The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes

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"I can ascertain that for you in a moment."

Again the Prefect pressed a pedal. A panel, and this time a different panel
from the first, slid back, and again the secretary appeared.

Monsieur Beaucourt said a brief word or two, and a few moments later a
tabulated list, written in round-hand, lay before him.

"Here are all the accidents which have occurred in Paris during the last
ninety hours."

He ran his eyes down the list; and then, rising, handed the sheets to
Senator Burton.

"I think this disposes of the idea that an accident may have befallen your
friend in the streets," said the Prefect briefly.

And the Senator, handing back the list, acknowledged that this was so.

"May I ask if you know much of the habits and way of life of this vanished
bridegroom?" asked the Prefect thoughtfully. "I understand he belongs to
the British Colony here."

"Mr. Dampier was not my friend," said the Senator hurriedly. "It is Mrs.
Dampier--"

"Ah, yes--I understand--the three weeks' bride? It is she you know. Well,
Monsieur le Senateur, the best thing you and I can do is to look at the
artist's dossier. That is quite likely to provide us with a useful clue."

The Senator felt a thrill of anticipatory interest. All his life he had
heard of the dossiers kept by the Paris police, of how every dweller in the
great city, however famous, however obscure, had a record in which the most
intimate details of their lives were set down in black and white. Somehow
he had never quite believed in these French police dossiers.

"Surely you are not likely to have a dossier of Mr. Dampier?" he exclaimed,
"he is a British subject, and, as far as I know, a perfectly
respectable man."

The Prefect smiled. "The mere fact that he is an English subject living in
Paris entitles him to a dossier. In fact everybody who is anybody in any
kind of society, from that frequented by the Apaches to that of the
Faubourg Saint Germain, has a dossier. And from what you tell me this
artist, who won a Salon medal, and who has already had a distinguished
career as a painter, is certainly 'somebody.' Now, please tell me exactly
the way to spell his surname and his Christian name. English names are so
perplexing."

Very clearly the Senator spelt out--first the word "John" and then the word
"Dampier."

And as, under his dictation, the Prefect of Police wrote the two
distinctive names of the missing man, there came a look of frowning
perplexity and indecision over his face.

"It's an odd thing," he muttered, "but I seem to have heard that name quite
lately, and in some strange connection! Now what could it have been? As you
probably know, Monsieur le Senateur, there is a French form of that name,
Dampierre. But no--it is that John which puzzles me--I am quite sure that I
have heard the name 'John Dampier' quite recently."

"Isn't it likely," suggested the Senator, "that the man's disappearance has
been reported to you? My son and I have done everything in our power to
make the fact known, and Mr. Dampier's name and particulars as to his
appearance have been at the Morgue since yesterday."

"Well, that's possible, of course. Just now my poor head has to hold far
more than it was ever meant to do. The presence of so many royal personages
in Paris always means extra trouble for me--especially when they are here
'incognito.' By the way, it would amuse, perhaps shock you, to see the
dossiers of some of these Princes and Grand Dukes! But these are, of
course, kept very secret. Meanwhile, I must not forget Mr. John Dampier."

This time the Prefect did not ring his bell. Instead he blew down a tube.
"You would scarcely believe it," he said, looking up suddenly, "but these
tubes have only just been installed! I had a regular battle over the matter
with the Treasury. But now that the battle is won, I forget half the time
that the tube is there! Picot? Please send me the dossier of an
artist-painter called John Dampier," he spelt the names. "English subject;
living in Impasse des Nonnes. I have an impression that we have had that
name before us during the last week or so--Have you any recollection
of it?"

He put the tube to his ear.

And then the American Senator, looking at the Paris Prefect of Police, was
struck by a sudden change which came over the listener's face. There
gathered on Monsieur Beaucourt's features a look of quick surprise,
followed--yes, unmistakably--by a frown of dismay.

Putting his free hand over the tube, he withdrew it from his ear and
applied it to his lips. "Yes, yes," he said rapidly, "enough, enough! I
quite understand. It is, as you say, very natural that I should have
forgotten."

And then he looked quickly across at the Senator. "You are right, Monsieur
le Senateur: Mr. Dampier's name was put before me only yesterday as that of
an Englishman who had disappeared from his hotel. But I took him to be a
passing visitor. You know quite a number of the tourists brought by the
Exhibition disappear, sometimes for two or three days--sometimes--well, for
ever! That, of course, means they have left Paris suddenly, having got into
what the English call a 'scrape.' In such a case a man generally thinks it
better to go home--wiser if sadder than when he came."

