THE PURSUIT OF THE TOPAZ.

New Zealand Mail, 20 August 1902, Page 6

THE PURSUIT OF THE TOPAZ.

(By Max Pemberton.)

I was struggling heroically to force my arms through the sleeves of a wellstarched shirt, when the man knocked upon the door of my bedroom for the second time. I had heard him faintly five minutes before, when my head was as far in a basin as the limitations of Parisian toilet-ware would a..»w it to go; but now he knocked’ imperiously, and when I opened to him he stood hesitatingly with a foolish leer upon his face, and that which he meant for discretion upon his lips. “Well,” said I T “what do you want? Can’t you see I’m dressing?” At this ho looked with obvious pity for me towards the basin, but quickly recovered himself. •*

“Dame,” said he, with a fine Gascon accent, “there is a lady waiting for monsieur in the salon.”

“A lady!” cried I ivifh surprise; “who is she P”

“I am but three days in Paris,” replied he, “and she is a stranger to ir e. If monsieur prefers it, I will ask her some questions.” “You will please do nothing of the sort; did she give her name?” “I seem to remember that she did but it has escaped me.” At the time of this occurrence I had been in tlic French capital for one week, being carried -there by the announcement of tho sale of the Countess Boccalini’s jewels. But on the nioh ! of which I am writing my trading was done, and a ridiculous promise to go to tho Opera Ball alone kept me in Paris. How the promise came to be

given to my friend Tussal I cannot remember; but he liad assured me that tho ball was the event of April, and so pressing was he that I yielded at last to his solicitations, and agreed to accept a seat in his box. By the terms of his invitation I was to meet him at the Grand Cafe at midnight, and thence was to proceed to the Opera House at half-past twelve. I had determined to dine quietly at my own hotel, and afterwards to spend the intervening hours at the Theatre de la Porte St. Martin; for which purpose I dressed at a comparatively early noui : and dressing, received the stiff-necked Gascon’s message that a lady wished to see me. Yet for what purpose she came, or who she might be, I had not an idea"; and I turned over a hundred theories in my mind as I descended to the little reception-room of the hotel, and there found-her sitting by the uncovered table with a railway guide before her, but obviously agitated, and as obviously pretty. •She was one of the few Frenchwomen I have met who had a thoroughly English face. Her skin was white and pink, untouched by that olive tint which is so prevalent in Paris; her eyes were wondrously blue; she had rich brown hair shot with golden tresses, which gave to the whole a magnificent lustre; she was entirely free of that restless gesture which is the despair of a man of nerves.

“I a.lll Bernard Sutton,” said I: “if it is possible that I can be of any service to you, the privilege is mine ” “Thank you a thousand times,” sai'l she, speaking with an accent which added to the charm of her English. “I have heard of you often from. Madame Carmalovitcli, whose husband owned the famous opal; j‘ou were very to her ”

“I was exceedingly sorry for her.” I replied: “are you a relation of hers?” “Oh, no!” she exclaimed; “I am Mademoiselle Edile Bernier, and I live with my mother at 32, Rue Boissiere. You will laugh to hear why I come to you. It is about something you alone can advise me upon, and, of course, you will guess it at once.”

“I won’t waste your time by being ambiguous,” said I: “you have come to consult mo about some jewels; pray let me see them.”

There was no one else in the salon at that time, the few people in the hotel being at dinner. The girl had. therefore, no hesitation in opening a bracelet-case, which she had carried under her cloak, and showing me a plain band of gold which served as a mount for a small circle of turquoises and an exceedingly large rose-pink topaz, which possessed all the lustre of a diamond. I saw at once that the gem was from Brazil, and was large enough and rich enough to be worth a considerable sum, but I have never known hunger for the topaz myself, and when I had taken one look at the bracelet T handed it back to her. “It’s exceedingly pretty,” said I. “and your stones are very good. There is a little green at the* base of the larger turquoises, hut you will hardly match the topaz in Paris. Are you seeking to know the value of it ?”

“I would never a,sk that.” she answered quickly; “it. was a gift from my fiancee. Monsieur Georges Barre, whom you may know by name.” “Monsieur Barre is well known to me bv name,” said I; “his bust of Victor Hugo from last year’s Salon is at this moment the chief ornament of mv library. I must now congratulate him for the second time.”

At this she laughed, but the ripples died away quickly upon her face, and a look of haunting fear troubled her eyes. I observed that she was reticent in speaking plainly to me, and did my best to help her out with it.

“You have, not yet put to me,” said I, “the precise question which brought you here. It concerns tho of course ?” .

