Papa Bouchard

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Chapter II

MONSIEUR BOUCHARD waked next morning with a delicious sense of youth and irresponsibility. There was no one to demand an account of him for anything. As for Pierre, Monsieur Bouchard determined to treat his vagaries in a jocular manner—it was simply the honest fellow’s way of showing joy at his emancipation. And when Pierre appeared, to shave his master, both of them wore a cheerful air. It was their 14th of July.

Pierre, at the same time he brought the hot water, brought Monsieur Bouchard’s letters. What a comfort to read them without having to give an explanation of every one to Mademoiselle Céleste! Monsieur Bouchard actually enjoyed receiving his tailor’s bill for the half-year under those circumstances. As for Pierre, he went about whistling like a whole flock of blackbirds, and Monsieur Bouchard had not the heart or the inclination to stop him. The only fly in Monsieur Bouchard’s ointment was the unpleasant reflection that Madame Vernet still had the paste necklace, but he felt sure that she had discovered her inadvertence of the night before, and would return the thing during the day.

“I suppose,” said Pierre, who seemed to have quite taken the direction of Monsieur Bouchard’s affairs, “that Monsieur will be looking after the bills of Captain and Madame de Meneval to-day.”

“I certainly shall,” replied Monsieur Bouchard.

“And, Monsieur, you will find it necessary to go out to the Pigeon House at Melun to settle up Monsieur le Capitaine’s account without Madame finding it out?”

“I suppose so,” answered Monsieur Bouchard. “It is a nuisance; I never was at Melun in my life.”

“But that’s no reason why Monsieur never should go to Melun; and I’ve been told that the Pigeon House is a very gay place, with excellent wine. Suppose Monsieur makes an evening of it out there?”

“Pierre,” said Monsieur Bouchard, wheeling around on him, “are you trying to get me into all sorts of indiscretions in order to report me to the Rue Clarisse?”

“Lord, no, sir!” replied Pierre, with much readiness. “I am going to the Moulin Rouge myself to-night, and I’m sure if my wife knew it she would take not only my hair, but my scalp with it, off my head. The Moulin Rouge is a harmless enough place, but that’s what’s been the matter with our bringing up, Monsieur—we weren’t allowed to go to harmless places even. For my part, I mean to have my fling, even if my wife does find it out, and disciplines me. But there’s no reason for either one of us being found out if we’ll only agree to stand by each other.”

This was very satisfactory; in fact, everything seemed to be coming Monsieur Bouchard’s way except—the paste necklace. The thought of that, like the ghost at Lady Macbeth’s tea party, would not down. Monsieur Bouchard waited and lingered and dallied over his breakfast, and yet no parcel came from Madame Vernet. He did not care to remain at home all day waiting for it; no doubt it would come. It occurred to him that the best plan was to take Pierre completely into his confidence. It was true the rascal knew something of what had happened the night before, but Monsieur Bouchard felt it necessary, in Pierre’s new rôle of trusty henchman and prime minister, to confide all the particulars to him. However, this must be done in a manner consistent with the relations of master and man. So, when Pierre was handing him his coat, hat and gloves, preparatory to going out, Monsieur Bouchard remarked, quite casually, as if Pierre knew nothing of the happenings of the night before:

“By the way, I am expecting a little parcel to be sent me by Madame Vernet, the lady on the next floor, a very pretty little woman—a widow——”

“Trust Monsieur for finding out all the pretty little widows between here and the Rue Clarisse,” replied Pierre, with the impudent grin that had scarce left his face since he established himself in the Rue Bassano.

Now, this remark was not only grossly familiar but grotesquely untrue, so Monsieur Bouchard frowned and said, sternly:

“You forget yourself.”

“And all the pretty little widows will have an eye on Monsieur,” replied this unabashed reprobate of a Pierre.

At this Monsieur Bouchard wished to frown, but could not. Instead, his mouth came open in a pleased grin.

“Well, well, that may or may not be true. At all events, last night Madame Vernet, by the merest accident, came into this apartment, mistaking it for her own.” Monsieur Bouchard paused. It was rather a difficult story to tell.

“By accident, did you say, Monsieur?”

“Altogether by accident. A paste necklace belonging to Madame de Meneval was lying on my table, and Madame Vernet inadvertently carried it off. She will no doubt return it this morning. Take care of it when it comes.”

“I will, sir, if it comes. But Monsieur will pardon me if I say I don’t expect it to come—that is, if I know anything about women.”

“But you don’t know anything about women,” curtly replied Monsieur Bouchard. Pierre was getting quite beside himself.

“True, Monsieur. I have been married thirty years. That is enough to convince the toughest sceptic who ever lived that he doesn’t know anything about women. But, all the same, Madame Vernet isn’t going to send that necklace back.”

Monsieur Bouchard turned pale and took an agitated turn about the room.

“Did Monsieur buy the paste necklace for—for—Mademoiselle Bouchard?” asked Pierre.

“No, you idiot! Didn’t I tell you it belongs to Madame de Meneval—no—to Captain de Meneval—oh, the devil!”

Such expletives as this had been strictly forbidden in the Rue Clarisse, and in spite of his annoyance Monsieur Bouchard felt a sense of pleasure in being able to call on the devil in a casual and informal manner.

“I understand, Monsieur,” replied Pierre, with the wink that, like the grin, appeared to have become constitutional with him since his advent in the Rue Bassano. “The accidental Madame Vernet appears to have become accidentally possessed of a paste necklace that is not hers. Accidents will happen; but one accident that I am sure will not occur is the return of the necklace.”

“Damnation!” roared Monsieur Bouchard. He felt a delicious relish in saying this profane word. It was the first time in his life he had ever used it.

“Very well, Monsieur. Damnation or no damnation, I will keep the necklace for you—if I get it.”

Monsieur Bouchard dashed down the stairs faster than he had ever done in his life before. But on reaching the street and adopting a decorous pace, he thought, “Of course it’s nonsense to suppose that she won’t return it. The fact is, I have got to discipline that Pierre. He has altogether forgotten himself, and I shall have to teach him a few lessons.”

Meanwhile, in the gay little apartment in the Avenue de l’Impératrice, where the de Meneval ménage was situated, the necklace had become a haunting ghost as well as in the Rue Bassano.

As Léontine and her husband sat opposite each other at breakfast in the pretty little salle à manger, each felt like a criminal. It was a very pretty little salle à manger—just the sort of room for a young couple with a modest income, yet sufficient to live on. But there is not a young couple in existence who, knowing that their income is cut exactly in half while the other half is saved up for them, would be satisfied with their moiety. This, however, was bliss compared to the prospect of that dreary little cottage in the country to which Papa Bouchard had condemned them—or rather, to which they had condemned each other—for each thought secretly that but for those unlucky debts and the diamond necklace, Papa Bouchard would never have been so hard on them. The most painful part of it was, however, the necessity of concealment each felt toward the other. They had, up to this time, lived their married life with the perfect frankness of two devoted young persons who love and confide in each other—and this was what it had come to—bitterly thought de Meneval, who truly loved his pretty little wife—her diamonds practically put in pawn by him with that old curmudgeon, who had got thereby just the opportunity he wanted to exile them from Paris. All these thoughts chased through his mind as he looked at Léontine with a new and unpleasant conviction that he was a villain.

