"Call me Casimir, you ass!"
"Yes, Monsieur Casimir. But I don't want you to carry my bag. I am not at all tired. One can travel very comfortably in these first-class carriages. I never want to travel again in anything but a first-class carriage."
"Dry up!" growled Monsieur Casimir.
Hilaire did not speak again. When they reached the Avenue de la Gare, and were abreast of Notre Dame, the servant said to the new-comer:
"Now you can talk."
"Well, that's a good thing," sighed Hilaire, "because I have several things to tell you, Monsieur le Marq——Casimir! First of all, let me thank you for enabling me to realize the greatest dream of my life: a trip to the blue waters of the Mediterranean."
"Did your wife offer any objection to your leaving her. Monsieur Hilaire?"
"She did everything that she could think of to prevent me from getting away. But she had to bow to the inevitable when I told her that I was entrusted by the Government with a secret mission to supply the Mediterranean seaboard with macaroni! . . . But even that didn't pass without some unpleasant remarks, and she foretold a number of dire disasters, such as the train running off the lines, an earthquake, and a few epidemics. But I don't want to think of those disagreeable moments. I am at Nice. I see before me the land of the sun."
"You will see it to-morrow morning," corrected Chéri-Bibi. "Meantime, we will go and have a bit of dinner together. I have nothing to do. My master has given me the evening off!"
"Your master! So you have a master now. I imagined that your uniform was only for show. I know, Monsieur le Marquis, that you always had a fancy for assuming a disguise, and even in the time of——"
"Are you sober, Dodger?"
"I beg your pardon. I couldn't help it. I thought I was back again to those days when you, Monsieur le Marquis, disguised yourself before proceeding on certain expeditions. And then, it's quite true, this country, this air intoxicates me. I don't know myself. I am twenty years younger. I beg your pardon. . . ."
"Listen to me. I am employed as hall-porter by Dr. Herbert Ross, 95 A, Avenue Victor Hugo. He is a fashionable surgeon-dentist, and has a large number of smart patients. Remember that, I beg of you. And you, do you know what you are?"
"Know what I am! I should think I did. I am M. Hilaire, grocer, spending a holiday on the Riviera, and my one idea is to amuse myself and take things easy."
They had reached a dingy street which turned into the Place Masséna. Chéri-Bibi came to a stand before an hotel.
"I've taken a room here in your name. Off with you! I'll wait for you."
Five minutes later Hilaire came out again.
"I've only had time to wash my hands and dip my face in a basin of water," he said. "Where are we going to dine? I'll stand treat."
Chéri-Bibi took the Dodger to a restaurant, in the old town, famous for its tripe and light white wines. Hilaire was in the highest spirits. After dinner he lit a cigar which Chéri-Bibi gave him and he puffed away at it with great gusto as he threw himself back in his chair.
"You've told me your program," said Chéri-Bibi, putting his elbows on the table, while the coffee was being served, "and I'm now going to speak of mine, if you don't mind. I promise you that it will make another man of you, my dear old Dodger, and you'll fancy we're back again to the best days of our youth."
"I'm listening, Monsieur Casimir," returned Hilaire, blowing smoke towards the ceiling and seemingly greatly interested in the rings which were forming above him.
"I know nothing more likely to make one forget the worries of family life and the anxieties of business," began Chéri-Bibi by way of prologue, "than to take a hand in certain schemes in which you have to bring into play some degree of cunning, presence of mind, coolness, and a great amount of pluck; in fact, all the qualities which enabled us in the old days to overcome very considerable difficulties. You cannot have forgotten them."
"Bless me, Monsieur Casimir, if I understand you aright, your program, while it offers us some amount of amusement, is not particularly one to go to sleep on."
"If you want to remain idle while I'm working, you can watch me on the job," returned Chéri-Bibi in a gruff voice.
"I should have some feeling of remorse, Monsieur Casimir——"
"If you have too much feeling of remorse, you can take the next train back——"
"Don't be upset, Monsieur Casimir. You know as well as I do that my life belongs to you. I gave it to you once for all. I owe everything to you. I am not ungrateful. Tell me what you intend to do," said Hilaire with a deep sigh. "Is there someone who still stands in your way?"
"Yes, there is someone who still stands in my way, Monsieur Hilaire. You've hit it in one."
"It's his own lookout," said the grocer with another deep and mournful sigh. "Yes, it will serve him right. As long as he is in your way, he is in my way, too! And, look here, I had better tell you right now," added the Dodger, who realized that it was not the moment for jesting, "that I shan't be easy in my mind until that someone no longer inconveniences you. Then we shall be able to enjoy in peace the good things of this delightful country. Upon my word, I really believe that between us we shall know how to manage the affair so that he doesn't worry us much longer."
"I didn't expect anything else from you, my dear Dodger. You must know then that the person who annoys me is a certain gentleman whose service you will enter to-morrow as chauffeur."
"Is it possible!" sighed the Dodger. "You've already found me a job as chauffeur—to start to-morrow morning? What is this particular gentleman's business?"
"He is a gentleman very comfortably off. He has no business, and his name is M. de Saynthine."
"I'm much obliged to you, Monsieur, for finding me such a smart post. Since Monsieur Casimir is hall-porter to a surgeon-dentist, I see no reason why Monsieur Hilaire shouldn't be chauffeur to an independent gentleman. What have I got to do?"
"Well, you look after the car as you used to do at my house."
"And then?"
"And then you will keep a watchful eye on everything that's happening round you."
"And what else?"
"Listen to everything that's said."
"Come, I say, that doesn't sound very difficult."
"Your future governor, M. de Saynthine, is particularly interested in someone whom you know, my dear Dodger."
"Whom do you mean? I've met so many people since I went into business."
"You remember the man who came and knocked at your door one evening and mentioned me?"
"Oh, yes, but I don't even know his name."
"His name is Didier d'Haumont He is one of the heroes of the Great War. Besides, he made a very fine marriage, which was reported in all the newspapers. When I send you customers. Monsieur Hilaire, I send you the very best."
"Oh, really! . . . I am very thankful to you. What has my governor, M. de Saynthine, to do with M. d'Haumont?"
"He has this much to do with him: that he hates him like poison and has sworn to ruin him, and M. d'Haumont has no suspicion of it, the poor, dear man."
"Indeed! Well, let him lay hands on anyone who comes to me from you and says 'Fatalitas!'"
Chéri-Bibi put his mouth to the Dodger's ear.
"As long as M. de Saynthine lives, your customer, Dodger, won't be safe for a moment."
M. Hilaire scratched his ear.
"That being so, my governor's number is up," he sighed. "There's another man who won't make old bones!"
"Yes," growled Chéri-Bibi, "accidents will happen. Oh, by the way, your governor has a friend, a bit of a braggart, who acts as his factotum and whose name is Onésime Belon. De Saynthine picked this man, who is an old pal of his, out of the gutter, and he calls him in private the Joker, though no one has ever known why."
