FRENCHMEN and Frenchwomen are tragic, or nothing, unless they happen to be comical. Nature has endowed the Gallic mind with an adroit aptness that seizes with equal facility upon the terrible and the grotesque — a revolution or a masquerade. This, by way of preface; and the story of "An Inexplicable Fancy" begins:

      Henri Cardone was a young French artist of distinguished promise. His neat little domicil and his pretty little wife were situated in suburban Paris. One early twilight in the month of November of a certain year, as he entered his home, his wife ran up to him, twined her plump arms about his neck, bestowed a kiss of full-blown affection upon his responsive lips, and immediately exclaimed: "O, dear Henri! I have had such a surprise — such an odd visitor — this afternoon: a man with such an inexplicable fancy that I have been aching these two hours for your arrival, and (bestowing a playful cuff thereupon) your ears."

      "And now the ears have arrived, Irene, my pet, I suppose your merry tongue will rattle away as glibly as a newly wound-up music-box; and, once started, I shall not have an opportunity to put a word in even edgewise until you have run down completely, and ended with a long final thr-i-i-i-i-i-l-up, after the manner of music and chatter-boxes generally. But, for this odd man, with the 'inexplicable fancy.' He could not have taken a fancy to you, for that would have been neither odd nor 'inexplicable.' Did he, utterly regardless of the divine set of his trousers, go down upon his knees, and beseech of you to fly with him to some intensely rural retreat, there to pardon me it is no ordinary curiosity that prompts the question — but might I venture to ask how that trinket (pointing a trembling finger at the cross) came into your possession — under what circumstances?'"

      "Well," queried Henri, in a low, interested tone, "what was my little wife's reply?"

      "Your little wife told him, sir, that it was a present from her husband, and that it had been in her possession four years. How or where you came by it, she could not inform him."

      "Then he departed satisfied?"

      "No, indeed."

      "No; what then?"

      "Then he inquired your name, age, and profession."

      "Did he? I do not know whether I ought to feel complimented or insulted. Did you tell him?"

      "I hesitated, and then told him."

      "I wish you had hesitated, and then not told him. Something of moment may grow out of his curiosity. But it will not matter. Then he departed?"

      "No. He stood absorbed in troubled thought a few minutes, as though weighing a deep problem, and then said he had taken a very strong and eccentric fancy for the trinket, and asked if I would for a consideration consent to part with it."

      "What was your reply to that very business-like proposition?"

      "That, being your gift, I should much dislike to let it go."

      "Of course, that must have terminated the conversation."

      "Of course, but it did not, though! It became more pointed directly."

      "Well — well! I am eager to learn the dénouement," said Henri. "If I am not much at fault in my surmises, something will shortly grow out of this affair that will interest a very wide circle. Give me the exact particulars. What followed?"

      "He said he was wealthy, and did not value money; that he had conceived so strong a desire to possess the cross, that, wild as the offer might seem, he would not demur at giving five hundred francs for it."

      "Five hundred — parbleu! The trinket is not worth five francs," said Henri, excitedly. "The man is either a lunatic, or — what I more strongly suspect him of being."

      "And what is it possible for you to more strongly suspect him of being?" asked Irene.

      "A knave. In spite of the temptation of five hundred francs, I see that you still bear your cross. I would have thought the sum sufficient to buy up all the crosses in Paris, and all the women bearing them. How did you resist?"

      "If I did not know your slur on women and their crosses was said more in humor than earnest, I would not give you another word of information. I told the man that the offer was very tempting, but that I could not possibly accept it without first consulting you."

      "That was a noble reply, my darling," said Henri, drawing his wife close to his side, bestowing on her an eloquent glance and several passionate kisses. "Hereafter I shall consider you cheap at fifty thousand francs! What said old Crœsus to your priceless answer?"

      "At first he appeared much discomfited. After a little, he said he was going into the country to remain one week, that he should return this way, and if I, in the meantime, gained your consent, or concluded to part with the cross without it, he would make his offer good. And then he bade me a reluctant adieu, went to a post-chaise that was waiting in the road, got in, and drove off rapidly toward Chalons."

