Cherchez La Femme
Robbins, reporter for the /Picayune/, and Dumars, of /L'Abeille/--theold French newspaper that has buzzed for nearly a century--were goodfriends, well proven by years of ups and downs together. They wereseated where they had a habit of meeting--in the little, Creole-haunted cafe of Madame Tibault, in Dumaine Street. If you know theplace, you will experience a thrill of pleasure in recalling it tomind. It is small and dark, with six little polished tables, at whichyou may sit and drink the best coffee in New Orleans, and concoctionsof absinthe equal to Sazerac's best. Madame Tibault, fat andindulgent, presides at the desk, and takes your money. Nicolette andMeme, madame's nieces, in charming bib aprons, bring the desirablebeverages.
Dumars, with true Creole luxury, was sipping his absinthe, with half-closed eyes, in a whirl of cigarette smoke. Robbins was looking overthe morning /Pic./, detecting, as young reporters will, the grossblunders in the make-up, and the envious blue-pencilling his own stuffhad received. This item, in the advertising columns, caught his eye,and with an exclamation of sudden interest he read it aloud to hisfriend.
Public Auction.--At three o'clock this afternoon there will besold to the highest bidder all the common property of the LittleSisters of Samaria, at the home of the Sisterhood, in BonhommeStreet. The sale will dispose of the building, ground, and thecomplete furnishings of the house and chapel, without reserve.
This notice stirred the two friends to a reminiscent talk concerningan episode in their journalistic career that had occurred about twoyears before. They recalled the incidents, went over the old theories,and discussed it anew from the different perspective time had brought.
There were no other customers in the cafe. Madame's fine ear hadcaught the line of their talk, and she came over to their table--forhad it not been her lost money--her vanished twenty thousand dollars--that had set the whole matter going?
The three took up the long-abandoned mystery, threshing over the old,dry chaff of it. It was in the chapel of this house of the LittleSisters of Samaria that Robbins and Dumars had stood during thateager, fruitless news search of theirs, and looked upon the gildedstatue of the Virgin.
"Thass so, boys," said madame, summing up. "Thass ver' wicked man,M'sieur Morin. Everybody shall be cert' he steal those money I plaze inhis hand for keep safe. Yes. He's boun' spend that money, somehow."Madame turned a broad and contemplative smile upon Dumars. "Iond'stand you, M'sieur Dumars, those day you come ask fo' tellev'ything I know 'bout M'sieur Morin. Ah! yes, I know most time whenthose men lose money you say '/Cherchez la femme/'--there is somewherethe woman. But not for M'sieur Morin. No, boys. Before he shall die,he is like one saint. You might's well, M'sieur Dumars, go try findthose money in the statue of Virgin Mary that M'sieur Morin present atthose /p'tite soeurs/, as try find one /femme/."
At Madame Tibault's last words, Robbins started slightly and cast akeen, sidelong glance at Dumars. The Creole sat, unmoved, dreamilywatching the spirals of his cigarette smoke.
It was then nine o'clock in the morning and, a few minutes later, thetwo friends separated, going different ways to their day's duties. Andnow follows the brief story of Madame Tibault's vanished thousands:
* * * * *
New Orleans will readily recall to mind the circumstances attendantupon the death of Mr. Gaspard Morin, in that city. Mr. Morin was anartistic goldsmith and jeweller in the old French Quarter, and a manheld in the highest esteem. He belonged to one of the oldest Frenchfamilies, and was of some distinction as an antiquary and historian.He was a bachelor, about fifty years of age. He lived in quietcomfort, at one of those rare old hostelries in Royal Street. He wasfound in his rooms, one morning, dead from unknown causes.
When his affairs came to be looked into, it was found that he waspractically insolvent, his stock of goods and personal property barely--but nearly enough to free him from censure--covering hisliabilities. Following came the disclosure that he had been entrustedwith the sum of twenty thousand dollars by a former upper servant inthe Morin family, one Madame Tibault, which she had received as alegacy from relatives in France.
