THE INN IN THE VILLAGE
While confessing that her want of insight into Paul de Roustache's true
character was inconceivably stupid, the Countess of Fieramondi
maintained that her other mistakes (that was the word she
chose--indiscretions she rejected as too severe) were extremely venial,
and indeed, under all the circumstances, quite natural. It was true
that she had promised to hold no communication with Paul after that
affair of the Baroness von Englebaden's diamond necklace, in which his
part was certainly peculiar, though hardly so damnatory as Andrea chose
to assume. It was true that, when one is supposed to be at Mentone for
one's health one should not leave one's courier there (in order to
receive letters) and reside instead with one's maid at Monte Carlo;
true, further, that it is unwise to gamble heavily, to lose largely, to
confide the misfortune to a man of Paul's equivocal position and
reputation, to borrow twenty thousand francs of him, to lose or spend
all, save what served to return home with, and finally to acknowledge
the transaction and the obligation both very cordially by word of mouth
and (much worse) in letters which were--well, rather effusively
grateful. There was nothing absolutely criminal in all this, unless
the broken promise must be stigmatised as such; and of that Andrea had
heard: he was aware that she had renewed acquaintance with M. de
Roustache. The rest of the circumstances were so fatal in that they
made it impossible for her to atone for this first lapse. In fine,
Count Andrea, not content now to rely on her dishonoured honour, but
willing to trust to her strong religious feelings, had demanded of her
an oath that she would hold no further communication of any sort, kind,
or nature with Paul de Roustache. The oath was a terrible oath--to be
sworn on a relic which had belonged to the Cardinal and was most sacred
in the eyes of the Fieramondi. And with Paul in possession of those
letters and not in possession of his twenty thousand francs, the
Countess felt herself hardly a free agent. For if she did not
communicate with Paul, to a certainty Paul would communicate with
Andrea. If that happened she would die; while if she broke the oath
she would never dare to die. In this dilemma the Countess could do
nothing but declare--first, that she had met Paul accidentally (which
so far as the first meeting went was true enough), secondly, that she
would not live with a man who did not trust her; and, thirdly, that to
ask an oath of her was a cruel and wicked mockery from a man whose
views on the question of the Temporal Power proclaimed him to be
little, it at all, better than an infidel. The Count was very icy and
very polite. The Countess withdrew to the right wing; receiving the
Count's assurance that the erection of the barricade would not be
disagreeable to him, she had it built--and sat down behind it (so to
speak) awaiting in sorrow, dread, and loneliness the terrible moment of
Paul de Roustache's summons. And (to make one more confession on her
behalf) her secret and real reason for ordering that nightly
illumination, which annoyed the Count so sorely, lay in the hope of
making the same gentleman think, when he did arrive, that she
entertained a houseful of guests, and was therefore well protected by
her friends. Otherwise he would try to force an interview under cover
of night.
These briefly indicated facts of the case, so appalling to the unhappy
Countess, were on the other hand eminently satisfactory to M. Paul de
Roustache. To be plain, they meant money, either from the Countess or
from the Count. To Paul's mind they seemed to mean--well, say, fifty
thousand francs--that twenty of his returned, and thirty as a solatium
for the trifling with his affections of which he proposed to maintain
that the Countess had been guilty. The Baroness von Englebaden's
diamonds had gone the way and served the purposes to which family
diamonds seem at some time or other to be predestined: and Paul was
very hard up. The Countess must be very frightened, the Count was very
proud. The situation was certainly worth fifty thousand francs to Paul
de Roustache. Sitting outside the inn, smoking his cigar, on the
morning after his encounter in the garden, he thought over all this;
and he was glad that he had not let his anger at the Count's insolence
run away with his discretion, the insolence would make his revenge all
the sweeter when he put his hand, either directly or indirectly, into
the Count's pocket and exacted compensation to the tune of fifty
thousand francs.
Buried in these thoughts--in the course of which it is interesting to
observe that he did not realise his own iniquity--he failed to notice
that Monsieur Guillaume had sat down beside him and, like himself, was
gazing across the valley towards the Castle. He started to find the
old fellow at his elbow; he started still more when he was addressed by
his name. "You know my name?" he exclaimed, with more perturbation
than a stranger's knowledge of that fact about him should excite in an
honest man.
"It's my business to know people."
"I don't know you."
"That also is my business," smiled M. Guillaume. "But in this case we
will not be too business-like. I will waive my advantage, M. de
Roustache."
"You called yourself Guillaume," said Paul with a suspicious glance.
"I was inviting you to intimacy. My name is Guillaume--Guillaume
Sevier, at your service."
"Sevier? The--?"
"Precisely. Don't be uneasy. My business is not with you." He
touched his arm. "Your reasons for a midnight walk are nothing to me;
young men take these fancies, and--well, the innkeeper says the
Countess is handsome. But I am bound to admit that his description of
the Count by no means tallies with the appearance of the gentleman who
talked with you last night."
