Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 158, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 July 1912 — THE Pursuit of the Topaz [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE Pursuit of the Topaz

By MAX PEMBERTON

(Copyright, by W. Q. Chapman.)

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 allow It to go; but now he knocked imperiously, and when I opened to him he stood his that which he meant for discretion upon his lips. "Well," said I, "what the devil do you want? Can't you see I’m dressing?" ■ At this he looked with obvious pity for me towards the basin, but quickly recovered himself. "Dame," said he, with a line Gascon accent, “there Is a lady waiting for monsieur In the salon.” “A lady!” cried I with surprise; “who is Bhe?” “I am but three days in Paris,” replied he, "and she Is a stranger to me. If monsieur prefers it, I will ask her some questions,” “You will please do nothing ofthe sort ; give her name?” "I seem to remember that she did, but it has escaped me. I shall’say shat yon are engaged, and will see her to-morrow;, monsieur leaves Paris at nine o’clock hein?” He Baid this-with another vulgar leer, but I turned round upon him fiercely, for I had begun to brush what is left of my hair. "You impudent poltroon!” exclaimed I; "leave toe room instantly, and tell the lady that I will be with her In five minutes.” “Ah,” said he, “it is like that then? Very good; I shall safeguard your interests; trust in me. May I be permitted to light the candles?" He said this with a fine eye to the hill; but I sent him away after some, display of temper, and finished my dressing quickly.' At the time of this occurrence I bad been in the I-Yench capital for one -week, being carried there by the- announcement of tbe sale of the Countess Boccallnfs jewelsOn tbe nlgbt of which I am writing, my trading was done, and a ridiculous promise to go to the Opera ball alone kept me in Paris. How the promise came to be given toymy friend Tussal I cannot remember; but he had assured me that the ball was the event of April. By the terms of bis invitation I was to meet him at the Grand case at midnight, and thence , was to proceed to the opera house at half-past twelve. I had determined to dine quietly at my own afterwards to spend the Intervening hours at the Theatre de la Porte*St. Martin; for which purpose I dressed at a comparatively early hour; 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 ldear and i turned oyer 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. “I am 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,” said she, speaking with an accent which added to the charm of her English,* "I have heard of you often from Madam Carmalovitch, whose husband gwned the famous opal; you were very kind to her —■” “1 was exceedingly sorry for her," I replied; “are you - a relation of hers?" “Oh, no!" she exclaimed; “I am Mademoiselle Edlle 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." ‘‘l won’t waste your time by being ambiguous,” said I; “you have come to consult me 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 bold which served as a mount for a small circle of turquoise and an exceedingly large rose-pink topaz, which possessed all the luster of a diamond. \■ “It’s exceedingly pretty,” said I, “and your stones are very good. There is a little green at the base of the larger turquoises, but you yrlll hardly match the topaz in Paris. Are you seeking to know the value at it?" “I.would ask that,” she answered quickly; “it was a gift from my dance, Mons. Georges B&rre, whom you may know by name,” I vow it was very bewitching to watch the rosy blush which “Suffused her cheek when she made this confession. Yet she spoke with the ring of pride in her voice, and I replied to her encouragingly while she put her treasure beneath her cloak. as though she feared that other eyes hers, should rest even upon the csss at it “Moos. Bane Is well known to me . * ■

by name,” said I; “his bust of Victor Hugo from last year’s salon is. at this moment the chief ornament of my library. I must now congratulate him for the seoond time.” At this she laughed, but the ripples .filed away quickly upon her face, and the look of haunting fear again troubled her eyes. I observed that she was reticent In speaking plainly to me, and dld my bestto help her out witlf it. “You have not yet put to me,said I, “the precise question which brought you hqre. It concerns the bracelet, of course?* “Ye—yes ” said she, “but I am very much afraid you will laugh at me. 1 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 tonight?” ' Her confusion, when thus she had unburdened herself, was overwhelming. “Mademoiselle Bernier,” said I, “the most important part of the intelligence you meant to bring to me remains nnspoken. Let me encourage you to tell me everything freely, and be assured that without your express permission nothing you may say will be remembered by me.” “Thank you very much,” she said quietly, evidently regaining complete confidence; “but I have nothing to conceal. A week ago, Mons. Barre gave me this bracelet with the stipulation that I should wear it at the ball tonight. Two days ago, I received this letter, which I hesitated to show even to yqu, lest it should be ah injustice to the man I love.” She passed, with her words, a dirty scrap of a note to me, toe leaf of a sheet of the commonest lined scribbling paper; and I read upon It, written in very bad French, the warning: “Mademoiselle. If you wear the topaz bracelet at the Opera ball tonight you carry death upon your arm.” Thrice I read this; and as I read 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 that 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 menton such a thing to her; she would die of fear.” I had now begun to pace up and down the room, being in a very whirl of theory and conjecture. And, in truth, the problem presented so many possibilities that it might well have troubled a man whose whole occupation was the solution of mysteries. “Tell me,” said I, stopping of a sudden before her, “what led you to me?”

