“An’ wot ye’ve got’ll be tuk from ye?”
This was a new complication. I had no doubt in that case that the slipper would eventually fall into the hands of du Trémigon and my sacrifice would avail nothing. What was to be done? I could think of nothing. I had no friends in Paris whom I could trust except this humble sailor. Unless I gave the slipper to him I should have to throw it away. In truth I should never have taken it. It was a mad impulse that possessed the Countess to give it me.
“Bucknall,” I said at last, “you are right. I cannot keep this slipper.”
“I think not, sir.”
“There is no one that I know in Paris to whom I can intrust it but you.”
“I reckon not, sir.”
“Here it is,” I said. I am not ashamed to say that I kissed it before I gave it to the sailor. It was dark and he could not see, but if it had been broad daylight I should not have cared.
“Wot am I to do with it, sir?”
“I want you to do it up carefully in a package. Put the best wrappings about it and tie it up shipshape. Leave it at the American minister’s for Dr. Franklin when he comes back, which should be tomorrow or next day. You can get someone there to address it to my father’s plantation.”
I gave him the address and made him repeat it many times until he had it letter-perfect.