Читать книгу The Massingham Butterfly and Other Stories - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 5

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“You must understand, monsieur,” he said, “that I have always—that is, for many years—enjoyed a great reputation as an artist in this sort of work, of which you have one of my best specimens in your possession. Therefore, I have been sought after. My work can be seen in the museums and collections of the great cities in Europe. Naturally then, I am recommended—as in the present case—by M. Virlet. All the same, monsieur, I do not know who it was that sent this Englishman who came to me about twelve months ago, and asked me if I could undertake a commission for him. He was a man of mystery, that Englishman, you will understand, monsieur—one of those who speak little.”

“Describe him, Roubiaux,” said I, thinking it well to acquaint myself with as many facts as possible. “What was he like?”

“A tallish, thin, loosely-built man, monsieur—spare of face, thin of his grey hair and beard, pale of complexion. I should say a savant of some sort, or, at any rate, a student of books, and of something beyond middle age. And evidently of the well-to-do class. And of a businesslike disposition, wasting no words. ‘I am well acquainted with your work, Roubiaux,’ said he, as soon as he had introduced himself.”

“A moment,” I said, interrupting him, “did he give you a name?”

“He called himself Mr. White,” answered Roubiaux; “but I understood very well, monsieur, that this was but a nom de guerre. To return. ‘I know your work,’ he said, ‘and I want you to do some for me, for which you shall be excellently well paid. Can you make an exact copy, perfect in every detail, of the ornament represented here?’ he continued, pulling out a very fine photograph of the original of that facsimile which you, monsieur, have in your pocket. ‘Can you make one so exact that none but experts could tell the difference?’ he said. ‘Of a certainty, monsieur,’ I replied, having studied the photograph, ‘if I can have the original to work from.’ ‘That is absolutely necessary?’ he asked. ‘Absolutely, monsieur,’ said I. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘you will have to go to London with me, and we had better arrange your terms.’ So we discussed that matter, monsieur, and I confess that he was very generous. He was to pay all my expenses of travelling and lodging, and to give me 4,000 francs when the work was completed; also he was to provide the expensive materials for the making of the imitation butterfly. And that night I left Paris in company with him for London.”

Roubiaux paused here, and having sipped his wine, chuckled to himself as if at some pleasing memory.

“I told you, monsieur, that the circumstances were mysterious,” he presently continued. “My faith, one might have been engaged in a conspiracy! I had never been in London before, so I knew nothing of it. Mr. White took me to a French hotel in the quarter of Leicester Square.”

“Its name?” I asked.

“The Hotel de Deux Anges, monsieur,” replied Roubiaux, promptly. “A small, comfortable hotel kept, of course by compatriots of mine. There he took for me two rooms, one for a bedroom, the other for my workshop. I had brought appliances and tools with me. And then he gave me my final instructions. I should have to work mainly at night, and he would have to remain with me while I worked at it. And that very first night I was there he brought it at midnight, monsieur. But that night we only examined it, in order to see what exact materials I should need. I made a complete list of these, and sent back to Paris for them next day, he giving me the money to pay for them.”

“Did they cost much?” I inquired, remembering what Penkfether had said as to the probable value of the counterfeit.

“Two or three thousand francs, monsieur,” replied Roubiaux indifferently. “They were of the best material for the purpose, naturally; and in a day or two they arrived, and Mr. White again brought the diamond butterfly, and I entered upon the work. It was his wish that it should be completed within two weeks, and I recognised that I should have to do my best. But after various interviews with the original, so to speak, I was able to work without it, and so I made progress in the daytime.”

“Mr. White continued to visit you at night, I suppose?” I said. “Always at night?”

“Always at night whenever he brought the diamond butterfly, monsieur,” he answered. “Not otherwise. This, monsieur, was the method. Whenever it was necessary that I should have the original before me, as in the early stages of my work, Mr. White brought it to me at midnight, and I worked through the night. He sat with me while I was so engaged, and it is scarcely exaggeration, monsieur, to say that he never took his eyes off the diamond butterfly. And in the early morning he carried it away with him.”

“Did he talk to you about it?” I asked. “Did he tell you its history? Did he give you any idea of its value?”

Roubiaux shrugged his shoulders.

“He was not a man of much speech, monsieur,” he replied. “He talked very little. No, he said nothing of the history of the ornament; he merely told me that it was the property of a noble family whose heads considered it necessary to have an exact duplicate made of it.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “He told you that!”

“He told me that, monsieur; but I had always guessed so much,” said Roubiaux.

“And as to the value of the butterfly, there was no need to tell me anything. I can estimate the value of diamonds as well as any man in Europe. I appraised that ornament at somewhere about thirteen thousand pounds in your money, monsieur.”

“You are a good judge,” said I. “Well, you finished the counterfeit in good time?”

“Within the period specified, monsieur,” he answered; “and when it was done Mr. White and I compared it with the original, and he was so pleased that he voluntarily added five hundred francs to my honorarium. I handed my work over to him; he paid me my money. I returned to Paris. And that is all, monsieur, until now.”

“A question or two, Roubiaux,” I said. “Did you ever see this Mr. White anywhere except at this hotel?”

“Never, monsieur. Besides, I went little outside the hotel. An occasional visit to a café, a little stroll, a theatre, that was all,” he answered. “No, of Mr. White I know nothing except what I have told you.”

“And have you never seen him since?” I asked.

“Never! I have never heard of him, never heard of the affair, monsieur, until now,” he replied, emphasising his last two words. “Now you, monsieur, present yourself with my undoubted handiwork. The original, then, monsieur—what of it?”

“The original, Roubiaux,” I answered, “seems to have been stolen, and your admirable replica put in its place. However——”

Then I paid him his reward and left him, having noted his address. And that evening I returned to London.