DE PROFUNDIS
It was pouring with rain, and the man with the flute at the corner
shivered and pulled his rags more closely about him. He had not been
lucky that day, or, indeed, for many days, as the haggard eyes that
stared out of his white face testified.
He had spent the past three nights in the open, but to-night--to-night
was cruelly wet. He questioned with himself what he should do.
In his pocket was that which might procure a night's lodging or a meagre
supper; but it would not supply both. He had to decide between the two,
unless he elected to go on playing till midnight in the drenching rain on
the chance of augmenting his scanty store.
Though it was June, he was chilled to the bone. In the intervals between
his flute-playing his teeth chattered. He looked horribly ill, but no one
had noticed that. Men who wander about the streets with musical
instruments seldom have a prosperous appearance. Passers-by may fling
them a copper if they have one handy, but otherwise they do not even look
at them. There are so many of these luckless ones, and each looks more
wretched than the last. Most of them look degraded also, but, save for
his rags, this man did not. There was a foreign air about him, but he did
not look the type of foreigner that lives upon English charity. There was
nothing hang-dog about him. He only looked exhausted and miserable.
At the suggestion of a policeman he abandoned his corner. After all, he
was doing no good there. It was not worth a protest. He turned and
trudged up a side-street, with head bent to the rain.
It was growing late, high time to seek some shelter for the night if that
were his intention. But he pressed on aimlessly with dragging feet.
Perhaps he had not yet decided whether to perish from cold or hunger, or
perhaps he regarded the choice as of small importance. Possibly even, he
had forgotten that there was a choice to be made.
The street he travelled was deserted, but he heard the buzz of a motor at
a cross-road, and mechanically almost he moved towards it. He was not
quite master of himself or his sensations. He may have vaguely remembered
that there is sometimes money to be earned by opening the door of a taxi,
but it was not with this definite end in view that he took his way. For,
as he went, he put his flute once more to his lips, and poured a sudden,
silvery melody--the "_Aubade à la Fiancée_"--that a young French officer
had onced hummed so gaily among the rocks of Valpré--into the rain and
the darkness.
It began firm and sweet as the notes of a thrush, exquisitely delicate,
with the high ecstasy that only music can express. It swelled into a
positive paen of rejoicing, eager, wonderful, almost unearthly in its
purity. It ended in a confused jumble like the glittering fragments of a
beautiful thing shattered to atoms at a blow. And there fell a silence
broken only by the throbbing of the taxi, and the drip, drip, drip, of
the rain.
The taxi came to a stand close to the lamp-post against which the
flute-player leaned, but he made no move to open the door. The light
flared on his ashen face, showing it curiously apathetic. His instrument
dangled from one nerveless hand.
A man in evening dress stepped from the taxi. His look fell upon the
wretched figure that huddled against the lamppost. For a single instant
their eyes met. Then abruptly the new-comer wheeled to pay his fare.
"He's in for a wet night by the looks of him," observed the chauffeur
facetiously.
"The gentleman is a friend of mine," curtly responded the man in evening
dress.
And the taxi-cab driver, being quite at a loss, shot away into the
darkness to hide his discomfiture.
The flute-player straightened himself with a manifest effort and turned
away. If he had heard the words, he had not comprehended them. His wits
seemed to be wandering that night, but he would not even seem to beg an
alms.
But a hand on his shoulder detained him. "Monsieur de Montville!" a quiet
voice said.
He jerked round, bringing his heels together with instinctive precision.
Again, in the glare of the lamp-post their eyes met.
"I have not--the pleasure," he muttered stiffly.
"My name is Mordaunt," the other told him gravely. "You will remember me
presently, though not probably by name. Come in out of the rain. It is
impossible to talk here."
He spoke with a certain insistence. His hand held the Frenchman's arm. It
was obvious that he would listen to no refusal. And the man in rags
attempted none. He went with him meekly, as if bewildered into docility.
His single flash of pride had died out like the final flicker of a match.
With the Englishman's hand supporting him, he stumbled up a flight of
steps that led to the door of one of the houses in the quiet street,
waited till the turning of a latch-key opened the door, and again numbly
yielded to the steady insistence that drew him within.
He stood on a mat under a glaring electric lamp. The wet streamed down
him in rivulets; he was drenched to the skin.
Mechanically he pulled the cap from his head and tried to still his
chattering teeth. His lips were blue.
"This way," said the quiet voice. "Take my arm."
"But I am so damp, monsieur," he protested shakily. "It will make you
damp also."
