GEORGES THE CHAUFFEUR
Upon descending to the courtyard, I took a seat on a bench beneath a
vine-covered trellis. To stop here for a time, smoking, would seem a
natural proceeding, and while I held such a post of recognizance nothing
overt could transpire in the environs without my taking note of the
fact. Enough had developed already, though, heaven was witness! I lit a
cigarette and prepared for a resume.
Like a sleuth noting salient points, I glanced round the rectangular
court. At my right, off the gallery, was Miss Falconer’s room shrouded
in darkness; at the left, up another flight of stairs, my own uninviting
domain. The quarters of Van Blarcom and his uniformed friends opened
from the gallery above the street passage, facing the main portion of
the inn which sheltered the kitchen and _salle a manger_. Such was the
simple, homely stage-setting. What of the play?
Bleau, I now felt tolerably sure, was merely a mile-stone on the route
of Miss Falconer. Next morning, at sunrise probably, she would resume
her journey for parts unknown. Would they arrest her before she left
the inn or merely follow her? The latter, doubtless, since they asserted
that she was on her way to get the papers that they wanted for France.
Upstairs in the room where Van Blarcom and I had held our conference
the shutters had been reopened. There was just one light to be seen, a
glowing point, which was obviously the tip of a cigar. If I was keeping
vigil below, from above he returned the compliment; nor did he mean
that I should hold any secret colloquy with the girl that night. I
swore softly, but earnestly. Considering his rather decent attitude,
his efforts from the very first to enlighten me as to the dangers I was
running, it was odd that my detestation of the man was so thoroughly
ingrained and so profound.
The mystery of the gray car had been solved with a vengeance. Instead of
being freighted with accomplices, as I had at first thought possible,
it had carried the representatives of justice, in the persons of three
officers and my secret-service friend. A queer conjunction, that; but
then, my ignorance of French methods was abysmal. Perhaps this was the
usual mode of doing things in time of war.
Van Blarcom’s explanation, though it made me furious, had brought
conviction. There was a certain grim appositeness about it all. The
night in New York, the events of the steamer, the unsatisfactory
character of the girl’s actions, all fitted neatly into the plan; and
the mere personnel of the pursuing party was sufficient assurance, for
French officers, as I well knew, were neither liars nor fools. Neither,
I patriotically assumed, were the men of my country’s secret-service,
however humble their part as cogs in that great machinery, or however
distasteful Mr. Van Blarcom, personally, might be to me. And finally, I
could not deny that women, clever, well-born, and beautiful, had served
as spies a thousand times in the world’s history, urged to it by some
sense of duty, some tie of blood.
Yes, that was it, I told myself in sudden pity, recalling how Miss
Falconer had stood on the steps in her nurse’s costume, straight and
slender, her gray eyes full of fire, her face glowing like a rose.
Perhaps she was of the enemy’s country. Perhaps those she loved,
those who made up her life, had set her feet in this path that she
was treading. If she was a spy,--Lord! How the mere word hurt one!--it
wasn’t for ignoble motives; it wasn’t for pay.
I came impulsively to the conclusion that there was just one course
for my taking: to see her and to beg, bully, or wheedle from her the
unvarnished truth. Then, if it was as I feared, she should go back to
Paris if I had to carry her; she should accompany me to Bordeaux, and on
the first steamer she should sail from France. Yes; and the army should
have its papers, for she should tell me where they were hidden. Her work
should end; but these men upstairs should not track her and trap her and
drag her off to prison, perhaps to death.
There was danger in the plan, even if I should accomplish it. I should
get myself into trouble, dark and deep. Well, if I had to languish
behind bars for a while I could survive it. But she might not. As I
thought of this I knew that I had made up my mind irrevocably.
It was a problem, nevertheless, to arrange an interview, with Van
Blarcom sitting at his window, watching me like a lynx. I couldn’t go
up the stairs and batter on her door till she opened it; apart from the
reception she would give me it would simply amount to making a present
of my intentions to the men across the way. Yet who knew how long they
would keep up their surveillance? Till I retired, probably! “I’d give
something to choke you and be done with it!” was the benediction I
wafted toward the sentinel above.
I was owning myself at my wit’s end when a ray of hope was vouchsafed
me. The kitchen door opened and let out a leather-clad figure which
strode across the courtyard, lantern in hand, and let itself into the
garage. Despite the dimness, I recognized Miss Falconer’s chauffeur, the
man she had addressed as Georges when they left the rue St. Dominique.
The very link I needed, provided I could get into communication with him
in some unostentatious way.
I rose, stretched myself lazily, and began to pace the court. Perhaps
a dozen times I crossed and recrossed it, each turn taking me past the
garage and affording me a brief glance within. The chauffeur, coat flung
aside, sleeves rolled up, was hard at work overhauling his engine, with
an obvious view to efficiency upon the morrow. Up at the window I could
see the glowing cigar-tip move now to this side, now to that. Not for an
instant was Van Blarcom allowing me to escape from sight.
After taking one more turn I halted, yawned audibly for the sentry’s
benefit, and seated myself once more, this time on a bench by the
door of the garage. Van Blarcom’s cigar became stationary again. The
chauffeur, who had satisfied himself as to the engine and was now
passing critical fingers over the gashes in the tires, looked up at me
casually and then resumed his work. Kneeling there, his tools about him,
he was plainly visible in the light of the smoky lantern. He was a
young man, twenty-three or-four perhaps, strongly built and obviously
of French-peasant stock, with honest blue eyes and a face not unduly
intelligent, but thoroughly frank and open in the cast. The actors in my
drama, I had to own, were puzzling. This lad looked no more fitted than
Miss Falconer for a treacherous role.