“Madam Carmaloyitch.” said she. “I went to her first, but she knqw you were in Paris, and would not rest until I had consented to see you. She would have come with me, but te latterly almost always unable to face the night air.” “You have 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.” “Since you are determined to be there to-night,” said I, “perhaps you will give me Mons.. Georges Barre’s address?” "Oh, for toe love of God, don’t tell him!" she cried; “he would never forgive me if I distrusted his present.” "My dear young lady, I quite understand that. Really, you credit me with being a very poor diplomatist. When I see him I doubt if I shall even mention your name to him.” “You promise me that?” “I promise you, at least, that he shall never know of your coming to me. But I must exact another promise from you—it 1a that you will not wear the topaz until you have my permtesion.” “But Georges expects me to wear it at the ball.” “He wouldrnot expect you to risk your life. And there is no reason, so far as I can see, why I should not be able to give yon permission, or to refuse It, by eleven o’clock. You do not go to toe opera until midnight, I presume?” “Mons. Barre has promised, to call tat the Rue Boissiere at * quarter put twelve. He has. an apartment tat (he Hotel Scribe. I can 1 scarce go with him and leave his gift at home.” "Of course you can’t, but 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. Meanwhile; I have one more question to put to you, forgive It tram a man who te nearly old enough to be your tether. Before you became the fianeee at Mons. Barre waz there—well, was there any other In your thoughts?" 22*2**“*

"Never lor a moment, ? was la a convent until last year, and I have not spoken to six men since I left* “Thai Is all I want to know. Wo win both dine now; bat first let me look at your bracelet once more.” She handed me the ease again; and L leaving her for a moment to fetch my glass, pat the jewel under the strong light of the chandelier, and examined every Inch of it within and without. ‘ I discovered then that which had escaped me upon first acquaintance with it In one of the crevices of the clasp there was a blood-stain, unmistakable, even fresh, yet so concealed by the embossment of the jewels that I did not wonder she had remained In Ignorance of it Bat when I gave It to her again I doubt not that I was very serious, and this she observed, and made comment upon. “You see something now which yon did not see ten minutes ago," she cried; “you will surely tell me?” “I see a very pretty pink topaz," said I, forcing a smile, “and a young lady who Is missing her dinner. Come. have some confidence in me, and put all these thoughts out of your mind until I ask you to” remember them again.” ‘. v “I will,” said she, “and can never thank you enough; you do not know what a trouble you have taken from my mind.” Here was the end of our interview, for we had come to the door of the courtyard gs we spoke, and I put her at once into the neat little brougham which was waiting for her. There were but two other men, the concierge, and a abort, exceedingly dark man In evening dress, about the place at that time; and as the brougham drove away it occurred to me that toe latter fellow was watching me rathe** ninnoiy, upon which I had a good look at him; bat he turned away sharply to toe 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 ouce, and to use every device at my command in the interests of the

helpless girl who had called upon me. It was now near to 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 he was—still loitered about the place; but again appeared to avoid scrutiny. This second appearance of his seemed to me—l knew not why—as the shaping of a story from the air; but I had no courage then to speak to him, and I walked on down the boulevard, perceiving as I went that dambeaus already lighted the great opera house, add that the canaille were preparing for the riot. When at last I came to the hotel, and sent up my card, the answer was that Mons. Bairs had just left, and was not expected to return until the next morning. How completely this answer undid my purpose I could never set down. The man was my only possible hope. I quitted the passage of the hotel, being still bent upon the journey to the Hue Boissiere, and was again upon the pavement before the case, when I saw the Italian for the third time. He stood upon the very edge of the curbstone, undisguisedly waiting for me, so that upon a sadden Impulse, which had wisdom in it, I walked over to him, and this time he did not turn away. / “Forgive the question,” said I, in my miserable Wench, "but yon are betraying an interest In my movements which is unusual; in fact, you have fob lowed me from ™y I think?" "Exactly," he replied, having even less of the tongile than I had, though I make no attempt to reproduce the vagaries of his idiom. ”1 followed yon hers, as yon say—” Tar what purpose, may I ask?” - . “To warn you!” “To warn me!" “Certainly, since you carry in yoar pocket ths topaz bracelet” “Oh,” said I, taken aback at his false conclusion, “it Is thst, t> ttT 1 am much obliged to you. bat I don’t happen to ♦fling* “Mon Wen!" skid he; “then she m not sen It to you (

