Town, and we walked on to the gate, went up the path, and knocked at the
door.
As soon as the servant opened it--she had the same brown bedgown on, the
same grey stockings, and wooden sabots--the Squire dexterously slipped
past her into the passage to make sure of a footing. She offered no
opposition: drew back, in fact, to make room.
"I must come in; I have business here," said he, almost as if in
apology.
"The Messieurs are free to enter," was her answer; "but they come to a
house empty."
"I want to speak to Madame Brown," returned the Squire, in a determined
tone.
"Madame Brown and the Mees Browns are depart," she said. "They depart at
daylight this morning, by the first convoi."
We were in the front parlour then: a small room, barely furnished. The
Squire flew into one of his tempers: he thought the servant was playing
with him. Old Brandon sat down against the wall, and nodded his head. He
saw how it was--they had really gone.
But the Squire stormed a little, and would not believe it. The girl,
catching one word in ten, for he talked very fast, wondered at his
anger.
The young gentlemans was at the place yesterday, she said, glancing at
me: it was a malheur but they had come up before the morning, if they
wanted so much to see Madame.
"She has not gone: I know better," roared the Squire. "Look here, young
woman--what's your name, though?"
"Mathilde," said she, standing quite at ease, her hands turned on her
hips and her elbows out.
"Well, then, I warn you that it's of no use your trying to deceive _me_.
I shall go into every room of this house till I find Madame Brown--and
if you attempt to stop me, I'll bring the police up here. Tell her that
in French, Johnny."
"I hear," said Mathilde, who had a very deliberate way of speaking. "I
comprehend. The Messieurs go into the rooms if they like, but I go with,
to see they not carry off any of the articles. This is the salon."
Waiting for no further permission, he was out of the salon like a shot.
Mr. Brandon stayed nodding against the wall; he had not the slightest
reverence for the Squire's diplomacy at any time. The girl slipped off
her sabots and put her feet into some green worsted slippers that stood
in the narrow passage. My belief was she thought we wanted to look over
the house with a view to taking it.
"It was small, but great enough for a salle à manger," she said, showing
the room behind--a little place that had literally nothing in it but an
oval dining-table, some matting, and six common chairs against the
walls. Upstairs were four bedrooms, bare also. As to the fear of our
carrying off any of the articles, we might have found a difficulty in
doing so. Except beds, chairs, drawers, and wash-hand-stands, there was
nothing to carry. Mrs. Brown and the Miss Browns were not there: and the
rooms were in as much order as if they had not been occupied for a
month. Mathilde had been at them all the morning. The Squire's face was
a picture when he went down: he began to realize the fact that he was
once more left in the lurch.
"It is much health up here, and the house fine," said the girl, leaving
her shoes in the passage side by side with the sabots, and walking into
the salon in her stockings, without ceremony; "and if the Messieurs
thought to let it, and would desire to have a good servant with it, I
would be happy to serve them, me. I sleep in the house, or at home, as
my patrons please; and I very good to make the kitchen; and I----"
"So you have not found them," interrupted old Brandon, sarcastically.
The Squire gave a groan. He was put out, and no mistake. Mathilde, in
answer to questions, readily told all she knew.
About six weeks ago, she thought it was--but no, it must be seven, now
she remembered--Madame Brown and the four Mees Browns took this house
of the propriétaire, one Monsieur Bourgeois, marchand d'épicerie, and
engaged her as servant, recommended to Madame by M. Bourgeois. Madame
and the young ladies had lived very quietly, giving but little trouble;
entrusted her to do all the commissions at the butcher's and elsewhere,
and never questioned her fidelity in the matter of the sous received in
change at market. The previous day when she got home with some pork and
sausages, which she was going after when the young gentlemans spoke to
her--nodding to me--Madame was all bouleversée; first because Mees
Constance had been down to the town, which Madame did not like her to
do; next because of a letter----
At this point the Squire interrupted. Did she mean to imply that the
ladies never went out?
No, never, continued Mathilde. Madame found herself not strong to walk
out, and it was not proper for the young demoiselles to go walk without
her--as the Messieurs would doubtless understand. But Mees Constance had
ennui with that, and three or four times she had walked out without
Madame's knowing. Yesterday, par exemple, Madame was storming at her
when she (Mathilde) came home with the meat, and the young ladies her
sisters stormed at her----
"There; enough of that," snapped the Squire. "What took them away?"
