An Incidence in the Prefecture of Police

BY ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY

F all his subordinates at the Prefecture, Inspector Joly preferred Pichon and Michel; Pichon for his courage and fidelity, Michel for—

When M. Joly endeavored to justify his preference for Michel he became meditative.

It was very easy to explain his partiality for Pichon. Pichon was not gifted with great intelligence, but he was sure. M. Joly did not despise the intelligence of his assistants, but he preferred his own. Pichon was the faithful hound at his heel.

Personally Pichon was not agreeable. Neither was he disagreeable. He resembled those inanimate objects whose utility is unquestioned, but which are incapable of inspiring affection. M. Joly leaned upon Pichon as one leans upon a stout chair. But Michel—

One morning, passing by Michel's desk, always scrupulously neat, M. Joly observed a scrap of paper on which his alert eye detected some penciled scribblings. It was evident that they were not official notes—a reason for not meddling with them. A reason also for curiosity. If Pichon had used the official paper of the Prefecture for private purposes, M. Joly would have been annoyed. In the present instance he was only curious. It was one of the peculiarities of Michel that he never annoyed M. Joly.

Having nothing on his mind this morning, M. Joly opened the window by Michel's desk to the June air, and, sitting down before his own, began to indulge a favorite habit—that of speculation. When not occupied with official business it was his custom to exercise his imagination—to wonder, for example, what would have been the history of France if the knife of Ravaillac had missed its aim, or Drouet had failed to recognize Louis XVI. at St. Menehould. Idle, but fascinating problems, productive of innumerable solutions! On this June morning, the air being sultry, M. Joly's imagination refused long excursions in favor of the scribblings on Michel's desk. What was that little Michel scribbling on the Prefecture paper

For Michel was small of stature, astonishingly slender for a man in his prime. M. Joly was not in the habit of shaking hands with his subordinates. But this had not prevented him from observing Michel's, terminating in long, tapering fingers. Compared with the short, blunt ones of Pichon— Ah well, thought M. Joly, what does it matter where Michel obtained his fingers? Heredity plays such strange tricks!

A little breeze from the river, coming in through the window and hovering over Michel's desk, caught up the sheet of paper, and, after toying with it for a moment in mid-air, deposited it, face upward, at M. Joly's feet. In replacing it he took the precaution to imprison it under a paper-weight in order that future indiscretions on the part of the June breeze should not tempt him to commit one himself. In so doing, however, it was impossible to avoid seeing that Michel had been indulging a fondness for verse. The short lines in groups of four admitted of no other interpretation. What a singular idea! thought M. Joly, to write poetry in the Prefecture of Police!

Following his practice of assigning causes to effects, he concluded Michel was in love. This led him to reflect that he knew nothing about Michel. Neither did he know anything about Pichon. It had never occurred to him to ask if Pichon had a family. Why should he be interested in the love-affairs of Michel?—admitting that he had any.

M. Joly had arrived early at the Prefecture, for he dearly loved the freshness of the morning. Presently reports would be submitted to him, and Pichon would arrive, at the stroke of the clock, with some irrelevant gossip. For Pichon was inclined to garrulity. It was a maxim of M. Joly's that garrulity, like feathers, laces, and jewels, was the special prerogative of woman a natural right inherited from Eve, or, scientifically speaking, since Eve was only a fable, from the cave-dwellers whose prehistoric trinkets were to he seen in the Musée Carnavalet.

Michel, on the contrary, would salute his superior and seat himself at his desk without speaking. He could see him now, slim of figure, with brown hair inclined to curl at the neck.

M. Joly had an appointment with the Prefect at ten o'clock. To have an appointment with the Prefect meant that something unusual was on foot. In that case it was well to take his precautions. Going over to Michel's desk, he removed the weight from the sheet of paper and wrote rapidly a few words. After signing his name, he replaced the weight and went to the window. Evidently there could he nothing sacred about a bit of paper left carelessly on an open desk. Resides, poetry was impersonal. Even when inditing a sonnet to his mistress the poet thinks of the public. He, M. Joly, was not only that public he was the superior officer. Was there ever a poet who did not crave notoriety for his verse!

