ONE-FOURTH OF A SECRET AND THREE-FOURTHS OF A MYSTERY
FOR some minutes the pair walked in silence, as if each was still
brooding on the mysterious cipher whose treachery to France had brought
them together. But presently Statham touched Onslow on the arm. “Tell
me,” he said, “something of this enchantress. I am equally curious
about her.”
“And I know very little,” Onslow replied. “Her mother, if you believe
scandal, was a famous Paris flower girl, who was mistress in turn to
half the young rakes of the _noblesse_; her father is supposed to have
been an English gentleman. Your eyes will tell you she is gifted with
a singular beauty, which is her only dowry. Gossip says that she makes
that dowry go a long way, for she has two passions, flowers and jewels.”
“And she resides in London?”
“She resides nowhere,” Onslow answered with his slow smile; “she is
here to-day and away to-morrow. I have met her in Paris, in Brussels,
Vienna, Rome. She talks French as easily as she talks English, and
wherever she is her apartments are always haunted by the men of
pleasure, and by the _grand monde_. Women you never meet there, for she
is not a favourite with her own sex, which is not surprising.”
“Pardon,” Statham asked, “but is she--is she, too, in the Secret
Service?”
“God bless my soul! No; we don’t employ ladies with a passion for
jewels. It would expose them and us to too many temptations. And,
besides, politics are the one thing this goddess abhors. Eating,
drinking, the pleasures of the body, poetry, philosophy, romance, the
arts, and the pleasures of the mind she adores; luxury and jewels
she covets, but politics, no! They are a forbidden topic. For me
her friendship is convenient, for the politicians are always in her
company. When will statesmen learn,” he added, “that making love to
a lady such as she is is more powerful in unlocking the heart and
unsealing the lips than wine?” “And her name?”
“She has not got one. ‘Princess’ we call her and she deserves it, for
she is fit to adorn the Palace of Versailles.”
“Perhaps,” said Statham, “she will some day.”
“Not a doubt of it--if Louis will only pay enough.”
They had reached the house. Statham noticed that Onslow neither gave
his own nor asked for his hostess’s name. He showed the footman a card,
which was returned, and immediately they were ushered into two handsome
apartments with doors leading the one into the other, and in the inner
of the two they found some half-dozen gentlemen talking. Three of them
wore stars and ribbons, but all unmistakably belonged to that _grand
monde_ of which Onslow had spoken. From behind the group the lady
quietly walked forward and curtsied deferentially to Statham, who felt
her eyes resting on his with no small interest as his companion kissed
her hand. The secret agent had not exaggerated. This woman was indeed
strikingly impressive. About the middle height, with a slight but
exquisitely shaped figure, at first sight she seemed to flash on you
a vision composed of dark masses of black hair, large and liquid blue
eyes, and a dazzling skin, cream-tinted. Dressed in a flowing robe of
dark red, she wore in her hair blood-red roses, while blood-red roses
twined along her corsage, which was cut, not without justification,
daringly open. Her bare arms, her theatrical manner, and the profusion
of jewels which glittered in the candle-light suggested a curious
vulgarity, which was emphasised by her speech, for her English, spoken
with the ease of a native, betrayed in its accent rather than its words
evidence of low birth. Yet all this was forgotten in the mysterious
charm which clung about her like a subtle and intoxicating perfume, and
as Statham in turn kissed her jewelled hand, a fleeting something in
her eyes, at once pathetic and vindictive, shot with a thrill through
him.
“An English officer and a friend of Mr. Onslow,” she remarked, “is
always amongst my most welcome guests,” and then she turned to the
elderly fop in the star and ribbon and resumed her conversation.
Statham studied her carefully. Superb health, a superb body, and a
reckless disregard of convention she certainly had, but the more he
observed her the more certain he felt that that wonderful skin as well
as those lustrous blue eyes and alluring eyebrows owed more to art than
to nature. In fact every pose of her head, every line in her figure,
the scandalous freedom of her attire were obviously intended to puzzle
as much as to attract--and they succeeded. She was the incarnation of a
fascination and of a puzzle.
