THE VILLA
It seemed to be my duty to tell Rosa, of course with all possible
circumspection, that, despite a general impression to the contrary,
Lord Clarenceux was still alive. His lordship's reasons for effacing
himself, and so completely deceiving his friends and the world, I
naturally could not divine; but I knew that such things had happened
before, and also I gathered that he was a man who would hesitate at no
caprice, however extravagant, once it had suggested itself to him as
expedient for the satisfaction of his singular nature.
A light broke in upon me: Alresca must have been aware that Lord
Clarenceux was alive. That must have been part of Alresca's secret,
but only part. I felt somehow that I was on the verge of some tragical
discovery which might vitally affect not only my own existence, but
that of others.
I saw Rosa on the morning after my interview with Yvette. She was in
perfect health and moderately good spirits, and she invited me to dine
with her that evening. "I will tell her after dinner," I said to
myself. The project of telling her seemed more difficult as it
approached. She said that she had arranged by telephone for another
rehearsal at the Opéra Comique at three o'clock, but she did not
invite me to accompany her. I spent the afternoon at the Sorbonne,
where I had some acquaintances, and after calling at my hotel, the
little Hôtel de Portugal in the Rue Croix des Petits Champs, to dress,
I drove in a fiacre to the Rue de Rivoli. I had carefully considered
how best in conversation I might lead Rosa to the subject of Lord
Clarenceux, and had arranged a little plan. Decidedly I did not
anticipate the interview with unmixed pleasure; but, as I have said, I
felt bound to inform her that her former lover's death was a fiction.
My suit might be doomed thereby to failure,--I had no right to expect
otherwise,--but if it should succeed and I had kept silence on this
point, I should have played the part of a--well, of a man "of three
letters."
"Mademoiselle is not at home," said the servant.
"Not at home! But I am dining with her, my friend."
"Mademoiselle has been called away suddenly, and she has left a note
for monsieur. Will monsieur give himself the trouble to come into the
salon?"
The note ran thus:
"Dear Friend:--A thousand excuses! But the enclosed will
explain. I felt that I must go--and go instantly. She might
die before I arrived. Will you call early to-morrow?
"Your grateful
"Rosa"
And this was the enclosure, written in French:
"VILLA DES HORTENSIAS,
"RUE THIERS, PANTIN, PARIS.
"Mademoiselle:--I am dying. I have wronged you deeply, and I
dare not die without your forgiveness. Prove to me that you
have a great heart by coming to my bedside and telling me
that you accept my repentance. The bearer will conduct you.
"Carlotta Deschamps."
"What time did mademoiselle leave?" I inquired.
"Less than a quarter of an hour ago," was the reply.
"Who brought the note to her?"
"A man, monsieur. Mademoiselle accompanied him in a cab."
With a velocity which must have startled the grave and leisurely
servant, I precipitated myself out of the house and back into the
fiacre, which happily had not gone away. I told the cabman to drive to
my hotel at his best speed.
To me Deschamps' letter was in the highest degree suspicious. Rosa, of
course, with the simplicity of a heart incapable of any baseness, had
accepted it in perfect faith. But I remembered the words of Yvette,
uttered in all solemnity: "She is dangerous; you must take care."
Further, I observed that the handwriting of this strange and dramatic
missive was remarkably firm and regular for a dying woman, and that
the composition showed a certain calculated effectiveness. I feared a
lure. Instinctively I knew Deschamps to be one of those women who,
driven by the goad of passionate feeling, will proceed to any length,
content to postpone reflection till afterwards--when the irremediable
has happened.
By chance I was slightly acquainted with the remote and sinister
suburb where lay the Villa des Hortensias. I knew that at night it
possessed a peculiar reputation, and my surmise was that Rosa had been
decoyed thither with some evil intent.
Arrived at my hotel, I unearthed my revolver and put it in my pocket.
Nothing might occur; on the other hand, everything might occur, and it
was only prudent to be prepared. Dwelling on this thought, I also took
the little jewelled dagger which Rosa had given to Sir Cyril Smart at
the historic reception of my Cousin Sullivan's.
In the hall of the hotel I looked at the plan of Paris. Certainly
Pantin seemed to be a very long way off. The route to it from the
centre of the city--that is to say, the Place de l'Opéra--followed the
Rue Lafayette, which is the longest straight thoroughfare in Paris,
and then the Rue d'Allemagne, which is a continuation, in the same
direct line, of the Rue Lafayette. The suburb lay without the
fortifications. The Rue Thiers--every Parisian suburb has its Rue
Thiers--was about half a mile past the barrier, on the right.
I asked the aged woman who fulfils the functions of hall-porter at the
Hôtel de Portugal whether a cab would take me to Pantin.
"Pantin," she repeated, as she might have said "Timbuctoo." And she
called the proprietor. The proprietor also said "Pantin" as he might
have said "Timbuctoo," and advised me to take the steam-tram which
starts from behind the Opéra, to let that carry me as far as it would,
and then, arrived in those distant regions, either to find a cab or to
walk the remainder of the distance.
So, armed, I issued forth, and drove to the tram, and placed myself on
the top of the tram. And the tram, after much tooting of horns, set
out.