“Ye—yes,” said she; “but I am very much afraid you will laugh at me. I wanted to ask you if, in your judgment —that is, with your experience—there is any reason why I should not wear my present at the Opera Ball. A week ago Monsieur Barre gave me this bracelet with the stipulation that I should wear it at the ball to-night. Two days ago I received this letter, which I hesitated to show even to you, lest it should bo an injustice to the man I love.”

She passed, with the words, a dirty scrap of a note to me, the leaf of a sheet of the commonest lined scribbling paper; and I read upon it, written in very bad French, the warning: “Mademoiselle.—lf you wear the topaz bracelet at the Opera Ball tonight you carry death upon your arm.” Thrice I road this, and as I repeated the words, the third time aloud, I saw shaping about the simplicity of the girl, a mystery which seemed as deep and at first sight as unfathomable as any I had known.

“Mademoiselle,” said I, “you speak to me of very deep matters, I fear. But * of course, you have shown this letter to your relatives?”

“I have but one relative in the world ’• said she, “my mother, who is a paralytic. I dare not mention such a thing to her ; sho.vwould die of fear.” “ “And you yourself have no suspicion no faint, idea of the cause of such a letter as that?” 1 a

“I cannot even attempt to guess at it.” “There are none. -of your lady friends who would hazard a joke with you? “Oh. no; they would not think of such a joke as that, and my few friends love me, I beiicve.” “Tell me,” said I, “what led you to me ?” . T “Madame Carmalovitcli,” said she. 1 went to her first, but she knew you were in Paris, and would not rest unti I had consented to see you. She would have come with me, but is latterlv almost unable to face the night air. “You iiave no one else you would care to consult in such a case ?” “No one,” said she. “And if you go to the ball to-night without your bracelet ?” She looked up at me with tears in her eyes, when she answered, “Georges would never forgive me.”. “Could you make no excuse to remain at home ?” “Oh, don’t ask me to do that,” she exclaimed pitifully. “I have lived for the ball since the beginning of the year.” It was a ‘woman’s plea, and not to be resisted. I saw at once that she would go to the dance whatever words fell from me, and I turned from the subject to one more important. “Sinoo you ajre determined to be there to-night,” said I, “perhaps you will give me Monsieur Georges Barre’s address?”

“Oh, for the love of heaven, don’t tell him!” she cried; “he lvould never forgive me if I distrusted his present.” “My dear lady, I quite understand that. I promise you that he shall never know of your coming to me. But I must exact another promise from you—it is that you will not wear the topaz until you have my permission.” “But Georges expects me to wear it at the ball.”

“Ho would not expect you to- risk your life. And there is no reason, so far as I can see, why I should not b° able to give you permission, or to refuse it, by eleven o’clock. You do not go to tho opera until midnight, I presume?”

“Monsieur Barre has promised to call in the Rue Bossier© at a quarter-past twelve. He has an apartment in the Hotel Scribe. I can scarce go with him and leave his gift at home.” “Of course j-ou can’t, hut I would suggest that, unless you hear from me by midnight-, you carry it beneath your cloak as you do now. I shall meet you in the Opera House, at any rate.” Here was the end of our interview, and I saw her into the neat little brougham which was waiting for her. There were but two other men, the concierge and a short, exceedingly dark man in evening dress, about the place at that, time; and as the brougham drove away it occurred to me that the latter fellow was watching me rather closely, upon which I had a good 100 1 -- at him: hut he turned away sharply to tho coffee-room, while I went to my dinner in as fine a state of bewilderment as I have known. I determined to call upon the sculptor at once, and to use every device at my command in tho interests of the helpless girl who had called upon melt was now nearly ten o’clock, and. having dined hastily, I passed through the courtyard on my way to the Hotel Scribe. There I- saw, to my surprise, that the ill-visaged Italian—for so I judged lie was—still loitered about the place; but again appeared to avoid scrutiny. TV hen at last I came to tho hotel, and sent up my card, the answer was that Monsieur Barre had just lef‘ and was not expected to return until the next morning.

How completely this answer undid my purpose I could never set down. In vain I asked, nay, implored, for informa, tion—they could give mo none; and I had no alternative hut to go to the Rue Bossiere, in the ultimate hope that Barro’s destination was there, and tba* he had called upon his fiancee before the hour of the appointment. But upon this I was determined that until I bou found him Mademoiselle Bernier shook l not wear the bracelet, though I stood at her sid e from that hour to midnight. I quitted the passage of the hotel being still bent upon the journey to the Rue Boissiere, and was again upon the pavement before the cafe, when I saw the Italian for the third time. H« stood upon the very edge of the kerbstone, undisguisedly waiting for me, so that upon a sudden impulse I walked over to him, and this time ho did not turn away.