“And she will wear It at tbe ball tonight?" “Of ooorael” “Mother of Qofil she Is a dead woman then.” - " It is often possible to tell from the chord of voice a man strikes In conversation whether he he friend or enemy. I knew from the sympathetic note in this earnest exclamation that I had to do with one who wished well to Mademoiselle Bernier. “Look hefe,” said I, “this Is no time for words like this. Come into the case with me, and I will pay you fifty pounds for what yon know. It shall be worth a hundred If you convince me that you have done a substantial kindness to Mademoiselle Bernier.” "first,” said he, “tell me, did mademoiselle speak of a letter she had received?" _■ • •" ■la “She not only spoke of It, but she gave It to me to read,” I replied. "Well,” said he, “I wrote it" “I gathered that from your words,” said I next; “and of course you wrote “You shall hear them,” said he, sipping freely of his drink. “That bracelet was 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, btit, 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 tbe memory of the woman I refer to is at this moment eating out my heart. She was an Italian girl, 16 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 toe

bracelet, now about twenty-six months ago, at the Mardi Gras ball in Savonh, and she fell dead before my very eyes ten minutes after she had entered the ball room. She had drunk poisoned coffee, and no man but one knew 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 say; but to know and to arrest are different things.” “Have you any idea as to the man’s whereabouts now?” “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 ne could say more I rose from my chair and summoned the head waiter of the place tp me. Then I wrote an urgent message upon a leaf at 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 home for this night at any rate. "Now,” said I, “we can talk still at our leisure. Yon have taken me back to Marseilles fourteen months ago; let ns have the chapter-in your life which precedes that one.” '.-"P ' _ He finished og his absinthe, and called for another glass before he would answer me. At last he said: “Yon ask me to speak of ♦!»>»»« which I would well forget. I have sufficient confidence in you, however, to trust my safety in your hands. The story is not a long one. Three years ago I was a struggling palqter In Savona, giving half my life to a study of the pictures in the cathedral—yon may know the work of Antonio Bernini there end the other half to the worship of Pauline di Chigi, the daughter of a silversmith who lives over against the Hotel Royal. Needless to tell yon at my poverty, or of my belief m myself. 1 lived then in the day-dreams which come at the seed-time of art; they were broken mOy by the waywardness of the girl/by her womanly

fickleness, by toe riches of toe men who sought her. "But arrlvons! In the end of the January of last year, L struggling to embrace a career tat which I have failed because I have genius and no talent, obtained a commission from the Dominican monks to go to the valley of Ban "Bernardo, and to take up my residence there while I retouched some of toe more modern and more faded pictures in the sanctuary of Nostra Signora di Mlserlcordla. The shrine and village lie in the mountains five miles above Savona. The former is now regaining Its splendor, though grievously pillaged by toe French and by later vandals. The work would have been recreation to me had It not been for Pauline, whom I left to the persecution ofatot and shulless trader, . and to the solicitations of her father that she should marry him. “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 noon of the Sunday In the path which leads one high amongst the mountains, here rising green and purple, and afar with snowcaps above this lovely spot; and, chancing to turn aside from tbe 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. Below me were rocks of marble-black, yellow, red —all colors; aloe trees flourished abundantly, springing from every cranny of the dell; and though toe reign of winter was not done, flowers blossomed everywhere, and multitudinous shrubs were rich In green and buds. Here I sat. for an hour burled 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; in fact, I mounted it with difficulty;mid 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, just 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.

“For some minutes I sat, being dizzy and shaken, on the soft grass. When I could look around me I saw a strange thing. In a mound of the mold 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 thing 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. I need scarce tell you that all the curiosity which is a part erf me was whetted at this unexpected sight; and believing that I had come upon a very mine of treasure, I shook the mold off me and went quickfir by the eafeier path to the hill-top and the place of the landslip. “Twilight was now rushing through the mountains, and a steely light, soon to turn into 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 hillside 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 *aw_ little. The few bright things that lay about in the part of the trough which remained were entirely such vessels as serve priests in the mass. Them was a pyx in 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 ”70. It was equally clear that they were the property of the Dominicans whose house was hard by; and either that their present hiding place was unknown, or that they had been left in concealment for some reason of diplomacy. In any case, the value of the stones in the monstrance was unquestionable; but I am an Italian, as yon see, end I believed then, as now, In nothing but omens. For a long while no thought of touching these things, scarce even of handling them —so strong in human flesh is the grain of early superstition —came 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 the topaz above them would sit well upon the arms of Pauline; I even saw her in my fancy coquetting to me for the present I began to laugh aloud at the other thoughts, to call them echoes of childish schooling, to handle the chalice and the ring of jewels, and to tell myself that there would be no bigger fool in Europe if I did not take them. Need I tell you that the reasoning convinced me? and quickly, as Hie cold of the mist grew more intense, I took the baubles in my hand, still lacking the courage to secure the chalice and the crucifix, and rose to leave the p||| AO “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 yon that dark had faßenupon the ravine as I roes to quit it, and that mists rose thick from ths vgUey with the early night. You will, therefore, easily understand my disemnfitnre when, reflected bjwi ths light* *in*the next < bm>

