Diane and Her Friends/Célimène's Diamonds
VII
CÉLIMÈNE'S DIAMONDS
FOR Inspector Joly a fisherman on the parapet of the Seine constituted an almost invincible fascination. It was quite impossible for him, when near the quays, to resist the impulse to join the stragglers watching the issue of the duel going on beneath the surface of the water. For he, too, was a fisherman, though of a different kind. To bait the hook and wait patiently was a part of his professional duty. Any one so occupied excited his interest and elicited his sympathy.
But it was curious to observe how completely these disappeared when the bait was taken. Success produced a sort of mental collapse. In his own operations, it is true, to succeed was to discharge a duty to society, to experience a satisfaction of a moral order. Yet when he asked himself how far this moral satisfaction accounted for his zeal, he was obliged to admit that the discharge of duty was not the source of his keenest pleasure. Observing one day the favorite cat of Madame Joly sitting patiently before the hole in the wainscoting of the pantry, he said:—
"After all, the real pleasure is there."
"What did you say?" asked Madame Joly.
"I said that if I were not an inspector of police I should be a gambler."
"I think," she remarked, dryly, "if you gambled you would be on the side of the bank."
M. Joly always smiled, therefore, when his fellow fishermen were credited with patience—a virtue required when waiting compromises success, not when it contributes to it.
It was this virtue he was endeavoring to exercise one November morning as he sat in the salon of Madame de Caraman in Bourg-la-Reine. Of the reason for his excursion to the country he knew nothing beyond the bare fact that Madame de Caraman had lost a collar of diamonds, which it was his mission to restore. Being an early riser, he had taken the first train from Paris and had evidently intruded upon a household unaccustomed to early hours, for it was now eleven o'clock, and the solemnly uttered phrase "Madame la Vicomtesse will receive monsieur presently" had borne no fruit. It vexed him to find that Madame de Caraman entertained so poor an opinion of official activity and appreciated so little the value of time. But he had taken matters into his own hands and made certain preliminary inquiries. From Paul, the butler, a little man prodigal of smiles and bows, he learned that Madame de Caraman and her cousin, Madame de Wimpffen, having dined in Paris at General Texier's, had returned at midnight; that on their return they had retired at once, while Captain de Wimpffen and M. de Sade had passed an hour at billiards before going to their rooms at one o'clock; that he, Paul, had thereupon closed the house as usual, and on the following morning, when making his customary round, had found the windows and doors securely fastened as he had left them the previous evening; that during the afternoon the rumor that Madame de Caraman's diamonds had disappeared filtered down through her maid, Jacqueline, to the lower servants; and at this point of his narrative Paul wrung his hands, his small round eyes blinking in unison.
"Alas, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, what a misfortune," he wailed, "that after being in the service of Madame la Vicomtesse for twenty years—"
"We are not speaking of the last century," said M. Joly curtly, "but of night before last, when Madame de Caraman wore her diamonds at General Texier's dinner."
"Certainly, certainly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur; I myself observed them. For it was I who removed madame's cloak and hung it with my own hands in the cabinet in the vestibule. Monsieur," he added confidentially, "how, I ask you, came this cloak on the floor of the salon, where I found it when opening the windows in the morning? How the devil, I said to myself "
"Never mind what you said to yourself," interrupted M. Joly impatiently. "Bring me this cloak."
All his life he had been looking for one of those insignificant signs which escape the eye of the professional detective and set the amateur on the trail of the criminal. He had found them so much more frequently in his reading than in his practice, the traces left by the criminal had so invariably been of the vulgar, commonplace order, that he had begun to despair of ever displaying the finesse of which he felt himself capable. But now, at last, he observed on the hem of Madame de Caraman's cloak two pine-needles, caught in the frayed silk of the lining; and as pine-needles were not to be gathered from the rugs of General Texier's apartment, he made a mental note of this fact and put after it the sign of interrogation.
While examining the butler in the salon he made also another discovery—a bit of blue glass.
"Monsieur Paul," he remarked, "the servants in this house do their work badly. There is a bit of broken glass on the floor under the piano."