"Must I keep an eye on him, too?"
"Keep an eye on him! I should think you must keep an eye on him. He is as dangerous to our friend, the Captain, as your governor is. Our friend will never have a quiet life so long as this Onésime Belon . . ."
Chéri-Bibi did not finish the sentence, but brought his two hands together and gave a twist which left no doubt as to the necessity for disposing of this fellow also.
"Ah, yes, that man too," sighed Hilaire.
"I might as well let you know also that Onésime Belon is mixed up with a certain second-hand clothes dealer in the old town—that accounts, perhaps, for his being so shabbily dressed—a man nicknamed the Burglar, who is easily recognized because he walks sideways like a crab, and can't hide the fact that one of his shoulders is higher than the other. This man, the Burglar, calls himself in the old town Monsieur Toulouse. . . ."
"Does he, too, bear a grudge against Captain d'Haumont?" asked poor Hilaire with growing anxiety, while the sweat broke over his forehead in great drops.
"Bear him a grudge! I should think he did bear him a grudge! He has sworn to ruin him or to cook his goose for him. Listen carefully. All those fellows are in possession of a certain secret, and they have determined to blackmail the Captain to the death."
"Blackmail him to the death! Yes, I can understand the whole thing. It's not very complicated, this blackmail business. . . . So this man the Burglar . . .?"
"This man the Burglar as well," said Chéri-Bibi simply.
"As well?"
"As well."
"That makes three of 'em," Hilaire ventured to observe.
"You know how to count in the grocery business!"
The tone in which this fearsome sentence was flung in Hilaire's face sent a shudder through him from head to foot.
Chéri-Bibi rose from the table, paid the bill and whistled to the Dodger like a master calling his dog. Hilaire gave a start and followed him like a puppy who has received a drubbing.
"I've known you when you had more go in you, Dodger," said Chéri-Bibi when they were in the street.
"Well, curse me, three! You know, Monsieur le Marquis, that I've got out of the habit of doing these things. I've got a bit rusty in the Rue Saint Roch. Give me a little time to get used to the idea that we've got a little job under way."
"Look here, Dodger, I'm very fond of you, but don't go on pulling such a long face at the thought of doing a service to a brave soldier—a thought which ought to move you to enthusiasm. Bear in mind that without our assistance he'll fall a victim to those villains."
"Villains! You're right, Monsieur le Marq . . . I feel my enthusiasm beginning to rise."
"They're the cleverest of blackmailers."
"The mere thought of blackmailers always disgusted me," declared Hilaire, with a gesture of repugnance.
"Well done! That's more like your old self. Don't forget that we have to do our good deeds in the dark."
"Yes, yes; I shan't forget. We must work in the dark as far as possible. Certainly we shan't receive a medal for striking this particular blow."
"No, but you will satisfy your own conscience."
"That's good enough for me, Monsieur le Marquis. You have helped me to make up my mind to act," declared Hilaire in a voice which was not entirely cheerful.
"Well, now that you've come round to a sensible view of things, I'll finish telling you the program."
"What's that? Isn't that the end of it?"
"Nearly the end."
"Nearly!" exclaimed Hilaire with a profound sigh.
"Well, what about it? What's the matter now?"
"It's this 'nearly.' You said 'nearly,' Monsieur Casimir. Now I confess that this 'nearly' scares me. In the old days when you, Monsieur le Marquis . . . had 'nearly' finished a job we had enough in hand to last a week!"
"What a pity. And all this fuss over a peddler of rugs," growled Chéri-Bibi.
"A peddler of rugs?"
"Yes, a man from Tunis whom they call the Caid, and who lugs about on his shoulder all day a bundle of rugs—a nigger of no importance."
"Oh, if that's all it is!" exclaimed Hilaire. "I fancy I see him now—one of those 'me never ill and never die' sort."
"Let him say it," snorted Chéri-Bibi fiercely.
"What do you mean, 'let him say it?'"
"Hang it all, if he says 'me never ill, never die,' he's making a mistake, that's all."
"Oh, very good indeed. You, Monsieur le Marq . . . always had a pretty wit. And afterwards? Aren't there any more?"
"No, I don't think I've forgotten anybody. Besides, once for all, call me Monsieur Casimir."
"Of course . . . of course, Monsieur Casimir."
Hilaire did not utter another word. Monsieur Casimir respected his silence; and thus they came to within a few steps of the hotel.
"Can I leave you and go to bed?" asked Hilaire in a voice that failed him somewhat. "We're not going to begin to-night?"
"No. Go and have a good night's rest, and, above all, no bad dreams."
"Good night, Monsieur Casimir."
"Good night, Monsieur Hilaire."
Hilaire had been in the service of his new master for several days. So far, he was extremely satisfied with his new and singular position. His pay was by no means small. When he first called on M. de Saynthine he was subjected to a searching scrutiny, and his master said: "He looks an ass, but he must be pretty quick-witted."
Such criticism was hardly likely to meet with Hilaire's approval, but he was consoled by the first part of the sentence, and he said to himself:
"I look what I wish to look at the moment."
After closing the door of the study in which he interviewed him, M. de Saynthine, who was a well set-up, middle-aged man, went on arranging his tie before the glass, which enabled him to watch Hilaire's every movement.
"You were recommended to me, my lad," he said, "by a friend of Mlle. Nina Noha, who told me that you have a very reliable character" (M. Hilaire bowed), "and are so discreet that you would even decline to tell me the extent of your zeal in your late master's interests. I understood that you rendered him very substantial services, which were only interrupted by the unexpected outbreak of war. That suits me admirably. I am told, also, that you are not the sort of man to work for nothing, and your devotion doesn't run counter to your interests. I will give you a thousand francs a month. Will that satisfy you?"
"That will suit me to begin with," returned Hilaire, without moving a muscle.
"Then we are agreed," concluded M. de Saynthine. "But it is understood that you do absolutely as you're told without asking questions, or endeavoring to understand what is not explained to you; and you will pretend not to understand when you do understand. Moreover, you must not be surprised at anything."
"Monsieur, that's settled. It's just the sort of place that I've been looking for."
"Well, go and see M. Onésime Belon, who will tell you what you have to do from day to day. He is the man with whom you will have to deal when it's a question of any special business. You must take your orders from him as though he were myself. . . ."
Hilaire was also extremely satisfied with M. Onésime Belon. Taken all round, the situation was an easy one.
Hilaire had sharp ears and an inquiring eye. When he had a moment to spare he went to report the result of his observations to the hall-porter at Dr. Ross's, for the Boulevard Victor Hugo, in which the dentist lived, was not far away.
