1.
Ah! my dear Sir, I cannot tell you how poor we all were in France in
that year of grace 1816—so poor, indeed, that a dish of roast pork was
looked upon as a feast, and a new gown for the wife an unheard-of
luxury.
The war had ruined everyone. Twenty-two years! and hopeless humiliation
and defeat at the end of it. The Emperor handed over to the English; a
Bourbon sitting on the throne of France; crowds of foreign soldiers
still lording it all over the country—until the country had paid its
debts to her foreign invaders, and thousands of our own men still
straggling home through Germany and Belgium—the remnants of Napoléon’s
Grand Army—ex-prisoners of war, or scattered units who had found their
weary way home at last, shoeless, coatless, half starved and perished
from cold and privations, unfit for housework, for agriculture, or for
industry, fit only to follow their fallen hero, as they had done
through a quarter of a century, to victory and to death.
With me, Sir, business in Paris was almost at a standstill. I, who had
been the confidential agent of two kings, three democrats and one
emperor; I, who had held diplomatic threads in my hands which had
caused thrones to totter and tyrants to quake, and who had brought more
criminals and intriguers to book than any other man alive—I now sat in
my office in the Rue Daunou day after day with never a client to darken
my doors, even whilst crime and political intrigue were more rife in
Paris than they had been in the most corrupt days of the Revolution and
the Consulate.
I told you, I think, that I had forgiven Theodore his abominable
treachery in connexion with the secret naval treaty, and we were the
best of friends—that is, outwardly, of course. Within my inmost heart I
felt, Sir, that I could never again trust that shameless traitor—that I
had in very truth nurtured a serpent in my bosom. But I am proverbially
tender-hearted. You will believe me or not, I simply could not turn
that vermin out into the street. He deserved it! Oh, even he would have
admitted when he was quite sober, which was not often, that I had every
right to give him the sack, to send him back to the gutter whence he
had come, there to grub once more for scraps of filth and to stretch a
half-frozen hand to the charity of the passers by.
But I did not do it, Sir. No, I did not do it. I kept him on at the
office as my confidential servant; I gave him all the crumbs that fell
from mine own table, and he helped himself to the rest. I made as
little difference as I could in my intercourse with him. I continued to
treat him almost as an equal. The only difference I did make in our
mode of life was that I no longer gave him bed and board at the
hostelry where I lodged in Passy, but placed the chair-bedstead in the
anteroom of the office permanently at his disposal, and allowed him
five sous a day for his breakfast.
But owing to the scarcity of business that now came my way, Theodore
had little or nothing to do, and he was in very truth eating his head
off, and with that, grumble, grumble all the time, threatening to leave
me, if you please, to leave my service for more remunerative
occupation. As if anyone else would dream of employing such an
out-at-elbows mudlark—a jail-bird, Sir, if you’ll believe me.
Thus the Spring of 1816 came along. Spring, Sir, with its beauty and
its promises, and the thoughts of love which come eternally in the
minds of those who have not yet wholly done with youth. Love, Sir! I
dreamed of it on those long, weary afternoons in April, after I had
consumed my scanty repast, and whilst Theodore in the anteroom was
snoring like a hog. At even, when tired out and thirsty, I would sit
for a while outside a humble café on the outer boulevards, I watched
the amorous couples wander past me on their way to happiness. At night
I could not sleep, and bitter were my thoughts, my revilings against a
cruel fate that had condemned me—a man with so sensitive a heart and so
generous a nature—to the sorrows of perpetual solitude.
That, Sir, was my mood, when on a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon
toward the end of April, I sat mooning disconsolately in my private
room and a timid rat-tat at the outer door of the apartment roused
Theodore from his brutish slumbers. I heard him shuffling up to the
door, and I hurriedly put my necktie straight and smoothed my hair,
which had become disordered despite the fact that I had only indulged
in a very abstemious déjeuner.
When I said that the knock at my door was in the nature of a timid
rat-rat I did not perhaps describe it quite accurately. It was timid,
if you will understand me, and yet bold, as coming from one who might
hesitate to enter and nevertheless feels assured of welcome. Obviously
a client, I thought.