      "Finally, we have the finale of act first," remarked Henri.

      "Yes," responded the musing Irene, toying with the object of so much discussion; which was in reality of but little intrinsic value, and in no way remarkable, excepting from peculiarity of design. It was of a clear, blood-red cornelian, the upright pillar being carved to represent a descending arrow, and the cross-piece a very finely wrought imitation of flying wings.

      "What attraction this bit of a thing, which, aside from being your gift, I look upon as worthless, can possess to render it so exceedingly precious in the eyes of that man, I can not conjecture," continued the puzzled Irene.

      "I think I can furnish you with a clue to the foundation of his extraordinary interest," remarked Henri. "What was his general appearance? — that of a coarse, ill-bred person?"

      "Far from that. He was quite tall, not over-fleshy, well dressed, and refined in his bearing and language. His countenance betokened much illness at some early period in his life, or excessive dissipation."

      "Should your cross-enamored friend call again, and I much doubt if he ever does," said Henri, "I am the person with whom he must deal."

      "Why with you, dear?"

      "Because the object he is so extremely solicitous to possess has a mysterious history known only to myself."

      "And that mysterious history affords a key to the solution of the seemingly insane offer of five hundred francs?"

      "I apprehend such to be the case. That cross was found on a spot where, but a few days previous, a revolting crime had been committed. If my surmises are correct, this strange visitor of yours was the author of that crime. If so, he and that little red cross are old acquaintances, and he would readily sacrifice several times five hundred francs to compass its possession. Why? Simply because, so long as it remains in other hands than his own, he is painfully conscious that it may at any moment rise up in judgment against him, and cost him the more irreparable sacrifice of his head."

      "And you have kept all this dark mystery from me," complained Irene.

      "I have, but will no longer. I have refrained from making you acquainted with the circumstances that are associated with my finding of the trinket solely from a fear that the knowledge might cause you to conceive a morbid dislike for it, and as it is really a pretty toy, I liked to see you wear it. And now for the mystery. Do you remember the murder, six years ago, of a nobleman of the name of Comte de St. Armande, in the Rue de Germaine?"

      "Distinctly," replied Irene. "All Paris was thrilled with horror at the mystery and barbarity of the deed. But what association can this cross have with that dreadful affair?"

      "An intimate association. That cross was found by me on the identical spot of the murder, and but three days thereafter. If you closely examine the under side, you will observe a small drilled hole at each extremity. From these holes I am led to infer that it was worn originally as a breastpin, and that it was so worn by the unknown assassin on the fatal night in question; and, furthermore, that it was wrenched from its fastenings by the hand of the hapless Comte in his dying struggle. Naturally enough, it fell to the ground, where I found it. To this day, in spite of the superhuman efforts of a by no means obtuse police, and the incentive of fabulous rewards by St. Armande's relatives, the murderer is undiscovered, and the whole affair remains wrapped in impenetrable mystery. After all these unrevealing years, who shall say that the coming together of this man and the cross is not the working of a retributive fate? Too well does the man of 'inexplicable fancy' know that the little toy he so covets is adequate, if it falls into proper hands, to work the crucifixion of a great scoundrel."

      "Ugh!" shuddered Irene. "And I have been wearing it all this time, and admiring it, totally ignorant of the terrible thing its blood-red color symbolizes. Ugh! I can wear it no longer. Every time my eyes shall hereafter rest upon it, imagination will conjure up the phantom of a struggling man, and I shall expect to see gory drops ooze from its barbed point and trickle down my dress. Here," — removing from her shrinking neck the chain by which it was suspended — "I return it to you. I can now view it with no interest but that of horror;" and she threw it nervously into her husband's lap.

      "Why, you little fool!" said Henri, in a jocose tone, "are you going to faint? Are you afraid of it? It is just as harmless as it has been, and just as beautiful."

      "I do not fear it," replied Irene, shrinking from it, nevertheless. "I am not that foolish. But I dislike it. Its innocent charm is lost to me forever."

