Treasure Royal/Chapter 3
III
"The famous Dr. Marquet?" M. Davignan scrutinized the card. "By all means show him in without delay!"
Nearly a month had elapsed since the fat Provençal had undertaken the duties of his office in Hanoi. As special commissioner, responsible only to the governor-general, Davignan had large powers. He also possessed a rare mingling of discretion and enthusiasm—two qualities which, in the right person, are highly potential.
He was fat, fat as Tartarin, and his black mustache and imperial accentuated the cherubic rotundity of his countenance. Already, however, the northern capital had learned to fear this mountain of flesh, who sat behind his desk in the Hôtel du Gouverneur-General and smiled out at the botanical gardens beneath his window. Caesar was right—a lean and hungry man may well prove dangerous. A fat, smiling man, however, may well prove terrible.
Dr. Marquet was ushered into the office.
A gentle old man, this, a famous student of Asian lore, who lived in past centuries rather than in the present. Marquet could not have told you the name of the present King of Italy; but he could tell offhand the names and deeds of the Han emperors. His writings in the Bulletin de l'École Française de l'Extrème Orient were eagerly awaited by scholars throughout the world.
A trifle nervous, Marquet shook the white locks from his brow and accepted the chair to which Davignan bowed him.
"Eminent sir, you honor me by this visit!" declaimed the fat man. "To think that in my humble office sits the great Marquet! I am overcome. Sir, I salute you!"
"You do me too much honor, M. Davignan." Marquet smiled. "I have come to ask you a question—confidentially, you comprehend—a question about a gentleman in Hué."
"Ah!" Davignan beamed. "The entire department is at your service, monsieur! Your question, no doubt, concerns your guest—the gentleman who calls himself M. William Kent?"
Dr. Marquet started.
"What?" he exclaimed. "By no means, monsieur! I—I—"
"We human creatures are liable to errors innumerable. Pardon me," said Davignan, and leaned back in his chair. "Pray proceed with your question, I shall not interrupt."
"No, no! You must explain your words, M. Davignan, your manner, your air of mystery!" Obviously agitated, the kindly old man regarded the commissioner with a certain stern dignity. "What mean you by such an insinuation, sir, regarding my guest?"
Davignan shrugged.
"I am sorry it slipped from my tongue," he returned. "As a matter of fact, your guest is not the man you think him. He is not the famous English ethnologist."
"Impossible!" Marquet's eyes widened. "Your statement is preposterous!"
Davigpan drew forward some papers which lay upon his desk. He appeared to ignore the old scientist's agitation.
"Let us see, let us see!" he murmured. "Here is the dossier of M. William Kent, now a visitor in Hué. From this I ascertain that he is an American."
"Au contraire, an Englishman!" broke in Marquet. "A well-known Englishman, I assure you!"
"This is extraordinary!" M. Davignan pursed his lips judicially. "I find that he was born in Boston, in the department of Massachusetts. He is unmarried—record, good. Three years ago he came to Manila and engaged in the jute business, from which he went into a general export trade. A year ago he was prosperous, and was engaged to a charming lady—but fate overwhelmed him. His fortune was swept away, the lady married another, and he became practically a homeless vagrant—"
"Monsieur, I beseech you!" said the scientist. "This is not the same person!"
"May I finish, if you please?" Davignan was apologetic. "During the past year he wandered from Shanghai to Singapore, in which latter place he engaged in business—again with bad luck. In fact, I met him there. Now let us pass to M. William Kent, the English ethnologist. Here is a portrait of him from the Illustrated London News. He is at present in Australia. You will observe that he is an elderly man."
Poor Marquet laid down the clipping of a portrait, and wiped his brow.
"This—this is horrible!" he ejaculated helplessly. "Monsieur, I protest that it cannot be true! M. Kent is endowed with a superb knowledge of ethnology."
"Has he not read your works?" thoughtfully asked M. Davignan. His very air was a subtle compliment. "Stay! Here is a photograph, forwarded me from Manila, of the American in question. A large business house in Saigon has asked me about him, as they wish to employ him, and I have obtained information. You will observe this photograph of the American."
Marquet glanced at the photograph, then leaned back and uttered a faint groan.
"It is the man!" he said in a stifled voice. "An impostor—that man! So much a gentleman, so learned a scholar, so fruitful in suggestion regarding my theory of the Malayan Po-se!"