Léontine, for her part, felt a horrid heart-sickness when she remembered the paste necklace quietly reposing in the strong-box in her dressing-room, while Victor’s wedding gift was in Papa Bouchard’s strong-box in the Rue Bassano. And that dull little house in the country! It was she who had brought all this on Victor, and the thought filled her heart with remorseful tenderness toward her husband. She addressed him by the fondest names as she poured his coffee for him.

“And you have to go to that tiresome Melun to-day, to be away from me two whole days?”

“Yes,” replied de Meneval. “How I wish you could go with me! I have often been sorry I gave up my quarters to accommodate Lefebvre, with his wife and four children to support on her dot and his captain’s pay. I didn’t mind living en garçon until I had a wife of my own.”

It was quite true that de Meneval, out of generosity, had given up the best part of his quarters to his brother officer, and had not the heart to ask for them again, especially as he was generally supposed to be in the enjoyment of a large income.

“Don’t say you are sorry, Victor. For my part, charming as it would be to stay at Melun with you, I am glad you can help the poor Lefebvres. We know what it is to want money, don’t we?”

“Indeed we do.”

“And our case is the harder that no one will believe we haven’t the use of our money.”

Léontine, who was delicate-minded, always called her money “our money,” and de Meneval deeply and affectionately appreciated this.

“And it will be duller than ever at that odious little cottage in the suburbs of Melun.”

“Oh, yes. Léontine, I am afraid it is I who have brought this on you.”

“No, no, no—it is I, or rather Papa Bouchard’s old-fashioned, stingy ideas. He has no notion of what a modern way of living costs.”

“But he will find out in the Rue Bassano, if I’m not mistaken,” said de Meneval, laughing suddenly.

Then there was a long pause, broken by Léontine’s throwing down her napkin and crying out:

“I have an inspiration! We are so dull and disheartened to-day that nothing but a supper at the Pigeon House will cheer us up. You will take me there to-night. Remember, you promised me.”

“Did I?” asked poor de Meneval. He was, in truth, afraid to show his face at the Pigeon House lest the head waiter should quietly tap him on the shoulder and ask him to step up to the bureau and pay the whole of the nineteen hundred francs. And what would become of that story he had told Léontine about never having set foot in the Pigeon House since his marriage? Only the week before, there had been a little supper—de Meneval’s recollection of it was rather cloudy—but he thought he remembered something about going to sleep on a bench, and waking up and finding an umbrella in his sword-belt instead of his sword. This scheme of Léontine’s was most unlucky.

“And I must and will go this very evening!” cried Léontine, jumping up and running around to her husband’s chair, where she proceeded to perch herself on the arm. “I know exactly how it can be done. I will take the eight o’clock train. You will meet me at the station. We will go to the Pigeon House, where you will secure a table in that charming terrace garden you have told me so much about. We will have a jolly little supper—and I’ll pay for the champagne. No—no!” putting her hands over de Meneval’s mouth. “And it will be such fun to watch the queer people passing in and out of the music hall!”

“Some of them,” said de Meneval, with the hope of frightening Léontine, “are very queer indeed.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You have often told me about the singers and dancers coming out there in their theatre clothes, and that’s just what I want to see. And as for any impropriety—haven’t I often heard you say that every one of those hard-working ballet girls is supporting her bedridden parents, or crippled husband, or something of the sort?”

“I did say that many of them are honest and hard-working.”

“I am sure of it! The mere fact that they work is enough. You know I have been studying sociology of late, and I know something about the working people.” Léontine, as she said this, had an uncomfortable twinge when she remembered Putzki and Louise.

Now, if anything in the world was calculated to make the bright June morning blacker than it was already to de Meneval, it was this sudden freak of Léontine’s to go out to the Pigeon House to supper. He fidgeted in his chair, and hummed and ha’d, but Léontine prattled on, talking about the amusement she should have.

“And I shall at last meet Major Fallière! I am so anxious to know him, the dear old thing!”

“Fallière won’t be at Melun to-night. He goes to Châlons on special duty to-day,” cried de Meneval, seeing a gleam of hope. “Why not wait until he comes back—some time next week?”

“Oh, it is quite useless waiting for an officer. He may be snatched up at any time and packed off to the ends of the earth. And go to the Pigeon House to-night I shall, I will, I must—” she punctuated this sentence by giving de Meneval three charming kisses—“and if it’s very improper, so much the better! I shall go to the Rue Clarisse and tell Aunt Céleste you forced me to go against my will, and so escape a scolding.”

“That’s all very well,” replied poor de Meneval, “but how will you get back to-night? I can’t leave—and I don’t know of anyone returning to Paris.”

“Don’t bother your head about that. You will put me on the train at Melun—my maid will meet me at the St. Lazare station. What could be simpler? No, no, no! I shall sup with you to-night at the Pigeon House, so be sure and meet me at the station at half-past eight o’clock—you have just time to make your train.” And she flew into his room, brought out his helmet and sword—for he was in uniform, being ready to report for duty—and kissing him affectionately, pushed him out of the door. De Meneval ran down the stairs and, jumping into a cab, drove rapidly off. He waved his hand to Léontine, watching him from the balcony.

Deceits and concealments were a new burden for Léontine to carry, and she spent a wretched day. Do what she would, she saw her diamond necklace at every turn. It haunted her as the dagger haunted the Scotch lady in the play. Still woebegone, she determined to go to see Aunt Céleste in the Rue Clarisse. What a dismal old street it was, anyhow! Dark and dull and utterly without life—no wonder Papa Bouchard had tired of it and had levanted into a gayer precinct. When she was ushered into Mademoiselle Bouchard’s dingy little drawing-room she found that good woman, Aunt Céleste, seated with one eye on her embroidery and the other on Élise, who was polishing up the already shining furniture. Aunt Céleste’s usually placid face was troubled, but it lighted up when she saw Léontine running in. Aunt Céleste was genuinely fond of the girl, albeit she was in chronic spasms over Léontine’s modern, and to poor Mademoiselle Céleste’s notion, outlandish ideas. Still, they really loved each other, and kissed affectionately.

“Well, Aunt Céleste, how do you stand Papa Bouchard’s absence?” asked Léontine, jokingly, but not unkindly.

Mademoiselle Bouchard wagged her head disconsolately. “It is not how I stand it. It is how he, poor, dear boy, stands it. Who will look after his dinner and see that he has simple and wholesome food? Who will look to his flannels? Who will see that he lays aside his books at ten o’clock and goes to bed, as he has always been accustomed?”

“It seems to me, Aunt Céleste, that as Papa Bouchard is fifty-four years of age he ought to know something about taking care of himself.”

“But he doesn’t. However, I have given him Pierre. I have the greatest confidence in Pierre. In thirty years I have never known him to be guilty of an indiscretion. He was very unwilling to go, poor fellow. He is truly attached to the quiet and decorum of the Rue Clarisse, and objected very much to the noise and bustle of the Rue Bassano, with so many theatres about and people turning night into day. I almost had to force him to go—but I did it on my poor, dear brother’s account. Pierre is to come to see me every day to tell me just how the dear boy has passed his time.”