      "Be it so," said Henri, winding the chain about the cross and conveying it to his pocket. "There is no reasoning women out of their whimsical sensitiveness regarding things that have unpleasant stories attached to them. My nerves will be equal to the bearing of your rejected cross until the return of the gentleman of the prodigal purse, and it shall then cost him his life, or nothing, as our interview may determine." After weighing the matter in his mind until the specified week had nearly elapsed, Henri suddenly and sagely concluded to acquaint the Prefect of Police with the story in all its bearings, real and suppository. That astute functionary proved to be an intelligent and patient listener, and was only too glad to detail two subordinates to further a scheme that promised to result in the capture of a criminal who had so long succeeded in eluding the pursuit of justice. Early in the morning, a week subsequent to that on which the supposed criminal had called, Henri sent Irene into the city on a visit to some friends, with the explicit understanding that she was not to return until he came for her. Following close upon her departure, came the arrival of two gendarmes, who were forthwith secreted in her but recently vacated bedroom, thereafter to make their rentrée in the presence of the expected stranger, or not, as he might or might not criminate himself in the interview with Henri.

      All the preliminary arrangements being made, our artist-detective took his station at a window, and, behind closed blinds, became a silent and intense watcher. He was a brave and resolute man; but, nevertheless, an occasional misgiving flitted across his mind. The business before him was of an extremely hazardous nature. Should the supposed criminal prove to be the real criminal, his capture would be likely to be preluded by a desperate and perhaps fatal encounter. If fatal, fatal to whom? Henri thought of this, then of Irene, and closed his eyes. Then he thought of the gendarmes in the next room, set his jaw, and, in a spirit of grim defiance, put all forebodings from him. Morning, noon, afternoon, and evening glided by, with no result. Henri yawned with impatient discouragement. His allies took to the bedroom-floor and cards early in the forenoon. Hitherto the excitement of the chase had been strong enough to sustain Henri's interest. But now? Would the expected not come, after all? A brief consultation with the officers — who adhered to the opinion that he would come, and was much more likely to make his appearance within the next three hours than at any previous time during the day, especially if he was a rogue, and was not lacking in their usual low cunning — braced Henri somewhat. Lighting a lamp for the quondam gamesters, and another for himself, he camped on the lounge. He had but got comfortably settled, however, before a resonant rap on the street-door brought him instantly to his feet. Schooling himself to meet the probable crisis with quiet deliberation, he leisurely proceeded to the door and opened it. From Irene's graphic description, he had no difficulty in recognizing his visitor. The expected man of the cross stood before him. His heart gave a tremendous thump against his breast; but his voice was steady and quiet, as he saluted the stranger with, "Good evening, sir."

      "Good evening, sir," responded the visitor, scrutinizing Henri closely. "Is the madame at home?"

      "My wife is the lady to whom you refer, I presume," said Henri. "She is absent on a visit. Can I serve you in anything? Will you not step in, sir?" Henri threw the door wide open, that the man might see that the room was vacant, and hence imagine him to be alone.

      "Ah! you are the husband of the lady," remarked the stranger, who, after peering in, walked in.

      "I have that honor. Pray be seated."

      "I will trespass upon your hospitality but for a few moments ——"

      "No trespass, I assure you. Solitude is not the best of companions."

      Without removing his hat, the stranger took the proffered chair. "I can tarry but a short time," he said. "Probably your wife has informed you of an offer she received, a week ago, for a small, fanciful, cornelian cross that was in her possession?"

      "Yes; she did mention the matter to me, and we both wondered at the strange fancy of the man, and the excessive price he offered."

      "Well," replied the stranger, with a forced laugh, "the fancy can not matter to you; and as for the price, if you get it, that ought to satisfy you on that point. I am the man; and I renew the offer."

      "Ah! No, certainly not, the fancy does not concern us — of course not," and Henri eyed the stranger keenly. "But you know that unusual occurrences will set the least curious of mortals to surmising."

      "Of course — of course," said the stranger, with strong symptoms of uneasiness. "People can not help thinking — that's what brains were made for. But to the point: if you still possess the cross, and will exchange it for the sum offered, that sum is yours. Your answer? You will excuse my seeming abruptness: I am pressed for time, and can not dally."

