THE STRANGER
It was M. des Coutures--a middle-aged man, military governor of Le
Havre--who had caught Gaston de Stainville in his arms when the latter
all but lost consciousness. A dozen willing pairs of hands were now
ready to administer to the guest's comforts, from the loosening of his
cravat to the pulling off of his heavy riding boots.
"The mulled wine was too heavy for him," said M. le Maire Valledieu,
"no doubt he had been fasting some hours and his stomach refused to
deal with it."
"Tell the kitchen wench to hurry with that supper, Jean Marie," said
Mortémar to mine host, "he'll be himself again when he has eaten."
"If there's a plate of soup ready, bring that," added M. Valledieu.
"Anything's better than an empty paunch."
"I thank you, friends," now murmured Stainville feebly. "I fear me I
must have turned giddy . . . the heat and . . ."
He was recovering quickly enough. It had been mere dizziness caused by
fatigue; and then that awful blow which had staggered him physically
as well as mentally! His newly found friends had dragged him back to
the table close to the open window: the keen sea-breeze quickly
restored him to complete consciousness.
Already he had turned his head slowly round to watch that fast
disappearing three-decker, gleaming golden now in the distant haze.
His argosy which he had hoped to see returning from her voyage laden
with golden freight! Somehow as first the hulk and then the graceful
sails were gradually merged into the Western glow, Gaston knew--by one
of those inexplainable yet absolutely unerring instincts which baffle
the materialist--that all hopes of those coveted millions were
vanishing as surely as did the ship now from before his gaze. He was
still weak in body as well as in mind, and it was as if in a dream,
that he listened to de Mortémar's carelessly given explanations of the
event which meant the wreckage of so many fondly cherished hopes.
"Captain Barre broke his fast in this very room this morning," said
the young man lightly, "several of these gentlemen here, as well as
myself, had speech with him. He had no idea then that he would have to
start on a voyage quite so soon. He left here at eleven o'clock and
went back to his ship. An hour later when I was strolling along the
shore I met him again. He seemed in a vast hurry and told me in a few
curt words that _Le Monarque_ had received orders to be under way as
soon as the tide permitted."
"You did not ask him whither the ship was bound?" queried Gaston,
speaking hoarsely like a man who has been drinking.
"He could not tell me," replied the other, "her orders were secret."
"Do you know who was the bearer of these secret orders?"
"No, but I heard later that a stranger had ridden into Le Havre at
midday to-day. His mare--a beautiful creature so I understand--dropped
not far from here; she had been ridden to her death, poor thing; and
her rider, so they say, was near to dropping too."
"I saw him," here interposed a young soldier, "he was just outside
that God-forsaken hole, 'Le Gros Normand' and politely asked me if it
were the best inn in Le Havre."
"I hope you told him it was," said des Coutures with a growl, "we want
no stranger here."
"Nor do we want Le Havre to have a reputation for dirt and
discomfort," corrected M. le Maire.
"And I certainly could not allow a gentlemen--for he was that--I'll
lay any wager on it, with any one--to be made superlatively
uncomfortable on the broken beds of 'Le Gros Normand,'" asserted the
young soldier hotly.
"You advised him to come here?" gasped Mortémar with genuine horror.
He was the chief of that clique which desired to exclude, with utmost
rigour from the sacred precincts of "Les Trois Matelots," every
stranger not properly accredited.
"Ma foi! what would you have me do?" retorted the other sulkily.
"You did quite right, Lieutenant le Tellier," rejoined M. le Maire,
who was jealous of the reputation of Le Havre. "Gentlemen must be
under no misapprehension with regard to the refinement and hospitality
of this town."
The entrance of mine host carrying a steaming bowl of soup broke up
the conversation for awhile. Jean Marie was followed by a fat and
jovial-looking wench, who quickly spread a white cloth for Monsieur le
Comte's supper and generally administered to his wants.
De Mortémar, Général des Coutures, and M. le Maire Valledieu had
constituted themselves the nominal hosts of Gaston. They too sat round
the table, and anon when Jean Marie brought huge jugs of red wine,
they fell to and entertained their guest, plying him with meat and
drink.
This broke up the company somewhat. The other gentlemen had withdrawn
with all the respect which Frenchmen always feel for the solemnity of
a meal; they had once more assumed their old places at the various
tables about the room. But no one thought yet of returning home:
"l'heure de l'apéritif" was being indefinitely prolonged.
