HELP.
The moment she was gone, Watts held out his hand, saying: “Here, old
man, let us shake hands again. It’s almost like going back to college
days to see my old chum. Come to the snuggery, where we shan’t be
interrupted.” They went through two rooms, to one fitted up as a
smoking-room and office. “It’s papa-in-law’s workshop. He can’t drop
his work at the bank, so he brings it home and goes on here. Sit down.
Here, take a cigar. Now, are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“_Maintenant_, I suppose you want to know why I wrote you to come so
quickly?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the truth of it is, I’m in an awful mess. Yesterday I was so
desperate I thought I should blow my brains out. I went round to the
club to see if I couldn’t forget or drown my trouble, just as sick as a
man could be. Fellows talking. First thing I heard was your name. ‘Just
won a great case.’ ‘One of the best lawyers in New York.’ Thinks I to
myself, ‘That’s a special providence.’ Peter always was the fellow to
pull me through my college scrapes. I’ll write him.’ Did it, and played
billiards for the rest of the evening, secure in the belief that you
would come to my help, just as you used to.”
“Tell me what it is?”
“Even that isn’t easy, chum. It’s a devilish hard thing to tell even to
you.”
“Is it money trou—?”
“No, no!” Watts interrupted. “It isn’t that. The truth is I’ve a great
deal more money than is good for me, and apparently always shall have.
I wish it were only that!”
“How can I help you?” began Peter.
“I knew you would,” cried Watts, joyfully. “Just the same old reliable
you always were. Here. Draw up nearer. That’s it. Now then, here goes.
I shan’t mind if you are shocked at first. Be as hard on me as you
like.”
“Well?”
“Well, to make a long story short, I’m entangled with a woman, and
there’s the devil to pay. Now you’ll pull me through, old man, won’t
you?”
“No.”
“Don’t say that, Peter! You must help me. You’re my only hope.
“I do not care to mix myself in such a business,” said Peter, very
quietly. “I would rather know nothing about it.” Peter rose.
“Don’t desert me,” cried Watts, springing to his feet, and putting his
hand on Peter’s shoulder, so as to prevent his progress to the door.
“Don’t. She’s going to expose me. Think of the disgrace! My God, Peter,
think—”
“Take your hand off my shoulder.”
“But Peter, think—”
“The time to think was before—not now, Watts. I will not concern myself
in this.”
“But, old man. I can’t face it. It will kill Helen!”
Peter had already thrown aside the arm, and had taken a step towards
the doorway. He stopped and turned. “She does not know?”
“Not a suspicion. And nothing but absolute proof will make her believe
it. She worships me. Oh, Peter, save her! Save Leonore—if you won’t
save me!”
“Can they be saved?”
“That’s what I want to know. Here—sit down, please! I’ll tell you all
about it.”
Peter hesitated a moment, and then sat down.
“It began in Paris twelve years ago. Such affairs have a way of
beginning in Paris, old man. It’s in the atmosphere. She—”
“Stop. I will ask questions. There’s no good going over the whole
story.” Peter tried to speak calmly, and to keep his voice and face
from showing what he felt. He paused a moment, and then said: “She
threatens to expose you. Why?”
“Well, after three years I tired of it and tried to end it. Then she
used it to blackmail me for ten years, till, in desperation, I came to
America, to see if I couldn’t escape her.”
“And she followed you?”
“Yes. She was always tracking me in Europe, and making my life a hell
on earth, and now she’s followed me here.”
“If it’s merely a question of money, I don’t see what you want of me.”
“She says she doesn’t want money now—but revenge. She’s perfectly
furious over my coming off without telling her—always had an awful
temper—and—well, you know an infuriated woman is capable of anything.
The Spaniard was right who said it was easier to take care of a peck of
fleas than one woman, eh, chum?”
“So she threatens to tell your wife?”
“No. She says she’s going to summon me into court.”
“On what grounds?”
“That’s the worst part of it. You see, chum, there’s a child, and she
says she’s going to apply for a proper support for it. Proper support!
Heavens! The money I’ve paid her would support ten children. It’s only
temper.”
Peter said, “Watts, Watts,” in a sad voice.
“Pretty bad, isn’t it? If it wasn’t for the child I could—”
Peter interrupted. “Has she any proofs of paternity besides—?”
Watts interrupted in turn. “Yes. Confound it! I was fool enough to
write letters during my infatuation. Talleyrand was right when he said
only fools and women wrote letters.”
“How could you?”
“That’s what I’ve asked myself a hundred times. Oh, I’m sorry enough.
I’ve sworn never to put pen to paper again. _Jamais!_”
“I did not mean the letters. But your vow.”
“My vow?”
“Your marriage vow.”
“Oh, yes. I know. But you know, chum, before you promise to love one
woman for all time you should have seen them all.”
“And that display ten minutes ago was all mockery?”
“No, no! Really, Peter, I’m awfully fond of the little woman. Really I
am. And you know Daudet says a man can love two women at the same
time.”
“And if so, how about his honor?” Peter was trying to repress his
emotion, but it would jerk out questions.
“Yes, I know. I’ve said that to myself over and over again. Why, look
here.” Watts pulled a small revolver from his hip pocket. “This will
show you how close to the desperation point I have come. I’ve carried
that for two days, so that if worse comes to worse—well. Phut!—_Voila
tout_.”