That was the letter, resumed the girl in her deliberate manner. It was
the other thing, that letter was, that had contributed to Madame's
bouleversement. The letter had been delivered by hand, she supposed,
while she was gone to the pork-shop; it told Madame the triste news of
the illness of a dear relative; and Madame had to leave at once, in
consequence. There was confusion. Madame and the young ladies packing,
and she (Mathilde), when her dinner had been cooked and eaten, running
quick for the propriétaire, who came back with her. Madame paid him up
to the end of the next week, when the month would be finished and--that
was all.
Old Brandon took up the word. "Mr. Brown?--He was not here at all, was
he?"
"Not at all," replied Mathilde. "Madame's fancy figured to her he might
be coming one of these soon days: if so, I refer him to M. Bourgeois."
"Refer him for what?"
"Nay, I not ask, monsieur. For the information, I conclude, of where
Madame go and why she go. Madame talk to the propriétaire with the salon
door shut."
So that was all we got. Mathilde readily gave M. Bourgeois's address,
and we went away. She had been civil through it all, and the Squire
slipped a franc into her hand. From the profusion of thanks he received
in return, it might have been a louis d'or.
Monsieur Bourgeois's shop was in the Upper Town, not far from the
convent of the Dames Ursulines. He said--speaking from behind his
counter while weighing out some coffee--that Madame Brown had entrusted
him with a sealed letter to Monsieur Brown in case he arrived. It
contained, Madame had remarked to him, only a line or two to explain
where they had gone, as he would naturally be disappointed at not
finding them; and she had confided the trust to him that he would only
deliver it into M. Brown's own hand. _He_ did not know where Madame had
gone. As M. Bourgeois did not speak a word of English, or the Squire a
word of French, it's hard to say when they would have arrived at an
explanation, left to themselves.
"Now look here," said Mr. Brandon, in his dry, but uncommonly
clear-sighted way, as we went home, "_Clement-Pell's expected here_.
We must keep a sharp watch on the boats."
The Squire did not see it. "As if he'd remain in England all this time,
Brandon!"
"We don't know where he has stayed. I have thought all along he was as
likely to be in England as elsewhere: there's no place a man's safer in,
well concealed. The very fact of his wife and daughters remaining in
this frontier town would be nearly enough to prove that he was still in
England."
"Then why on earth _did_ he stay there?" retorted the Squire. "Why has
he not got away before?"
"I don't know. Might fear there was danger perhaps in making the
attempt. He has lain perdu in some quiet corner; and now that he thinks
the matter has partly blown over and the scent is less keen, he means to
come over. That's what his wife has waited for."
The Squire seemed to grasp the whole at once. "I wonder when he will be
here?"
"Within a day or two, you may be sure, or not at all," said Mr. Brandon,
with a nod. "She'll write to stop his coming, if she knows where to
write to. The sight of Johnny Ludlow has startled her. You were a great
muff to let yourself be seen, young Johnny."
"Yes, sir, I know I was."
"Live and learn, live and learn," said he, bringing out his tin box.
"One cannot put old heads upon young shoulders."
* * * * *
Sunday morning. After breakfast I and Mr. Brandon were standing under
the porte-cochère, looking about us. At the banking house opposite;
at a man going into the chemist's shop with his hand tied up; at the
marchand-de-coco with his gay attire and jingling bells and noisy
tra-la-la-la: at anything, in short, there might be to see, and so while
away the half-hour before church-time. The Squire had gone strolling
out, saying he should be back in time for service. People were passing
down towards the port, little groups of them in twos and threes; apart
from the maid-servants in their white caps, who were coming back from
mass. One of the hotel waiters stood near us, his white napkin in his
hand. He suddenly remarked, with the easy affability of the French of
his class (which, so far as I know, and I have seen more of France since
then, never degenerates into disrespect), that some of these people
might be expecting friends by the excursion boat, and were going down to
see it come in.
"What excursion boat?" asked Mr. Brandon of the waiter, quicker than he
generally spoke.
"One from Ramsgate," the man replied. "It was to leave the other side
very early, so as to get to Boulogne by ten o'clock; and to depart again
at six in the afternoon." Mr. Brandon looked at the speaker; and then
at me. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he drew me towards the port;
charging the waiter to be sure and tell Mr. Todhetley when he returned,
that we had gone to see the Ramsgate boat come in. It was past ten then.
