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  Chapter XXVIII

  The Links

  "La plus grande preuve d'abnegation que donne l'amitie, c'est de vivre a cote de l'amour."

  Earlier in this record mention has been made--and, indeed, thereader's attention called thereto--of certain events which, in thelight of subsequent knowledge, pieced themselves together like linksof a chain into one complete whole.

  During the quiet months that closed the year of the Commune I dwelt atHopton, Isabella being away, and Little Corton in the care of ahousekeeper. Leisure was thus afforded me for the task of piecingtogether these links of the past.

  It was hard at first to realise that those few moments passed on thepierhead at Genoa did not form part of my illness and the dreamymemories of that time. But having always been of a matter of fact mindI allowed myself no illusions in this respect, and this strange detailof an incomprehensible life forced itself upon my understanding atlength when the inexplicable became dimly legible.

  In my native air I soon picked up strength, forgetting, in truth, mywounds and illness before the shooting season. Nevertheless, I throw agun up to my shoulder less nimbly than I did before Miste's bulletfound its billet among the muscles of my arm.

  Madame de Clericy and Lucille had returned to Paris, but, the formerwrote me, were anxious to get away from the capital, which no longeroffered a pleasant home to avowed Legitimists. Madame still entrustedme with the management of her affairs, which I administered _tant bienque mal_ by correspondence, and the harvest promised to be such a goodone as to set our minds at rest respecting the immediate future.

  Alphonse Giraud passed a few days, from time to time, with the ladies,but he being a poor correspondent, and I no better, we had but littleknowledge of each other at this time.

  Madame, I observed, made but brief reference to Lucille now. "Alphonseis with us," she would write, and nothing else; or "Lucille keeps welland is ever gay," with which scant details I had to content myself.

  Twice she invited me to pass some days, or weeks, if it could be soarranged, at the Rue des Palmiers, and twice I refused. For in truth Iscarcely wished to meet Madame de Clericy until my chain was piecedtogether and I could lay before her a tale of evidence that had noweak link in it.

  In the month of September I journeyed to Paris, staying there but twodays, and so arranging my movements that I met neither Madame deClericy and her daughter nor Alphonse. I succeeded beyond myexpectations in forging an important link.

  "Perhaps, as you cannot leave your estates just now," Madame hadwritten, "you will come to us at La Pauline towards the end of thevintage. Indeed, my friend, I must ask you to make an effort to do so,for I learn that the harvest will be a heavy one, and your judgmentwill be required in financial matters since you are so good as toplace it at our disposal."

  To this I had returned a vague answer, thinking that before that timeAlphonse might have news to tell us which would alter manyarrangements and a few lives. For now that he had recovered a greaterpart of his vast wealth there could, assuredly, be no reason forfurther delay in pressing his suit _aupres de_ Lucille.

  I had, by the way, propounded to John Turner the problem that wouldarise in the case of our having to conclude that Miste's confederatehad perished in the ill-fated _Principe Amadeo_, taking out of thisworld, if he could not carry it to the next, the remainder of Giraud'sfortune.

  "Within five years," he answered me, "Giraud will be repaid the valueof the missing drafts, for we have now a sufficient excuse to stoppayment of them, assuming, as we may safely do, that the bills werelost at sea."

  In the same letter my old friend imparted some news affecting myself.

  "I am," he wrote, "getting on in years, and fatter. In view of thesefacts I have made a will leaving you, by the way, practically my heir.A man who could refuse to marry such a pretty girl as IsabellaGayerson, with such an exceedingly pretty fortune as she possesses,deserves to have money troubles; so I bequeath 'em to you."

  Towards the end of September Madame again wrote to me with theinformation that they were installed at La Pauline for the winter, andbegged me to name the day when I could visit them. With duedeliberation I accepted this invitation, and wrote to Giraud in Paristhat I was about to pass through that city, and would much like to seehim as often as possible.

  "You know, Dick," he said to me, when we had dined together at hisclub, "it is better fun being ruined. All this money--Mon Dieu--what atrouble it is!"

