At that moment one of the gamblers, who had procured a little gold, challenged the Parisian to a fresh game. The Parisian imagined, from the appearance of the saloon, that it would be difficult to refuse to play, and he sat down once more opposite his partners; but, turning to the Burglar and his chums, he threw a glance in the direction of Yoyo, who was entering a hut on the other side of the street, and one of them went out to follow the Indian's tracks.
In the meantime night had fallen quickly, and Chéri-Bibi and the Nut had come in. They were feeling worn out, and did not stop in the village until they reached Sanda's store.
When they entered the bar the proprietor and his customers were so intent upon the game that their arrival passed entirely unobserved. They went to a table some distance from the lamps, and threw their bags down in a dark corner beside them.
Then Chéri-Bibi stood up to inspect some cooking utensils which were hanging on the wall and which, on the way, he had decided to buy.
The Nut, overcome with fatigue, holding his head in his hands, did not seem to have the strength to give an order. Nevertheless he turned his head at the sounds which came from the other end of the room. Curses and yells of fury went up against the turn of the dice. The Parisian insolently continued to win.
Suddenly the Nut gave a start. Someone was speaking whose voice he seemed to recognize, and yet it could not be.
He rose from the table and drew near the gamblers. The dice were thrown again.
"Those dice are loaded!" a loud voice broke out.
The Nut, who had flung out the accusation, stared at the gambler with blazing eyes. His heart was swelling with an unspeakable hatred. The Parisian. . . . The Parisian was before his eyes. . . . The man who had tortured him for such long years.
"That man has robbed you!"
The gamblers made a rush at the Parisian, but the Nut shook off the human cluster which stood between him and his enemy.
"No, no. . . . Leave him to me," he cried. "This man is my affair. He falls to my lot. Oh, how long I've waited for this moment!"
Chéri-Bibi tried in vain to intervene. The Parisian and the Nut, locked in a deadly embrace, were rolling on the floor.
As soon as hostilities broke out Sanda saw that the affair would end in a free fight and, as was his duty, sent one of his "boys" to warn the headman of the place. And at the height of the struggle, as the Parisian was gasping for breath under the pressure of the Nut's fingers, the saloon was plunged into complete darkness. The Parisian's confederates had put out the lamps. Someone shouted:
"Police!"
The police had, in fact, arrived. The lamps were lighted again, and it was seen that the birds had flown. . . .
Sanda remarked to the headman:
"Fortunately for me, my customers pay in advance!"
Saved from the Nut's clutches by the cunning and devotion of his friends, the Parisian soon recovered his senses, and in particular, his perception of their position. The main thing for them was not to lose sight of Yoyo.
The four convicts felt certain that Chéri-Bibi was unaware of the medicine-man's appearance in the village, and it was with full confidence in their scheme that they followed Yoyo's tracks as soon as he once again made his way into the forest.
Yoyo led them during a part of the night into an almost impenetrable wilderness; but when dawn broke they realized that they had lost trace of him. For hours they endeavored, without avail, to recover the scent. They held a consultation, and finally determined to return to the village, for they ran some risk in that part of the jungle of losing their way, which would mean death to them. . . .
At the village they would be able to buy such things as they stood in need, particularly fire-arms, and leave the place and wait patiently until Chéri-Bibi and the Nut passed the frontier into Brazil, for when the two men came back from visiting Yoyo they would be laden with gold. The Parisian and his gang were fully aware of the part of the coast from which the Nut would attempt to sail for Europe. . . . The plan was adopted with enthusiasm.
Meanwhile Chéri-Bibi and the Nut had also entered the forest. Chéri-Bibi went forward with confidence owing to the landmarks which had been set up some years before; and suddenly, as he was passing under a giant tree, something fell into his arms. It was Yoyo—Yoyo, who, perceiving that he was being followed, had climbed into a tree with the agility of a monkey—Yoyo, who had recognized Chéri-Bibi.
The Nut was presented to him with due form and ceremony. Yoyo was a medicine-man who seemed to be conversant with the usages of polite society and to value them more than anything else.
"I'm the man who told him all about the benefits of civilization," said Chéri-Bibi, with a touch of pride. Nevertheless, the presence of a gang of undesirables in the neighborhood, to which he drew attention—Chéri-Bibi recognized from Yoyo's description that he was referring to the Parisian and his confederates—curtailed his demonstrations of friendship, which the medicine-man's personality rendered well-nigh sacred; and when Yoyo had expressed to Chéri-Bibi how rejoiced his family would be to see him again, the three of them plunged into the very depths of the Macuano country in which Yoyo lived.
When Chéri-Bibi and the Nut reached the place they received a very touching welcome. The old mother, the young sister and brothers vied with each other in their kindness to the new-comers. They served a concoction for the evening meal which brought the tears to Chéri-Bibi's eyes.
Never had fish and pimento been so tastily prepared for the convict's palate, and he declared that he had never eaten anything so good, even in the days when he was in hiding in a fisherman's hut in Martigny, after a sorry story of an attempted murder of a gendarme, the mock-heroic episodes of which he recalled not without a certain whimsical humor.
The story was, it seemed, entirely in Chéri-Bibi's favor, for he had taken upon himself to defend a young girl who appeared to be in some danger; but the misfortune was that the jury suspected that the danger came from Chéri-Bibi himself. And he concluded: "I expected that, but when your conscience is clear you can afford to treat the rest as a good joke."
The natives, who were extremely quick-witted, listened to Chéri-Bibi with absorbed attention. The evening wore on in most agreeable fashion as Chéri-Bibi indulged in his recollections as a criminal, for he deferred the consideration of serious business to the morrow. As to the Nut, he was like a man in a dream.
He no longer allowed himself to be astonished at anything. The most amazing incidents seemed to him to be quite normal. He knew beforehand that anything might happen to him, and, adopting Chéri-Bibi's philosophy, was prepared for everything. A day or two ago it was the penal settlement, convicts, warders; yesterday it was the fearsome Oyaricoulets, and the not less fearsome Parisian; that night it was an excellent dinner, winding up with stories of which the least that could be said was that they were in keeping with the fantastic nature of the events which were in store for them. To-morrow! What would happen to-morrow. Oh, yes, Chéri-Bibi had promised him that to-morrow he would be a millionaire!
And in very truth he did become a millionaire. After a good night's rest, which was the first that they had passed in safety since their departure from île Royale, Yoyo suggested to Chéri-Bibi that they should set out with him. . . .
They came to a clear stream in which the medicine-man's brothers and women-folk were engaged in obtaining gold by washing the alluvial gravels.
It is well known that this particular region is one of the richest in the world, and nearly every river contains gold in appreciable quantities. But the difficulties which are involved in obtaining it, and the impossibility for Europeans to live in the primeval forest, renders the collection of the gold exceedingly arduous. To secure remunerative results, large companies with considerable capital at their command are necessary. The individual prospector who refuses to become a worker for others is fated soon to be discouraged or to perish. In comparison with the few who grow rich by a lucky accident, what great numbers go under!