Dr. Ross never received patients after five o'clock in the afternoon. Thus, at that hour the hall-porter would close his office. He was a queer porter, for, in order not to be disturbed by the night bell, he rented and slept in a small house at St. Jean, on the sea coast, not far from Cape Ferrat.
Now and then the Dodger found time to go with him, even to this distant neighborhood.
One night, as they were passing near Mont Boron, they met a certain peddler of rugs, who must have said some very unpleasant things to them, for a more or less violent quarrel ensued. The Dodger was very excited about it when he left his friend a quarter of an hour later at the cross-way on the road from Villefranche.
"That's one point scored," he said with a deep sigh.
"Oh, that man doesn't count," returned Chéri-Bibi in his gruff voice.
But we must return to M. de Saynthine. That evening when he left M. Onésime Belon, with whom he had a long discussion, he passed through the little door leading to the deserted street on the seafront, and turned his steps towards the light of the town. He walked past the pier, crossed the public gardens, stopped before Violette's shop and exclaimed: "Hullo, Giselle is working late to-night!"
M. de Saynthine was in love. In reality M. de Saynthine was always in love, on principle. He possessed the sentimental temperament of a certain Arigonde, alias the Parisian, who, in his youth, had achieved notoriety as a squire of dames.
We know that this notoriety had landed him in the Assize Court, and even beyond that Court, as a result of irretrievable accidents which had befallen the ladies to whom he paid court. The few years that he had spent in the convict settlement had by no means extinguished his ardor.
In the early days this lady-killer was prodigal of his favors and not very particular in the choice of his partners. But he had become tired of so many commonplace adventures and victories won, as it were, before a shot was fired, that he felt the longing for an affair which would be more difficult to complete, more serious and more lasting. He had encountered Giselle at Violette's shop in Paris, for Nina Noha was one of its customers.
Nina Noha, to serve her own purposes, which may be imagined—particularly if it is remembered that she was of Hungarian descent and quite recently naturalized—never lost an opportunity of introducing M. de Saynthine into society circles as an old friend, who was interested in stock breeding in the Argentine, and who had come to France on the declaration of war to discover the most effective means of serving his country.
The truth—unfortunately only too obvious—was that enemy propaganda, which was always on the lookout to increase its army of spies in the old as well as the new world, had its ramifications even in the gold-diggings in Guiana, and had enlisted the Parisian and his gang at a moment, when, having escaped a second time from their prison, they reached, in utter destitution, the frontier of Dutch Guiana.
Enemy agents had at once seen how to turn those miscreants to account, and had supplied them with the necessary social status to enable them to live in France.
Nina Noha had to take the Parisian in hand, and when she was entrusted with the mission of organizing a system of espionage among the fashionable crowd on the Riviera, she brought the Parisian with her, and his gang followed.
The Parisian's first intention had been to make love to the dancer, but she repressed him so remorselessly that he accepted his rejection without demur.
"We are not here to amuse ourselves," she flung at him.
The consciousness that he was her subordinate was extremely distasteful to M. de Saynthine. Until he had succeeded in striking the blow which he was meditating against the Nut, he sought, therefore, to pass the time and console himself for Nina Noha's contempt by engaging in one of those little sentimental intrigues in which he was a past master. Giselle's handsome face, with its touch of sadness, appealed to him from the first—from the day on which he saw her when he accompanied Nina Noha on one of her visits to Violette's.
While he was at Nice he happened to pass Violette's shop and he caught sight of the young girl. After that he endeavored, without success, to induce her to respond to his advances, and he was delighted with her. Some degree of opposition was by no means unwelcome to him.
That evening again his footsteps led him quite naturally to Violette's shop. And now he was watching Giselle, not without excitement, putting things back in their proper places before her departure. He knew that she lived in the Rue d'Angleterre, for he had followed her so far, and he determined to make the same little trip that evening.
Accordingly it was with a feeling of great annoyance that, when the shop door suddenly opened, he saw standing before him Nina Noha and her maid.
"What are you doing here, de Saynthine? I say, come along with me to my place. I want to talk to you."
"But, my dear lady, I happen to have an appointment——"
"Tut, tut! You're waiting for Giselle, aren't you? Oh, you wonder how I know what you're up to! Giselle made a complaint to the elder Mademoiselle Violette, and she told me all about it But your love affairs are no business of mine. Come with me. Someone is waiting to have a chat with you."
He could not choose but obey. He was incensed. He thought that he might even yet be able to meet Giselle before she reached the Rue d'Angleterre.
When they were in Nina Noha's flat, she opened a door which, till then, de Saynthine thought was permanently closed. The door connected her flat with the adjoining flat. She went into it and he heard her say:
"Yes, my dress will be ready to-morrow evening."
And a voice, which he did not at once recognize, asked:
"Do you know whether the d'Haumonts will be at Madame d'Erlande's?"
"Yes, they'll be there. I heard so from Mdlle. Violette, who saw Madame d'Haumont to-day."
A few words were exchanged in a whisper, and Nina Noha returned and requested M. de Saynthine to go into the next flat. He saw a man with a pallid face and feverish eyes lying on a sofa.
"Oh, Monsieur le Comte!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, it's I, come back to life again, or nearly so. I've had a narrow escape. That Captain d'Haumont shoots like a duffer, but we shall be even with him, don't you think, de Saynthine?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Comte."
"But who is the man? No d'Haumont has lived in France for the last fifty years. Here's a man who came back from away in Guiana with millions. It seems that he has a splendid business out there in the forest. All the same, you can't keep a business like that secret. I have had inquiries made. Who is d'Haumont? He is quite unknown in Guiana. Have you fellows in your wanderings through the country ever heard of d'Haumont's business?"
"No, certainly not. His business must be on the Upper Oyapok, and even farther away. It's a very uncivilized place. People never go there. But in those parts one stroke of luck is enough to make a man rich."
"It's very funny," interposed Nina Noha. "I saw Captain d'Haumont for the first time at the fête at Valrose, and I had a sort of feeling that his face was not unfamiliar to me."
"Oh, one often imagines such things," returned de Saynthine, shaking his head.
"Listen to me, de Saynthine," went on de Gorbio. "I have had the closest inquiries made about Captain d'Haumont. There is a gap in his life! We must know what that gap means, my lad."
De Saynthine bowed.
"I will have a good try, Monsieur le Comte." Having said which, he took his leave.
So they had sent for him in order to talk about d'Haumont! "You don't catch me parting with that tit-bit to you," he growled, thinking of his own schemes.
As he walked past Violette's shop his thoughts turned once again to Giselle with a rancor which but immensely increased his longing to see the handsome mannequin. But she was no longer there.