"_If Clement-Pell comes at all it will be by this excursion boat_,
Johnny," said he impressively, as we hurried on.
"Why do you think so, Mr. Brandon?"
"Well, I do think so. The people who make excursion trips are not those
likely to know him, or of whom he would be afraid. He will conceal
himself on it amongst the crowd. It is Sunday also--another reason. What
flag is that up on the signal-post by the pier house, Johnny? Your eyes
are younger than mine."
"It is the red one, sir"
"For a steamer in sight. She is not in yet then. It must be for _her_.
It's hardly likely there would be another one coming in this morning."
"There she is!" I exclaimed. For at that moment I caught sight in the
distance of a steamer riding on close up to the harbour mouth, pitching
a little in her course.
"Run you on, Johnny," said Mr. Brandon, in excitement. "I'll come as
quickly as I can, but my legs are not as fleet as yours. Get a place
close to the cords, and look out sharply."
It was a bright day, somewhat colder than it had been, and the wind
high enough to make it tolerably rough for any but good sailors--as
the sparkles of white foam on the blue sea betrayed. I secured a good
place behind the cord, close to the landing-stage: a regular crowd had
collected, early though it was, Sunday being an idle day with some of
the French. The boat came in, was being moored fast below us, and was
crowded with pale faces.
Up came the passengers, mounting the almost perpendicular gangway:
assisted by the boatmen, below; and by two appariteurs, in their cocked
hats and Sunday clothes, above. It was nearly low water: another
quarter-of-an-hour and they'd have missed their tide: pleasant, that
would have been, for the excursionists. As only one could ascend the
ladder at once, I had the opportunity of seeing them all.
Scores came: my sight was growing half-confused: and there had been
no one resembling Clement-Pell. Some of them looked fearfully ill
still, and had not put up the ears of their caps or turned down their
coat collars; so that to get a good view of these faces was not
possible--and Clement-Pell might have already landed, for all I could
be sure of to the contrary. Cloaks were common in those days, and
travelling caps had long ears to them.
It was quite a stroke of fortune. A lady with a little boy behind her
came up the ladder, and the man standing next to me--he was vary tall
and big--went at once into a state of excitement. "C'est toi! c'est toi,
ma soeur!" he called out. She turned at the voice, and a batch of
kissing ensued. A stout dame pushed forward frantically to share the
kissing: but a douanier angrily marched off the passenger towards the
custom-house. She retorted on him not to be so _difficile_, turned round
and said she must wait for her other little one. Altogether there was no
end of chatter and commotion. I was eclipsed and pushed back into the
shade.
The other child was appearing over the top of the ladder then; a mite
of a girl, her face held close to the face of the gentleman carrying
her. I supposed he was the husband. He wore a cloak, his cap was drawn
well over his eyebrows, and very little could be seen of him but his
hands and his nose. Was he the husband? The mother, thanking him
volubly in broken English for his politeness in carrying up her little
girl, would have taken her from him; but he motioned as if he would
carry her to the custom-house, and stepped onward, looking neither to
the left nor right. At that moment my tall neighbour and the stout
dame raised a loud greeting to the child, clapping their hands and
blowing kisses: the man put out his long arm and pulled at the sleeve
of the young one's pelisse. It caused the gentleman to halt and look
round. Enough to make him.
Why--where had I seen the eyes? They were close to mine, and seemed
quite familiar. Then remembrance flashed over me. They were
Clement-Pell's.
It is almost the only thing about a man or woman that cannot be
disguised--the expression of the eyes. Once you are familiar with any
one's eye, and have learned its expression by heart; the soul that looks
out of it; you cannot be mistaken in the eye, though you meet it in a
desert, and its owner be disguised as a cannibal.
But for the eyes, I should never have known him, got up, as he was,
with false red hair. He went straight on instantly, not suspecting
I was there, for the two had hidden me. The little child's face was
pressed close to Mr. Pell's as he went on; a feeling came over me that
he was carrying it, the better to conceal himself. As he went into the
custom-house, I pushed backwards out of the crowd; saw Mr. Brandon,
and whispered to him. He nodded quietly; as much as to say he thought
Pell would come.
"Johnny, we must follow him: but we must not let him see us on any
account. I dare say he is going all the way up to Mâquétra--or whatever
you call the place."
