"I am the happiest man alive now that I see you again, Monsieur le Marquis."
"Hush!" growled Chéri-Bibi. "Never let that name pass your lips again. Forget the past, Dodger, as I try to forget it myself. Erase from your memory those adventures which had their day and from which present events separate us for ever. At this terrible hour other duties arise. I have come back to France to defend an innocent man, old chap!"
"Ah, there I recognize Monsieur le Marquis."
"Will you stop worrying me with your 'Monsieur le Marquis'? I would have you know that I call myself the Bleeder now."
"Good, Monsieur le——"
"Bleeder! They gave me that name at La Villette, where I work in the slaughter-houses. I am the man whose business it is to cut the throats of cattle. So they call me the Bleeder. There's an end of it. It's a name which suits me and I've stuck to it."
"Have you been there long, Monsieur le Bleeder?"
"Please call me Bleeder simply."
"I can't, I can't; I have too much respect for you, Monsieur le Marquis."
"Oh, you ass! You were always silly like that. Shake hands, my dear old Dodger. Do you know that you've grown a bit stout!"
"That's not Virginie's fault, for she's continually making scenes."
Chéri-Bibi chuckled.
"And you let her make scenes! Oh, my dear Dodger, that is all that was wanted. It's clear that you've become a respectable citizen."
They looked into each other's eyes for a moment in silence. They were seated facing one another, and they held each other's hand, and their eyes spoke for their hearts in which bloomed the red flower of their friendship. Thenceforward complete trust returned to them as in the brave days of their youth, when they were engaged in so many struggles against an adverse fate, and their minds sped back to the time of their pleasantest memories. But Chéri-Bibi's life was so ordered that his pleasantest memories were always enveloped with the tragedy of death. And those who might have heard the two men thus conjure up with emotion their delightful past would undoubtedly have fled from them in terror.
"I asked you if you had been long in France, Monsieur le Bleeder."
"The date is no business of yours," Chéri-Bibi returned. "I've been busy altering my status. I've managed it. Now I am quite easy in my mind at La Villette, not to mention that I have a coal-dealer's shop in view. As soon as I had an hour to spare I came to see you. I knew that you were alone because I had your wife's movements watched. I didn't want you to have any worries in your household on my account. Do you follow me, Dodger?"
"You have always been very considerate, Monsieur le Bleeder."
"When Madame Hilaire comes back I shall be warned by a signal from a fellow on the look-out."
"I see that Monsieur le Bleeder's police can still be relied on." "So you'll hide me somewhere and I'll slip off when you've gone to bed. And now, Dodger, let's talk of serious things."
Chéri-Bibi's face became so solemn that Hilaire felt that they were about to discuss certain things that he had been forbidden to mention, and of which he had the discretion not to breathe a word.
"Have you had any news during the last five years?" began Chéri-Bibi.
Hilaire broke in at once:
"None during the five years that Madame la Marchioness——"
Chéri-Bibi sprang from his chair with a fierce gesture.
"Who told you to speak of her?" he demanded, choking for breath.
He succeeded in at once mastering his intense excitement. He fell back into his seat, and passing his hand over his forehead, said in quiet, gloomy tones with an air of the deepest dejection:
"My dear old Dodger, you must never speak of her or her child. Our lips are not pure enough for us to dare utter her name; and as to her child, I fear lest we should bring bad luck upon him. I am dead, actually dead. You must never forget that. Chéri-Bibi may be alive, but Monsieur le Marquis is dead. And Chéri-Bibi himself is dead to them so long as they have no need of him. I know that at the present moment they are abroad and happy. Her son is growing up by her side, and she is making of him one of the finest and best of the sons of men. If she wants me later on, we shall see what we shall see. Meantime, let us sever all connection with the past. Is that agreed. Dodger?"
"I blush, my dear Monsieur le Bleeder, for having thoughtlessly stirred up so many painful memories."
"That'll do."
They did not speak again of that mysterious past which we must respect, as they themselves respected it, till the day when fate in the course of their extraordinary careers may decree its return. Chéri-Bibi after a last sigh, went on:
"I merely wanted to ask you if anyone has been here and spoken to you of me."
"No, not during the last five years."
Chéri-Bibi remained brooding for a while.
"It's just as well. He's forgotten me," he said.
And as Chéri-Bibi's thoughts seemed to have reverted to the other end of the world, Hilaire, in order to give him the opportunity of coming back to him, uttered this pithy maxim:
"Ingratitude is met with everywhere and always."
"I don't expect gratitude from anybody, and I owe no gratitude to anybody," growled Chéri-Bibi. "In this world it's each for himself and God against us all."
Hilaire did not wince at these terrible words of blasphemy. He had so often heard his friend "go for" heaven and earth in the most withering language that he had made up his mind never to allow himself to become excited over it. Moreover, during the last few moments something attracted his attention apart from Chéri-Bibi's outburst.
He heard hurried footsteps in the street and some one came to a stand outside his shop. That some one brushed against the shop-front. The footsteps were clearly not those of a woman, and thus the person in question could not be Madame Hilaire.
He was about to get up and see for himself what was coming, when a blow from a fist was struck on the shutters and the ominous word was once more flung into echoes of the street: "Fatalitas!"
Chéri-Bibi sprang forward.
"It's he," he cried. "I've come in the nick of time. Is Providence this time on my side?"
He turned to Hilaire, who gazed at him in bewilderment, quite at a loss as to what was happening either in the house or in the street.
"Open the door and pay every attention to the man who comes in, but don't mention that I am here."
Having said which Chéri-Bibi retreated to the dining-room.
Hilaire opened the small low door for the second time, but not before taking from a drawer a revolver which he kept for use in case of emergency. The Nut darted into the shop. Hilaire closed the door and as a measure of greater precaution closed also the iron shutter.
He glanced at his strange visitor and at once felt much easier as he saw before him the face of a scared but entirely honest man.
The new-comer breathed heavily, passing a feverish hand across his brow, bathed in perspiration.
"Won't you sit down, Monsieur?" said Hilaire, in a tone of extreme politeness.
The Nut took the proffered chair. He grew more self-possessed. A smile flickered across Hilaire's face.
"You are quite out of breath. What happened to you, Monsieur?"
"Some ruffians were after me," returned the Nut. "They can't be far away. If I had not caught sight of the light under your door, and if you had net been sitting up so late, I don't know what would have become of me."
He ceased speaking. Furtive steps creeping along the pavement, and even the exchange of a few words in hushed whispers could be heard some five paces away from them. And then a great silence fell, but they were not deceived by it, and Hilaire said in an undertone:
"They're still there."
"Yes, they must have seen me come in. If that's so, they won't go away in a hurry."
"What do they want with you?"
"I can't tell you that."
"I've been too inquisitive. I apologize. I don't wish to know anything. I am entirely at your disposal, and ready to help you to the best of my ability. You said a word when you banged at my door which makes me your slave."
