AN URGENT MESSAGE
Captain d'Haumont went up to his room. His mind was in so great a state
of turmoil that he paid no heed to the servants who jostled him slightly
as they descended quickly the front door steps at which a motor-car had
stopped.
As he was closing his window he heard M. de la Boulays' voice greeting a
new arrival.
"How are you, my dear fellow?"
But even this did not hold his attention although the name that was
mentioned was that of one of the most celebrated political personages of
the war.
There was nothing, moreover, exceptional in the visit. M. de la Boulays'
country house stood near the crossways of the most important main roads
leading to the rear of the army, and persons of the highest distinction
often came to him and requested his hospitality.
Most of them were friends of the family, or at all events acquaintances.
M. de la Boulays had been in the diplomatic service for some time, and
he knew personally pretty well all the great figures in the Republic.
Captain d'Haumont neither heard nor saw, nor did he trouble himself
about anything but closing his window and packing his trunks.
As he was collecting together on the table the remaining articles which
belonged to him, he picked up a photograph of Mlle. de la Boulays in her
Red. Cross uniform, on which was written: "To Captain Didier d'Haumont,
with admiration for his bravery, from Françoise de la Boulays."
He gazed at it for a few moments with a look upon his face which would
have told the truth to the least sophisticated if by chance such a
person had been present. But the Captain had closed the door, for he
liked to be certain of being alone when his secret feelings threatened,
by their tyrannical craving for some outward expression, to betray him.
How many persons take their revenge in the privacy of their own room for
the restraints which they force upon themselves when they are among
their fellows! And the sight which the inquisitive might behold if they
entered the room in which offended pride, despised love, or any other
human passion was hiding itself from society, after affecting in
drawing-rooms the mask of indifference--such a sight would not be devoid
of the unexpected.
Offended pride would be seen tearing its hair and despised love cursing
a thousand curses. Captain d'Haumont would have been seen putting his
lips to the photograph of the beloved image, discarding it almost
immediately, and finally burning it in the flame of a candle.
He watched to the end with a feeling of pain the candle in which the
beloved portrait was consumed. It seemed actually to suffer the torture
which he inflicted on it, and in the gleam of the dying flame, in the
last ashes, the face of Mlle. de la Boulays seemed set with a look at
her inquisitor of unforgettable distress and reproach.
Strange to say--and it bore witness once more to the connection which
subsists between matter and spirit even when kept asunder by thick
walls, a connection to which the middle ages saw no limits, for they
practised "casting a spell" on their enemies--while Mlle. de la Boulays
suffered thus in her portrait she was suffering equally in her mind. And
it was at the very moment when, in her drawing-room, she was
acknowledging the congratulations of her friends on the news which it
suited Count de Gorbio to spread abroad, that she sank in a huddled heap
in a chair as if suddenly deprived of life. . . .
Captain d'Haumont was in his room strapping his luggage when a knock
came at the door. It was M. de la Boulays' valet, a man called Schwab,
who claimed to be of Alsatian descent and whom he had never liked though
he could not say why, for he never had any occasion to complain of him.
But when, as in the case of Didier d'Haumont, a man has a past full of
irregularities, and has been forced to keep company with all sorts of
people, his perceptions become particularly acute to detect the moral
weight of the more or less mysterious elements which surround him, so
that Captain d'Haumont was assailed by a vague foreboding with regard to
Schwab.
The man came up to tell him that M. de la Boulays would be glad to see
him in his study before his departure.
D'Haumont went with the servant, who showed him into a room which was
occupied by M. de la Boulays and the important person who had just
arrived. This gentleman had been appointed to conduct a secret
investigation into some startling incidents in enemy propaganda.
Captain d'Haumont was introduced to Monsieur G---- by M. de la Boulays.
"Monsieur G------- wants a reliable man for a special mission," he said.
"He came here from Paris in his car with a small staff, none of whom he
can spare. It's a matter of taking a letter to Paris to-night, and you
will be put on your honor for its safety. Monsieur G---- is anxious that
the commission should be carried out with great tact. Since you are
taking the train to Paris this evening I consider that Monsieur G----
cannot have a better 'messenger' than you."
"I am obliged to you, M. de la Boulays, for giving me the opportunity of
making myself useful," returned the Captain. "Where am I to deliver the
letter?"
"To the Hotel d'Or . . . at the corner of the Rue Saint Honoré and the
Rue Saint Roch."
"I shall reach Paris at two o'clock in the morning. Must I have the
person for whom it is intended disturbed then?"
"Yes, at once. You will send him this." And Monsieur G---- scribbled a
few words on his card, which he handed to d'Haumont.
"I suggested to Monsieur G---- that you should go to Paris by car, but
he prefers you to take the train as you had arranged," said M. de la
Boulays. "In point of fact, your journey to Paris must have no
connection with Monsieur G----'s stay at my house."