“Forgive the question,” said T my miserable French, “but you are betraymg au interest in my movements which is unusual; m fact, you have followed me from my hotel. I think?”" “Exactly,” he replied; “I followed you here, as you say ” 1 “F°r what purpose, may I ask?” ‘ To warn you 1” “To warn mol” Certainly, since you carry in your pocket the topaz bracelet.” 7 condusion aid “it his fals « conclusion, it is that, is it? . I am n*.. 1 *■***£ *■*“■*•« “She certainly did not!” night?” Sh 6 WIU Wear {t at th& tall to-

“Of course!” “Mother of God! She is a dead w man, then.” °' “Look here,” said'l, “this is no tim ß for words like this. Come into the cat with me, and I will pay you fifty p oUnd e for what you know. It shall be worth a hundred if you convinco me that vn have done a substantial kindness J t * Mademoiselle Bernier.” 0

He looked at his watch before ha made answer. Then he said:— 0

“The offer is a fair one, but I d not seek your money. We have two hours in which to save her, but before I go with you, you shall swear to me that anything I may tell you will never be used against me here or in any othw country.” r

“Of course,” said I; “you don’t think’ I am a policeman, do you? I have other interest but that of the lady.’’ ° “Nor I,” said he; and he followed me into the cafe; but the place was ®o intolerably full that I bade him come with me into a little wine-shop in the Rue Lafayette, and there we found a vacant table, and I ordered his absinthe and a glass of coffee for myself. Scarcely, however, had he lighted his cigarette before he began to talk of the matter we had come upon.

“First,” said he. “tell me, did Mademoiselle speak of a letter she had-re-ceived ?”

“She not only spoke of it, but she gave it to me to read.” I replied.

“Well,” said “I gathered that from your words” said I next; “and of course you wrote it for very good reasons P”

“You shall hear them,” said lie, sipping freely of his drink. “That bracelet was last worn at the Mi-Careme Ball in Marseilles by a girl named Berthe Duval. She was carried from the ball-room, stabbed horribly, at one o’clock in the morning. She died in my arms, for in one week she was to have been my wife.” “And the assassin?” I asked.

“Was hunted for by the police in vain,” he continued. “I myself offered every shilling that I had to find him but, despite the activity of us all, he was never so much as named. Let us go back another year—it is painful enough for me, because such a retrogression recalls to me the one passion of my life —a passion beside which the affair at Marseilles is not to be spoken of. God knows that the memory gf the woman I refer to is at this moment eating out my heart. She was an Italian girl, sixteen years old when she died, and I think—why should I not? that the world has never held a more beautiful creature. Well, she wore the bracelet, now about twenty-six months ago, at the Mardi Gras Ball in Savona, and she fell dead before my very eyes ten minutes after she had entered the ball-room. She had drunk of poisoned coffee, and no man but one know by whose hand the death had come to her.”

“You say no man but one; that one was .”

“Myself!” “Then you knew who killed the other victim at Marseilles?”

“I knew, as you say; but to know and to arrest aro different things.” “Have you any idea as to the man’s whereabouts now P”

<r Every idea; he was in Paris three days ago—he was in Paris to-day. I should judge it more than likely that he will be at the Opera Ball to-night.”. Before he could say more I rose from my chair and summoned tho head waiter of tho place to me. Then I wrote an urgent message upon a leaf of my notebook, and dispatched it by a cab to 32, Rue Boissiere. The message implored Mademoiselle Bernier, as she valued her life, to leave the bracelet at heme for this night at any rate. “Now,” said I, “we can talk still at our leisure. You have taken mo back to Marseilles fourteen months ago: let us have the chapter in your life which precedes that one.”

He finished off his absinthe, and called for another glass before lie would answer me. At last ho said:—

“You ask me to speak of things which'g’ I would well forget. I have sufficient confidence in you, however, to trust my safety in your hands. The story is not a ipng one. Three years ago I was a struggling painter in Savona, giving half • my life to a study of the pictures in the Cathedral—you may know the work of Antonio Semini there——and the other half to the worship of Pauline di Chigi, the daughter of a silversmith who lives g over against the Hotel Royal. Need- . less to tell you of my poverty, or of-my belief in myself. I lived then in the g| daydreams which co-me at the seed-time ;; of art; they were broken only by tho waywardness of t±±o girl, by her womanly fickleness, by the riches of the men who sought her. It would weary you to hear of my long nights of agony following the momentary success of this man or that who wooed her, of, my enrses upon my own poverty, of my bitterness, and sometimes even of my ■ “In the end of the January of last g year I obtained a commission from the; Dominican monks to go to the Valley