There followed a pause.

"Well, Monsieur le Senateur," said the Prefect, rising from his chair. "You
may rest assured that I will do everything that is in my power to find
your friend."

"But the dossier?" exclaimed Senator Burton. "I thought, Monsieur le
Prefet, that I was to see Mr. Dampier's dossier?"

"Oh, to be sure--yes! I beg your pardon."

Again he whistled down the tube. "Picot?" he exclaimed, "I still require
that dossier! Why am I kept waiting in this way?"

He listened for a few moments to what his invisible subordinate had to say,
and then again he spoke down the funnel, and with a certain pettish
impatience. "The last entry is of no importance--understand me--no
importance at all! The gentleman for whose benefit I require the dossier
already knows of this Mr. Dampier's disappearance."

A moment later a clerk knocked at the door, and appeared with a blue
envelope which he laid with a deep bow on the Prefect's table.

It was not a very large envelope, and yet Senator Burton was surprised at
its size, and at the number of slips of paper the Prefect of Police
withdrew from it.

"I do not suppose, Monsieur le Senateur, that you have ever seen one of our
dossiers--in fact I may tell you that very few people outside this building
ever do see one. By the way, a great deal of nonsense is talked about them.
Roughly speaking, a dossier is not a history of the individual in question;
it simply records what is being said of him. For instance, the day that I
became Prefect of Police my dossier was brought to me--"

He smiled wearily.

"Your dossier?" repeated the Senator in amazement.

"Yes, my dossier. I have had it bound, and I keep it as a curiosity.
Everything that had ever been written about me in the days when I was a
Member of the Chamber of Deputies is there. And what really made me feel
angry was the fact that I had been confused with more than one of my
namesakes, in fact certain misdeeds that these worthy folk had committed
were actually registered in my dossier!"

He stopped speaking for a moment, and took up the blue envelope.

"But now let us consider this Mr. John Dampier. You will see that he bears
the number '16909,' and that his envelope is blue. Had this gentleman ever
had anything to do with the police, were he, to put it plainly, of the
criminal class, this envelope would be yellow. As for the white envelopes,
they, Monsieur le Senateur, have to deal with a very different sort of
individual. We class them briefly under the general word 'Morals.'"

As he spoke the Prefect was looking swiftly through the Dampier dossier,
and not till he had glanced at every item did he hand the envelope to his
American visitor.

Senator Burton could not but admire the intelligent way the dossier had
been prepared, and kept up to date.

On the top sheet were carefully gummed various entries from the
biographical dictionaries in which mention was made of John Dampier and his
career. There followed a eulogistic newspaper article containing an account
of the picture which had won the artist his Medaille d'Honneur at the Salon
two years before. Then came a piece of foolscap headed "General remarks,"
and here were written the following words:--"Lives quietly; is popular with
his fellow artists; has few debts; does not frequent the British Colony."

The Senator looked up quickly. "Well, there is not much to learn from
this!" he said. And then, "I notice, Monsieur le Prefet, that there was
another entry which has been removed."

"Yes," said the Prefect. "That last entry was only added the day before
yesterday, and told of Monsieur Dampier's disappearance. It is being
written up now, Monsieur le Senateur, with a note explaining your kind
interest in him, and telling of your visit to-day."

Senator Burton rose from his chair. He could not have told exactly why, but
he had the impression that his courteous host had suddenly become anxious
to get rid of him.

But this impression was evidently erroneous. Even after they had cordially
shaken hands, the Prefect of Police seemed in no hurry to let him go.