He walked over to Michel's desk, removed the paper-weight, and began to read.

M. Joly heaved a deep sigh, seeing Madame Joly where he had first seen her, by the Medici Fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens, lifting her face shyly to his as he passed by. Bringing hack with an effort his wandering mind from the Luxembourg Gardens to the Prefecture of Police, M. Joly observed that the handwriting was not Michel's and that the paper was not that of the Prefecture. In these days of the emancipation of women, he thought, maidens compose verses to their lovers. I prefer the methods employed by Madame Joly.

He had flattered himself that because Madame Joly was unique among women his experience had been unique also. History repeats itself, he said to himself; it is absurd for any one to believe that he has experienced any new thing under the sun.

It was while making this reflection that Michel entered. Saluting, he went tranquilly to his desk, as M. Joly had foreseen.

"Michel," said M. Joly, "I see that you worship the muse." The color mounted furiously to the young man's face. "I ask your pardon for reading your verses, but—do you know the story of Susanna?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I do not cite it by way of excusing myself still you will admit that if that lady had chosen the Prefecture instead of her own garden in which to display her charms, the case would have been different."

Michel laughed gaily. Newer before had his teeth looked so white.

"Believe me. Monsieur l'Inspecteur, there is no harm done."

"Good," said M.Joly; "if there is none done in the reading, there is none in the writing. Many worthy people have written verses. You will find a little prose of mine after the third verse. Monsieur Michel," he said, taking up his hat.

"Why do I sometimes say 'Monsieur' Michel," he said to himself as he went out the door, "when 'Pichon' is always quite enough for Pichon?"

At half-past ten, when leaving the Prefect's office, the latter said, "If you need assistants you will choose them yourself."

M.Joly bowed. He made it a point never to betray his satisfaction at the Prefect's confidence. Besides, he had already provided for that contingency.



Strolling along the Quai toward the Pont Neuf, he sat down on the bench in the shadow of Henri IV. The tide of life was flowing noisily over the bridge. Below, under the arches, the river flowed silently. Nature goes about her business without fuss, he thought; mankind has no manners. Removing his hat and leaning back in his favorite attitude, his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, he abandoned himself to reflection.

"So Madame de Saint-Luc has had the imprudence to write letters! What a foolish mania! As if to feel were not enough, without wishing to proclaim it on the housetops. For, after all, to transfer one's feelings to paper is to incur the danger of publicity, to render permanent what is only fugitive.

"A pretty line. I would gladly exchange his Majesty Henri IV. for the meadows where the starlings are singing."

At that moment he perceived Michel leaning against the parapet. If he had ordered Pichon to report to him on the Pont Neuf, Pichon would that moment be sitting beside him on the bench. Pichon was punctual, respectful, but gregarious by nature. There was about Michel a certain shy aloofness.

"Come here, Michel. I wish to speak to you. Sit down." Michel obeyed in silence. "Did you ever write compromising letters, Michel?"

"No, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

"Poetry has its advantages. What a pity Madame de Saint-Luc preferred prose! Did you ever hear of Madame de Caraman?"

"No, monsieur."

"Of Bourg-la-Reine?"

"No, monsieur."

"It is a charming place. Would you like to go there?"

"You know that I am at your service.

M. Joly fixed his eyes upon his companion.

"I am going to impose upon you a disagreeable duty. You will have to go as a woman, Michel. Really, I think you would make a passably pretty woman."

This time the color rose to the roots of the brown hair.

"It is a question of certain letters which Madame de Saint-Luc has had the imprudence to write to Monsieur de Caraman."

For once Michel permitted himself an observation. "But surely, Monsieur de Caraman, being a gentleman, would not abuse the confidence of a woman," he exclaimed naïvely.

M. Joly looked again into Michel's candid eyes. Pichon's chivalry would never have risen to the height of such an observation. It was difficult to rebuke such innocence.

