[In which we hear of Henry Gastonard at the Pavilion Henry Quatre in
the town of St. Germain by Paris.]
Pavilion Henry Quatre, St Germain, By Paris,
November 5th, 1905.
Dear Paddy,--I have very great news for you, and I hardly know how to
tell it. This must be the excuse for my silence these many days. Oh,
my dear old chap, if you knew what it all meant to me! But I will try
to tell you soberly, though God knows how much my impatience tempts me
to heroics.
You have been to St. Germain in my motor, and will not have forgotten
it. Don’t you remember that great forest plateau above the river; how
the old car groaned to climb the height, and what a lovely view we had
from the very terrace before the windows?
That was in the “witching month of summer.” I remember that we set out
after a dinner at Bernotti’s, which you thought execrable, and a
supper, _chez Maxim_, which won upon your fancy. We were a _partie
carrée_ in the car, and you were not a little alarmed lest news of
the escapade, and of two young and amiable ladies from the Chatelet
should ever reach the secluded shades of Glendalough.
Those, my dear Paddy, were the roses of yesteryear. We gathered them
upon the velvet sward of youth, the vine leaves in our hair, and the
garlands of eternal hope about our brows. You, I remember, were all
for a fortune your uncle was about to leave you, and a chateau at
Bougival--I for a gold medal at the salon and a niche in the eternal
temple. Let us draw the veil upon such a treacherous jade. Did not old
John O’Connell leave every shilling to the priests--bad cess to him,
and is not the very bust I then worked upon become a corner-stone in
the house of my abasement?
I am once again at St. Germain, Paddy, and the changed season of the
year speaks eloquently for me. What a rare day of autumn, what a
chill, bleak night, with a voice to whisper of winter! Here is the
very same terrace, magnificent as of yore--that terrace upon a
glorious height wherefrom you look down to the valley of the shining
river, away across the desolate plain of poplars, whereupon humanity
plays its Lilliputian _rôle_ upon a mighty field, and beyond which
Paris herself is but a blur upon a far horizon. But it is a silent
terrace, Paddy, and the “monde” has deserted it. No gay music of
fiddles now; no majesty of womanhood; no rustling silks and floating
chiffon, and “Monsieur” to glance to the right of him and to the left
of him ere sitting at the table of his guilt. Even the “teuf teuf” is
silent, and the very stables cry desolation to you. The sun gave and
the sun has taken away; and for want of that little sunbeam the
chiffoned elves are hidden, and the world of laughter has fled the
woods.
But I hear you resenting this philosophy and asking for the news. Let
an excuse of prolixity be that of the day and of the hour. It is
Sunday, and but two parties at this famous house. I linger here
because the events of these latter days forbid me to tear myself away.
Would you have it otherwise as the circumstances go? Was it not on
Friday that Jules Farman came to me, whispered a word in my ear that
quickened my pulse as wine, and even hinted that the end was near? A
more reticent man does not exist--there is no greater pessimist in all
the service. And _he_ came to me and told me--_he_ permitted me to
hope--_he_ encouraged me to believe the best. Do you wonder that I
behaved like a fool for three good hours, and did not cease so to
behave until he threatened to leave me behind and to do the work--if
work were to be done--himself?
There are some private affairs, Paddy, which are better for the wisdom
of an old friend’s tongue--and this is one of them. I was in a poor
way when Farman came to me and had begun to say that the Marquis de
Saint Faur would never reveal what he knew of the Count d’Antoine’s
visit to London. More than that, I imagined that the purpose of the
visit could throw no light upon its dreadful sequel. Here was a French
gentleman, of the older fashion, who told me plainly that he kept a
secret from me, but begged me to believe that his reticence was both
wise and honourable. And I must believe him; I must carry the
assurance that he knew, and that his knowledge must be hidden from me.