"One moment, Monsieur le Senateur?" he looked earnestly into the American's
frank face. "I feel bound to tell you that I am convinced there is more in
this mysterious disappearance than appears on the surface. I fear--I
greatly fear--that this Mr. Dampier has vanished of his own free will," he
spoke with evident reluctance, "and that his poor young wife will never see
him again. As I think I said before, the public, especially the vulgar,
ignorant public, credit us with powers we are far from possessing. It is
possible that this gentleman does not care for the trammels of married
life, and that his bride, however charming she may be, has disappointed
him. Such cases are commoner than you might think possible, especially
among English and American people. You, in your country, if you will
forgive my saying so, marry with such reckless haste; and that often means
repenting at bitter leisure." The Prefect's voice lowered, a look of real
distress came over his face. "Ah! what tales I could tell you--what fearful
domestic tragedies have been confided to me here, within these four walls!
No doubt for an artist this Mr. John Dampier was a very good fellow--what
in England they call 'respectable enough.' But still, think what painters
are like! Think of how Bohemian, how careless is their life, compared with
that of the man who has a regular occupation--" Monsieur de Beaucourt shook
his head gloomily--"In most of these stories of sudden disappearance there
is no crime, as the relations are so apt to think there is. No, Monsieur le
Senateur, there is simply--a woman! Sometimes it is a new friend--but far
oftener it is an old friend."

There was a pause. "God forbid," said the Prefect suddenly, "that I should
accuse this unfortunate man of anything heinous! But--but, Monsieur le
Senateur? You must have learnt through our Press, through those of our
newspapers which delight in dragging family scandals to light, the amazing
story of Count Breville."

The Senator was impressed, in spite of himself, by the other's manner.

"I don't remember the name," he said thoughtfully.

"Count Breville," said the Prefect slowly, "was a man of deservedly high
reputation, in fact one of the pillars of the Royalist party. He had a wife
who adored him, a large family whom he adored, and they all lived an
idyllic country life. Well, one day the Count's coat, his hat, his
pocket-book (which was known to have been full of bank-notes, but which was
now empty) were found on the parapet of a bridge near his chateau. It was
given out--it was believed that a dastardly crime had been committed. And
then, by a mere accident, it was brought to my notice--for there was
nothing in the Count's dossier which could have led me to suspect such a
thing--that a charming governess who had been in the employment of his
Countess for some four or five years had suddenly left to join her family
in the New World, and that her travelling companion was strangely like her
late employer!"

"Yes," said Senator Burton uncomfortably, "I think I do remember something
of that story now."

"All the world was let into the secret," said the Prefect regretfully, "for
the family had confided, from the first, in the Press. They thought--what
did they not think, poor, foolish people? Among other things they actually
believed that the Count had been murdered for political reasons. But no,
the explanation was far more simple. That high-minded man, that Christian
gentleman, this father of charming children whom he apparently adored, had
gone off under a false name, leaving everything that was dear to him,
including his large fortune, to throw in his lot with the governess!"

The Prefect came closer to Senator Burton. He even lowered his voice. "I
had the Countess here, Monsieur le Senateur, in this room. Oh, what a
touching, what a moving interview! The poor woman was only anxious to have
back her husband with no questions asked, with no cruel reminders. And now
he is back--a broken man. But had he been an artist, Monsieur le Senateur,
would the Count have been traced? Of course not! Would he have returned?
No, indeed! The Prefect of Police can do many things, Monsieur le Senateur,
but as I said just now, he cannot force an unwilling husband back to his
wife, especially if that husband has already crossed the frontier. Come,
Monsieur le Senateur, confess that some such explanation of Mr. Dampier's
disappearance has already occurred to you?"

"Well," said Senator Burton slowly, "I confess that some such thought has
crossed my mind. But in that case what a tragic fate for the poor
young wife!"

"Bah! Do you know the saying:--'Widowhood is the Marshal's baton every
woman carries in her knapsack!'"

Senator Burton could not help smiling. Then he grew very grave. "But Mrs.
Dampier, in the case you suppose, would not be a widow, Monsieur le Prefet:
she would be neither maid, wife, nor widow."

The Prefect looked surprised. "Ah yes! The English divorce laws are very
conservative. But I suppose in the end such a marriage would be annulled?"

"I suppose so," said Senator Burton indifferently.

"I wish I could help you more," said the Prefect solicitously. He really
wished he could, for he liked his kindly visitor. "Can you suggest anything
that we could do to help you?"

"Yes," said the Senator frankly. "My son, Monsieur le Prefet, has not the
same trust in the hotel-keeper, Poulain, that I feel. Neither, I am bound
to tell you, has Mrs. Dampier. I think it would be a relief to the poor
young lady, if the hotel could be searched for some trace of Mr. Dampier's
sojourn there. You see Mrs. Dampier is convinced--or seems to be--that her
husband spent a night there."