Two more gentlemen had arrived, and Statham was an interested spectator
of what followed.
“Princess,” the new-comer said, “I present to you my very good friend
the Vicomte de Nérac.”
The lady turned sharply. Was it the visitor’s name or face which for
the moment disturbed her equanimity?--yet apparently neither the
Vicomte nor she had met before.
“Welcome, Vicomte,” she said, so swiftly recovering herself that
Statham alone noticed her surprise, if it was surprise. “And may I
ask how a Capitaine-Lieutenant of the Chevau-légers de la Garde de la
Maison du Roi happens to be in England when his country is at war?”
“You know me, Madame!” the Vicomte stammered, looking at her in a
confusion he could not conceal.
The lady laughed. “Every one who has been in Paris,” she retorted,
“knows the Chevau-légers de la Garde, and the most famous of their
officers is Monsieur the Vicomte de Nérac, famous, I would have these
gentlemen be aware, for his swordsmanship, for his gallantries--and for
his military exploits which won him the Croix de St. Louis.”
“You do me too much honour, Madame,” the Vicomte replied.
“As a woman I fear you, as a lover of gallant deeds and as a fencer
myself I adore you, as do all the ladies whether at Versailles or in
Les Halles,” she laughed again. “But you have not answered my question.
Why are you in England, Monsieur le Vicomte?”
“Nine months ago I had the misfortune to be taken prisoner, Madame, but
in three weeks I return to my duty as a soldier and a noble of France.”
He bowed to the company with that incomparable air of self-confidence
tempered by the dulcet courtesy which was the pride of Versailles and
the despair of the rest of the world.
“And here,” the lady answered, “is another gentleman who also shortly
returns to his duty. Captain Statham of the First Foot Guards, Monsieur
le Vicomte de Nérac of the Chevau-légers de la Garde. Perhaps before
long you will meet again, and this time not in a woman’s salon.”
“When Captain Statham is taken prisoner,” the Vicomte remarked,
smiling, “I can assure him Paris is not less pleasant than London, but
till then he and I must agree to cross swords in a friendly manner for
the favours of yourself, Princess.”
“And you think you will win, Vicomte?”
“It is impossible we can lose,” the Vicomte replied. “Not even the
gallantry of the First Foot Guards can save the allies from the genius
of Monseigneur the Maréchal de Saxe.”
“We will see,” Statham responded gruffly.
“Without a doubt, sir.” The Vicomte bowed.
Statham stared at him stolidly. He could hardly have guessed that
this exquisitely dressed gentleman with the slight figure and the
innocently grand air was really a soldier, and above all an officer in
perhaps the most famous cavalry regiment of all Europe, every trooper
in which, like the Vicomte himself, was a noble of at least a hundred
years’ standing, but he was reluctantly compelled to confess that the
stranger was undeniably handsome, and his manner spoke of an ease and a
distinction beyond criticism. His smile, too, was singularly seductive
in its sweetness and strength, and his brown eyes could glitter with
marvellous and unspeakable thoughts. From that minute he seemed to
imagine that his hostess belonged to him: he placed himself next her
at supper, he absorbed her conversation, and, still more annoying,
she willingly consented. Statham in high dudgeon had to listen to the
polite small talk of his English neighbour, conscious all the while
that at his elbow the Vicomte was chattering away to “the princess”
in the gayest French. And after supper he along with the others was
driven off to play cards while the pair sat in the other room alone and
babbled ceaselessly in that infernal foreign tongue.
“The Vicomte,” Onslow said coolly, “has made another conquest.”
“It is true, then, that he is a fine swordsman as well as a rake?”
“Quite true. His victims amongst the ladies are as numerous as his
victims of the sword. It is almost as great an honour for a man to be
run through by André de Nérac as it is for a woman to succumb to his
wooing. Do not forget he is a Chevau-léger de la Garde and a Croix de
St. Louis.”