The Nut turned red.
"Yes, fatalitas," he said in a breath.
He paused. They pricked up their ears to the night, which still maintained its silence. After a while, not without embarrassment, the Captain went on:
"It's a password which was given to me by a friend of mine who is also, it seems, your friend."
"Yes, Monsieur," acquiesced Hilaire, with a bow, "a great friend; the best, the truest of friends, and also the most unfortunate."
"I owe everything to him," said the Captain simply. "He has saved my life again to-night."
Hilaire bowed again. Neither of them had mentioned the name of Chéri-Bibi, but they were both thinking of him.
"I will tell you what, in the name of this friend, I ask you to do," went on the Nut. "You will be able to say whether it's possible."
"What is it?"
"First I must apologize for not giving you my name, and I shall be thankful if you will not attempt to discover it."
"When you leave this place I shall forget that you ever came here."
The Nut gave Hilaire his hand.
"My friend was right in telling me that I could count on you. What you have just said is most considerate, and I shall never forget it."
"He taught me to be considerate," sighed Hilaire. "What can I do for you?"
"I must get away from here at the earliest moment without being seen."
"They're waiting for you outside," objected Hilaire, indicating by a movement of his head the street, in which some amount of stir could still be heard.
"Yes," returned the Captain, "I should like to dodge this street when I get away. Would that be possible?"
"Possible, but perhaps unwise. Will you stay here for a moment?"
So saying Hilaire left the shop and entered the dining-room, from which he returned almost at once.
"My proposal is that we should take a stroll on the roofs."
"Where will they lead me?"
"Past the Rue Saint Roch and near the Hotel d'Or . . ."
The officer was already on his feet.
"I'll go with you, Monsieur."
Hilaire opened a door which gave access to a back staircase, and they soon reached the passage leading to the servants' bedrooms. Hilaire was carrying a lighted candle. He blew it out.
"We'd better not show a light in the attic we're going into," he explained, "because it looks out on to the street."
"Is it empty?" asked the Captain.
"No, Monsieur. My wife, who is away this evening, locked our shop-girl in it before she went out."
Hilaire knocked at the door.
"Who's there?" cried Zoé.
"It's me. Don't trouble. And be sure not to light the candle."
Mademoiselle Zoé as she lay in her bed turned her face to the wall and thought to herself: "What a madman the governor is! He's going to make another trip over the rain pipes. One fine day Madame will find him out, and it's poor Zoé who will suffer."
Suddenly she propped herself up on her elbow.
"But you know very well that you can't come in. Madame has the key."
"I tell you to turn your face to the wall," whispered the voice on the landing.
And Zoé at once heard Hilaire "rummaging" with the lock. It was not long in the doing. Zoé herself was quite astonished. She had no idea that Hilaire possessed such a nice talent in locks.
The door opened and two men entered the room. Turn her face to the wall as she might, Mademoiselle Zoé none the less found means of satisfying her curiosity, thanks to a pale moonbeam which pierced the curtain.
Her master was by this time standing at the window, which he opened with the greatest caution and without the slightest sound. He beckoned to the man who was with him, and himself led the way on to the roof where the man followed him.
"There," thought Zoé, "he's got a friend with him to-night. What's the meaning of it? Who is the man? Where does he come from? Where's he going to?"
Young Sarah-Zoé had too great a relish for intrigue not to be interested in the highest degree in the man. She had by now slipped her little feet out of the bed-clothes when the door was once again opened and a huge dark form appeared. She gave a cry of fright. But the dark form had already thrust her back on to the bed.
"Stay where you are, if you value your skin, gypsy. You needn't be afraid of a Romany."
"Hullo, he's one of us. Seems to know me," she thought, shivering from head to foot.
She tried to feel reassured, but she was ill at ease. She was very glad to see him climb on to the roof like the others.
"Good gracious," she thought, "there are plenty of people on the balcony to-night. What a carnival on the tiles!"
She covered herself with the bed-clothes. Her little face did not pop out again till half an hour later, when Hilaire came back, and after closing the window threatened her with dire penalties if she did not forget what she had seen that night.
Then he quickly went downstairs, for he heard the voice of Madame Hilaire, who had already come back from her mother.
Next morning as Zoé was helping her master to lay out the goods for sale in the shop window, she saw an officer stop and approach Hilaire, and as she had sharp ears she caught the words:
"You acted last night like a man of courage and you saved my life. We shall meet again, Monsieur."
"Whenever you like," returned Hilaire. "My shop is always open except after midday on Sundays. Every evening from five to seven I have a little game of cards in the café round the corner. There's a private room for a chat. I shall always be glad to be of service to you." And as a new customer came up to him he added:
"And the next thing, please?"
The officer apparently did not require anything else, for he left the quarter, without delay, stepped into a taxi, and was driven to the railway station.
CHAPTER XIV
THE JUDGMENT OF GOD
Some hours later Captain d'Haumont was back again in the de la Boulays' country house.
He had left it with the firm determination never to return to it whatever it might cost him. And now he was strolling once more through the avenues of the park with a secret satisfaction which he made no attempt to conceal. He must have been impelled by a powerful motive, doubtless, to set at naught so quickly a line of conduct which he had ruthlessly marked out for himself, but it was a motive which, in all sincerity, he had no cause to regret.
It would have needed very little persuasion to induce Captain d'Haumont to confess that he blessed the startling occurrences the outcome of which was that he beheld once more the faces and places which filled so large a part in his heart.
An imperative duty impelled him to cross that garden gate. He had nothing to reproach himself with. Treason lay concealed in that house; and he had to unmask it.
Since he had all but fallen a prey to the mysterious gang who had pursued him so far as the neighborhood of the Hotel d'Or, the Captain was convinced that the scheme which his villainous aggressors were carrying out was planned at M. de la Boulays' house. It was the only place where the hidden enemy might have overheard something to indicate the importance of the secret mission with which he had been charged. In a word, Captain d'Haumont believed that the Château de la Boulays was the center of a spy system. He called to mind that, as he left M. de la Boulays' study the night before, he almost stumbled over Schwab, whose attitude had always seemed suspicious. Some few minutes later, at the moment of leaving the house, he caught a glimpse of two dark forms in conversation in the park, one of whom was undoubtedly Schwab and the other curiously suggestive of de Gorbio. The incident had made no great impression on him at the time, but how prominently it stood out in his thoughts to-day!
He reached the house after lunch. The men were at the other side of the park practicing firing with Count de Gorbio. From the sounds of the shots and the exclamations which followed he gathered that he was quite close to the butts. He heard the voice of Françoise:
"Well done, Count. That was a wonderful shot. What a pity the Boches are not up against your pistol!"