"Nothing is easier than to have the place searched," said the Prefect
quickly. "I will arrange for it to be done to-morrow morning at eleven.
Perhaps you, Monsieur le Senateur, will inform the hotel people that a
Perquisition is about to take place."

CHAPTER X

As he walked away from the Prefecture of Police, Senator Burton told
himself that the French were certainly a curiously casual people.

How strange that the Prefect should have asked him to break the news of
what was to happen at eleven o'clock the next morning to the Poulains! In
America--and he supposed in England also--the hotel-keeper would have
received a formal notification of the fact that his house was about to be
searched, or, in the case that foul play was suspected, no warning at all.
But here, in Paris, it was thought enough to entrust a stranger with a
message concerning so serious a matter.

Of everything that had happened in connection with this extraordinary
Dampier affair, perhaps this having to tell the Poulains that their hotel
was to be searched was the most disagreeable and painful thing of all to
their American friend and kindly client.

The Senator was now very sorry, that, in deference to his son's wish, he
had made such a suggestion.

On his return to the hotel he was surprised to find a woman he had never
seen before installed in Madame Poulain's kitchen. Still, the presence of
the stranger brought a sense of reprieve.

He, Senator Angus Burton, the distinguished politician whom most of those
of his fellow-countrymen whose opinion mattered would have said to be a
particularly fearless man, dreaded the task of telling Madame Poulain that
a Perquisition was about to take place in her house.

He lifted his hat. "Is Madame Poulain out?"

"She won't be long, monsieur; she and her husband have had to absent
themselves for a little hour."

"Are they both out?" asked the Senator. He had never in his long knowledge
of the Hotel Saint Ange known such a thing to happen--that both the
Poulains should be out together.

"Yes, monsieur. They have had to take that nephew of theirs, young Jules,
off to the station. They are sending him to the country. He's in a sad
state--he does nothing but cry, poor lad! I suppose he's in love--I've
known it take young men that way." The woman smiled, smiled as a certain
type of person usually does smile when giving disagreeable or unpleasant
news. "It is very awkward for the Poulains to lose the lad just now, for
they are very busy. I have no doubt--" she tossed her head--"that Jules has
been working too hard; the Poulains are foolish not to have more help from
outside. I came in just to oblige Madame Poulain while she and her husband
accompanied Jules to the station. But I also am busy. I have my own work to
attend to just as much as anybody else; and my three children are all
working at the Exhibition."

The Senator left the eager gossip, and began walking round the courtyard.
He felt quite wretched. Jules, at no time a very intelligent lad, had
evidently been terrified out of his wits by the questionings and the
cross-questionings to which he had been subjected.

And then--and then--no doubt Gerald was in a measure also responsible for
the lad's state! Senator Burton had been very much annoyed when his son had
told him of what had happened the night before--of how he had accused the
Poulains' nephew of lying--of knowing something of the Dampier affair....

He was just about to go upstairs when he saw Monsieur and Madame Poulain
emerging from the porte cochere. They both looked tired, hot, and
dispirited.

He walked forward to meet them.

"I am very sorry to hear this news about Jules," he began quickly. "I hope
you are not really anxious about him?"

Madame Poulain stared at him fixedly, reproachfully. "It is all this
affair," she said with a heavy sigh. "If it had only been the police, our
own police, we should not have minded, Monsieur le Senateur--we are honest
people--we have nothing to fear from the police," she lifted her head
proudly. "But when it came to that impudent young man--"

For a moment the Senator was at a loss--then he suddenly remembered:--"You
mean the gentleman attached to the British Consulate?" he said
uncomfortably. And as she nodded her head, "But surely it was quite
reasonable that he should come and ask those questions. You must remember
that both Mr. and Mrs. Dampier are English people. They have a right to the
protection and help of their Consulate."

"I do not say to the contrary, monsieur. I am only telling you the truth,
namely that that English lawyer--for lawyer I suppose he was--terrified
Jules. And had it not been that I and my husband are conscious of--of our
innocence, Monsieur le Senateur, he would have terrified us also. Then your
son attacked Jules too. Surely the matter might have been left to the
police--our own excellent police."

"I am glad you feel as you do about the police," said the Senator
earnestly, "for as a matter of fact the Prefect of Police, whom I have just
been consulting about Mr. Dampier's disappearance, suggests that the Hotel
Saint Ange be searched."

"Searched?" exclaimed Monsieur Poulain, staring at the Senator.

