The morning was oppressive and sultry. Valerie, coming from her room,
thrust open the window of the sitting-room, with an impatient
exclamation, and sat with her elbows upon the window ledge inhaling what
little air there was to be had. She lolled there, looking down upon the
quaint street in an abstracted mood, for the men had gone for their
matutinal walk after the glass or two of water at the Pouhon.
She was glad to be alone. To herself sometimes she appeared
extraordinary and of an exceptional disposition, of the temperament of
animals that are rendered faithful by brutal treatment. There were days
on which she no longer knew herself, and on which she asked herself
whether she were really the same woman. In reviewing all the baseness
to which she had been bent, she could not believe that it was she who
had undergone it all. She strove to imagine a degree of degradation to
which her nature would refuse to descend.
As she sat, silent and thoughtful, the door opened softly, and a tall,
dark, well-dressed man entered noiselessly. He was good-looking, with a
carriage that was unmistakably military, and a carefully trained
moustache. Glancing quickly round with eyes that had a rather fierce
look in them, he walked over to where mademoiselle sat, and halted
behind her chair.
"So I've found you at last, madame," he exclaimed harshly in English,
placing a heavy hand upon her shoulder.
The unexpected voice startled her.
"_You_!" she gasped, jumping to her feet and turning pale.
"Yes," he replied, leaning against the edge of the table and thrusting
his hands into his pockets with an easy, nonchalant air. "You scarcely
expected this meeting,--did you, eh? Well, although it is a long time
ago since you took it into your head to leave me, you see I haven't
quite lost sight of you. And, after all, it is but natural that I
should be solicitous of your welfare since you are my wife," he added
grimly.
"Wretch! Why have you come here?" she asked in ill-concealed alarm.
"To see you, pretty one," he answered. "Three years is rather a long
period to be absent from one's wife, you'll admit."
"Wife!" she cried in a tone of disgust. "Why not call me by my proper
name? I was your slave, Captain Willoughby. You used me to decoy young
men to your house so that you might fleece them at cards, and when I
refused any longer to participate in your schemes you used brute force
towards me. See!" she continued, unbuttoning the sleeve of her bodice,
and exposing her bare arm--"see, I still bear a mark of your
ill-treatment."
He smiled at her indignation.
"It's very pleasant to talk in this strain, no doubt," he observed, "but
you have apparently overlooked one rather disagreeable fact--that when
leaving Cannes, you took twenty thousand francs belonging to me."
"And what if I did, pray? I left you because of your cruelty, and I've
not since applied to you for maintenance, nor even sought a divorce."
"That's true. But now you've had your fling, perhaps you won't object
to return to your lawful husband."
"You must be an imbecile to think that I would."
"What! You will not?" he cried angrily.
"No, never. I hate and loathe you."
"That makes but little difference," said he coolly. "Nevertheless, as a
wife would be of assistance to me just now, I mean that you shall return
to me."
"But I tell you I will never do so," she declared emphatically.
"Then I shall simply compel you, that's all."
"You! _Sapristi_! Surely I'm my own mistress; therefore, do you think
it probable that I should ever return to be the tool of a miserable
cardsharper? No; I left you in the hope that I should never look upon
your hateful face again, and if you think it possible that we could ever
bury the past and become reconciled, I can at once disabuse your mind.
If I were a sentimental schoolgirl it might be different, but I think
you'll find me too clever for you this time," she said indignantly.
"Don't anticipate that I desire a reconciliation," he remarked in an
indifferent tone. "Valerie Duvauchel--or whatever you now call
yourself--is too well-known to be a desirable companion for long--"
"You need say no more," she cried in anger. "I understand. You want me
again to entice men to their ruin. It is true that I am your wife. I
curse the day when I took the idiotic step of marrying you, but I tell
you once and for all that I'll never return to you."
"You shall," he cried, grasping her roughly by the wrist. "You shall--
I'll compel you By heaven! I will!"
There was a look in his eyes that she did not like. She was cowed for a
few moments, but her timidity was not of long duration.
"I defy you!" she screamed. "Do your worst. I'm perfectly able to
defend myself."
"Then perhaps you'll defend yourself when you are arrested for the
little affair at Carqueiranne. There's a warrant still out, and a
reward offered for your apprehension--remember that."
In a moment she became confused, and her physiognomy, usually so lively,
lost all its lightning glances. Her whole person seemed influenced by
this unexpected and embarrassing announcement.