Françoise was moving away from the group where the Count was "showing off" his prowess when her eyes fell upon Didier. She gave a start and grew pale. Nevertheless she continued her way towards the house as though she had not seen him.
M. de la Boulays was not less astonished than his daughter at the sudden and entirely unexpected apparition of the Captain, and though the latter did not express any desire to see him alone, he realized that he must have some urgent communication to make to him connected with the important mission with which the Captain had been entrusted the night before. In the meantime he took his cue from the Captain's attitude and was content to wait.
Count de Gorbio treated the new-comer with icy politeness, for he was by no means pleased to see him again.
Several more shots were fired which served to display the Count's wonderful skill. He was congratulated by all and they returned to the house. Didier had declined to take part in the contest when the pistols were offered to him, under the pretence of a weakness in his right arm. He had no wish to run the risk of being humiliated before de Gorbio, and when he looked at him it was certainly not at a cardboard target that he longed to fire!
As soon as they were in the house M. de la Boulays went up to Didier and said quietly:
"I presume you have something to tell me. Captain."
"Yes; something serious."
"Would you care to go upstairs to my study?"
"No; don't let any one think we're having a serious talk. We're being spied upon."
They went on the terrace while one party was arranging a game of poker with the Count, and another party was making up a game of bridge in which M. de la Boulays was to join.
"Let me know when you want me," he said. And, turning to Didier, asked in a somewhat nonplussed tone: "Well, what's it all about?"
"Monsieur de la Boulays, there's a spy in this house."
As he heard those words M. de la Boulays could not restrain himself.
"De Gorbio was right!" he exclaimed.
The result was that before Captain d'Haumont could say another word de Gorbio, who had caught M. de la Boulays' cry, came up and asked for an explanation. But d'Haumont became frigidly silent, and M. de la Boulays appeared to be extremely perplexed by the Captain's attitude. The Count at once apologized for interposing so clumsily in a private conversation.
"I thought I heard you say 'de Gorbio was right.' I see that I made a mistake," and he walked away in spite of M. de la Boulays' protestations.
"I think you might have explained matters before the Count," said M. de la Boulays. "This morning he persuaded me to dismiss the man-servant whom you never liked and whom he caught he tells me, eavesdropping."
"Isn't Schwab here now?" cried d'Haumont. "Well, I'm very sorry to hear it. We might have brought him to book or caught him in the act. . . . Now it's too late."
"In any case we can't blame Count de Gorbio."
"I'm not blaming him. I'm only sorry that, owing to the haste with which he has had him turned out, Schwab can continue his treachery elsewhere."
"I think you are a little unfair to Count de Gorbio," said M. de la Boulays. "But never mind that, tell me what happened to you to put you in such a state."
Didier told his story in a few words without entering into particulars of the attack on him, and passing over in silence, of course, the incident at Hilaire's grocery stores, the escape by the roofs, and the descent into a timber merchant's yard, while his adversaries were waiting for him in the Rue Saint Roch. After all, was not the fact that he had brought his errand to a successful issue the main thing? Finally, he told M. de la Bourlays how he had found himself face to face with Schwab the night before, when he left the study, but he did not feel called upon to mention that afterwards he caught a glimpse of the Count, in the park, in conversation with the man.
After M. de la Boulays had heard Didier's story he regretted less than ever having got rid of Schwab—a point of view which was not shared by d'Haumont.
Just then some one came up to fetch M. de la Boulays for his bridge party. He left the Captain after making him promise that he would stay to dinner. The latter could not well refuse the invitation, for he had no conceivable pretext for leaving the house before the hour at which the train departed by which he would return to Paris.
He did not see Mademoiselle de la Boulays again during the whole of the afternoon, but half an hour before dinner, while he was on the terrace lost in sorrowful musings, swinging on a rocking-chair and smoking a cigar, he saw her coming towards him. He threw away his cigar and stopped the movement of his chair.
He saw from the wistful and lovelorn look in her eyes that she was suffering no less than he, and he hated himself for his powerlessness to combat their twofold misery save to disappear from sight.
She came to him in all the simplicity of her soul, such as he had known her when he recovered consciousness after his sufferings in hospital, when she supported his first steps on his return to health and strength, and when she turned her beloved face to him in full confidence.
They made their way down into the park.
"My father tells me that last night again your life was in great danger," she said.
Her voice was shaken by intense emotion, and he saw a tear spring from her beautiful eyes. He forgot the infamous past and the impossible future. He lived through an exquisite moment. He was loved at that hour and in that place, and straightway he separated that hour and place from every other hour and place. The arm of his beloved trembled against his. He forgot everything. He was a happy man for a space, and he lifted his eyes to heaven in a frenzy of gratitude.
What did he say next? What words had he uttered? They could only have been trivial, since they had no connection with what was passing in his heart. He told the story, perhaps, of the night before; he spoke, perhaps, of other things. What he said was of no consequence. His words fell in silence, and they could not come between their twin souls, responsive only to the mute rhythm of their love.
How, in that moment of exaltation, could he see behind him a rival whose eyes were gleaming with hatred? Count de Gorbio stood beside M. de la Boulays on the terrace, and what he saw and heard made him swell with suppressed anger.
He saw Françoise walking arm in arm with Didier and heard M. de la Boulays telling him that it was in vain that he had endeavored to induce his daughter to fix a date for the marriage.
"But I say, what did she reply?"
"She made no reply at all. She left me to meet Captain d'Haumont."
The Count could not repress a gesture of fury. Nevertheless the two men ceased talking, for the Captain and Françoise, summoned by the dinner bell, were coming up the steps to the terrace.
D'Haumont was placed next to Françoise at dinner, and the Count was seated opposite them. He at once turned the conversation to the subject of gold-diggers, and the hazards which attended their enterprises, and, in particular, the unfortunate necessity which forced persons who were out there to mix with the lowest type of adventurers.
"That's true," agreed d'Haumont, without betraying the least agitation. "Count de Gorbio knows the manners and customs of the country as if he had lived there."
The conversation could not continue for long in such a strain without the fear of some altercation arising during the dinner. The enmity of the two men was so obvious that the guests exchanged astonished glances. What were they about to witness?
M. de la Boulays was conscious of the danger and did not conceal his anxiety. Françoise, on the other hand, maintained her composure. She asked Count de Gorbio to tell them in his usual charming manner some of his theatrical anecdotes, which would change the subject from that of spies and savages.
"For my part, I wish to be enlightened," protested the Count. "One never knows what may happen in life. Is it true that you went out there without a sou and came back as rich as a nabob?"
Before Didier had time to reply Françoise took it upon herself to interpose.
"Captain d'Haumont is a poorer man now than he was before he went out. He gave all his fortune in addition to shedding some of his blood for France."
A murmur of approval passed through the room. It was as much as the guests could do not to break forth into applause.
"Captain d'Haumont is a hero and the most disinterested man of my acquaintance," rejoined the Count. "I am very pleased to number myself among his friends."