A torture truly--for what burden is so heavy to a man in doubt as the
silence of another who could speak? I perceived that the Marquis would
never speak; and, driven to the belief that my little wife had not
left England at all, was upon the point of keeping my promise to you
when Farman came with his amazing story, and all the castles of
despair were demolished in an instant.
This was at five o’clock of the afternoon of Friday. There had been a
day of wonderful sunshine for the month of November, and many people
in the streets. I lunched with that pleasant fellow, the Chevalier
Honoré de Villefort, at the Madrid, and went with him afterwards to
the house of the famous painter, Delmormet, who has a studio for
portraits in the Avenue de Malakoff. A promise to Villefort that we
would go up to the Butte together to dine, and then make a tour of the
old cafés, was not fulfilled, for I had no sooner come in sight of
the Hôtel St. Paul than I remarked a large motor-car standing at the
door, and leaped to the conclusion that it had come for me. In this I
was not mistaken. Jules Farman himself waited in my room, and
instantly informed me of the truth.
“Madame Gastonard is at Bougival--in an old house near the river,” he
said.
I looked at him, but did not answer. The room and all things in it
were spinning before me as a gyroscope. The temptation to laugh was
almost uncontrollable.
“What do you say, Farman?”
“That Madame Gastonard is at Bougival, and that we must go there
immediately.”
I walked across to the buffet and filled a wineglass with brandy. It
was odd to hear my own heart beating, odd to be lifted in an instant,
as it were, upon the wings of light to a very heaven of gratitude and
thanksgiving--and yet my prudence saved me. Doubt whispered loudly in
my ear. I could laugh for excitement and yet curse the fate which made
me doubt. Even Jules Farman was powerless against that native caution
which has saved me so many days.
“Why do you believe this, Farman?”
“Monsieur,” he said very simply, “the man Jean-le-Mont has told us
something.”
“He has told you something--yes--but what? Speak, man, for God’s sake!
Is your heart of marble that you play with me like this?”
He seemed astonished. He is officialdom personified. What are men and
women to him but names to be docketed, identities to be established,
the persons of the drama which can move him to no excitements.
“It is a long story,” he said next, “and we have little time. If you
are ready, we will go to Bougival.”
I did not answer him immediately. The voice of prudence cried to me to
make haste. Good God, that I should delay, I who would have gone
through fire and water for Mimi’s sake! And he reproached me, this
smooth-faced servant of bureaucracy who had done his work so well.
“I am ready, Farman--let us go,” I said--for he delayed now.
He pointed to my thin overcoat.
“Not without our furs, monsieur; the night will be cold.”
The rebuke was just, and I perceived that he was heavily clad, though
in other respects the same reticent, unobtrusive creature we have
always known. When all was ready, he gave a direction to the driver to
go to Asnières--a suburb to the northwest of Paris--and taking his
seat beside me in the tonneau, we made the journey without a single
word spoken between us.
And what could I say to him? What treasure of my inmost thoughts
should I lay bare at such an hour? My love? Impossible to speak of
that. My gratitude? He was well aware of it. The doubts lingering, the
spectres of incredulity? They sat by his side too, for his very
reservations betrayed him. Enough for me to say, Mimi is at Bougival;
I am going to her; I shall find her to-night; to-morrow she will awake
upon my heart. Were we not flying towards her?--streets and boulevards
devoured us with an appetite of distance insatiable; houses and shops,
cafés and restaurants--so many stars of light to guide us; intervals
of blackness; bridges above and rivers below; trains crashing upon
iron girders; trams humming toward the city--all the panorama of the
flight as though shown upon a cloth. And afterwards the open country.
Streets emaciated; factories at intervals; red blasts of light against
a black sky; the fresher air of fields and parks; and beyond all, one
clear star upon an imagined horizon--the star of our faith and
purpose.