"I understand, gentlemen. I will now take leave of you as I've only just
about enough time to get to the station."
"Here's the letter," said Monsieur G----, holding out an envelope of
medium size which bore neither name or address. But he uttered a name
and said:
"Give it into his own hands."
Didier slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket, which he
buttoned closely over his chest.
He bowed to Monsieur G----, who shook him warmly by the hand, thanking
him in words which would have made any other man proud. But the Nut's
pride now lay only in his powers of endurance.
He set out without seeing Mlle. de la Boulays again. The station was
some distance from the Château, and he was driven to it in a car
attached to the Medical Service. The train was late and he had to wait
an hour. He stepped into an empty compartment, but at the last moment a
man opened the door and took a seat facing him. He was too obsessed by
his thoughts to pay the least attention to the intruder.
The Nut was satisfied with himself. The fierce heart of the convict
could beat with pride under the tunic of the soldier. Marvelous to say,
not until that hour when he had made up his mind to flee from the path
of happiness, had he dared to allow his thoughts to recur to the penal
settlement. It was the first time that his mind could clearly and
honestly and calmly revert to his past life.
Up to that day he had turned away with horror from the accursed past and
sought forgetfulness mainly in the excitement of his reckless bravery.
Suddenly, with the awakening of love, had come the strongest temptation
that could check a man in the path of regeneration. He could win this
beautiful girl and lead her to the altar, and all the world would
commend that union of beauty and courage. It was a splendid dream, was
that marriage, and for a moment he was dazzled by it. He closed his
eyes. When he opened them again he beheld under the halo which crowned
the woman he loved, strange letters and figures forming a word and a
number: "Cayenne, 3213."
And now he had said his last word. Yes, he had had the courage to go
away. He had had the further courage, compared with which the first was
easy, the supreme courage, to say to himself: "No woman can marry me."
It was a fine gesture. He might suffer beyond measure, but he could look
the convict settlement in the face without a blush. And that, at all
events, was something. . . .
It was something to be able to say to himself: "I come from prison, from
that vile, ignominious place. I have been an outcast from the world, an
accursed being without a name, save the name that lies in the mouths of
miscreants, and they called me 'lag,' 'lifer,' 'old offender.' . . .
They called me the Nut, and now I am called Didier d'Haumont, but
I . . . I call myself an honest man."
Such were the thoughts which were passing through his mind when the
train arrived in Paris.
He alighted from the carriage, carrying his bag, and hurried through the
yard leading into the street, towards the only taxi which stood on the
rank near the iron gates.
At this juncture he was joined by the traveler who had entered his
compartment and who, in the course of the journey, had vainly endeavored
to engage him in conversation.
"Captain, my car has been sent to the station for me. Will you allow me
to drive you home?"
Didier was on the point of accepting the offer, which seemed to come at
the right moment, but suddenly, without any other reason than that of
caution, which, in his case, kept him continually on the alert, he
declined. He did not know this man who wished to make himself so
agreeable. Didier's motto was to be suspicious of everybody and
everything.
After thanking him, he turned again to the taxi, but he was too late,
for it was already engaged and starting off. Fortunately two cabs stood
on the rank.
"Drive to the corner of the Rue Saint Roch and the Rue d'Argenteuil," he
said, not wishing to give the exact address to which he was proceeding.
The cab turned down the Boulevard de Strasbourg at a smart pace, went
along the principal boulevards, and after passing through the Avenue de
l'Opéra plunged into the smaller streets. In another five minutes the
Nut would be in sight of his goal.
Suddenly there was a terrible shock and Didier and the cab were
overturned. He might have been killed on the spot, but he picked himself
up without a scratch and could see at a glance what had happened. A
motor-car had collided so violently with the cab that the latter was
shattered to pieces, the horse was ripped open and lay dying, and the
driver, who was thrown into the gutter, gave no sign of life.
Half a dozen dark forms sprang from the car and surrounded the wrecked
cab. They closed upon Didier with a common impulse which left no doubt
as to their intentions. But he made a rush on one side, hurling one of
the dark figures to the ground, and darted off down a neighboring
passage. The man started to run after him.
Not the least dramatic part of the incident was the silence in which the
pursuit was effected. Didier at one moment thought that he had put the
villains off the scent, but he did not know exactly where he was. A
whistle rang out behind him and other dark forms appeared under a street
lamp, blocking his passage from the street.
He retraced his steps, but at this end, too, he caught sight of
suspicious figures. This time he could not escape and there would be a
fight for it. He was in no sense alarmed, though his "mission" and his
life were both in danger.
As he was casting about for a corner in which to await the assault of
his adversaries, his eyes encountered a sign and he read by the light of
the street lamp: "Rue Saint Roch;" and a little farther away, painted in
large letters on the iron shutters which closed the shop: "_Hilaire's
Up-to-date Grocery Stores. The Old and the New World United._" A clock at
that moment chimed three.