Making our way round to the door by which the passengers were let out,
we mixed with the mob and waited. The custom-house was not particular
with Sunday excursionists, and they came swarming out by dozens. When
Pell appeared, I jogged Mr. Brandon's elbow.
The touters, proclaiming the merits of their respective hotels, and
thrusting their cards in Pell's face, seemed to startle him, for he
shrank back. Comprehending the next moment, he said, No, no, passed on
to the carriages, and stepped into one that was closed. The driver was
a couple of minutes at least, taking his orders: perhaps there was
some bother, the one jabbering French, the other English. But the
coach drove off at last.
"Now then, Johnny, for that other closed coach. We shall have to do
without church this morning. Mind you make the coachman understand what
he is to do."
"Suivez cette voiture qui vient de partir; mais pas trop près." The man
gave back a hearty "Oui, monsieur," as if he understood the case.
It was a slow journey. The first coach did not hurry itself, and took
by-ways to its destination. It turned into the Rue de la Coupe, opposite
our hotel, went through the Rue de l'Hôpital, and thence to regions
unknown. All I knew was, we went up a hill worse than that of the Grande
Rue, and arrived circuitously at Mâquétra. Mr. Brandon had stretched his
head out as we passed the hotel, but could not see the Squire.
"It's his affair, you know, Johnny. Not mine."
Clement Pell got out at his gate, and went in. We followed cautiously,
and found the house-door on the latch, Mathilde having probably
forgotten to close it after admitting Mr. Pell. They stood in the salon:
Mathilde in a handsome light chintz gown and white stockings and shoes,
for she had been to nine-o'clock mass; he with a strangely perplexed,
blank expression on his face as he listened to her explanation.
"Yes, monsieur, it is sure they are depart; it is but the morning of
yesterday. The propriétaire, he have the letter for you that Madame
confide to him. He--Tiens, voici encore ces Messieurs!"
Surprise at our appearance must have caused her change of language.
Clement-Pell gave one look at us and turned his face to the window,
hoping to escape unrecognized. Mr. Brandon ordered me to the English
church in the Upper Town, saying I should not be very late for that, and
told Mathilde he did not want her.
"I shall make the little promenade and meet my bon-ami," observed
Mathilde, independently, as I proceeded to do as I was bid. And what
took place between the two we left can only be related at second hand.
"Now, Mr. Pell, will you spare me your attention?" began Mr. Brandon.
Clement-Pell turned, and took off his cloak and cap, seeing that it
would be worse than useless to attempt to keep up the farce. With the
red wig on his head and the red hair on his face, no unobservant man
would then have recognized him for the great ex-financier.
Mr. Brandon was cold, uncompromising, but civil; Clement-Pell at first
subdued and humble. Taking courage after a bit, he became slightly
restive, somewhat inclined to be insolent.
"It is a piece of assurance for you to come here at all, sir; tracking
me over my very threshold, as if you were a detective officer. What is
the meaning of it? I don't owe you money."
"I have told you the meaning," replied Mr. Brandon--feeling that his
voice had never been more squeaky, but showing no sign of wrath. "The
affair is not mine at all, but Squire Todhetley's, I was down on the
port when you landed--went to look for you, in fact; the Squire did not
happen to be in the way, so I followed you up in his place."
"With what object?"
"Why, dear me, Mr. Pell, you are not deaf. I mentioned the object; the
Squire wants his two hundred pounds refunded. A very clever trick, your
getting it from him!"
Clement-Pell drew in his lips; his face had no more colour in it than
chalk. He sat with his back to the wall, his hands restlessly playing
with his steel watch-chain. What had come of the thick gold one he used
to wear? Mr. Brandon had a chair near the table, and faced him.
"Perhaps you would like me to refund to you all my creditors' money
wholesale, as well as Mr. Todhetley's?" retorted Clement-Pell,
mockingly.
"I have nothing to do with them, Mr. Pell. Neither, I imagine, does Mr.
Todhetley intend to make their business his. Let each man mind his own
course, and stand or fall by it. If you choose to assure me you don't
owe a fraction to any one else in the world, I shall not tell you that
you do. I am speaking now for my friend, Squire Todhetley: I would a
great deal rather he were here to deal with you himself; but action has
accidentally been forced upon me."
"I know that I owe a good deal of money; or, rather, that a good many
people have lost money through me," returned Clement-Pell, after a
pause. "It's my misfortune; not my fault."
