He had taken the direction of the Boulevard, with the intention, it appeared, of calling a cab. I hurried, however, to the Vicomte"s favourite club, and learned that he had not been seen there. His habits being more or less known to me, I prosecuted my search in such quarters as seemed likely, but without success.
At the Cercle de l"Union I ran against John Turner, who was reading the _Times_ there.
"Ah!" he said, "young Howard. Come to lunch, I suppose. You look hungry--gad, what a twist you had that day! Just in time. I can tell you what is worth eating."
"Thanks; you know such advice is wasted on a country boor like myself.
No; I came seeking the Vicomte de Clericy. Have you seen him?"
"Ah! you are still with old Clericy; thought you were up to some mischief--so d--d quiet. Then Mademoiselle is kind?"
"Mademoiselle is away," I answered. "Do you know anything of the Baron Giraud?"
"Do I know anything of the devil," growled John Turner, returning to the perusal of his newspaper. "Are he and old Clericy putting their heads together? I would not trust Giraud with ten sous so far as the club door."
"Exactly!"
"Then he and old Clericy _are_ at it--are they?" said John Turner, looking at me over the _Times_ with his twinkling eyes. "And you, Monsieur, _le secretaire_, are anxious about your patron. Ha, ha! You have a lot to learn yet, Master d.i.c.k."
I looked impatiently at the clock. Twenty minutes had already been wasted in my fruitless search.
"Then you haven"t seen de Clericy?"
"No--my good boy--I haven"t. And if you cannot find him you may be sure that it is because he does not want to be found."
The words followed me as I left the room. It seemed that John Turner believed in no man.
There was nothing for it but to return to the Rue des Palmiers, and tell the Baron that I had failed to find my patron. The cab I had hired was awaiting me, and in a few minutes I was rattling across the bridge of the Holy Fathers.
"Monsieur le Vicomte returned a few minutes ago," the butler told me.
"He has gone to the study, and is now with the Baron Giraud. The Vicomte asked that you should go to him at once."
The atmosphere of the old house seemed gloomy and full of foreboding as I ran up the stairs. The servant stood at the open door and watched me. In that unknown world behind the green baize door more is known than we suspect, and there is often no surprise there when we who live above stairs are dumbfounded.
In my haste I forgot to knock at Monsieur de Clericy"s door before opening it--indeed, I think it was ajar.
"My good friend," I heard as I entered the room, "collect yourself. Be calm. We are together in a great misfortune--the money has been stolen!"
The voice was that of my patron. I went in and closed the door behind me. For it seemed, to my fancy, that there were other doors ajar upon the landing, and listeners on the stairs.
The two old men were facing each other, the one purple in the visage, with starting eyes, the other white and quiet.
"Stolen?" echoed the Baron in a thick voice, and with a wild look round the room. "Then I am ruined!"
The old Vicomte spread out his trembling hands in despair, a gesture that seemed to indicate a crumbling away of the world beneath us.
The Baron Giraud turned and looked at me. He did not recognise me for quite ten seconds.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "IT IS DEATH," I ANSWERED, WITH MY HAND INSIDE THE BARON"S SHIRT. "WHO STOLE THAT MONEY?" THE VICOMTE LOOKED AT ME.
"CHARLES MISTE," HE SAID.]
"Then it is not you," he said, thickly. "As you are there. You did not steal it."
"No--I did not steal it," I answered quietly, for there was a look in his face that I did not understand, while it frightened me. Suddenly his eyes shot red--his face was almost black. He fell forward into my arms, and I tore his collar off as I laid him to the ground.
"Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" the Vicomte was crying as he ran hither and thither, wringing his hands, while I attended, unskillfully enough, to the stricken man. "Ah, mon Dieu! what is this?"
"It is death," I answered, with my hand inside the Baron"s shirt. "Who stole that money?"
The Vicomte looked at me.
"Charles Miste," he said.
Chapter XI
Theft
"La fortune ne laisse rien perdre pour les hommes heureux."
I thus returned Alphonse Giraud"s visit sooner than either of us antic.i.p.ated, for I had to go and tell him what had happened in the Rue des Palmiers. I delivered my news in as few words as possible, and cannot tell how he took the evil tidings, for when I had spoken I walked to the window, and there stood looking down into the street.
"Have you told me all?" asked Giraud at length, wondering, perhaps, that I lingered.
"No."
I turned and faced him, the little French dandy, in his stiff collar and patent-leather boots--no bigger than a girl"s. The politeness of our previous intercourse seemed to have fallen away from us.
"No--I have not told you all. It seems likely that you, like myself, have been left a poor man."
"Then we have one reason more for being good friends," said Giraud, in his quick French way.
He rose and looked round the room.
"All the same, I have had a famous time," he said. "Come, let us go to my father."
We found the Hotel Clericy in that state of hushed expectation which follows the dread visit in palace and hut alike. The servants seemed to have withdrawn to their own quarters to discuss the event in whispers there. We found the Vicomte in my study, still much agitated and broken. He was sitting in my chair, the tears yet wet upon his wrinkled cheek. There was a quick look of alertness in his eyes, as if the scythe had hissed close by in reaping the mature grain.
"Ah! my poor boy--my poor boy," he cried when he saw Alphonse, and they embraced after the manner of their race.
"And it is all my fault," continued the broken old man, wringing his hands and sinking into his chair again.
"No!" cried Alphonse, with characteristic energy. "We surely cannot say that, without questioning--well--a wiser judgment than ours."
He paused, and perhaps remembered dimly some of the teaching of a good, simple bourgeoise who had died before her husband fingered gold.
I sought to quiet the Vicomte also. Old men, like old clothes, need gentle handling. I sat down at my table and began to write.