Léontine sincerely hoped that Pierre would not think it necessary to mention her visit to Papa Bouchard the night before.

“And I have had another sorrow,” continued poor Mademoiselle Bouchard. “My parrot—Pierrot—that I have had for seventeen years, and taught so many moral and useful aphorisms—he, too, has deserted me.”

“All three of them vanished—like this—pouf!” Élise put in, with the freedom of an old servant. “Monsieur Bouchard, that good-for-nothing husband of mine and Pierrot—and all bent on mischief—that I’ll swear to!”

Mademoiselle Bouchard proceeded to read Élise a lecture on the duties of the married state, among the first of which was the obligation of the wife to believe everything her husband tells her, at which Élise laughed grimly.

“Mademoiselle is joking, ha, ha!”

Although Mademoiselle Bouchard led so retired a life, she liked well enough to know what was going on in the outside world, if only to be shocked at it. So, when Léontine told her about the proposed supper at the Pigeon House that evening, Mademoiselle Bouchard was duly horrified, terrified and mortified, but she did not forget to charge Léontine to come and tell her all the dreadful things she saw at that unconventional place.

Léontine, after spending the morning in the Rue Clarisse, returned to her own apartment in the Avenue de l’Impératrice. She was so dispirited at the contemplation of her own faults and Victor’s supposed Spartan virtue that she had no heart to take her usual afternoon automobile excursion in the Bois de Boulogne—the automobile being one of the few indulgences she had been able to screw out of Papa Bouchard. She remained at home, therefore, until it was time to take the eight o’clock train for Melun. Then, taking her maid to the St. Lazare station, and directing her to be there when the eleven o’clock train from Melun returned, Léontine stepped into a first-class compartment, and was soon speeding toward Melun.

She wore a beautiful evening costume concealed by a long silk cloak, and a charming hat was perched on her dainty head. The thought in her tender little heart was of the pleasure her society would give her dear Victor.

But her dear Victor had spent the day in a manner not unlike her own. He had interviewed the proprietor of the Pigeon House and had paid half the bill. The transaction had involved the mortifying admission that before the balance was handed over Monsieur Bouchard would be out there himself to look into the matter, as if Captain de Meneval were a naughty schoolboy. The proprietor of the Pigeon House had scoffed heartlessly at this, and de Meneval had difficulty in keeping from knocking him down for his impudence. Then—Léontine’s visit! What impish microbe had lodged in her head, inducing her to come out there? He knew her to be keen of wit, and it would be difficult to disguise from her his familiarity with the place. He might, it is true, say he knew little or nothing about it, but the waiters, especially one François, who knew his taste in wines and cigars, fish and entrées and hors d’œuvres to a dot, would be sure to betray him. And then, the diamond necklace lay heavy on his heart and danced up and down before his eyes, for Victor de Meneval really loved his charming young wife, and argued to himself that if that stingy old hunks of a Papa Bouchard had not held him so tight the present predicament would not have existed.

However, time waits for no man; and when the eight o’clock train from Paris was due Captain de Meneval was at the little station waiting for it. And when it rolled in Léontine sprang gracefully out of her compartment.

As in the morning, each felt remorseful and penitent toward the other and tried to make up for the wrong that each had secretly done the other by renewed demonstrations of affection. When de Meneval escorted his charming wife across the street to the Pigeon House, which was only a step away, he paid her the prettiest and most lover-like compliments imaginable. Léontine responded with the sweetest smiles and the tenderest words; so that by the time they reached the terrace garden through a covered hedge next the Pigeon House itself, each felt like a thief and a murderer.

Léontine exclaimed with delight at the beauty of the terrace garden. It was indeed a pretty and cheerful place. It looked down straight into a little valley where the river meandered. An iron railing and a stone coping defined the terrace. Trees and shrubbery, pretty flower beds and a rustic arbor were lighted by incandescent lamps that gleamed softly in the purple glow of evening. The windows of the Pigeon House gave directly on the terrace, and already the glittering lights and the sounds of the orchestra showed that the performance was beginning. There were only a few persons scattered about, and the waiters were collected in groups, whispering, while waiting for customers. One, however—the identical François, whom de Meneval wished to avoid—ran forward and showed them a pleasant table. He was in the act of saying, “What will Monsieur le Capitaine have?” when de Meneval, looking him straight in the face, though addressing Léontine, said:

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen this place—not since our marriage, in fact—that I hardly know what it is like.”

“Oho!” thought François, “that is your game, is it? Very well, Monsieur, I will help you out with it—for a consideration.” Then, extending his hand for de Meneval’s hat, he gave a slight but significant twitch of his fingers and palm, to which a ten-franc piece was the agreeable response. “Since Monsieur is evidently not familiar with this place,” said the wily François, “perhaps he will allow me to recommend our white soup, to begin with.”

“Thank you,” replied de Meneval; “and can you also recommend this turbot on the menu?”

“Yes, Monsieur. If you had ever tasted our turbot you would never look at turbot outside of the Pigeon House.”

“By the way, what is your name?”

“François, if you please.”

François remembered perfectly, that little supper at the Pigeon House the week before, when Captain de Meneval had not only forgotten François’s name but his own as well, and so had several other very jolly officers. But François, though but a waiter, had the soul of a gentleman, and was nobly oblivious of ever having set eyes on Captain de Meneval before.

“Now, Victor,” said Léontine, who had been studying the wine list, “as I invited myself here to-night, I intend to be part host. I claim the right of providing the wine and cigars. They shall be of the best, as the best of husbands deserves.” Then, turning to François, she said: “Your best Chambertin with the soup, and a bottle of this 1840 Bordeaux, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Also, for Monsieur le Capitaine some of your Reina Regente cigars.” Léontine returned to her study of the wine list and de Meneval and François exchanged sympathetic grins. François vanished after having received a very expensive order.

Left to themselves, Léontine and Victor began to condole with each other on the prospect of their rustication.

“It is not for myself I grieve,” declared Léontine, “it is for you, poor darling.”

“Never mind me,” protested de Meneval. “If only you were not condemned to that infernal little cottage! Well, we shall have one good dinner, anyhow, before we begin doing time, as it were.”

And as they were exchanging their lugubrious confidences, a shriek of hoarse laughter resounded near them, and there on the arbor hung a cage with a parrot in it which Léontine immediately recognized as Pierrot. With gurgles of laughter Léontine told Victor of her visit to the Rue Clarisse that morning and the flight of Pierrot, along with that of Papa Bouchard and Pierre.

“And I shall go to-morrow morning and tell Aunt Céleste that I have seen her dear Pierrot.”

“It will be cruelty to animals to take the poor devil back to the Rue Clarisse,” replied de Meneval.

François then returned with the soup and fish, both of which were excellent. De Meneval made a point of calling François “Louis” or “Adolphe” occasionally, and François never failed to respectfully correct him.