This sudden and unexpected change of front did not deceive any one. Nevertheless it put an end, for the time being, to a situation which was one of great delicacy for M. and Mlle. de la Boulays, whom every one was watching. It was easy to understand the cause of the quarrel, and the reason of the animosity which had brought about a contest between the two men.
M. de la Boulays himself grew increasingly uncomfortable. He could not make out his daughter's attitude. She had suddenly shown a violent hostility to the Count, and the problem for him was why, if she were animated by such feelings, she had bestowed her hand upon him.
He determined to get her to unburden herself to him, for he was an extremely worthy man, and though his interests were bound up in certain business matters with those of de Gorbio, he would not have seen his daughter unhappy on any account. And, moreover, if she were in love with d'Haumont she had but to confess it.
When they rose from the table to retire to the drawing-room, Mlle. de la Boulays took d'Haumont's arm and asked him to go with her into the park for a breath of fresh air of which she stood in need. She did not omit, as she left the room, to apologize gracefully to the Count for monopolizing the attention of "his friend."
"He is my patient," she said, "and I want to give him my last injunctions."
"Do you know that you were very disagreeable to my future husband?" she said when they were alone. "If you don't like him, it would be a mistake not to tell me so seeing that I accepted him on your advice! But nothing is lost yet. There is still time to choose a different one if this one does not please you!" She did not give him time to reply. "And now," she added quickly, "you must go and say good-by to my father and start off if you want to catch your train. The small racing-car will take you to the station."
It was she now who was urging him to depart, eager to see him leave the Château. Obviously she dreaded any sort of encounter between the two men. But at that moment Count de Gorbio appeared before them.
"M. de la Boulays wishes to speak to you, Mademoiselle. He asked me to come and tell you so." And he added in a somewhat sharper tone, "You must forgive me for disturbing, in this way, your last conversation."
"But you are not disturbing it, I assure you, my dear Count. Be kind enough, Captain d'Haumont, to take me to my father."
The Count let them pass out of sight. He was seeing red.
A quarter of an hour later d'Haumont left the house in the racing car. A break-down occurred on the way, and he reached the station only to see the express "on the move." The next train did not leave until the following morning, and he put up at an hotel in the town. He had not been in his room for more than five minutes when a knock came at the door. He opened it.
It proved to be Count de Gorbio, who bowed politely and apologized for disturbing him at such an hour, but he was convinced that when the Captain knew the reason of his haste, he would not bear him any ill-will. The matter in question was this: Count de Gorbio had always held that a man's honor was the most valuable thing in the world, and as his honor had been affronted by Captain d'Haumont's remarks, he had come without delay to demand satisfaction.
Captain d'Haumont listened to him with absolute composure. He answered that the Count's errand greatly astonished him, for he was not aware in what way he could have caused him any personal annoyance.
"There have been many things, Monsieur, which I do not feel called upon to explain, but among others you used a certain phrase about adventurers which you would not have finished if I had not been held back by respect for my host."
"Monsieur," broke in d'Haumont, in a frigid tone, "the remark was made by you and I merely replied to it. But it will serve. You want a duel. Very well, you shall have one when peace is signed. Until then my life belongs to my country."
"I quite expected that excuse. It's easy to say that. We don't know when peace will be signed. We may both of us be old men by then. Hang it all, the armistice is good enough for me, and I am so constituted that the thought of holding over indefinitely the remembrance of so unpardonable an affront, makes me furious. I want to kill you at once, Captain d'Haumont."
"I say again that for the time being my life belongs to my country."
"Mlle. de la Boulays told us that you had shed half your blood for your country. I claim the other half. When a man knows that he cannot fight, or chooses not to fight, he behaves himself accordingly, and keeps to himself the ill opinion that he may have formed of his neighbor."
Captain d'Haumont did not answer the Count. He pointed to the door.
Then Count de Gorbio, with a slow movement, drew off a heavy motor-glove and struck him with it across the face.
The scene changed in a flash. Didier took the Count in his formidable hands, lifted him, swung him, and was about to break his head against the wall when the Count, in his terror, bellowed the one thing that could save him.
"Coward, afraid of my pistol."
Didier let him drop.
"Very well," he said, "I'll fight you."
During this time Mlle. de la Boulays was searching the Château for de Gorbio, and was in a fever of anxiety as to what had become of him.
She learned that he had set out in one of the motor-cars with the hood up. M. de la Boulays was in his study, unconscious of what was happening. At that juncture the small racing car returned, and the chauffeur told Françoise that Captain d'Haumont had missed the train and had ordered him to drive to an hotel.
She sprang into the car, a prey to the gloomiest forebodings. It seemed a forgone conclusion to her that de Gorbio, furious at the manner in which she had openly slighted him and with Didier for his attitude towards him, was in pursuit with a view of challenging him. The deed, perhaps, was already done. Her memory harked back to the Count's wonderful prowess with the pistol, and she shuddered. Besides, she had learned with certainty that his car had preceded her by an hour. . . .
Her feeling of anguish increased every moment almost to the point of suffocation. She was convinced that the two men were in the very act of fighting. They could not even wait until the next morning!
When she reached the hotel and discovered that Didier was in his room safe and sound, she wept tears of joy. She ran up to his room and knocked wildly at the door. The Captain himself opened it.
"You're going to fight a duel," she burst out, addressing him in the familiar second person which spoke volumes for their love which, when they were alone, had never been in question. They both remained as motionless as statues. "Forgive me," she went on, while a deep blush mantled her cheeks. "Oh, forgive me." And she sank into a chair, sobbing aloud.
"Yes, Françoise, it's true. I'm fighting a duel to-morrow morning."
"Oh, good heavens!" she cried. And then, with a look of dismay: "What are you fighting with? Pistols? You saw what that wretched man can do with a pistol. He will kill you."
"Yes," answered Didier simply, transfigured by an immense joy. "Yes, he will kill me. . . . There's no way out of it. But I shall die the happiest of men because you came to me."
She rose from her chair and took his hands in hers.
"You will not fight. I don't want it and you don't want it. You must not fight. You are a soldier. In war time a soldier fights only against the enemy. You would be guilty of an act of treason if you were to fight. No, no; you will not fight."
"But, my dear girl, I said all that to him and he struck me in the face."
"He laid hands on you! He dared to strike you, and is still alive!"
"Why, you see, Françoise, you, no more than I, would consent to live after that. No, my love, he is still alive because, when I was about to smash his head against the wall, he taunted me with being afraid of his pistol. You see, yourself, that I must fight him."
"No, no; never. . . . The man is a murderer."
"We should have fought before now if we could have found any seconds. We had to postpone the meeting. He is taking everything on himself. Both of us will have the necessary seconds. And now go back to your father, and keep silent about the whole matter. I have an hour left in which to write to you—to write to you at great length."