Statham grunted.
“It is not fair,” Onslow pursued, throwing down the dice-box. “You
are not enjoying yourself,” and he rose and went into the other room.
“Gentlemen,” he said, on his return, “I have persuaded our princess
to add to our pleasure by dancing. In ten minutes she will be at your
service.”
The cards were instantly abandoned and while they waited the Vicomte
strolled in and walked up to Onslow.
“That is a strange lady,” he remarked, “a very strange lady. She knows
Paris and all my friends as well as I do; yet I have never so much as
seen her there.”
“Yes,” Onslow answered, looking him all over, “she is very strange.”
“And the English of Madame is, I think, not the English of the
quality?” Onslow nodded. “That, too, is curious, for her French is
our French, the French of the _noblesse_. She says her father was an
English gentleman, and her mother a Paris flower girl, which is still
more curious, for the flower girls of Paris do not talk as we talk
on the staircase Des Ambassadeurs at Versailles, or as my mother and
the women of my race talk. Mon Dieu!” he broke off suddenly, for the
princess had tripped into the room, turning it by the magic of her
saucy costume into a flower booth in the market of Paris, and without
ado she began to sing a gay _chansonnette_, waving gently to and fro
her basket of flowers:
“Quand on a su toucher
Le cœur d’une bergère
On peut bien s’assurer
Du plaisir de lui faire.
Et zon, zon, zon,
Lisette, ma Lisette;
Et zon, zon, zon,
Lisette, ma Lisou.”
And the dance into which without a word of warning she broke was
something to stir the blood of both English and French by its
invincible mixture of coquetry, lithe grace, and audacious abandon, its
swift transitions from a mocking stateliness and a tempting reserve
to its intoxicating, almost devilish revelation of uncontrolled
passion; and all the while that heartless, airy song twined itself into
every pirouette, every pose, and was translated into the wickedest
provocation by the twinkling flutter of her short skirt and the
flashes of the jewelled buckles in her saucy shoes. To Statham as to
André de Nérac the princess had vanished, and all that remained was a
witch in woman’s form, a witch with black hair crowned with crimson
roses and a cream-tinted skin gleaming white against those roses at her
breast.
“To the victor,” she cried, picking a nosegay from her basket, and
kissing it, “to the victor of the spring!” and André and Statham found
themselves hit in the face by the flowers. The salon rang with “Bravos”
and “Huzzas” until every one woke to the discovery that the dancer had
disappeared.
When she returned she was once more in her splendid robes and frigidly
cynical as before.
“I am tired, gentlemen,” she said; “I must beg you to say good-night.”
She held out her hand to the Vicomte. “_Au revoir!_” she said,
permitting her eyes to study his olive-tinted cheeks and the homage of
his gaze.
“Your prisoner, Madame,” he said, “your prisoner for always!”
“Or I yours?” she flashed back, swiftly.
And now she was speaking to Statham. “We shall meet again,” she said.
“Yes, we shall meet again, Captain.”
“Not in London, Madame,” he answered.
“Oh, no! But I trust our meeting will be as pleasant for you as
to-night has been for me.”
“It cannot fail to be.”
“Ah, you never know. Women are ever fickle and cruel,” she answered,
and once again as he kissed the jewelled fingers Statham was conscious
of that pathetic, pantherish light in her great eyes, which made him at
once joyous, sad, and fearful.
When they had all gone the woman stood gazing at her bare shoulders in
the long mirror. “_Fi, donc!_” she muttered with a shrug of disgust,
and she tore in two one of the cards with which the gamblers had been
playing, allowing the fragments to trickle carelessly down as though
the gust of passion which had moved her was already spent. Then she
drew the curtains across the door between the two rooms, and remained
staring into space. “André Pierre Auguste Marie, Vicomte de Nérac,” she
murmured, “Seigneur des Fleurs de Lys, Vicomte de--” she smelled one of
her roses, the fingers of her other hand tapping contemplatively on her
breast. A faint sigh crept into the stillness of the empty, glittering
room.