The native can overcome these disadvantages. Nevertheless, when he has discovered a lode, or some creek containing a larger amount of the metal than usual, he is plundered, or rather, compulsorily dispossessed, according to the rigor of the law of ownership established by white men. Thus, learning from experience, he hides himself and works entirely alone.
For many years Yoyo and his family had labored for Chéri-Bibi. What was the nature of his tremendous services to them that they should become his slaves? "I saved Yoyo's life," said Chéri-Bibi modestly. The truth was that one day, when tired of the settlement, he escaped and was taking a holiday on the Upper Oyapok, he saved the entire family from destruction by a man-eating tribe. . . . "But that," as Kipling says, "is another story."
Chéri-Bibi having given the signal, Yoyo led the way over a swamp, concealed by bamboos. Undoubtedly they would have been engulfed in the swamp but for stones which had been secretly laid down in the mire and were scarcely visible, but which held them up as they walked across.
Each man had but to imitate the movements of Yoyo. One of his brothers who, with a proud air, leaned on the handle of a pickaxe, was the last to cross over. Thus they landed on an islet of moss-covered boulders whose approach was guarded by this belt of mud. They made their way into a narrow circular space surrounded by rising ground.
"Here we are!" exclaimed Yoyo.
He spoke a few quick words to his brother, who inserted his pick under a stone of some considerable size which looked as if it were immovable, but all the same it almost at once swung on a pivot, exposing to view a crevice filled with thick moss.
The men shifted the moss and a leather bag could be seen. The magician bent forward and untied the complicated fastenings. It was apparent, that the bag was filled with gold dust. . . .
When, two days later, they crossed the Oyapok and, at the same time, the Brazilian frontier, Chéri-Bibi heaved a deep sigh of relief, and said to the Nut, pointing to the bag which Yoyo and one of his brothers had carried so far, and to the landscape which lay before them:
"Fortune and liberty!"
"It is to you that I shall owe both. I shall never forget it."
The Nut had first refused to accept this royal gift. He could not understand how it was that with such wealth, and friends like Yoyo, Chéri-Bibi remained so long at the penal settlement and was quite ready to go back to it.
"Come with me to Europe, or, if that is impossible, live here with Yoyo," he entreated him. "Anything is better than life in the convict settlement."
At first he received in reply merely one of those terrible grins which placed an impassable gulf between Chéri-Bibi and mankind. Those who saw that grin understood that something was on the other side of the abyss, something entirely remote from them, apart from them, apart from everything; some mysterious thing which they would never unravel, and they did not persist.
Nevertheless a few minutes later Chéri-Bibi made an effort to enter into an explanation for the Nut's benefit, to which he would never have consented with anyone else. It seemed that the moment was not yet come for Chéri-Bibi to see Europe once more. He had the most profound reasons for his decision. Obviously he would amass a fortune before that particular hour struck, but since it was still far distant, the Nut could accept the gold with an easy conscience, inasmuch as Yoyo would have ample time to collect together another hoard. In so far as the penal settlement was concerned, Chéri-Bibi added, with a demoniacal laugh, he should return to it by choice.
"Not forgetting that I cannot do without certain news which can only reach me there."
Yoyo put an end to the discussion by announcing that the canoe, which they required in order to descend the Oyapok, would be ready that evening. He had bought one from the Indians. It was of fair size, hewn in one piece from the trunk of a huge tree.
Yoyo steered her, seated in the stern, singing the while the plaintive ballads of his country.
The journey proceeded without let or hindrance, and when they were within a few miles of the sea they landed and made the rest of the way by land in Brazilian territory, arriving thus at Cape Orange. At this place there was an inn, which was well and favorably known in the district for its admirable treatment of travelers. The proprietor did not worry his customers by asking them indiscreet questions as to whence they came, nor as to their previous careers, which usually had brought them, more or less, in contact with the police. Moreover, the landlord, who was called Fernandez, was a friend of Chéri-Bibi's.
An exuberant delight bubbled over his truculent features when his eyes fell upon him.
"Oh, here's the 'Shower,'" he said.
This was his name for Chéri-Bibi, who became by accident one of his customers and whom he did not know in any other way. One day Chéri-Bibi got him out of his difficulties, when he was well nigh bankrupt and in the slough of despair, by literally showering bank-notes on him, which Fernandez accepted without asking whence they came.
Chéri-Bibi, therefore, had a friend in Fernandez who was almost as devoted to him as Yoyo, and upon whom he could rely when he needed him. A man who kept an inn on the outskirts of the forest, over the frontier, could not fail to be useful to a "convict on the march." Chéri-Bibi maintained that here again he had done a good stroke of business for himself.
Fernandez's household consisted of his wife, who was still a handsome woman, and two graceful and sprightly young daughters who, at their father's bidding, paid their respects to Chéri-Bibi and proceeded to prepare a special supper.
"Business getting on all right?" asked Chéri-Bibi when they were all together in Fernandez's private room with a bottle of golden wine before them.
"Bless me, yes," he returned. "What with convicts, gold-diggers, smugglers and pirates I hold my own."
The Nut asked for news of the great war.
"Very unsatisfactory for France," said Fernandez, shaking his head. "But the steamer which puts in here to-morrow morning may bring us better news."
"I thought that the boat from the Antilles did not reach here for another week," said Chéri-Bibi.
"That's true," returned Fernandez, "but a boat now starts from Martinique, and calls at the ports along the coast on dates announced beforehand. She has to pick up Frenchmen of military age coming from the interior to join up."
Chéri-Bibi turned to the Nut.
"That's just the very thing to meet the wishes of my friend Didier d'Haumont, who has left his business on the Upper Oyapok—a very fine and prosperous business—to go back to France and do his duty. Only, old chap, Didier d'Haumont came away in such a tearing hurry that he absolutely forgot to bring his wardrobe with him. As I know you always have these things on hand, I hope that he won't be much the worse for it."
"Your friend will be able to get anything he wants here," returned Fernandez, bowing to the Nut with every mark of politeness.
"That's all right then. You'll go with my friend to the ship, of course?"
"Your friend won't need any help but mine, and I'll introduce him to Captain Lalouette, an old acquaintance, who will be very glad to be of service to him."
"So that's settled," said Chéri-Bibi, bluntly, concealing his emotion. "But what's happened to our friend Yoyo?"
At that moment Yoyo came into the room. Chéri-Bibi must have read some uneasiness in the expression of his face for he asked him what was the matter.
"Nothing; all goes well," replied Yoyo somewhat laconically.
They sat down to supper, which grew very lively. The hostess and her daughters made themselves agreeable. Chéri-Bibi was the most exuberant of the party. He did not eat, he devoured his food. Moreover, he drank to excess. He who prided himself on having maintained throughout his adventurous career the greatest abstemiousness and showed an abstainer's contempt for drunkards, continually held out his glass, and kept level with Fernandez, who was considered the hardest drinker on the coast.
