Copyright Story. Deputy Lacordaire’s Prefecture.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue VII, 16 February 1901, Page 289

Copyright Story. Deputy Lacordaire’s Prefecture.

By

ROBERT H. SHERARD.

(Author of - The Iron Cross.” etc.)

The inspector'* attention had l»een speedily drawn to the lady. In the first place. she was an entire stranger to the public reading-room of the National Library, and secondly the pamphlet which she had asked for was one which no reader had ever applied to see before, although, as the date on the cover showed, it had been deposited on the shelves of that institution just seventeen years ago. The librarian had had great trouble in finding it. ami so thickly was the book covered with dust that the inspector's hands had been soiled by touching it. The lady’s conduct had been very suspicious from the first. To begin with, what could an elegant young woman like her want with a dusty, musty political pamphlet. seventeen years old. a ’’Lifting of the Mask." published by some obscure provincial bookseller, and deposited for copyright purposes only at the Bibliotheque Nationale’? It was a beautiful spring afternoon, and the eleg?«nt women of Paris were thronging to the Rue de la Paix or the Avenue des Acacias. Everybody was out of doors, and this very reading room, which usually was so crowded, had been deserted by many of its habitual frequenters. She was the very last person one would have expected to see in such a place on such a day. Then, why had she never once raised the thick black veil which in the fullness of its texture and the sombreness of its hue contrasted so strangely with the lightness and airy gaiety of her fashionable spring hat*? She appeared to be deeply interested in this ’’Lifting of the Mask" of seventeen years ago. and to be reading it eagerly. Such a veil must be like a curtain bdtwven her eyes and the book. It was of chenille, and so coarse and thick that it hid her face completely. Why. then, did she keep it down, unless as a disguise? Again, what was the meaning of those furtive glances which now and again betrayed themselves as she turned her head first to one side and then to the other? That was not consistent with the deep interest with which at other times she pored over the dusty pamphlet. And then there was a muff. Elegant women were not carrying heavy muffs in May of that year, and this was in itself a suspicious circumstance. Such were the reflections of the inspector in the reading room of the National Library in Paris that spring afternoon. He was inclined to suspicion because on one or two recent occasions thefts of some importance had been committed under his very eyes and he had been hauled over the coals in proper bureaucratic fashion in consequence. He was determined that nothing of the sort should happen again, if a sharp look-out could prevent it. In this instance, however, he felt but little anxiety. Suspicious as were the lady’s appearance and conduct, the book which she held in her hands was one of no value at all. It was but one of the thousand pamphlets by unknown scribblers which every year are sent to encumber the crowded shelves of the National Library, because the French law will only afford protection to the author's copyright, when he has deposited a copy of his work in this institution. So the inspector quieted himself by thinking that none but the least rational of kleptomaniacs would care to steal a book of which the intrinsic value was nothing, and deciding that the “petite dame" was merely keeping a rendezvous, turned his attention elsewhere. Ladies were not literary as a rule. The little lady, no doubt, had asked for the first book whose title came into her pretty head. It was possibly by some relation of hers

anti, in any case. would serve as well as ain other to keep her in countenI n these consolatory reflections, unfortunately. the good man was mistaken. Ihe lady's conduct was suspicious. ami fo. the very good reason that her purpose in coming to the National Library was to steal the dusty pamphlet for which she had asked. Poor Madame Licordaire—her name was Madame Lacordaire—sat there, quaking. Would she ever be able to manage it* That horrid inspector kept glaring at her through his spectacles. He certainly mistrusted her. No. the law ought not to punish thieves so severely: their tracle was punishment enough in itself. Never, never had she suffered in the whole course of her life as much as she hail suffered since she had taken this stupid “Lifting of the Mask” in her daintily gloved fingers. The thing, however, had to In* done, and done it was. suddenly, with feminine deftness. The pamphlet was crushed into the muff at one end. while from the other a booklet which exactly resembled it in outward appearance was whisked forth; a lace handkerchief made an ambush, and with the pseudo-pamph-let in her hand Maclame Lacordaire stepped up to the receiving desk to return her book. Oh. how her heart beat! She could not breathe again, until having tripped out of the reading room and across the courtyard and under the archway she once more found herself in the busy Rue de Richelieu, with the stolen national property safe in her chinchilla muff under the Valenciennes handkerchief. Done! Hurrah! Done! But what was that? Madame Lacordaire’s heart leapt in her mouth, ami instinctively she hurried on. turning the corner of the rue Caumartin. ‘‘Stop her! Au voleur! Stop her! La petite dame!” It was that odious inspector, who, hat less, with his hair flying out in every direction, and his spectacles hanging down over his chin, was tearing after her. pointing and shouting. “Stop her! The little lady! Stop thief! Stop thief!” Madame Lacordaire tried to break into a run. but not for such exercise had her dainty bot tines been constructed. And at the some moment the inspector laid his rough hairy hand on her delicate wrist. “Not so fast, little mother.” said this odious man. “How dare you. sir.” cried Madame Laconia ire. gaining courage in her indignation at the impact. “How dare you touch me? What do you want?” “A little explanation, my good little lady.” said the official panting hideously. “Will you kindly come back to the library?” “Certainly not.” cried Madame Lacordaire. freeing her wrist with a jerk, which left four blue marks for days afterwards on the soft white skin. “I have nothing to do at the Library. Who are you? Let me pass.” “Yes. let the lady pass.” said a cabman who was looking on. The crowd which had collected rapidly was beginning a hostile manifestation against this hat less bureaucrat, who wanted to force a pretty little lady to accompany him against her will, and the inspector was in despair at the prospect of her escaping him with national property in her possession, when a sergeant-de-ville appeared. “I charge this woman with stealing a volume from the Bibliotheque Nationale.” said the inspector. “This woman—” cried Madame I«i------cordaire, indignantly. However, there was no use in protesting. Perforce she accompanied the policeman and her odious persecutor to the police office in the rue Vivienne. The crowd followed, hooting.