Effectively, Sir, the next moment my eyes were gladdened by the sight
of a lovely woman, beautifully dressed, young, charming, smiling but to
hide her anxiety, trustful, and certainly wealthy.
The moment she stepped into the room I knew that she was wealthy; there
was an air of assurance about her which only those are able to assume
who are not pestered with creditors. She wore two beautiful diamond
rings upon her hands outside her perfectly fitting glove, and her
bonnet was adorned with flowers so exquisitely fashioned that a
butterfly would have been deceived and would have perched on it with
delight.
Her shoes were of the finest kid, shiny at the toes like tiny mirrors,
whilst her dainty ankles were framed in the filmy lace frills of her
pantalets.
Within the wide brim of her bonnet her exquisite face appeared like a
rosebud nestling in a basket. She smiled when I rose to greet her, gave
me a look that sent my susceptible heart a-flutter and caused me to
wish that I had not taken that bottle-green coat of mine to the Mont de
Piété only last week. I offered her a seat, which she took, arranging
her skirts about her with inimitable grace.
“One moment,” I added, as soon as she was seated, “and I am entirely at
your service.”
I took up pen and paper—an unfinished letter which I always keep handy
for the purpose—and wrote rapidly. It always looks well for a lawyer or
an _agent confidentiel_ to keep a client waiting for a moment or two
while he attends to the enormous pressure of correspondence which, if
allowed to accumulate for five minutes, would immediately overwhelm
him. I signed and folded the letter, threw it with a nonchalant air
into a basket filled to the brim with others of equal importance,
buried my face in my hands for a few seconds as if to collect my
thoughts, and finally said:
“And now, Mademoiselle, will you deign to tell me what procures me the
honour of your visit?”
The lovely creature had watched my movements with obvious impatience, a
frown upon her exquisite brow. But now she plunged straightway into her
story.
“Monsieur,” she said with that pretty, determined air which became her
so well, “my name is Estelle Bachelier. I am an orphan, an heiress, and
have need of help and advice. I did not know to whom to apply. Until
three months ago I was poor and had to earn my living by working in a
milliner’s shop in the Rue St. Honoré. The concierge in the house where
I used to lodge is my only friend, but she cannot help me for reasons
which will presently be made clear to you. She told me, however, that
she had a nephew named Theodore, who was clerk to M. Ratichon, advocate
and confidential agent. She gave me your address; and as I knew no one
else I determined to come and consult you.”
I flatter myself, that though my countenance is exceptionally mobile, I
possess marvellous powers for keeping it impassive when necessity
arises. In this instance, at mention of Theodore’s name, I showed
neither surprise nor indignation. Yet you will readily understand that
I felt both. Here was that man, once more revealed as a traitor.
Theodore had an aunt of whom he had never as much as breathed a word.
He had an aunt, and that aunt a concierge—_ipso facto_, if I may so
express it, a woman of some substance, who, no doubt, would often have
been only too pleased to extend hospitality to the man who had so
signally befriended her nephew; a woman, Sir, who was undoubtedly
possessed of savings which both reason and gratitude would cause her to
invest in an old-established and substantial business run by a
trustworthy and capable man, such, for instance, as the bureau of a
confidential agent in a good quarter of Paris, which, with the help of
a little capital, could be rendered highly lucrative and beneficial to
all those, concerned.
I determined then and there to give Theodore a piece of my mind and to
insist upon an introduction to his aunt. After which I begged the
beautiful creature to proceed.
“My father, Monsieur,” she continued, “died three months ago, in
England, whither he had emigrated when I was a mere child, leaving my
poor mother to struggle along for a livelihood as best she could. My
mother died last year, Monsieur, and I have had a hard life; and now it
seems that my father made a fortune in England and left it all to me.”
I was greatly interested in her story.
“The first intimation I had of it, Monsieur, was three months ago, when
I had a letter from an English lawyer in London telling me that my
father, Jean Paul Bachelier—that was his name, Monsieur—had died out
there and made a will leaving all his money, about one hundred thousand
francs, to me.”
“Yes, yes!” I murmured, for my throat felt parched and my eyes dim.
Hundred thousand francs! Ye gods!
“It seems,” she proceeded demurely, “that my father put it in his will
that the English lawyers were to pay me the interest on the money until
I married or reached the age of twenty-one. Then the whole of the money
was to be handed over to me.”
