"_The Llangorren estates to be sold by public auction, with all the
appurtenances, mansion, park, ornamental grounds, home and out farms,
manorial rights, presentation to church living, etc, etc_."
"_Tres bien_! Have you put down the date? It should be soon."
"You're right, _cherie_. Should, and must be. So soon, I fear we won't
realise three-fourths of the value. But there's no help for it, with
the ugly thing threatening--hanging over our necks like a very sword of
Damocles."
"You mean the tongue of _le braconnier_?"
She has reason to dread it.
"No I don't; not in the slightest. There's a sickle too near his own--
in the hands of the reaper, Death."
"He's dying, then?"
She speaks with an earnestness in which there is no feeling of
compassion, but the very reverse.
"He is," the other answers, in like unpitying tone; "I've just come from
his bedside."
"From the cold he caught that night, I suppose?"
"Yes; that's partly the cause. But," he adds, with a diabolical grin,
"more the medicine he has taken for it."
"What mean you, Gregoire?"
"Only that Monsieur Dick has been delirious, and I saw danger in it. He
was talking too wildly."
"You've done something to keep him quiet?"
"I have."
"What?"
"Given him a sleeping draught."
"But he'll wake up again; and then--"
"Then I'll administer another dose of the anodyne."
"What sort of anodyne?"
"A _hypodermic_."
"Hypodermic! I've never heard of the thing; not even the name!"
"A wonderful cure it is--for noisy tongues!"
"You excite one's curiosity. Tell me something of its nature?"
"Oh, it's very simple; exceedingly so. Only a drop of liquid introduced
into the blood; not in the common roundabout way, by pouring down the
throat, but direct injection into the veins. The process in itself is
easy enough, as every medical practitioner knows. The skill consists in
the _kind_ of liquid to be injected. That's one of the occult sciences
I learnt in Italy, land of Lucrezia and Tophana; where such branches of
knowledge still flourish. Elsewhere it's not much known, and perhaps
it's well it isn't; or there might be more widowers, with a still larger
proportion of widows."
"Poison!" she exclaims involuntarily, adding, in a timid whisper, "Was
it, Gregoire?"
"Poison!" he echoes, protestingly. "That's too plain a word, and the
idea it conveys too vulgar, for such a delicate scientific operation as
that I've performed. Possibly, in Monsieur Coracle's case the effect
will be somewhat similar; but not the after symptoms. If I haven't made
miscalculation as to quantity, ere three days are over it will send him
to his eternal sleep; and I'll defy all the medical experts in England
to detect traces of poison in him. So don't enquire further, _cherie_.
Be satisfied to know the hypodermic will do you a service. And," he
adds, with sardonic smile, "grateful if it be never given to yourself."
She starts, recoiling in horror. Not at the repulsive confessions she
has listened to, but more through personal fear. Though herself steeped
in crime, he beside her seems its very incarnation! She has long known
him morally capable of anything, and now fancies he may have the power
of the famed basilisk to strike her dead with a glance of his eyes!
"Bah!" he exclaims, observing her trepidation, but pretending to
construe it otherwise. "Why all this emotion about such a _miserable_?
He'll have no widow to lament him--inconsolable like yourself. Ha! ha!
Besides, for our safety--both of us--his death is as much needed as was
the other. After killing the bird that threatened to devour our crops,
it would be blind buffoonery to keep the scarecrow standing. I only
wish, there were nothing but he between us, and complete security."
"But is there still?" she asks, her alarm taking a new turn, as she
observes a slight shade of apprehension pass over his face.
"Certainly there is."
"What?"
"That little convent matter."
"_Mon Dieu_! I supposed it arranged beyond the possibility of danger."
"Probability is the word you mean. In this sweet world there's nothing
sure except money--that, too, in hard cash coin. Even at the best we'll
have to sacrifice a large slice of the estate to satisfy the greed of
those who have assisted us--_Messieurs les Jesuites_. If I could only,
as by some magician's wand, convert these clods of Herefordshire into a
portable shape, I'd cheat them yet; as I've done already, in making them
believe me one of their most ardent _doctrinaires_. Then, _chere amie_,
we could at once move from Llangorren Court to a palace by some Lake of
Como, glassing softest skies, with whispering myrtles, and all the other
fal-lals, by which Monsieur Bulwer's sham prince humbugged the Lyonese
shopkeeper's daughter. Ha! ha! ha!"
"But why can't it be done?"
"Ah! There the word _impossible_, if you like. What! Convert a landed
estate of several thousand acres into cash, _presto-instanter_, as
though one were but selling a flock of sheep! The thing can't be
accomplished anywhere; least of all in this slow-moving Angleterre,
where men look at their money twice--twenty times--before parting with
it. Even a mortgage couldn't be managed for weeks--may be months--
without losing quite the moiety of value. But a _bona fide_ sale, for
which we must wait, and with that cloud hanging over us! Oh! it's
damnable. The thing's been a blunder from beginning to end; all through
the squeamishness of Monsieur, _votre mari_. Had he agreed to what I
first proposed, and done with Mademoiselle, what should have been done,
he might himself still--The simpleton, sot--soft heart, and softer head!
Well; it's of no use reviling him now. He paid the forfeit for being a
fool. And 'twill do no good our giving way to apprehensions, that after
all may turn out shadows, however dark. In the end everything may go
right, and we can make our midnight flitting in a quiet, comfortable
way. But what a flutter there'll be among my flock at the Rugg's Ferry
Chapel, when they wake up some fine morning, and rub their eyes--only to
see that their good shepherd has forsaken them! A comical scene, of
which I'd like being a spectator. Ha! ha! ha!"
She joins him in the laugh, for the sally is irresistible. And while
they are still ha-ha-ing, a touch at the door tells of a servant seeking
admittance.
It is the butler who presents himself, salver in hand, on which rests a
chrome-coloured envelope--at a glance seen to be a telegraphic despatch.
It bears the address "Rev. Gregoire Rogier, Rugg's Ferry,
Herefordshire," and when opened the telegram is seen to have been sent
from Folkestone. Its wording is:--
"_The bird has escaped from its cage. Prenez garde_!"
Well for the pseudo-priest, and his _chere amie_, that before they read
it, the butler had left the room. For though figurative the form of
expression, and cabalistic the words, both man and woman seem instantly
to comprehend them. And with such comprehension, as almost to drive
them distracted! He is silent, as if struck dumb, his face showing
blanched and bloodless; while she utters a shriek, half terrified, half
in frenzied anger!
It is the last loud cry, or word, to which she gives utterance at
Llangorren. And no longer there speaks the priest loudly, or
authoritatively. The after hours of that night are spent by both of
them, not as the owners of the house, but burglars in the act of
breaking it!
Up till the hour of dawn, the two might be seen silently flitting from
room to room--attended only by Clarisse, who carries the candle--
ransacking drawers and secretaires, selecting articles of _bijouterie_
and _vertu_, of little weight but large value, and packing them in
trunks and travelling bags. All of which, under the grey light of
morning are taken to the nearest railway station in one of the Court
carriages--a large drag-barouche--inside which ride Rogier and Madame
Murdock _veuve_; her _femme de chambre_ having a seat beside the
coachman, who has been told they are starting on a continental tour.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so were they; but it was a tour from which they never returned.
Instead, it was extended to a greater distance than they themselves
designed, and in a direction neither dreamt of. Since their career,
after a years interval, ended in _deportation_ to Cayenne, for some
crime committed by them in the South of France. So said the _Semaphore_
of Marseilles.
Volume Three, Chapter XXV.