I have never been more grateful to a motor-car in my life, and may
never be as grateful again. Here was a machine of steel whose soul
sent out a sympathetic message to my own. “I know, know, know,” the
voice of it seemed to say. A horse bending to the whip could not have
answered more readily to the fevered cries of a despairing master. We
covered the ground as upon some magic carpet stretched out at my
desire. When the flight ended, when the voice from the heart of steel
was no longer heard, I noticed that we stood before a little café in
the narrow street of an inconsiderable town. And I was as one awakened
from a nightmare of sleep. Was she here; was this the house? The omens
said, no. I glanced at the café and perceived two old friends
standing at its doorway. They were the mendicant Georges Oleander and
the merry Chevalier Honoré de Villefort--whom I had but just left in
Paris.
“We are here to dine with the Chevalier,” Farman whispered to me as we
descended; “please to remember that. We are returning at eleven
o’clock. I wish no other suggestion to be made. It is very important.”
I nodded my head to him, and we entered the house together. A zeal,
burning to a point almost beyond endurance, bade me welcome this
respite, as a man may welcome an inn upon a journey to the house of
his pleasures. The café, I observed, was one frequented by the
students; a shabby little place, with a damp, stained frieze of faded
gilt to speak of ancient glories. The occupants of it were a dozen
students, poets, painters, and the riff-raff of the schools. Dinner
had been set for us in a mock _cabinet particulier_--but a sorry
imitation of the genuine article. Here, anon, we were joined by
Desmond Barrymore, and immediately he had entered, the _patron_
himself served up the first course of a dinner whose menu might have
been in Chinese, for all I remember of it.
Imagine my feelings, Paddy, as I sat at this rude table with the old
friends who have fought so many battles--and cracked so many
bottles--of Bohemia in my company. Not many months ago, Barrymore and
I were fighting for little Mimi’s very life in the Lapin Agil on the
Butte. I left Paris, and he came across the sea to witness my
marriage. Again a few weeks roll on, and he is here as a silent
witness of my despair. The others, good fellows that they were, could
but act a mean part on such a night. Ah, for the old times when no man
cared a sou for the morrow, and sufficient for the day was the evening
thereof. This thought tempted me sometimes. We may well dread a gift
of happiness, for shall there not be an aftermath of sorrow, whatever
our fortune?
It was not hidden from me that Jules Farman had called upon these good
comrades of mine to share his confidence. They were excited, but not
eloquent. Recalling old days of the games, I found them in that mood
which overtakes a man when he is about to run or row a race, and
believes that he will win it. They talked at rare intervals, drank
much wine, evaded my questions, and rarely looked me in the face.
When dinner was over, we went into the outer room and joined the
Bohemians there. This I understood to be part of the stratagem, and I
made no comment upon it; and, for that matter, the scene was droll
enough. The artist--especially the French artist--in Suburbia is a
wild creature, as you know well; nor were these men exceptions. We
discovered them in all attitudes, some sprawling at the tables, some
billing and cooing in far secluded corners. The man at the piano had a
girl upon his knees, and cuddled her while he played. The shadowgraph
which they acted presently would have brought the police into any
establishment in London. But here it seemed innocent enough. After
all, the spirit of the play goes for much.
Depict a far from clean sheet drawn across one end of this mean room,
and a shadow-play cast upon it. There is a sick man shown, and he is
_in extremis_. Appear a doctor, who pulls out the fellow’s tongue with
a pair of pliers, and rams it in again with a motor tyre lever.
Medicine is administered to the moribund creature as a horse is
drenched with drugs. The relatives gather round the bed, and begin to
divide up the man’s property between them. But they are reckoning
without their host. The wonderful drug acts upon the sick man with
amazing and miraculous results. He sits up in bed, waves the throng
off, spurns his wife aside, leaps from his couch, and embraces the
pretty nurse ecstatically. This is the whole cure; and those who were
the spectators have now become the imitators, inspired by the _mens
sana_. The artists embrace all the pretty girls near them. Somebody
puts out the electric light, and in the darkness we hear squeals and
giggles. Thus genius amuses itself--thus, the story of the youth of
to-day, whom Fame will acclaim at maturity to-morrow.