I had to steady myself against the table or I would have fallen over
backwards! This godlike creature, to whom the sum of one hundred
thousand francs was to be paid over when she married, had come to me
for help and advice! The thought sent my brain reeling! I am so
imaginative!
“Proceed, Mademoiselle, I pray you,” I contrived to say with dignified
calm.
“Well, Monsieur, as I don’t know a word of English, I took the letter
to Mr. Farewell, who is the English traveller for Madame Cécile, the
milliner for whom I worked. He is a kind, affable gentleman and was
most helpful to me. He was, as a matter of fact, just going over to
England the very next day. He offered to go and see the English lawyers
for me, and to bring me back all particulars of my dear father’s death
and of my unexpected fortune.”
“And,” said I, for she had paused a moment, “did Mr. Farewell go to
England on your behalf?”
“Yes, Monsieur. He went and returned about a fortnight later. He had
seen the English lawyers, who confirmed all the good news which was
contained in their letter. They took, it seems, a great fancy to Mr.
Farewell, and told him that since I was obviously too young to live
alone and needed a guardian to look after my interests, they would
appoint him my guardian, and suggested that I should make my home with
him until I was married or had attained the age of twenty-one. Mr.
Farewell told me that though this arrangement might be somewhat
inconvenient in his bachelor establishment, he had been unable to
resist the entreaties of the English lawyers, who felt that no one was
more fitted for such onerous duties than himself, seeing that he was
English and so obviously my friend.”
“The scoundrel! The blackguard!” I exclaimed in an unguarded outburst
of fury. . . .
“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” I added more calmly, seeing that the
lovely creature was gazing at me with eyes full of astonishment not
unmixed with distrust, “I am anticipating. Am I to understand, then,
that you have made your home with this Mr. Farewell?”
“Yes, Monsieur, at number sixty-five Rue des Pyramides.”
“Is he a married man?” I asked casually.
“He is a widower, Monsieur.”
“Middle-aged?”
“Quite elderly, Monsieur.”
I could have screamed with joy. I was not yet forty myself.
“Why!” she added gaily, “he is thinking of retiring from business—he
is, as I said, a commercial traveller—in favour of his nephew, M.
Adrien Cazalès.”
Once more I had to steady myself against the table. The room swam round
me. One hundred thousand francs!—a lovely creature!—an unscrupulous
widower!—an equally dangerous young nephew. I rose and tottered to the
window. I flung it wide open—a thing I never do save at moments of
acute crises.
The breath of fresh air did me good. I returned to my desk, and was
able once more to assume my habitual dignity and presence of mind.
“In all this, Mademoiselle,” I said in my best professional manner, “I
do not gather how I can be of service to you.”
“I am coming to that, Monsieur,” she resumed after a slight moment of
hesitation, even as an exquisite blush suffused her damask cheeks. “You
must know that at first I was very happy in the house of my new
guardian. He was exceedingly kind to me, though there were times
already when I fancied . . .”
She hesitated—more markedly this time—and the blush became deeper on
her cheeks. I groaned aloud.
“Surely he is too old,” I suggested.
“Much too old,” she assented emphatically.
Once more I would have screamed with joy had not a sharp pang, like a
dagger-thrust, shot through my heart.
“But the nephew, eh?” I said as jocosely, as indifferently as I could.
“Young M. Cazalès? What?”
“Oh!” she replied with perfect indifference. “I hardly ever see him.”
Unfortunately it were not seemly for an avocat and the _agent
confidentiel_ of half the Courts of Europe to execute the measures of a
polka in the presence of a client, or I would indeed have jumped up and
danced with glee. The happy thoughts were hammering away in my mind:
“The old one is much too old—the young one she never sees!” and I could
have knelt down and kissed the hem of her gown for the exquisite
indifference with which she had uttered those magic words: “Oh! I
hardly ever see him!”—words which converted my brightest hopes into
glowing possibilities.
But, as it was, I held my emotions marvellously in check, and with
perfect sang-froid once more asked the beauteous creature how I could
be of service to her in her need.
