# Diane and Her Friends/The Silver Pencil

pp. 217–249. First published in Harper's Monthly Magazine, 1912.
IX
THE SILVER PENCIL
INSPECTOR JOLY had always maintained that conclusions were more important than stability. Not to change one's opinion under the pressure of evidence was the proof of mediocrity. Yet, after voluntarily retiring from active service and acquiring that suburban retreat which had so long been a dream, not for worlds would he have admitted to Madame Joly that any disappointment lurked in the dream's realization.
Monrepos certainly was not responsible for the disappointment. The reality coincided in all respects with the dream. In one, as in the other, on opening the gate between the high inclosing walls, one saw a straight walk, freshly graveled and bordered with box, on one side of which was the fountain with the goldfish, and on the other the arbor where he was now sitting; and at the end of the walk that house, a little naked as yet, being fresh from the hands of the architect, to which he had looked forward as a very heaven of rest.
Surveying this heaven, M. Joly said to himself: "It appears one is happy only in remembering or in anticipating. That being the case, since I have nothing more to anticipate, I am like the moon, one side of which is in perpetual darkness—and the other," he added, with a sigh, "shines only by reflected light."
Sitting opposite him, the curé of Saint-Médard, who had come to spend the day and found Monrepos to his liking, was almost asleep. No master of ceremonies would have presented these two to each other with the idea that either could afford the other a moment of pleasure. It amazed M. Joly that so superior a woman as Madame Joly should have such a confessor. It also amused him—for what could a woman like Madame Joly possibly have to confess?
"Monsieur le curé," he said, abruptly, "after Paradise, what?"
"After Paradise," stammered the curé, rousing himself, "there is nothing. Paradise is the sum of all things, the realization of every dream."
"In that case," replied M. Joly, "I advise you on going there to hold a few dreams in reserve, lest even Paradise prove wearisome."
THE CURÉ OF SAINT-MÉDARD FOUND MONREPOS TO HIS LIKING
The curé relapsed into silence. To disturb his state of mental repose was for M. Joly an irresistible delight. He also dearly loved the curé's arguments, drawn from sources which reminded him how old was human thought. But the cure's eyes were closing again. M. Joly observed him a moment meditatively, then walked down the gravel path toward the gate.
Just within, among the vines on the wall, hung a bell. In the earlier days of his retirement, its call from the outer world had awakened in his breast emotions of curiosity and hope. But he had long since realized that the stream of life does not tarry to converse with what it has cast up on its banks. Observing this bell, hampered by encroaching vines and yellow with rust, M. Joly was muttering to himself. "A symbol of oblivion and decay!" when suddenly, as if in indignant denial, it began to ring violently.
"Come now," he said ironically, "what joke are you up to?"
For answer the bell rang again, this time with a tone of imperious impatience. At this second summons he opened the gate, to find himself looking into a pair of blue eyes.
Instantly he dived down into the depths of memory and brought up two pictures: one of a woman crumbling bread to the fishes over the railing of the garden of the Hôtel d'ltalie et d'Angleterre in Freyr, the other of this same woman ordering his breakfast on the terrace of Madame de Caraman's villa in Bourg-la-Reine.
"Madame de Wimpffen!" he exclaimed.
A smile of pleasure came into the blue eyes.
"I am so glad to find you, Monsieur Joly. May I come in? You have not forgotten me in all these years?"
His thought was that no one could possibly forget her, but in his momentary embarrassment he said:—
"That is not to my credit, I have such a good memory."
She answered him with her bright, understanding smile as she stepped within the gate.
"Where may I speak with you? here,—on this seat by the wall? Shall we sit down here? Will you please tell the coachman to wait?" And when he had delivered the message and closed the gate, "Sit down, please, Monsieur Joly,"—making room for him;—"something has occurred which made me wish to consult you. You see, I, too, deserve no credit, having also a good memory."
He took the proffered seat, a little awkwardly, crossing his hands as usual over his waistcoat, experiencing at the same time that feeling of mingled admiration and intimacy which this woman had inspired once before.
"You remember the mysterious disappearance of my Cousin Célimène's necklace," began Diane, digging the tip of her parasol into the gravel. "Well, yesterday, on my return from Bourg-la-Reine, where my husband and I were making my cousin a visit, I found a little mystery of my own."