      "I hold you perfectly excusable," said Henri, drawing the coveted cross from his pocket, and noting the eager flashing of the stranger's eyes, as his gaze fell upon it. Deciding to thrust the probe home at once, he deliberately added, "Another reason, other than want of time, may exist to occasion your abruptness, my friend: want of confidence."

      "What, sir!" ejaculated the man, starting up in a threatening, apprehensive way. "What do you mean by that remark, sir?"

      "Listen, and I will tell you," replied Henri, fully convinced that he was on the right track, as his visitor indecisively sat down again. "Listen, and I will tell you what I mean. This cross, for which you have taken such an inexplicable fancy, came into my possession under very peculiar circumstances — circumstances that invest it with extraordinary interest." Pausing a moment to note the effect of his language, Henri fixed his burning eyes on the stranger's. Speaking slowly and emphasizing every word, he continued: "I found this cross on the 3d of January, 1849, on the Rue de Germaine, on the very spot on which, three days previous, the Comte de St. Armande was brutally murdered."

      During the utterance of the concluding words of the above, the countenance of the listening man underwent a most appalling change — as dreadful, indeed, as though he had heard the sentence for his immediate execution pronounced. The muscles of his face twitched convulsively, his under jaw fell, and his eyes rolled about in their sockets as though following the fantastic evolutions of some horrid goblin.

      The paroxysm lasted but for a moment. By a superhuman effort of the will he recovered his bewildered faculties, sprang to his feet, and, with the demoniac fury of a madman, dashed at Henri; hissing between his set teeth, "D—— you! the telling of that tale is your death-knell!"

      Just as his muscular hand closed oppressively on Henri's throat, he was violently jerked backward, and found himself in the tenacious clutches of the two gendarmes.

      "So, ho! my fine fellow!" ejaculated one of the officers. "We are altogether too deeply concerned for the future welfare of your soul to permit you to perpetrate such a crime. You have done bad enough already to bring you to hanging, and that is quite sufficient for our purpose."

      The foiled villain glared sullenly from one to the other, and made no attempt to escape.

      "That is right," remarked the officer who spoke before. "Take it easy — shows you to be a philosopher and a man of uncommon sense."

      The prisoner coolly folded his arms, and stood silent.

      "Monsieur Cardone," continued the officer, "as your friend seems to take kindly our interference with his little plan to afford you a long resting-spell, will you, with equal disinterestedness, provide us with a rope for his benefit? Unluckily, we came from town and forgot to bring the professional bracelets — an unintentional oversight, which, I assure you," addressing the prisoner, "we deplore even more than you yourself can. In fact, we were rather uncertain of having the pleasure of your company on our return."

      "Nor will you have that pleasure," growled the hitherto quiescent captive, suddenly striking out with his two powerful arms, upsetting both officers, kicking over the table on which stood the light, and leaping out of the door into freedom and darkness. As he vanished, a bullet hissed by either ear, but he escaped unhurt.

      The reports of the pistols hurried Henri back into the room, from which he had gone in quest of the rope. once.

      "Quick!" exclaimed one of the officers. "The devil has outwitted and escaped us. We must after him at I know the rascal of old. It is Leone Breme, the most reckless and ferocious of the many cut-throats who infested Paris six years ago. He most miraculously disappeared about the time of the St. Armande murder, and the department had given him up for dead. We must allow him to have his length, for the moment. Our first move is to lodge information at the three heads of the Police Department. He is an astute dog, of infinite resource, and the whole force on the scent will hardly suffice to capture him."

      Breme was eventually taken. But so adroit was he, that he contrived to remain at large for three weeks after his escape from Cardone's house. He was tried, condemned, and executed, for the murder of St. Armande, several witnesses being found who identified him, and testified to having seen fastened to his shirt-bosom, on the evening of the murder, that identical blood-red cornelian cross.

      Irene was never afterward persuaded to wear it. It has hung over the mantle in her boudoir, and many an evening-visitor has been beguiled by Henri with a recital of the two dark episodes in its history which are embodied in this story, and have departed shuddering at its sanguinary hue.