GENDARMES AND ETHER
When the gendarmes came hurrying to sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain,
Marjory was the only one in the house cool enough to meet them at the
door. She quieted them with a smile.
"It is too bad, messieurs," she apologized, because it did seem too bad
to put them to so much trouble for nothing. "It was only a
disagreeable incident between friends, and it is closed. Madame Courcy
lost her head."
"But we were told it was an assassination," the lieutenant informed
her. He was a very smart-looking lieutenant, and he noticed her eyes
at once.
"To have an assassination it is necessary to have some one
assassinated, is it not?" inquired Marjory.
"But yes, certainly."
"Then truly it is a mistake, because the two gentlemen went off
together in a cab."
The lieutenant took out a memorandum-book.
"Is that necessary?" asked Marjory anxiously.
"A report must be made."
"It was nothing, I assure you," she insisted. "It was what in America
is called a false alarm."
"You are American?" inquired the lieutenant, twisting his mustache.
"It is a compliment to my French that you did not know," smiled Marjory.
It was also a compliment to the lieutenant that she smiled. At least,
it was so that he interpreted it.
"The report is only a matter of routine," he informed her. "If
mademoiselle will kindly give me her name."
"But the newspapers!" she exclaimed. "They make so much of so little."
"It will be a pleasure to see that the report is treated as
confidential," said the lieutenant, with a bow.
So, as a matter of fact, after a perfunctory interview with madame and
Marie, who had so far recovered themselves as to be easily handled by
Marjory, the lieutenant and his men bowed themselves out and the
incident was closed.
Marjory escorted them to the door, and then, a little breathless with
excitement, went into the reception room a moment to collect herself.
The scene was set exactly as it had been when from upstairs she heard
that shot--the shot that for a second had checked her breathing as if
she herself had been hit. As clearly as if she had been in the room,
she had seen Monte stretched out on the floor, with Hamilton bending
over him. She had not thought of any other possibility. As she sprang
down the stairs she had been sure of what she was about to see. But
when she entered she had found Monte standing erect--erect and smiling,
with his light hair all awry like a schoolboy's.
Then, sinking into the chair near the window,--this very chair beside
which she now stood,--he had asked her to go out and attend to madame.
Come to think of it, it was odd that he had been smiling. It was not
quite natural for one to smile over as serious a matter as that. After
all, even if Teddy was melodramatic, even if his shot had missed its
mark, it was not a matter to take lightly.
She seated herself in the chair he had occupied, and her hands dropped
wearily to her side. Her fingers touched something sticky--something
on the side of the chair next to the wall--something that the gendarmes
had not noticed. She did not dare to move them. She was paralyzed, as
if her fingers had met some cold, strange hand. For one second, two
seconds, three seconds, she sat there transfixed, fearing, if she moved
as much as a muscle, that something would spring at her from
below--some awful fact.
Then finally she did move. She moved slowly, with her eyes closed.
Then, suddenly opening them wide, she saw her fingers stained carmine.
She knew then why Monte had smiled. It was like him to do that.
Running swiftly to her room, she called Marie as she ran.
"Marie--my hat! Your hat! Hurry!"
"Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Marie. "Has anything happened?"
"I have just learned what has already happened," she answered. "But do
not alarm madame."
It was impossible not to alarm madame.
The mere fact that they were going out alarmed madame. Marjory stopped
in the hall and quite coolly worked on her gloves.
"We are going for a little walk in the sunshine," she said. "Will you
not come with us?"
Decidedly madame would not. She was too weak and faint. She should
send for a friend to stay with her while she rested on her bed.
"That is best for you," nodded Marjory. "Au revoir."
With Marie by her side, she took her little walk in the sunshine,
without hurrying, as far as around the first corner. Then she signaled
for a cab, and showed the driver a louis d'or.
"Hôtel Normandie. This is for you--if you make speed," she said.
It was a wonder the driver was not arrested within a block; but it was
nothing less than a miracle that he reached the hotel without loss of
life. A louis d'or is a great deal of money, but these Americans are
all mad. When Marie followed her mistress from the cab, she made a
little prayer of thanks to the bon Dieu who had saved her life.
Mademoiselle inquired of the clerk for Monsieur Covington.
Yes, Monsieur Covington had reached the hotel some fifteen minutes
before. But he was ill. He had met with an accident. Already a
surgeon was with him.
"He--he is not badly injured?" inquired Marjory.
"I do not know," answered the clerk. "He was carried to his room in a
faint. He was very white."
"I will wait in the writing-room. When the surgeon comes down I wish
to see him. At once--do you understand?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
Marie suspected what had happened. Monsieur Covington, too, had
presented the driver with a louis d'or, and--miracles do not occur
twice in one day.