She paused a moment, and M. Joly leaned back against the wall to gain a fuller command of her face.
"Our apartment is on Boulevard Haussmann, number 190. During our absence some one has been searching it—I say searching," she repeated with emphasis, "because nothing was taken. On the contrary, something was left. Examine this, please. I found it among my lingerie, in my chiffonier."
He took the small silver pencil which she held out to him, and, turning it slowly over in his hand, read the words "L. Pichon, Inspecteur," engraved on the side. "What carelessness!" he thought. But he said nothing.
"Perhaps you will say," she went on, "that it does not follow because Monsieur Pichon's pencil is found in the drawer of my chiffonier that Monsieur Pichon himself left it there. But I have made inquiries. First, of the concierge, who says two men, workmen, came with a permit duly authorized by the police to inspect the electric installation in our rooms. But the electric company deny that any such inspection has been ordered. What I wish to know," she said, lifting her eyes to his, "is, what Monsieur Pichon was doing in my apartment. Naturally I thought to write my husband, who remained for a few days at Bourg-la-Reine. Then I said to myself: 'No, he will be furious—he will return at once, and his vacation will be spoiled. I will first consult that Monsieur Joly who found my Cousin Célimène's diamonds.' But it seems"—her eyes were still studying his face—"that you are no longer at the prefecture."
"That makes no difference," he said, with superb disregard for the Paradise of Monrepos.
"At first I was indignant. Then I reflected. When the police search, it is because some one is suspected. Who? Of what? I am consulting you professionally, Monsieur Joly."
He waited for her to go on.
"There is Valérie, my maid, who has been with me since I left the convent—"
"Madame," interrupted M. Joly protestingly, "I am not one of those persons who believe that to extinguish the lights is to make one's neighbor a thief. And in the case of a mystery, which so resembles darkness, I refuse to entertain suspicions whose only foundation is our own mystification. Let us begin by ascertaining what my friend Pichon has got into his head."
"Oh, you know Monsieur Pichon?"
"Intimately."
"And you will see him?"
He rose. "At once."
"How good you are!" she cried impetuously; "will you accept a seat in my carriage, Monsieur Joly?"
"I am afraid," he said, smiling, "madame drives too rapidly for an old tortoise who between here and the Boulevard du Palais must have time to reflect."
One foot on the step of the carriage, she turned: "You approve of my not writing my husband?"
"Absolutely."
"Wait"—as he closed the door—"my card."
"You forget the good memory. Boulevard Haussmann, 190."
She laughed, and he signed to the coachman.
He watched the carriage till it disappeared beyond the turn in the road, then stood gazing thoughtfully up the gravel path of Monrepos. The curé was still sleeping in the arbor. The bees were droning above the parterres. The goldfish, motionless, lay in the shadow of the stone coping.
"Come now, friend Pichon," he said, closing the gate of Paradise behind him, "let us see about this pencil."
An hour later he descended from the omnibus on Boulevard du Palais. It was raining and he had no umbrella. Buttoning up his coat and lowering his head, he made a dash for the archway of the prefecture. Although the clock in the bureau of the prefect struck only three times, the lamp on the prefect's desk was burning, the sudden summer storm having enveloped the city in mid-afternoon darkness. Except for the circle of light under the green shade the room was in shadow. In this shadow, midway between the desk and the door, stood Pichon, lately promoted to the grade of inspector in place of Joly, resigned.
Pichon was often taciturn because he had so much to say. That his silence on this occasion was due to other causes was clear from his abject appearance. Under the gaze of the prefect his figure seemed to grow smaller and to retreat still further into the shadow.
"So, no progress."
The prefect's voice was cold, and Pichon remained silent. It was true, he had made no progress. The prefect went to the window. Through the veils of the falling rain lights were beginning to appear in the neighboring buildings.
"What a pity Monsieur Joly took it into his head to retire. You used to work together so admirably."
Pichon winced. Watching the prefect's form dimly outlined against the window, he had the sensation of being slowly effaced, of no longer counting for anything.
"How often it happens that a good soldier makes a poor general."
Unable to dispute the truth of this aphorism, Pichon contented himself with shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. At that moment the prefect, drumming absent-mindedly on the window-pane, in the flash of lightning which illumined the room for an instant saw a man, struggling with the storm, crossing Boulevard du Palais.
"The devil!" he exclaimed; "and to think there are people who refuse to credit miracles!"