The Nut alone neither ate nor drank. But he was no more astonished at anything Chéri-Bibi did than Chéri-Bibi was astonished at his doings. They both knew quite well what this excessive eating and drinking on the one hand, and this complete abstinence on the other really meant, and that it had its origin in both cases in the thought which never left their minds, that the following night, at that particular hour, they would have said good-bye to each other with very considerable chances of never meeting again.
Ten years side by side in a convict settlement bring about frightful hatreds, or friendships which depend upon something almost higher than liking, and create a bond of moral unity, as it were, which does not break without some excruciating wrench.
Convicts have been known to die rather than to allow themselves to be parted. And it might be that if suicide had not been forbidden to Chéri-Bibi for reasons which we shall know one day, that supper night at Fernandez's inn might, by his own desperate act, have been his last. For that matter it was almost equally fatal to him though not by any design of his own.
He had judged rightly when he read on Yoyo's face some degree of uneasiness. During the meal Yoyo often left the room. First he subjected the more or less pallid faces in the ordinary bar to a scrutiny, and then he strolled round the house.
The starting point of his secret agitation was the squawk of a paroquet which scarcely ever left them as they sailed down the Oyapok. They were near the forest in which these birds abound, and it was to some extent natural that they should hear them, but the inn was a considerable distance from the forest. Moreover, certain shadowy movements round the inn almost level with the ground seemed to Yoyo suspicious. He climbed to the balcony, mounting quickly and coming down almost immediately. This time obviously there was an end to his doubts.
Some hours later when everyone seemed to be asleep in the inn, the Burglar broke open the door of the yard with a cleverness and quickness which impressed even his confederates, and accompanied by them effected an entrance into the inn. They crept forward with the greatest caution.
Suddenly they were stopped short by a loud burst of laughter which startled the silence of the night. Oh, they recognized that laugh! And, as the phrase goes, they took themselves off. They beat a retreat with a haste that caused them to knock their heads against the door which a few minutes before they had opened and which was now closed. At that moment a fusillade burst around them.
They performed wonders in their effort to get away from the infernal inn in which they expected to take their victims by surprise, but were so nicely cornered. By extraordinary agility they managed to climb to the top of a wall and drop to the other side at the risk of breaking their necks. Nevertheless, they lost a few of their feathers; and the next morning the extent of their downfall was apparent in the traces which they left behind—traces of blood.
"All the same," said Chéri-Bibi in confidence to Fernandez, "you'll now understand how necessary it is for me to stay in the country until they are collared with me—just to keep my eye on them, at close quarters, so that they don't do any harm to my friend the Nut. . . ."
CHAPTER IX
CHÉRI-BIBI AND THE NUT SAY GOOD-BYE
When the steamer was in the roadstead and the time came for Chéri-Bibi and the Nut to say good-bye, no words were wasted by them. It was a moment of great simplicity, for though out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh—pectus est quod disertes facit—yet the heart may be too full for words.
Chéri-Bibi, as may be imagined, after so many vicissitudes presented a very disordered appearance which was not, however, altogether unsuited to him. Hardly anything remained of his old clothes but his leather trousers and a worn-out scrap of coarse canvas with which he managed to conceal certain peculiar tattoo-marks which were not the work of any native of Guiana.
Thus, as may be imagined, his appearance was the antithesis of the Nut's, who had just put on a new suit of clothes of the latest Parisian fashion which had come from Rio a few weeks earlier.
When the Nut entered the room in which Chéri-Bibi was waiting for him in intense silence, the latter at first failed to recognize him. A man of fashion stood before him. Nevertheless, Chéri-Bibi had known men of fashion before, not only because he used to keep their company and help them on their passage from life to death, but because for a certain time he was a man of fashion himself. But the Nut took his breath away.
By Jove, the Nut was a man of breeding! At the sight of such a remarkable transformation, Chéri-Bibi's heart, which was bursting with grief, was filled with pride; he was proud of his pal, so that the combination of these two feelings in a being who was accustomed to amazing ebullitions, excited him to such a degree that he could find expression only in tears; and it was many a long day since his weary eyes had shed tears. The Nut saw that the limbs of this Titan trembled under him when he stood up to receive him. Then he clasped him in his arms. And they held each other fast, and their hearts beat in unison at that moment of mutual grief. . . . A knock at the door told them that they must say good-bye.
"As you are not coming with me," said the Nut, "I must at least hear from you. Let me have news of you. I know that you receive letters in secret. Tell me how I can write to you."
Chéri-Bibi shook his head.
"No, no," he returned. "This ends it all. I insist. . . . We shall no longer know each other. The Nut is dead."
As a result of those terrible but necessary words a silence fell, short but deep as the chasms into which men who dread lest they be seized with giddiness dare not look. Then Chéri-Blbi said:
"Listen to me. I believe you are safe forever. But we can never tell. I have a friend in France from whom you can ask anything, if you need a friend—the Dodger. He is a grocer in the Rue Saint-Roch, Paris, and his real name is Hilaire. He is one of the straightest of men. You can get your supplies from his place. If you want to be well dealt with you have but to say to him the one word 'Fatalitas.'"
It was the last utterance, the supreme farewell, of Chéri-Bibi in taking leave of the Nut. . . . And the Nut allowed himself to be dragged away by Fernandez.
* * * * *
The small boats which brought the passengers from the estuary of the Oyapok had put off, and the Dordogne, commanded by Captain Lalouette, began to churn the sea with her propellers. Soon Cape Orange, and by degrees the entire coastline of Guiana, the land in which the Nut had so greatly suffered, disappeared from view. But to his honor be it said that notwithstanding his long martyrdom, he could not remove his eyes from the land, for he was leaving behind an unhappy man with a splendid heart without whom he would have long since died in despair.
Suddenly a slight cry beside him made him turn his head. A charming young girl in a flutter of anxiety placed her hands to her hair. Her veil, caught by the wind, had become entangled in the rigging and was held fast.
The Nut helped to release the handsome child, and their hands touched. The most trivial gesture, the most insignificant incident sometimes assumes a considerable importance. . . . A few minutes later the Nut learned the young girl's name. It was Mlle. Françoise de la Boulays, and she was returning with her father from the Upper Amazon, to which district he had been sent on an official mission. They were going back to France saddened beyond measure by the startling events which had followed one upon the other during the preceding month.
The Nut did not venture to appear in the saloon at dinner time. To begin again, in this way without some intermediate stage, civilized life, after having been buried in the grave for more than ten years; to meet the frank look of that pure-souled girl when he was still shuddering from the "evil eye" of the warders; to help himself to well cooked food from a luxurious dish when he was still feeling the nausea of the service tubs which contained the convicts' skilly! . . . He was afraid. . . . He was afraid.
And then a few minutes before as he stood in front of a glass, he took off his hat, and he saw his bare forehead, the bare forehead of a convict on which he seemed to read in letters of fire "Number 3213."