As a matter of fact, while he was submitting to the caprice of Nina Noha, Giselle had been hastily sent for. Her mother was in an alarming state, and the poor girl had set out distraught. A few minutes later Captain and Madame d'Haumont came to the shop. Mdlle. Violette told them of the blow which was threatening her assistant, and Didier at once suggested that they should go and call on her. Somewhat surprised to see her husband display so much anxiety, Françoise none the less expressed her agreement with him; and Mdlle. Violette herself went with them to the Rue d'Angleterre.
Five minutes later they knocked at the door of a small flat on the fifth floor. A nurse asked them in, and they found themselves in a sort of entrance-lobby which contained a folding bedstead. It was here that Giselle slept.
Mlle. Violette had already slipped into the next room to see the mother, who appeared to be a little better. She had had a fit, but, according to the nurse, the doctor had given them a few words of hope. Mdlle. Violette came back to say that they could see the invalid.
They entered a room which was quite tastefully furnished, and Giselle's mother welcomed them with a smile on her pale face. She expressed her gratitude to Didier for what he had done for her daughter and her self in words which brought tears to Françoise's eyes. And she said a few nice things about Françoise and her marriage which stirred the latter to the depths of her being.
"But where is Giselle?" asked Didier.
"She went downstairs with the doctor. She probably wanted to go with him to learn the truth, the poor child. She fears that I am really ill, though we have done everything we can to hide the truth from her."
Françoise and Mlle. Violette assured her that the southern sun would do wonders for her, but that she must not live in rooms where its light never penetrated; and they made arrangements for Madame Anthenay, for such was the mother's name, to take up her abode in a small but comfortable flat on the Quay du Midi where she would be bathed in sunshine from the rising to the setting of the sun.
Suddenly they heard loud knocks on the landing door; and when it was opened Giselle flung herself into the room, her face convulsed and her frame shaken with a fit of sobbing.
"What's happened? . . . What's the matter?"
She endeavored to restrain herself, asking pardon of those whom she had not expected to see for giving way to such a silly exhibition of emotion.
"It's nothing. I've had a great fright in the street."
"That's not true," exclaimed Mlle. Violette. "I bet it's that man again. He has been following you."
"Well, yes, it is he. He has insulted me. He won't leave me alone."
Didier sprang from his chair, pale, and with a terrible lode on his face that frightened Françoise.
"Who has insulted you?" he demanded in a smothered voice.
Mlle. Violette went to the window of the balcony on the roof which looked out on to the street. And she pointed to a man wearing a soft hat and an overcoat with the collar turned up, walking with his hands in his pockets, his stick under his arm.
"Yes, that's the man!" she cried. "The wretch follows Giselle every day. We shall have to lodge a complaint."
Declining to listen to his wife, who, greatly distressed, begged him to stay where he was, Didier rushed wildly out of the room.
* * * * *
In truth, in our ordinary, prosaic life men of nobility of mind and goodness of heart are ever eager to throw themselves into the cause of virtue. We may say of these men that they are true knights, for they never lose an opportunity of flying to the rescue of beauty in distress, untouched by any selfish motive or even by the least thought of reward. Such a man was Captain d'Haumont.
He had already "done enough" for Giselle by helping her to escape from poverty and enter a good business; and he was entitled to consider that any claim upon his charitable instincts had been fully met. He might have rested content with that. Giselle was old enough to protect herself from the annoyance of a chance wayfarer or even from the deep-laid plots of a rascal.
Indifference or contempt on the one hand and a feeling of weariness and wounded pride on the other are enough, as a general rule, to cool the first ardor of a villain who, in his self-complacency, thinks that no one is able to resist him.
Captain d'Haumont bounded wildly down the stairs, darted into the street, and looked about for his man, or rather Giselle's man, with the gestures of a bulldog longing for a bite, and it might almost seem as if he had taken leave of his senses.
What was Françoise to think about it? She might very well say to herself: "Well, if he gets into such a state of excitement over a stranger to whom someone has been lacking in respect, what will he do when any man looks at me askance? Good gracious, he couldn't possibly show more righteous indignation!" She became quite dejected by the reflection. But as she was, in her own way, inspired with sentiments which did not fall short in generosity those entertained by Captain d'Haumont, whom she loved more for himself than for herself—which is the crowning test of love—she quickly discarded thoughts which she regarded as selfish, and her sole apprehension was as to what lay in store, in this attack, for the man for whom she would have given her life.
Mlle. Giselle was no less anxious as to what might happen to her protector, and she expressed aloud her regret for not keeping silent; but she was not aware that Captain d'Haumont was in the room; and, in particular, she had no idea that he would take the matter so much to heart. Her agitation, her apologies, her sorrow, were so sincere and expressed with such real candor that though Françoise might have felt within her as a result of her husband's action—charitable, doubtless, but of an exaggerated charity—a natural antipathy to Giselle, she was the first to console her.
They both went downstairs to seek for news, in the same state of agitation and with sinking hearts. Upstairs, Madame Anthenay was almost fainting. Mdlle. Violette was the only person who retained any degree of self-command.
"What do you expect to happen? Captain d'Haumont will give the unmannerly brute a piece of his mind and the fellow will make off. You may be certain that we shan't see that 'follower' again."
As a matter of fact, at the sight of the Captain waving his stick like a madman, the man buried his face still deeper in the collar of his overcoat, and led away along a street branching off at an angle, and turned his hastening footsteps towards the light of one of the main roads.
Captain d'Haumont soon came up to him, but the night was dark.
"Don't walk so fast, Monsieur," Captain d'Haumont threw at him. "I've something to say to you."
At the sound of that voice the man gave a start but did not slacken his pace.
"Wait a moment, if you don't mind," went on d'Haumont. "I want to tell you that you are a coward, and if you don't stop tormenting that girl you'll have me to deal with."
But the other made no attempt to halt. Far from it. He strode forward with redoubled speed.
"Do you hear?" pursued the mad Didier. "If I catch you following Mlle. Anthenay again I shall punch your head. Besides, you are not going to get away until I've seen your face."
And as they came under the light of a street lamp, Captain d'Haumont raised his walking stick and knocked the man's soft hat on to the pavement, uncovering the upper part of his face.
At that moment d'Haumont ceased to wave his arms, and uttered a hollow groan as though he had received a blow in the stomach. The man on the other hand did not utter a word. He picked up his hat, rammed it on his head, and went on his way.
"The Parisian!" cried Captain d'Haumont in a choking voice. "The Parisian!"
And he retraced his steps staggering like a drunken man.
Didier met the two women at the corner of the street almost frightened out of their senses. He calmed them in a faltering voice. The man, he said, had rushed away as soon as he caught sight of him. The d'Haumonts at once took leave of Giselle, who implored them to forgive her foolish outburst.
In the taxi in which they drove back to Cape Ferrat, Didier and Françoise exchanged but an occasional remark. She was in a state of depression. She thought that her husband would be annoyed with her for her remarks regarding his exaggerated kindness to Giselle.