Pichon, mystified, pricked up his ears. Any miracle which would put an end to his misery was welcome.
"Speaking of Monsieur Joly, be so good as to say I wish to speak to him."
Pichon's mystification changed to astonishment. One would think M. Joly was in the next room! He stared at the prefect in a sort of stupor.
"I will look for him, Monsieur le Préfet," he stammered, collecting himself.
"That is unnecessary. You will find him on the stairway or in the anteroom."
As he went softly out the door Pichon was aware that his chief was smiling, and the sense of effacement deepened. In the corridor at the head of the stairs, to his amazement he saw M. Joly, and from force of habit touched his hat.
"Monsieur le Préfet has sent for you," he said.
"Well, you see I am coming," replied M. Joly.
While standing before the prefect's desk, his hat in his hand, as he had so often stood before, M. Joly had the time to speculate a little. He reasoned that if he was sent for it was because he was wanted, and that if he was wanted it was because some one had failed—which accounted for the dejected countenance of Pichon. Well acquainted with the little mannerisms of his former chief, he waited patiently. Watching the quill pen traveling to and fro in the circle of light under the green shade, he said to himself, "At the end of the fifth line he will stop." But at the end of the fifth line the pen began a new journey. "Ah!" thought M. Joly, "it is something serious."
At last the pen paused and M. Levigne looked up.
"It is you, Monsieur Joly? So the prodigal returns."
M. Joly was silent.
"It was not by chance, I suppose, that of all the doorways in Paris you should choose that of the prefecture to escape the rain."
"Monsieur le Préfet, if I sought shelter within the walls of the prefecture it was not because I expected to find there a fatted calf."
M. Levigne moved the lamp to the edge of the table and leaned back in his chair.
"What a lucky dog you are, Monsieur Joly! Here am I beset with perplexities, while you can pass your days in repose without a care. You call it Monrepos, do you not? An excellent name."
"He will continue in this manner two minutes yet," thought M. Joly, "then he will come to the point."
"But what astonishes me is that a man who possesses such advantages should be wandering about the streets of Paris like a dog without a home."
"It is not necessary to remind Monsieur le Préfet that a dog is the most faithful of animals."
The prefect lifted the green shade from the lamp, which now cast its light full on their faces. "Good!" said M. Joly to himself, "we shall now know something."
"Monsieur Joly, there is a wineshop on the corner of Rue de la Colombe which has a room where one may converse quietly with a friend. I recommend you to go there and to take with you Pichon—who is in need of advice."
M. Joly did not move.
"Well," said the prefect.
"Monsieur le Préfet, there is a condition."
"Ah, there is a condition?"
"That I have carte blanche."
"Come, come," replied M. Levigne, pushing toward him on the table the sheet on which he had been writing, "that goes without saying."
M. Joly folded the precious paper tranquilly, deposited it carefully in the pocket of his waistcoat, then, seeing the prefect's pen beginning its travels again, stole noiselessly from the room.
Tormented with anxiety, Pichon was pacing the corridor.
"It is such a pleasure to see you again, old friend!" cried M. Joly, linking his arm in his. "How goes it? You are well? Really, to see you is like a draught of old wine. What do you say, shall we have a little chat together as formerly in the café on Rue de la Colombe? We see each other so rarely."
"Then you do not remain with us?" said Pichon, as they went down the stairs.
"I, remain? What an idea! To risk my skin a hundred times a year for nine hundred francs! You are joking, Pichon."
"That is true," admitted Pichon, his anxiety somewhat appeased. "Nine hundred francs is very little."
"It is worse than nothing. If you are not paid at all, you receive a gold medal for a fine action. But if this action is paid for, you are not even noticed. It is impossible to be a hero when one is a mercenary."
"I had not thought of that," said Pichon; "but not every man's wife," he added mournfully, "is so fortunate as to receive a legacy like Madame Joly."
"That is what the prefect said to me. 'Monsieur Joly,' he said, 'you are a lucky dog.'"
As they crossed the open space before Notre Dame, Pichon's anxiety returned.
"I do not deny," continued M. Joly, "that sometimes, when I remember—we have had some interesting quarter-hours together, eh, Pichon? Tell me"—entering the Café de l'Ésperance and pushing open the door to the room in the rear—"tell me, is there anything interesting going on at this moment?"
