The Ivory Snuff Box

by Frederic Arnold Kummer

Dufrenne confronted her with an angry gesture. "You fool!" he cried. "Do you dare to disobey this?" He held before her eyes a silver ring, inlaid with gold, similar to the one she wore about her own neck. "I am a member of the secret police, as you know. This man is a traitor to his duty, and for that he shall be punished. Arrest him," he said again to his men.

Grace recoiled, and dropped the revolver she held to the floor. In all her dread of the future, this was something upon which she had not counted. Her husband arrested—possibly shot, or condemned to spend years in some frightful military prison. She thought of Devil's Island, where Dreyfus had been confined, and the horror of the situation overcame her. Unable to resist longer, she sank upon the seat and burst into tears.

The two gendarmes awakened Duvall roughly, and after informing him that he was a prisoner, sat grimly down on either side of him. Dufrenne took the seat beside Grace. The train had again begun to move—she realized that they were once more flying toward Paris.

At first Duvall, in his stupor of sleep, did not realize what had happened, but in a few moments he had grasped the situation. He did not seem greatly concerned at his arrest, and Grace, her first paroxysm of weeping having passed, looked at him in surprise. How brave he is! she thought. Once she caught his eyes, but he made no sign. Apparently he was resigned to his fate.

Dufrenne turned to her presently. "You, madame, are also under arrest," he remarked coldly.

"You have no right to do this thing," she exclaimed. "We have done the best we could."

"No!" cried the little old Frenchman, his bent shoulders straightening, his eyes flashing until he became a stern and vengeful figure. "No! You have not done the best you could. Brave men—and brave women, die at their posts of duty. You are cowards, both of you. Had I been in your place, do you think I would have given in—do you think I would have sold the honor of my country! Mon Dieu! It is incredible! I am a Frenchman, madame, and I have fought for France. I value my life as nothing, where her welfare is concerned. I would have died a thousand times, died as Frenchmen die, with 'Vive La France,' on my lips, before I would have uttered so much as a single word."

She made no reply to this. In his anger, the fragile old man seemed inspired with the very spirit of patriotism, his withered cheeks took on new color, his sunken eyes a new brightness. She felt ashamed—not for Richard, for he had spoken only when she had forced him to do so, but for herself. The guilt was hers. She was glad that she, too, was arrested, that she might have a chance to go before Monsieur Lefevre and take upon her shoulders the dishonor which she knew belonged there. Silent, she shrank back into her corner, not daring to look up.

"Monsieur Dufrenne," she heard Richard saying, quietly, "be so good as to remember that it was I, not my wife, who gave the snuff box to Hartmann. You have seen fit to place me under arrest. Very well, I will tell my story to Monsieur Lefevre and abide by his decision. But meanwhile, I beg that you will treat my wife with courtesy and respect. She has had a very trying and terrible experience and I do not wonder that she is unnerved. You may not know it, monsieur, but we were married but five days ago, and this—" he glanced about the compartment with a sad smile—"this, monsieur, is our honeymoon."

The Frenchman sank back, all his anger swept away. "It is pitiful, monsieur, pitiful," he said, quietly. "Yet in what I now do, I am but doing my duty." He turned to Grace. "Madame, I feel for you in your suffering. You acted through love. Of that I am sure. But there is a greater love than that of woman for man—the love of country. That is the only love I understand." He turned away and sat for a long while gazing out of the window.