Mr. Brandon gave a dry cough. "As to its not being your fault, Mr. Pell,
the less said about that the better. It was in your power to pull up in
time, I conclude, when you first saw things were going wrong."
Clement-Pell lifted his hand to his forehead, as if he felt a pain
there. "You don't know; you don't know," he said irritably,--a great
deal of impatience in his tone.
"No, I'm thankful that I _don't_," said Mr. Brandon, taking out his tin
box, and coolly eating a lozenge. "I am very subject to heartburn, Mr.
Pell. If ever you get it try magnesia lozenges. An upset, such as this
affair of yours has been, would drive a man of my nerves into a lunatic
asylum."
"It may do the same by me before I have done with it," returned Clement
Pell. And Mr. Brandon thought he meant what he said.
"Any way, it is rumoured that some of those who are ruined will be there
before long, Mr. Pell. You might, perhaps, feel a qualm of conscience if
you saw the misery it has entailed."
"And do you think I don't feel it?" returned Mr. Pell, catching his
breath. "You are mistaken, if you suppose I do not."
"About Squire Todhetley's two hundred pounds, sir?" resumed old Brandon,
swallowing the last of the lozenge. "Is it convenient to you to give it
me?"
"No, it is not," was the decided answer. And he seemed to be turning
restive again.
"But I will _thank_ you to do so, Mr. Pell."
"I cannot do so."
"And not to make excuses over it. They will only waste time."
"I have not got the money; I cannot give it."
Upon that they set on again, hammer and tongs. Mr. Brandon insisting
upon the money; Pell vowing that he had it not, and could not and would
not give so much as a ten-pound note of it. Old Brandon never lost his
temper, never raised his voice, but he said a thing or two that must
have stung Pell's pride. At the end of twenty minutes, he was no nearer
the money than before. Pell's patience gave signs of wearing out: Mr.
Brandon could have gone quietly on till bed-time.
"You must be aware that this is not a simple debt, Mr. Pell. It is--in
fact--something worse. For your own sake, it may be well to refund it."
"Once more I say I cannot."
"Am I to understand that is as much as to say you will not?"
"If you like to take it so. It is most painful to me, Mr. Brandon, to
have to meet you in this spirit, but you force it on me. The case is
this: I am not able to refund the debt to Squire Todhetley, and he has
no power to enforce his claim to it."
"I don't know that."
"I do though. It is best to be plain, as we have come to this, Mr.
Brandon; and then perhaps you will bring the interview to an end, and
leave me in peace. You have no power over me in this country; none
whatever. Before you can obtain that, there are certain forms and
ceremonies to be gone through in a legal court; you must make over
the----"
"Squire Todhetley's is not a case of debt," interrupted old Brandon. "If
it were, he would have no right in honour to come here and seek payment
over the heads of the other creditors."
"It is a case of debt, and nothing else. As debt only could you touch
me upon it here--and not then until you have proved it and got judgment
upon it in England. Say, if you will, that I have committed murder
or forged bank-notes--you could not touch me here unless the French
government gave me up at the demand of the English government. Get all
the police in the town to this room if you will, Mr. Brandon, and they
would only laugh at you. They have no power over me. I have committed no
offence against this country."
"Look here," said old Brandon, nodding his head. "I know a bit about
French law; perhaps as much as you: knew it years ago. What you say is
true enough; an Englishman, whether debtor or criminal, in his own land,
cannot be touched here, unless certain forms and ceremonies, as you
express it, are first gone through. But you have rendered yourself
amenable to French law on another point, Clement-Pell; I could consign
you to the police this moment, if I chose, and they would have to take
you."
Clement-Pell quite laughed at what he thought the useless boast. But he
might have known old Brandon better. "What is my crime, sir?"
"You have come here and are staying here under a false name--Brown. That
is a crime in the eyes of the French law; and one that the police, if
they get to know of it, are obliged to take cognizance of."
"No!" exclaimed Clement-Pell, his face changing a little.
"_Yes_," said Mr. Brandon. "Were I to give you up for it to-day, they
would put you on board the first boat leaving for your own country. Once
on the opposite shore, you may judge whether Squire Todhetley would let
you escape again."
It was all true. Mr. Pell saw that it was so. His fingers nervously
trembled; his pale face wore a piteous aspect.