She was silent for a while, watching him.
"A coward! I might 'ave known," she murmured after a moment.
In the conversation that followed many things were revealed to Jim
Horton, many things to Piquette. He learned from her own lips every
detail of the story of Quinlevin's plot against the Duc and what was to
be Moira's share in it, and he listened in anger and amazement. As to
her relations with de Vautrin, she spoke with the utmost frankness. He
was not a pleasant person, and to her mind, for all his money and
position, possessed fewer virtues even than the outrageous Pochard and
his crew, who at least were good-natured villains and made no pretenses.
The Duc was stingy--cruel, self-obsessed and degenerate. _Que ca
m'embete ca_! Why she had not cut loose from him and gone back to live
in the _Quartier_ she did not know, except that it was comfortable in
the Boulevard Clichy and she was tired of working hard.
He found himself regarding Piquette with interest. The type was new to
him, but he liked her immensely. She might betray her Duc, but in her
own mind she would have perfectly adequate reasons for doing so.
As to Moira, little enough was said. If she suspected anything of his
tenderness in that quarter she gave not a sign of it. But he could see
that the facts as to his brother's marriage had come as a surprise to
her.
"An' now, Jeem 'Orton," said Piquette the next morning, when he had
strength enough to sit in a chair by the window, "what are you going to
do about it?"
He thought for a moment.
"You have given me my life. I should dislike to do anything that would
give you unhappiness."
"As to that, _mon petit_," she said carelessly, "you s'all do what you
t'ink bes'. You know perhaps dat to-morrow in de Place de la Concorde,
your brother 'Arry is to receive de Croix de Guerre?"
He had forgotten, but the announcement had no effect upon him.
"It does not matter," he muttered. What he had been thinking in his
moments of wakefulness was of Harry going to the studio in the Rue de
Tavennes. Moira was his wife. Would she, like Piquette, learn at once
of the deception? Or would she accept him...?
"You do not care for de honors you have won?" asked Piquette, breaking
on his thought.
"They weren't my honors----"
"But you bear de wounds----"
"Yes, and they're proofs my brother will find it hard to answer. But
tell me, Piquette, what you have heard. Do they suspect you of having
carried me off?"
Piquette laughed. "No. I saw Emile Pochard las' night. 'E does not
dare speak. Tricot, 'Arry, _Le Singe_--I saw dem at Pochard's. Dey
t'ink you are a devil. It is de police worries dem mos'."
"The police?"
"Some one followed 'Arry 'Orton to de house in de Rue Charron and tol'
de police. Dey came jus' as we escape'. Your brother was lucky to get
away."
"Who could this have been?"
"I don' know. But what does it matter since you are safe?" And then,
after a long pause, "No harm 'as been done except to your poor head. We
mus' let de matter drop, Jeem 'Orton. It is better so."
"If that is your wish, Piquette----"
"Yes. It will be safer for us both, for you because you mus' keep in
hiding--for me--because I 'ave a reputation at stake."
His eager look inquired her meaning.
"Emile Pochard would never trus' me again."