She took his hand in hers, and was no little surprised and even alarmed to feel that it was icy cold.
"Oh, good gracious, how cold you are! Aren't you well, dear?"
"Yes, yes, I am quite well, I assure you."
She put her hand to his forehead and found that it was covered with an icy perspiration. She was startled.
"Something must be the matter with you. Do say something. Why don't you talk? I've never seen you like this before."
He endeavored to make a jest of it, but his voice was quite different from his usual voice. She began to weep.
"I don't know what has happened. I don't know what is the matter with you. You are concealing something from me."
He took her in his arms and kissed her in a sudden outburst of passion which was far from reassuring her.
"Heavens, you are crying too," she said.
"Only because you are grieved. You must know I worship you."
"Yes, yes. Tell me so! Say it again!"
"Can you doubt it, dearest?"
"I should die if I doubted it. But all the same, tell me that you love me. I like it. Take me in your arms again and kiss me . . . kiss me. Let us mingle our tears. It's so good."
"What nonsense we talk! We don't know why we are crying. We are behaving like children. It's a shame."
"So, my love, it's true. You are not hiding anything from me. You didn't face that wretched man?"
"No, I scarcely saw him. He literally took to his heels. I advised him not to show himself in this quarter again, that's all. We'll say no more about it."
"Don't let's speak of him."
They dropped the subject, and indeed the rest of the drive to the villa was passed in silence. Then, when they were in the house, she said:
"Listen, dear, you must let me take care of you. A moment ago you were as cold as ice, and now your hands are burning. You are still suffering from fever. It's only a short time since you recovered from your wounds, and we are behaving very unwisely. You must have caught a cold on leaving Madame d'Erlande's. . . . But what are you doing? Leave the doors. The servants will dose them."
He was surprised to see himself locking the doors like a child who is overcome with fear.
And yet he had become slightly more composed. He longed to remain in doubt. He tried to doubt still. Might he not have made a mistake, for after all the vision of that man's face under the light of the street lamp was but a momentary one. It was not even a face. A forehead, a pair of eyes, that was all. Was that enough to convince him that he had encountered the Parisian? Surely not. He had to reckon with freaks of resemblance, as well as his own state of mind, ever ready to conjure up dangers and to imagine that they were near.
The Parisian at Nice! No, it was out of the question. The man had been captured and taken back to prison. The newspapers contained a report of the occurrence. And, besides, if the Parisian were at Nice would he not have been occupied in hunting different game from Giselle? Captain d'Haumont would have heard something about him.
Thus his thoughts ran on. Françoise's love, the anxious attentions with which she enveloped him, while they touched his heart also relaxed the tension of his nerves. They were perfectly happy and tranquil; a great peace fell upon them. And he could no longer believe that anything untoward would befall him. He kept quite quiet, took his medicine, allowed himself to be nursed, and—worn out by the new excitement which physically and mentally weighed down upon him—fell asleep.
But Françoise did not fall asleep.
She listened to his irregular breathing; she watched the painful slumber in which the man beside her lay. Resting on her elbow, she bent over the beloved face, distorted by strange dreams, with an ever-increasing anguish which wrung her heart and almost stifled her.
What frightful visions were passing before those closed eyes and the heaving chest? She had never watched her husband asleep. The sight was terrifying.
And then his face changed so that she did not recognize it, and she was appalled. Deep furrows, which she had never seen before, plowed his forehead and temples and the corners of his mouth. The face which, when it was in repose, was calm and dignified and kept under control by a strong, brave mind, was distorted as if the spirit of fear had taken possession of it at a moment when the sentinel was no longer on guard.
It was impossible for her to remain any further beside that tortured face which was unknown to her, and she wakened Didier so as to see once more the face as she knew it—the face of the man she had married.
Didier uttered a hollow groan and opened his haggard eyes. By the light of the night-lamp she watched him come to himself from his nightmare like a swimmer who rises to the surface of the waters and is able at last to breathe again.
"Didier . . . Didier . . . What's the matter? Don't you recognize me? It's I . . . Françoise."
Then his face unbent and his eyes were filled once more with the soft light which illumined them whenever his gaze fell upon her.
"I've had such an awful dream, dearest."
"Yes, it was awful. That's why I woke you up."
"What did I say? What was I talking about?"
"You said nothing, but you were suffering and sighing and groaning terribly."
Françoise's gentle voice seemed to drive away for good and all the cruel shadows of the night.
"But what were you dreaming about?" she asked. "I had the worst dream that it is possible to conceive, dear. I dreamt that you had ceased to love me."
"Oh, my Didier!"
She took him in her arms and he lay his head upon her breast
"Listen to my heart," she said.
They listened in silence. Didier did not speak again, and he pretended to yield to a sweet and refreshing sleep. But he did not sleep. He would not allow himself to sleep. He feared to be betrayed by his dreams. . . .
She, too, closed her eyes and made believe to sleep, and he really thought that she was asleep, but she knew that he was still awake.
They were deceiving each other for the first time in their married life. Didier, like a sufferer who seeks a corner in which to lie down so as to suffer less, laid down his secret there with her, and from that moment she did not doubt that the secret was worthy of its refuge.
With a man of Didier's character—assuming that there was a secret which made him suffer in his dreams as he lay beside the woman he loved—it could only be some trouble which it was his duty to hide from her but which, if she knew what it was, would not make her blush for him.
Ever since Didier's strange behavior at the beginning of what might be called their engagement, she fancied that there was something mysterious in his past life. She persisted in thinking that it was a story of some former woman—of some bad woman of course—who had taken advantage of Didier's goodness, and even now was trying to hold him up to ransom. Whether this was the explanation or not, she felt convinced that Didier was the victim.
At an early hour next morning Captain d'Haumont was in Nice. He waited to see Giselle at the corner of the Rue d'Angleterre and the Rue Bardin, pacing up and down outside a fashionable hairdressing and massage establishment. The sound of his footsteps coming and going put the porter in a general flutter.
Didier knew that Giselle had to be at the shop at nine o'clock and passed that way; and as he had no wish, in view of the incident of the evening before, for Mlle. Violette to know anything about the step he was taking, he waited for her in the street. To call at her own place at that hour would have been difficult to explain. At the same time he hoped that, impelled by some necessity of house-keeping, Giselle would make a very early appearance in the quarter.
As the minutes went by his impatience became painful to see. The porter at the establishment felt sorry for him; and he stopped some of the customers as they came in to point to the man on the pavement.
"Someone has made an appointment and failed to turn up!"
At a quarter to nine a lady who was in the habit of visiting the shop every day for her "high frequency" treatment, with the object, apparently, of renewing her youth in so far as it was possible, alighted from her car, and at the moment when she was about to enter the vestibule stopped with a face like stone.
Her eyes had fallen upon Captain d'Haumont running up to Giselle and entering into an animated talk with her.