"Ah, I see!" she said in a husky voice. "Those are your tactics, are
they? You would give me up to the police? Nevertheless, if you have no
love for me, as you assert, why should you desire me to return to you?"
"I know my own business best," was the abrupt reply.
"That I don't doubt; yet you admit that it is best for us to be apart,
although you are inclined to resort to the extremity of which you
speak."
"Who are the men staying here?" he asked sharply. "Friends."
"Not very desirable ones, eh? I fancy I've met Victor Berard somewhere
before. If my memory doesn't fail me it was in Paris only shortly
before the affair of the Boulevard--"
"Enough," she said hoarsely, for she understood that he knew of her
alliance with the pair. "What does it matter to you who my associates
are? We both have to seek our fortunes."
"True, but I like to look after my wife's welfare," declared he, with a
sarcastic smile.
Captain Percy Willoughby was a jovial ne'er-do-weel who smiled at his
lot, and gave himself up to it heedlessly. Weariness, anxiety,
neediness took no hold upon him, and when a gloomy thought came to him,
he would turn away his head, snap his fingers, and, raising his right
arm towards heaven in caricature of a Spanish dancer, send his
melancholy over his shoulder.
"I can do without your attentions, although I'm prepared to negotiate
with you upon fair terms," she exclaimed, for she saw that it was only
by skilful diplomacy that she could extricate herself from the ugly
situation.
"What do you mean?" asked he in surprise.
"Business purely," she replied calmly. "It was unfortunate that I
married you, still there is no reason why the world should know it; and,
moreover, as there is no affection between us, I am willing to pay you
to release me from my bond."
Willoughby knit his brows thoughtfully. He was not prepared for such a
bold proposal.
"You have some scheme of your own in hand, I suppose?"
"That's my business."
"Well, how much are you willing to pay?" he asked, smiling at her
suggestion.
"Twenty-five thousand francs--not a centime more. For that sum I
require a written undertaking that you'll commence a suit for divorce
against me forthwith. You understand?"
She recognised that if she failed to conciliate her husband's demands
all her schemes would be irretrievably ruined, but her tact at such
moments never deserted her, and she was determined that he should not
levy blackmail upon her without strengthening her position thereby.
"You hesitate," she continued. "Why, the whole thing is simple enough.
I will supply you with evidence and witnesses, and upon the day the
decree is pronounced the money shall be yours."
"You must have some good fortune. Where will you get the money from?"
asked he incredulously.
"What does that matter, as long as you have it? We shall then both be
free."
"What guarantee shall I have that you will pay me after I have obtained
the divorce?"
"I will give you a written one if you desire it, so that if I depart
from my word you will still possess power over me," she explained,
beating an impatient tattoo upon the carpet with her tiny slipper.
"Twenty-five thousand francs," he repeated. "You want me to sell you
your liberty for that, do you?"
"Yes, if it pleases you to put it in that way." Then, with an air of
unconcern, she added: "I merely suggest a bargain which you can either
accept or reject. After all, it is, perhaps, immaterial."
"Your freedom must be worth a good deal to you if you are prepared to
pay that price for it," her husband observed shrewdly.
"I desire to sever the tie, that's all."
"You enjoy perfect liberty," remarked the captain. "What more can you
desire?"
"I cannot marry."
"Is that your intention?" he inquired, half convinced that this was the
real cause of her conciliatory attitude.
"I really don't know," she answered unconcernedly. "Yet, even if I did,
what would it matter if we were legally separated? You could marry
also."
The captain was a polished rogue, and fully alive to the fertility of
his wife's skilful devices. He knew she possessed an inexhaustible,
imperturbable confidence, and was wondering what could be the character
of the plan she was evidently bent upon carrying into effect. Twisting
his moustache thoughtfully, he kept his keen eyes fixed upon her.
"I don't feel inclined to accept your remarkable suggestion," he
observed at length. "You're a clever woman, Valerie, and you never
forget to act in your own interests."
"Who but a fool does?" she laughed. His refusal was disappointing,
nevertheless she preserved her calm demeanour, and, shrugging her
shoulders indifferently, exclaimed: "Very well, I don't wish to press
the matter. I shall merely refuse to return to you, whether you obtain
the divorce or not. Surely twenty-five thousand francs and your law
expenses would serve as a panacea to heal your broken heart. However,
if you won't accept it, you'll be that much the poorer."
"Well, even supposing I desired to do it, I should be unable."