Meanwhile, sweet sounds of the orchestra and of singing floated out from the open windows of the Pigeon House. More people strolled on the terrace, including many officers of the garrison; and when the intermission came, a flock of girls, each escorted by a young man, generally an officer, came out, laughing and chattering, and took their places at the little tables. Some had only a glass of lemonade or wine, others had time for a pâté or some trifle of the kind. It was very pretty and picturesque, and Léontine, never having seen anything of the kind, was delighted.

De Meneval was in agony lest some of his friends among the ladies should recognize him, but they, being mostly decent and self-respecting women, though of a humble class, with true French politeness did not intrude themselves on his notice in any way. Nor was he anxious to begin a conversation with any of his brother officers, and carefully avoided noticing them beyond a bow, although many of them would have been glad of an introduction to his pretty young wife.

The dinner was outwardly very jolly, but the demon of remorse was at work within the breasts of both Victor and Léontine. Nevertheless, it did not affect their appetites, and François found he had a good deal to do. At last, however, coffee was served, and just as Léontine put down her cup a scream from the parrot resounded.

“Ah, there you are, Papa Bouchard! Up to mischief, eh, Papa Bouchard! Bad boy Bouchard!”

Now these were some of the phrases that Léontine herself, during her sojourn in the Rue Clarisse, had taught the parrot, much to her own and Papa Bouchard’s amusement. The wicked bird remembered them most inopportunely, for there was Papa himself strolling into the garden.

“Good heavens!” cried de Meneval. “We can’t afford to let Papa Bouchard see us out here. We should be sent into retirement to-morrow morning!” And obeying a mutual impulse, these two graceless creatures flew round the corner of the arbor, where they could see without being seen.

Monsieur Bouchard entered with an air of affected jauntiness which went very well with the extreme youthfulness of his attire. Apparently he had thrown all his old clothes to the winds, along with his discretion, when he decamped from the Rue Clarisse. He wore an extremely youthful suit of light gray, with a flaming necktie, a collar that nearly cut his ears off, and a watch chain that would have answered either for a watch or a dog. A huge red rose decorated his lapel, and his scanty hair, when he removed his hat, showed marks of the curling-iron.

At the first shriek from the parrot Papa Bouchard started apprehensively. The waiters—a shrewd and vexatious lot, who never fail to notice all the slips of elderly gentlemen—immediately jumped to the right conclusion, that the elderly gentleman in youthful attire was an old acquaintance of the newly acquired parrot. Monsieur Bouchard felt, rather than saw, a simultaneous snicker go round, and rightly concluding that the best thing to do was to ignore the wicked Pierrot, walked away from the arbor, and seating himself at a table some distance away, pulled out of his pocket the Journal des Débats and read it diligently. The parrot, however, delighted to find an old acquaintance among so many new faces, continued to call out, at intervals, various remarks to Papa Bouchard, such as “Does the old lady know you’re out?” “Oh, you are a gay bird, Papa Bouchard!” and always winding up, like a Greek chorus, with “Bad boy Bouchard!”

Presently a waiter approached and asked Monsieur Bouchard politely what he wished to be served with, and before he could ask for his usual drink, a little sugared water, the diabolical Pierrot screeched out, “An American cocktail!” which the bird pronounced “cockee-tailee.” Papa Bouchard scowled. This was very annoying.

“A little sugared water, if you please,” he replied to the waiter, and the bird, on hearing it, burst into a screech of hoarse laughter.

Monsieur Bouchard laid down his newspaper and looked about him with curiosity not unmixed with gratification. Everything seemed extremely jolly—these places were undoubtedly pleasant, and he was not so much surprised as he had been at de Meneval’s fondness for it. At that very moment de Meneval and Léontine were watching him and counting the chances of slipping out without being caught. But Papa Bouchard, quite unconscious of this, was becoming more and more interested in what was going on before him and around him. “At these places, though,” he was thinking, “one should have a companion—a person of the other sex—someone to help one enjoy—it’s dreary trying to be happy alone.” And as if in answer to his thought, he saw, entering the garden in both haste and embarrassment, the charming Madame Vernet.

Now, a curious thing happened—a psychologic mystery. All day long Monsieur Bouchard had been haunted and troubled by the thought of Madame Vernet and the paste necklace. She had not returned it. So much he knew from his first look at Pierre’s countenance when he had got home that afternoon. But the minute he saw the lady herself, in his pleased flutter and twitter of enjoyment, the necklace vanished from his consciousness; he remembered only that she was pretty, she was young, she was demure and she was easily alarmed. In fact, Madame Vernet appeared to be scared half to death at this very instant, and as soon as she caught sight of Monsieur Bouchard she fled toward him like a frightened bird.

“Oh, Monsieur Bouchard!” she said, panting and agitated, “how relieved I am to find you here! I had an appointment to meet my uncle and aunt here—you remember I told you I had an uncle and aunt living at Melun whom I often visited—and not seeing them outside I took it for granted they were inside, and so came in. I felt terribly embarrassed—I am so diffident, you know—at entering such a place alone, but I expected every moment to see them, and when I did not I thought I should have fainted from sheer terror—you can’t imagine what a timid little thing I am—and then my eyes fell on you, and I said to myself: ‘There is that dear, good, handsome Monsieur Bouchard—he is the very man to take care of a poor, terrified woman’—and so I ran to you.” Madame Vernet dropped on a chair at Monsieur Bouchard’s table.

What man with a soul as big as the head of a pin could refuse succor to a pretty woman under these circumstances! Not Papa Bouchard.

“My dear Madame Vernet,” he said, “pray compose yourself. I will take care of you until your uncle and aunt arrive.”

Madame Vernet looked around apprehensively.

“I don’t see my uncle and aunt,” she murmured—which was perfectly true—“and I am afraid, very much afraid, Monsieur Bouchard, that your youthful appearance really unfits you for the office of chaperon.”

Oh, how happy was Papa Bouchard at that! With liberty seemed to have come youth—with youth should come champagne. Papa Bouchard called the waiter back and changed his order from a glass of sugared water to a quart of extra dry Veuve Clicquot.

“Now,” said he, playfully taking up Madame Vernet’s fan, “don’t worry your little head about your uncle and aunt. I’ll be your uncle and aunt for this evening. I’m sure I have been told by a number of persons—members of my own family—that the Pigeon House is a perfectly respectable place. So let us have a pleasant evening here, and I will take you back to Paris by the eleven o’clock train.”

“Oh, Monsieur Bouchard, there is nothing I should like better, but I am afraid——”

“Don’t, don’t be afraid. There isn’t the least chance of anyone I know turning up. I have a young jackanapes of a family connection stationed here—a young officer—but I think I have pretty effectually shut the door of the Pigeon House in his face.”

At that very moment this young jackanapes of an officer was watching and listening to Papa Bouchard with the most entrancing delight. So was Léontine, who could not refrain from pinching de Meneval in her ecstasy. The enjoyment of these two young scapegraces was enhanced at this very moment by the parrot screaming out:

“Oh, naughty old Bouchard! I’ll tell the old lady! Bad boy Bouchard!”

Madame Vernet started and looked inquiringly at the bird. Papa Bouchard was seriously vexed.