He remained on deck.
At that moment the wireless operator hurriedly passed him and entered the dining saloon, and almost immediately afterwards the Captain's voice was heard:
"Ladies and Gentlemen . . . it's victory . . . victory for France. Joffre has defeated the Germans on the Marne."
The thunders of applause which followed may be imagined. . . .
When Mlle. de la Boulays mounted the deck again she found the Nut in tears; and she spoke to him and shook him by the hand. When she left him he remained behind. Her voice continued to ring in his ears during the night. He was still on deck after the other persons in the ship, except the watch, had gone to sleep.
Then the sun appeared and lit up the Nut's radiant face, and leaning on the bulwarks he beheld the rise of a new dawn on the world.
CHAPTER X
FOUR YEARS LATER
"But my dear Captain, why did you refuse the Legion of Honor? It's inconceivable."
"Because, my dear girl, I considered that I didn't deserve it. That's all."
"Now that's too bad."
Mlle. Françoise de la Boulays rose from the settle where she had just invited Captain Didier d'Haumont, who was gradually recovering health and strength, to be seated. Certainly there were times when she failed to understand her dear invalid. Didier d'Haumont had been wounded and mentioned in the orders of the day several times; he wore with joy and pride the cross, but firmly refused the Legion of Honor, remarking:
"I will accept it at some future time when I've deserved it."
"Shall I tell you what I think? Well, you're getting proud," said Françoise in a delightful tone of annoyance.
"Possibly it's something like that," returned the Captain smiling; and then he became serious and was silent.
His sudden silences in the midst of the most cheerful conversation constituted one of the riddles which Mlle. de la Boulays was unable to solve. True, there were moments when the Captain not only baffled her completely by his silences, but occasionally by expressing opinions which were incomprehensible and directly at variance with those held by most level-headed persons. He sometimes uttered a word, and at the same time gave a peculiar smile, which seemed to indicate that he was not entirely in agreement on these matters with the rest of the world.
Nevertheless Françoise was convinced that she had never in the course of her life met a finer intelligence than his, nor a more sympathetic mind, nor a braver heart.
She was attracted to him from the first; from that evening on the Dordogne when they celebrated the victory on the Marne, and she was a witness of his intense emotion. . . . They sat at the same table and became good friends during the voyage. Captain Lalouette introduced Didier to M. de la Boulays; and Françoise's father, who was himself an ardent patriot, was struck by the generous enthusiasm with which a man like d'Haumont, who was no longer a young man, left important business affairs to return to France and take his place in the fighting line. True, such instances were not rare, but what was remarkable in his case was the almost boyish delight with which he spoke of battles that were to come, and the mystic joy, as it were, with which he envisaged death.
"I would give all that I possess to die like that," he said.
It was known that d'Haumont was a very rich man.
Françoise concealed her agitation when the steamer reached its destination and they had to part.
"Good-bye forever," Didier said.
His departure was so abrupt that she had no opportunity of asking him for an explanation of this enigmatic remark.
M. de la Boulays was the owner of a country house near the boundary of the zone occupied by the army. He straightway devoted a considerable part of the house and the buildings on his estate to the service of the Red Cross. In this temporary hospital Françoise nursed the wounded with untiring care and devotion.
For two years she heard nothing of Didier d'Haumont. A day came, however, when she saw his name in a newspaper. In spite of the great reticence with which heroic exploits in the war were treated, it was related that Lieutenant Didier d'Haumont and his company had held throughout the night against two German regiments a position of supreme importance, which the reserves were unable to reach until dawn. He was brought back, severely wounded, with the seven survivors of the struggle. The day on which she read to her father the news of this great feat a general commanding one of the armies, whose name had become famous after the battle of the Yser, was dining with them. He knew Didier d'Haumont, for he had been his colonel, and was able to speak of his rash bravery in the battles for Flanders. Moreover, his attention had been specially called to him by the War Office where d'Haumont had friends, among others a Jewish banker attached to the Ministry, by whose intermediary, if gossip could be believed, Didier d'Haumont had deposited at the exchequer, as a gift, nearly two million francs worth of gold dust, his entire fortune.
Mlle. de la Boulays left the room when she heard these last words, not wishing her father to see how greatly this talk about d'Haumont affected and even unnerved her. The newspaper which told the story of his exploit reported also that the lieutenant, after hovering between life and death for some days, was now out of danger.
Some months drifted by. And one evening during a great offensive a captain who had been considerably knocked about by a shell was brought into the operating-room.
Françoise recognized Didier d'Haumont at the moment that he recovered consciousness. The emotion which overcame both of them was such that they made no effort to conceal it. He determined to discover the truth about his condition. He begged Françoise to save him from an operation which would make a cripple of him. He would rather die; and truth to tell, he seemed anxious only for one thing: to be left to die.
It was Françoise who saved his life and prevented an amputation which had already been decided upon. And now he was well again; staying in M. de la Boulays' own apartments and treated as an old friend of the family. His strength had, he said, entirely returned, though Mlle. de la Boulays was inclined to doubt it, and he began to talk of going away. The armistice, which was now signed, created for him, he said, fresh duties.
"You are always telling me that you owe your life to me," said Françoise in a somewhat constrained tone, "and it seems that the only way you can prove your gratitude is by promptly leaving us." It is at this point in their friendly disputes that we come upon Didier and Françoise in the de la Boulays' park.
"Haven't you any relatives?" she asked, after a short pause.
"No. . . . I have no relatives."
She hesitated slightly and then, with a sudden movement of her head, for she was as red as a rose, she flung out:
"Haven't you ever thought of new ones?"
"Upon my word, no. . . . It's too late." And he added with a laugh, "You forget my hair is turning grey."
"Oh, ever so little. Besides, what does that prove?"
"It proves that I am over the marrying age."
"What you say is silly. Our friend the Vicomte d'Arly was married when he was sixty."
"Very well, I'll wait till then."
She began to laugh.
"Tell me, do you ever think of the dramatic coincidence of our meeting here, although you said 'good-bye' to me forever? It was fate taking its revenge on you. And quite unmercifully! . . . Why did you want to lose sight of me forever?"
He looked her straight in the face. He was very pale.
"Because my life does not belong to me," he said. Françoise leaned for a moment for support on the marble baluster. Obviously she faltered where she stood. He felt sorry for her and also not a little sorry for himself.
"Don't you think that it brings you bad luck to say 'good-bye for the present' in war time, when your life belongs to your country?"
She breathed again. She had imagined that Didier's heart was not free.
She was much easier, but she still raged within herself at the incredible obstinacy with which he refused to understand that she loved him and that he had but to say one word.
"I'll leave you," she said nervously. "I have to dress for dinner. I'm expecting one of my admirers here this evening."
CHAPTER XI
COUNT DE GORBIO
Count Stanislas de Gorbio was a handsome man, and quite young, for he was still in the thirties.