"It is true," admitted Paul, making haste to pick up the indicated fragment. "I thought we had found every piece of it."
"One should be more careful. A sharp edge like this might easily penetrate the thin sole of a lady's shoe," observed M. Joly, taking the fragment from Paul's fat hand. "It appears to belong to a globe that has been broken."
"Monsieur is quite right. Madame has on her table de nuit a night-lamp with a globe of blue glass. Jacqueline was arranging the flowers brought by the gardener when I was putting the salon in order yesterday morning. 'Mademoiselle,' I said, 'some one has broken something. Here is glass on the floor.' She came over to assist me. 'Ah,' she said, 'that accounts for it. It is the shade of madame's night-lamp which is missing.'"
M. Joly made a second note of interrogation and added the bit of blue glass to what he termed his mental rubbish-heap. These discoveries did not prevent him, however, from taking the ordinary routine precautions. The present possessor of Madame de Caraman's diamonds either was or was not an inmate of the house. He had therefore deemed it prudent to station one of the two local agents he had requisitioned on his arrival at the main entrance, with orders to permit no one to leave without his authorization; the other he sent on a tour of inspection of the wall surrounding the grounds, and, after himself examining the doors and windows of the lower floor, he retired to the salon to await the appearance of Madame de Caraman.
For a long time he sat in silence, amusing himself by taking an inventory of his surroundings by a process of mental photography of his own devising. The orchids in the crystal vases, the roses in the enormous bowl of Chinese porcelain, the precious trifles behind the glass doors of the gilded cabinets, the damascened clock between the amazon in bronze and the shepherdess in Dresden, the indistinct figures of the stately dance on the misty background of tapestry, and the cherubs playing among the rose-tinted clouds on the ceiling having all been duly registered, he folded his hands over his waistcoat and closed his eyes, in order to dream of Monrepos—Monrepos being a small estate as yet existing only in imagination, to which he fully intended to retire with Madame Joly and his savings at a period of life as vague as Monrepos itself. To all appearances he was asleep the sleep of the hound on the hearthrug, who sees nothing and hears everything.
As the clock struck the half-hour he opened his eyes. Through the low, open windows came the rattle of dishes and the sound of voices. Breakfast was being served on the terrace. Then some one said:—
"What! In the salon? Show him out, by all means."
The transition from the modest garden of Monrepos to the terrace overlooking the valley of the Bievre might well have filled him with envy, had not his entire attention been given to the three persons at the breakfast table. Between an officer in uniform and a tall aristocratic person with a waxed mustache sat a little lady in white, with so elusive a charm that the machinery which registered impressions that might prove useful to him failed to work with its customary automatic precision. It was the weak side of his nature to love flowers, of which the blue eyes of the lady in white reminded him; to adore children, whose straightforward honesty he discovered in the blue depths to which his gaze was constantly reverting. So unimportant a detail as a ravishing blue bow on the little shoe beneath the edge of the white dress assumed in his register a place altogether unwarranted. In the brief moment of silence which followed his appearance he catalogued the blue eyes as those of Madame de Caraman and the waxed mustache as that of her husband, while the uniform of the big-shouldered officer tilted back in the wicker chair certainly belonged to the garrison of the neighboring fort of Chatillon. None of these people, he observed, asked him to sit down.
"You are—" began M. de Caraman.
"Inspector Joly."
"Good. The prefect is prompt. It was only yesterday at four o'clock that I telegraphed him."
M. Joly said to himself that the promptness of the prefecture was not that of Bourg-la-Reine, and that it had availed him nothing.
"Pray be seated," said Madame de Caraman.
"You have not yet seen Madame de Caraman, I suppose," said her husband.
Confused by the remark, M. Joly interrogated the blue eyes. "I have lost half a day," he replied stiffly.
"Not at all; you are in error, Monsieur Joly. No one loses any time in Bourg-la-Reine. Observe Madame de Wimpffen, for example. She grows younger every hour."
"Monsieur de Sade!"