of San Bernardo, to -tftjje residence there whii6 1 retouoned some of the more modem and more faded pictures in the sanctuary of Nostra Signora di Misericordia. The shrine and village lie in the mountains fire miles ahore Savona. The work would have been recreation to me had it not been for Paulino, whom I left to the persecution of a fat and soulless trader, and to the solicitations of her father that she would marry him. The new lover loaded her with presents and with the follies of speech which a middle-aged man who is amorous can be guilty of. I could give her nothing but the promise of a future, and that-, being withmarket value, did not convince her. While she would make pretence of affection for me when wo were alone, she did nothing to repulse the other. Thus I left Savona with her kisses on my lips, and rage of her wantonness in my heart; and for three weeks I laboured patiegtly in the mountain village; and my art lifted me even beyond the spell of the girl.

VI mil. “It was at the end of the third week that my thoughts were ardently recalled to her by a circumstance which cannot fail to appear remarkable to you. I was walking in the late afternoon of the Sunday in the path which leads one high amongst the mountains, and chancing to turn aside from the road and to plunge into a shrubbery, I sat at last upon the log of a tree perched at the side of as wild a glen as I have seen in Italy. Here I sat for an hour juried in my musings, and when at last I left it, was by an overgrown path across the dingle. I found then that the opposite side of the place was vastly steeper than the one by which I had descended; and when near to the summit, I clung to the saplings and the branches for sheer foothold. This action brought all my trouble, for of a sudden. ,iust as I had come to the top, a shrub to which I was holding gave at the roots, and giving, sent me rolling to the bottom again with a great quantity of soft earth all about me and my bones aching indescribably. ‘Tor some minutes I sat. being dizzy and shakc-n, on the soft grass. When I could look around me I saw a strange tiling. In a mound of the mould which had fallen there was a crucifix of gold. Thickly covered with the clammy earth as it was, dulled and tarnished with long burial, the value of the tiling was unmistakable.. Rubies were set in the hands for ’blood, there was a crown of

diamonds for thorns; the whole was ornamented with a sprinkling of jewels, whose fire was brilliant even through the pasty clay which clung upon the cross. 1 need scarce tell you that all the curiosity which is a part of me was whetted at this unexpected sic;it; and believing that I had come upon a very mine of treasure. I shook the mould off mo. and went quickly by the easier path to the hiil-top and the place of * the landslip. “Twilight was now rushing through the mountains and a steelJy light, soon to turn to darkness, fell upon the ravine; yet I was able still to see clearly enough for my purpose—and for my disappointment. It is true that- the slip of the earth from the hill-side disclosed a cavernous hole which had been dug. no doubt, many years ago: but of the kind of treasure whose image had leaped into my mind I saw little. The few bright things that lay about in the part of tho trough which remained were entirely such vessels as- serve priests in the Mass. There was a pyx m silver.

a paten in gold, and two smaller ones

a monstrance with some exceedingly fine diamonds and the topaz in it, and a gold chalice much indented. I judged at once that these things had been buried either when the French plunderers came to Italy or after the trouble of ’7O. It was equally clear that they were tho property of the Dominicans whose house was hard by; and either that their present hiding-place was nilknown or that they had been left in concealment for some reason of diplomacy. In any case, tho value of the stones in the monstrance was unquestionable; but I am an Italian, as you see, and I believed then, as now, in nothing but omens. For a long while no thought of touching these things, scarco even of handling them—so strong in human flesh is the grain of early superstition—camo to me. I sat there gazing at them and watching the light of the topaz sparkling even above the radiance of the smaller diamonds— sat. in fact, until it was quite dark and the miasma rose from the valley. Then, in one of those flashes of thought which often mean much to a man. I had it in my mind that both the diamonds and tho topaz above them would sit well upon the arms of Pauline. I took the baubles in my hand, still lacking tho courage to secure the chalice and the crucifix, and rose to leave the place. “Now, for the first time, I think, you are beginning to see the point of my story. The strangest part of it yet remains. I have told you that dark had fallen upon the ravine as I rose up to quit it, and that mists rose thick from tho valley with the early night. You will, therefore, easily understand my discomfiture when, reflected upon the white curtain of fog, I saw the dancing light of a lantern. In the next moment a man, young but ragged, with