"Well, Madame d'Erlande, the girl has turned up, and not a moment too soon," said the porter. "Just fancy, the poor man has been cooling his heels on the pavement for more than an hour."
"You don't mean to say so!"
"I assure you that he was here at half-past seven. He must be gone on her."
Madame d'Erlande was incensed.
"The wretch," she exclaimed. "And I treated the whole thing as a joke. Poor Françoise!"
Meantime Captain d'Haumont had received certain details regarding the man who was pursuing Giselle which were to some extent reassuring. Giselle was greatly astonished to meet the Captain on her way to the shop, and as soon as she learned what had brought him, she straightway assumed that a somewhat violent scene had occurred between the two men the evening before and that the Captain intended to follow it up with a challenge to a duel.
Taking alarm at the prospect, she implored him to overlook the incident, but he expressed himself in such strong language in order to obtain from her the real truth, that in the end she told him the little that she knew about the stranger; that is to say, that he was a friend of one of Mlle. Violette's customers; that the first time she saw him was in Paris where, it seemed, he was well known in artistic and society circles; that he offered to get her on the stage, explaining that he had considerable influence in the theater; and that his name was de Saynthine.
When he left Giselle, d'Haumont said to himself: "I lost my head. I've been dreaming."
An hour later—after thinking things over—nothing remained of what he called his fancy of the evening before, but he made up his mind to escape from the scene and surroundings which prevented him from enjoying as he might, in the soft light of his honeymoon, the last precious hours of his sick leave; and he would take Françoise for a little trip in which he hoped he might encounter neither the form of Nina Noha nor the shade of the Parisian.
He attributed the confusion into which, for the time being, he was thrown to the reappearance of the dancer on his horizon. From that moment his dearest wish was to leave the place in which she was to be met. Obsessed by this thought he turned his steps towards the building at which, during the war, safe-conducts and passports were issued. Thus he passed through a part of the old town, taking a short cut. In that quarter the streets are narrow and winding. He found himself stopping outside a low-storied shop containing secondhand clothes and cheap carpets, the signboard of which bore the name "Monsieur Toulouse."
How was it that his attention was attracted by this signboard? Why did he remember the name? Later on when he asked himself these questions, he was unable to offer any explanation, except that in the subconscious depths within him, some mysterious faculty knew that the signboard would be mixed up in his life.
A hand-cart laden with vegetables was being moved, thus clearing the street. When the cart was dragged away, a sort of human specter was revealed to view, which shot past the walls and entered a dark passage adjoining Monsieur Toulouse's shop. Didier leaned for support against the wall. He had recognized the Burglar!
He summoned up sufficient strength of mind to slip away from the place. His entire being cried aloud: Fly . . . escape with Françoise to the uttermost comers of the earth!
His face was ghastly white when he entered the room in which passes were made out. He was almost sure that the Burglar had not caught sight of him. He waited a moment in order to recover his breath and the use of his voice.
When he went up to the main table at which were seated the clerics whose duty it was to answer inquiries from the public, he saw a man standing before him, holding a number of papers in his hand—a man wearing a long, flowing overcoat who stared him steadily in the face. Didier felt giddy. His mind was giving way.
He never knew how he managed to get outside, or how he found the strength to throw himself into a taxi and to give his address. He had recognized the Joker!
When Didier was in his own home again he saw that Françoise was in a state of great uneasiness.
"Why did you leave the house so early without letting me know?"
"You were asleep and I didn't want to disturb you."
"How pale you are! You are still suffering. You are concealing something from me, Didier. You have received bad news."
"No, dearest, I assure you——"
The servant came into the room with a letter addressed to him. He took it from her, and went and shut himself in the study, stating that he must get rid of his correspondence which was in arrears. Obviously he wanted to be alone. Françoise realized it, and was greatly distressed.
As soon as he was in the study, he placed his head in his hands and endeavored to think. His mind was a blank. The shock had been too much for him. He was stunned by it.
He stared at the letter on the table before him without opening it. It bore the Nice postmark. Suddenly he caught hold of it and feverishly, with shaking hands, tore it open. It was not until he had made several attempts that he could read it:
My Dear Captain,
I am of opinion that it is absolutely necessary for us to have an interview. You need not be uneasy, for I do not bear you any ill-will on account of our recent meeting. As soon as you recognized me you did the proper thing. I might have entered into conversation with you there and then, but a discussion in the street, even at ten o'clock at night, is never very safe, and it is desirable that what we have to say to you should, as far as possible, be said among ourselves. My friends are here. I do not hide from you that they also will be delighted to see you again. It is at the shop of one of them, Monsieur Toulouse, secondhand clothes dealer, at the corner of the Rue Basse, in the old town, that I make an appointment with you for five o'clock to-day. We shall wait for you until six o'clock, and if you do not put in an appearance, we shall be entitled to presume that our letter has gone astray, and we shall write to Madame d'Haumont, taking the necessary precautions to insure, this time, that our letter reaches its destination.
The letter was signed "The Parisian."
Strange to say the letter came as a relief to Didier. He would meet the danger face to face. He would know exactly what to fear and what to hope; whether he was to live and for how long.
He gave no thought of the danger to which he might be exposed by keeping the appointment. Either his enemies and himself would "come to an understanding," or they would murder him, and in any event they would be rendering him a service.
When he had mapped out his plan of campaign, he felt sufficiently himself for the time being to deceive Françoise by word and manner and look.
He went to her and told her that he felt much better: he had been suffering since the previous night from an attack of malarial fever which he thought he had long since shaken off. He first caught it during one of his visits, many years before, to a marshy district in the tropics. His words in no way allayed his wife's misgivings.
In the afternoon she stole through the passage to the room which Didier used as a study. It possessed a glazed door, the curtain of which was not properly drawn. And she saw Didier with his eyes fixed on an envelope which she recognized, by the seal on it, as one which she had seen in his hands on the night before his duel with Count de Gorbio. His head was slightly turned towards her, and there was a look of infinite sadness on his face such as she had never seen before.
It was not for his own fate that the unhappy man was moved to pity, but for her fate—the fate which he had brought on her in a moment of lover's cowardice. He called himself a villain and held himself in horror. He would have to die. He would have to rescue her from the shame of her marriage with him. Yes, he would keep the appointment.
At that moment he raised his head, and he seemed to hear a mysterious voice which said in a low whisper: "Don't go!"
The window which looked out on to the grounds was open. He thought he saw a dark form holding on to the window. He half rose to his feet, his heart beating like the clapper of a bell.
"Chéri-Bibi!"
Was it a dream? He found the strength to stand up; and he moved closer to the window with arms outstretched to the dark form. And he heard once more:
"Don't go!" And the dark form leaped into the room.