"That is as it may be. If I have invited you to a conference in the presence of Henri IV., it is because I know that gallant monarch would not be inquisitive. Let us confine ourselves to facts. Why Madame de Saint-Luc desires to recover her letters does not concern us. Doubtless her reasons are excellent. The human heart resembles Vesuvius—it has its periods of eruption—of writing letters. And since you undertake to defend Monsieur de Caraman—"

"Oh!" protested Michel.

"—it is necessary you should know that these letters are no longer in his keeping, but in Madame de Caraman's. Letters, Michel, are incorrigible. They have no sense of propriety. Like the verses of poets, they offer themselves unblushingly to any eye willing to read them. Were we in Madame de Caraman's place, you and I being men, would read those letters to Monsieur de Caraman with appropriate comments. But women proceed differently. It would be very annoying to Madame de Saint-Luc if Madame de Caraman took it into her head to permit Monsieur de Saint-Luc to read what was destined only for Monsieur de Caraman. It is a strange fact that two passions so opposed as love and hate should have a common denominator—that Madame de Caraman should discover, in her anger against Madame de Saint-Luc, the measure of her love for her husband. I do not need to cite from history the many examples of women who defend a worthless lover with the same fury with which they tear a rival limb from limb."

"May I ask you a question, Monsieur l'Inspecteur?"

"Ask it, Michel."

"Pardon me, but what advantage will it be for Madame de Saint-Luc to recover her letters if Madame de Caraman has already read them."

"If you were a lawyer, Michel, you would know that when the proofs of the existence of anything disappear, it goes without saying that it never existed. But we are wasting our time. To-morrow evening, at seven, you will find me at the Golden Sun in Bourg-la-Reine. Pay great attention to your toilette, Michel—sober black, a white collar, without ribbons. By the way, did I mention it? There are four—and here is a specimen of Madame de Saint-Luc's writing. Study it. Another thing—the Prefect is personally interested; he is the friend of both ladies—" And with this hint to Michel's zeal M. Joly resumed his stroll on the Quai.

Precisely at seven the following evening, while finishing his dinner, M. Joly heard mine host of the Golden Sun saying: "It is probably the gentleman in the arbor. He was expecting a young lady"; and, looking up, saw Michel framed in between the two box-trees guarding the entrance. In his rôle of expecting a lady, M. Joly removed his hat, and Michel, in his rôle of woman, blushed again.

Accustomed as he was to disguises, M. Joly was astonished. So much of Michel's throat as was visible above the white collar was admirable. He observed, too, as Michel was removing his gloves, far more of an arm than the close-fitting sleeve of the agent's tunic had ever disclosed.

"I had almost forgotten myself by saluting you," said Michel, in a low voice, laying his gloves beside the plate.

"Be seated," said M. Joly, in a tone of constrained politeness.

"Thank you, but I took the precaution to eat something at the buffet in the station."

Pichon would not have thought of that!

"Positively, Michel," said M. Joly, "you embarrass me. If I did not know you, and if there was no Madame Joly, I would order another bottle."

Michel smiled frankly, disclosing his white teeth. "Since you know me, Madame Joly would have no objection."

"Dame!" thought M. Joly, "what a difference results from merely changing one's clothes!" Then, lighting his cigar, "It is a pity you cannot smoke, Michel."

"That is no hardship. I do not smoke, Monsieur l'Inspecteur." At this reminder of his official character M. Joly resumed his professional manner.

"Michel, listen carefully to what I am about to say. This is no ordinary affair. Ordinarily we pursue criminals. In this case we shelter them. The proceeding is irregular. We are about to affront Justice, which demands that faults be paid for. Whether it is better to exact that payment or to rescue the guilty from the consequences of their folly is a moral question determined by our superiors. Our duty is to obey them." "Yes, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

"For that reason you are now Susette, the cousin of Madame de Caraman's maid, the desperate illness of whose mother obliges her to leave Madame de Caraman's service for a few days. Fortunately she bethought herself of you, and has persuaded you to take her place in this emergency. Does the prospect of waiting upon Madame de Caraman alarm you, Michel?"

"I will do my best, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."