“Of late, Monsieur,” she said, as she raised a pair of limpid, candid
blue eyes to mine, “my position in Mr. Farewell’s house has become
intolerable. He pursues me with his attentions, and he has become
insanely jealous. He will not allow me to speak to anyone, and has even
forbidden M. Cazalès, his own nephew, the house. Not that I care about
that,” she added with an expressive shrug of the shoulders.
“He has forbidden M. Cazalès the house,” rang like a paean in my ear.
“Not that she cares about that! Tra la, la, la, la, la!” What I
actually contrived to say with a measured and judicial air was:
“If you deign to entrust me with the conduct of your affairs, I would
at once communicate with the English lawyers in your name and suggest
to them the advisability of appointing another guardian. . . . I would
suggest, for instance . . . er . . . that I . . .”
“How can you do that, Monsieur?” she broke in somewhat impatiently,
“seeing that I cannot possibly tell you who these lawyers are?”
“Eh?” I queried, gasping.
“I neither know their names nor their residence in England.”
Once more I gasped. “Will you explain?” I murmured.
“It seems, Monsieur, that while my dear mother lived she always refused
to take a single sou from my father, who had so basely deserted her. Of
course, she did not know that he was making a fortune over in England,
nor that he was making diligent inquiries as to her whereabouts when he
felt that he was going to die. Thus, he discovered that she had died
the previous year and that I was working in the atelier of Madame
Cécile, the well-known milliner. When the English lawyers wrote to me
at that address they, of course, said that they would require all my
papers of identification before they paid any money over to me, and so,
when Mr. Farewell went over to England, he took all my papers with him
and . . .”
She burst into tears and exclaimed piteously:
“Oh! I have nothing now, Monsieur—nothing to prove who I am! Mr.
Farewell took everything, even the original letter which the English
lawyers wrote to me.”
“Farewell,” I urged, “can be forced by the law to give all your papers
up to you.”
“Oh! I have nothing now, Monsieur—he threatened to destroy all my
papers unless I promised to become his wife! And I haven’t the least
idea how and where to find the English lawyers. I don’t remember either
their name or their address; and if I did, how could I prove my
identity to their satisfaction? I don’t know a soul in Paris save a few
irresponsible millinery apprentices and Madame Cécile, who, no doubt,
is hand in glove with Mr. Farewell. I am all alone in the world and
friendless. . . . I have come to you, Monsieur, in my distress . . .
and you will help me, will you not?”
She looked more adorable in grief than she had ever done before.
To tell you that at this moment visions floated in my mind, before
which Dante’s visions of Paradise would seem pale and tame, were but to
put it mildly. I was literally soaring in heaven. For you see I am a
man of intellect and of action. No sooner do I see possibilities before
me than my brain soars in an empyrean whilst conceiving daring plans
for my body’s permanent abode in elysium. At this present moment, for
instance—to name but a few of the beatific visions which literally
dazzled me with their radiance—I could see my fair client as a lovely
and blushing bride by my side, even whilst Messieurs X. and X., the two
still unknown English lawyers, handed me a heavy bag which bore the
legend “One hundred thousand francs.” I could see . . . But I had not
the time now to dwell on these ravishing dreams. The beauteous creature
was waiting for my decision. She had placed her fate in my hands; I
placed my hand on my heart.
“Mademoiselle,” I said solemnly, “I will be your adviser and your
friend. Give me but a few days’ grace, every hour, every minute of
which I will spend in your service. At the end of that time I will not
only have learned the name and address of the English lawyers, but I
will have communicated with them on your behalf, and all your papers
proving your identity will be in your hands. Then we can come to a
decision with regard to a happier and more comfortable home for you. In
the meanwhile I entreat you to do nothing that may precipitate Mr.
Farewell’s actions. Do not encourage his advances, but do not repulse
them, and above all keep me well informed of everything that goes on in
his house.”
She spoke a few words of touching gratitude, then she rose, and with a
gesture of exquisite grace she extracted a hundred-franc note from her
reticule and placed it upon my desk.
“Mademoiselle,” I protested with splendid dignity, “I have done nothing
as yet.”
“Ah! but you will, Monsieur,” she entreated in accents that completed
my subjugation to her charms. “Besides, you do not know me! How could I
expect you to work for me and not to know if, in the end, I should
repay you for all your trouble? I pray you to take this small sum
without demur. Mr. Farewell keeps me well supplied with pocket money.