"Who talked with me! You were--?"
"I was there--behind a bush a little way down the hill."
"Upon my word, sir--"
"Oh, I had my business too. But for the moment listen to something
that concerns you. The Count is not yet thirty, his eyes are large and
dreamy, his hair long, he wears no moustache, his manner is melancholy,
there is no air of bravado about him. Do I occasion you surprise?"
Paul de Roustache swore heartily.
"Then," he ended, "all I can say is that I should like ten minutes
alone with the fellow who made a fool of me last night, whoever he is."
Again Guillaume--as he wished to be called--touched his companion's arm.
"I too have a matter to discuss with that gentleman," he said. Paul
looked surprised. "M. de Roustache," Guillaume continued with an
insinuating smile, "is not ignorant of recent events; he moves in the
world of affairs. I think we might help one another. And there is no
harm in being popular with the--with--er--my department, instead of
being--well, rather unpopular, eh, my dear M. de Roustache?"
Paul did not contest this insinuation nor show any indignation at it;
the wink which accompanied it he had the self-respect to ignore.
"What do you want from him?" he asked, discerning Guillaume's point,
and making straight for it.
"Merely some papers he has."
"What do you want the papers for?"
"To enable us to know whom we ought to watch."
"Is the affair political or--?"
"Oh, political--not in your line." Paul frowned. "Forgive my little
joke," apologised M. Guillaume.
"And he 's got them?"
"Oh, yes--at least, we have very little doubt of it."
"Perhaps he 's destroyed them."
Guillaume laughed softly. "Ah, my dear sir," said he, "he would n't do
that. While he keeps them he is safe, he is important, he might
become--well, richer than he is."
Paul shot a quick glance at his companion.
"How do you mean to get the papers?"
"I 'm instructed to buy. But if he 's honest, he won't sell. Still I
must have them."
"Tell me his name."
"Oh, by all means--Captain Dieppe."
"Ah, I 've heard of him. He was in Brazil, was n't he?"
"Yes, and in Bulgaria."
"Spain too, I fancy?"
"Dear me, I was n't aware of that," said Guillaume, with some vexation.
"But it's neither here nor there. Can I count on your assistance?"
"But what the devil does he pretend to be the Count for?"
"Forgive the supposition, but perhaps he imagined that your business
was what mine is. Then he would like to throw you off the scent by
concealing his identity."
"By heaven, and I nearly--!"
"Nearly did what, dear M. de Roustache?" said old Guillaume very
softly. "Nearly dragged in the name of Madame la Comtesse, were you
going to say?"
"How do you know anything--?" began Paul.
"A guess--on my honour a guess! You affect the ladies, eh? Oh, we 're
not such strangers as you think." He spoke in a more imperious tone:
it was almost threatening. "I think you must help me, Monsieur Paul,"
said he.
His familiarity, which was certainly no accident, pointed more
precisely the vague menace of his demand.
But Paul was not too easily frightened.
"All right," said he, "but I must get something out of it, you know."
"On the day I get the papers--by whatever means--you shall receive ten
thousand francs. And I will not interfere with your business. Come,
my proposal is handsome, you must allow."
"Well, tell me what to do."
"You shall write a note, addressed to the Count, telling him you must
see him on a matter which deeply touches his interest and his honour."
"How much do you know?" Paul broke in suspiciously.
"I knew nothing till last night; now I am beginning to know. But
listen. The innkeeper is my friend; he will manage that this note
shall be delivered--not to the Count, but to Dieppe; if any question
arises, he 'll say you described the gentleman beyond mistake, and in
the note you will refer to last night's interview. He won't suspect
that I have undeceived you. Well then, in the note you will make a
rendezvous with him. He will come, either for fun or because he thinks
he can serve his friend--the Count or the Countess, whichever it may
be. If I don't offend your susceptibilities, I should say it was the
Countess. Oh, I am judging only by general probability."
"Supposing he comes--what then?"
"Why, when he comes, I shall be there--visible. And you will be there
invisible--unless cause arises for you also to become visible. But the
details can be settled later. Come, will you write the letter?"
Paul de Roustache thought a moment, nodded, rose, and was about to
follow Guillaume into the inn. But he stopped again and laid a hand on
his new friend's shoulder.
"If your innkeeper is so intelligent and so faithful--"
"The first comes from heaven," shrugged Guillaume. "The second is, all
the world over, a matter of money, my friend."
"Of course. Well then, he might take another note."
"To the other Count?"
"Why, no."
"Not yet, eh?"
Paul forced a rather wry smile. "You have experience, Monsieur
Guillaume," he confessed.
"To the Countess, is n't it? I see no harm in that. I ask you to help
in my business; I observe my promise not to interfere with yours. He
is intelligent; we will make him faithful: he shall take two notes by
all means, my friend."