“Pray,” he said, in an annoyed voice, “don’t pay any attention to that ridiculous bird. I always thought parrots were the incarnation of the devil. I can’t imagine how the creature found out my name. At all events,” he added, tenderly, “neither bird nor devil, neither man nor woman, nor even your aunt and uncle, can spoil the evening for us.”

“I don’t think my aunt and uncle can be coming,” replied Madame Vernet. And she spoke the truth.

“So much the better,” whispered Papa Bouchard.

The waiter, the same astute François who had waited on de Meneval and Léontine, now appeared with the champagne. Monsieur Bouchard had not thought of ordering anything to eat, but when this artful François said to him, “Did Monsieur ask for a menu card?” Monsieur Bouchard replied, promptly, “Certainly I did.”

The menu was brought, and Monsieur Bouchard, with his head close to Madame Vernet’s, studied it attentively. His order as finally made out would have caused an earthquake in the Rue Clarisse. He ordered everything that had been strictly forbidden during the last thirty years. The order bore, too, a really remarkable resemblance to the one given by the de Menevals, except that those happy-go-lucky young people had not the money to pay for it, and Monsieur Bouchard had.

Never in all his life had Papa Bouchard enjoyed a supper as much as that one. He was at perfect liberty to eat and drink all the things that were certain to make him feel ill the next day, a prerogative dear to a man’s heart. He had a charming woman opposite him, and a waiter who fairly overwhelmed him with attentions. Without an order from Monsieur Bouchard, François produced the wine appropriate to every course, and instead of being frowned on was rewarded for it. But in spite of white wines and red wines, Papa Bouchard stuck pretty close to the champagne, which speedily got into his tongue and his eyes as well as into his blood. It was the champagne that made him squeeze Madame Vernet’s hand under the table, wink at François and kiss his fingers to one of the young ladies of the ballet, who responded by playfully throwing a bouquet to him which hit him on the nose. In fact, his enjoyment would have been entirely without alloy but for Pierrot, who, slyly inspired by the waiters, kept up a running fire of remarks, always ending in a shrill laugh and a yell of “Bad boy Bouchard!”

If Pierrot bothered Papa Bouchard slightly, he added immensely to the suppressed gaiety of the two listeners, de Meneval and Léontine, and they went off into spasms of silent laughter whenever Pierrot screamed out any appropriate remark.

Papa Bouchard, however, got a good deal of solid enjoyment out of his supper in spite of his old friend of the Rue Clarisse, and Pierrot did not interfere in the least with Madame Vernet’s pleasure.

“The fact is,” said Monsieur Bouchard, confidentially, to Madame Vernet, after the third glass of champagne, “I wasn’t quite candid about that devilish bird.” Papa Bouchard used this wicked word with the greatest relish. “It belonged to my sister—older than I—who brought me up in the way I should go, and a deuced dull and uncomfortable way it was! A day or two ago, Pierrot—that’s the parrot’s name—got tired of the propriety and seclusion of the Rue Clarisse, where we have lived for thirty years, just as Pierre, my man-servant, did, and I myself. All at once, without any previous consultation, Pierre, Pierrot and I levanted, so to speak. Pierrot has evidently got caught—which is more than I intend to be—but I’m sure he finds the Pigeon House a great improvement on the Rue Clarisse, and I haven’t the heart to return him there. You don’t know how pleasant it is to be living in the Rue Bassano after thirty years in the Rue Clarisse. And to be my own man, instead of my sister’s—excellent woman she is, excellent, but she doesn’t understand what a young man of the present day—er—I mean a man with the feelings of youth, requires to make him happy. So that’s why I eloped.”

“It’s a great mistake not to give a man his head sometimes,” added Madame Vernet, with one of her gentle and winning smiles.

“Yes, yes, yes. You know how to manage a man, I see.”

“I manage a man!” cried Madame Vernet. “Pray don’t say that. The idea of my managing a great, strong man! No, indeed! All I should ask of a man is that he would manage me—and I’m sure, as yielding as I am, nothing would be easier.”

At which François, behind Monsieur Bouchard’s chair, doubled up with laughter, and Léontine had to fan de Meneval, who appeared to be choking in an agony of enjoyment, while Pierrot varied his performance by beginning to sing the song from the opera, “Ah, I have sighed to rest me!”

“Well,” continued Papa Bouchard, whose bonhomie increased with every sip of champagne, “I suppose I shall have to manage a woman some day, for, to be very confidential, my dear Madame Vernet, I am in an excellent position to marry, and after a while I think I shall not be satisfied with liberty. I shall want power, too—the power of controlling another destiny, another heart, another will besides my own; so I shall marry a wife.” Papa Bouchard said this with an air of the greatest determination, swelling out his waistcoat, and at the same moment the parrot shrieked out laughing, “Oh, what an old fool!”

“What’s that? What’s that?” cried Monsieur Bouchard, indignantly, turning to François. He was a little confused by the champagne and Madame Vernet’s bright eyes.

“If you please, Monsieur, it is that troublesome parrot. I shall tell the proprietor how very annoying the bird is—he has only just got it—and I am sure to-morrow morning it will be sent away.”

Monsieur Bouchard had to be satisfied with this. His enjoyment, however, was now too deep for Pierrot to ruffle except for a moment. Monsieur Bouchard was living—living cycles of time, and life was taking on a color, an exuberance, a melody that quite turned his otherwise excellent head. He was delighted with Madame Vernet’s exposition of her inability and indisposition to manage a man. “That’s the sort of wife I’ll have when I marry,” he thought to himself, taking another shy at the champagne. “None of your managing sort—I’ve been managed too much already, heaven knows.” And inspired by these pleasing reflections, he said, tenderly, to Madame Vernet, offering her his arm:

“Come, Madame, let us take a little stroll in search of your uncle and aunt. Do you see that sweet, retired little alley, all roses and myrtles and honeysuckles, with a lot of cooing pigeons nestling among them? Perhaps we may find your uncle and aunt amid the roses. And, Madame, I may say to you, I don’t want a managing wife, and I don’t know any man who does. I want a dependent creature—sturdy oak and clinging vine, you know—I want a clinger. And if she has already tried her hand on another man, so much the better. I get the benefit of her experience. The fact is, Madame, I was born to console—I’m a consoler of the first water. Now, pray take my arm and let us explore the wilderness of roses and myrtles.”

Madame Vernet hung her head, but Papa Bouchard insisted. When at last she rose she threw aside the graceful little wrap round her shoulders, and there, gleaming on her throat, was the paste necklace.

Monsieur Bouchard received a distinct and unpleasant shock as he recognized the troublesome object, and he was nowise relieved by Madame Vernet saying, in her softest and most insinuating manner:

“How charming it was of you to give me this lovely ornament!”

Monsieur Bouchard would have dropped Madame Vernet’s arm, but she held on to him. This was certainly a very disagreeable incident. He had not given her the necklace—he never dreamed of giving it to her—he had been very much annoyed at her failure to return it, and——

But what were Monsieur Bouchard’s feelings in comparison with those of Léontine and de Meneval, both of whom were watching every movement of Papa Bouchard and Madame Vernet? Their laughing faces changed like magic. They stood—Léontine and Victor—horror-stricken, and as if turned to stone, each pale, trembling, and afraid to meet the eye of the other. But as, after a minute or two of agonized surprise, they began to recover from the first shock of their discovery, they felt the necessity of concealing their feelings from each other, and at the same time not losing sight of the forty thousand franc necklace.

