of the cut, it was passing just below him. Again luck was against him.
He must wait until all those heavy wagons had lumbered by. Gamba was
only fifty yards behind him. Oh, that cursed train! Would it never
pass! But why wait? Why not ... ah! that was an idea. Desperate, maybe,
but he would stick at nothing.... Nerving himself he leaped, and fell
sprawling on the train.
Fortunately he landed between two huge logs. He was bruised and shaken,
but he raised himself immediately. He had alighted about midway in the
line of wagons and there were three others still to pass the place from
which he had jumped. Now one had passed, then the second, then, just as
the third and last wagon was rumbling by Gamba reached the point.
He hesitated, stared for a moment as if confused, then caught sight of
Hugh. He looked down at the last of the passing wagons. Was he, too,
going to jump? Hugh held his breath. No, Gamba could not make it. That
little moment of hesitation had been fatal; even as he crouched to
spring, the last wagon rolled from beneath him.
Hugh heard a yell of anger. As if dumbfounded, Gamba stood on the point
of rock shaking his fists in impotent rage at the train carelessly
lumbering on its way.
It grew dark quite suddenly. Hugh heard the puffing of the engine, and
saw a cloud of steam with an under-glow of orange. In spite of his
bruises he was feeling extravagantly happy. How lucky to have jumped
on the train! At the rate they were going he would be in Agaccio in an
hour. He breathed freely now. Freedom, safety lay ahead. Soon, very
soon, he would be on the boat for Marseilles. Then ho! for Paris....
What was the matter? They were slowing up.
Yes, they were stopping at a station. He hoped it would not be a long
stop. In any case he must be well ahead of his pursuers by now ... that
is, if they had not given up the pursuit. There in the dusk he lay
between the two great logs, and once more congratulated himself on his
escape. The air was rich with the perfume of pines, and the stars were
like glow-worms in the fields of heaven.
Hark! What was that? He was horribly nervous. As he strained his ears,
he fancied he heard the distant beat of galloping hoofs. They came
nearer. He heard them drumming on the road that ran beside the railway
track. He might have known it; his enemies were racing to cut him off.
Had they arrived at the station before the train, they could have
easily captured him. What an escape! And now they were drawing closer.
When they got too close, he would take to the forest. Then the awful
nerve-racking hunt would begin again.
In imagination he saw them, spurring and lashing their horses,
straining every nerve to reach the station before the train pulled out.
Would it never start? The drumming hoofs sounded very near indeed. The
engine-driver lighted his pipe, and made some joking remark to the
station master. At last, he turned and jumped up to his cab. Thank God!
the train was in motion.
It cleared the station and gathered speed, plunging once more into
the forest. And not a moment too soon! Hugh looked back to see three
horsemen dash into the light, leap from their horses and run forward.
Too late!...
A few miles further on the train came to another halt. Perhaps it was
imagination, but Hugh thought he heard again the sound of furious
galloping. He heaved a sigh of relief when once more they were under
way.
Soon the lights of Agaccio appeared and the train slowed up. Hugh
jumped down and made for the harbour. With a thrill of joy he
boarded the steamer, and, going forward, mingled with a crowd of
garlic-flavoured Corsicans.
When the boat cleared and blew her whistle it sounded to him like a
hoarse bellow of triumph. As she stood out to sea he looked back at
the lights of the harbour. He fancied he still heard the galloping of
exhausted horses, and the curses of three maddened men. Perhaps they
were there now, standing on the wharf, gazing in rage and despair after
the departing steamer. He hoped they were.
“Corsica, farewell!” he cried. “As long as I live I’ll never set foot
on your shores again. I’m free, free once more. And now for Paris ...
Margot....”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARGOT
How strange is the romance of destiny! Four nights before he had lain
in a cave in the hinterland of Corsica, listening to a brigand’s tale
of blood, and now, behold, he was in Paris, walking the Boulevard
Montparnasse, and searching for a certain number.
He found it, an old house sandwiched between two modern ones. Looking
up to its mansarded roof he saw a window alight, a window with a small
balcony. That must be her room. He had heard her speak of it so often,
her “Mansard of Dreams” as she called it. His heart beat excitedly;
then suddenly he saw a shadow on the blind. Yes, it was her shadow,
Margot’s. Should he go up? He thought not. It was too late. She was
probably very busy, preparing for the morrow, her marriage morn. No, he
would not bother her to-night.