With the advice and assistance of Guillaume the two notes were soon
written: the first was couched much in the terms suggested by that
ingenious old schemer, the second was more characteristic of Paul
himself and of the trade which Paul had joined. "It would grieve me
profoundly," the precious missive ran, "to do anything to distress you.
But I have suffered very seriously, and not in my purse only. Unless
you will act fairly by me, I must act for myself. If I do not receive
fifty thousand francs in twenty-four hours, I turn to the only other
quarter open to me. I am to be found at the inn. There is no need of
a signature; you will remember your--Friend."
Guillaume put on his spectacles and read it through twice.
"Excellent, Monsieur Paul!" said he.
"It is easy to detect a practised hand." And when Paul swore at him,
he laughed the more, finding much entertainment in mocking the rascal
whom he used.
Yet in this conduct there was a rashness little befitting Guillaume's
age and Guillaume's profession. Paul was not a safe man to laugh at.
If from time to time, in the way of business, he was obliged to throw a
light brighter than he would have preferred on his own character, he
did not therefore choose to be made the subject of raillery. And if it
was not safe to mock him, neither was it very safe to talk of money to
him. The thought of money--of thousands of francs, easily convertible
into pounds, marks, dollars, florins, or whatever chanced to be the
denomination of the country to which free and golden-winged steps might
lead him--had a very inflaming effect on M. Paul de Roustache's
imagination. The Baron von Englebaden had started the whole of that
troublesome affair by boasting of the number of thousands of marks
which had gone to the making of the Baroness's necklace. And now M.
Guillaume--rash M. Guillaume--talked of bribing Captain Dieppe.
Bribery means money; if the object is important it means a large amount
of money: and presumably the object is important and the scale of
expenditure correspondingly liberal, when such a comfortable little
_douceur_ as ten thousand francs is readily promised as the reward of
incidental assistance. Following this train of thought, Paul's mind
fixed itself with some persistency on two points. The first was
modest, reasonable, definite; he would see the colour of Guillaume's
money before the affair went further; he would have his ten thousand
francs, or at least a half of them, before he lent any further aid by
word or deed. But the second idea was larger; it was also vaguer, and,
although it hardly seemed less reasonable or natural to the brain which
conceived it, it could scarcely be said to be as justifiable; at any
rate it did not admit of being avowed as frankly to Guillaume himself.
In fact Paul was wondering how much money Guillaume proposed to pay for
Captain Dieppe's honour (in case that article proved to be in the
market), and, further, where and in what material form that money was.
Would it be gold? Why, hardly; when it comes to thousands of anything,
the coins are not handy to carry about. Would it be a draft? That is
a safe mode of conveying large sums, but it has its disadvantages in
affairs where secrecy is desired and ready money indispensable. Would
it be notes? There were risks here--but also conveniences. And
Guillaume seemed bold as well as wary. Moreover Guillaume's coat was
remarkably shabby, his air very unassuming, and his manner of life at
the hotel frugality itself; such a playing of the _vacuus viator_ might
be meant to deceive not only the landlord of the Aquila Nera, but also
any other predatory persons whom Guillaume should encounter in the
course of his travels. Yes, some of it would be in notes. Paul de
Roustache bade the serving-maid bring him a bottle of wine, and passed
an hour in consuming it very thoughtfully.
Guillaume returned from his conversation with the innkeeper just as the
last glass was poured out. To Paul's annoyance he snatched it up and
drained it--an act of familiarity that reached insolence.
"To the success of our enterprise!" said he, grinning at his
discomfited companion. "All goes well. The innkeeper knows the
Countess's maid, and the note will reach the Countess by midday; I have
described Dieppe to him most accurately, and he will hang about till he
gets a chance of delivering the second note to him, or seeing it
delivered."
"And what are we to do?" asked Paul, still sour and still thoughtful.
"As regards the Countess, nothing. If the money comes, good for you.
If not, I presume you will, at your own time, open communications with
the Count?"
"It is possible," Paul admitted.
"Very," said M. Guillaume dryly. "And as regards Dieppe our course is
very plain. I am at the rendezvous, waiting for him, by half-past six.
You will also be at, or near, the rendezvous. We will settle more
particularly how it is best to conduct matters when we see the lie of
the ground. No general can arrange his tactics without inspecting the
battlefield, eh? And moreover we can't tell what the enemy's
dispositions--or disposition--may turn out to be."
"And meanwhile there is nothing to do?"
"Nothing? On the contrary--breakfast, a smoke, and a nap," corrected
Guillaume in a contented tone. "Then, my friend, we shall be ready for
anything that may occur--for anything in the world we shall be ready."
"I wonder if you will," thought Paul de Roustache, resentfully eyeing
the glass which M. Guillaume had emptied.
It remains to add only that, on the advice and information of the
innkeeper, the Cross on the roadside up the hill behind the village had
been suggested as the rendezvous, and that seven in the evening had
seemed a convenient hour to propose for the meeting. For Guillaume had
no reason to suppose that a prior engagement would take the Captain to
the same neighbourhood at six.