ment a man, young but ragged, with. full-bearded face, the cape of f. : priest about his shouldeM, stood swtoft ing his lantern before me, and looking down at the tomb of the jewels by our. feet I know not why, but there was something of such power and command writ upon toe monk's face that | j have never called him by any other ' name than the Christ With what feelings he inspired me I cannot tell you. Terror, human terror. Is no word foe my experience. “Thus I stood facing the man wheat he opened hls lips to curse me. I believe now, and shall always believe, tnat he is nothing hut a madman, whose brain has failed from long fasting. Be that as It may, hls words ring yet In my ears. If you search the world through, read the curse upom Barbarous, and all the volumes of anathema, you will never find such a blasting accusation as the men spoke when he saw the monstrance In my hand. 80 dreadful was It that I reeled before him; and, losing ell command, t struck him down with my stick and fled the place. The next day I quitted the valley of San Bernardo, and In a week Paulino was wearing the topaz, set by her father as a bracelet, and the diamonds sparkled upon her fingers. She covered me with kisses foe the gift, and in ber embraces I forgot the madman of the hills and my meb ancholy passed. “The rest of my story yon know, Paulino wore tbe topaz at the Msrdl Gras hall, and died ten minutes after she had entered the room. A year Inter, having fled from Italy, I became engaged por passer le temps to Berthe Duval at Marseilles. A man has many love affairs, but only one passion. I was not in love with her, hut she wae rich, and troubled herself to get • smattering of art-talk, which amused me. One day she found the topaz In my ztndlo 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 Parle, selling the topaz on my way Imre to M. Georges Barre. I have never ceased to regret that which I did; I have, lamented it the most since I saw the exquisite creature who Is to be his wife. And when, three days ago, I discovered the madman who had cursed me at San Bernardo in the very Rue Boissiere where Mademoiselle Bernier lives, 1 determined to save her though the . deed cost me a confession and my liberty.” “Come,” said I, “presuming that your picture is not highly colored, it la quite time we were at the opera; it la 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 I 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. It was with the greatest difficulty that I reached Tussal’s box, and therefrom looking down upon the wild carnival, seeing at the first hut a medley of form and color, a reckless horde of dancers, grfsettes, shepherdesses, over whose heads confetti hurtled, or toe spirales which the youths loved What with the dust and the scream of voices, and the chatter erf toe thousand tongues, and the heroic efforts of the fiddlers, It was almost impossible to locate anything or anyone; but the Italian, readier than I, pointed out to me at last toe one we sought; and I observed her sitting In a box quite close to u#» 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 tola childish creature, quaintly dressed tat a simple gown of white and black, with a necklace of pearls about her throat, and a bouquet of roses lit her hand; but 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 at It half ovCr the house. The Italian and I perceived the thine at the one time. “For the love of Heaven go to her!” said he; “tell the whole story to both of them; she may not have ten minutes to live.” He had need to say no more, for I was in the foyer as he spoke; hut scarce had I opened the door of Barre’s box—which was upon the ground floor, almost at the level of the dancers—when an appalling scream rose up even above the clamor of the throng. For one moment, as 1 stood quaking with my fears, and sore tempted to draw back, 1 saw nothing but a haze of white smoke, a vision of lurid faces and black forms, and sharper than them all, the figure of Barre himself bending over the body of the insensible girt Then, amidst the babbling of voices, and the sobbing of women, and toe cry of toe man, which WM till* most bitter ary imaginable, I heard the words, “Stop the student in toe black cloak —he has shot mademoiselle!” But the girt lay dead, with a bullet through her heart. The tragedy at the opera bouse was talk for many days in Parte; hut the assassin was never taken, nor indeed, heard of. The police Inclined to the theory that some masquerader had dia* charged a pistol by accident in the heat of the riot; and to tote theory most people inclined. But there was a large sympathy for M. Georges Bane, who lay near to death fox many weeks after the shock, and who quitted toe capital subsequently to take up hia residence in London. I told him the story the Italian had narrated to me m soon as be was well enough to hearit; hut, like the police of Parte, who had it also, I could aee that he did not believe a word of it He sold me toe topaz bracelet however, and I have 1% j to this day, for I want courage to Of the Italian I amr beard again.