"Searched?" shrieked Madame Poulain indignantly.

"Yes," said Senator Burton quietly, and trying to speak as if a police
Perquisition of a respectable hotel was the most ordinary thing in the
world. "They are sending their men at eleven to-morrow morning. Let me add
that they and Mrs. Dampier are most eager to study your convenience in
every way. They would doubtless choose another time should eleven o'clock
be inconvenient to you."

Madame Poulain was now speechless with indignation, and yes, with surprise.
When at last she did speak, her voice trembled with pain and anger.

"To think," she said, turning to her husband, and taking for the moment no
notice of her American client--"to think that you and I, Poulain, after
having lived here for twenty-one years and a half, should have our hotel
searched by the police--as if it were the resort of brigands!" She turned
to the Senator, and quietly, not without a measure of dignity, went
on:--"And to think that it is you, Monsieur le Senateur, who we have always
thought one of our best patrons, who have brought this indignity upon us!"

"I am very, very sorry for all the trouble you are having about this
affair," said Senator Burton earnestly. "And Madame Poulain? I want to
assure you how entirely I have always believed your statement concerning
this strange business."

"If that is so then why all this--this trouble, Monsieur le Senateur?"
Husband and wife spoke simultaneously.

"I wonder," exclaimed the Senator, "that you can ask me such a question! I
quite admit that the first twenty-four hours I knew nothing of this
unfortunate young woman whose cause I championed. But now, Madame Poulain,
I have learnt that all she told me of herself is true. Remember she has
never faltered in the statement that she came here accompanied by her
husband. I, as you know," he lowered his voice, "suppose that in so
thinking she is suffering from a delusion. But you cannot expect my view to
be shared by those who know her well and who are strangers to you. As I
told you only this morning, we hope that towards the end of this week Mrs.
Dampier's lawyer will arrive from England."

"But what will happen then?" cried Madame Poulain, throwing up her hands
with an excited, passionate gesture. "When will this persecution come to an
end? We have done everything we could; we have submitted to odious
interrogatories, first from one and then from the other--and now our hotel
is to be searched! None of our other clients, and remember the hotel is
full, Monsieur le Senateur, have a suspicion of what is going on, but any
moment the affair may become public, and then--then our hotel might empty
in a day! Oh, Monsieur le Senateur"--she clasped her hands together--"If
you refuse to think of us, think of our child, think of poor little
Virginie!"

"Come, come, Madame Poulain!"

The Senator turned to the good woman's husband, but Poulain's usually
placid face bore a look of lowering rage. The mention of his idolised
daughter had roused his distress as well as anger.

"Now, Poulain, do tell your wife that there is really nothing to worry
about. The police speak of you both in the very highest terms! As to the
search that will take place to-morrow, it is the merest formality."

"I hope, monsieur, that you will do us the honour of being present," said
Madame Poulain quickly. "We have nothing to hide, and we should far prefer
you to be there."

"If such is your wish I will certainly be present," said Senator Burton
gravely.

And then, as he walked away to the escalier d'honneur, he told himself that
on the whole the poor Poulains had taken his disagreeable piece of news
very well. Gerald was not showing his usual sense over this business: he
had let his sympathies run away with him. But the Senator loved his son all
the better for his chivalrous interest in poor Mrs. Dampier. It wasn't
every young man who would have put everything aside in the way of interest,
of amusement, and of pleasure in such a city as Paris, for the sake of an
entire stranger.

As to Gerald's view of the Poulains, that again was natural. He didn't know
these people with the same kindly knowledge the Senator and Daisy had of
them. Gerald had been at college, and later working hard in the office of
America's greatest living architect, at the time the Senator and his
daughter had spent a whole winter at the Hotel Saint Ange.

It was natural that the young man should take Mrs. Dampier's word instead
of the hotel-keepers'. But even so, how extraordinary was the utter
divergence between the two accounts of what had happened!

For the hundredth time Senator Burton asked himself where the truth lay.

A sad change had come over Nancy Dampier in the three long days. She could
not sleep, and they had to force her to eat. The interrogatories to which
she had had to submit, first from one and then from another, had worn her
out. When going over her story with the Consular official, she had suddenly
faltered, and putting her hand to her head with a bewildered gesture, "I
can't remember," she had said, looking round piteously at the Senator, "I
can't remember!"

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