Peter rose, speaking in a voice ringing with scorn. “You would escape
your sin, to leave it with added disgrace for your wife and daughter to
bear! Put up your pistol, Watts D’Alloi. If I am to help you, I want to
help a man—not a skulker. What do you want me to do?”
“That’s what I wish to know. What can I do?”
“You have offered her money?”
“Yes. I told her that—”
“Never mind details,” interrupted Peter, “Was it enough to put further
offers out of the question?”
“Yes. She won’t hear of money. She wants revenge.”
“Give me her name and address.”
“Celestine—” The rest was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Well?”
said Watts.
The door was opened, and a footman entered. “If you please, Mr.
D’Alloi, there’s a Frenchwoman at the door who wants to see you. She
won’t give me her name, but says you’ll know who it is.”
“Say I won’t see her. That I’m busy.”
“She told me to say that if you were engaged, she’d see Mrs. D’Alloi.”
“My God!” said Watts, under his breath.
“Ask the woman to come in here,” said Peter, quietly, but in a way
which made the man leave the room without waiting to see if Watts
demurred.
A complete silence followed. Then came the rustle of skirts, and a
woman entered the room. Peter, who stood aside, motioned to the footman
to go, and closed the door himself, turning the key.
The woman came to the middle of the room. “So, Monsieur D’Alloi,” she
said in French, speaking very low and distinctly, “you thought it best
not to order your groom to turn me out, as you did that last day in
Paris, when you supposed your flight to America left you free to do as
you pleased? But you did not escape me. Here I am.”
Watts sat down in an easy-chair, and striking a match, lighted a
cigarette. “That, Celestine,” he said in French, “is what in English we
call a self-evident proposition.”
Celestine’s foot began to tap the floor, “You needn’t pretend you
expected I would follow you. You thought you could drop me, like an old
slipper.”
Watts blew a whiff of tobacco from his mouth. “It was a remark of
Ricard’s, I believe, ‘that in woman, one should always expect the
unexpected.’”
“_Mon Dieu_!” shrieked Celestine. “If I—if I could kill you—you—”
She was interrupted by Peter’s bringing a chair to her and saying in
French, “Will you not sit down, please?”
She turned in surprise, for she had been too wrought up to notice that
Peter was in the room. She stared at him and then sat down.
“That’s right,” said Watts. “Take it easy. No occasion to get excited.”
“Ah!” screamed Celestine, springing to her feet, “your name shall be in
all the papers. You shall—”
Peter again interrupted. “Madame, will you allow me to say something?”
He spoke gently and deferentially.
Celestine looked at him again, saying rapidly: “Why should I listen to
you? What are you to me? I don’t even know you. My mind’s made up. I
tell you—” The woman was lashing herself into a fury, and Peter
interrupted her again:
“Pardon me. We are strangers. If I ask anything of you for myself, I
should expect a refusal. But I ask it for humanity, to which we all owe
help. Only hear what I have to say. I do not claim it as a right, but
as a favor.”
Celestine sat down. “I listen,” she said. She turned her chair from
Watts and faced Peter, as he stood at the study table.
Peter paused a moment, and then said: “After what I have seen, I feel
sure you wish only to revenge yourself on Mr. D’Alloi?”
“Yes.”
“Now let me show you what you will do. For the last two days Mr.
D’Alloi has carried a pistol in his pocket, and if you disgrace him he
will probably shoot himself.”
“Bon!”
“But where is your revenge? He will be beyond your reach, and you will
only have a human life upon your conscience ever after.”
“I shall not grieve!”
“Nor is that all. In revenging yourself on him, you do one of the
cruelest acts possible. A wife, who trusts and believes in him, will
have her faith and love shattered. His daughter—a young girl, with all
her life before her—must ever after despise her father and blush at her
name. Do not punish the weak and innocent for the sin of the guilty!”
Peter spoke with an earnestness almost terrible. Tears came into his
eyes as he made his appeal, and his two auditors both rose to their
feet, under the impulse of his voice even more than of his words. So
earnest was he, and so spell-bound were the others, that they failed to
hear the door from the dining-room move, or notice the entrance of Mrs.
D’Alloi as Peter ended his plea.
A moment’s silence followed Peter’s outburst of feeling. Then the
Frenchwoman cried:
“Truly, truly. But what will you do for me and my child? Haven’t we
been ill-treated? Don’t you owe us help, too? Justice? Don’t we deserve
tenderness and protection?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “But you wish revenge. Ask for justice, ask for
help, and I will do what is within my power to aid you.”
“Watts,” cried Mrs. D’Alloi, coming forward, “of what child are you
talking? Whose child? Who is this woman?”
Watts jumped as if he had been shot. Celestine even retreated before
the terrible voice and face with which Mrs. D’Alloi asked her
questions. A sad, weary look came into Peter’s eyes. No one answered
Mrs. D’Alloi.
“Answer me,” she cried
“My dear little woman. Don’t get excited. It’s all right.” Watts
managed to say this much. But he did not look his last remark.
“Answer me, I say. Who is this woman? Speak!”
“It’s all right, really, it’s all right. Here. Peter will tell you it’s
all right.”
“Peter,” cried Mrs. D’Alloi. “Of whose child were you speaking?”
Peter was still standing by the desk. He looked sad and broken, as he
said:
“This is the mother, Mrs. D’Alloi.”
“Yes? Yes?”
Peter raised his eyes to Helen’s and looked at her. Then he said
quietly:
“And Watts—will tell you that—I am its father.”