Just as a man upon his way to a _rendezvous_, where the opportunity of
a lifetime awaits him, may be amused by the _gamins_ of the pavement,
so did this absurdity of the café engross me. It was something to
lean back in my chair and to tell myself that I was a prisoner there
for Mimi’s sake. Later on, when the appointed hour came, I would go to
her and tell her how I had waited. And prudence said that Jules Farman
delayed because our very success depended on his cleverness.
Strangers at the café--would not that rumour be bruited abroad
quickly enough. I imagined also that he waited for some man to come or
go, was watching patiently as we sat, and numbering the very minutes
as the old wooden clock above the doorway numbered them. Nor in this
was I mistaken. At eleven o’clock precisely he rose, and we followed
him from the place without a word. The great car stood already at the
door; we entered it, and were whirled away as it might seem toward
Paris, but in reality toward St. Germain and the chateau of Bougival
below the heights.
Now, this was not a long journey, but to my impatience nigh
intolerable. I knew nothing of the road we followed; the night was so
black that the sharpest eyes could make little either of the route or
its environment. I can only tell you that we perceived the lights of
St. Germain at last, and had no sooner set our course toward them than
we turned from the high road and entered upon a narrow track which was
little better than a waggon-way. This we followed, perhaps for the
half of a mile, then the River Seine came to our view, and at the same
moment the car stopped, and I knew that this was our destination.
There is no moon before midnight this month, and we had fallen upon a
black, dark night. My busy eyes could follow the silver shimmer upon
the still water of the river, but little else of the scene about. It
is true that a glint of light at the far side of a meadow seemed to
tell of a house there, though of what nature I could not hazard.
Farman himself carried many anxieties, and he entered the wood at the
roadside, and remained there some minutes alone before we had his
confidence. When he returned, he gathered us about him, and began to
speak in a low voice.
“Madame Gastonard,” he said, “has been in that house for three days.
She was taken there by a man named Bedotte and the old woman Marie
from Orleans. I have reason to believe that both of them are in the
house to-night. The others were the man Jean-le-Mont and the showman
Gondré. The former is now in our pay, and the latter has been
arrested at Asnières to-night. We shall find the man Bedotte
dangerous, but I do not think he will trouble us very much. If there
should be others with him, whose names I do not know, I may have to
ask you gentlemen to give me some help. Be pleased to take these--and
to use them if I bid you.”
He went to the car, and produced three revolvers from it. Old Georges
Oleander’s protest that he was more likely to shoot one of us than any
other caused a smile even at such a time. But we gave him a heavy
knobbed stick in place of the pistol, and so set out in single file
across a marshy meadow toward the house. My own place was upon
Farman’s heels, and I would have given much for another word with him.
But he walked fast and resolutely, and did not stop until a hound
began to bay and another to answer from a house upon the further side
of the river. Then he stopped and listened.
“I had not thought of a dog,” he said quietly; “we must remember him,
gentlemen.”
The Chevalier assented with a jest, Georges Oleander, I thought, a
little dolefully. As for me, I did not lift my eyes from the lamp
which shone across the fields as an omen of salvation. Mimi was there,
harboured in that mean house. Men so vile that no man could name them
truly were her jailors, and she stood alone among them. Incredible!
and this was Farman’s story--the word of a man who had never lied to
me. Oh, think of it all, Paddy, and try to follow my footsteps toward
the house. Be patient if the record is not to be set down without
emotion.
I had supposed that we should approach the place covertly and a
tip-toe. Such, however, was not to the mind of this amazing Jules
Farman. He crossed the meadow as bold as any pedestrian out for the
air on the Champs Elysées, and with less concern. As the villa took
shape against the curtain of the sky, I made it out to be little more
than a modern cottage set in a narrow garden which sloped toward the
river. There was no other house in sight, nor any outstanding object
to relieve the sense of isolation and security. But the river at the
back was plainly in our favour, and I judged that the common at the
front could conceal no sentinel. So perhaps I began to understand why
Farman went so resolutely, and did not halt until we were but fifty
paces from the door.