There are certain women who cannot endure his particular style of beauty: velvet black eyes, black moustache, black beard, black hair, a pale, delicate almost feminine complexion, and dazzling white teeth displayed in an everlasting smile. Such men are too good looking; they are insipid, these women declare. They prefer, if we may believe them, a man who is frankly ugly.
In so saying some of them scarcely speak the truth, for they change their tune if one of those insipid persons pays court to them. It was thus, for instance, that Mlle. de la Boulays, who had repeatedly declared, without attaching any importance to it, that the airs and graces of Count Stanislas de Gorbio only "made her smile," in other words, that she ridiculed them, began that evening to lend the most assiduous and smiling attention to the Count's amiable chatter.
She had discarded the Red Cross uniform which, admirably suiting her clear-cut beauty, seemed to emphasize the real and somewhat serious side of an expression belonging less to a young girl than to a young woman already conversant with the sorrows of life. Françoise's childhood had not been happy. When she was ten years of age she suffered the great loss of her mother to whom she was tenderly attached. Her father married again, but the marriage was unhappy for both of them. A divorce, however, which had been obtained not long before, set both father and daughter free. And now Françoise and her father lived for each other, never separating, traveling together and finding consolation for the cares and sorrows of the past in their perfect affection.
M. de la Boulays had plunged into considerable business affairs, anxious to increase the fortune of his daughter, who was destined to make a brilliant marriage. She had already refused several suitors. She argued that there was no hurry, though she had passed her twenty-fifth birthday.
Mlle. de la Boulays was fair-haired—so fair-haired that everyone who came near her was bathed in sunshine. Count Stanislas de Gorbio seemed as though he were illuminated. Never, indeed, had that handsome head with its crown of gold bent towards him with so much sweetness to listen to words which he could not regard as more eloquent that day than on the day before. Never had those eyes, those great grey-green eyes, with their variable shadows, like waves affected by the least caprice of the wind, never had those eyes looked at him with such persistence. In truth they fixed themselves only on him. That evening the Count had some grounds for feeling sure that the victory was won.
Didier followed their movements, and his feelings may be imagined. During dinner he seemed greatly dejected, answering in an abstracted manner the few questions which were put to him by M. de la Boulays, who did not fail to notice his guest's gloomy demeanor.
When they retired to the drawing-room Françoise's father asked Didier if he were not somewhat indisposed, to which he made answer that on the contrary he was quite well, and if he had shown some depression during this last meal, it was because he was compelled, as the result of certain news which he had received from Paris, to leave them that very night by the late express.
M. de la Boulays bowed and uttered a few polite expressions of regret, but made no attempt to keep Didier. He felt sure that Didier was very jealous of Count de Gorbio, for he could not imagine anyone coming near Françoise without falling in love with her on the spot. Count de Gorbio was in love with his daughter. She should choose for herself, do as she pleased. It suited her to smile that evening on the Count; and M. de la Boulays would be delighted if his daughter decided to marry him, for he was a considerable personage, reckless, perhaps, in business, but one of those men with whom, generally speaking, everything succeeds.
When Françoise came up to Didier with a cup of coffee he was on the point of telling her of his departure, but as she moved quickly away after serving him, as she served the others, smiling faintly and making a few trivial remarks, he kept silent.
She returned to de Gorbio in the embrasure of a window, and the chatter was renewed between them. Then a serious expression flashed over her countenance, and she became quiet. It was de Gorbio who went on talking, eyeing her in a peculiar manner. Didier turned away feeling greatly distressed. What was the Count saying to her which could be of such interest that she listened to him like that?
De Gorbio's words were ordinary enough but quite explicit.
"I've loved you from the time I first saw you. Will you give me permission to ask M. de la Boulays for your hand? I think I may assure you that your father would be pleased to see our union."
Françoise did not appear in any sense surprised.
"If you have spoken to my father of your intentions, how is it that he hasn't said anything to me?" she returned.
"M. de la Boulays answered me: 'I shall do what my daughter desires. It is for her to decide and you to persuade her.' Have I succeeded in persuading you?"
Mlle. de la Boulays listened with great attention to the Count's words, but apparently she was not greatly perturbed by them. She raised her eyes not to the speaker but to look round for Didier. She could not see him. He had left the drawing room.
"Give me time to think it over," she said, and she took leave of him.
Didier, in fact, went to the balustrade. Here he came across an officer who had sat next to him at dinner, and asked him about Count de Gorbio. Who was the man who was so far advanced in Mile, de la Boulays' friendship?
"He is a Count created by the Pope, and during the last three or four years has launched into every sphere of society. He invested considerable monies in munition factories; and I hear that he and M. de la Boulays possess joint interests in various undertakings."
Didier made his way down to the park, walking about in the dimly-lit solitude like a soul distraught. He pressed his burning forehead to the iron rails of the garden gate, and stared vaguely at the white line of the road without seeing anything. He did not observe near him, on the other side of the gate, a man who was spying on him. He did not see, or rather he paid no heed, to a peddler's cart which went past. Nor did he perceive the nod which the peddler exchanged with the man behind the wall. Didier was conscious only of what was passing within himself; he thought only of his own condition which seemed to him as miserable as could be, and yet there was a time, not so very long ago, when he regarded himself as the most wretched of men.
But that was because he had learned to know hell and had not attained the paradise lost of Françoise's love. The story of creation portrays the awful spectacle of Adam and Eve driven from Eden by the angel with the flaming sword. Didier looked upon their woes as less than his own. They had been driven from the garden of Eden. Didier had driven himself out. He had drawn the sword upon himself.
At one time—and the time was not very far distant—the man called the Nut was the friend of a tremendous person from whom at times the cry Fatalitas burst forth like the fatal words which appeared in letters of fire on the wall at Belshazzer's feast.
Didier quivered with emotion at his remembrance of the Nut and with faltering steps turned to go back to the house, through the darkness of the park pierced by the uncertain light of the moon.
Before him stood a figure which barred his way. It was the figure of love. It was Françoise.
"What is this my father tells me?" she asked at once. "You are off to Paris to-night? Do you wish to leave us, Monsieur d'Haumont?"
Didier repeated what he had already said to M. de la Boulays, whereupon she reminded him of the unwisdom of going away in his precarious state of health.
"I am quite well now, thanks to you, and I shall never forget it."
He tried to utter this last sentence in an expressionless fashion, not wishing to betray the emotion which almost made him cry out. Nevertheless his voice shook.
A silence fell which she did not at once break. A seat was at hand and she sat down. At last it seemed as if she had made up her mind.
"Your leaving us so hurriedly makes it difficult for me I assure you," she declared in a blank voice in which she too concealed her feelings which were not devoid of a certain annoyance with the Captain. "You must know that I need the advice of a good friend, and I thought of speaking to you, but here you are about to leave us. It's a pity."
"I'm not going for a couple of hours yet," returned Didier frigidly, "and if I can be of any use to you. Mlle. . . ."