Conversation naturally drifted back again and again to _Le Monarque_
and her secret orders. Every one scented mystery, for was it not
strange that a noble cavalier like Monsieur le Comte de Stainville
should have ridden all the way from Versailles on the King's business,
in order to have speech with the commander of one of His Majesty's own
ships, only to find that he had been forestalled? The good ship had
apparently received orders which the King knew naught about, else His
Majesty had not sent Monsieur de Stainville all this way on a fool's
errand.
Eager, prying eyes watched him as he began to eat and drink, dreamily
at first, almost drowsily. Obviously he was absorbed in thought. He
too must be racking his brains as to who the stranger might be who had
so unexpectedly forestalled him.
His three genial hosts plied him continually with wine and soon the
traces of fatigue in him began to yield to his usual alertness and
vigour. The well-cooked food, the rich liquors were putting life back
into his veins. And with renewed life came a seething, an ungovernable
wrath.
He had lost a fortune, the gratitude of the King, the goodwill of
Pompadour, two and a half millions of money through the interference
of a stranger!
He tried to think, to imagine, to argue with himself. Treacherous and
false himself, he at once suspected treachery. He imagined that some
sycophant, hanging to the Pompadour's skirts, had succeeded in winning
her good graces sufficiently to be allowed to do this errand for her,
instead of himself.
Or had the King played him false, and sent another messenger to do the
delicate business and to share in the spoils?
Or had Lydie . . . ? But no! this was impossible! What could she have
done at a late hour of the night? How could she have found a messenger
whom she could trust? when earlier in the day she had herself admitted
that there was no one in whom she could confide, and thus turned
almost unwillingly to the friend of her childhood.
Jean Marie's favoured customers sat at the various tables sipping
their eau-de-vie; some had produced dice and cards, whilst others were
content to loll about, still hoping to hear piquant anecdotes of that
distant Court of Versailles, toward which they all sighed so
longingly.
But the elegant guest was proving a disappointment. Even after the
second bumper of wine Gaston de Stainville's tongue had not loosened.
He was speculating on the identity of that mysterious stranger, and
would not allow his moodiness to yield to the joys of good cheer.
To-morrow he would have to ride back to Versailles hardly more
leisurely than he had come, for he must find out the truth of how he
came to be forestalled. But he could not start before dawn, even
though fiery impatience and wrath burned in his veins.
To all inquisitive queries and pointed chaff he replied with a sulky
growl, and very soon the delight of meeting an interesting stranger
gave place to irritation at his sullen mood. He was drinking heavily,
and did not seem cheerful in his cups, and anon even Mortémar's
boisterous hilarity gave way before his persistent gloom.
After an hour or two the company started yawning: every one had had
enough of this silent and ill-tempered stranger, who not only had
brought no new life and animation into the sleepy town, but was ill
repaying the lavish hospitality of "Les Trois Matelots" by his
reticence and sulky humour.
One by one now the habitués departed, nodding genially to mine host,
as they settled for their _consommations_, and bidding as hearty a
good-night to the stranger as their disappointment would allow.
De Mortémar and Valledieu had tried to lure M. le Comte de Stainville
to hazard or even to a more sober game of piquet, but the latter had
persistently refused and sat with legs stretched out before him, hands
buried in breeches' pockets, his head drooping on his chest, and a
meditative scowl between his eyes.
The wine had apparently quite dulled his brilliant wit, and now he
only replied in curt monosyllables to queries addressed directly to
him.
Anon Valledieu and old Général de Coutures pleading the ties of family
and home, begged to be excused. Now de Mortémar alone was left to
entertain his surly guest, bored to distraction, and dislocating his
jaws in the vain efforts which he made to smother persistent yawns.
It was then close on half-past seven. The final glory of the setting
sun had yielded to the magic wand of night which had changed the vivid
crimson and orange first to delicate greens and mauves and then to the
deep, the gorgeous blue of a summer's evening sky. The stars one by
one gleamed in the firmament, and soon the crescent moon, chaste and
cold, added her incomparable glory to the beauty and the silent peace
of the night.