"I believe the ordeal will be a brief one," M. Joly said, encouragingly, "for I once had the occasion to examine Madame de Caraman's apartments when she had mislaid a diamond collar. There is a safe in the wall by the bed. Possibly Madame de Caraman is more careful than formerly of the key. It used to repose under some fine lace handkerchiefs in the third drawer of her chiffonnier. I leave you to discover its present whereabouts. Do not rely upon that foolish idea of the writers of romances that you will find those four letters among the loose papers on Madame de Caraman's writing-table. Such subtleties exist only in the brain of the novelist."

"This Rosalie, my cousin, has gone?" hazarded Michel.

"Just now, with a thousand-franc note of the Prefect's to pay the doctor attending her mother. Ah, Michel, I do not congratulate you on that cousin of yours. Such cupidity!"

"I begin to despise my rôle," murmured Michel.

"That sentiment does you honor," M. Joly made haste to say. "Personally I do not approve of the methods of the Jesuits, but in our profession, under certain circumstances— You have your portmanteau, Michel?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Presently, when Madame de Caraman's footman comes for you— I think I hear wheels now. Yes, yes, mademoiselle is ready," he called to the host.

Helping Michel into the two-wheeled cart, he imprinted a fatherly kiss on his cheek. "It is not the first time Mademoiselle goes out to service," he explained to the footman, "but her heart is so tender."

"We will take good care of her," said the footman, loftily.

As the cart disappeared in the gathering dusk M. Joly turned abruptly to the innkeeper: "The reckoning, if you please."

"Marie," said M. Joly that evening to his wife, "I have made a discovery."

Madame Joly looked up from her needle.

"That it is easier to pretend to be what you are not than to pretend to be what you are."

Accustomed to observations of this nature, and as her husband offered no further explanation, Madame Joly resumed her work.

In her chair before the mirror Madame de Caraman was watching Susette, who was opening the bed and spreading her night-dress ready for occupancy.

"Is that all, madame?"

"By no means. Take down my hair, Susette."

Removing the pins deftly, Susette began brushing out the long braids.

"You have a light hand, Susette."

"Thank you, madame."

"You have served an apprenticeship with a coiffeur, I imagine."

"No, madame; I taught myself."

"But your own hair is so thick—why do you wear it in that manner? Have you had a fever?"

"No, madame; it is less trouble."

"You have no vanity, then? No lovers?"

"Oh, madame!" said Susette, avoiding the eyes in the glass.

"With whom were you last in service?"

"With Madame de Saint-Luc, madame."

"Really! How interesting! She is very beautiful, is she not?"

"Oh no, madame. You have been misinformed."

"But has she not many admirers?"

"Yes, madame, many."

"Why did you leave her service, Susette?"

"I have not left her service. Madame de Saint-Luc is very generous. She gives me every year a month's holiday."

"Then you return to her?"

"Yes, madame."

"That will do, Susette. To-morrow, when I ring, you will prepare my bath."

"What you said to me last night," said Madame de Caraman, as Susette was reversing the process of the previous evening, "interests me greatly. How does it happen that Madame de Saint-Luc, who you say has no beauty, should have so many admirers? She must be very clever."

"Madame is herself very clever to say so. Madame de Saint-Luc boasts that she accomplishes without beauty what others who possess it fail to do."

"What a horrid woman!" said Madame de Caraman, energetically. "How can you remain with such a person?"

"Ah, madame, when one's mother is bedridden and one has two young sisters, one cannot be too particular."

"Your father, then, is not living?"

"Alas, no, madame."



"I suppose Madame de Saint-Luc, having so many admirers, pays you excellent wages," said Madame de Caraman, into whose voice had crept the shadow of scorn.

"Three hundred francs a month, madame, including my holiday."

"Heavens! How preposterous! You must be as clever as she is."

"Oh no. Madame is too good to think so. But, you see, I also act as madame's secretary. I write her letters."

"Not all, I presume," said Madame de Caraman, pointedly.

"And I assist her in her literary work," added Susette, ignoring the interruption.

"So Madame de Saint-Luc is literary as well as clever. What a remarkable woman! Is she writing a book?"

"She is not exactly writing one, but she is editing one—a collection of letters."

"Letters! What letters?"

"The letters of her admirers."