"There is always something interesting going on," Pichon replied moodily. "Not ten minutes ago the prefect said to me it was a pity you had resigned."
"Really," exclaimed M. Joly, leading the way to a quiet corner, "he said that? You amaze me."
Pichon sank into a chair. "But since these things interest you no longer—" he said, plunging his hands into the deep pockets of his loose trousers.
"Messieurs?" inquired the waiter.
"Ah, Joseph, it is you? A sirop de groseitte, if you please, And you, Pichon, a fine champagne, as formerly?"
Pichon nodded.
"What you say is quite true," resumed M. Joly when they were alone again; "these things interest me no longer. Do you remember that little girl they called Dorante whom we found at the Restaurant des Tournelles in that affair of the Bank of France? She has become my own flesh and blood. I am teaching her the history of France. In the month of May we go into the woods for primroses. A small hand slips into yours and you break with the habits of a lifetime. No, my friend,"—shaking his head,—"it is finished."
Moving his glass uneasily to and fro over the table, Pichon observed him doubtfully. Distrust of himself, the longing to profit by the experience of a superior intelligence, and a sudden resurgence of loyalty were working in his brain. Against this tide he struggled for a moment, then set his glass down sharply.
"Comrade," he said abruptly, "I am in a fix."
"You need money, Pichon?" asked M. Joly sympathetically.
Pichon dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand.
"A document has disappeared from the Ministry of War"—he paused in order that this fact might have time to sink into the mind of his listener—"an important document which has to do with the mobilization of the army. This document was deposited in the safe in a room occupied by Colonel de Wimpffen, a safe of which he only"—another pause—"and General Texier, of the staff, possessed the combination. On the morning of August 13, Colonel de Wimpffen and his wife go to Bourg-la-Reine to pass a few days with a cousin. On the 14th, General Texier, takes it into his head to consult this document. He opens the safe. The document in question has taken wing. He sends for the prefect. The prefect sends for me—and where we began, there we are now."
He stopped, took a turn up and down the room, shrugged his shoulders, and dropped into his chair.
"But you have a theory," said M. Joly; "develop your theory, Pichon."
"There is but one theory," replied Pichon testily. "Two men possess the key to a combination. One is above suspicion. There remains the other."
"What a devil of a logician you are, Pichon! You subtract one from two and one remains."
Pichon shook his head. "Logic is a fine thing, Monsieur Joly, but sentiment is still finer. This de Wimpffen is a friend of General Texier, who knows him from childhood. He served with him in Africa. He is the soul of honor! We have heard such arguments before." And Pichon shrugged his shoulders again disdainfully.
"In the operation of subtracting one from two," observed M. Joly thoughtfully, "there is always the question which of the two is the remainder."
"Oh, of that there is no doubt. Think of it! A general of the staff!"
"In that case, since this remainder is the soul of honor—one consults a man of honor."
"Parbleu! They have sent for him. He arrives to-morrow."
M. Joly's hands clasped over his waistcoat. "And you, Pichon, what have you done?"
Pichon took another turn in the room, then planted himself squarely before his companion.
"To consult an innocent man is to learn nothing. A guilty man denies. Why, then, consult him at all?"
M. Joly nodded approvingly. "I understand. So you put this soul of honor under your microscope. Tell us what you have discovered, Pichon."
"Nothing. His correspondence?—he has none. His friends?—irreproachable. His desk, his apartment?—not a straw."
"And then?" pursued M. Joly encouragingly.
Pichon hesitated.
"I will tell you," he replied, the desire to prove his adroitness overcoming his caution: "when a man is not suspected, he becomes careless. This man is not careless. But when a man knows that he is suspected, he becomes troubled—that is, he makes mistakes. I learned that Madame de Wimpffen was to return to Paris alone, and I had an idea." M. Joly's hands tightened. "I said: 'I will leave my tracks in the den of the fox—I will make them so plain that even a woman can see them—and this woman, alarmed, perplexed, will hasten to show them to her husband—and this husband, seeing that the hounds are on the trail, will betray himself.'"
"Really, Pichon, I had no idea you were capable of such cleverness."
Pichon's face wore a smile of self-satisfaction. "To-morrow," he said significantly—"to-morrow we shall see something."
"Has it occurred to you," said M. Joly, after a pause, "that a man, distrustful of his memory—figures are so elusive—should make a note of a combination?—a note which falls into the hands of another?"