Through kilometre after kilometre of gaslit clattering monotony that
immense and deafening conveyance took me. There were cafés everywhere,
thickly strewn on both sides of the way--at first large and lofty and
richly decorated, with vast glazed façades, and manned by waiters in
black and white, then gradually growing smaller and less busy. The
black and white waiters gave place to men in blouses, and men in
blouses gave place to women and girls--short, fat women and girls who
gossiped among themselves and to customers. Once we passed a café
quite deserted save for the waiter and the waitress, who sat, head on
arms, side by side, over a table asleep.
Then the tram stopped finally, having covered about three miles. There
was no sign of a cab. I proceeded on foot. The shops got smaller and
dingier; they were filled, apparently, by the families of the
proprietors. At length I crossed over a canal--the dreadful quarter of
La Villette--and here the street widened out to an immense width, and
it was silent and forlorn under the gas-lamps. I hurried under railway
bridges, and I saw in the distance great shunting-yards looking grim
in their blue hazes of electric light. Then came the city barrier and
the octroi, and still the street stretched in front of me, darker now,
more mischievous, more obscure. I was in Pantin.
At last I descried the white and blue sign of the Rue Thiers. I stood
alone in the shadow of high, forbidding houses. All seemed strange and
fearsome. Certainly this might still be called Paris, but it was not
the Paris known to Englishmen; it was the Paris of Zola, and Zola in a
Balzacian mood.
I turned into the Rue Thiers, and at once the high, forbidding houses
ceased, and small detached villas--such as are to be found in
thousands round the shabby skirts of Paris--took their place. The
Villa des Hortensias, clearly labelled, was nearly at the far end of
the funereal street. It was rather larger than its fellows, and
comprised three stories, with a small garden in front and a vast
grille with a big bell, such as Parisians love when they have passed
the confines of the city, and have dispensed with the security of a
concierge. The grille was ajar. I entered the garden, having made sure
that the bell would not sound. The façade of the house showed no light
whatever. A double stone stairway of four steps led to the front door.
I went up the steps, and was about to knock, when the idea flashed
across my mind: "Suppose that Deschamps is really dying, how am I to
explain my presence here? I am not the guardian of Rosa, and she may
resent being tracked across Paris by a young man with no claim to
watch her actions."
Nevertheless, in an expedition of this nature one must accept risks,
and therefore I knocked gently. There was no reply to the summons, and
I was cogitating upon my next move when, happening to press against
the door with my hand, I discovered that it was not latched. Without
weighing consequences, I quietly opened it, and with infinite caution
stepped into the hall, and pushed the door to. I did not latch it,
lest I might need to make a sudden exit--unfamiliar knobs and springs
are apt to be troublesome when one is in a hurry.
I was now fairly in the house, but the darkness was blacker than the
pit, and I did not care to strike a match. I felt my way along by the
wall till I came to a door on the left; it was locked. A little
further was another door, also locked. I listened intently, for I
fancied I could hear a faint murmur of voices, but I was not sure.
Then I startled myself by stepping on nothing--I was at the head of a
flight of stone steps; down below I could distinguish an almost
imperceptible glimmer of light.
"I'm in for it. Here goes!" I reflected, and I crept down the steps
one by one, and in due course reached the bottom. To the left was a
doorway, through which came the glimmer of light. Passing through the
doorway, I came into a room with a stone floor. The light, which was
no stronger than the very earliest intimation of a winter's dawn,
seemed to issue in a most unusual way from the far corner of this
apartment near the ceiling. I directed my course towards it, and in
the transit made violent contact with some metallic object, which
proved to be an upright iron shaft, perhaps three inches in diameter,
running from floor to ceiling.
"Surely," I thought, "this is the queerest room I was ever in."
Circumnavigating the pillar, I reached the desired corner, and stood
under the feeble source of light. I could see now that in this corner
the ceiling was higher than elsewhere, and that the light shone dimly
from a perpendicular pane of glass which joined the two levels of the
ceiling. I also saw that there was a ledge about two feet from the
floor, upon which a man would stand in order to look through the
pane.
I climbed on to the ledge, and I looked. To my astonishment, I had a
full view of a large apartment, my head being even with the floor of
that apartment. Lying on a couch was a woman--the woman who had
accosted me on Dover Pier--Carlotta Deschamps, in fact. By her side,
facing her in a chair, was Rosetta Rosa. I could hear nothing, but by
the movement of their lips I knew that these two were talking. Rosa's
face was full of pity; as for Deschamps, her coarse features were
inscrutable. She had a certain pallor, but it was impossible to judge
whether she was ill or well.
I had scarcely begun to observe the two women when I caught the sound
of footsteps on the stone stair. The footsteps approached; they
entered the room where I was. I made no sound. Without any hesitation
the footsteps arrived at my corner, and a pair of hands touched my
legs. Then I knew it was time to act. Jumping down from the ledge, I
clasped the intruder by the head, and we rolled over together,
struggling. But he was a short man, apparently stiff in the limbs, and
in ten seconds or thereabouts I had him flat on his back, and my hand
at his throat.
"Don't move," I advised him.
In that faint light I could not see him, so I struck a match, and held
it over the man's face. We gazed at each other, breathing heavily.
"Good God!" the man exclaimed.
It was Sir Cyril Smart.