Madame de Caraman gave a sudden start.

"Pardon me, madame," said Susette. "Did I hurt you?"

"The wretch!" exclaimed Madame de Caraman, unable to restrain her indignation. "How perfectly atrocious! She will be prosecuted for slander!"

"Oh no, madame," replied Susette, demurely; "all these letters are genuine."

"But what perfidy! So to betray confidence!"

"Ah well, madame," said Susette, innocently, "you know when one has had so many admirers, one naturally gets tired of some of them."

"Susette!" cried Madame de Caraman, "that woman has perverted you."

Susette waited to put on the finishing touch before replying. "My father used to say that here below everything passes—even the love of woman."

"But not the love of an honest woman for her husband, Susette."

"No, that is what my mother used to say to my father. Perhaps," she added, touching here and there the finished coiffure with the tapering fingers M. Joly had noticed—"perhaps Madame de Saint-Luc would be as pleased to recover some of her letters as her admirers would be to recover theirs. Does madame require anything more?"

"No," said Madame de Caraman, shortly.

A half-hour later she rang for her maid. "Susette," she said, her face pale with determination, "you seem to me an excellent girl. What your mother said to your father was admirable."

"Thank you, madame."

"Come here, Susette. I wish to ask you a question. Do you think that if certain letters of Madame de Saint-Luc's were returned to her she would return those of the person to whom they were addressed?"

Susette's face wore the expression of one pondering a weighty problem. "I think so, madame. Old letters often stand in the way of writing new ones. If the admirer to whom you refer belongs to the past, a past one wishes to forget for the sake of the future, and if he values these letters too dearly to surrender them—if one could manage to secure them—yes, I think it quite possible. Madame de Saint-Luc is a business Woman. For that reason she might desire first to assure herself—"

"She would recognize her own handwriting, I presume," said Madame de Caraman, ironically.

"Certainly. That, without doubt, madame."

Drawing a small key from her bosom, Madame de Caraman went to the safe in the wall by the bed. "Susette, I am going to confide in you—to trust you. Do you recognize this handwriting?"

Susette gave a gasp of dismay and astonishment. "Oh, madame, forgive me! If I had dreamed—"

"He quiet, my child. Will you go to Madame de Saint-Luc and say—you understand." Susette hesitated. "Speak, Susette."

"Yes, I will go."

"Take them, Susette—and swear to me—"

"I swear to you, madame, that I will return them—or those you wish for."

"I believe you. Go, now, instantly."

"What, now, madame?"

"Instantly—this very moment," said Madame de Caraman, sinking into her chair and covering her face with her hands.

When, two hours later, Michel re-entered the room in the Prefecture, M. Joly, at the window, seemed preoccupied solely by a fly buzzing on one of the panes. Never effusive in his greetings, M. Joly was always polite. Moreover, absent-mindedness was not one of his characteristics. To be so ignored caused Michel an unpleasant surprise. Finally, the silence becoming intolerable, he advanced a few steps.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I wish to offer my resignation."

Opening the window, M. Joly released the intruder, then sat down at his desk. "Because you have failed?"

"No; because I have succeeded—and because I find my duties inconsistent with my conscience."

M. Joly made a slight movement. "It will be accepted. You have Madame de Saint-Luc's letters?"

"They are here," said Michel, designating the third and fourth buttons of his tunic, "but I cannot give them to you."

"You have, then, in your mind some bargain?"

"No. But I have already made one with Madame de Caraman—either to return to her these letters or those of Monsieur de Caraman."

"That was imprudent," observed M. Joly.

"I am going now to Madame de Saint-Luc."

"It appears to me you wish me to compromise with duty."

"Pardon me, but it appears to me that you wish me to compromise with honor," said Michel, firmly.

M. Joly took out his watch. "Madame de Saint-Luc is probably at déjeûner at this hour. Do you wish me to accompany you?"

"That would be prudent, but it is not necessary."

M. Joly thought for a moment. "Do you know Madame de Saint-Luc's address?"

"I can find it."

"Number 217, Boulevard Haussmann. Do not fail to obtain a receipt," said M. Joly, taking a sheet of official paper from a pigeon-hole and beginning to write.