Marjory seated herself by a desk, where she had a full view of the
office--of all who came in and all who went out. That she was here
doing this and that Monte Covington was upstairs wounded by a pistol
shot was confusing, considering the fact that as short a time ago as
yesterday evening she had not been conscious of the existence in Paris
of either this hotel or of Monsieur Covington. Of the man who, on the
other hand, had been disturbing her a great deal--this Teddy
Hamilton--she thought not at all. It was as if he had ceased to exist.
She did not even associate him, at this moment, with her presence here.
She was here solely because of Monte.
He had stood by the window in Madame Courcy's dingy reception room,
smiling--his hair all awry. She recalled many other details now: how
his arm had hung limp; how he had been to a good deal of awkward
trouble to keep his left arm always toward her; how white he had been
when he passed her on his way out; how he had seemed to stumble when he
stepped into the cab.
She must have been a fool not to understand that something was wrong
with him--the more so because only a few minutes before that he had
stood before her with his cheeks a deep red, his body firm, his eyes
clear and bright.
That was when he had asked her to marry him. Monte Covington had asked
her to marry him, and she had consented. With her chin in her hand,
she thought that over. He had asked her in order that it might be his
privilege to go downstairs and rid her of Teddy. It had been suggested
in a moment, and she had consented in a moment. So, technically, she
was at this moment engaged. The man upstairs was her fiancé. That
gave her the right to be here. It was as if this had all been arranged
beforehand to this very end.
It was this feature of her strange position that interested her. She
had been more startled, more excited, when Monte proposed, than she was
at this moment. It had taken away her breath at first; but now she was
able to look at it quite coolly. He did not love her, he said. Good
old Monte--honest and four-square. Of course he did not love her. Why
should he? He was leading his life, with all the wide world to wander
over, free to do this or to do that; utterly without care; utterly
without responsibility.
It was this that had always appealed to her in him ever since she had
first known him. It was this that had made her envious of him. It was
exactly as she would have done in his circumstances. It was exactly as
she tried to do when her own circumstances changed so that it had
seemed possible. She had failed merely because she was a
woman--because men refused to leave her free.
His proposal was merely that she share his freedom. Good old
Monte--honest and four-square!
In return, there were little ways in which she might help him, even as
he might help her; but they had come faster than either had expected.
Where was the surgeon? She rose and went to the clerk.
"Are you sure the surgeon has not gone?" she asked.
"Very sure," answered the clerk. "He has just sent out for a nurse to
remain with monsieur."
"A nurse?" repeated Marjory.
"The doctor says Monsieur Covington must not be left alone."
"It's as bad--as that?" questioned Marjory.
"I do not know."
"I must see the doctor at once," she said. "But, first,--can you give
me apartments on the same floor,--for myself and maid? I am his
fiancée," she informed him.
"I can give mademoiselle apartments adjoining," said the clerk eagerly.
"Then do so."
She signed her name in the register, and beckoned for Marie.
"Marie," she said, "you may return and finish packing my trunks.
Please bring them here."
"Here?" queried Marie.
"Here," answered Marjory.
She turned to the clerk.
"Take me upstairs at once."
There was a strong smell of ether in the hall outside the door of Monte
Covington's room. It made her gasp for a moment. It seemed to make
concrete what, after all, had until this moment been more or less
vague. It was like fiction suddenly made true. That pungent odor was
a grim reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, who, leaving
his patient in the hands of his assistant, came to the door wiping his
hands upon a towel.
"I am Mr. Covington's fiancée--Miss Stockton," she said at once. "You
will tell me the truth?"
After one glance at her eyes Dr. Marcellin was willing to tell the
truth.
"It is an ugly bullet wound in his shoulder," he said.
"It is not serious?"
"Such things are always serious. Luckily, I was able to find the
bullet and remove it. It was a narrow escape for him."
"Of course," she added, "I shall serve as his nurse."
"Good," he nodded.
But he added, having had some experience with fiancées as nurses:--
"Of course I shall have for a week my own nurse also; but I shall be
glad of your assistance. This--er--was an accident?"
She nodded.
"He was trying to save a foolish friend from killing himself."
"I understand."
"Nothing more need be said about it?"
"Nothing more," Dr. Marcellin assured her. "If you will come in I will
give you your instructions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here."
"Is she necessary?" inquired Marjory. "I have engaged the next
apartment for myself and maid."
"That is very good, but--Mademoiselle Duval is necessary for the
present. Will you come in?"
She followed the doctor into Monsieur Covington's room. There the odor
of ether hung still heavier.
She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it.
"Edhart," he called. "Oh, Edhart!"