"What of it? I daresay I shall survive it if you do." Very kindly the
voice made answer. He could not see the speaker plainly, for his brain
was in a whirl. He even wondered in a dull fashion if it were all a
dream, and if he would wake in a moment from his uneasy slumber to hear
the rain splashing down the gutters and the voice of a constable in his
ear bidding him move on.
He went up a flight of stairs, moving almost without his own volition,
the Englishman's arm around him, urging him upwards.
They came to the threshold of a room of which Mordaunt switched on the
light at entering, and in a moment more the tottering Frenchman found
himself pressed down into a chair. He covered his face with his hands and
sat motionless, trying to still the confusion in his brain. He was
shivering violently from head to foot.
There followed a pause of some duration, during which he must have been
alone; then again his unknown friend touched him, patted his shoulder,
spoke.
"Here's a hot drink. You will feel better when you have had it.
Afterwards you shall go to bed."
He raised his head and stared about him. Mordaunt, holding a cup of
steaming milk that gave out a strong aroma of brandy, was stooping over
him. There was another man in the room, evidently a servant, engaged in
kindling a fire.
Slowly the vagabond's gaze focussed itself upon Mordaunt's face. He saw
it clearly for the first time and gave a slight start of recognition.
"I have seen you before," he muttered, frowning uncertainly. "Where?
Where?"
"Never mind now," returned the Englishman gently. "Drink this. You need
it."
He lifted a shaking hand and dropped it again. All the strength seemed to
have gone out of him.
"Monsieur will pardon my feebleness," he murmured almost inarticulately.
"I am--a little--fatigued. It is nothing. It will pass."
"Drink!" Mordaunt said insistently.
He held the rim of the cup against the trembling lips, and perforce the
Frenchman drank, at first slowly, then with avidity, till at last he
clasped the cup in both his quivering hands and drained it.
His eyes sought Mordaunt's apologetically as he gave it back. The apathy
had gone out of them. They looked out of his pinched face with
brightening intelligence. His lips were no longer blue.
"Ah!" he said, with a deep breath. "But how it was good, monsieur!"
He glanced downwards, discovered himself to be sitting in a
chintz-covered chair, and blundered hastily to his feet.
"Tenez!" he exclaimed almost incoherently. "But how I forget! See, I
have--I have--"
He groped out before him suddenly, words failing him, and only Mordaunt's
promptitude spared him a headlong fall.
"Bit light-headed, sir?" suggested the servant, glancing round with an
inscrutable countenance.
"No, he'll be all right. Go and turn on the hot water," said Mordaunt.
To the Frenchman as the man departed he spoke as to an equal. "Monsieur
de Montville, I am offering you the hospitality of a friend, and I hope
you will accept it. In the morning if you are well enough we will talk
things over. But to-night you are not fit for anything beyond a hot bath
and bed."
The Frenchman nodded. Certainly his senses were returning to him. His
eyes were growing brighter every instant. "It is true," he said. "I was
ill. But your--so great--kindness has revived me. I will not, then,
trespass upon you longer, except to render to you a thousand thanks. I am
well now. I will go."
"No," Mordaunt said gently. "You will stay here till morning. You are not
well. You are feverish. And the sooner you get to bed the better. Come!
We are not strangers. Need we behave as if we were?"
Again de Montville looked at him doubtfully. "I wish that I could
recall--" he said.
"You will presently," Mordaunt assured him. "In the meantime, it really
doesn't matter, and it is not the time for explanations. I am very glad
to have met you. You surely will not refuse to be my guest for a few
hours."
He spoke with the utmost kindness, but also with inflexible
determination. The Frenchman still looked dubious, but quite obviously he
did not feel equal to a battle of wills with his resolute host. He
uttered a sigh and said no more.
He firmly declined the assistance of Mordaunt's man, however, and it was
Mordaunt himself who waited upon him, ignoring protest, till his
shivering _protégé_ was safe in bed.
He seemed to resign himself to his fate then, being too exhausted to do
otherwise. A heavy drowsiness came upon him, and he very soon fell into a
doze.
Mordaunt sat in an adjoining room, opening and answering letters. His
demeanour was quite serene. Save that he paused now and then and leaned
back in his chair to listen, there was nothing about him to indicate that
anything unusual had taken place.
It was nearing midnight when his man came softly in with a cup of
beef-tea.
"All right, Holmes! I'll see to him. You can go to bed," he said then.
Holmes paused. "I've made up the bed in the spare-room, sir," he said.
"Oh, thanks! I shall not want it though. I will sleep on the sofa here."