Léontine, womanlike, was the first to rally. She was quite pale—de Meneval was not sure whether she had recognized the necklace or not, and he was afraid to ask. Her voice trembled slightly as she said:

“I think I’ll go and speak to Papa Bouchard. It will be such—such fun to let him know we have been watching him all the time.”

Out of sheer stupidity, and being thoroughly disconcerted, de Meneval walked along with her toward Monsieur Bouchard and Madame Vernet. Léontine jumped to the conclusion that he suspected something. So she stopped short and said, in a voice that she vainly tried to make laughing and merry:

“Let me have Papa Bouchard to myself—it will be the more amusing if you appear later on.”

“Certainly,” replied de Meneval, and continued to walk with her toward Papa Bouchard and Madame Vernet. The fact is, he had not heard a word of what Léontine was saying. Papa Bouchard was standing in front of Madame Vernet, and his countenance showed that all was not at ease within. She had asked him to button her glove, and he could not well refuse, but the sight of the necklace was rather trying to his nerves. And in the midst of it appeared the two human beings he least desired to see on earth—Léontine and de Meneval!

The three stood looking at each other like a trio of criminals. Madame Vernet, the blushing, the bashful, the diffident, was the only one of the four who was not cruelly embarrassed. And then, besides the infernal necklace—for so Papa Bouchard characterized it in his new vocabulary—the idea of being caught supping with a lady at the Pigeon House! Suppose those two scamps should fly off to the Rue Clarisse with the gruesome tale—and he didn’t know exactly how much champagne he had taken, only his head was buzzing a little—poor, poor Papa Bouchard! However, it would never do to show the white feather in the beginning; the champagne had given him some Dutch courage, but it did not supply him with any judgment, for his first remark was about the most indiscreet he could have made. Assuming, or trying to assume, his usual authoritative air, he said to de Meneval:

“Monsieur le Capitaine, I thought there was a distinct understanding between us that there were to be no more suppers at the Pigeon House. And bringing your wife to this place——”

“I know of no such understanding, Monsieur Bouchard,” replied de Meneval, with some spirit. “I deny your right, or that of any other man, to say where I shall have supper with my wife. If the Pigeon House is proper enough for you and this lady—” de Meneval indicated Madame Vernet, who, with her usual bashfulness, had retired a little—“whom I overheard just now thanking you for the superb necklace she wears, it is assuredly proper for me and for my wife.”

This was unanswerable logic, and Papa Bouchard was momentarily staggered by it. De Meneval followed up his advantage by saying, significantly, “To-morrow morning I shall come to see you, and you will kindly explain to me some mysteries concerning—” De Meneval stopped short; he could not speak his mind to Monsieur Bouchard without letting the terrible and menacing cat out of the bag regarding the necklace.

It was now Léontine’s turn at the poor gentleman.

“Come, Papa Bouchard,” she said, with pallid lips, but affecting to laugh, “you must not scold Victor for bringing me here. I really made him do it. But I want to speak to you a moment in that sweet, sequestered arbor, where you told this lady just now she might find her uncle and aunt, amid the roses and honeysuckles and the little cooing pigeons.”

Monsieur Bouchard would much rather have gone off with a gendarme at that very moment, but Léontine had him by the arm, and was determinedly dragging him away. An anxious grin appeared on his countenance as he turned to Madame Vernet and said:

“One moment, Madame, and I will return.”

“Only a moment, remember,” answered this bashful creature.

Madame Vernet had not the slightest objection to being left in charge of this good-looking young officer. She cast down her eyes and began to murmur something about her timidity, when she was brought up all standing by de Meneval saying:

“Madame, a few moments ago I overheard you thanking Monsieur Bouchard for that superb necklace you wear.”

Madame Vernet smiled. Superb necklace, indeed! It must be a fine imitation.

“But,” continued de Meneval, “that necklace belongs to my wife, Madame de Meneval. I myself selected it, and paid forty thousand francs for it. Last night I left it in Monsieur Bouchard’s care in the Rue Bassano. To-night I find you, a woman with whom, I am sure, Monsieur Bouchard has a very casual acquaintance, wearing my wife’s forty thousand franc necklace. You will admit that the circumstances justify me in demanding the necklace.”

“Monsieur,” replied Madame Vernet, “this necklace is paste. It cost only seventy-five francs. I have Monsieur Bouchard’s word for it.”

“The old sinner! Well, Monsieur Bouchard wasn’t saying his prayers when he told you that. I tell you the stones are real, and unless you hand the necklace over to me this instant I shall telephone for a couple of policemen—there is a police station not two minutes away—and to-morrow morning you and Monsieur Bouchard can explain the matter in the police court.”

Now, Madame Vernet was really as brave as a lion. She suspected at once that she had got hold of something of actual value, and she determined to hold on to it and get away with it; hence nothing could have been more pleasing to her at that moment than to have de Meneval out of the way for a few moments—even to fetch a policeman—so she merely replied, with calm assurance:

“Do as you like, Monsieur. I never saw you before—I hope I shall never see you again. My protector is at hand, and when you arrive with your police officers it is Monsieur Bouchard with whom you will have to settle.”

De Meneval turned and ran out of the garden toward the police station. He thought that exposure was coming anyhow, and he had better secure the stakes in the game. As he rushed out he caromed against a very well-dressed, portly, clean-shaven elderly gentleman, who was parading into the garden with a great air of pomposity. In his hand he held conspicuously a newspaper, on the first page of which was a large photogravure easily recognizable as himself, and under it, in letters an inch long, were the words,

Dr. Delcasse
The Most Celebrated Alienist
in Paris.

Below this was the cut of a handsome building, and under this was inscribed, “The Private Sanatorium at Melun of Dr. Delcasse.”

Dr. Delcasse seemed to feel the injury to his dignity very much when de Meneval jostled by him so unceremoniously, nearly knocking him down. He stopped, scowled, growled, and then, with a portentous air of being much displeased, stalked forward, took a seat close to where Madame Vernet was standing, and began pompously to unfold his newspaper, always keeping the picture to his audience, so to speak—which audience consisted solely of Madame Vernet.

Now, for quickness and boldness of resource Madame Vernet was fully the equal of de Meneval or any man alive, and the moment she became convinced of the identity of Dr. Delcasse a plan was formed in her mind. Everybody knew Dr. Delcasse, and also of the war waged between him and Dr. Vignaud, another celebrated alienist, which, if carried to extremes, would have resulted in locking up half the population of Paris as lunatics either in Dr. Delcasse’s sanatorium at Melun or Dr. Vignaud’s private hospital in Paris.

Madame Vernet realized, in her brilliant scheme, the value of time. There was a train leaving for Paris in ten minutes. If she could but make the first train, getting away before Monsieur Bouchard returned! She determined to at least try for it. She came near to Dr. Delcasse, and said, in a silvery voice:

“May I ask if this is not the renowned Dr. Delcasse—the man who has restored the largest number of persons, cured and sane, to their families, of any doctor for the insane in the whole world?”