His voice trailed off into silence. He stared at Davignan. In his gentle eyes was no anger, only a great fund of sorrow. In this moment one perceived the deep kindliness of the old man.
"An impostor, yes," said Davignan, with a shake of the head. "He has assumed the identity of a certain Englishman. Such an assumption does not constitute a crime; what crime, then, has he committed? None. It is obvious, therefore, that he is about to commit a crime."
"Under my roof?" stammered Marquet, aghast. "But no! I have nothing to steal. Naturally, my papers and manuscripts have a certain value, yet—"
"Ah, but you have a daughter," said Davignan.
For an instant Dr. Marquet turned white. Then his lips compressed, and he replied to the gaze of the commissioner with a look of gentle dignity.
"Monsieur," he said earnestly, "allow me to reassure you. This American may be an impostor; he may be a potential criminal. I admit that he has deceived me grievously. None the less, do you know what my daughter said of him as she came to the train with me? 'Mon père,' she said, 'I do not think that M. Kent is as happy as he deserves to be.' And me, M. Davignan, I say with Marie that this is not a bad man. Impostor or no, I like him."
Davignan opened his lips, then shut them again. He fully appreciated how very remarkable an utterance he had just heard. He knew a good deal about the Marquets, father and daughter. Marie Marquet was no less famous throughout the colony than her father.
Suddenly the fat man stirred, leaned forward.
"You have undoubtedly taken your guest through the royal palace?"
"Certainly. The resident has been good enough to remove any restrictions in my case. Ah, well, I am overwhelmed at this news! I do not know what to say, what to do—"
"Say nothing," said Davignan. "Do nothing."
"What? But how can—"
Davignan, smiling, leaned forward and spoke very impressively.
"My dear sir, perhaps this American has chosen to be a scientist; perhaps you have converted him to the cause of ethnology. How are we to say? In such case it were a pity for us to cast him down. You yourself aver that he has done no wrong. Now that was exactly what was said by the Roman procurator, Pilate—you remember? Exactly! Assuredly you would not desire to be a Pilate? Certainly not; nor would I be in the position of a Caiaphas!"
Dr. Marquet listened to this astonishing historical parallel with stupefaction. The fat man vigorously and swiftly proceeded with his theme.
"You and I, we are men of the world, no? Well, this American has done no wrong, has perpetrated no crime. Perhaps he has reasons, after all, for impersonating the Englishman—reasons, that is to say, outside the criminal law. Can one blame him for being seduced by your writings, by your personality, by your superb expositions of the ethnology of vanished peoples? Of a truth, no. Saperlipopette! Would you do the poor man a positive injury?"
Marquet was helpless, bewildered.
"What, then, would you have me do?"
"Nothing. I have warned you—that is sufficient. You have responded that you deem the man a gentleman—that is sufficient. Name of a name! There is no more to say. Dismiss it!" Davignan dismissed it with a florid gesture. "When do you return to Hué?" he demanded.
"I—I am not certain," stammered Marquet. "There were proofs for the École Française—I forgot to bring them. I have wired Marie to read and forward them. I must wait until they arrive."
"When you go," said Davignan, "may I have the honor of sending, by your hands, a number of very rare flowers to your charming daughter? I have done much walking in these beautiful grounds"—he waved his hand toward the window, which opened on the famed botanical gardens—"and I have heard much of the young lady. My family is in Saigon; I am deprived of my own beautiful children. Therefore, as a father, I express the wish! Let me know before you depart, and I shall do the rest."
"Monsieur, it is too good of you!" returned Marquet, his gentle features warming. Then his face changed. "Ah! The question which I desired to ask you—"
"I am entirely at your service."
"There is a man in our city"—again Marquet looked troubled—"a man who calls himself by the name of Paléologue, and who comes to our house at times. He is a charming man. Now, as you may comprehend, I am a student. I know of no Paléologue who may rightfully lay claim to the name of the famous dynasty that ruled at Constantinople for nearly two hundred years. I believe that the last genuine descendant of the Emperor Constantine Palæologus was a Moslem, one Mohammed Pasha, who died in the time of Suleiman the Magnificent. This man claims the Byzantine titles of Prince of Achaia, Duke of Athens, Count of Santorin, and I know not what else."
M. Davignan burst into a hearty laugh.
"Saperlipopette! One does not travel in our French colonies under assumed titles, monsieur!"
"Certainly," agreed Marquet; "and yet the thing worries me. Whether he be Greek or French, English or Russian, I know not. It is very strange. Sometimes I am afraid of the man's eyes. That is all folly, I know. His titles may be of papal origin; but I desired to ask you whether you know him."