So the lady in white was not Madame de Caraman, and the waxed mustache did not belong to her husband. M. Joly revised his catalogue.
"Oh, no, Monsieur Joly, believe me, you have lost nothing. On the contrary, let me explain to you." M. de Sade selected carefully a cigarette from a silver case and tapped it lightly on the table. "Every investigation of this nature naturally proceeds logically from a basis of facts. You expect to obtain these facts from Madame de Caraman, since it is she who has lost this precious collar of diamonds. Well, you will be disappointed. Madame de Caraman will furnish lamentations, an indefinite variety of psychical phenomena—but facts—oh, never!"
"Monseieur de Sade!" interrupted the lady in white again.
"Come now, Diane, you know I speak the truth. Shall I prove it to you? Let us suppose Madame de Caraman takes a walk in the forest"—M. de Sade waved his hand in the direction of Fontenay—"and encounters, say, a bear. Would she be able to describe it to you? Of the emotions which the bear produced in her, oh, yes, that I grant you. They would be very entertaining to listen to, and more numerous than those microbes which Monsieur Pasteur affirms dance on the point of a needle without danger of falling. But after all was said, you would know nothing about the bear—whether it was a grizzly from North America or a polar bear from the Arctic Circle."
A little frown of displeasure struggled loyally with the smile of amusement on the face of Madame de Wimpffen. Her companion in uniform laughed outright.
"I assure you, therefore, Monsieur Joly," continued M. de Sade, lighting the cigarette in his long white fingers, "you have lost nothing. Do not imagine I am one of those creations of the novelist who unravels a mystery from his inner consciousness; still"—blowing out the wax taper with the smoke—"while Madame de Caraman is finishing her toilet, it is possible, if you are so disposed, that I—"
"Have you breakfasted, Monsieur Joly?" asked Madame de Wimpffen.
M. Joly looked up gratefully from the blue bows to the blue eyes. It was true that he was hungry. He resolved to have in Monrepos a bed of flowers of that same wonderful blue color.
"Serve Monsieur Joly breakfast," said Madame de Wimpffen to the valet.
And still looking into the blue eyes, M. Joly said, "I am at your service, monsieur."
"Let us begin, then, with ourselves, for in these cases no one escapes suspicion. I present you first to Madame Diane de Wimpffen, who, with her husband and myself, is enjoying Madame de Caraman's hospitality. Madame de Wimpffen knows very well that if there were any flaw in her composition I should long ago have discovered it. There is none. Therefore she is the more to be suspected. Nothing is so abnormal as limpidity. You have only to consult the works of Monsieur Becquerel, the physicist. He will tell you the complex can be studied with profit, while the simple resists all analysis. As for Captain de Wimpff en, he is too clumsy either to commit a theft or to conceal one" The captain laughed again good-naturedly. "Moreover, he has no need of diamonds, since he has Madame de Wimpffen."
"Monsieur de Sade, you are making yourself ridiculous."
"We come now to myself," continued M. de Sade, paying no attention to this interruption. "I confess that I make a bad showing, for I lost forty thousand francs last week at the club. Naturally, the debt is paid. But how? That is for you to discover, monsieur. It is well known that there exist people who willingly sacrifice the diamonds of others to meet their own obligations. I pass over that point, which is a delicate one, for another even more so. For I admit that I know that beside Madame de Caraman's bed,—on the left as you face it, Monsieur Joly,—there is in the wall an iron safe? How do I know that? Because only day before yesterday Madame de Caraman showed me her treasures, of which she is very proud. There are some remarkable curios among them—one especially, a miniature of exquisite workmanship, protected by the thin slice of a diamond of the purest water and surrounded by gems of the rarest quality. Personally I much prefer this heirloom to anything so banal as a collar of diamonds—a point, you observe, in my favor. But enough of myself. Let us pass to Madame de Caraman. Obviously she is above suspicion. For why should a woman steal her own diamonds? But why does a woman do anything? Who knows, perhaps Madame de Caraman, like many worthy persons, has made the acquaintance of Shylock on the Rialto of Paris. There is another possibility. The diamonds are not stolen, but lost. I have known women to lose possessions more valuable than diamonds with less regret."