How theatrical it all was! And yet it had its zest. I confess I
experienced a certain thrill, entirely new to me, as I bent forward with
my arms on my knees and my head lowered to hide my face.
“_Attention, Georges!_” I muttered beneath my breath.
The chauffeur started, knocking a tool from the running-board beside
him. His eyes, half-startled, half-fierce, fixed themselves on me; his
hand went toward his pocket in a most significant way. In a minute
he would be shooting me, I reflected grimly. And upstairs the very
stillness of Van Blarcom shrieked suspicion; he could not have helped
hearing the clatter that the falling tool had made.
“Don’t be a fool,” I muttered, low, but sharply. “I know where you and
mademoiselle come from; I know she is upstairs now; if I wished you any
harm I could have had the mayor and the gendarmes here an hour ago! Keep
your head--we are being watched. Have a good look at me first if you
feel you want to. Then take your hand off that revolver and pretend to
go to work.”
Throwing my head back, I began blowing clouds of smoke, wondering every
instant whether a bullet would whiz through my brain. I could feel
Georges’ gaze upon me; I knew it was a critical moment. But as his kind
are quick, shrewd judges of caste and character, I had my hopes.
They were justified; for presently I heard him draw a breath of relief.
His hand came out of his pocket.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” he whispered, and began a vigorous pretense of
polishing the car.
Again I leaned forward to hide the fact that my lips were moving.
“When you speak to me, keep your head bent as I do.”
“Monsieur, yes.”
“Now listen. Men of the French army are here, with powers from the
police. They accuse mademoiselle of serious things, of acts of treason,
of being on her way to secure papers for the foes of France. They are
watching. To-morrow, if she departs, they mean to follow and to arrest
her when they have gained proof of what she is hunting.”
“_Mon Dieu, Monsieur!_ What shall I do?”
There was appeal in his voice. Convinced of my good faith, he was
quite simply shifting the business to my shoulders--the French peasant
trusting the man he ranked as of his master’s class. And oddly enough
I found myself responding as if to a trusted person. I smoked a little,
wondering whether Van Blarcom could catch the faint mutter of our
voices. Then I gave my orders in the same muffled tones:
“You will tell the servants that you wish to sleep here to-night, to
watch the car. You will stay here very quietly until it is nearly dawn.
Then you will creep to mademoiselle’s door and whisper what I have told
you and say that I beg her to meet me before those others have awakened
at five o’clock in--”
Pondering a rendezvous, I hesitated. The room where I had dined, with
its stone floor, its beamed ceiling, and dark panels, came first to
my mind. I fancied, though, that some outdoor spot might be safer. I
remembered opportunely that a passage led past this room, and that at
its end I had glimpsed a little garden behind the inn.
“In the garden,” I finished, and risked one straight look at him. “I can
trust you, Georges?”
The young man’s throat seemed to close.
“_Monsieur le duc_ was my foster-brother, _Monsieur_,” he whispered. “I
would die for him.”
Who the deuce _monsieur le duc_ might be I did not tarry to discover.
I had done all I could; the future was on the knees of the gods. Having
smoked one more cigarette for the sake of verisimilitude, I rose,
stretched myself ostentatiously, and crossed the courtyard to the
stairs, where madame was descending. She had, she informed me, been
preparing my bed.
“And I wish monsieur good repose,” she ended volubly. “Hitherto, no
Zeppelins have come to Bleau to disturb our dreams. Though, alas, who
knows what they will do, now that we have lost our most gallant hero?
Monsieur has heard of the Firefly of France, he who is missing?”
That name again! Odd how it seemed to pursue me.
“I believe I shall meet that fellow sometime if he’s living,” I
reflected as I climbed the stairs.
In my room, my candle lighted, I resigned myself to a ghastly night. I
don’t like discomfort, though I can put up with it when I must. The
bed looked as hard as nails; the bowl made cleanliness a duty, not a
pleasure. And to think that I might have been sleeping in comfort at the
Ritz!
Tossing from side to side, pounding a cast-iron pillow, I dozed through
uneasy intervals, and woke with groans and starts. I could not rid
myself of the sense of something ominous hanging over me. The gray car
ramped through my dreams; so did Van Blarcom; and between sleeping
and waking, I pictured my coming interview with the girl, her probable
terror, the force and menaces I should have to use, our hurried flight.
At length I fell into a heavy, exhausted slumber, from which, toward
morning I fancied, I sat up suddenly with the dazed impression of some
sound echoing in my ears. Springing out of bed, I groped my way to the
window. The galleries lay peaceful and empty in the moonlight, and down
in the courtyard there was not the slightest sign of life.
I went back to bed in a state of jangled nerves. Again I dozed, and
a dim light was creeping through the window when I woke. I looked out
again.
“Hello!” I muttered, for though the hotel seemed wrapped in slumber, the
door of the garage now stood ajar. Was it possible that Miss Falconer
had stolen a march on me, that the automobile could have left the
premises without my being roused? It was only four o’clock, but all wish
for sleep had left me. I decided to investigate without any more ado.
I made the best toilet that cold water and a cracked mirror permitted,
longing the while for a bath, for a breakfast tray, for a hundred
civilized things. Taking my hat and coat, I went quietly down the
staircase. The garage door beckoned me, and all unprepared, I walked
into the tragedy of the affair.
In the dim place there were signs of a desperate struggle. The rugs and
cushions of Miss Falconer’s automobile were scattered far and wide. The
gray car had vanished; and in the center of the floor was Georges,
the chauffeur, lying on his back with arms extended, staring up at the
ceiling with wide, unseeing blue eyes.