THE SHEATH OF THE DAGGER
That was one of those supremely trying moments which occur, I suppose,
once or twice in the lives of most men, when events demand to be fully
explained while time will on no account permit of the explanation. I
felt that I must know at once the reason and purpose of Sir Cyril's
presence with me in the underground chamber, and that I could do
nothing further until I had such knowledge. And yet I also felt that
explanations must inevitably wait until the scene enacting above us
was over. I stood for a second silent, irresolute. The match went out.
"Are you here to protect her?" whispered Sir Cyril.
"Yes, if she is in danger. I will tell you afterwards about things.
And you?"
"I was passing through Paris, and I heard that Deschamps was
threatening Rosa. Everyone is talking of it, and I heard of the
scene at the rehearsal, and I began to guess.... I know Deschamps
well. I was afraid for Rosa. Then this morning I met Yvette, Rosa's
maid--she's an old acquaintance of mine--and she told me everything. I
have many friends in Paris, and I learnt to-night that Deschamps had
sent for Rosa. So I have come up to interfere. They are up-stairs, are
they not? Let us watch."
"You know the house, then?"
"I have been here before, to one of Deschamps' celebrated suppers. She
showed me all over it then. It is one of the strangest houses round
about Paris--and that's saying something. The inside was rebuilt by a
Russian count who wanted to do the Louis Quinze revelry business over
again. He died, and Deschamps bought the place. She often stays here
quite alone."
I was putting all the questions. Sir Cyril seemed not to be very
curious concerning the origin of my presence.
"What is Rosa to you?" I queried with emphasis.
"What is she to you?" he returned quickly.
"To me she is everything," I said.
"And to me, my young friend!"
I could not, of course, see Sir Cyril's face, but the tone of his
reply impressed and silenced me. I was mystified--and yet I felt glad
that he was there. Both of us forgot to be surprised at the
peculiarity of the scene. It appeared quite natural that he should
have supervened so dramatically at precisely the correct moment, and I
asked him for no more information. He evidently did know the place,
for he crept immediately to the ledge, and looked into the room above.
I followed, and stood by his side. The two women were still talking.
"Can't we get into the room, or do something?" I murmured.
"Not yet. How do we know that Deschamps means harm? Let us wait. Have
you a weapon?"
Sir Cyril spoke as one in command, and I accepted the assumption of
authority.
"Yes," I said; "I've got a revolver, and a little dagger."
"Who knows what may happen? Give me one of them--give me the dagger,
if you like."
I passed it to him in the darkness. Astounding as it may seem, I am
prepared solemnly to assert that at that moment I had forgotten the
history of the dagger, and Sir Cyril's connection with it.
I was just going to ask of what use weapons could be, situated as we
were, when I saw Deschamps with a sudden movement jump up from her
bed, her eyes blazing. With an involuntary cry in my throat I hammered
the glass in front of us with the butt of my revolver, but it was at
least an inch thick, and did not even splinter. Sir Cyril sprang from
the ledge instantly. Meanwhile Rosa, the change of whose features
showed that she divined the shameful trick played upon her, stood up,
half-indignant, half-terrified. Deschamps was no more dying than I
was; her eyes burned with the lust of homicide, and with uplifted
twitching hands she advanced like a tiger, and Rosa retreated before
her to the middle of the room.
Then there was the click of a spring, and a square of the centre of
the floor, with Rosa standing upon it, swiftly descended into the room
where we were. The thing was as startling as a stage illusion; yes, a
thousand-fold more startling than any trick I ever saw. I may state
here, what I learnt afterwards, that the room above was originally a
dining-room, and the arrangement of the trap had been designed to
cause a table to disappear and reappear as tables were wont to do at
the notorious banquets of King Louis in the Petit Trianon. The glass
observatory enabled the kitchen attendants to watch the progress of
the meals. Sir Cyril knew of the contrivance, and, rushing to the
upright pillar, had worked it most opportunely.
The kitchen, as I may now call it, was illuminated with light from the
room above. I hastened to Rosa, who on seeing Sir Cyril and myself
gave a little cry, and fell forward fainting. She was a brave girl,
but one may have too many astonishments. I caught her, and laid her
gently on the floor. Meanwhile Deschamps (the dying Deschamps!) stood
on the edge of the upper floor, stamping and shouting in a high fever
of foiled revenge. She was mad. When I say that she was mad, I mean
that she was merely and simply insane. I could perceive it instantly,
and I foresaw that we should have trouble with her.
Without the slightest warning, she jumped down into the midst of us.
The distance was a good ten feet, but with a lunatic's luck she did
not hurt herself. She faced Sir Cyril, shaking in every limb with
passion, and he, calm, determined, unhurried, raised his dagger to
defend himself against this terrible lioness should the need arise.
But as he lifted the weapon his eye fell on it; he saw what it was; he
had not observed it before, since we had been in darkness. And as he
looked his composure seemed to desert him. He paled, and his hand
trembled and hung loosely. The mad woman, seizing her chance, snatched
the dagger from him, and like a flash of lightning drove it into his
left breast. Sir Cyril sank down, the dagger sticking out from his
light overcoat.