"Come, come, de Sade," grumbled the captain, "you go too far."
"Agreed. I wish only to exhaust every hypothesis. For myself, I do not for a moment believe the collar is lost. For if it were only lost, Madame de Caraman would say nothing about it, for fear of grieving her husband. For you will admit, Diane," said M. de Sade, appealing to Madame de Wimpffen, "that of all your cousin Célimène's admirable qualities, the desire to please is the most conspicuous—she even mistakes it for loving."
"You must not believe all Monsieur de Sade's nonsense," said Diane.
"Wait!" exclaimed that gentleman suddenly. "I have forgotten Monsieur de Caraman—but that is not to be wondered at, since Madame de Caraman herself forgets him so easily. There, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, so much for the dramatis personæ. Now for the facts."
"They have their importance," said M. Joly caustically, taking out his watch. "I have been in Bourg-la-Reine since eight o'clock, and it is now sixteen minutes of noon. If Madame de Caraman would deign to receive meæ"
"Oh," interrupted M. de Sade, "as to that you need not be concerned. With Madame de Caraman you may rely absolutely upon the unexpected. You expected to see her—she disappoints you. You abandon hope—she appears suddenly."
"Monsieur de Sade, be serious," said Diane. "Besides, I have something to tell Monsieur Joly which may be useful to him."
"You are right, Diane," nodded the captain, approvingly. "Interrogate us, monsieur, since you are here for that purpose."
M. Joly was not slow to grasp his opportunity.
"Madame de Caraman missed her diamonds yesterday?" he began.
"Yes, at three o'clock. She wished to show me a vanity-box which Monsieur de Caraman had given her. On going to the safe beside the bed, she saw at once the diamonds were missing."
"And nothing else?"
"Nothing. The case was open, empty. Nothing else was disturbed."
"Do you happen to know when Madame de Caraman last saw these diamonds?"
"Perfectly—"
"Have a care, Diane," interrupted M. de Sade. "A too willing witness arouses suspicion."
"Perfectly, monsieur. The day before yesterday we dined with General Texier in Paris. Célimène wore her diamond collar. We returned at midnight. My room adjoins hers, and we went up together. She rang for her maid, and while waiting asked me to unfasten her collar. I distinctly remember that she herself replaced it in the case and locked the safe."
"Of what kind is this safe, madame?"
"That I cannot tell you. It has an iron door, and a key—just an ordinary key."
"And this key, do you know by any chance where madame keeps it?"
"Probably under her handkerchiefs in the drawer of her dressing-table," suggested M. de Sade.
"No, I do not know," replied Diane quietly.
"That is all you have to tell me, madame?"
"No."
"The devil! Diane," exclaimed M. de Sade, "you have a secret and you have not told it!"
"I preferred to tell monsieur when he should come." M. de Sade shrugged his shoulders. M. Joly said to himself, "You are an intelligent woman." "Raoul, tell Monsieur Joly what we have seen."
The captain leaned forward on the table of Florentine mosaic, interlocking as he spoke his stout fingers.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur," he said, "I slept badly that night. After a long dinner I require to smoke before sleeping soundly. At two o'clock I rose and opened my wife's door. 'Diane,' I said, 'are you asleep?' There was no answer. You see, from her room a window opens on a balcony. I wished to sit in the fresh air," said the captain, inflating his powerful lungs. "I opened the window carefully, lit my cigar, and began to enjoy myself. Presently I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my wife's. 'What are you doing?' she said. 'You see,' I replied, 'I am smoking. If you too wish to enjoy the night air, come, I will get your cloak.' I fumbled for some time in the wardrobe. In the dark, monsieur, garments resemble cats, in this respect that they are all alike. At last I found something. 'Raoul,' she said, 'you have brought me an underskirt.' 'Never mind,' I replied, 'the night is dark and St. Martin will not see you'—for you know, monsieur," explained the captain, affably, "we are now in the summer of St. Martin. Well, we sat there for some time in silence. At last I said, 'Diane, am I dreaming?' 'I am,' she replied. 'But look!' I whispered, seizing her arm. 'What is that on the terrace?' Tell monsieur, Diane; you narrate better than I do."