To this insinuating address from a remarkably pretty and attractive woman Dr. Delcasse, as would any other man, felt a warming of the heart, and he replied, rising politely:

“You flatter me. I am Dr. Delcasse.”

“Then,” cried Madame Vernet, taking out her handkerchief and preparing to weep, “you are the man I most desire to meet. Oh, how fortunate it is for me that you are here! I have a brother with me—a dear, good young man, but whose mind has been affected ever since a fall he had from an apricot tree some years ago. For a year I had him at Dr. Vignaud’s hospital for the insane—rightly named, for I think anyone who went there would shortly be insane. Dr. Vignaud is a charlatan of the worst description.” Dr. Delcasse smiled in a superior manner to hear himself praised and Dr. Vignaud reviled—how delicious! “I am my poor brother’s guardian,” continued Madame Vernet, producing her card, inscribed “Madame Vernet, née Brion.” “My brother’s name is Louis Brion. Ever since he was released from Dr. Vignaud’s asylum he has been much crazier than when he went in, although Dr. Vignaud declared him thoroughly cured.”

“Just like Vignaud!” remarked Dr. Delcasse, with that spirit of fraternity which sometimes distinguishes the medical profession.

“This evening,” continued Madame Vernet, throwing her most pleading and fascinating look into her eyes, “I brought my poor, dear brother out to this place to supper, thinking it would divert him. But he has been quite insane in all his actions, and just now he became violent. He took it into his head that this necklace I wear—which I may say to you confidentially is paste—is real, and is worth forty thousand francs, and that I have stolen it from his wife. The poor boy has no wife. And while I was trying to soothe him just now he suddenly broke away, nearly knocking you down as you came in, and declared he was going after the police to arrest me—me, his devoted sister!” Madame Vernet’s voice became lost in her lace handkerchief.

“I saw an unmistakable gleam of insanity in his eye as he rushed by me,” said Dr. Delcasse, promptly. “My experience, Madame, has been vast. I can tell an insane patient at a glance, and I have no hesitation in saying that the young man gave every indication to a practiced eye of being, as you say, very much unbalanced. And Vignaud said he was cured! Ha, ha!”

“But the great thing,” said Madame Vernet, with real and not pretended anxiety, “is to get him away from here without scandal, and into your sanatorium, where I wish to place him under your care. How can that be managed?”

“Nothing easier, Madame,” replied Dr. Delcasse, eager to get hold of one of Dr. Vignaud’s patients. “I am well known here—indeed, I am personally acquainted with many of our police officers. When the young man returns with the officers I shall simply, with your permission, direct them to convey him to my sanatorium—it is less than half a mile from here—and I will telephone to my assistant to have a strait-jacket, a padded cell and a cold douche ready for the unfortunate young man, and we will take care of him, never fear. When I release him, depend upon it, he will be actually cured. I am not Dr. Vignaud, I beg you to believe.”

At this moment de Meneval, with a couple of officers, was entering the garden. The police station, as he had said, was but two minutes away. Dr. Delcasse, accompanied by Madame Vernet, coolly advanced, and recognizing the officers, spoke to them civilly, saying:

“Good-evening, Lestocq; good-evening, Caron.” And then to de Meneval he said, soothingly: “Good-evening, Monsieur Brion. I am pleased to see you and your charming sister at Melun, and think you will enjoy your stay with me.”

De Meneval looked from one to the other in amazement, and opened his mouth to speak; but before he could get out a word Madame Vernet laid her hand on his arm and said, in the tone of soothing a raving lunatic:

“Yes, dear Louis, Dr. Delcasse will take the best possible care of you, and I will come out to see you every week.”

De Meneval found his tongue then.

“To the devil with Dr. Delcasse! I never heard of him before. Police, arrest this woman. I can prove by my wife and by a gentleman now in this garden that the diamond necklace this person wears is the property of my wife.”

“Do nothing of the kind,” interrupted Dr. Delcasse, with quiet authority. “This young man, Louis Brion, is the brother of this lady, Madame Vernet. He is demented, and his latest hallucination is that Madame Vernet has stolen the necklace she wears; that it is worth forty thousand francs, that she stole it from his wife—and he has no wife.”

“But I tell you,” shouted de Meneval, quite beside himself, “that I never saw this woman before. She has my wife’s diamond necklace, and I can prove it. Call Monsieur Bouchard!”

“You see how it is,” coolly remarked Dr. Delcasse to the two police officers, “the only thing is to get him out of the way as quietly as possible. I shall take him at once out to my sanatorium, where I will have a strait-jacket, a padded cell and a cold douche waiting for him.”

The police officers seized him, and dragged him out, under Dr. Delcasse’s direction.

With this the Doctor suddenly whipped out his silk handkerchief, and with the greatest ingenuity bound it fast round de Meneval’s mouth, so that he was completely gagged and silenced. The police officers seized him, and dragged him out, under Dr. Delcasse’s direction. De Meneval fought like a tiger, but it was one to three. The struggle, though violent, was noiseless, and before the two or three waiters in the vicinity realized what was going on everything was over, and Madame Vernet, picking up her gloves, fan and other belongings, scurried off another way to make the ten o’clock train.

Meanwhile, the interview between Papa Bouchard and Léontine had been stormy. Léontine had demanded an explanation, but Papa Bouchard had no satisfactory one to give. At first he mounted his high horse, declared Léontine’s suspicions intolerable, and refused to discuss the subject of the necklace at all. But she was not so easily put off.

“If you refuse me an explanation,” she said at last, “I shall simply confess all to Victor, and you will have to treat with a man instead of a woman.”

“Do; confess all to Victor,” replied Papa Bouchard, tartly. “Tell him that sociological yarn you told me.”

“I’m afraid to,” replied Léontine, so dolefully, that it partially softened Monsieur Bouchard, who really had a good heart.

“Come, come, now,” he said. “You had better take my word for it when I tell you that, in spite of appearances, your necklace is safe. I can’t and won’t tell you the circumstances—you and de Meneval would both blazon it over Paris, and it would be devilish uncomfortable—” Papa Bouchard was becoming expert in the use of bad language—“it would be devilish uncomfortable for me. I can straighten the whole thing out in a few days, if you will only keep quiet. Can’t you keep quiet?”

By this time they were re-entering the garden.

“I will agree to keep quiet for a week,” said Léontine, firmly. “At the end of that time, if this unpleasant complication about my necklace is not cleared up, I have a presentiment that the whole thing will get into the newspapers. Just fancy the headlines, ‘Mystery of Madame de Meneval’s Diamond Necklace. Monsieur Paul Bouchard Proved to have Given it to an Adventuress, With Whom he was Caught at the Pigeon House.’”

Papa Bouchard felt his knees grow a little weak under him, and went and sat down in the chair he had lately vacated. Léontine followed him and said dramatically, as if reading the scare head in a great metropolitan daily.

“‘Suicide of Monsieur Paul Bouchard! The late Advocate Discovered in his Apartment With a Pistol Wound Through his Temple! The Apartment presents the Appearance of a Shambles! Blood Over Everything!! Walls and Ceilings Much Bespattered!!!’”