"Well then, I will tell you," said Françoise with a casual air. "Will you believe that an incident has happened this evening which I was far from expecting. You must know that Count de Gorbio has amused himself by making love to me. Everyone took it in fun, and I myself was I don't know how far from treating him seriously. I called him 'my admirer,' laughing a little at him and at his manner, which is slightly too affected for my liking. But what can one do? Tastes differ. Personally I like men to be men. The Count with his butterfly manners never attracted me. . . . But perhaps I'm boring you with my silly tales. . . ."
"I'm not losing a single word, Mlle."
"Well, now, to come to the main point. Count de Gorbio told me this evening that he was in love with me. He has spoken to my father who, he says, would be happy to accept him as a son-in-law. In short he asks me to marry him. I told him that I wanted time for reflection, and in view of my friendship with you and my reliance on your judgment, I've come straight away to you for reflection! Tell me frankly, Monsieur d'Haumont; what do you advise me to do?"
As she spoke she took his hand, for she saw him standing before her as motionless as a statue and she was dismayed by his silence. She did not doubt that he loved her, and his attitude pained her as much on his account as it pained her on her own. She motioned him to a seat beside her on the settle where during the last two months they had had so many pleasant discussions. While he remained like one petrified she no longer concealed her agitation. And was not the gesture, the rather peremptory gesture of her hand, by which she asked him to sit down beside her, was it not the most significant of avowals?
Then Didier's voice was heard. Neither of them recognized it. Who and what was this third person who came between them and was now speaking?
"You know the Count better than I do, Mademoiselle, and in such a matter, what I think or what I do not think is of no consequence."
Françoise's heart turned to ice, for this was not the voice of a third person. It was Didier himself, seated beside her, who had spoken those cruel words.
She was on her feet.
"No consequence indeed!" she exclaimed. "Only my happiness is at stake! That matters little to you."
"Oh, Mademoiselle," protested the unhappy man, unable to say another word.
"Well, do you advise me to marry him—yes or no?"
"If he is an honest man—yes."
It was all over between them. In a tone in which there was a suggestion almost of enmity she said:
"Thank you, Monsieur d'Haumont. You are a real friend! Pray give me your arm and let's go back to the house."
* * * * *
The man near the garden gate whom Captain d'Haumont had failed to notice resumed his journey, keeping near the wall. He was pushing his bicycle before him. Without haste he overtook the peddler's cart which was continuing its way at the walking pace of the old horse harnessed to it. A hundred yards farther on they came to a small door in the wall. The man signalled the peddler to stop, exchanged a few words with him in German, mounted his bicycle, and went off quickly into the country.
The peddler backed his cart against the park wall, and started to unharness the horse as if he had made up his mind to camp at that spot for the night.
Just then the door leading into the park was opened and a man servant appeared, hatless, his hands in his pockets. He seemed to have come out for a stroll and to "take the air." Nevertheless, between the two men, the one who was unharnessing the horse and the other who was "taking the air," a few quick words passed.
"All well?"
"Yes, all goes well. The Count has arrived."
The man servant pointed to the key which was in the lock. The peddler looked at his watch, nodded his head, and the man servant went back into the park.
Five minutes later the peddler was hiding in a summer-house adjoining the wall, the roof of which jutted over the road near the little door. At the slightest alarm, whether from inside or outside the garden, the peddler could take refuge either in the road or in the park. The place was well chosen for a private conversation, for it was impossible to be overheard, not to mention that it was quite natural for M. de la Boulay's guests to come there for the cool of the evening or to dream. The peddler was not kept waiting long for his "dreamer." Almost at once Count Stanislas de Gorbio appeared.
"Well?" he questioned.
"I have an urgent message from Nina Noha," the man returned, holding out a letter.
The Count seized it, seemingly very eager to learn the contents, for diving into the summer-house, and screened by the man, he did not hesitate to bring into play a small, dark, pocket lantern. The letter was soon read. The Count appeared to be satisfied and put several questions to the peddler concerning the visits which had been made and the guests who had been received at the house during the last few days. As they were about to part company the Count asked:
"Have you any special information regarding this Captain d'Haumont who is so much talked about? Did anyone know him before the war?"
"I have been asking about him and I'm waiting for the reply. Be on your guard. He's been trotting round with the governor's daughter ever since he's been here, and your 'traveling agent' just told me that he's with her now."
The Count clenched his fists, sent the man away, and flung himself out of the summer house. He was nearing the Château when he caught sight, in profile before him, of the figures of Captain d'Haumont and Mlle. de la Boulays. The girl was leaning on the officer's arm. He quickened his steps without making the least sound, anxious to overhear a conversation which he inferred might be confidential and of particular interest to himself, but he could not catch a word, for, truth to tell, the two friends were saying nothing.
The silence in no way pacified the Count. He was sufficiently man of the world and experienced in love affairs to be aware that there are silences sometimes between a man and woman, which are more eloquent than the tenderest speech. It is when they understand each other best that they have least to say, and the sweetest moments are those which pass in the mute exchange of the one idea which they hold in common, and the delightful feeling of perfect harmony.
The Count was furious. He had not thought that the danger was so real. . . . Up to that day he had not given a thought to it at all. He attached but slight importance to certain secret tales which had come to him from the Château servants.
Count de Gorbio had an opinion of his own personal merits which rendered it difficult for him to comprehend that he might receive a rebuff where women were concerned. And he was convinced that in spite of Mlle. de la Boulays' laughing and chaffing air, she had been greatly affected by the delicate tact of his attentions to her. And now he discovered that he had a serious rival. De Gorbio knew, moreover, that his friends greatly relied on his marriage with Mlle. de la Boulays. The obstacle which stood in his way inclined him, therefore, to take some unpleasant action against the Captain when he met him face to face in the hall.
Moreover the two men took stock of each other with a look of hostility which the excessively cheerful air of the one and the excessively frigid air of the other failed to conceal; but a voice behind them said:
"Count, I've been speaking of our plans to the Captain, who is my sincere friend. He has given me advice which tells me that he will soon be your friend. To-night you may ask my father for my hand."
As he heard those words which overwhelmed him and for which he was so little prepared, his delight and gratitude straightway manifested themselves in sundry praises of the gallant Captain d'Haumont and he went up to him with outstretched hand; but doubtless by an unlucky chance, at that very moment d'Haumont stooped to pick up some object, so that when he stood erect again he had forgotten de Gorbio, who was still holding out his hand, though no one thought of taking it, not even Mlle. de la Boulays, who had disappeared through another door.
CHAPTER XII
AN URGENT MESSAGE
Captain d'Haumont went up to his room. His mind was in so great a state of turmoil that he paid no heed to the servants who jostled him slightly as they descended quickly the front door steps at which a motor-car had stopped.
As he was closing his window he heard M. de la Boulays' voice greeting a new arrival.
"How are you, my dear fellow?"
But even this did not hold his attention although the name that was mentioned was that of one of the most celebrated political personages of the war.