" What we saw was a light ascending the steps which you see lead down into the park. At the head of the steps it crossed the terrace in the direction of this door where we are sitting and passed out of sight."
"An hallucination," said M. de Sade.
The captain brought his fist down on the head of one of the centaurs in the frieze of the table. "Thunder of God!" he exclaimed, "I was wide awake."
Madame de Wimpffen laid her hand caressingly over the bronzed fist of her husband.
"Well, then, a miracle, if you prefer," laughed M. de Sade.
"De Sade," said the captain, tapping the table with one of his stout fingers, " you know very well I am not easily deceived. When a light travels through the air at a metre's height it is because some one carries it, and if I do not perceive this person it is because the night is dark. Proceed, Diane."
"We went in at once. My husband lighted a candle with the intention of going down. While he was dressing I heard sounds in my cousin's room. 'Raoul,' I said, 'some one is moving in Célimène's room. I will go in and see what is happening.' I opened the door. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. 'Célimène, dear,' I asked, 'what is the matter?' 'I am frightened,' she said. 'I have had a nightmare—but it is over—forgive me for disturbing you, and go to bed.' I embraced her. She was trembling. 'It was very foolish in me, but it is nothing—go to bed,' she said again. I embraced her again, returned to my room, and told my husband."
"You also made an observation which you have omitted to repeat, Diane," said the captain.
Madame de Wimpffen hesitated.
"You said to me, 'Raoul, Célimène had on her face that foolish look of a child caught in a fault.'"
M. de Sade, humming to himself, walked to the terrace steps.
"Monsieur Joly," said Madame de Wimpffen, "the thoughts that one blurts out to one's husband are not to be taken into account."
Silence.
"We decided not to speak of what we had seen," resumed Diane. "Monsieur de Caraman is absent, and my cousin is easily disturbed. In the morning she made light of her adventure. She said she had had a bad dream. If the diamonds were not missing I should not speak of this now."
"There was a light in Madame de Caraman's room when you entered?" asked M. Joly.
"Certainly, else—"
"One moment, if you please. The night-lamp on Madame de Caraman's table de nuit has a blue shade, has it not? Did you observe this shade when you entered?"
A look of surprise swept over Madame de Wimpffen's face.
"No, Monsieur, I did not observe that. But now that you ask me—it seems to me—I think there was no shade. It is not a lamp; it is one of those candles with a globe which protects the flame from the wind."
"One question more, madame. This light which you saw on the terrace, was it white? or did it perchance have a blue color?"
Madame de Wimpffen exchanged a quick glance with her husband.
"Monsieur Joly, what you are thinking of is impossible," she said, with dignity.
"Madame," said M. Joly, smiling, "what I am thinking of you do not know, since I do not know myself. Monsieur de Sade has put so many ideas into my head that I cannot find my own."
The valet, appearing with the breakfast-tray, began to lay the table.
"If you do not wish to question us further, monsieur," said Diane, rising, "we will leave you to enjoy your breakfast. I see Madame de Caraman's shutters are open. I am sure she will receive you presently."
No, M. Joly would ask no questions. He watched the two as they crossed the gray stone flagging of the terrace and disappeared with M. de Sade down the broad steps between the huge urns with their dark-green pyramids of cypress, then turned to his breakfast.
He was entirely satisfied with his wife's cuisine, yet he enjoyed immensely that of Madame de Caraman. The November air had the crisp softness of two seasons, and the Sauterne a flavor which reminded him that the i5th of the month was approaching—an anniversary day on which he always dined with Madame Joly at a certain café whose cellar was excellent.
The valet placed the box of regalias on the table.
He selected one carefully, made four small incisions with the point of his penknife—then reflected. He never smoked when on duty. He closed his knife, put the cigar in his pocket, and sighed.