While he was thus arguing with himself, his feet were carrying him to
the door. A fat concierge was giving a Pekinese spaniel an airing.
Suddenly he heard himself asking.
“Does Mademoiselle Leblanc live here?”
“Yes, monsieur. Fifth floor. Door to the right.”
It sounded like an invitation to go up, and he accepted it. As he
mounted the broken stairs, his heart beat faster. Very silly this! Why
should making a call on her so excite him? It was hard to believe that
she was there. It seemed years since he had seen her,--far back in a
somewhat uncertain past.
He found himself at the door, knocking. How his confounded heart was
knocking too! _Damn!_ He could hear her moving about inside. Perhaps
she thought it was some one else. Perhaps when she saw it was he, she
would be disappointed. She was taking a long time to open the door. He
felt a great longing come over him, a great tenderness. He would take
her in his arms, kiss her, overwhelm her with passionate caresses.
He did none of these things. When the door opened, he was the
punctilious, rather cold, young man she had always known.
“Good evening,” he said politely.
“_You!_”
She stood staring at him; her blue eyes big in her pale face; her
hands up to her heart as if to still its tumult. She wore a loose
black _peignoir_ that showed off by contrast the pearly whiteness of
her skin. Against the background of her pale gold hair her face was
delicately sweet. For the hundredth time she reminded him of a lily.
“It is, indeed, you?”
She took both his hands and pulled him gently into the room. She had
pinned up her hair rather hastily, and it came tumbling about her. As
she raised her hands again to pile it about her head, he stopped her.
“No, leave it like that. It was like that the first time I saw you. I
will always think of you that way.”
She let it fall, a shimmering cape around her.
“I’m sorry,” she said faintly, “to receive you in this poor shabby
room. Please sit down on that chair. It’s my only one.”
He took it. She herself sat down on the edge of the bed, facing him.
“I hurried to get here,” he told her awkwardly. “I wanted to be present
at the ceremony,--even if only as a spectator in the background.”
“What ceremony?”
“Your wedding, to-morrow.”
“Why, didn’t you know? I wrote to tell you I’d refused him.”
“I didn’t get the letter. You refused him.... Why?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t care enough for him. I don’t think
shall ever marry.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“Working,--with Jeanne. We are taking a shop. I thought it was she when
you knocked.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes, happier than I have ever been in my life.”
“And I am more miserable.”
“You! Why?”
“Because ... I’m lonely. Look here, Margot, I want you. I only realized
how much I needed you after you went away--how much you mean to me. I
say, Margot, I suppose I’m a stiff, cold sort of a chap. I can’t do the
sentimental stuff. I can’t make pretty speeches, but I really do care
for you.”
“As a sister?”
“No, an awful lot more than that! I can’t do without you, dear. I know
it now. I knew it the moment I’d thought I’d lost you. Don’t tell me
I’ve lost you, Margot.”
He leaned forward, staring anxiously into her eyes. She sat quite
still, her breath coming fast.
“Marry _me_, Margot,” he faltered, “Me!”
She seemed made of ice. “That’s very kind of you,” she said.
“Not at all, Margot. Believe me, I’m not kind. I’m humble. I’m
pleading. I’ll get down on my knees if you like.”
“No, please don’t.”
“Look here....” He suddenly leaned forward. He took a handful of her
shining hair and twisted it into a great golden rope, then wound it
around her white throat.
“Margot,” he said savagely, “if you don’t say yes, I’ll strangle you
right here. Say yes.”
“Is it to save my life I must say yes?”
“Your life--and mine.”
“Well, if it’s to save yours, too.... Yes!”
The tension was over. He rose. He was radiant. He laughed.
“I’ll see the British Consul to-morrow; and we’ll get hitched up in a
few days. Now I’m going. I want to be alone, to realize my happiness,
to sing to the stars. I want to celebrate, to get drunk. Margot, may I
get drunk to-night?”
“What!”
“With joy I mean. I want to sit in a café by myself and let my
happiness soak in gradually. I want to smile like an idiot over a café
crême and have people look at me twice, and say, ‘_Mais ... il est fou,
ce gars la_....’ I want to laugh loudly at the moon, and dance the
can-can by the Carpeaux fountain. Oh Margot, Margot....”
Down in the street a passing _sergent de ville_ who happened to look up
at the lighted mansard window, saw two separate shadows on the blind.