There will be another hundred for you when you place the papers in my
hands.”
I bowed to her, and, having once more assured her of my unswerving
loyalty to her interests, I accompanied her to the door, and anon saw
her graceful figure slowly descend the stairs and then disappear along
the corridor.
Then I went back to my room, and was only just in time to catch
Theodore calmly pocketing the hundred-franc note which my fair client
had left on the table. I secured the note and I didn’t give him a black
eye, for it was no use putting him in a bad temper when there was so
much to do.
2.
That very same evening I interviewed the concierge at No. 65 Rue des
Pyramides. From him I learned that Mr. Farewell lived on a very small
income on the top floor of the house, that his household consisted of a
housekeeper who cooked and did the work of the apartment for him, and
an odd-job man who came every morning to clean boots, knives, draw
water and carry up fuel from below. I also learned that there was a
good deal of gossip in the house anent the presence in Mr. Farewell’s
bachelor establishment of a young and beautiful girl, whom he tried to
keep a virtual prisoner under his eye.
The next morning, dressed in a shabby blouse, alpaca cap, and trousers
frayed out round the ankles, I—Hector Ratichon, the confidant of
kings—was lounging under the porte-cochere of No. 65 Rue des Pyramides.
I was watching the movements of a man, similarly attired to myself, as
he crossed and recrossed the courtyard to draw water from the well or
to fetch wood from one of the sheds, and then disappeared up the main
staircase.
A casual, tactful inquiry of the concierge assured me that that man was
indeed in the employ of Mr. Farewell.
I waited as patiently and inconspicuously as I could, and at ten
o’clock I saw that my man had obviously finished his work for the
morning and had finally come down the stairs ready to go home. I
followed him.
I will not speak of the long halt in the cabaret du Chien Noir, where
he spent an hour and a half in the company of his friends, playing
dominoes and drinking eau-de-vie whilst I had perforce to cool my heels
outside. Suffice it to say that I did follow him to his house just
behind the fish-market, and that half an hour later, tired out but
triumphant, having knocked at his door, I was admitted into the squalid
room which he occupied.
He surveyed me with obvious mistrust, but I soon reassured him.
“My friend Mr. Farewell has recommended you to me,” I said with my
usual affability. “I was telling him just awhile ago that I needed a
man to look after my office in the Rue Daunou of a morning, and he told
me that in you I would find just the man I wanted.”
“Hm!” grunted the fellow, very sullenly I thought. “I work for Farewell
in the mornings. Why should he recommend me to you? Am I not giving
satisfaction?”
“Perfect satisfaction,” I rejoined urbanely; “that is just the point.
Mr. Farewell desires to do you a good turn seeing that I offered to pay
you twenty sous for your morning’s work instead of the ten which you
are getting from him.”
I saw his eyes glisten at mention of the twenty sous.
“I’d best go and tell him then that I am taking on your work,” he said;
and his tone was no longer sullen now.
“Quite unnecessary,” I rejoined. “I arranged everything with Mr.
Farewell before I came to you. He has already found someone else to do
his work, and I shall want you to be at my office by seven o’clock
to-morrow morning. And,” I added, for I am always cautious and
judicious, and I now placed a piece of silver in his hand, “here are
the first twenty sous on account.”
He took the money and promptly became very civil, even obsequious. He
not only accompanied me to the door, but all the way down the stairs,
and assured me all the time that he would do his best to give me entire
satisfaction.
I left my address with him, and sure enough, he turned up at the office
the next morning at seven o’clock precisely.
Theodore had had my orders to direct him in his work, and I was left
free to enact the second scene of the moving drama in which I was
determined to play the hero and to ring down the curtain to the sound
of the wedding bells.
3.
I took on the work of odd-job man at 65 Rue des Pyramides. Yes, I! Even
I, who had sat in the private room of an emperor discussing the
destinies of Europe.
But with a beautiful bride and one hundred thousand francs as my goal I
would have worked in a coal mine or on the galleys for such a guerdon.