There was nothing, moreover, exceptional in the visit. M. de la Boulays' country house stood near the crossways of the most important main roads leading to the rear of the army, and persons of the highest distinction often came to him and requested his hospitality.
Most of them were friends of the family, or at all events acquaintances. M. de la Boulays had been in the diplomatic service for some time, and he knew personally pretty well all the great figures in the Republic.
Captain d'Haumont neither heard nor saw, nor did he trouble himself about anything but closing his window and packing his trunks.
As he was collecting together on the table the remaining articles which belonged to him, he picked up a photograph of Mlle. de la Boulays in her Red. Cross uniform, on which was written: "To Captain Didier d'Haumont, with admiration for his bravery, from Françoise de la Boulays."
He gazed at it for a few moments with a look upon his face which would have told the truth to the least sophisticated if by chance such a person had been present. But the Captain had closed the door, for he liked to be certain of being alone when his secret feelings threatened, by their tyrannical craving for some outward expression, to betray him.
How many persons take their revenge in the privacy of their own room for the restraints which they force upon themselves when they are among their fellows! And the sight which the inquisitive might behold if they entered the room in which offended pride, despised love, or any other human passion was hiding itself from society, after affecting in drawing-rooms the mask of indifference—such a sight would not be devoid of the unexpected.
Offended pride would be seen tearing its hair and despised love cursing a thousand curses. Captain d'Haumont would have been seen putting his lips to the photograph of the beloved image, discarding it almost immediately, and finally burning it in the flame of a candle.
He watched to the end with a feeling of pain the candle in which the beloved portrait was consumed. It seemed actually to suffer the torture which he inflicted on it, and in the gleam of the dying flame, in the last ashes, the face of Mlle. de la Boulays seemed set with a look at her inquisitor of unforgettable distress and reproach.
Strange to say—and it bore witness once more to the connection which subsists between matter and spirit even when kept asunder by thick walls, a connection to which the middle ages saw no limits, for they practised "casting a spell" on their enemies—while Mlle. de la Boulays suffered thus in her portrait she was suffering equally in her mind. And it was at the very moment when, in her drawing-room, she was acknowledging the congratulations of her friends on the news which it suited Count de Gorbio to spread abroad, that she sank in a huddled heap in a chair as if suddenly deprived of life. . . .
Captain d'Haumont was in his room strapping his luggage when a knock came at the door. It was M. de la Boulays' valet, a man called Schwab, who claimed to be of Alsatian descent and whom he had never liked though he could not say why, for he never had any occasion to complain of him. But when, as in the case of Didier d'Haumont, a man has a past full of irregularities, and has been forced to keep company with all sorts of people, his perceptions become particularly acute to detect the moral weight of the more or less mysterious elements which surround him, so that Captain d'Haumont was assailed by a vague foreboding with regard to Schwab.
The man came up to tell him that M. de la Boulays would be glad to see him in his study before his departure.
D'Haumont went with the servant, who showed him into a room which was occupied by M. de la Boulays and the important person who had just arrived. This gentleman had been appointed to conduct a secret investigation into some startling incidents in enemy propaganda.
Captain d'Haumont was introduced to Monsieur G—— by M. de la Boulays.
"Monsieur G———- wants a reliable man for a special mission," he said. "He came here from Paris in his car with a small staff, none of whom he can spare. It's a matter of taking a letter to Paris to-night, and you will be put on your honor for its safety. Monsieur G—— is anxious that the commission should be carried out with great tact. Since you are taking the train to Paris this evening I consider that Monsieur G—— cannot have a better 'messenger' than you."
"I am obliged to you, M. de la Boulays, for giving me the opportunity of making myself useful," returned the Captain. "Where am I to deliver the letter?"
"To the Hotel d'Or . . . at the corner of the Rue Saint Honoré and the Rue Saint Roch."
"I shall reach Paris at two o'clock in the morning. Must I have the person for whom it is intended disturbed then?"
"Yes, at once. You will send him this." And Monsieur G—— scribbled a few words on his card, which he handed to d'Haumont.
"I suggested to Monsieur G—— that you should go to Paris by car, but he prefers you to take the train as you had arranged," said M. de la Boulays. "In point of fact, your journey to Paris must have no connection with Monsieur G——'s stay at my house."
"I understand, gentlemen. I will now take leave of you as I've only just about enough time to get to the station."
"Here's the letter," said Monsieur G——, holding out an envelope of medium size which bore neither name or address. But he uttered a name and said:
"Give it into his own hands."
Didier slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket, which he buttoned closely over his chest.
He bowed to Monsieur G——, who shook him warmly by the hand, thanking him in words which would have made any other man proud. But the Nut's pride now lay only in his powers of endurance.
He set out without seeing Mlle. de la Boulays again. The station was some distance from the Château, and he was driven to it in a car attached to the Medical Service. The train was late and he had to wait an hour. He stepped into an empty compartment, but at the last moment a man opened the door and took a seat facing him. He was too obsessed by his thoughts to pay the least attention to the intruder.
The Nut was satisfied with himself. The fierce heart of the convict could beat with pride under the tunic of the soldier. Marvelous to say, not until that hour when he had made up his mind to flee from the path of happiness, had he dared to allow his thoughts to recur to the penal settlement. It was the first time that his mind could clearly and honestly and calmly revert to his past life.
Up to that day he had turned away with horror from the accursed past and sought forgetfulness mainly in the excitement of his reckless bravery.
Suddenly, with the awakening of love, had come the strongest temptation that could check a man in the path of regeneration. He could win this beautiful girl and lead her to the altar, and all the world would commend that union of beauty and courage. It was a splendid dream, was that marriage, and for a moment he was dazzled by it. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again he beheld under the halo which crowned the woman he loved, strange letters and figures forming a word and a number: "Cayenne, 3213."
And now he had said his last word. Yes, he had had the courage to go away. He had had the further courage, compared with which the first was easy, the supreme courage, to say to himself: "No woman can marry me."
It was a fine gesture. He might suffer beyond measure, but he could look the convict settlement in the face without a blush. And that, at all events, was something. . . .
It was something to be able to say to himself: "I come from prison, from that vile, ignominious place. I have been an outcast from the world, an accursed being without a name, save the name that lies in the mouths of miscreants, and they called me 'lag,' 'lifer,' 'old offender.' . . . They called me the Nut, and now I am called Didier d'Haumont, but I . . . I call myself an honest man."
Such were the thoughts which were passing through his mind when the train arrived in Paris.
He alighted from the carriage, carrying his bag, and hurried through the yard leading into the street, towards the only taxi which stood on the rank near the iron gates.
At this juncture he was joined by the traveler who had entered his compartment and who, in the course of the journey, had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation.
"Captain, my car has been sent to the station for me. Will you allow me to drive you home?"
Didier was on the point of accepting the offer, which seemed to come at the right moment, but suddenly, without any other reason than that of caution, which, in his case, kept him continually on the alert, he declined. He did not know this man who wished to make himself so agreeable. Didier's motto was to be suspicious of everybody and everything.