"Why?" retorted Pichon obstinately; "to what end? Two men do not forget, or, if that be so, which is improbable, in an emergency a safe can always be broken open."
"Forgive me, another question: no one occupied this room with Monsieur de Wimpffen?"
"Yes, a clerk, one Bulow—an old man whose nose is in his papers from morning till night. He lives on Rue Monge, No. 176. Be easy, I forget nothing. He is under surveillance."
Studying the bottom of his now empty glass, M. Joly appeared lost in thought.
"Pichon," he said, at length, "if you should carry off from the Galerie d'Apollon in the Louvre the crown of Napoleon, what would you do with it?"
"Dame! one is not so naïve as to offer the crown of Napoleon for sale. I would demand a ransom."
"But if you preferred the document on the mobilization of the army to the crown of Napoleon?"
Pichon reflected. "I would make a copy, and I would return the original before its loss was discovered."
"Doubtless that has already occurred to you."
"Certainly, certainly," said Pichon, in an offhand manner.
M. Joly took out his watch.
"Heavens!" he cried, "five o'clock—I must be off." And, rapping on the table, he called for the score.
"You approve of what I have done?"
"How can you ask such a question?" said M. Joly playfully. "Have times changed so that nowadays one asks for approval before one has succeeded?"
"Even afterward one is not sure of it," grumbled Pichon. And, the score being settled, they passed out into the street.
"To whom is this affair known?" asked M. Joly as they neared the corner.
"Except to those I have mentioned, to no one—General Texier, the prefect, myself, and you."
"And Monsieur Bulow."
"Not at all. When Colonel de Wimpffen went to Bourg-la-Reine he said to him: 'I am going into the country—I give you a holiday. On my return I will send for you.' Consequently he knows nothing."
An omnibus drawn by three white horses was approaching.
"Pichon," said M. Joly, "you almost make me regret that there are such things as legacies—what you tell me is so interesting. I am dying to hear what Madame de Wimpffen will do when she finds—" His words were lost in the rumble of the wheels.
Pichon, on tiptoe, shouted in his ear, "If you will come to-morrow, at this hour—"
"That was what I was about to propose to you. Good-night, Pichon. Good luck to you."
After all, thought Pichon, gazing after the retreating omnibus, he did not tell me why he came to the prefecture.
Retracing his steps, he went over in his mind the conversation in the Café de l'Ésperance. M. Joly was certainly right. One's first endeavor would be to replace the paper before its absence was discovered. But Colonel de Wimpffen was still at Bourg-la-Reine and had intended to remain there. Clearly he had had no opportunity, nor was he in any haste, to put back the stolen document. This thought troubled Pichon, for it threatened his theory. What if the document was already back in its place! He rejected this idea as preposterous. A general of the staff! The alternative was inconceivable. Yet this idea, having once found a lodgment in his brain, returned with a disquieting persistence.
Meanwhile M. Joly, descending from the omnibus at Place de la Concorde, was following Boulevard Saint-Germain to the Ministry of War. He passed in unnoticed, but at the head of the stairs an usher asked what he wanted.
"The room of Colonel de Wimpffen."
"Colonel de Wimpffen is in the country."
"I did not ask for Colonel de Wimpffen. I asked for his room," replied M. Joly blandly.
"Since Colonel de Wimpffen is not in town, naturally his room is closed."
"Very well, then, I will see General Texier."
The usher eyed him superciliously.
"Your card, if you please. It is the order."
"My card? I have none. Say to him that I come from the prefecture."
"It makes no difference where you come from," said the usher, losing patience; "to see General Texier a card is necessary."
"I have something better," smiled M. Joly, "but since a card is necessary I will make one."
He tore a leaf from his notebook, wrote his name in pencil, and while waiting in the corridor remarked to himself, "It seems that in the Ministry of War it is easier to penetrate a safe than to penetrate to a general."
When, fifteen minutes later, he emerged from General Texier's office, he was accompanied by a secretary.
"You will take your instructions," said the latter, calling the usher and indicating M. Joly, "from this gentleman. Monsieur, here are the keys."
"The room of Colonel de Wimpffen, if you please," repeated M. Joly politely, slipping the bunch of keys into his pocket.
Reaching at last the door, he took out his watch. "At what hour does the Ministry close?" he asked.