The masculine shadow reached out to the feminine one, then the two
shadows became one.
“_Ah! Ces amoureux!_” he remarked with a shrug as he went on his way.
CHAPTER NINE
AND LAST
A year later Hugh sat at his desk, reading the following letter:
MY DEAR CHAP:
I wrote to you in Menton, and the letter came back. But the other day
a man in the office saw you in Paris and gave me your address. He
also gave me a very good account of you; I am glad, for I have often
felt anxious about you. I hope now that you have again taken up the
burden of the wage-earner, you are not finding it too heavy. I’ve
become a professional ink-slinger. You remember me as a dilettante,
a trifler. I wrote whimsical essays; I cultivated an urbane humour.
Then one day in a fantastic mood I started a burlesque of the German
spy novel. I showed it to a bloated publisher who refused to publish
it as a burlesque, but suggested that it would go as a serious
effort. He thought the public would take it that way. The public did.
So now behold me, a popular author, a six shilling shocker to my
credit, another half-done, and many more in my mental incubator.
Of course, on the strength of my success I resigned from Gummage &
Meek. We had saved a few thousand pounds, so if literature proves
more of a staff than a crutch, we won’t be altogether on the rocks.
Better still, a preposterously rich bachelor brother of my wife’s has
promised to see the two boys through school and college. In short,
I find at last my dream realized. I am free to cultivate my literary
cail-yaird.
I want now to find some quiet place where I can live in a leisurely
way, polish my gems, and generally lead a pleasant, tolerant,
contemplative life. Do you, with your knowledge of the south
of France, know of such a place? The exchange rate now is so
advantageous.
Please rub a little liniment on your strong right arm, grip your pen
with intense determination, and favour me with a few lines.
Sincerely,
ARTHUR AINGER.
Hugh looked round the shabby but comfortable room he called his den.
There was a roll-top desk, crimson-curtained book shelves, a big easy
chair by the window, many unframed canvases on the walls. His eyes
rested on each article with loving satisfaction.
“Good old chap,” he said, “I’ll answer his letter right away.”
So he sat down at his desk and began:
DEAR MR. AINGER:
I am more than ashamed that I have never written to you; but so
many things have happened. To begin with I have a modest apartment
near the Luxemburg Gardens. I was married a year ago. My wife’s a
jolly good sort. You’d like her. I intended after my marriage to
get work of some kind, but the unexpected happened. It seems I had
a maternal grandmother living in Monaco. She had quarrelled with my
mother; and though she gave consent to the marriage she refused to
be reconciled. When she died it was found she had left everything to
me. They had some trouble in finding me, but through the old chap who
brought me up, they eventually did.
I now find myself the owner of a property in the Condamine that nets
me twelve thousand francs a year, enough for two quiet people to jog
along on quite comfortably. After all, I’ve come to the conclusion
I’m one of those simple souls who want to slip through life with as
little trouble as possible to themselves and to every one else.
My hobbies are cars and painting. I am the proud possessor of
a little Buggatti in which I whiz the wife out to Barbizon
occasionally. Otherwise I attend the Ecole des Beaux Arts and am
doing quite well. In time I hope I’ll make an averagely good artist,
and occasionally sell a _croute_.
I am so glad to hear of your success. The sort of books you write are
the sort I like. But then I am not exacting, and read to take my mind
off the monotony of existence. Sometimes, you know, on a wet day when
one can’t paint and there’s no billiard table, a good yarn’s not a
bad thing to pass the time. I imagine there’s a whole lot like me.
By the way, you speak of finding a quiet corner where you can hole up
and live cheaply. I have a little cottage at Villefranche which I can
offer you. There’s not much in the way of furniture, but you can stay
there as long as you like and what with the produce of a big garden
and the fish you can catch, the cost of life is reduced to a minimum.
Now don’t refuse....
Hugh had got this far when Margot entered. He handed her his letter to
read.
“Why,” she said indignantly, “you’ve left out the most important thing
of all.”
“Oh, yes, I quite forgot about that.”
“Forgot! Listen. The precious little darling! He’s crying for me now.”
“Yes, his lungs are better than his looks.”
“I like that. Everybody says he’s the image of you. Now, I must run.”
“All right. I’ll put him in the postscript.”
Hugh added a few more words as he listened to the subsiding wails of
his son and heir. Then throwing himself in his easy chair with a laugh
of utter happiness he lit his pipe.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.