And he extended a hand and arm upon which the odor was unmistakable.
She heard the officer take the address of the witness and then turn to
her.
"Mademoiselle is no doubt weary. There is nothing more that can be done
to-night. If you will permit me to conduct you home."
A woman? Who?
Moira nodded in a bewildered way.
"A _fiacre_, Monsieur, if you please," she stammered. "I--I am very
tired."
*CHAPTER IX*
*PIQUETTE TAKES A HAND*
As Monsieur Valcourt, the sculptor, had said, Piquette Morin was a
_gamine_. She liked the warm nest in the Boulevard Clichy, with which
the Duc de Vautrin had provided her, because it satisfied a craving for
the creature comforts which she had been so long denied, and because it
filled the hearts of other young women of her acquaintance with envy.
But she was not happy. After all was she not young and had she not her
life to live?
It was enough indeed to have grown in a few short years from a seller of
flowers and a model for the figure into a lady of fashion, but her heart
was still in the _Rive Gauche_ and there she went when she pleased,
searching out her old haunts, and the companions of her days of want,
with whom she could throw off the restraint of her gilded cage and laugh
with an open throat at the ancient jests and dance her way again into
happiness. Life she loved, all shades of it, from the somber in which
she had been born to the brilliant artificial high lights of cafe and
restaurant. All sorts of people she knew--cochers, bandits, dancers,
poet-singers, satirists, artists, journalists, and she rejoiced in them
for what they taught her of the _grande vie_.
Quite unhampered by morals of any sort, trusting entirely to her
impulses, which were often good, the creature of her birth and
surroundings, she was a pupil in the school of the world, speaking,
after a fashion, three languages. She discovered that she had a brain,
and the war had made her think. Without the help of the Americans,
France must fall, and so when they came she rejoiced in their splendid
soldierly appearance and the promise they gave of rescue and help for
France. She met Harry Horton in the Taverne du Pantheon. He was quite
drunk and didn't seem to have any Hotel, so she took him to the
Boulevard Clichy in a _fiacre_ and put him to bed. According to her own
lights, it was the only natural, the only decent thing for her to do.
Thus it happened that Harry Horton found himself, to his surprise, on
excellent terms with a friend of the Duc de Vautrin, about whom Barry
Quinlevin had been writing him, the source of the Irishman's income. In
a reckless moment he confided to Piquette Barry Quinlevin's secret. And
as the Duc de Vautrin had provoked her that afternoon by refusing her
the money for a hat that she particularly admired, she turned against
her patron, entering with interest into a plan which eventually seemed
to promise much. That she repented of her disloyalty the next day when
Monsieur de Vautrin relented was a disappointment to Harry Horton, who
saw a way in which she could be useful to him. Also, Harry Horton was
sure that he had talked too much, for it was hardly safe to make a
confidante of a weathervane.
When Harry Horton left Paris to join his regiment, Piquette shrugged her
pretty shoulders and in a few days he was only a memory. He had been
her _bel ami_, but ... _enfin_, even in the _Quartier_, one got drunk
like a gentleman.
The meeting in the restaurant of Leon Javet came at an opportune moment.
The Duc had again developed a habit of meticulous inquiry; also, for
reasons of his own, had reduced her allowance. The familiar figure in
brown was pleasing after the day of labor in the studio of Monsieur
Valcourt. He represented a part of life that she could not taste--and
this very morning she had read of him in the bulletins as the hero of
Boissiere wood. And so she had welcomed him in her joyous way, sure, in
spite of his deficiencies, that their friendship had been no mistake. A
hero. _Saperlotte_! Of course she was glad to see him.
But the reserve in his manner had mystified her. He was like another
man. He was quieter, finer, gentler and yet very brave and strong. A
little _triste_, perhaps, but more deep, more interesting, and touched
with the dignity of one who faces death for a noble purpose. But
Piquette had not lived in the streets of Paris all these years for
nothing. A few months of warfare would not change a man's soul. What
was this strangeness? What had come over him? He had packed her home
in a _fiacre_, just when she was becoming most interested in this
extraordinary transformation. She had never before suffered from pique,
and it annoyed her that he shouldn't have been more eager to resume
their ancient fellowship. Who was this unshaven fellow with the slouch
hat and worn clothing who had so great a claim upon his attention? His
figure too had a familiar look. His manner had been urgent--threatening
even, and Harry had obeyed the summons, banishing her, Piquette, to the
outer darkness of the Boulevard Clichy.
And he had not written her or telephoned. All day she waited in,
expecting to hear from him, and expectation increased her interest and
her disappointment. Also, meditation gave her a perspective. They were
curious, these second thoughts, deepening the impression of a striking
difference between this Harry Horton and the one who had gotten drunk in
the Taverne du Pantheon. Idiosyncrasies that had escaped her during the
few moments they had been together at Javet's, came to her now with
startling clearness, the slow direct gaze, the deliberate motions of the
hands, their touch on hers--and _parbleu_!
She started upright as a thought came to her like a _coup de foudre_.
The twisted little finger he had broken that night at the Pantheon. It
had bothered him only a few days and it had never been set. She
remembered now the fingers of the right hand of the visitor on his wine
glass at Javet's, remarking how strong they were. _The little finger was
straight_!
It was curious that such a trifle should come to her with such
significance. It was also curious that she hadn't noticed it at the
time. Could she be mistaken? When night came and she had not heard
from Harry she went out and made her way across the river, leaving word
where she was to be found if the visitor called, and went straight to
the cafe of Gabriel Pochard.
She and Gabriel were friends of long standing. Many years ago, when she
was but a child-model for Fabien, Gabriel Pochard had posed around the
studios with long hair, for prophets and saints. But he had married
some money and opened the _cafe_ which bore his name.
It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by persons
not of the _vrai type_, the gamblers, the sharpers, the wealthy outcasts
of all kinds, who knew a good omelette when they tasted one and relished
a particular kind of seclusion. For here no questions were asked. It
was at Gabriel Pochard's that Harry Horton spent much time, for he had
come with a letter to Gabriel from Monsieur Quinlevin, who had known
Pochard since the days of posing for the great Monsieur Gerome. It was
here that she would find Harry Horton or news of him, and information
which would perhaps answer the strange sequence of questions that had
come rising to her mind. She had the French passion for the mysterious,
the unexplainable, and with her own pride as the stake, she meant to
leave no stone unturned which would help her to a solution of the
problem.
She found Gabriel, wearing a sober air, busy with his bottles and the
cafe was blue with tobacco smoke.
"All, _mon vieux_," she said in the argot. "You wear a worried look.
Has Leon Javet been stealing away your customers?"
"Ah, _c'est toi, petite_! What brings you here alone?"
"_Ma foi_, my legs, if you would know the truth--and a woman's
curiosity."
"_Tiens_! That is nothing new. How can I help you?"
"I want you tell me what you know of 'Arry 'Orton."
Gabriel frowned and glanced about him cautiously.
"Sh----," he said warningly. And then, in a whisper, "Who told you that
Monsieur 'Orton was here?"