"Why write to me? Why do you suddenly change your tone? Why do you again assume the coldness which has already caused me so much pain? You have but to say one word to me—the word which you have never yet said."
"It is to tell you why I have never said that word that I want to write to you."
"And afterwards you'll fight?"
"I shall fight."
"That means you don't love me, Didier. Alas, my love, you have never loved me. And yet you know that I have loved you from the first day that I saw you . . . and you have done nothing but make me weep."
"That's true," returned Didier. "But you are so good that I am certain you will forgive me."
He sat down and, leaning with his elbows on the table, placed his hands before his face as if to shut out the vision of her for the last time. When he looked up again she was gone.
Then he began to write. His letter was a confession and a testament; one long wail of sorrow and love.
At daybreak, when d'Haumont entered the forest, Count de Gorbio and the four seconds whom he had undertaken to obtain were already waiting for him and he had the sensation of being face to face with a firing-party.
Those four men—the seconds—wore an ominous look, as if they knew that they were about to engage in an ugly business. The duel was occurring in such peculiar circumstances that de Gorbio must have had some difficulty in finding accomplices. It was not a pleasant sight for any one, except a German, to see a man shoot down a Captain in the French army, wounded in the war and not a little famous on account of his deeds. Count de Gorbio must have had to pay them a good price to induce them to act as seconds.
Nevertheless, the seconds, anticipating some future unpleasantness, were anxious that the duel should be fought strictly in accordance with the rules. They expressed regret that d'Haumont had not brought a case of pistols with him, but as he accepted, without demur, the pistols belonging to his opponent, they decided to go on. Captain d'Haumont's seconds took the greatest care to see that the weapons were properly loaded. They drew lots and fate decreed that one of his seconds should take charge of the combat, and he offered the Captain a few words of advice.
It was obvious that he was quite in his element. He turned down the thin line of white collar which could be seen above the blue of d'Haumont's jacket. He counselled him to stand sideways under cover of his right arm, and to bend it over his chest so that it might serve as a shield; and to fire standing in that position when the command was given, so that Count de Gorbio would not have time to take aim between the words, "One, two, three, and fire!" Of course, such precipitation would mean that he would be firing a little at random, but it was his only chance of saving his life, for there was no use hiding the fact that if Count de Gorbio were given time to take aim d'Haumont would be a dead man.
The second did not express in so many words an opinion which was shared by every one else, but he clearly hinted as much.
The seconds counted the paces. The adversaries were placed face to face. After the usual preliminaries, the word of command, "Fire!" rang out. Captain d'Haumont did not display any undue haste, but gave Count de Gorbio his full time and fired abstractedly, almost simultaneously with him.
He had recommended his soul to God and thought of Françoise for the last time. He expected to be struck to the ground. What was his stupefaction to see Count de Gorbio turn right round. The Count swayed for a second and then fell his length with his face on the sward. The seconds rushed up, followed by a gentleman whom the Captain had not previously observed, and who, it seemed, was the doctor.
At that moment a woman's cry was heard, and Françoise appeared on the scene. She came hurrying up apparently to prevent the duel, and hearing the shots, she was shrieking all the more despairingly, feeling certain that she had arrived too late. It is only in fiction and plays that the heroine can calculate her time with such nicety that she appears on the ground at the psychological moment and glides in front of a pistol to receive the shot which was intended for the man she loves.
Nevertheless, when Mlle. de la Boulays had made sure that the body which lay on the grass was the Count's, and that d'Haumont was uninjured, she in no way regretted her late arrival. She flung herself into Didier's arms.
"It is the judgment of God!"
These words coming from the beloved lips made an immense impression on d'Haumont, and affected him to a greater degree than the duel itself.
"The judgment of God!" It was true that God had been on his side in the battle, so that he had miraculously escaped the Count's unerring pistol, while the Count was struck down by a bullet which had no chance of hitting him!
It was fated, therefore, that he should live. It was fated that he should love. It was shown that he had sufficiently suffered; made sufficient atonement. God, by removing that man from his path, had thrown that splendid girl into his arms, and she alone uttered the only words that were able to decide his destiny.
The judgment of God!
It was an inspiring thought and overwhelmed him with an exultation which may easily be imagined; while Françoise's tears of joy, the clasp of her arms, the wonderful elation which seized him as he felt that he was on the threshold of a new life, illumined by love, took him out of himself—and he listened but absent-mindedly to the remarks of the seconds who were telling him that Count de Gorbio was not dead, but that he was not very far from it.
They raised their hats, and he returned the salute without quite knowing what he was about. And he allowed himself to be dragged away by Françoise.
Some weeks later she led him to the altar. The marriage made a great stir. It was one of the smartest among the war-weddings. As the wedding party emerged into the church square, bathed in the warm light, it was as though the sun of victory had risen that morning expressly to shine on Captain d'Haumont and his radiant bride.
They descended the main staircase amidst a murmur of admiration from a fashionably dressed crowd. As in the case of all marriages of wealthy people, a few eager beggars and down-at-heel loafers congregated here and there on the pavement. One of them climbed the gilded gate in order to see better, and his movements were like the contortions of a crab. Standing near him a squalid-looking peddler of rugs, carrying his bundle of trash on his shoulders, stared at the procession with not less interest. Captain d'Haumont was in the seventh heaven and had no eyes for earthly sights, nor did he hear the words that were spoken in an undertone by an over-dressed man to his companion, who might have been a sheriff's clerk and looked rather shabby:
"Well, what do you think about it, Joker?"
"I think he is now ripe, Parisian."
CHAPTER XV
THE HONEYMOON
The moon—Captain and Madame d'Haumont's honeymoon—rose with its soft refulgence over the silver waves at Villefranche, at the extremity of Cape Ferrat, between Nice and Monte Carlo. It was here, in the seclusion of the fragrant gardens of "Thalassa," the splendid villa which M. de la Boulays possessed on the azure coast of the Mediterranean, that they had hidden their great and new-found happiness.
Leaning on the beflowered balcony the happy couple listened in silence to the moaning of the sea breaking itself at the foot of the hills which watched over this enchanted bay. The dark mass of two vessels lay heavily asleep on their gleaming bed in the beautiful night.
Only the faint splash of two oars causing a light swirl of glistening foam could be heard from the roadstead, and a boat passed so near as to be almost at their feet.
"How pleasant it would be to have a row on the sea at this delightful hour," murmured Françoise.
She had scarcely given expression to the wish when Didier hailed the fisherman who was rowing the boat and asked him to wait. They made their way down the steps which led to the beach, and the man, having consented by a gesture to take them with him, they were soon gliding over the surface of the waves, which were flowing out to the headland of Cape Ferrat.
"Do you often fish at this hour?" questioned Françoise. "I believe I caught sight of you yesterday pulling round the point."