Tiny lights appeared at masthead or prow of the many craft lying at
anchor in the roadsteads, and from far away through the open window
there came wafted, on the sweet salt breeze, the melancholy sound of
an old Normandy ditty sung by a pair of youthful throats.
Fatigue and gloom had oppressed Gaston at first, now it was
unconquerable rage, seething and terrible, which caused him to remain
silent. De Mortémar was racking his brains for an excuse to break up
this wearisome _tête-à-tête_ without overstepping the bounds of
good-breeding, whilst cursing his own impetuosity which had prompted
him to take this surly guest under his wing.
Jean Marie now entered with the candles, causing a welcome diversion.
He placed one massive pewter candelabrum on the table occupied by
Gaston and de Mortémar: the other he carried to the further end of the
room. Having placed that down too, he lolled back toward de Mortémar.
His rubicund face looked troubled, great beads of perspiration stood
out upon his forehead, and his fat fingers wandered along the velvety
surface of his round, closely-cropped crown.
"M'sieu le Comte . . ." he began hesitatingly.
"What is it?" asked Mortémar smothering a yawn.
"A stranger, M'sieu le Comte . . ." stammered Jean Marie.
"What, another? . . . I mean," added the young man with a nervous
little laugh, feeling that the sudden exclamation of undisguised
annoyance was not altogether courteous to his guest, "I mean a . . .
an . . . an . . . unknown stranger? . . . altogether different to M.
le Comte de Stainville, of course!"
"A stranger, M'sieu," repeated Jean Marie curtly. "He came at midday.
. . ."
"And you told us nothing about him?"
"I did not think it was necessary, nor that the stranger would trouble
M'sieu le Comte. He asked for a clean room and a bed and said nothing
about supper at the time. . . . He seemed very tired and gave me a
couple of louis, just if as they were half livres."
"No doubt 'twas the stranger with whom Lieutenant Tellier had speech
outside 'Le Gros Normand!'" suggested de Mortémar.
"Mayhap! mayhap!" rejoined Jean Marie thoughtfully. "I took him up a
bowl of sack and half a cold capon, but what he wanted most was a
large wash-tub and plenty of water . . . it seems he needed a bath!"
"Then he was English," commented Mortémar decisively.
But at these words, Gaston, who had been listening with half an ear to
mine host's explanations, roused himself from his heavy torpor.
The stranger who had forestalled him and sent _Le Monarque_ on her
secret voyage to-day was English!
Then it was . . .
"Where is that stranger now?" he demanded peremptorily.
"That's just it, M'sieu le Comte!" replied Jean Marie, obstinately
ignoring Gaston and still addressing de Mortémar, "he slept all the
afternoon. Now he wants some supper. He throws louis about as if they
were dirt, and I can't serve him in there!" he added with unanswerable
logic and pointing to the stuffy room in the rear.
"Pardi! . . ." began Mortémar.
But Gaston de Stainville was fully alert now; with sudden vigour he
jumped to his feet and brought his fist crashing down on the table so
that the candelabrum, the mugs, and decanters of wine shook under the
blow.
"I beseech you, friend, admit the stranger into this room without
delay," he said loudly. "Ma foi! you have found me dull and listless,
ill-humoured in spite of your lavish hospitality; I swear to you by
all the devils in hell that you'll not yawn once for the next
half-hour, and that Gaston de Stainville and the mysterious stranger,
who thwarts his will and forestalls his orders, will afford you a
measure of amusement such as you'll never forget."
His face was flushed, and his eyes, somewhat hazy from the copiousness
of his libations, had an evil leer in them and an inward glow of
deadly hate. There was no longer any weakness, nor yet ill-humour,
visible in his attitude. His hands were clenched, one resting on the
table, the other roughly pushing back the chair on which he had been
sitting.
"Admit the stranger, friend host!" he shouted savagely. "I'll vouch
for it that your patron will not regret his presence in this room."
"Ma foi! I trust not," said a quiet voice, which seemed to come
suddenly from out the gloom. "Gentlemen, your servant!"
Mortémar turned toward the door, whence had proceeded that gentle,
courteous voice. Lord Eglinton was standing under the lintel,
elegantly attired in full riding dress, with top boots and
closely-fitting coat. He wore no sword, and carried a heavy cloak on
his arm.
He made a comprehensive bow which included every one there present,
then he stepped forward into the room.