Françoise, hidden behind the curtain, watched, affrighted, the incomprehensible spectacle of that hideous human monstrosity, the sight of which alone would have made little children fly in terror, clasped in her husband's arms.
What was the meaning of that embrace? By what unfathomable mystery did Didier, her husband, her hero, hold to his heart this formidable brute who came to visit him by the path peculiar to robbers and murderers?
A last flicker of light caused the bandit's face to loom into sight so dramatically that Françoise opened her mouth to cry aloud in horror, but her very horror stifled the cry, and she fell her length on the floor.
She did not lose consciousness. In the next room a muffled whisper bore witness that the conversation was continuing between the two friends. But she could not hear what was said. In her ears rang a buzzing sound, which seemed to be a messenger of madness.
She managed to drag herself to her room and to stretch herself on the bed.
Chéri-Bibi, in the study, cut short Didier's desire for an explanation of how he came to be there. It was not a question of explaining his presence, but of knowing what the Nut was going to do in view of the danger which threatened him. Here the bandit found himself up against a rock.
Nothing that he could say to dissuade the Nut from keeping the appointment which the Parisian had made in so barefaced a manner altered his resolution. He would not swerve from his opinion that he must try a policy of conciliation, and the prospect which was guilelessly opened up to him by Chéri-Bibi, who proposed to get rid at the earliest moment—that very evening if necessary—of the miscreants who were threatening him, was not one likely to make him change his mind. Notwithstanding his ten years in a penal settlement, it was difficult for him to treat seriously an idea, put forward so definitely, for the suppression of these human obstacles. Thus he was not content to implore his old comrade from the inferno to refrain from any intervention in the formidable business, he put it to him as a peremptory command.
At the outset he had welcomed the almost natural appearance of Chéri-Bibi as an unexpected help which Providence had vouchsafed him in the hour of adversity, but after a few minutes' talk the artlessness of his friend's project struck him with dismay, and led him almost to regret that, in circumstances in which all might yet perhaps be saved by the display of tact and resource, he should meet again a protector of such savage zeal that human life seemed to mean little or nothing to him.
Seeing him in such a pitiful frame of mind, Chéri-Bibi expressed his shame of what he called his lack of pluck, and, somewhat vexed, no longer concealed from him that he had already taken it upon himself to remove the commonest of his enemies from his path.
"Whom do you mean?" asked Didier in a voice strained with anxiety.
"The Caid. The man whose dead body was found at Mont Boron. It made quite a stir. I did it," returned Chéri-Bibi frankly.
Didier shuddered, refusing, however, to believe his own ears.
"But my wife and I were at Mont Boron that evening, and not far from the very spot."
"Exactly. His presence prevented you from kissing each other."
"And you killed him!"
"Don't take on like that. You had nothing to do with it. It was his own fault. Pull yourself together. He had no right to creep over the parapet. He was already mangled and disfigured, I assure you, when I finished him off to prevent him from molesting you."
"It's awful!"
"Not a bit of it. There's no need to exaggerate. And then, you know, he wasn't there for any good purpose."
"Oh, Chéri-Bibi! . . . Chéri-Bibi, your friendship is a fearful thing."
"Is it really! . . . Yes, my friendship is a fearful thing, but not for you, I hope. You will never know all that I have done to make your life a success, and for your happiness."
"Yes, I do know. I owe everything to you."
"I won't deny it. That's why, since I am responsible for your happiness, I won't allow anyone to lay hands upon it."
Then, in language which bore witness to a certain acquaintance with the polite world, the convict spoke to him with an almost lyrical sensibility of the wedding ceremony, at which he had been present, at a distance so as not to be recognized, but sufficiently near to keep an eye on those miscreants and thwart their schemes.
When Didier learned from Chéri-Bibi that he had again escaped from prison on the heels of the Parisian and his gang, and hastened after them to Europe solely to keep them under observation and prevent them from meeting him; when he learned that Chéri-Bibi had brought with him Yoyo transformed into a dental-surgeon; when he was told of the part played by M. Hilaire, to whom he already owed a great deal, in mounting guard during many days over him and his honeymoon; and when he learned that the fisherman who one evening took him and his wife for a row in his boat was no other than Chéri-Bibi—Chéri-Bibi, his guardian angel, his tutelary saint, who was always on the alert, now acting secretly and now crushing everything before him—Didier was at a loss to express his surprise and gratitude as well as his consternation at the evidence of so many dangers from which he had escaped at a time when he believed that they had been dispelled for ever.
He clasped the bandit's hand in his own trembling hand, and his emotion arose as much from a feeling of gratitude as from the discovery that when he believed that his bark had put off for Cythera he had been sailing over the abyss.
"You would never have known anything about all this if those swine had given me another couple of days," ended Chéri-Bibi with a profound sigh.
Captain d'Haumont grasped the significance of those words. He quivered all over. A nice conversation! And such a meeting!
To have on the one hand Françoise, who lived but for his love, and on the other Chéri-Bibi, who had escaped from the devil!
But the latter had not come to receive the Nut's thanks and speeches. The moment that he was certain that he would never manage to convince him, he quickly disappeared. He departed as he came, by the window, over the roofs, and through the great, heavy, sweeping clouds in which his huge form seemed to swell.
That afternoon M. Hilaire was driving a large motor-car with the hood up, and few persons would have thought that he was not the owner of the splendid equipage. Obviously there was nothing about him to suggest the servant.
For that matter, M. Hilaire never looked like a servant, even in the days when he was employed as one by a certain Marquis, who treated him more as a confidential friend than as a secretary or valet.
M. Hilaire, on this particular day, had dressed himself with special care as a man of fashion. A check suit, with gaiters, a gray felt hat, and a blue butterfly bow with white spots, gave him an air of renewed youth as well as a very gentlemanly appearance. He was even wearing a flower in his buttonhole.
When he reached the railway station he pulled up and leaped from the car with a delightfully easy bearing. He gave a tip which enabled him to wait for the train from Paris on the platform from which the common herd was excluded.
The train from Paris was late as usual. M. Hilaire lit a cigar, and walked up and down with his hands behind his back. Whom was he waiting for? We may be certain that if he had been expecting Virginie he would not have put himself to so much expense in the matter of dress.