The man answered only with a grunt.
"Certainly our sailor is no gossip," said Françoise in a whisper to Didier.
They did not again speak to him. They even completely forgot his existence. Didier's arm gently stole round Françoise's waist. Her head lay on his shoulder. A soft and scented breeze was wafted from the gardens at Saint Jean and the terraces at Beaulieu. Their lips met in the glad night as though they were alone.
The uncouth fisherman, a few feet away from them, was deemed as of no importance. Moreover he looked half asleep as he bent over his oars, drowsing in the huge muffler which covered his face. But the man was not slumbering, and in the innermost recesses of his mind he thought: "Love each other. Rejoice like children who are free from care while Chéri-Bibi keeps watch. Let nothing disturb the happiness which you have wrested from fate. I, too, have known those divine moments. I, too, have known what it is to be kissed by a beloved wife. I, too, have felt a beautiful form yield in my arms. I, too, have heard a lover's sighs. Alas, there is an end to all things! Make haste! The most delightful nights are not far distant from the blackest chaos. The abyss lies under your feet. Forget it! Forget it. Nut, as long as you can! I have come from a great distance to remove from your path the cowardly forms clinging to your shadow who are lying in wait for you as for a quarry. Pray to your God in whom you believe, because your cup of happiness is full, that I may save you from evil before even you suspect its presence. Alas, nothing comes more swiftly in the world than misfortune. You are right to forget it lest your fondest kisses be fraught with bitter tears."
Thus Chéri-Bibi's thoughts flowed on in the lyrical and affected style which was usual with him when the occasion did not call upon him to express himself in the most frightful slang.
Those who have known as he knew, both sides of life as a result of complications which they have not sought, and which have sent them astray from their early path, find themselves again with a suddenness which cannot surprise them, either with a heart full of the joys of former times, or else wearing a hideous mask under which Fatality endeavors to suppress their former selves without entirely succeeding.
Chéri-Bibi half saw what was passing in the Nut's elated mind. He was at that moment entirely transported with gratitude to Providence, the Giver of life and death, who had imposed on him such sore trials and made such splendid amends.
This secret pæan to the mighty spirit of goodness rose all the higher, inasmuch as the Nut could consider himself henceforward safe from a recurrence of his evil fortune. As far as the world was concerned the Nut was dead, Chéri-Bibi thought. The newspapers, some months before, had published the glad news:
"The tragedy of the murder of a well-known banker by Raoul de Saint Dalmas," it was reported, "is now doubtless forgotten by the public. It may be stated that the prisoner succeeded in escaping from the convict settlement, but the Penitentiary Authorities have been able to satisfy themselves beyond any doubt that the miscreant perished in the primeval forest like so many other convicts who have attempted the same venture."
No endeavor would be made to search further for him, and since he had learned from the same source, on his arrival in Europe, that the men who in Cayenne were called the Burglar, the Parisian, the Caid and the Joker had been recaptured, together with the notorious Chéri-Bibi, he had every reason to believe that the past contained no menace for him.
He was confident, moreover, that he owed his perfect security to Chéri-Bibi, and at those moments when his thoughts reverted to him, he vowed an even deeper gratitude to him.
"Be happy, Nut! You will learn all too soon, if you are to learn it, that your old companions in bondage escaped once again after four years of imprisonment, showing greater cunning this time, for they managed to return to France, and were present at your wedding. Oh, if you had known it! How you would have invoked in your prayers the demon of darkness who alone can save you, and whom, in the natural selfishness of your happiness, you no longer wished even to remember."
* * * * *
Françoise loved adornment and admiration, and Didier was delighted, for he thought, with some reason, that a woman without elegance and style was a woman without charm.
During the early months of the war, Mlle. de la Boulays restricted herself with a veritable enthusiasm to the greatest simplicity in dress. But, in truth, could she claim that she was devoted to her Red Cross costume solely because it served to remind her of her duties to humanity? Did she entirely ignore the fact that it suited her to perfection?
Her engagement, and then her marriage, which was a society event, afforded her more than a sufficient reason for returning to her former tastes, so that she found herself once more devoting herself to matters of toilet and dress. The fact, moreover, in no way detracted from her more solid qualities.
Captain d'Haumont was delighted to accompany his wife when she went shopping or visited her dressmaker. And when they were in Nice, after sauntering through the Promenade des Anglais, he never failed to bring her back to the verdant avenue where behind the great shop-fronts bloomed the latest fashions.
On that day they went to Violette's to see a certain dress in white voile embroidered with pearls upon which Françoise had been casting longing eyes. The elder of the sisters, Violette, had just returned from their principal branch in Paris, bringing with her every kind of fashionable wonder. Françoise had not visited Violette's during the war. But she knew the two sisters well, and she was quite surprised to see the elder one put out her hand to Didier with a pleasant smile. So Didier also knew her! So Didier used to visit the millinery shops before his marriage! With a charming pout, lifting in mock-seriousness a threatening finger, she remarked upon the fact.
"Don't scold us, Madame," said the elder Mlle. Violette with a smile. "It's a great secret between Captain d'Haumont and me. But as it's the secret of a good action, you must not ask me to tell you about it."
"I insist on knowing what it is," said Françoise gaily. "A husband ought not to have any secrets from his wife."
"After all, you're quite right, Madame, and well . . . the secret is . . ."
At that juncture a girl appeared from the other end of the shop. She was wearing an exquisite dress which Françoise at once gazed upon enraptured. She did not even bestow a glance at the face of the wearer. A mannequin in the flesh means little more to the customers than a mannequin in dummy.
Nevertheless she was obliged to take stock of that handsome face with its refined and aristocratic outline, for the girl, catching sight of Captain d'Haumont, uttered a cry of joy, and blushing with pleasure went quickly up to him with outstretched hand. And then, doubtless feeling that her gesture was indiscreet, she stopped short and murmured, almost stammering:
"Oh, Captain d'Haumont! . . . How is it you're here?"
"What about you?" returned d'Haumont. "Have you been in Nice long?"
"I brought her with me from Paris yesterday," interposed Mlle. Violette. "We needed a few mannequins, and I took her away from the cash desk so as to have her taught a new business here. She does all that we want. We are very pleased with our favorite, Captain d'Haumont."
"My dear," said Captain d'Haumont, turning to his wife, who did not know what to say or what to think, and who remained standing somewhat nonplussed by the mystery, "I want you to be very nice to Mlle. Giselle who is quite worthy of it. It's a story which I will tell you later."
"A very pathetic story, Madame," interposed Mlle. Violette, "and one that redounds to your husband's credit."
Giselle bowed gracefully to Madame d'Haumont. "I will try to deserve your kindness, Madame and Monsieur," she said with great simplicity. "When my mother and I heard of Captain d'Haumont's marriage we both of us prayed for your happiness."