After thanking him, he turned again to the taxi, but he was too late, for it was already engaged and starting off. Fortunately two cabs stood on the rank.
"Drive to the corner of the Rue Saint Roch and the Rue d'Argenteuil," he said, not wishing to give the exact address to which he was proceeding.
The cab turned down the Boulevard de Strasbourg at a smart pace, went along the principal boulevards, and after passing through the Avenue de l'Opéra plunged into the smaller streets. In another five minutes the Nut would be in sight of his goal.
Suddenly there was a terrible shock and Didier and the cab were overturned. He might have been killed on the spot, but he picked himself up without a scratch and could see at a glance what had happened. A motor-car had collided so violently with the cab that the latter was shattered to pieces, the horse was ripped open and lay dying, and the driver, who was thrown into the gutter, gave no sign of life.
Half a dozen dark forms sprang from the car and surrounded the wrecked cab. They closed upon Didier with a common impulse which left no doubt as to their intentions. But he made a rush on one side, hurling one of the dark figures to the ground, and darted off down a neighboring passage. The man started to run after him.
Not the least dramatic part of the incident was the silence in which the pursuit was effected. Didier at one moment thought that he had put the villains off the scent, but he did not know exactly where he was. A whistle rang out behind him and other dark forms appeared under a street lamp, blocking his passage from the street.
He retraced his steps, but at this end, too, he caught sight of suspicious figures. This time he could not escape and there would be a fight for it. He was in no sense alarmed, though his "mission" and his life were both in danger.
As he was casting about for a corner in which to await the assault of his adversaries, his eyes encountered a sign and he read by the light of the street lamp: "Rue Saint Roch;" and a little farther away, painted in large letters on the iron shutters which closed the shop: "Hilaire's Up-to-date Grocery Stores. The Old and the New World United." A clock at that moment chimed three.
CHAPTER XIII
HILAIRE
It might be well to hark back a few hours and discover what was taking place in the shop which was to have its brief moment of fame.
M. Hilaire was a tradesman of good reputation in the quarter. His leanness and the singular expression of his countenance, which seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time, made of him a well-known figure. He was a boon companion to those whom he favored with his friendship, and a persistent card player; for he had a taste for the tap-room as well as a love of practical joking, notwithstanding that, to please his wife, he assumed the airs of a respectable tradesman.
His wife was the dark spot in Hilaire's otherwise fortunate existence, for Virginie was of a jealous temperament and endowed by nature with an execrable temper. Had he been free from Virginie and the competition of a provision merchant at the next corner, Hilaire would have been a perfectly happy man. It was said in the district that he had risen from nothing, but that was all to his credit. His enemies—the provision merchant and his wife, their customers and their circle—declared that M. Hilaire had spent a more than riotous youth and must be an ex-anarchist, for his language when he was in his cups showed little respect for the established order of society.
On that particular night M. Hilaire was in his shop making up his books. The reason why he was not in bed was that he was waiting up for his wife, with whom he had had a stormy altercation in connection with the girl who formed his sole staff, for the two young men who were learning how to sell golden syrup and prunes had left for the war, in which, in fact, they conducted themselves like heroes, and when they returned on leave from time to time each wore stripes on his arm and medals on his breast.
The girl in question was seventeen years of age, had dazzling teeth and a turned-up nose. She was as dark as a mole or a gypsy. Perhaps she was a gypsy. She spoke Italian. She was probably a child picked up in the streets. Hilaire did not go into these details when he engaged her. The girl bore a name which her character belied. She was called Sarah. Madame Hilaire called her Zoé.
Now this young creature, who worked under her mistress with the will of four men and was always of an exasperating good humor, had one serious failing: she possessed a pair of magnificent black eyes which seemed to laugh at the whole world. M. Hilaire found some diversion in those two eyes, and could not look at them without a smile. It was not the same thing with Madame Hilaire. She caught her husband on more than one occasion in the act of ogling the girl. She did not like it, and the scenes which ensued were sufficient proof of it.
That very evening she surprised them throwing prunes at each other. The thing caused a pretty disturbance. Zoé and Hilaire both received a box on the ear, and afterwards Madame Hilaire went upstairs to dress, vowing that she was fed up with a man who had no respect for his goods and did not know how to keep his place with his servant.
After locking Sarah-Zoé in her attic and putting the key in her pocket, she told her husband that she was going to stay with her mother until something better turned up. The threat, which was obviously directed at M. Hilaire's honor and was renewed at least once a week, was not calculated to stagger him. He knew that it was in Virginie's temperament to betray him, and that she had another fault: her love of cards. "Go and have a game of poker," he said to himself, "and make it last as long as possible."
She would come back cleaned out—that was the rule.
Meantime, in order to furnish himself with weapons that would give him the advantage, M. Hilaire was examining the books in detail. They were kept by his better half, who falsified them now and again in order to conceal slight borrowings from the cash, which she made without saying a word to her skinflint of a husband.
Thus the hours went by. M. Hilaire discovered that his wife had appropriated forty-two francs fifty centimes, and was waiting for her with an impatience which may well be imagined, when two tremendous blows from a fist sounded on the iron shutters and a voice growled "Fatalitas!"
It was two o'clock in the morning. At that same hour Didier was in the train to Paris thinking of the penal settlement for the first time without undue shame. As he heard that significant word Hilaire sprang from his office like a Jack-in-the-box shot up by a powerful spring, and tottered in the shop as if he had received one of those blows that make a man turn dizzy.
Hilaire felt certain that he recognized the voice which flung out the astounding word. Was such a thing possible?
It was so possible, indeed, that the word was repeated and fresh blows shook the shop front. And the voice, the curious voice which unhinged the mind of M. Hilaire, shouted:
"Open the door; I know you're alone!"
Trembling like a child who is frightened or overjoyed, Hilaire leant towards the small, low door in the shop front, unlocked and opened it. A huge form at once glided into the shop. The door was closed with a kick, and the figure displayed itself in its full proportions.
It was a man, or rather a human animal, tall of stature, square of build, thick-set, with tremendous limbs, and fists capable of felling an ox, and an extraordinary, fierce-looking head in which only the gleam in the eyes was visible.
"Chéri-Bibi!" gasped Hilaire, placing his hand on his heart like sensitive persons who are undergoing a moment of intense excitement.
"If any one asks you if I am Chéri-Bibi say you know nothing about me," growled Chéri-Bibi. "You took a long time to open the door. Have you forgotten me, Dodger?"
At these words Hilaire, who was deathly pale, stretched out his arms and fell upon the immense chest of the man whom he loved more than any being in the world.
Chéri-Bibi gave signs of a certain degree of satisfaction.
"You show me at this moment," he said in his gruff voice, which quivered with an agitation that he strove to control, "you show me that there are still honest men in the world. Prosperity has not shriveled up your heart, my dear Dodger."