The most searching scrutiny by friends and the legal authoritiesfailed to reveal the disposition of the money. It had vanished, andleft no trace. Some weeks before his death, Mr. Morin had drawn theentire amount, in gold coin, from the bank where it had been placedwhile he looked about (he told Madame Tibault) for a safe investment.Therefore, Mr. Morin's memory seemed doomed to bear the cloud ofdishonesty, while madame was, of course, disconsolate.
Then it was that Robbins and Dumars, representing their respectivejournals, began one of those pertinacious private investigationswhich, of late years, the press has adopted as a means to glory andthe satisfaction of public curiosity.
"/Cherchez la femme/," said Dumars.
"That's the ticket!" agreed Robbins. "All roads lead to the eternalfeminine. We will find the woman."
They exhausted the knowledge of the staff of Mr. Morin's hotel, fromthe bell-boy down to the proprietor. They gently, but inflexibly,pumped the family of the deceased as far as his cousins twice removed.They artfully sounded the employees of the late jeweller, and doggedhis customers for information concerning his habits. Like bloodhoundsthey traced every step of the supposed defaulter, as nearly as mightbe, for years along the limited and monotonous paths he had trodden.
At the end of their labours, Mr. Morin stood, an immaculate man. Notone weakness that might be served up as a criminal tendency, not onedeviation from the path of rectitude, not even a hint of apredilection for the opposite sex, was found to be placed in hisdebit. His life had been as regular and austere as a monk's; hishabits, simple and unconcealed. Generous, charitable, and a model inpropriety, was the verdict of all who knew him.
"What, now?" asked Robbins, fingering his empty notebook.
"/Cherchez la femme/," said Dumars, lighting a cigarette. "Try LadyBellairs."
This piece of femininity was the race-track favourite of the season.Being feminine, she was erratic in her gaits, and there were a fewheavy losers about town who had believed she could be true. Thereporters applied for information.
Mr. Morin? Certainly not. He was never even a spectator at the races.Not that kind of a man. Surprised the gentlemen should ask.
"Shall we throw it up?" suggested Robbins, "and let the puzzledepartment have a try?"
"/Cherchez la femme/," hummed Dumars, reaching for a match. "Try theLittle Sisters of What-d'-you-call-'em."
It had developed, during the investigation, that Mr. Morin had heldthis benevolent order in particular favour. He had contributedliberally toward its support and had chosen its chapel as hisfavourite place of private worship. It was said that he went theredaily to make his devotions at the altar. Indeed, toward the last ofhis life his whole mind seemed to have fixed itself upon religiousmatters, perhaps to the detriment of his worldly affairs.
Thither went Robbins and Dumars, and were admitted through the narrowdoorway in the blank stone wall that frowned upon Bonhomme Street. Anold woman was sweeping the chapel. She told them that Sister Felicite,the head of the order, was then at prayer at the altar in the alcove.In a few moments she would emerge. Heavy, black curtains screened thealcove. They waited.
Soon the curtains were disturbed, and Sister Felicite came forth. Shewas tall, tragic, bony, and plain-featured, dressed in the black gownand severe bonnet of the sisterhood.
Robbins, a good rough-and-tumble reporter, but lacking the delicatetouch, began to speak.
They represented the press. The lady had, no doubt, heard of the Morinaffair. It was necessary, in justice to that gentleman's memory, toprobe the mystery of the lost money. It was known that he had comeoften to this chapel. Any information, now, concerning Mr. Morin'shabits, tastes, the friends he had, and so on, would be of value indoing him posthumous justice.
Sister Felicite had heard. Whatever she knew would be willingly told,but it was very little. Monsieur Morin had been a good friend to theorder, sometimes contributing as much as a hundred dollars. Thesisterhood was an independent one, depending entirely upon privatecontributions for the means to carry on its charitable work. Mr. Morinhad presented the chapel with silver candlesticks and an altar cloth.He came every day to worship in the chapel, sometimes remaining for anhour. He was a devout Catholic, consecrated to holiness. Yes, and alsoin the alcove was a statue of the Virgin that he had himself modeled,cast, and presented to the order. Oh, it was cruel to cast a doubtupon so good a man!