The task, I must tell you, was terribly irksome to a man of my
sensibilities, endowed with an active mind and a vivid imagination. The
dreary monotony of fetching water and fuel from below and polishing the
boots of that arch-scoundrel Farewell would have made a less stout
spirit quail. I had, of course, seen through the scoundrel’s game at
once. He had rendered Estelle quite helpless by keeping all her papers
of identification and by withholding from her all the letters which, no
doubt, the English lawyers wrote to her from time to time. Thus she was
entirely in his power. But, thank heaven! only momentarily, for I,
Hector Ratichon, argus-eyed, was on the watch. Now and then the
monotony of my existence and the hardship of my task were relieved by a
brief glimpse of Estelle or a smile of understanding from her lips; now
and then she would contrive to murmur as she brushed past me while I
was polishing the scoundrel’s study floor, “Any luck yet?” And this
quiet understanding between us gave me courage to go on with my task.
After three days I had conclusively made up my mind that Mr. Farewell
kept his valuable papers in the drawer of the bureau in the study.
After that I always kept a lump of wax ready for use in my pocket. On
the fifth day I was very nearly caught trying to take an impression of
the lock of the bureau drawer. On the seventh I succeeded, and took the
impression over to a locksmith I knew of, and gave him an order to have
a key made to fit it immediately. On the ninth day I had the key.
Then commenced a series of disappointments and of unprofitable days
which would have daunted one less bold and less determined. I don’t
think that Farewell ever suspected me, but it is a fact that never once
did he leave me alone in his study whilst I was at work there polishing
the oak floor. And in the meanwhile I could see how he was pursuing my
beautiful Estelle with his unwelcome attentions. At times I feared that
he meant to abduct her; his was a powerful personality and she seemed
like a little bird fighting against the fascination of a serpent.
Latterly, too, an air of discouragement seemed to dwell upon her lovely
face. I was half distraught with anxiety, and once or twice, whilst I
knelt upon the hard floor, scrubbing and polishing as if my life
depended on it, whilst he—the unscrupulous scoundrel—sat calmly at his
desk, reading or writing, I used to feel as if the next moment I must
attack him with my scrubbing-brush and knock him down senseless whilst
I ransacked his drawers. My horror of anything approaching violence
saved me from so foolish a step.
Then it was that in the hour of my blackest despair a flash of genius
pierced through the darkness of my misery. For some days now Madame
Dupont, Farewell’s housekeeper, had been exceedingly affable to me.
Every morning now, when I came to work, there was a cup of hot coffee
waiting for me, and, when I left, a small parcel of something
appetizing for me to take away.
“Hallo!” I said to myself one day, when, over a cup of coffee, I caught
sight of her small, piggy eyes leering at me with an unmistakable
expression of admiration. “Does salvation lie where I least expected
it?”
For the moment I did nothing more than wink at the fat old thing, but
the next morning I had my arm round her waist—a metre and a quarter,
Sir, where it was tied in the middle—and had imprinted a kiss upon her
glossy cheek. What that love-making cost me I cannot attempt to
describe. Once Estelle came into the kitchen when I was staggering
under a load of a hundred kilos sitting on my knee. The reproachful
glance which she cast at me filled my soul with unspeakable sorrow.
But I was working for her dear sake; working that I might win her in
the end.
A week later Mr. Farewell was absent from home for the evening. Estelle
had retired to her room, and I was a welcome visitor in the kitchen,
where Madame Dupont had laid out a regular feast for me. I had brought
a couple of bottles of champagne with me and, what with the
unaccustomed drink and the ogling and love-making to which I treated
her, a hundred kilos of foolish womanhood was soon hopelessly addled
and incapable. I managed to drag her to the sofa, where she remained
quite still, with a beatific smile upon her podgy face, her eyes
swimming in happy tears.
I had not a moment to lose. The very next minute I was in the study and
with a steady hand was opening the drawers of the bureau and turning
over the letters and papers which I found therein.
Suddenly an exclamation of triumph escaped my lips.
I held a packet in my hand on which was written in a clear hand: “The
papers of Mlle. Estelle Bachelier.” A brief examination of the packet
sufficed. It consisted of a number of letters written in English, which
language I only partially understand, but they all bore the same
signature, “John Pike and Sons, solicitors,” and the address was at the
top, “168 Cornhill, London.” It also contained my Estelle’s birth
certificate, her mother’s marriage certificate, and her police
registration card.