“Monsieur Gastonard,” he said quietly, “you will please to use force
should the occasion arise. I am hoping that it will not arise, and
that our visit to the café will have been useful to us. If you
please, gentlemen.”
He waited for them to go on, smiling, I thought, for a brief instant
at old Oleander’s hesitation. When they had opened the garden
gate--whereby they paused a little while--the hound ceased to bay, and
as hounds will, at a resolute approach, began to fawn upon them. They
were lost to our view, and with no further delay, Farman walked toward
the villa and knocked three times upon its door.
It would be impossible, Paddy, to tell you of my own sensations during
these instants of waiting. Depict me standing in the miserable patch
of formal garden, at the door of a paltry red brick villa, listening,
as I have never listened in all my life, trembling, I do believe, in
the very excitement of my hope. More than once the temptation to cry
out almost overpowered me. I must tell her that I had come--must let
Mimi know that I waited for her. I could have beaten down twenty doors
in my rage against delay, smashed the glass of the window to atoms,
and razed the very building to the ground. Upon the other side was
this imperturbable Farman, as quiet, as cat-like as ever, listening
with bent ear, betraying no emotion; seemingly convinced already of
his success. And I must obey him faithfully, wait as he waited, crush
my impatience in hands of iron. Oh, I say, it was intolerable, and yet
it was the truth!
No one answered to our bold knock; the silence became almost
insupportable. A minute we waited, two minutes, and still there was no
sound but that of our own quick breathing. As for the lamp which
burned so brightly, we could see it plainly, standing upon the table
of the front room and the single ornament of that bare apartment. For
the rest, there was no carpet on the floor, no ornament, no
picture--but just the room itself and the bare wooden table and the
lamp standing upon it. This we might have looked for, but not for the
mystery of the silence, the absolute stillness which met us--so that
one could have heard a watch ticking in the hand. Were the men warned,
then? Had they fled the place? My heart sank low at the thought--and
yet it was a thought that crept upon me.
I had spoken no word to Farman since we entered the garden of the
house, but this new turn was not to be borne, and I could suffer it no
longer. A hurried whisper asked him what he made of it--and, a little
to my surprise, he answered me aloud.
“They are asleep,” he said quietly; “we must wake them”--and he
knocked so loudly that the hound began to bay again, and I could hear
the voice of Oleander cursing him. Plainly, we had no further need of
concealment.
“Who is asleep?” I asked a little brutally. “Did you not tell me that
Madame Gastonard was here?”
“I believed so,” he answered as quietly.
“You believed so--well?”
“I shall tell you presently.”
His answer told me that he, with all his discernment, could make
little of the situation. My own advice had been to force the window of
the room, and this he now proceeded to do--but first he lighted a
little lantern and laid his pistol on the sill. A disingenuous catch
gave way at the first attempt, and we climbed through immediately, and
went straight toward the inner door. Here for an instant Farman stood
irresolute.
“There may be some danger,” he said--and then he asked me--“are you
quite prepared?”
I whispered that I was, and he flung the door wide open, searching the
hall beyond with the faint rays from a policeman’s lantern. There were
signs of habitation here such as we might have expected--a felt hat
upon a cane-seated chair, a basket such as women take to market, a
stick so heavy that it was almost a bludgeon, an old mackintosh
hanging upon a nail driven into the wall. The floor was uncarpeted and
showed mud from clumsy boots--at the far end the door of the kitchen
stood open, and a flicker of firelight from the grate still flashed
upon its plastered walls. Thither now we went cautiously. But the
place was tenantless--though a kettle still sang upon the hob and some
dishes stood unwashed upon the table.