The rustle of a dress on the marquetry floor of the salon came faintly through the open door. He looked up and saw a maid in black, with a white collar and apron. It is Jacqueline, he thought.
"If monsieur will have the goodness to follow me—Madame la Vicomtesse will receive him."
At the door of a small boudoir hung with rose brocade M. Joly perceived one of the Bath chairs to be seen at the seaside, against whose background of rose-colored silk Madame de Caraman's morning-gown of lace made an effective contrast. A white hand marked with blue veins answered his bow by a gesture which said, be seated.
"You are the officer sent by Monsieur Levigne? "
M. Joly bowed again.
"Monsieur de Sade was good enough to telegraph for me. The prefect is very kind. I little thought when I last saw him I am greatly disturbed by this loss, Monsieur—"
"Joly, madame."
"Monsieur Joly. It was a gift from my husband on my name-day. Such remembrances possess a value which cannot be estimated. Monsieur de Caraman will feel its loss as deeply as I do." In the wistful brown eyes resided an appealing expression. The same pathetic demand for sympathy lingered in the delicate lines of the mouth, as if reluctant to abandon them. M. Joly said to himself: "Here is a well woman who is an invalid." "There is also the knowledge that some one has penetrated into my house, or, what is still more painful to believe, that I cherish 'a thief in my household. I cannot tell you how much this thought oppresses me." The pale, oval face, animated by a sort of vivacious sadness, awakened in M. Joly's breast a sentiment of pity. "In the absence of my husband"—the white hands were smoothing out the troubled folds of lace—"I must rely wholly upon you, monsieur."
Again M. Joly bowed, depositing his hat on the floor beside his chair and folding his hands over his waistcoat.
"You will, then, permit me to ask certain questions."
"Assuredly, Monsieur Joly. I am waiting."
"I do not need to tell you," he began, "that a thief who breaks into a house leaves some sign of infraction. There is none." Madame de Caraman became attentive. "There is the hypothesis of an accomplice who admits him. But for a thief who steals a collar of diamonds, to leave behind him still greater booty, is unusual, whether this thief enters by force or is admitted by an accomplice."
"But, Monsieur Joly," interrupted Madame de Caraman, "you forget—for certainly I have read of such cases—that while engaged in a robbery one may be disturbed—some noise alarms the intruder—"
"Madame," said M. Joly, "the curé of Saint-Médard calls me a skeptic, because in seeking to account for what I do not understand I adopt always the most natural explanation. He, on the contrary, always adopts the most unnatural one. It astonishes me that of two explanations he should invariably choose the least probable. For that reason I conclude that what he really prefers is the mystery itself and not its explanation, since his explanation always involves another mystery still more mysterious. Let us recapitulate. After locking the safe in which you deposited the diamonds on the night of your return from Paris—"
"You know all this!" exclaimed Madame de Caraman, leaning forward.
"From Madame de Wimpffen."
"Ah! you have talked with Diane."
"In order not to lose time," said M. Joly politely.
"Proceed, monsieur."
'"After locking the safe, you secreted the key—for I suppose you secreted it—"
"Yes, under my pillow, where I always place it on retiring."
"And in the morning?"
"In my corsage, where it is now. You see," she said, holding it out to him. "Monsieur de Caraman also has a key, which he carries on his person. But he is absent."
"Well, then, how does it happen, madame, if, between midnight of Sunday when you locked the safe and three o'clock of Monday when you opened it, this key which you hold in your hand remained in your possession—"
"But might not some one have possessed himself of a third key?" interposed Madame de Caraman.
"I am coming to that," assented M. Joly. "There is, then, a third key, and a thief who is alarmed in the act of using it. At what hour is he thus alarmed? Was it by any chance at two o'clock, ater midnight, when madame is awakened by a bad dream?"
The slight figure stiffened like a snake about to strike, and anger flamed in the pale cheeks.
"Madame de Wimpffen has told you this?"