I was rapt in the contemplation of my own ingenuity in having thus
brilliantly attained my goal, when a stealthy noise in the next room
roused me from my trance and brought up vividly to my mind the awful
risks which I was running at this moment. I turned like an animal at
bay to see Estelle’s beautiful face peeping at me through the half-open
door.
“Hist!” she whispered. “Have you got the papers?”
I waved the packet triumphantly. She, excited and adorable, stepped
briskly into the room.
“Let me see,” she murmured excitedly.
But I, emboldened by success, cried gaily:
“Not till I have received compensation for all that I have done and
endured.”
“Compensation?”
“In the shape of a kiss.”
Oh! I won’t say that she threw herself in my arms then and there. No,
no! She demurred. All young girls, it seems, demur under the
circumstances; but she was adorable, coy and tender in turns, pouting
and coaxing, and playing like a kitten till she had taken the papers
from me and, with a woman’s natural curiosity, had turned the English
letters over and over, even though she could not read a word of them.
Then, Sir, in the midst of her innocent frolic and at the very moment
when I was on the point of snatching the kiss which she had so
tantalizingly denied me, we heard the opening and closing of the front
door.
Mr. Farewell had come home, and there was no other egress from the
study save the sitting-room, which in its turn had no other egress but
the door leading into the very passage where even now Mr. Farewell was
standing, hanging up his hat and cloak on the rack.
4.
We stood hand in hand—Estelle and I—fronting the door through which Mr.
Farewell would presently appear.
“To-night we fly together,” I declared.
“Where to?” she whispered.
“Can you go to the woman at your former lodgings?”
“Yes!”
“Then I will take you there to-night. To-morrow we will be married
before the Procureur du Roi; in the evening we leave for England.”
“Yes, yes!” she murmured.
“When he comes in I’ll engage him in conversation,” I continued
hurriedly. “You make a dash for the door and run downstairs as fast as
you can. I’ll follow as quickly as may be and meet you under the
porte-cochere.”
She had only just time to nod assent when the door which gave on the
sitting-room was pushed open, and Farewell, unconscious at first of our
presence, stepped quietly into the room.
“Estelle,” he cried, more puzzled than angry when he suddenly caught
sight of us both, “what are you doing here with that lout?”
I was trembling with excitement—not fear, of course, though Farewell
was a powerful-looking man, a head taller than I was. I stepped boldly
forward, covering the adored one with my body.
“The lout,” I said with calm dignity, “has frustrated the machinations
of a knave. To-morrow I go to England in order to place Mademoiselle
Estelle Bachelier under the protection of her legal guardians,
Messieurs Pike and Sons, solicitors, of London.”
He gave a cry of rage, and before I could retire to some safe
entrenchment behind the table or the sofa, he was upon me like a mad
dog. He had me by the throat, and I had rolled backwards down on to the
floor, with him on the top of me, squeezing the breath out of me till I
verily thought that my last hour had come. Estelle had run out of the
room like a startled hare. This, of course, was in accordance with my
instructions to her, but I could not help wishing then that she had
been less obedient and somewhat more helpful.
As it was, I was beginning to feel a mere worm in the grip of that
savage scoundrel, whose face I could perceive just above me, distorted
with passion, whilst hoarse ejaculations escaped his trembling lips:
“You meddlesome fool! You oaf! You toad! This for your interference!”
he added as he gave me a vigorous punch on the head.
I felt my senses reeling. My head was swimming, my eyes no longer could
see distinctly. It seemed as if an unbearable pressure upon my chest
would finally squeeze the last breath out of my body.
I was trying to remember the prayers I used to murmur at my mother’s
knee, for verily I thought that I was dying, when suddenly, through my
fading senses, came the sound of a long, hoarse cry, whilst the floor
was shaken as with an earthquake. The next moment the pressure on my
chest seemed to relax. I could hear Farewell’s voice uttering language
such as it would be impossible for me to put on record; and through it
all hoarse and convulsive cries of: “You shan’t hurt him—you limb of
Satan, you!”
