CHAPTER V
M. RIBAUT IS OBDURATE
She sat looking at me for a moment without speaking, her chin in her hands, her eyes bright.
“That is life!” she said, at last. “That is living! That is what I long for! And, oh, how I shall love your sister! What is her name, Pierre?”
“Ninon,” I answered.
“Ninon!” and she lingered on the word. “Why, that is almost Nanette! Oh, that I could see her, now—this moment!”
“Perhaps you soon will—that cottage at St. Cloud, you know,” and I smiled at her eager face. “Come, it is time for me to pay my respects to your amiable uncle.”
She gave a little gasp.
“And you are not afraid?” she asked. “Do you think he will harm you, Pierre?”
“Harm me?” I laughed. “No,” and I touched the hilt of my sword. “There is nothing to fear—on my account. Come.”
She arose with a little sigh, and paused in the doorway for a backward look.
“But I have been happy here,” she said softly, and together we passed out into the street.
We made our way back to the Rue du Chantre in silence. She seemed oppressed by some foreboding, and I was considering what I would best say to her uncle. It was not an easy matter to decide—I felt that, in this case, I should be readier with my sword than with my tongue, I hated him so already! We entered the little court and paused at the stair-foot.
“I will leave you here, Nanette,” I said. “I shall not be long away.”
She answered with a pressure of the hand and smiled into my eyes. How often, afterwards, in my dreams, did I see her standing so!
I watched her for a moment as she mounted the stair, and then turned away. I caught a glimpse of the hideous concierge leering at me from her box, and hurried from the place, disgusted, resolved anew to seek another lodging. On through the streets I pressed, for I was anxious to have my errand done—along the crowded, clamorous Rue St. Honoré, to the Rue des Frondeurs, then to the Rue de l’Evêque—with leaping heart I saw again the corner where Nanette had sought shelter in my arms, months agone, it seemed!—and so onward across the Rue des Orties, to the Rue des Moulins.
She had described the house for me, and I had no difficulty in finding it, for a gilded board, bearing the legend
JACQUES RIBAUT,
BIJOUTIER.
projected into the street. I mounted the steps and knocked at the door, noting as I did so that the house was a large one and in good repair, a thing somewhat uncommon in Paris. A servant answered the knock, and I was surprised to see that he was in livery. M. Jacques Ribaut must indeed be wealthy.
“Is M. Ribaut within?” I asked.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“I wish to see him,” and, as the man hesitated, I added, “Tell him it is some one who brings him news from his niece.”
“Wait just a moment, Monsieur,” and the man disappeared down the hallway. He was back almost immediately.
“You are to enter, Monsieur,” he said, and I followed him down the hall. He opened a door before me, and I was in the presence of a little fat man whom I recognized at once. He knew me also, and he leaned back in his chair and gazed at me, his eyes agleam with hatred.
“What is your price, Monsieur?” he asked abruptly.
I stared at him in amazement
“I do not understand,” I said, after a moment.
“Oh, come,” he burst out, his anger getting the better of him, “let us descend from the heights and get to business. You have possession, I suppose, of the body of my niece. I ask you what price you demand to deliver her to me?”
I felt my cheeks burning, but I determined to keep my temper.
“Monsieur,” I answered as quietly as I could, “my price is your promise to break off at once this wedding which you propose and to sign in the presence of witnesses a paper which I shall have executed in which you will agree to permit your niece to choose her own husband.”
“Believing, doubtless, that she will choose you!” he sneered. “May I ask, Monsieur, where you met my niece?”
“In the Rue de l’Evêque, as you know.”
“You had never met her before last night?”
“No. I had never seen her before that.”
He gazed at me astonished, for he saw that I spoke the truth.
“May I ask your name, Monsieur?” he said.
“Pierre le Moyne.”
“And your home?”
“Mont-de-Marsan.”