The deed was over before I could move. I sprang forward. Deschamps
laughed, and turned to me. I closed with her. She scratched and bit,
and she was by no means a weak woman. At first I feared that in her
fury she would overpower me. At length, however, I managed to master
her; but her strength was far from exhausted, and she would not yield.
She was mad; time was passing. I could not afford to be nice in my
methods, so I contrived to stun her, and proceeded to tie her hands
with my handkerchief. Then, panting, I stood up to survey the floor.
I may be forgiven, perhaps, if at that frightful crisis I was not
perfectly cool, and could not decide on the instant upon the wisest
course of action to pursue. Sir Cyril was insensible, and a little
circle of blood was forming round the dagger; Deschamps was
insensible, with a dark bruise on her forehead, inflicted during our
struggle; Rosa was insensible--I presumed from excess of emotion at
the sudden fright.
I gazed at the three prone forms, pondering over my handiwork and that
of Chance. What should be the next step? Save for my own breathing,
there was a deathlike silence. The light from the empty room above
rained down upon us through the trap, illuminating the still faces
with its yellow glare. Was any other person in the house? From what
Sir Cyril had said, and from my own surmises, I thought not. Whatever
people Deschamps might have employed to carry messages, she had
doubtless dismissed them. She and Rosa had been alone in the building.
I can understand now that there was something peculiarly attractive to
the diseased imagination of Deschamps in the prospect of inviting her
victim to the snare, and working vengeance upon a rival unaided,
unseen, solitary in that echoing and deserted mansion. I was horribly
perplexed. It struck me that I ought to be gloomily sorrowful, but I
was not. At the bottom of my soul I felt happy, for Rosa was saved.
It was Rosa who first recovered consciousness, and her movement in
sitting up recalled me to my duty. I ran to Sir Cyril, and, kneeling
down so as to screen his body from her sight, I drew the dagger from
its sheath, and began hastily, with such implements as I could
contrive on the spur of the moment, to attend to his wound.
"What has happened?" Rosa inquired feebly.
I considered my reply, and then, without turning towards her, I spoke
in a slow, matter-of-fact voice.
"Listen carefully to what I say. There has been a plot to--to do you
injury. But you are not hurt. You are, in fact, quite well--don't
imagine anything else. Sir Cyril Smart is here; he's hurt; Deschamps
has wounded him. Deschamps is harmless for the moment, but she may
recover and break out again. So I can't leave to get help. You must
go. You have fainted, but I am sure you can walk quite well. Go up the
stairs here, and walk along the hall till you come to the front door;
it is not fastened. Go out into the street, and bring back two
gendarmes--two, mind--and a cab, if you can. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but how--"
"Now, please go at once!" I insisted grimly and coldly. "We can talk
afterwards. Just do as you're told."
Cowed by the roughness of my tone, she rose and went. I heard her
light, hesitating step pass through the hall, and so out of the house.
In a few minutes I had done all that could be done for Sir Cyril, as
he lay there. The wound was deep, having regard to the small size of
the dagger, and I could only partially stop the extravasation of
blood, which was profuse. I doubted if he would recover. It was not
long, however, before he regained his senses. He spoke, and I remember
vividly now how pathetic to me was the wagging of his short gray beard
as his jaw moved.
"Foster," he said--"your name is Foster, isn't it? Where did you find
that dagger?"
"You must keep quiet," I said. "I have sent for assistance."
"Don't be a fool, man. You know I'm done for. Tell me how you got the
dagger."
So I told him.
"Ah!" he murmured. "It's my luck!" he sighed. Then in little detached
sentences, with many pauses, he began to relate a history of what
happened after Rosa and I had left him on the night of Sullivan's
reception. Much of it was incomprehensible to me; sometimes I could
not make out the words. But it seemed that he had followed us in his
carriage, had somehow met Rosa again, and then, in a sudden frenzy of
remorse, had attempted to kill himself with the dagger in the street.
His reason for this I did not gather. His coachman and footman had
taken him home, and the affair had been kept quiet.
Remorse for what? I burned to ask a hundred questions, but, fearing to
excite him, I shut my lips.
"You are in love with her?" he asked.
I nodded. It was a reply as abrupt as his demand. At that moment
Deschamps laughed quietly behind me. I turned round quickly, but she
lay still; though she had come to, the fire in her eyes was quenched,
and I anticipated no immediate difficulty with her.
"I knew that night that you were in love with her," Sir Cyril
continued. "Has she told you about--about me?"
"No," I said.
"I have done her a wrong, Foster--her and another. But she will tell
you. I can't talk now. I'm going--going. Tell her that I died in
trying to protect her; say that--Foster--say--" He relapsed into
unconsciousness.
I heard firm, rapid steps in the hall, and in another instant the
representatives of French law had taken charge of the house. Rosa
followed them in. She looked wistfully at Sir Cyril, and then,
flinging herself down by his side, burst into wild tears.