Gradually strength returned to me. I could see as well as hear, and
what I saw filled me with wonder and with pride. Wonder at Ma’ame
Dupont’s pluck! Pride in that her love for me had given such power to
her mighty arms! Aroused from her slumbers by the sound of the scuffle,
she had run to the study, only to find me in deadly peril of my life.
Without a second’s hesitation she had rushed on Farewell, seized him by
the collar, pulled him away from me, and then thrown the whole weight
of her hundred kilos upon him, rendering him helpless.
Ah, woman! lovely, selfless woman! My heart a prey to remorse, in that
I could not remain in order to thank my plucky deliverer, I
nevertheless finally struggled to my feet and fled from the apartment
and down the stairs, never drawing breath till I felt Estelle’s hand
resting confidingly upon my arm.
5.
I took her to the house where she used to lodge, and placed her under
the care of the kind concierge who was Theodore’s aunt. Then I, too,
went home, determined to get a good night’s rest. The morning would be
a busy one for me. There would be the special licence to get, the cure
of St. Jacques to interview, the religious ceremony to arrange for, and
the places to book on the stagecoach for Boulogne _en route_ for
England—and fortune.
I was supremely happy and slept the sleep of the just. I was up betimes
and started on my round of business at eight o’clock the next morning.
I was a little troubled about money, because when I had paid for the
licence and given to the cure the required fee for the religious
service and ceremony, I had only five francs left out of the hundred
which the adored one had given me. However, I booked the seats on the
stage-coach and determined to trust to luck. Once Estelle was my wife,
all money care would be at an end, since no power on earth could stand
between me and the hundred thousand francs, the happy goal for which I
had so ably striven.
The marriage ceremony was fixed for eleven o’clock, and it was just
upon ten when, at last, with a light heart and springy step, I ran up
the dingy staircase which led to the adored one’s apartments. I knocked
at the door. It was opened by a young man, who with a smile courteously
bade me enter. I felt a little bewildered—and slightly annoyed. My
Estelle should not receive visits from young men at this hour. I pushed
past the intruder in the passage and walked boldly into the room
beyond.
Estelle was sitting upon the sofa, her eyes bright, her mouth smiling,
a dimple in each cheek. I approached her with outstretched arms, but
she paid no heed to me, and turned to the young man, who had followed
me into the room.
“Adrien,” she said, “this is kind M. Ratichon, who at risk of his life
obtained for us all my papers of identification and also the valuable
name and address of the English lawyers.”
“Monsieur,” added the young man as he extended his hand to me, “Estelle
and I will remain eternally your debtors.”
I struck at the hand which he had so impudently held out to me and
turned to Estelle with my usual dignified calm, but with wrath
expressed in every line of my face.
“Estelle,” I said, “what is the meaning of this?”
“Oh,” she retorted with one of her provoking smiles, “you must not call
me Estelle, you know, or Adrien will smack your face. We are indeed
grateful to you, my good M. Ratichon,” she continued more seriously,
“and though I only promised you another hundred francs when your work
for me was completed, my husband and I have decided to give you a
thousand francs in view of the risks which you ran on our behalf.”
“Your husband!” I stammered.
“I was married to M. Adrien Cazalès a month ago,” she said, “but we had
perforce to keep our marriage a secret, because Mr. Farewell once vowed
to me that unless I became his wife he would destroy all my papers of
identification, and then—even if I ever succeeded in discovering who
were the English lawyers who had charge of my father’s money—I could
never prove it to them that I and no one else was entitled to it. But
for you, dear M. Ratichon,” added the cruel and shameless one, “I
should indeed never have succeeded.”
In the midst of this overwhelming cataclysm I am proud to say that I
retained mastery over my rage and contrived to say with perfect calm:
“But why have deceived me, Mademoiselle? Why have kept your marriage a
secret from me? Was I not toiling and working and risking my life for
you?”
“And would you have worked quite so enthusiastically for me,” queried
the false one archly, “if I had told you everything?”
I groaned. Perhaps she was right. I don’t know.
I took the thousand francs and never saw M. and Mme. Cazalès again.
But I met Ma’ame Dupont by accident soon after. She has left Mr.
Farewell’s service.
She still weighs one hundred kilos.
I often call on her of an evening.
Ah, well!