I often think, Paddy, that nothing is so sure a test of a man’s nerves
as a house of unknown perils, which we must search room by room. I am
afraid of little in this world. It is no mere boast--for these things
are purely physical--but I possess some presence of mind beyond
ordinary, and a contempt for many of the situations of danger which
tradition has glorified. And yet I swear to you, the sweat ran down my
face like rain while I stood by Farman’s side in that shabby kitchen
and asked him, what next?
No longer did I believe that Mimi was here--and yet I was forbidden to
say that she was not here. The evidence of recent occupation, the
shreds of coarse food, the empty bottles lying pell-mell in the
scullery, a woman’s tattered bonnet flung to a corner, a little jug of
milk set apart with a few dry biscuits--these were the witnesses to
Farman’s good faith and witnesses no logic could shake.
As he had spoken, so the truth--that my dear wife had been the captive
of these ruffians in this very house, that she might even be a captive
still or worse than a captive. For now I shall tell you that an
overmastering fear of the worst took possession of me and would not be
quieted. I cared nothing for the men or the danger of their presence.
Every step, long dragged out and heavy, was as a step toward a
dreadful secret. The upper stories of the house became in an instant
the chambers of the terrible truth. And above all was the torture of
the thought that we had come too late, and but for those useless hours
at St. Germain might have saved her. This latter brought me to the
nadir of despair. Even Farman took pity upon me.
“I begin to think that Madame is not here,” he said quietly. “Let us
go upstairs--we shall not be long in doubt.”
I looked him full in the face, and did not spare him the question.
“Is she alive, Farman?”
“Why should they kill her? The blackmailer never kills--he has not the
courage.”
I could but shrug my shoulders.
“Then their object has been blackmail?”
“It could be nothing else, Monsieur.”
I admitted his reasoning, but it did little to console me. If there
were peril of our proceeding this must be the moment of it. For we had
to climb the narrow stairway, ignorant of those who were above, and
powerless to shield ourselves from their attack.
How it came that I was up on the first floor before Jules Farman I am
not able to tell you. I remember only that I stood on a dark landing
listening to my own heavy breathing, and unable to distinguish other
sounds. What light there was came astreak through a narrow window high
above us. I could make out the shapes of doors, but they were shut and
meaningless. The floor was but a black patch until a warm ray of light
shone down upon it from my companion’s lantern and instantly declared
its secret.
An old woman lay there--a shrivelled, white-faced hag of a woman,
whose clothes were little more than a bundle of rags, whose hand still
clutched the heavy stick with which, perchance, she had been struck
down. And this Jezebel had gone to her account. The mask of death is
sometimes unmistakable. It was unmistakable on Friday night when I
came face to face with the old woman, Marie of Orleans, upon the
landing of the house at Bougival.
I say that it was a dreadful discovery, and yet, God knows, my
thoughts in the instant of it were less of this stricken huddled body
upon the floor than of the events which had preceded the murder. There
is always awe of death, Paddy, however humble the subject, however
callous the discoverer. And at the dark of the night in a lonely house
with mystery whispering all about, the awe is manifold. Here we were,
stooping to put our hands upon the dead woman’s heart, listening as we
did so for any sounds from the secret rooms, and yet, perchance
thinking of our own safety all the while. Who had been the instruments
of our vengeance upon this mumbling hag? Must we unearth them
presently, strike them down as they had struck her, spend the precious
hours in such a butcher’s task?
For my part, I thought that any instant might bring the ruffians upon
us. It was a trial intolerable to watch the closed doors and wait for
them to open. Why did the men delay? And Mimi--my God, why was she
silent? Then a better instinct began to say that she was not here, and
this gave me courage. Let me know the fact for a truth, and I cared
not how many villains were harboured here.
We opened the doors one by one, Farman carrying his lantern. I had a
revolver at the cock. But I shall tell you at once that we discovered
nothing. There were beds in two of the rooms, and a third had a paltry
_ameublement_ which spoke of a gentler occupation. But in the main the
house remained the same hard and chilling villa that we had imagined
it to be--and I vow that there was something beyond all words
melancholy in that secret which lay at the heart of it. An empty,
barren house and a dead woman’s body upon the stairs. So much for
Bougival--so much for all our plotting and our planning and our bold
emprise.
