"What has happened?"

M. Plon took up the parable, quite regardless of her action.

"What has happened, Madame Didier? There is no saying what might not have happened if I had not been on the spot. Here is a rascally, black-guardly, good-for-nothing!" and as he uttered these bold invectives, he advanced and shook his fist in Jean's face. "You see him, _M. le Commissaire_, you behold what a villain, what a desperate villain he looks? Listen, then, I hear screams, I meet this poor imbecile flying out in terror, I rush--I seize--I overpower--I make him my prisoner--"

At this point the police officer interposed a question:

"You used force, M. Plon?"

"I used--but certainly--moral force. He had made his way into this room through the window, Monsieur--Monsieur--?"

"Leblanc, at your service," said the commissioner carelessly. "Did you say through the window? That seems scarcely probable."

But Plon was positive there was no other way by which he could have entered unseen by him. And now he would give _M. le Commissaire_ a dozen guesses to find out what this rascal had the villainy to pretend. To look at him, would any one suppose now that he could be the husband of madame?

"Apparently," said the other, glancing at them, "Madame herself is not averse from that opinion."

"Her husband--hee, hee!" said M. Plon, getting red. "Poor Jean, who was shot in _emeute_ three years ago! See there, monsieur, it is ridiculous!

If any one should know anything about those times, it is I. I was myself on the very point of becoming a martyr for my country; and as for Jean Didier, whether rightly or wrongly, he was shot, and there was an end of him. To pretend that he turns up three years later...."

Marie was crying, and M. Plon thought his eloquence had provoked her tears, but she put aside his hand, walked to the commissioner, and dropped on her knees before him.

"Monsieur, if you have a wife--"

"I have not," said the man roughly.

"But your mother! If her son--"

"I have my duty, that is enough," he said in the same tone, "Get up, Madame Didier, and let me know the truth of all this matter. This explains your unwillingness that I should return with you. Who's the man?"

"My husband, monsieur," sobbed Marie, springing up and putting her hand in Jean's.

"How came he here?"

"Monsieur, he escaped and crawled here."

"And how has he been supported?"

"By me," said the wife simply.

Plon had recoiled during this explanation, and gazed helplessly from one to the other.

"Go on," said Leblanc, taking out a note-book.

"He has not been out of this room for three years--three years! That is a long time for a man to be shut up," pleaded Marie, with her heart in her eyes. "And, _M. le Commissaire_, you must understand it was all a mistake. He tried to stop them, but they dragged him along, the Communists, and then one of them turns round and denounces him. There are very wicked people in the world, _M. le Commissaire_."

"His name?"

Jean answered for her:

"The name of that man was Fort."

Leblanc turned the pages of his note-book more quickly."

Dumont--Court--ah, here it is, 'Jean Didier, glazier, with insurgents; pointed out as Communist by one Fort; executed on spot.' Is that correct?"

"He was innocent," said Marie, nervously twisting her fingers.

"But am I to understand that you deny his ident.i.ty?" said the officer, turning sharply on Plon. "Speak up, man!"

M. Plon looked round, bewildered. "How could he have got into the house?"

"Never mind that. What we want is 'yes' or 'no' Is it Jean Didier? Come close and see for yourself."

"It is like him," said the landlord, examining him from head to foot, "certainly it is like him; I could almost believe it was he, only--how could he have got into the house?"

"As to that--where there's a woman--" said Leblanc, turning away. They were all watching him, except Perine, who was sobbing stormily on the wooden stool, and he said shortly, "There is something more in my note-book."

"More!" repeated Jean with alarm.

"Would you rather not have it?"

Marie, who had not taken her eyes from him, advanced with her hands pressed upon her heart.

"Courage, my friend," she said breathlessly. "Yes, _M. le Commissaire_, we will hear."

It had struck her that he was smiling.

He began to read in his sing-song voice, "Fort, convicted of forgery, died last month in the Grande Roquette. Before his death he confessed his denunciation of Jean Didier to have been false."

Jean Didier's wife turned round, opened her arms and fell upon her husband's neck, speechless.

So this was the end of that affair. As for No. 7639, which had brought Leblanc in pursuit of Perine, it did not turn out so romantically as might have been desired, having nothing to do with the great robbery of the Rue Vivienne, which remains a mystery--to most people--to this day.

But oddly enough, it set the police on the track of a smaller crime; a certain reward was handed over to the Didiers for the use of the poor girl, and no one will deny that it was her unconscious instrumentality which brought their change of fortune. Jean is almost always kind to her, but Marie treats her with a sort of reverence.

You may see them sometimes, of a summer evening, walking along the quays. The great river sweeps slowly down, the busy lights which flit about the houses or point the span of the bridges with golden dots, fling long reflections on its surface. Overhead, more peaceful lights are shining. All about us is the rush of tumult and change, men drifting here and there, struggling, weeping, jesting, pa.s.sing away; but over all G.o.d watches, and His world goes on.

FRANCES MARY PEARD

GONERIL

A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.