Robbins was also profoundly grieved at the imputation. But, until itwas found what Mr. Morin had done with Madame Tibault's money, hefeared the tongue of slander would not be stilled. Sometimes--in fact,very often--in affairs of the kind there was--er--as the saying goes--er--a lady in the case. In absolute confidence, now--if--perhaps--
Sister Felicite's large eyes regarded him solemnly.
"There was one woman," she said, slowly, "to whom he bowed--to whom hegave his heart."
Robbins fumbled rapturously for his pencil.
"Behold the woman!" said Sister Felicite, suddenly, in deep tones.
She reached a long arm and swept aside the curtain of the alcove. Inthere was a shrine, lit to a glow of soft colour by the light pouringthrough a stained-glass window. Within a deep niche in the bare stonewall stood an image of the Virgin Mary, the colour of pure gold.
Dumars, a conventional Catholic, succumbed to the dramatic in the act.He bowed his head for an instant and made the sign of the cross. Thesomewhat abashed Robbins, murmuring an indistinct apology, backedawkwardly away. Sister Felicite drew back the curtain, and thereporters departed.
On the narrow sidewalk of Bonhomme Street, Robbins turned to Dumars,with unworthy sarcasm.
"Well, what next? Churchy law fem?"
"Absinthe," said Dumars.
With the history of the missing money thus partially related, someconjecture may be formed of the sudden idea that Madame Tibault'swords seemed to have suggested to Robbins's brain.
Was it so wild a surmise--that the religious fanatic had offered uphis wealth--or, rather, Madame Tibault's--in the shape of a materialsymbol of his consuming devotion? Stranger things have been done inthe name of worship. Was it not possible that the lost thousands weremolded into that lustrous image? That the goldsmith had formed it ofthe pure and precious metal, and set it there, through some hope of aperhaps disordered brain to propitiate the saints and pave the way tohis own selfish glory?
That afternoon, at five minutes to three, Robbins entered the chapeldoor of the Little Sisters of Samaria. He saw, in the dim light, acrowd of perhaps a hundred people gathered to attend the sale. Most ofthem were members of various religious orders, priests and churchmen,come to purchase the paraphernalia of the chapel, lest they fall intodesecrating hands. Others were business men and agents come to bidupon the realty. A clerical-looking brother had volunteered to wieldthe hammer, bringing to the office of auctioneer the anomaly of choicediction and dignity of manner.
A few of the minor articles were sold, and then two assistants broughtforward the image of the Virgin.
Robbins started the bidding at ten dollars. A stout man, in anecclesiastical garb, went to fifteen. A voice from another part of thecrowd raised to twenty. The three bid alternately, raising by bids offive, until the offer was fifty dollars. Then the stout man droppedout, and Robbins, as a sort of /coup de main/, went to a hundred.
"One hundred and fifty," said the other voice.
"Two hundred," bid Robbins, boldly.
"Two-fifty," called his competitor, promptly.
The reporter hesitated for the space of a lightning flash, estimatinghow much he could borrow from the boys in the office, and screw fromthe business manager from his next month's salary.
"Three hundred," he offered.
"Three-fifty," spoke up the other, in a louder voice--a voice thatsent Robbins diving suddenly through the crowd in its direction, tocatch Dumars, its owner, ferociously by the collar.
"You unconverted idiot!" hissed Robbins, close to his ear--"pool!"
"Agreed!" said Dumars, coolly. "I couldn't raise three hundred andfifty dollars with a search-warrant, but I can stand half. What youcome bidding against me for?"
"I thought I was the only fool in the crowd," explained Robbins.
No one else bidding, the statue was knocked down to the syndicate attheir last offer. Dumars remained with the prize, while Robbinshurried forth to wring from the resources and credit of both theprice. He soon returned with the money, and the two musketeers loadedtheir precious package into a carriage and drove with it to Dumars'sroom, in old Chartres Street, nearby. They lugged it, covered with acloth, up the stairs, and deposited it on a table. A hundred pounds itweighed, if an ounce, and at that estimate, according to theircalculation, if their daring theory were correct, it stood there,worth twenty thousand golden dollars.
Robbins removed the covering, and opened his pocket-knife.
"/Sacre/!" muttered Dumars, shuddering. "It is the Mother of Christ.What would you do?"