  "Yes," answered I--and the words came from my heart--"it only bringsill fortune to those that have it."

  Nevertheless, Alphonse Giraud was quite happy in the recovery of hiswealth, and took much enjoyment in its expenditure on others. Never,surely, beat a more generous heart than Giraud's, for whom to spendhis money on a friend was the greatest known happiness.

  "You remember," he cried, "how we used to drink our Benedictine inclaret glasses only. Ah! what it is to be young, _n'est ce pas_! andto think that we shall one day get all we want!"

  His quick face darkened suddenly, and all the boyishness vanished fromit.

  "I have been," he said, "a famous fool--and thou art another, mygrim-faced Englishman. But I have found out my folly, and discoverthat there is still happiness in this world--enough to go on with, atall events."

  I rose to bid him good-night, for I had to make an early start thenext morning.

  "I only hope, mon ami," he said, taking my hand in his small fingers,"that the good God will show you soon what a fool you have been."

  I arrived at Draguignan late on the following evening, and put up atthe Hotel Bertin there, than which the traveller will find no betteraccommodation in Provence. I had not named the hour or day of myproposed arrival at La Pauline, knowing that the affairs of Madame deClericy might delay me in Paris, which, in fact, they did.

  The next morning I set out on foot for the Chateau of La Pauline bythe road passing through the vineyards and olive groves latelydespoiled of their fruit. The rich hues of autumn were creeping up themountains, where the cool air of the upper slopes preserved theverdure longer than in the sunburnt valley. The air was light andfresh, with a brisk breeze from the west. The world seemed instinctwith fruition and the gathering of that which had been sown with toiland carefulness. Is it the world that fits itself to our humour, ordoes the Creator mould our thoughts with wind and sky, light andshade?

  As I neared the Chateau my heart sank within me, for I had but evilnews for the lady whom I respected above all women, save one--and howwould Madame take my tidings? It seemed best to ask her to speak to mealone, for much that I had to relate was surely for the wife's ear,and would need to be tempered to the daughter's hearing. Thisexpedient was, however, spared me, for as I approached the old ChateauI noted the presence of some one in the trellis-covered summerhouse atthe eastern end of the terrace, and caught the flutter of what seemedto be a white handkerchief. It was, I soon perceived, Madame at herlace-work--and alone.

  Leaving the road I took a path through the olive groves and came uponMadame, not however by surprise, for she saw me approaching and laidaside her work.

  "So you have come at last," she said, holding out her kind hand.

  We went into the vine-grown hut and sat down, Madame looking at mewith deep speculation.

  "You are a strong man, mon ami," she said. "For one sees no signs inyour face of what you have gone through."

  But it was not of myself that I had come to talk. The tale had to betold to Madame de Clericy, and being a plain-spoken Englishman and nohero of a book, I purposed telling it briefly without allegory orsymbol.

  "Madame," I said, "it was not Miste who took the money. It was not theBaron Giraud that we buried from the Rue des Palmiers. It was not theVicomte de Clericy that we found in the Seine near Passy and laid toearth in the churchyard at Senneville."

  And I saw that the Vicomtesse thought me mad.

  "My poor friend," she said, with the deepest pity in her voice,"why do you talk like that, and what do you mean?"


  THE VICOMTESSE TURNED A LITTLE IN HER CHAIR, AND,LEANING HER ELBOW ON THE TABLE, SHOWED ME ONLY HER PROFILE AS SHE SAT,WITH HER CHIN IN THE PALM OF HER HAND, LOOKING DOWN INTO THE VALLEY.]

  "I only mean, Madame, that no man is safe in temptation, and thatmoney is the greatest of all. I would not trust myself with tenmillion francs. I would not now trust any man on earth."

  "Why?"

  And I thought that in Madame's eyes there was already the light ofunderstanding. For a moment I paused, and she said quickly:

  "Is my husband alive?"

  "No, Madame."