Then she flung herself on the low divan, put her arms behind her head,
and lay gazing in front of her. The door was opening gently, but she
did not stir. A man walked in noiselessly, halted on the threshold, and
looked at her for fully two minutes. She never moved. It was George
Onslow. He walked forward and stood beside her. She let her eyes rest
on him with absolute indifference.
“There is your pass,” he said, in a low voice in which emotion
vibrated.
“I thank you.” She made no effort to take it, but simply turned her
head as if to see him the better.
“Is that all my reward?” he demanded. “It was not easy to get that
pass.”
“No?” She pulled a rose from her breast and sniffed it. “I believe you.
I can only thank you again.”
He dropped the paper into her lap, where she let it lie.
“By God!” he broke out, “I wish I knew whether you are more adorable as
you are now on that sofa, or as you were dancing in that flower girl’s
costume.”
“Most men in London prefer the short petticoats,” she remarked, moving
the diamond buckle on her shoe into the light, “but in Paris they
have better taste, for only a real woman can make herself adorable in
this”--she gave a little kick to indicate the long, full robe. “Think
about it, _mon ami_, and let me know to-morrow which you really like
the better.”
“And to-night?”
She stooped forward to adjust her slipper. “To-night,” she repeated, “I
must decide whether I dislike you more as the lover of this afternoon,
the man of pleasure of this evening, or the spy of to-morrow.”
He put a strong hand on her shoulder. In an instant she had sprung to
her feet.
“No!” she cried, imperiously, “I have had enough for one day of men who
would storm a citadel by insolence. Leave me!”
“You are expecting some one?”
“And if I am?”
“Don’t torture me. Tell me who it is.”
“Perhaps you will have to wait till dawn or longer before you see him.”
“I will kill him, that is all,--kill him when he leaves this house.”
“I have no objection to that,” was the smiling answer. “One rake less
in the world is a blessing for all women, honest or--” she fingered her
rose caressingly.
“Is it one of those who were here to-night!” he demanded. “Perhaps that
infernal libertine of a Vicomte de----”
“Pray, what have my secrets to do with you?” She faced him scornfully.
“This.” He came close to her. “You flatter yourself, _ma mignonne_,
that you guard your secrets very well. So you do from all men but me.
But I take leave to tell you that three-fourths of those secrets are
already mine.” She sniffed at the rose in the most provoking way. “Yes,
I have discovered three-fourths, and----”
“The one-fourth that remains you will never discover until I choose.”
“Do not be too sure.”
“And then----?”
“You, _ma mignonne_, you the guest of many men, will be in my power,
and you will be glad to do what I wish. Oh, I will not be your cur,
your lackey, then, but you will----”
She dropped him a curtsey, and walked away to an escritoire, from a
drawer in which she took out a piece of paper.
“The one-fourth that remains,” she said, holding it up, and offering it
to him, “I give it to you, my cur and lackey.”
She watched him take it, unfold it, read it. His hand shook, the paper
dropped from his fingers, and while he passed his handkerchief over his
forehead she put the fragment in the fire.
They faced each other in dead silence. She was perfectly calm, but his
mouth twitched and his eyes gleamed with an unhallowed fire and with
fear.
“Are you mad?” he asked at last, “that you confess such a thing to
me--_me?_”
“Better to you,” she retorted, “than to that infernal libertine, the
Vicomte de Nérac, or that infernal simpleton, Captain Statham, eh? No,
_mon ami_, my reason is this: Now, you, George Onslow, who profess to
love me, who would make me your slave, are in my power, and the proof
is that I order you to leave this room at once.”
“I shall return.”
“Then you certainly will be mad.”
“Ah!” He sprang forward. “Can you not believe that I love you more than
ever? I----”
“Pshaw!”
The door had slammed. Onslow was alone.
For a minute he stood, clenching his hands, frustrated passion glowing
in his eyes. “Ah!” he exclaimed in a cry of pent-up anguish, and then
the door slammed again as he strode out.