Davignan laid a fat hand on the knee of his visitor, and spoke in a confidential tone.
"Tell me, what does your daughter say of this man?"
"She says," returned Marquet, "that he is happier than he deserves to be."
Davignan grunted.
"Positively, she is an oracle, this daughter! I should like to know what she would say of my little Bigarot. Well, this Paléologue is what he claims, monsieur, due to a bar sinister several centuries removed. He is received in the best of society. His titles are genuine, whatever their source. Does this satisfy you?"
Marquet nodded and rose. He made hesitant farewells. M. Davignan accompanied him to the waiting carriage beside the Rivière statue, and bowed him away.
When he had returned to his own private office, Davignan smoked a cigaret thoughtfully, the wonted smile playing about his lips. There was no smile in his black eyes, however.
Presently he touched a bell that was on his desk. The door opened to admit his secretary. Davignan spoke without looking around.
"I ordered that the resident at Hué should keep me informed of all permits to visit the royal palace. One was issued some days ago to a M. Paléologue. The exact date?"
"Three days ago, monsieur, at seven in the evening," said the secretary promptly.
"Ah! Then monsieur le prince must have been dining at the Residency. Send Bigarot to me."
The secretary withdrew. A moment later the door opened silently, A voice spoke.
"Me v'là, master!"
This was Bigarot, a most singular man—droop-shouldered, spectacled, his mouth cut ominously thin, his chin ominously square. He was shabby and down at heel; yet, in his way, he was an eminently successful man. His one vice was silence. The only person with whom he permitted himself the liberty of liberal speech was M. Davignan. Bigarot was new to the colony, having come here from Noumea with the fat Provençal.
"Ah, Bigarot! You have heard of M. Paléologue, Prince of Achaia?"
"Often, master," said this emotionless wooden image that bore the name of Bigarot. "Quite often. I heard of him in Marseilles. I predicted at the time that some day I should have the privilege of bringing down this aristocrat. I read it in a dream, and my dreams do not fail."
"So I understand." Davignan frowned slightly. "You plaguy reds! If I were created a marquis to-morrow, you would cheerfully hang me!"
"That would be an impossible deed for my hand, monsieur."
"Why so, then?"
"Because, master, on the day you become a marquis, I shall become a count at the least."
"Which is to say, never!" Davignan chuckled. "This man Paléologue is in Hué. One of the greatest treasures of Asia is also in Hué. Therefore, Bigarot, I am sending you south by the night train. You comprehend?"
"I comprehended that a fortnight ago," was the dry response, "when I read in L'Avenir that this aristocrat was in Anam, By the greatest treasure of Asia, master, you refer to the daughter of the famous Dr. Marquet?"
Davignan looked up, astonished.
"How? You also? Saperlipopette! Since when have you come to consider men and women as other than legitimate prey for your hand?"
"I merely repeat the gossip of the bureaus." Bigarot laughed without mirth. "Besides, this accursed Paléologue is said to be a connoisseur in women."
"This is a question of the Anamese treasure."
"Oh, that changes matters! In such case, our aristocrat will not work alone." Bigarot looked at the ceiling and drew a whistling breath. "There are three excellent men here, master,"
Davignan waved his hand.
"Take whom you like, do what you will; and remember, this Michael Paléologue claims to be a descendant of the Emperors of Byzantium."
Behind the thick spectacles the eyes of Bigarot flashed suddenly.
"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Master, he is a doomed man!"
The strange creature vanished.
Left alone, Davignan thoughtfully lighted another cigaret and gazed from his window at the green splendor of the Jardin Botanique outside. The cherubic features of the fat Provençal were set in their usual smile; his plump fingers twirled at his black mustache.
"A woman trips them all," he murmured. "Had not le bon Dieu created Mother Eve, then Father Adam would have scaled heaven. Why do bad men love good women? Why must this Marie Marquet stand at the gateway of the royal palace like a seraph? Well, we must not meddle with the mysteries."
Presently his thoughts took another turn.
"He is a droll, this Bigarot! Me, I am glad there are aristocrats left in the world—to keep the Bigarots busy. Russia was all right, so long as she had aristocrats to kill. What a pity she did not follow the example of France—kill off the old aristocracy, and then create a new one! So, she might still be healthy!"
M. Davignan shook his head sadly, sighed, and turned to his work.