"Why not?" pursued M. Joly quietly. "There are bad dreams and bad dreams. In one of those dreams a woman takes the night-lamp from her table, descends the stairs to the closet in the vestibule, wraps about her shoulders the cloak which she finds there, and enters the salon. She even opens the window and passes out into the park. For Monsieur de Wimpffen from his balcony sees the light of her lamp crossing the terrace, and on the hem of her cloak, which on her return she drops on the floor of the salon, are found some of those pine-needles with which the pines I see below the terrace strew the ground—"
"Monsieur!" gasped Madame de Caraman.
"Madame," said M. Joly gently, "if you have anything to fear, if it is your desire,! will take the next train to Paris, and I will say to Monsieur Levigne: 'Monsieur le Préfet, there was an error. The diamonds have been found.'"
Indignation struggled with fear. "I have nothing to fear, nothing," she cried, "but you terrify me."
"I am convinced of it. Believe me, madame, I am not so naïve as to suppose that a woman goes to an assignation in her own park, every foot of which she knows by heart, with a lighted candle in her hand, and if I had conceived so absurd an idea I should not have been so indelicate as to confide it to her."
Madame de Caraman began to laugh hysterically.
"But it is true. I found myself in the salon with my cloak over my nightdress—my candle in one hand. I was so terrified, I trembled so, the shade fell. At the noise I fled to my room—but the park, never, monsieur, never."
"It is absolutely necessary that you should have gone to the park, madame. That is indispensable."
"I must have been mad," she murmured, pressing her hands to her forehead, "mad."
"Fortunately the madness which one commits in one's sleep is not provided for in the Penal Code," said M. Joly. "What interests me most is something which you have forgotten—the diamond collar. If madame would do me the honor to take a short promenade in that bosquet of pines, who knows—"
"It would be incredible."
"Ah, madame," smiled M. Joly, picking up his hat and bowing in his most gallant manner, "let us leave the incredible to the curé of Saint-Médard and follow the scent of those pine-needles in the hem of your cloak."
In the letter that Madame de Wimpffen wrote that evening to the Countess Anne occurred this sentence:—
"We were feeding, Raoul and I, the carp in the pond, when we saw Célimène and the inspector—that same Monsieur Joly who came to Freyr to arrest your gardener—descending the steps of the terrace. They traversed the pines to that inclosure which Célimène calls the sub rosa, a spot carpeted with myrtles and hedged with box and ilexes. In its green niches are statues, at one extremity marble seats, and at the other a fountain from which water is constantly falling into a shell of marble.
EXPOSED TO THE INCLEMENCY OF THE WEATHER
"A few days ago we were all sitting in this retreat, when Monsieur de Sade began descanting in the manner which you know. 'It is a violation of every principle of good taste,' he said, 'to people our gardens with these naked statues. The man who originated this barbarous custom should be stripped and subjected to the same punishment. By what canon of art do we expose these charming creatures to the inclemency of the weather! I warrant you that if ever the dryads and fauns of Greece existed they clothed themselves like our ancestors, in the skins of wild animals. Observe that poor nymph whose fair skin is discolored with mould. See how the dung of the birds and the refuse of the forest have fallen on her hair, and what foul stains mar the virginity of her bosom! Can any one imagine anything more cruel?'
"'But, Monsieur de Sade,' said Célimène, 'these are creatures of the imagination.' 'A fine reason for exposing them to dirt and influenza! If I had created a being so lovely as that nymph, I would place her beside my fire in my boudoir, and not leave her to shiver in this solitude. If you should throw your mantle about those graceful shoulders she would look up into your face with a smile of gratitude. And not a single jewel! If you give a flute to Pan and a club to Hercules, why not a jewel to Venus?' 'But these beautiful forms have no need of jewels, Monsieur de Sade,' said Célimène. 'For whom are you speaking?' he replied; 'for yourself or for Madame Venus yonder? Fasten your collar of diamonds about her neck and I will wager you a thousand napoleons she will descend from her pedestal like Galatea and go to admire herself in the fountain.' 'I will try it,' said Célimène.
"And to think that she should do so!"