“I might have guessed it!” he cried. “Only a Gascon would attempt a thing so ridiculous. Come, Monsieur, return me my niece and cease this farce. It has been carried too far already. You imagine, doubtless, that you are performing one of those Quixotic deeds for which your countrymen are famous, but you do not understand the situation. This husband whom I have chosen for my niece is M. Briquet, a wealthy and respected man, well fitted to make her happy. She is young and does not know her own mind. She has been bred in a convent and has arranged some little romance for herself, in which the hero is doubtless a prince, young, rich, and beautiful. She forgets that she is a poor girl and that her marriage portion is hardly worth considering. M. Briquet is a good match—better than could have been hoped for. In a year from now she will think him adorable,” and he leered at me in a way that made my flesh creep, “for he is good-natured—he does not ask what has happened since last night—he will not set watch on her too closely—no doubt there will still be a place for you.”
I felt my blood grow hot against the brute, but I kept close grip on my temper. After all, I had an end to accomplish.
“I have already told you, Monsieur,” I answered, coldly, “on what terms your niece will be returned to you. If she then chooses to marry M. Briquet, well and good. If not, she will marry some one else.”
His self-control slipped from him, as cloak from shoulder, and left his wrath quite naked.
“Mordieu!” he yelled, springing from his chair and shaking his fist in my face, “you speak as though you had the right to meddle in this affair. I will call in the law! I will have you thrown into the conciergerie! I will compel you to return the girl!”
“Perhaps the law might also inquire why you are so anxious to have her become Madame Briquet,” I retorted, for want of something better, and paused in astonishment. He had fallen back into his chair, his face livid. What possessed the man?
“Get out of here!” he screamed, when he had regained the power of speech. “Get out of here, and tell your harlot never to show her face here again, or I will denounce her as a woman of the town!”
He got no farther, for I was upon him, all my blood in my face. I caught him up from the chair and smote him in the mouth with my open hand.
“You dog!” I cried. “You dog!” and I struck him again.
“Murder!” he shrieked. “Help! He is killing me!”
I heard steps rushing down the hallway and the door behind me opened. With a last blow I hurled Ribaut back into his chair and turned towards the door, facing a man whom, from his surpassing ugliness, I knew instantly to be Briquet. I had never seen a countenance more repulsive, and I looked at him with loathing.
“Who are you, Monsieur,” he cried, “and what do you here?”
“I am punishing that scoundrel yonder for daring to ask his niece to marry another scoundrel such as you!” I answered, and I looked him in the eyes, all my contempt in my face.
His face went from red to purple.
“Kill him!” screamed Ribaut from the chair where he sat, the blood streaming from nose and mouth. “It was he who took the girl from me.”
With an oath, Briquet snatched a pistol from his pocket. But I was too quick for him, for, seizing a chair, I knocked the barrel up even as he pulled the trigger and brought the chair down upon his head. He fell like an ox.
“Ribaut,” I said, turning to the miserable object cowering in the chair, “if I gave you your deserts I would kill you like the cur you are, but I scorn to draw my sword against such vermin. I warn you that if you so much as lift your finger against that girl you shall pay for it with your life,” and fearing that my passion would yet get the better of me, I turned from the room, strode down the hallway and left the house.
As I made my way to the Rue du Chantre I tried in vain to solve the mystery of which I had caught but a glimpse—the terror of Ribaut, the ferocity of Briquet, the evident understanding between the two. Why were they determined to sacrifice the girl? I could find no answer to the question, and I turned to another problem which demanded immediate solution.
How was I to provide for her now that the die was cast? I remembered with a melancholy accuracy that my fortune was limited to the contents of my purse and that my purse was anything but heavy. What a cottage at St. Cloud would cost I dared not think, and then a wardrobe had also to be provided, since she had brought with her only the clothes she wore.
It was with this problem weighing on my mind that I turned into the entrance and slowly mounted the stairs to my room. I knocked at the door, but there was no response. With a great fear at my heart I flung the door open and entered. One glance told me that the room was empty. Chairs had been overturned, the lock of the door was broken. With a trembling hand I picked up a garment in which there was still a threaded needle. I could read the story at a glance. She had been surprised, overpowered, carried away. And in the moment of agony that followed I knew that I loved her.