Papa Bouchard, very white around the lips, poured out with an unsteady hand a glass of champagne, and drank it, the glass clinking against his teeth.

“Léontine,” he said, after having drained the glass. “You are trying to frighten me. But you can’t do it. You sha’n’t do it. And I insist that you shall not be carrying any of your sensational tales to the Rue Clarisse, alarming my poor sister, and making her life a torment. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” replied Léontine. “And, by the way, where is your lady friend?”

Monsieur Bouchard looked around for Madame Vernet, and was much disturbed at not seeing her. In the perplexities and annoyances of the last half-hour he had made up his mind that it was absolutely necessary to get that diabolical necklace back, and to work himself out of the scrape in which he unexpectedly found himself.

He called up François, who reported that Madame Vernet had gone out in a great hurry. There was a train for Paris just leaving. It struck him Madame was trying to make that train. Such was precisely Monsieur Bouchard’s idea. Her departure in this way seriously annoyed and alarmed him. One thing, however, was clear in his mind—he must get back to Paris as soon as possible. There was another train in twenty minutes, and then there would be no more till eleven.

De Meneval’s disappearance was also strange, but just as Léontine was beginning to feel uncomfortable she saw de Meneval approaching. Something unusual had evidently happened. He looked angry and excited, and his usually immaculate dress showed that he had been in a scrimmage. By his side walked the portly, the imposing Dr. Delcasse. The Doctor was apologizing to de Meneval with the utmost earnestness.

“My dear sir, I beg you will believe it was a most extraordinary mistake——”

“Very extraordinary!” replied de Meneval, grinding his teeth with rage.

“If I had succeeded in getting you into my sanatorium you would have found every comfort awaiting you.”

“Yes, a strait-jacket, a cold douche, and a padded cell, as you kindly promised me.”

“May I ask, Monsieur, that you will not spread this unfortunate story abroad in Paris?”

“I shall have it printed in every newspaper in Paris to-morrow morning, and I shall myself write to Dr. Vignaud, giving him a detailed account of the affair.”

“Good heavens!”

“And if insanity ever develops in my family, it is Dr. Vignaud who shall treat every case—every case, do you hear?”

“Then, sir,” said Dr. Delcasse, angrily, “all I have to say is that I am not at all sure my first diagnosis was not correct, and you are indeed, already crazy—and I have the honor to bid you good-evening.”

“Go to the devil!”

Dr. Delcasse, slapping his hat down angrily on his head, marched indignantly out, and de Meneval, still furious at the treatment to which he had been subjected, poured out his injuries:

“And but for having been recognized by some of the waiters as I was being dragged away I should at this moment be an inmate of a lunatic asylum, sent there by the wiles of a shameless adventuress, brought to the Pigeon House by Monsieur Bouchard.” This was de Meneval’s exact language.

“Take care, sir; take care!” cried Papa Bouchard, in a voice trembling with wrath. He was not accustomed to being talked to in that manner. “You may repent of this language. Madame Vernet is a lady of means and respectability. I did not bring her out here. She came expecting to find here her uncle and aunt, who live in Melun. I invited her to sup in a public place, as any gentleman is authorized to do in the case of a widow old enough to take care of herself—and because your suspicions were excited by her having on a necklace like that you bought for your wife, you proceeded to make trouble. Well, it seems she turned the tables on you very cleverly, and no doubt, being a bashful little thing, she dreaded the sensation it would make and the notoriety which might follow, and—and so, naturally, has gone.” Then, turning to Léontine, Papa Bouchard played his trump card. “Haven’t you your diamond necklace safe at home, Léontine?”

To which Léontine faltered: “Y—y—yes, Papa Bouchard.”

“Well, then,” cried Papa Bouchard, assuming an air of triumphant virtue to poor de Meneval, “I hope you see the enormity of your conduct.”

“I can’t say I do,” sullenly replied de Meneval.

“Very well, very well,” continued Papa Bouchard, realizing that he held all the trumps in the game. “Do you want to go into the whole business of this necklace? If you do there is no time like the present. Do you, Léontine, want the matter sifted to the bottom?”

De Meneval remained gloomily silent, while Léontine murmured, “N—no, Papa Bouchard.”

Papa Bouchard, having thus effectually silenced both of them, felt master of the situation, but all the same, he was desperately anxious to reach Paris in advance of the de Menevals, so that he could get on Madame Vernet’s track before they should. He was pretty sure that she could not slip away from her apartment without leaving some trace. There was another train going almost immediately, and there would be no more till eleven o’clock. It would be exceedingly convenient for him to get an hour’s start of the de Menevals. So it occurred to him that if he were to propose a little more champagne Léontine and de Meneval would never run away and leave it, but he could and would.

“Now,” said he, with an air of benevolence, “everything having been straightened out about the necklace, suppose we have a bottle of champagne before returning to Paris. Here, waiter!”

François immediately responded with a bottle of champagne.

De Meneval had never supposed that anything would be too pressing to drag him away from good champagne, but he inwardly swore, as Léontine silently fretted, at the delay that might prevent him from making the next train to Paris. Both of them gulped down the champagne rather than drank it, while Papa Bouchard, alleging that he had already taken several glasses, declined any more. Every moment or two he looked at his watch, and he said to Léontine:

“Will you be going back to Paris to-night, Léontine?”

“Indeed I shall,” eagerly replied Léontine. “I shall go back with you.”

“But I sha’n’t be going back till the midnight train. You see I am beginning to keep late hours, to make up for lost time, and that will be too late for you. Why can’t you remain at de Meneval’s quarters?”

“I have an engagement early to-morrow morning,” replied Léontine, who was determined to get to Paris as quickly as she could and make some private inquiries on her own account concerning Madame Vernet. The same intention was fixed in de Meneval’s mind. Therefore he said:

“Never mind, Léontine; I am off duty till twelve o’clock to-morrow, and I will take you to Paris to-night, if you wish.”

At which Léontine, looking very blank, replied:

“Oh, very well. That will be nice.”

“Now, why are you in such a hurry to get to Paris?” asked Papa Bouchard. “The next train is always crowded—not a seat to be had in a first-class compartment for love or money, and it makes a stop of only two minutes and a half; unless one is already at the station it is almost impossible to make it, and you see it is now within a few minutes of the train.”

While Monsieur Bouchard was speaking he was putting on his gloves and making for the garden door, and the de Menevals, each carefully avoiding an appearance of haste, were following him. Everybody had forgotten that the champagne was not paid for, except François.

“So,” kept on Papa Bouchard, still edging away, “you will go by the late train; perhaps I’ll wait for it myself.”

At that moment the shriek of the locomotive resounded. Immediately every pretense of waiting for the other train vanished. All three of them bolted for the exit to the garden. François rushed after them, bawling, “Your bill, Monsieur—the champagne—and the tip—” while the parrot, suddenly wakened from a nap, uttered a screech of demoniac laughter and began to yell after Papa Bouchard’s rapidly retreating figure:

“Bad boy Bouchard! bad boy Bouchard!”