"At six o'clock, monsieur."
"It is now twenty minutes of six. For carrying out your orders so faithfully I present you with these twenty minutes." Saying which he unlocked the door and went in.
He first relocked the door and removed the key; then he looked about him. Midway along the side wall stood a mahogany desk, behind which hung portières. Behind these portières he expected to find a door, but on drawing them aside he perceived an arch, within whose recess appeared the partition wall. Evidently, he thought, this room once formed part of a larger one which in the interests of economy has been divided. Opposite the desk was a door on either side of which were shelves filled with books and pasteboard pockets. Pushing a chair in front of this door, he sat down and took out the bunch of keys. After one or two trials this door opened, disclosing a safe let into the wall. Without hesitation he took hold of the dial, turned it successively to the right and left, till the massive front door swung on its hinges. Between the pigeon-holes another smaller door confronted him. Selecting once more a key, he surmounted this last barrier, and, thrusting in his hand, pulled out a heavy blue envelope sealed with three seals bearing the words "Ministère de la Guerre." On the face of the envelope was the word "Mobilisation."
At this instant a quick step resounded in the corridor. Replacing the envelope, he closed the safe and stood up, listening. Some one was about to enter. He had barely reached the portières when the door was opened, shut, and locked again. Motionless, holding his breath, he waited. A few steps—then silence. He parted the curtains gently—and saw the back of Pichon!
Seated in the chair before the safe, Pichon was repeating one by one the maneuvers of his predecessor. Finally he, too, thrust his hand into the inner vault and pulled out the blue envelope
"Thunder of heaven!" he exclaimed, "I have made the wrong subtraction."
After astonishment came reflection. Firmly wedded to his theory, he found himself forced to suspect one so high in the hierarchy that his spirit of subordination revolted. To impart this suspicion to any one seemed to him impossible. Yet in his own mind it took the form of a conviction. Closing the safe mechanically, he left the room.
Shortly after six o'clock M. Joly had finished his investigation. The hall was filled with employees hurrying homeward. The expression on his face indicated that some problem more difficult than Pichon's subtraction was troubling him. "But why," he muttered, "if he is deaf—" Mingling with the throng, he descended the stairs slowly. At the entrance he accosted the porter.
"Monsieur," he asked, "this Bulow, the deaf clerk of Monsieur de Wimpffen—"
"Bulow?" replied the porter; "he is no more deaf than I am."
"But why, then, since he is not deaf—"
The porter thought he had to do with a crazy man.
"Nom de Dieu!" he retorted angrily, "go about your business. If you want a deaf man you will find a number of them in the Asylum on Rue Saint-Jacques—we do not keep them in the Ministry."
"Thank you," said M. Joly; "I have been misinformed."
At the corner of the street he found a commissionaire, and, tearing a second leaf from his note-book, sent the following message to Monrepos:—
"I am detained in Paris for the night. Say to Dorante that she may read on as far as the battle at Vouillé, where Clovis defeated the Visigoths under Alaric II."
Then, hailing a cab, he gave the direction, "Rue Monge."
"What number?" asked the driver.
"Any number which pleases you," replied M. Joly.
As he anticipated, the cab drew up at No. 1. He paid the fare and continued on foot. Just before reaching No. 176 he saw on the opposite side of the street a café. The sky had cleared and the tables on the sidewalk were already crowded. At one of these tables a man was seated before a tall glass of black coffee. Seeing M. Joly approaching, this man rose with a gesture of surprise.
"Do not disturb yourself, Meneval," said M. Joly, taking the vacant chair at the same table. "We are in the same business."
"You are one of us again, Monsieur Joly?" asked Meneval respectfully.
"You used to take orders from me without asking questions, Meneval. Are you alone?"
"Yes, I am alone."
"Well, go and tell Pichon I wish to speak with him; and in order that your conscience may not suffer, I permit you to read this."
M. Joly took from his pocket the paper given him by the prefect.
"It is not necessary," replied Meneval, recognizing the prefect's signature. "I am going."
"But first tell me," said M. Joly, deliberately tearing the paper into small pieces, "what manner of man this Bulow is."
Meneval described him. "There is a light in his window now, the third above the thread-shop."
"Good. Tell Pichon to bring with him what is necessary. You have your pistol? Slip it into my pocket, Meneval. You will take a cab." Saying which M. Joly ordered another sirop and the "Figaro."