Notwithstanding that his visit, which he hoped would have been a peaceful one, had been attended by unforeseen complications, Hilaire had made up his mind to spend a few pleasant hours while he was on the Riviera. The time has come, perhaps, to show him in a light which is not an entirely favorable one. It is certain that Hilaire, who had been brought up in an austere school in so far as morals were concerned, and nurtured from his earliest childhood on the maxims of Chéri-Bibi, who not only hated a dissolute life but also any failure in respect to women—it is certain that M. Hilaire would have been incapable of committing, in this particular, an equivocal action; and Mademoiselle Zoé's ingenuousness was in little danger from him. For long he had treated her as a mischievous chit, which indeed she was. He did not stand on ceremony when he wanted to pass through her attic on his way over the roofs to some nocturnal frolic of his own, which was detrimental to no one, except perhaps Virginie; but for some time the saucy young gypsy had greatly amused him. She amused him all the more as Virginie wearied him all the more. Madame Hilaire abused the right which a wife possesses to make herself disagreeable, and if M. Hilaire found some amount of pleasure in the fantastic ideas and the humorous sallies of Mademoiselle Zoé, the fault lay to a great extent in Virginie and her bad temper. So much so, that M. Hilaire's heart, which was breaking away more and more every day from Virginie, was drawing nearer and nearer every day to Zoé, and he made no attempt to prevent it. So much so, that it was not Virginie whom he was expecting from Paris, but Mademoiselle Zoé herself. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, they both arrived by the same train!
At first he saw but one of them, for the very good reason that they did not travel together; and more particularly because Mademoiselle Zoé had boldly treated herself to a first class ticket, and was unaware that her dear mistress was behind her in a second class carriage.
While Hilaire had decked himself out for the occasion, Mademoiselle Zoé had not allowed herself to be outdone by him. She was sporting a pink frock, with hat to match, both of which achieved some success before she arrived at Nice.
Though she threw herself into M. Hilaire's arms the moment she saw him, it was not from over-forwardness nor lack of guilelessness, but because her heart was brimming over with thankfulness to him for having found her a situation as second lady's maid to the celebrated dancer, Nina Noha, and in such a beautiful neighborhood. It is needless to say that she had given Virginie "the chuck" with a glad heart.
All this was vouched for by hugs and kisses which made M. Hilaire and several passengers laugh, for they could not tear themselves away from the contemplation of the youthful traveler and her pink frock and hat.
It was at that splendid moment of triumph that a lady of opulent corsage loomed into sight from no one knew where and, waving her arms as though she were demented, set to work to break her umbrella alternately over the back of Zoé and the back of Hilaire.
Hilaire did not wait to hear more. He saw at a glance whence the blows came, and took himself off with an alacrity which passengers, who were jostling each other as they left the station, considered devoid of manners. He did not stop, however, until he was outside the station, where, under cover of his car, he could await events. As a measure of precaution he set the engine going.
To his amazement he did not have to wait long. Mademoiselle Zoé appeared, surrounded by a delighted mob. She held in her hand a few shreds of her hat, from which the feathers had departed, and her nose was bleeding.
Hilaire did not at first show his face, but when she passed close to him, searching on either side, obviously endeavoring to find him, and when he had made sure that Virginie was still in the station, he stepped forward quickly, flung her, rather than seated her, in the car, leaped to his seat, and drove off in a great style amid the shouts and cheering of an enthusiastic public.
They had not gone far outside the town when he turned round to ask Zoé, through the lowered window, what she had done with his wife.
"I gave her a pretty good dressing down," returned the charming Zoé. "We were both of us hauled off to the chief inspector's office. They took down our names and addresses. As my papers were in order they let me go, but as Madame had no papers at all they put her in the train which was starting for Paris."
"How was it that she had no papers?"
"Because I pinched them before I left. Look, here they are!" exclaimed softly the artful creature, opening her wrist-bag.
M. Hilaire betrayed such inordinate satisfaction and steered the car so wildly, that Mademoiselle Zoé implored him not to afford Madame Hilaire yet awhile the joy of becoming a widow. Thereupon M. Hilaire suggested that Zoé should come and sit on the seat beside him, a proposal which she straightway accepted.
"Madame certainly had an idea that I was leaving," said Zoé.
"Don't let's speak about her," returned M. Hilaire. "Let's hope that she'll have a pleasant journey. Don't let's bother about her."
M. Hilaire still bore the mark of Madame Hilaire's umbrella on his left cheek, and this injury, though it was ever so slight, did not incline him to pity her troubles overmuch.
"You can be easy now, my dear Zoé. You will enter the service of important people. The celebrated Dr. Ross is going to take you to the not less celebrated Nina Noha, who will know how to protect you better than I do, worse luck, from Madame Hilaire's unreasonable ways; and if, by chance, she takes it into her head to return to this part, where she is not wanted, those people will find means of getting rid of her for us."
Having uttered these reassuring words, M. Hilaire and Mademoiselle Zoé had nothing more to do but to admire the landscape. It was very beautiful. They were driving along the sea front on the road from Cannes.
The air was soft, though great clouds were beginning to rise in the sky, driven by the west wind, which usually portended some degree of atmospheric disturbance for the approaching night. But Hilaire and Zoé were intent only upon the passing hour. Hilaire's heaven at that moment was in his heart, so that the other heavens, with their gathering clouds, scarcely interested him. With Zoé at his side he forgot everything, even the order which his master, M. de Saynthine, had given him to be at the corner of the Rue Basse, in the old town, at five o'clock punctually with the car, with the hood up and the iron shutters.
An order like that was, of course, at once brought to the knowledge of M. Casimir, and M. Casimir himself gave M. Hilaire to understand that he must on no account fail to keep the appointment. M. Casimir, in fact, added: "It's quite likely that I myself shall want a car. It's very good of M. de Saynthine to lend me his!"
But these instructions, which at first aroused the Dodger's interest, were, at that moment, no more than an unsubstantial trifle in a lover's brain!
M. Hilaire's cheeks flushed under the look, at, once mischievous and grateful, which the handsome Zoé threw at him. He was conscious that she pressed closer to him, and his steering became slightly erratic.
"How well you drive, Monsieur Hilaire," she said. "You must teach me; will you?"
"Why, of course; whenever you like—the car doesn't belong to me!"
"How funny you are. Monsieur Hilaire. One never gets bored with you. Will you have a plum?"
"Do you mean to say you've brought some preserved fruit with you?"
"I filled my bag with them. Here, do you recognize your own plums? The real, the identical fruit as sold at Hilaire's up-to-date grocery stores. The old and the new world united!"
Mlle. Zoé opened her small valise and M. Hilaire saw that it contained several paper bags, bearing his name and address, full of preserved fruit. It was a delicate attention and softened M. Hilaire's heart beyond measure, so that his eyes grew moist, and he could not refrain from saying to his pretty companion:
"Look here, my dear Zoé, I must give you a kiss."
And they kissed each other as they devoured the fruit. At that juncture they heard a great clatter on their right. It was the train to Paris, steaming towards Marseilles, for at this spot the permanent way runs for several miles along the sea front.
But the train as it plunged forward made less noise than a certain lady of our acquaintance who was standing at the door of one of the carriages and began literally to bellow. The fury of her invective rose above the song of the wheels, and the frenzy of her gestures scared the man guarding the line.
"Virginie. . . . It's Virginie!"
"Madame. . . . It's Madame!"