  The Vicomtesse turned a little in her chair, and, leaning her elbow onthe table, showed me only her profile as she sat, with her chin in thepalm of her hand, looking down into the valley.

  "Tell me all you know," she said. "I will not interrupt you; but donot pity me."

  "The Baron Giraud did my old patron a great wrong when, in his selfishfear, he placed that great fortune in his care. For it appears that noman may trust himself where money is concerned, and no other has aright to tempt him. So far as we can judge, the Vicomte had all thathe could want. I know he had more money than he cared to spend. Youare aware, Madame, that I had the greatest respect and admiration foryour husband. During the months that we were in daily intercourse heendeared himself to me by a hundred kindnesses, a thousand tokens ofwhat I hope was affection."

  Madame nodded briefly, and I hastened on with my narrative, forsuspense is the keenest arrow in the quiver of human suffering.

  "What I have learnt has been gathered with the greatest care from manysources, and what I now tell you is neither known nor suspected by anyother on earth. If you so desire, the knowledge can well remain theproperty of two persons only."

  "My friend," Madame said on the impulse of the kindest heart in theworld, "I think your strength lies in the depth of your thought forothers."

  "The Vicomte was tempted," I went on. "He had in his nature a latentlove of money. The same is in many natures, but the majority havenever the opportunity of gratifying it. He did what ninety-nine out ofa hundred other men would have done--what I think I should have donemyself. He yielded. He had at hand a ready tool and the cleverest aidin Charles Miste, who actually carried the money, but for somereason--possibly because he was unable to forge the necessarysignatures--could not obtain the cash for the drafts without theVicomte's assistance. Unconsciously, I repeatedly prevented theirmeeting, and thus frustrated the design."

  All the while Madame sat and looked down into the valley. Herself-command was infinite, for she must have had a thousand questionsto ask.

  "It was, I think, my patron's intention to go to the New World withhis great wealth and there begin life afresh--this, however, is one ofthe details that must ever remain incomprehensible. Possibly when thetemptation gripped him he ceased to reflect at all--else he mustassuredly have recognised all that he was sacrificing for the merepossession of money that he could never live to spend. Men usually paytoo high a price for their desires. In order to carry out his schemehe conceived and accomplished--with a strange cunning, which develops,I am told, after crime--a clever ruse."

  Madame turned and looked at me for a moment.

  "We must think of him, Madame," I explained, "as one suffering from amental disease; for the love of money in its acute stages is nothingelse, lacking, as it assuredly does, common sense. The most singularpart of his mental condition was the rapidity and skill with which heturned events to his own advantage, and seized each opportunity forthe furtherance of his ends. The Baron Giraud died at the HotelClericy--here was a chance. The Vicomte, with a cunning which wassurely unnatural--you remember his strange behaviour at that time,how he locked himself in his study for hours together--took thereforethe Baron's body from the coffin, dressed it in his own garments,placed in the clothing his own purse, and pocket-book, and cast thebody into the Seine. I have had the coffin that we laid in Pere laChaise exhumed and opened. It contained only old books from the uppershelves in the study in the Rue des Palmiers. The Vicomte must havepacked it thus when he took the Baron's body--doubtless with Miste'sclever aid--and threw it into the river for us to find and identify."

  "Yes," said Madame, slowly, "he was cleverer than any suspected. Iknew that."

  "The body," I went on, for my tale was nearly done, "which we found atPassy and buried at Senneville was undoubtedly that of the BaronGiraud. This, however, is the only detail of my story which I amunable to assert as a positive fact."

  "Of the rest you have no doubt?" Madame asked, slowly. And I shook myhead.

  "Is it not possible," she suggested, with that quiet sureness ofjudgment which, I think, is rarely given to women, "that Miste isalone responsible and the criminal? Of course, I cannot explain theBaron Giraud's disappearance--but it is surely possible that Mistemay have murdered the Vicomte and thrown his body into the Seine."

  "No, Madame, there has been no murder done."

  "You are sure?"

  "I have, since the war, seen the Vicomte alive and well."