The light was still burning in the third-story window when Pichon arrived with two agents. His face still wore the expression of surprise and anxiety with which he had received the message delivered by Meneval.
"Sit down, Pichon," said M. Joly in his quietest manner. "Tell me, did you notice anything in particular this afternoon when you opened the safe at the Ministry?"
Pichon's small eyes opened to their widest capacity.
"You know, then,—"
"What I know is not the question. In fact, as yet I know nothing. So you did not notice anything?"
Pichon shook his head blankly.
"Nevertheless," said M. Joly, "it is worth thinking of. If agreeable to you we will consult Monsieur Bulow. Will you accompany me?"
Pichon followed him across the street into the doorway of No. 176 without a word.
"Pichon," said M. Joly at the foot of the stairs, "you remember that you said to me, 'I am in a fix.' It is therefore at your request that I interfere in your affairs. But if you wish—will you go first?"
"After you, master," said Pichon.
At the door on the third landing M. Joly knocked gently. A moment of silence intervened, then a voice said: "Come in."
M. Joly took off his hat.
"Have I the pleasure of addressing Monsieur Bulow?" he asked.
"That is my name. What do you want of me?"
"I?" replied M. Joly—"I want nothing. I come on behalf of my friend here, Monsieur Pichon. It is he who wishes to consult you on a matter of importance."
Pichon glanced at his friend appealingly.
"Be seated, gentlemen," said M. Bulow.
"You are very good to receive a stranger so affably," replied M. Joly. "The truth is my position is a delicate one. Monsieur Pichon is afflicted with an insatiable curiosity. He wishes to know why a man who is not deaf provides himself with one of those instruments called audiphones—or, if he be deaf, why he leaves it at the Ministry instead of carrying it on his person. Keep your seat, Monsieur Bulow," continued M. Joly, taking the pistol from his pocket and laying it on his knee. "I understand your feelings—do not move, please. I admit the question is an impertinent one. I admit even that I have no authority to ask impertinent questions of any one. For that reason, as you perceive,—" His hand closed over the handle on his knee.
Suddenly regaining his composure, the man burst into a boisterous laugh of affected gayety.
"What joke is this you are perpetrating?" he exclaimed.
"Monsieur Bulow," said M. Joly, "it is plain that you are saying to yourself that the blue envelope, with its seals affixed, is reposing safely in the vault at the Ministry. But there are cases in which a copy is of more value than the original—quick! Pichon!"
Of all this conversation Pichon understood nothing. But if his brain moved sluggishly his hands deserved no such reproach. He had seen the crisis approaching and was ready, ending the brief struggle by transferring the handcuffs in his pocket to the wrists of his assailant.
M. Joly went to the window and made a sign. The two agents appeared, breathless.
"One of you call a cab," said M. Joly, "and you, Pichon, go down with Meneval and Monsieur Bulow."
When, at the end of a few minutes, Pichon returned, he found M. Joly also ready to leave. "This fellow," he was saying, "is a simpleton. Here is the stamp whose impression you doubtless observed on the three wax seals, and here under this portfolio is the copy. I give them to you, Pichon."
"But I understand nothing," cried Pichon.
"Pichon," said M. Joly, "I once read in a book—one of those books in which we are held up to ridicule—of a man with an ear so acute that he could hear the tumblers of a lock fall into their places. I did not believe it. I do not believe it yet. Nevertheless, given a lock of a certain age and an audiphone—do you know what an audiphone is, Pichon? You will find one under the loose papers of the third drawer in Monsieur Bulow's desk at the Ministry—given these things, and it is possible."
"I am disgraced," cried Pichon.
"You disgraced, my friend! Why do you say so?"
"I have left that damned pencil in the lingerie of Madame de Wimpffen."
"Oh, as to that," replied M. Joly, "be tranquil Here is your pencil, Pichon."
On reaching Monrepos late that evening M. Joly said to his wife:—
"Marie, I have to make a confession. Passing this afternoon before the prefecture, I was like a boy at the door of the pastry-cook, and I went in."
"I know it," she said.
"You know it!" exclaimed M. Joly in astonishment.
"Do you think I have observed nothing all these weeks?" said Madame Joly, smiling.
M. Joly made no reply. After all, Paradise also had its attractions.