"She is delightful, this child," said Françoise, as she shook her warmly by the hand. "And how pretty she is!" Then, turning to her husband with an adorable pout:
"I don't know what you did to make them so grateful to you, but you know how to choose the people to whom to do good turns, my dear Didier."
When they left the shop Françoise, who was agog with the greatest curiosity, asked him what it all meant.
"Be quick, tell me. You know that I am jealous, you brigand."
D'Haumont was much amused by her impatience. He assumed an air of detachment.
"My dear, it's a secret which belongs to that young girl," he said. "I really don't know if I can——"
"Oh, you're making game of me! That's not the old Didier. Think of the confidence that I have in you. We go into a shop and the first mannequin that we see throws herself into your arms and I don't scratch her eyes out."
"That would have been a pity, for they are very nice eyes," said Didier.
"Yes, she has extremely nice blue eyes and an expression of gentle sadness which haunts one, it's true. Oh, you're an excellent judge. I congratulate you! All the same, you must admit that I am a good sort. Do I know what you did before our marriage?"
"Françoise!" rapped out Didier in a muffled voice. The word was uttered in such a tone of reproach that Françoise stopped teasing him. She saw that he was very pale and painfully upset.
"Good gracious, I didn't know that I should be hurting your feelings like that."
He took her hand and pressed it gently.
"My dearest," he said, "I will tell you all about her, but never forget that since the day that I first saw you, there's never been any other woman in the world for me but you."
"I believe you, my Didier."
Nothing more was said while they remained among the fashionably dressed crowd which assembles between eleven o'clock and midday on the Promenade de la Baie des Anges. But as soon as they were alone on the terrace, which was usually deserted at that time, and which, skirting the Château, leads to the harbor, Didier told Françoise what he knew of Giselle and how he came to know her.
The incident occurred on an occasion when he was home on leave. He was "pulling himself together" from the fatigues of the front in a small flat which he had taken on his arrival in Paris. It was in the Luxembourg quarter, facing the gardens, of which he was very fond, and which served to remind him of the happiest days of his boyhood.
One day as he left his flat he was arrested by a most mournful procession which was descending from the attic above. Some poor devil was being taken to his last resting place. A young girl was walking behind the coffin. She was in tears, and was so weak that obviously she had the greatest difficulty to hold herself upright. She was alone or almost alone. Didier offered her his assistance. She clung to his arm in her distress with an ingenuous confidence that deeply touched him. He took her thus to the cemetery, and brought her back home again.
It was not until they were in the house that she seemed to notice the assistance which a stranger had rendered her.
"Oh, monsieur, it's very good of you," she said, and as they were now indoors she made her escape and went upstairs to her attic.
Captain d'Haumont questioned the porter's wife. He learned that Giselle's father had suffered from an illness—consumption—which was practically incurable. Thus he had not been able to work for two years, and her mother was crippled, so that the young girl could only maintain her unhappy family by the most grinding toil. Scarcely being able to leave them, she was forced to wear herself out with needlework at home, and earned barely enough to keep the wolf from the door.
D'Haumont knew the elder of the Violette sisters, for one of her nephews, a second lieutenant, had served under him; and amid the dangers of the campaign they had struck up a friendship. He called upon this worthy lady and asked her if she could find a situation for an honest girl who would be worthy of her trust. Mlle. Violette, as it happened, had a vacancy for a cashier. And that was how Giselle came to enter one of the principal dressmaking establishments in Paris, and her mother and herself to be extricated from poverty. In the course of a year, assisted by her youth, Giselle won back her health. In a word, she blossomed forth into the beautiful young girl whom Françoise had just seen. Mlle. Violette, realizing how graceful she was, sometimes took her away from the cash desk and dressed her as her most valuable mannequin, for she set off to advantage their most sensational "confections."
"And now, my dear Françoise, you know as much as I do about Giselle."
"You always will be the best of men," returned Françoise, affectionately pressing his arm. "Men are only as good as that in popular novels and plays," she added with an arch smile.
"You are laughing at me," said the Nut in a tone of surprise, slightly vexed. But she grew entirely serious again.
"I adore you, my Didier."
They retraced their steps, for it was now lunch time. As they turned round they almost ran into a singular-looking person, with a copper-colored skin, and eyes devoid of eyebrows but protected from the glare of the sun by large yellow glasses. This peculiar individual was dressed entirely in white linen; and he wore white shoes and a gray bowler hat. Didier could not help giving a start when his eyes fell upon him.
"How very much like Yoyo he is!" he said to himself.
But the idea no sooner flashed upon him than he realized how ridiculous and unpardonable it was to let his thoughts wander back to the men and things of the primeval forest while walking on the Promenade des Anglais.
"Did you notice that man?" asked Françoise, laughing. "There's an eccentric for you! Do you know who he is? From what I hear, he is a genuine redskin, a celebrated surgeon-dentist from Chicago who has just opened a consulting-room in Nice. How would you like to have a redskin as your dentist? Personally, I should be afraid of his sending me to sleep and then scalping me. Madame d'Erlande told me, the other day, that the women here are crazy about him, and that he has already secured the smartest people in the foreign colony as his patients."
Captain d'Haumont smiled and turned round to have another look at him. The man was still walking some twenty paces behind them, smoking a cigarette.
A few days later a charitable fête was held in Cimiez, in the beautiful gardens of the Château de Valrose, standing on the hills which tower above Nice. Madame d'Erlande was one of the chief organizers of the fête, and she invited Françoise, whom she had known since she was a little girl, and for whom she had always shown a great affection, to take charge of a stall. Françoise could not well refuse. Didier went with her. He allowed her to sell his choicest tobacco with all the reckless and charming freedom which the holder of a tobacco stall is expected to show in an affair of the sort.
He wandered among the clumps of trees, strolled through the sham Roman ruins, and drew near and entered the Château de Valrose almost at the same time as the redskin, who was surrounded by a regular "court" of smart women. He knew the man's name now, for it was to be heard on every hand. He called himself Herbert Ross.
They went into the theater at the same time. The surgeon-dentist from Chicago took a seat in front of him, next to a woman whose appearance seemed to be familiar to him. She chattered incessantly to the redskin and did her utmost to arouse his interest. But with his usual unruffled calm he replied to her only in monosyllables. That was his method. Moreover, it was stated that he could only speak a black man's broken lingo.
At that juncture a celebrated Russian diva sang Gluck's "Alceste." She secured a great triumph, and was followed by sundry instrumental pieces on the piano, harp and violin. Finally it was announced that the celebrated Nina Noha would appear in her character dances.
Didier gave a start when he heard her name. He had often seen mention of her in the newspapers since his return to France. He was fully aware that the dancer, was still much courted, or at least that the fascination which the great public in Paris found in her who used to be Raoul de Saint Dalmas's mistress had in no sense diminished. The war had made no difference to her. On the one hand were those who fought, and on the other those who idled away their time.