The commissaire was writing at his table when this party entered his ot-

fice. He made a great show of being busy and did not look up for quite an appreciable time. It was the longest minute Madame Laeordaire had lived. •Well, what’s this!” said the magistrate at last, eyeing Madame Lacordaire hard. “Monsieur le Commissaire, said tbe poliee-agent, saluting, “this gentleman accuses this lady ot stealing a book from the National Library.” "•It is an abominable falsehood, cried the lady. "It is an outrage for which you shall all pay dearly. I am Madame Laeordaire.” -rhe wife of M. Lleputy Laeordaire of ludre!” cried the commissary, rising from his seat, with a half bow. —rhe same.” said Madame Lacor“And vou accuse this lady, the wife of a deputy, with theft, sir: ’ cried the magistrate’, turning on the inspector. “1 do Monsieur le Commissaire, Si.id he’ -It is with a thousand regrets, but 1 do. 1 charge her with stealing a pamphlet entitled, Liftmg of the Mask,’ from the National Libra "\Vhy, imbecile, I returned the pamphlet at the desk. ’ 1 "Oh oh, is that so?” said the commissary, siding with the prisoner. "it is true, Monsieur le Commissaire, that she gave back a pamphlet "Well, then." "Wasn’t it 'Lifting of the Mask . cried Madame Laeordaire. "Yes. On the outside. Inside, however, were blank leaves. It was an artful substitution.” . "A fine story,” cried the lady indignantly. ”1 took out a pamphlet called •Lifting of the Mask. And 1 hand back a pamphlet called “Lifting of the Mask.” And you have me dragged through the streets like a pickpocket Oh, but you shall pay for this, if 1 have to go to the Minister himseif. The inspector, however, was not to be intimidated, and disregarding alike the ladv’s threats and the angry looks of the'gallant commissary, repe.i id verv calmly: . “i make a formal charge against this ladv. I accuse her of stealing a copy of a pamphlet, entitled “Lifting of the Mask.’ the property of the National Library. In its place she returned some blank sheets stitch d in o the wrapper of another copy of the same pamphlet. The attention of the receiving clerk was attracted by the fact that whilst the copy handed to this lady was black with dust, the one she returned was quite clean. “Why should this lady steal a pamphlet? Was it of any value?” "Oh, no." said the inspector, shrugoin® his shoulders, "quite worthless. The° work of some unknown scribbler.” •‘Scribbler, indeed’.” began Madame Laeordaire, indignantly. Check ng herself, however, she continued, 1 denv the charge absolutely.” “If Monsieur Commissaire will look at Madame’s muff,” said the inspector, pointing a bony finger, “he will see for himself whether the charge is founded or not.” The end of the pamphlet was sticking out of the end of the muff, in a ruffle of white Valenciennes. Madame Laeordaire gave a scream, and banged her hand down on the protrusion. It was too late. The commissary said so. The charge must be taken. So the muff was impounded, and with willing fingers, the police magistrate, no longer benign, began to explore its perfumed softness. A powder box, dainty little purse, a little tube of lip salve, a scented handkerchief, and a dusty, dirty booklet. The commissary glanced at the title page. Then he muttered. “Oh, 1 begin to understand!” Madame Laeordaire burst into tears. "Oh. do ’not send me to prison,” she cried, wringing her hands so violently that her gloves split in many places. “Oh, I am no thief. Monsieur.” “Nevertheless. Madame ” said the commissary, holding up the pamphlet. “I know. I know,” sobbed Madame Laeordaire. “But I can explain. Oh! I can explain. Only send these horrid men away.” “I do not think either of you need stay.” said the magistrate, not at all displeased at the prospect of a tete-a-tete with such a pretty woman. The police agent saluted and retired.

