Chaise exhumed and opened. It contained only old books from the upper
shelves in the study in the Rue des Palmiers. The Vicomte must have
packed it thus when he took the Baron's body--doubtless with Miste's
clever aid--and threw it into the river for us to find and identify."

"Yes," said Madame, slowly, "he was cleverer than any suspected. I
knew that."

"The body," I went on, for my tale was nearly done, "which we found at
Passy and buried at Senneville was undoubtedly that of the Baron
Giraud. This, however, is the only detail of my story which I am
unable to assert as a positive fact."

"Of the rest you have no doubt?" Madame asked, slowly. And I shook my
head.

"Is it not possible," she suggested, with that quiet sureness of
judgment which, I think, is rarely given to women, "that Miste is
alone responsible and the criminal? Of course, I cannot explain the
Baron Giraud's disappearance--but it is surely possible that Miste
may have murdered the Vicomte and thrown his body into the Seine."

"No, Madame, there has been no murder done."

"You are sure?"

"I have, since the war, seen the Vicomte alive and well."

Chapter XXIX

At La Pauline

"Le plus lent a promettre est toujours le plus fidele a
tenir."

The tale was thus told to her whom it most concerned, clearly and
without reservation. The details are, however, known to the patient
reader, and call for no recapitulation here. When Madame de Clericy
heard the end of it--namely, the sad fate of the unfortunate _Principe
Amadeo_ and all, save two, on board that steamer--she sat in silence
for some moments, and indeed made no comment at any other time.
Assuredly none was needed, nor could any human words add to or detract
from that infallible Divine judgment which had so ruled our lives.

For when one who is dear to us has forfeited our love by one of those
great and sorrowful alterations of the mind, scarce amounting to
madness, and yet near akin to it, which, alas! are frequently enough
brought about by temptation or an insufficient self control--surely,
then, it is only Heaven's kindness that takes from us the erring one
and leaves but a brief memory of his fall. Has not a great writer
said that a dead sorrow is better than a living one?

I rose to my feet and stood for a moment in the doorway of the
summerhouse, intending to leave Madame with her dead grief. But as I
crossed the threshold her quiet voice arrested me.

"Mon ami