Nevertheless it struck him that Nina Noha must have changed in the course of fifteen years. If he had been bent on it, he could have seen for himself. It would have been easy for him to have found an opportunity. But he did not seek her out—far from it. In spite of the image which was reflected in his mirror, and showed him a Didier who in no way resembled the old Raoul, he could not help shuddering with a peculiar dread at the thought of finding himself confronted by a countenance which used to be so familiar to him. Suppose she recognized him! Repeat to himself that the thing was impossible as he might, he had none the less procured some tortoiseshell-rimmed dark glasses in order to take refuge behind those glasses should any sudden encounter place him in an embarrassing position.
Nina Noha! She was the origin of all his misery. What follies he had committed for the woman whom he now held in horror!
She came on to the stage. What a marvel she was! She had not changed in the least. She still possessed her fatal beauty. Her eyes, her great dark, blazing eyes still held their disturbing fire. Her movements were still as lithe, as voluptuous, as before. She was still as young as ever.
Nina Noha danced in a Parisian robe which revealed her figure more completely than if she had worn a Corinthian tunic. What were Didier's real feelings as he gazed at that apparition? Did they betoken the death of his former passion for her? Was he mourning over himself? Did he see in her the hated cause of all his woes?
He clapped his hands like everybody else, hardly knowing what he was doing. Five minutes later, at the sound of a voice which, likewise had undergone no change, he came to himself from his musings.
"Well, doctor, are you satisfied?"
The woman who had sat in front of him and whose back alone he had seen while she chattered to the "doctor," was no other than Nina Noha.
Didier instinctively put on his dark glasses. She had come back to her seat. She had danced solely to please the redskin. At least he gathered as much from her talk which he could not but overhear. But the Captain was no longer listening to her voice. He was staring at her.
He was staring at the nape of her neck, the sight of which at one time distracted him. Even now he could not remove his eyes from it, but it was not the living flesh that held him, it was not the perfumed neck which he was wont to cover with kisses that he now gazed upon. His eyes were fixed on the necklace fastened round her neck.
Lord above, he had known a necklace with pearls like that! It was a long time ago . . . a very long time ago. It was more than fifteen years ago. Yes, he had held in his hand gems which were so like them that they might easily be mistaken for those which were round Nina's neck. He had held pearls in his hand like them on the day when the banker had passed to him, so that he might judge their brilliance, the necklace which once belonged to the Queen of Carynthia.
Oh, how he longed to count the number of pearls in it! That particular necklace—the fact had been repeated often enough during the trial for the Nut to remember it—contained sixty pearls. Such was the necklace which, if the Public Prosecutor was to be believed, Raoul de Saint Dalmas had stolen, and to obtain which he had not scrupled to murder his employer!
It was enough to strike any man to the very heart suddenly to see before his eyes, after fifteen years, a necklace like it . . . exactly like it . . . for after all, suppose it were one and the same?
"I am wandering in my mind," he thought, Nina Noha! A pearl necklace! Raynaud's murder! . . . All these things were whirling in Didier's poor brain.
"It's not surprising that I cannot see a necklace without thinking of the other one," he thought to himself. "But the other one contained a certain pearl, a pearl with a flaw in it, a pearl which had lost its luster. M. Raynaud pointed it out to me. True, I myself remember the particular pearl. It was not perfectly round either. True, I see it in my mind's eye still. . . . But here I cannot see it at all!
"Am I going mad? Haven't I yet done staring at that necklace, trying to count how many pearls there are in it? Why do I not at once cry aloud to the people in this theater: 'Cannot you recognize me? I am Raoul de Saint Dalmas. I was condemned to death for the murder of the owner of that necklace. I insist on this woman telling me where she got it from.'"
He was afraid of himself. He left the theater. By a curious coincidence Nina Noha came out after him. She was no longer with the redskin but was attended by a showily dressed "gentleman" who, however, left her almost at once, and to whom she said:
"See you this evening, my dear de Saynthine. . . ."
At that moment Didier encountered his wife's friend, Madame d'Erlande, who likewise was leaving the theatre, and she stopped to speak to him.
She was a vivacious and sprightly, and somewhat mature woman, who wore a smile from which youth had fled. She was not devoid of wit, nor of love of mischief, nor, in particular, of malice. She liked to tease the enamored. She had assisted at Françoise's wedding with immense enjoyment; and she never failed to say, when she caught her giving her husband an adoring look:
"Make the most of it, my dear. Make the most of it. One can never tell how long it will last with those gentlemen."
She was reputed, moreover, to have had not a little experience in love affairs, and malicious tongues declared that in her time she had rarely allowed to slip from her the opportunity of putting to test the constancy of man.
"Well," she said to Didier, "what do you think of our little fête? I noticed just now that you were by no means boring yourself. You were taking an enormous pleasure in watching Nina Noha dance."
"Upon my word," returned Didier, forcing himself to reply by a resolute effort of will so as to appear natural, for, at the mention of her name, Nina Noha turned her head and was eyeing him with considerable interest, "upon my word, she certainly dances extremely well."
"She is undoubtedly one of our most beautiful actresses. Ah, you brigand, she was in front of you. I was watching you. You never took your eyes from her. But I shall tell Françoise the whole story. I must put the little innocent on her guard."
Nina Noha passed them with an air of supreme unconcern. Well, Madame d'Erlande could let her tongue run on as she pleased. Nina Noha had not recognized him.
CHAPTER XVI
CHÉRI-BIBI'S SIMPLE PROGRAMME
The same evening, a few minutes before the arrival of the train from Paris, a man in livery was walking up and down the platform of the railway station at Nice. He wore a cap with a glazed leather peak, which hid from sight one eye, while the other was covered with a large black band wound round his head.
Not only could very little be caught of the man's face, but people might, with good reason, ask themselves whether he was able to distinguish anything himself. Nevertheless his heavy but confident tread bore witness, in spite of the manner in which he was muffled up, to the fact that he retained a clear perception of what was passing round him. He avoided groups of passengers, the porters, the station-master, and even the commissary of police!
When the train entered the station, he posted himself near the way out and imperturbably watched travelers march past him carrying their luggage. Now and again, for he had chosen a somewhat dark corner, he was jostled by the crowd, but he stood stock still as firm as a rock.
Suddenly he stepped forward, thrust out his arm, and laid hold of a remarkably tall, lean man who was wearing an immense, loose overcoat.
The man gave a start and murmured:
"Oh, it's you, Monsieur le Marq——"
The other gave him a dig in the ribs which checked his flow of words and manifestations of pleasure.
"Did you have a pleasant journey, Monsieur Hilaire?" asked the servant, seizing the bag from the hands of the traveler in the flowing overcoat.
"Very pleasant indeed, Monsieur le——"