“But what about the property of the National Library?” said the in-

spector, lingering at the door. The commissary hesitated, but a pleading glance from Madame Lacoruaire's liquid violet eyes decided him. “The book, as a piece de conviction, as an incriminating object, must for the present remain in the hands of the law.” “Very good," said the inspector. He saluted and withdrew. This is a very serious matter,” began the commissaire, “theit of national property, offence provided against by article—article of the Criminal Code. What can have induced you to steal sj worth.ess an object, at such a risk to yourself? Do you suffer from kleptom .nia?” ••Oh, no, no, no,’ sobbed Madame Lacordaire. “Can you give anv explanation of your conduct, then?” said the commisary. crossing to the fireplace and poking the fire. He was a chilly soul, and fuel was supplied by Government. “It’s, its because I love my husband!” cried the lady, with a fresh burst of tears. “Ah! I thought so. The pseudonym on the cover is an anagram for Jean Lacordaire—your husband’s name. I saw that at once.” “How clever you are!” cried Madame Lacordaire, trying a little flitterv. “Well, but why should you want to steal your husband’s book?” “Voila! That pamphlet is a violent exposure of Monsieur Deligny.” "Deligny? The President of the Council? The Prime Minister?” “Yes; it was written seventeen years ago. Jean and Deligny are both from Tournon. and Jean knew all about Deligny’s escapades. They had been comrades and had quarrelled. The pamphlet was written at the time when Deligny was standing for the Isere Department.” •"Ah.-1 see. Now that Deligny has worked his way up to the top of the tree M. Lacordaire regrets having attacked him. because he wants something of the Prime Minster? —Oh. politics, polities!” cried the commissary with an indulgent smile. "That's just it,” cried Madame Laoordaire. “How quickly you do grasp things! Jean has an excellent chance of being appointed Prefect of the Eure. The only thing in his way is this wretched pamphlet, this error of bis youth. Deligny would never forgive it, and our Prefecture would be in the water, if he came to read it.” “Didn't he read it at the time?” “No. Jean’s father stopped it before it was really published. Only this wretched copy, which had been sent up to the Ministry of the Interior to secure copyright—a fine right! —remained. Papa-in-law burned all the others when they came from the printer, except one. which he kept as an awful warning against youthful folly. It was with the cover of that copy that I made up the. dummy." “You admit that then,” said the commissary, resuming for an instant his magisterial air. Then with a smile he added: “But why steal this pamphlet? If Monsieur Deligny did not hear of it when it was written, he was not likely to hear of it now.” “Alas, yes. Monsieur. There are other candidates in the field for the Prefecture of the Eure Department." "Oh. politics, polities! And one of them. 1 suppose, knows of this skeleton in the cupboard of the Lacordaires and ” “All of them do. It was that wretched printer who betrayed Jean, only a day or two ago.” “And do you think that Deligny would bear your husband a grudge for a political pamphlet —however violent—which was written seventeen years ago. anonymously, and never even published?” “Oh. there are such dreadful things about Deligny’s conduct and character in it, things only known to Jean, from his first theft in an orchard up to his candidacy. He would never, never forgive him for the mere intention to reveal them.” “So your husband sent you to purloin this book, at the risk of your liberty?” said the commissary with a pale smile. "Indeed he did not,” cried Madame Lacordaire. indignantly. “Jean is a man of honour. No. I am alone to blame. I. I want to be Madame la Prefete. Besides, I love my husband. I saw how anxious he was. His sleep was disturbed; he had no appetite at his meals. For Deligny to hear of this book meant his political ruin. He is all powerful.”