"Shut up, Judas!" said Robbins, coldly. "It's too late for you to besaved now."
With a firm hand, he chipped a slice from the shoulder of the image.The cut showed a dull, grayish metal, with a thin coating of goldleaf.
"Lead!" announced Robbins, hurling his knife to the floor--"gilded!"
"To the devil with it!" said Dumars, forgetting his scruples. "I musthave a drink."
Together they walked moodily to the cafe of Madame Tribault, twosquares away.
It seemed that madame's mind had been stirred that day to freshrecollections of the past services of the two young men in her behalf.
"You mustn't sit by those table," she interposed, as they were aboutto drop into their accustomed seats. "Thass so, boys. But no. I mekyou come at this room, like my /tres bon amis/. Yes. I goin' mek foryou myself one /anisette/ and one /cafe royale/ ver' fine. Ah! I laktreat my fren' nize. Yes. Plis come in this way."
Madame led them into the little back room, into which she sometimesinvited the especially favoured of her customers. In two comfortablearmchairs, by a big window that opened upon the courtyard, she placedthem, with a low table between. Bustling hospitably about, she beganto prepare the promised refreshments.
It was the first time the reporters had been honoured with admissionto the sacred precincts. The room was in dusky twilight, flecked withgleams of the polished, fine woods and burnished glass and metal thatthe Creoles love. From the little courtyard a tiny fountain sent in aninsinuating sound of trickling waters, to which a banana plant by thewindow kept time with its tremulous leaves.
Robbins, an investigator by nature, sent a curious glance roving aboutthe room. From some barbaric ancestor, madame had inherited a/penchant/ for the crude in decoration.
The walls were adorned with cheap lithographs--florid libels uponnature, addressed to the taste of the /bourgeoisie/--birthday cards,garish newspaper supplements, and specimens of art-advertisingcalculated to reduce the optic nerve to stunned submission. A patch ofsomething unintelligible in the midst of the more candid displaypuzzled Robbins, and he rose and took a step nearer, to interrogate itat closer range. Then he leaned weakly against the wall, and calledout:
"Madame Tibault! Oh, madame! Since when--oh! since when have you beenin the habit of papering your walls with five thousand dollar UnitedStates four per cent. gold bonds? Tell me--is this a Grimm's fairytale, or should I consult an oculist?"
At his words, Madame Tibault and Dumars approached.
"H'what you say?" said madame, cheerily. "H'what you say, M'sieurRobbin? /Bon/! Ah! those nize li'l peezes papier! One tam I thinkthose w'at you call calendair, wiz ze li'l day of mont' below. But,no. Those wall is broke in those plaze, M'sieur Robbin', and I plazethose li'l peezes papier to conceal ze crack. I did think the couleurharm'nize so well with the wall papier. Where I get them from? Ah,yes, I remem' ver' well. One day M'sieur Morin, he come at my houze--thass 'bout one mont' before he shall die--thass 'long 'bout tam hepromise fo' inves' those money fo' me. M'sieur Morin, he leave thozeli'l peezes papier in those table, and say ver' much 'bout money thasshard for me to ond'stan. /Mais/ I never see those money again. Thassver' wicked man, M'sieur Morin. H'what you call those peezes papier,M'sieur Robbi'--/bon/!"
Robbins explained.
"There's your twenty thousand dollars, with coupons attached," hesaid, running his thumb around the edge of the four bonds. "Better getan expert to peel them off for you. Mister Morin was right. I'm goingout to get my ears trimmed."
He dragged Dumars by the arm into the outer room. Madame was screamingfor Nicolette and Meme to come and observe the fortune returned to herby M'sieur Morin, that best of men, that saint in glory.
"Marsy," said Robbins, "I'm going on a jamboree. For three days theesteemed /Pic./ will have to get along without my valuable services. Iadvise you to join me. Now, that green stuff you drink is no good. Itstimulates thought. What we want to do is to forget to remember. I'llintroduce you to the only lady in this case that is guaranteed toproduce the desired results. Her name is Belle of Kentucky, twelve-year-old Bourbon. In quarts. How does the idea strike you?"
"/Allons/!" said Dumars. "/Cherchez la femme/."
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