I a full-bearded face, and the capo of a his shoulders, stood swinging his lantern uefoTS iUP, and looking down at the tomb of tho jewels Dy our feet. With what feelings he inspired me I cannot tell you. Terror, human terror, is no werd for my experience; my whole being seemed stricken with an apprehension which t-ortured me and made my brain burn. The memory shakes me even now, and I have seen him thrice since, and the fear is greater °very time I look upon his face. ‘Thus I stood facing the man when he opened his lips to curse me. I believe now, and shall always believe, that ho is nothing but' a madman, wnose brain has failed from long fasting. “Be that as it may, his words ring yet in my ears. If you search the 'world through and all the volumes of anathema, you will never find such a blasting accusation as the man spoke when he saw the monstrance in my hand. So dreadful was it that I reeled before him; and, losing all command. I struck him down with my stick and fled the place. The next day I quitted the A alley of San Bernardo, and in a week Pauline was wearing the topaz, set by her father as a bracelet, and the diamonds sparkled upon her fingers. She covered me with kisses for the gift, and in her embraces I forgot the madman of the hills, and my melancholy passed.

“Tho rest of the story you know. Pauline wore tho topaz at 'the Mardi Gras Ball and died ten minutes after she had entered the room. A year later, having fled from Italy, I became engaged, pour passer le 'temps. to Berthe Duval, at Marseilles. One day she found tho topaz in my studio and begged it of me. She died as you have heard; and I, poor as always, "and now pursued by the damning curse, came to Paris, soiling the topaz on my way here to M. Georges Barre. I have never ceased to rogr?t that- which I did; I have lamented it the most since I saw the exquisite creature who is to ho his wife. And when, three days ago, I discovered tno madman who had cursed me at San Bernardo in the very Rue Boissiere where Mademoiselle Bernier lives, I determined to save her. though the deed cost- me a confession and my liberty.’’

•'•Rome.” said I. “presuming that vour picture is not hi ghly coloured, it is quite time we were at the opera; it is striking half-past twelve now. ' You know what women are. Mademoiselle Bernier may wear the bracelet in the face of everything I have said : and T am inclined to think with you that it is not wise for her to do so.”

“God forbid that she should,” said he: and with that we went out together.

The weather at that time was cold and cheerless: a bleak wind sweptround the corners of the streets: and tiie lights which illumined the peristyle of the great- building swayed and flic-k----erccl with lapping tongues of reel and yeliov. But once inside, the glow of light and colour passed description. Mere, whirling, shouting, dancing, leaping. the maskers rioted, almost drowning with their clamour the blare of the band: the superb entrance hall was ablaze with the flash of tawdry jewels aud shining raiment : kings and quconsy knights and courtiers, calicots and clowns, swarmed up the massive staircase. struggling, screaming, pushing, regardless of everything but the madness of the scene within.

It was with the greatest difficulty that I reached Tussal’s box, and therefrom looked down upon the wild carnival. What with the dust and the scream of voices, and the chatter of the thousand tongues, and tho heroic efforts of the fiddlers, it was almost impossible to locate anything or anyone; but the Italian, readier than I, pointed out to mo at last the one we sought; and I observed her sitting in a . box quite close to ns, where she seemed to talk with all a girl’s esprit to the young sculptor at. her side. A fairer spectacle never was than that of this childish creature, quaintly dressed in a simple gown of white and black, with a necklace of pearls about her throat, and a. bouquetof roses in her hand; hut the very sight of her turned me sick with fear, for she wore upon her arm the cursed topaz and you could see the light of it- half over the house.

The Italian and I perceived the fifing at the one time; indeed, we rose from our seats together. “For the love of Heaven go to her!” said he. “Tell the whole story to both of llem; she may not have ten minutes to live.”

He had need to say no more, for I was in the foyer as lie spoke; but scarco bad I opened the door of Barre’s box—which was upon the ground floor —when an appalling scream rose up even above the clamour of the throng Far one moment I saw nothing but a haze of white smoke, a vision of lurid faces and black forms, and sharper than all, the figure of Barro himself bending over the body of the insensible girl Then, amidst the babbling of voices and the sobbing of women, and the cry 0 f the man, which was the most bitter cry imaginable, I heard tho words, “Stop tho student in tho black cloak—ho bA shot Mademoiselle l”

v “But the girl lay dead, with a bullet through her heart. The tragedy of the Opera House was talk for many days in Paris; but the assassin was never taken, nor, indeed, heard of. The police inclined to the theory that some masquerader had discharged a pistol by accident in the heat of the riot; and to this theory most people inclined. *****

Of the Italian I never heard again. I saw him last immediately after the drama of the ball, when he lurched away from me, wringing Ins hands pitifully, begging me to tell his story to the police, and crying that a curse was upon him. But I take it, in conjunction with his confession, as a little curious that a madman, described as an ecclesiastic of Savona, should have thrown himself before a train in the Gare du Nord two days after the death of Mademoiselle Bernier.