"Oh. oh!” said the commissary doubtfully. “So to save my poor darling’s future and- ” “To become Madame la Prefete,” interrupted the commissaire, who had rapidly made up his mind what line of action to pursue, “you went”—in stern, magisterial tones, "and stole a volume deposited at the National Library. It was a very serious matter, and must of course go before the Court.** Monsieur le Commissaire was not at all disinclined to ingratiate himself also with a powerful Prime Minister. "Oh. Mon Dieu. mon Dieu.” cried the accused woman. “You need not be so alarmed." said the commissary, crossing back to his desk. “The Court will not be severe on you under the circumstances. Y’ou will have a small fine to pay. voila tout. I shall not detain you. of course. And you will win the reputation of being a model wife. All the husbands in Paris will be on your side. And now. Madame, excuse me. I must write my report to the Parquet.” “Oh, sir, sir!” cried Madame Lacordaire, joining her hands in supplication. “Do not. do not let this matter

go any further. T beseech you—l implore you.” “But. Madame. 1 assure you,” said the conuhlaaary, much moved at the sight of her real distress, "that you need fear nothing but a small fine.” “Oh, it’s not that," she eried. “It’s Jean’s whole future. Deligny will never forgive him. Jean will be ruined. The elections are coming on soon. He will not be re-elected if the Government is against him. And he has worked so hard. It will be too cruel if for a youthful error, a whole career, full of promise, is to be wrecked. For my sake. Monsieur, for the sake of our little children, 1 implore you ” It is probable that the police magistrate, susceptible as he was to the sight of beauty in distress, would have hushed the matter up. using the large discretionary powers vested in the office of commissaire. Unfortunately for Madame Lacordaire she suddenly remembered a striking passage in her favourite volume of Balzac, and, as though the life of a Lucien de Rubenepre instead of the political ambition of a Jean Lacordaire were at stake, reacted, or rather tried to react, one of the most famous scenes in French fiction.

Just as the commissaire was sealing himself al his desk she darted forward with a little cry, pounced upon the incriminating pamphlet and rushed to the hreplace, in which, thanks to the commissary's operations with the poker, a bright tire was burning. She was however prevented in her purpose by the magistrate, who, springing up, intercepted her in the nick of time, and roughly regained possession ot the piece de conviction. He was very indignant. “This is very bad conduct, madame,” he said, "it entirely alters my view of the case.” So saying he stepped forward and struck a bell. Madame Lacordairo sank groaning on to a chair. A police agent appeared in the doorway. “Go round to the Palais Bourbon,” commanded the commissary, “and inform M. Deputy Lacordaire that his wife is under arrest at this office on a charge of theft of national property, and that unless he bails her out at once she will pass the night in St. Inza re prison.” The agent stared at the elegant prisoner sobbing on her chair, saluted and retired. Three months later, day for day. Monsieur Jean Lacordaire. deputy for the Isere Department, received per mounted Republican guard, his nomination to the laced coat, sword and cocked hat of the Prefecture of the Eure. The patent was signed by the President of the Republic and countersigned by the President of the Council. The signature was not “Deligny.” but “Romain Rolland.” Romain Rolland was the new Prime Minister, who after the fall and total collapse of the discredited Deligny Cabinet had, in the picturesque language of “Le . Petit Journal,” “taken in hand the reins of the chariot of the State. Never had there been such a fall as that of Gustave Delingy. Here was a Minister in whom the electorate, the two Chambers, the President of the Republic reposed the most absolute confidence as a man of spotless reputation and character and integrity. And what was he, indeed, under this mask of virtue and impeccability? Ah, for the answer to that question let the student of human nature in its worse aspects turn to the pamphlet called “Lifting of the Mask,” which was written seventeen years ago by Jean Lacordaire —no longer anonymous. This masterly exposure of youthful depravity, to which the attention of the public had been called by a mere accident, was one against which not all the hypocrisies of later years could stand.. The thanks of the nation were due to a brave woman who, by a misguided action, had brought to publio notice the existence of this terrible indictment. The news of her arrest, trial and triumphant acquittal by the Court of Criminal Police had fanned public curiosity into flames. Tha pamphlet had been reprinted in thousands. in hundreds of thousands of copies. Before the public execration thus aroused Deligny had asked for a vote of confidence. The Chamber had refused by a small majority and the Delignv Cabinet fell. To the concluding words of the above resume of the circumstances, which appeared in one of the irreconcilable papers, the author would no doubt have added “never to rise again” had he not been too familiar with French politics not to see the absurditv of such a prediction. Tn the meanwhile Deliomy was out and Romain Rolland, who had been working to undermine him for months, was in. Recognising that But for the ridicule heaped upon his predecessor by Madame Lacordaire’s escapade and the attention it attracted. he might have had to wait many months more ere the Parliamentary see-saw sent him nn once asmin. the least that Romain Bolland coulddowas to reward Jean Lacordaire with the coveted post. And even stranger thino-s have come tn pass in French political life than the wav in which Deputy Lacordaire got his Prefecture.