"Very good, sir." Holmes still paused. He never expressed surprise at
anything his master saw fit to do; he only did his utmost to give his
proceedings as normal an aspect as possible. His acquaintance with
Mordaunt also dated from a South African battlefield; they knew each
other very well indeed.
"I was only thinking to myself," he said, in answer to Mordaunt's look,
"I could just as easy attend to the gentleman as you could, sir. I'm more
or less up in night duty, as you might say, and I'll guarantee as he
wants for nothing if you'll put him in my charge."
Holmes had been a hospital orderly in his time, and Mordaunt knew him to
be absolutely trustworthy in a responsible position. Nevertheless he
declined the offer.
"Very good of you, Holmes! But I would rather you went to bed. I
shouldn't be turning in yet in any case. I have work to do. I don't fancy
he will give any trouble. If he does, I will call you."
Holmes withdrew without further argument, and a few minutes later
Mordaunt, armed with the beef-tea, went to his guest's bedside.
He found him dozing, but he awoke at once, looking up with fever-bright
eyes to greet him.
"Ah! but you are too good--too good," he said. "And I have no hunger now.
I am only yet a little fatigued. I shall repose myself, and I shall find
myself well."
"Yes, you will be better after a sleep," Mordaunt said. "You shall settle
down when you have had this, and sleep the clock round."
He was aware once more of the Frenchman's puzzled eyes watching him as he
submissively took the nourishment, but he paid no heed to them. It was
not his intention to encourage any discussion just then.
Outside, the rain pattered incessantly, beating against the windows. At a
sudden gust of hail de Montville shivered.
"Monsieur," he said, choosing his words with care, "your great kindness
is such as I can never hope to repay, but permit me to assure you that my
gratitude will constrain me to regard myself your debtor till death. If
it is ever in my power to serve you, I will render that service, cost
what it may. You have called me by my name. It appears that you know me?"
He paused for an answer.
"Yes, I know you," Mordaunt said.
"And for that you extend to me the hand of friendship?" questioned the
Frenchman, his quick eyes still searching the Englishman's quiet face.
Mordaunt's eyes looked gravely back. "I also happen to believe in you,"
he said. "Otherwise I should probably have helped you because you needed
it; but I most certainly should not have brought you here."
"Ah!" Sudden understanding flashed into de Montville's face; he leaned
forward, stuttering with eagerness. "You--you--I know you now! I know
you! You are the English journalist, the man who believed in me even
against reason, against evidence--in spite of all! I remember you
well--well! I remember your eyes. They sent me a message. They gave me
courage. They told me that you knew--that you were my friend--the only
friend, monsieur, that was not ashamed of me. And I thanked _le bon Dieu_
that night--that terrible night--simply because I had looked into your
eyes."
He broke off in quivering agitation. Trevor Mordaunt's hand was on his
shoulder. "Easy--easy!" the quiet voice said. "You are exciting yourself,
my dear fellow, and you mustn't. You must go to sleep. This matter will
very well keep till morning."
De Montville's face was hidden in his shaking hands. "If I could thank
you--if I could make you comprehend--" he murmured brokenly.
"I do comprehend. I comprehend perfectly." Mordaunt's voice was soothing
now, almost motherly. He stroked the bent shoulders with a consoling
touch. "Come, man! You are used up; you are ill. Lie down and rest."
He coaxed his forlorn guest down upon the pillows again and drew the
bedclothes over him. Then for a space he sat beside him, divining that he
would recover his self-command more quickly with him there than left to
his own devices.
A nervous hand, bony as a skeleton's, came hesitatingly forth to him at
length, and he gripped and held it for several quiet seconds more.
Finally he rose. "I'll leave you now. If you are wanting anything, you
have only to ask for it. I shall be in the next room. Quite comfortable?"
Yes, he was quite comfortable. He assured him of this in unsteady tones,
and begged that Mr. Mordaunt would give himself no further trouble on his
account. He would sleep--he would sleep.
As the assurance was uttered somewhat incoherently, through lips half
closed, Mordaunt judged that he could be trusted to carry out this
intention, and so left him, to return to his writing-table in the
adjoining room.
Ten minutes later he crept back noiselessly and found him in a deep
sleep. He stood a moment to watch him, and noted with compassion a faint,
pathetic smile that rested on the worn features.
But he did not guess that Bertrand de Montville had returned in his
dreams to a land of enchantment, where the sun was always shining, and
the sea was at peace, even that land where first he had forgotten the
great goal of his ambition and had halted by the way to listen to a
girl's light laughter while he drew for her his pictures in the sand.