The men who had done this thing had been warned. They had fled the
neighbourhood, cheated us, and perchance the police. Even Farman
admitted as much when he called us together and deigned, for the first
time, to share a confidence.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I cannot blame myself. The man Bedotte was here
an hour ago--I knew that Madame Gastonard was here at sunset. You see
what has happened--there has been a quarrel, and this woman has been
killed. I would have come to Bougival sooner if it had been safe to
come--but I was afraid for Madame Gastonard while the showman Gondré
was here. We set a trap for him and he has been taken at Asnières
to-night. The other man, Bedotte, has not been sober for many days.
That is why I came to the house as I did; but, believe me, if what I
surmise be true, nothing has been lost by delay, and we shall have
good news of Madame to-morrow. I am now to leave the police to do
their own business here and to advise Monsieur Lepine of ours. We may
return immediately to Paris, for our work is done.”
And so, Paddy, we left this melancholy house and returned to the car.
I can still see the villa, the lamp shining from the lonely room, and
the river bathed in moonlight--for the moon was up by this time and
all the scene made glorious. It was something, at least, to know that
my beloved wife had escaped that mean temple of death, perchance had
known nothing of its secrets. None the less, I clung to the
neighbourhood as to some place which should minister to my sentiment,
and, determining to stay the night at St. Germain, returned thither
with my companions. They, be sure, were not the men to decline such
hospitality, and they sat up with me until dawn, offering a thousand
explanations of Farman’s conduct, and justifying it in no way.
What was this man keeping back from us? Why did he, who had served me
so faithfully many a day, serve me so ill to-night? Recollect that I
had but the shabbiest of facts from him. He had told me merely that my
wife had been abducted from her house by those who had known her as
Mimi La Godiche at Montmartre, and who believed that they could profit
by the knowledge. And upon this a talk of blackmail--yet not a word
that would enlighten me, no names, no histories--nothing but the
intimation. This we said again and again as we sat in my room at the
Pavilion Hotel and waited for the day. Circumstance had deluded us. We
could make nothing of it.
* * * * *
I had nothing from Farman yesterday, but to-day there came a little
note in which, evading other issues, he tells me that the man Bedotte
has been traced to Rheims, and is evidently making for Brussels; but
that the police are close upon his track, and an immediate arrest is
expected. “As for Madame,” he says, “the opinion is growing that she
escaped from the house and need no longer be sought among these
people.” But of this he will write me further at a later hour.
And so you see, Paddy, that I am tied to this hotel in as great a
state of doubt and perplexity, of hope and longing, as ever mortal
suffered. I know not what to decide, what to believe. Inconceivable,
indeed, that Mimi should not have gone straight to Paris, if this tale
of escape were true. A telegram assures me that nothing is known of
her, either at the Hôtel St. Paul or at Montmartre; and had you in
England any news, I doubt not it would have come to me before this.
What, then, am I to say? That she has not wished to return to me? God
forbid any such thought.
I will send you another letter in the morning, as soon as the event
permits. Should anything happen in London, let nothing delay a
telegram. Of the trivial affairs, there is a request here from the
editor of the “Daily Bulletin” that I will write a second letter for
him. It would serve no purpose, and I have said so. His desire to see
me privately dictates the wish that you shall be my ambassador. Quit
the game of golf and the perambulators and spend a quiet hour in
Fleet-street. The power of the press is a wonderful thing, I assure
you, but the journalist at lunch by no means terrifying. Ask the good
fellow to meet you at the Savoy, and I do not think the state of
parties will forbid.
How odd it seems to be writing like this. I feel it not at all. The
shadows crowd upon me. If I could but say, Let there be light!
Yours, dear Paddy,
Henry Gastonard.