"Why?"
"Because I've no money with which to commence the suit."
"Oh, that obstacle is easily removed," she declared, diving into her
pocket, and producing a well-filled purse, which bulged out with paper
money she had won on the previous night.
Selecting three notes of 200 francs each she offered them to him,
saying--
"These will be sufficient to start operations with. When that is
exhausted telegraph for more, and you shall have it."
The gamester's impecuniosity caused him to regard the proffered notes
with covetous eye. After all, he reflected, it would be an easy and
profitable way of earning a good round sum. The prospect of being
divorced from this beautiful yet heartless woman was not at all
disagreeable. He might even make a rich marriage himself.
This latter reflection impressed itself upon his mind.
"Our marriage was a dismal failure--a miserable mistake. We hate one
another heartily; therefore I'm willing to pay handsomely for the
service you can render me. As we were married in London, you will have
to return there and commence the suit," she said.
Willoughby was still undecided, but at length the temptation proved too
great.
"Well, I suppose I must," he said, as he thrust the notes into his
pocket after some further argument. "But won't you give me more? To
you a divorce is worth double."
"No, not another sou. You can take it or leave it."
He saw that to endeavour to obtain more would be futile.
"It's agreed," he said, at last. "I'll sell you your liberty for
twenty-five thousand francs."
"Ah! I thought you wouldn't refuse my munificent offer," she observed,
with a light laugh.
Rising and walking to a side-table whereon were writing materials, she
penned the following lines in French, in a fine angular hand:--
"I, Valerie Willoughby, agree to pay Percy Willoughby the sum of 25,000
francs upon the day a decree of divorce is pronounced absolute against
me."
Blotting it hastily, she returned and handed it to him.
"That'll do," he said, folding it, and transferring it to his
breast-pocket.
"But you will also give me an undertaking," she suggested, for she was
astute, and determined that he should not have absolute power over her
in the event of the collusion being discovered.
"As you please," replied her husband, after a moment's hesitation, and
seating himself, he wrote an agreement promising to obtain the decree in
consideration of the sum stated.
Once more Valerie had triumphed.
She had thought, on her husband's sudden appearance, that she had
encountered that grain of sand which had before brought her to the
ground, yet her audacity had conquered.
"Fool!" thought she, as his pen travelled over the paper. "He will be
glad afterwards to buy back each drop of ink with his own blood. How
dear a pen-stroke may cost one!"
Captain Willoughby, late of Her Majesty's 10th Hussars, had given way
before a flood of adverse circumstances. Voluntarily, insolently, he
flung away his pride and his past. He abandoned himself to that
infernal thing, temptation; yet, after all, he had long ago sacrificed
all that was sincere and grand in his nature. He cared nothing to what
depth of dishonour he descended, as long as he obtained money.
"You will depart at once," she said imperatively, "and leave me to my
own devices. You can write to me at Brussels, and I will see that
witnesses are in attendance when the case is heard. Don't remain here
any longer, for my friends may return at any moment, and must not
discover you. Listen! There's some one coming along the corridor now.
Quick!--go!" Snatching a card from a dainty mother-of-pearl case, she
gave it to him, adding: "You'll find my address on this. Write to me.
Next time we meet we shall not be man and wife."
"Good-bye, Valerie. May the future be more lucky than the past. Depend
upon it, I shall call upon you for payment at a date not far distant,"
said the captain; and, taking up his hat and stick, hurriedly left the
room, closing the door behind him.
His rapid exit was needless, as Hugh Trethowen and his companions had
not yet returned.
When he had gone, Valerie's beautiful but pale face was illuminated by a
smile of joy. She had proved the victor; she had, by sheer force of
will, decreed and, as it were, realised the impossible. Was she not
right to believe in audacity, in the absolute disdain of all law, since
success was hers in this conflict in which the odds had been so terribly
against her? She felt absolutely gay.
Leaning out of the window watching the passers-by, and gazing away over
the superb valley--a peaceful sunlit, rejuvenescent prospect--she said
aloud to herself--
"Who, I wonder, invented remorse? What is folly, remorse--the bugbear
of man? It scares, but it doesn't bite. What foolery--conscience!
I've my conscience and my heart like everybody else, but why should I
reflect over what I've just done? After all, it is nothing--a mere
commonplace transaction which will add considerably to my safety and
well-being. Percy renders me a service, and I pay him dearly for it.
Hurrah for life! What a magnificent morning!"