Seeing that he was not disposed to further conversation, Michel tiptoed softly to the door.

"Ask Monsieur le Préfet," said M. Joly to the attendant answering the bell, "if he will do me the honor of receiving me.

Looking up from his desk, M. Levigne saw M. Joly, a paper in his hand. "Well?" he said.

"For your signature, Monsieur le Préfet," said M. Joly, respectfully.

"It is by my authority that the bearer is in contravention of Article 327 of The Penal Code."

A blank space, followed by the words, "Signed: Prefect of Police" was below.

"What is article 327, Monsieur Joly?"

"It relates to the wearing by a person of one sex of the garments of the other."

"But this person, I presume, is one of our agents."

"Undoubtedly."

"Then this is quite unnecessary," said the Prefect, letting fall the paper in his hand.

"Monsieur le Préfet," replied M. Joly, "there was once a cardinal of France who was also, one might say, a Prefect of Police, who when he trusted his agents trusted them implicitly."

M. Levigne smiled. "You quote history to some purpose, Monsieur Joly," he said, writing his name in the vacant space.

On returning to the Prefecture, Michel observed that M. Joly had regained his good humor. He himself was radiant. Approaching with a light step, he placed an envelope before his chief. Opening it, M. Joly saw a few gray ashes.

"The letters of Madame de Saint-Luc," said Michel.

"And the receipt—"

"Here it is," said Michel, extracting it from between the buttons of his tunic.

"I presume now"—M. Joly looked up for the first time—"you are going to Bourg-la-Reine."

"If you permit me, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

M. Joly shrugged his shoulders. "Since you are no longer one of us you are free to go where you please. By the way, have you read recently Article 327 of the Penal Code?"

"Article 327?" stammered Michel.

"Read it. It will interest you. Also this order from the Prefect which bears on the subject. I am going to him now with this receipt." At the door M. Joly turned, smiling. "Present my compliments to your mother and your two sisters—also to the author of your verses, mademoiselle."



"Marie," said M. Joly that evening after lighting his cigar, "I have an uneasy conscience."

As Madame Joly loved nothing better than to listen to her husband, she remained silent.

"Did I ever mention to you the name of Michel?"

"I think so. He is one of your agents, is he not?"

"She was."

"She? I thought—"

"So did I," interrupted M. Joly.

Madame Joly's needle dropped into her lap.

"It is one of those things one reads about but does not believe. Marie."

"How extraordinary! What induced her to attempt so dangerous a deceit!"

"Thank you, Marie, for not reminding me that for a whole year I have been its victim. Pichon would lose all respect for me. But, to answer your question, I discovered yesterday a bedridden mother and two hungry young mouths. When one carries on one's back three times the burden which Æneas carried from Troy, the salary of a man is a temptation. Ordinarily this inequality in the sexes is justified—but there are exceptions." "How did you discover the deceit?" asked Madame Joly, resuming her needle.

"By a process called filtration—a laborious process from which the intelligence of your sex spares you. Monsieur Michel undertook to play the rôle of maid to a lady whose name I will not mention."

"I think," said Madame Joly, "that the process you call filtration must have been well advanced before you assigned such a rôle to a man."

"On that score my conscience is easy," replied M. Joly, taking from his pocket a copy of the Prefect's order. "Read this, if you please."

Once more Madame Joly laid down her needle. "Why, then, the Prefect pardons her!" she exclaimed, her face illuminated by a smile.

"How like you, Marie! You jump so quickly to a conclusion. Read more carefully. Do you observe any pronouns in the Prefect's order? When signing his name Monsieur Levigne was unquestionably under the impression that he was authorizing an agent to masquerade as a woman in the interests of morality, whereas in reality—"

"Oh, is that all?" said Madame Joly, tranquilly. "I have great confidence in both your judgment and your conscience."

"The conscience of a woman is a wonderful mechanism," thought M. Joly. "It responds to influences beyond the range of our limited intelligence." What he said aloud, however, as he relighted his cigar, was:

"Since you are my conscience, Marie, we will not discuss the question of judgment."