale of Two Continents. Illustrated.

THE WHITE COMPANY. Illustrated.

MICAH CLARKE. Illustrated.

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. Illustrated.

Contents: A Scandal in Bohemia, The Red-headed League, A Case of Identity, The Boscombe Valley Mystery, The Five Orange Pips, The Man with the Twisted Lip, The Blue Carbuncle, The Speckled Band, The Engineer's Thumb, The Noble Bachelor, The Beryl Coronet, The Copper Beeches.

MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. Illustrated.

Contents: Silver Blaze, The Yellow Face, The Stock-Broker's Clerk, The "Gloria Scott," The Musgrave Ritual, The Reigate Puzzle, The Crooked Man, The Resident Patient, The Greek Interpreter, The Navy Treaty, The Final Problem.

THE PARASITE. A story. Illustrated.

THE GREAT SHADOW.

BY LILIAN BELL

THE INSTINCT OF STEP-FATHERHOOD. Stories.

The spirit of fun is found to a greater or less degree in all of the sketches, but at times the fun borders on the tragic so closely that the dividing line between laughter and tears almost fades out of sight.--_Brooklyn Eagle._

FROM A GIRL'S POINT OF VIEW.

The author is so good-humored, quaint, and clever that she has not left a dull page in her book.--_Saturday Evening Gazette_, Boston.

A LITTLE SISTER TO THE WILDERNESS. A Novel. New Edition.