Delays awaited them when they reached the Hotel Negresco. Piquette was
provided with the name which Monsieur the Duc chose to use when
traveling. Upon inquiry of the polite gentleman who presided over the
destinies of the guests of this newest addition to the luxuries of the
_Promenade des Anglais_, they were informed that Monsieur and Madame
Thibaud had gone upon a motor-journey along the Cornice Road.
At the information, Piquette laughed outright and the polite Frenchman
frowned.
"Is there anything so extraordinary in a motor-trip with Madame?" he
asked frigidly.
"No--nothing, Monsieur," she replied and laughed again. But Jim Horton
understood. Monsieur the Duc was relieving Piquette of a great moral
responsibility.
They were shown adjoining rooms where they removed the traces of their
journey, and then met for dinner, when they held a consultation as to
their future plans. If Monsieur the Duc had gone on a motor-trip he
might be back that night, or he might be away for a week. They found
that Monsieur and Madame had taken only a suitcase and the chances were
that they would return to the Negresco by the morrow. But time was
precious--and it would not be long before Quinlevin and his queerly
assorted company would be arriving in Nice, ready in some nefarious way
to interfere with their plans. And so after dinner they took the train
for Monte Carlo, hoping that de Vautrin's weakness for gaming would have
led him to that earthly paradise of loveliness and iniquity.
It was late when they reached there, but Piquette had made no mistake,
for they found their man at the tables, so deeply engrossed that he did
not notice their approach or even look up when Piquette, ignoring the
wonderfully accoutered lady at his side, addressed him in her most
mellifluous tone.
Jim Horton took him in with a quick glance of appraisal--a man still in
his fifties, about the age of Barry Quinlevin, but smaller, with a thin
nose, sharp, black eyes, a bald head, and a dyed mustache waxed to long
points. And the hands upon the green baize of the table wore large
rings, one set with a ruby, the other with an emerald. That he was
losing some money was indicated by the pucker of his bushy eyebrows and
the nervous tapping of his jeweled fingers upon the cloth.
It was not until Piquette had spoken his Christian name several times
that he seemed to hear and then looked up, his face a cloud of
impatience and ill-temper.
"It is I, Olivier," she repeated--"Piquette."
"You--Madame!" he said with a glance at his companion.
"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette coolly, "and it seems that I've brought
you luck," for at that moment a pile of gold and bank notes was swept in
his direction.
"Ah--perhaps," he said confusedly. And then, "But it isn't possible. I
was told that you were coming. I can't see you or this monsieur who
comes with you. Go away if you please."
His attitude was uncompromising, his announcement bewildering, but
Piquette was undismayed.
"The red, Monsieur," she said calmly, and before he could prevent,
shoved a pile of the gold coins upon the color. And the Duc, aghast at
her impudence, sat for a moment scowling at his pile of money, the
gambler in him arrested by the fascinating click of the little ball.
"Red wins," announced Piquette, echoing the _croupier_. "You see,
Monsieur, it will be wise for you to treat me with more politeness."
And as he still sat as though fascinated by the turn of his fortune, and
made no motion to prevent her, she put all the money she had won for him
on the black. Black won and Piquette laughed gayly, while the woman
beside de Vautrin sat in silence.
"It does not do to venture here with strange Goddesses."
She glanced rather scornfully at the Duc's companion and straightened.
"Again, Madame," muttered de Vautrin, "the wheel runs for you."
"I have finished," said Piquette firmly. "It is enough."
"No," growled the Duc, thrusting his winnings again upon the black.
"You will lose," said Piquette calmly, watching the leaping of the
little ball. He did--all that she had won for him. He tried again,
lost more, then turned on her with a frown.
"_Sacre_----" he began.
"Sh----," she silenced. "_Allons_. I did not come to interfere with
your games, but if Madame Thibaud will permit us----" and she smiled
with diabolical irony at de Vautrin's companion--"I would like to have a
word with you at once."
"I will not listen to you--or him." He scowled at Jim. "I know what
it's all about. I don't wish to see you."
"Are you mad?"
"No."
"Then what do you mean by this? I've come to save you from a great
financial disaster----"
"You----?" he sputtered. "What are you doing here, with this man? It
is infamous. I want no more of you. Go."
"No, Olivier. I stay," she said quietly. "You will kindly compose
yourself and tell me who has been sending you lying telegrams."
"A--a friend in Paris."
"Ah! What did he say?"
"What does it matter to you what he said?" gasped de Vautrin. "You are
in love with this monsieur. _Eh bien_! Go to him. I don't care. I'm
through with you."
"Ah, no, you're not, Olivier," said Piquette, smiling calmly, "not until
I'm through with you." And then, soberly: "Don't be a fool. Your
_petit bleu_ was sent by Monsieur Quinlevin. He has the best of reasons
for not wanting you to see us. Will you listen to me now?"
Quinlevin's name had startled him.
"What do you mean?" he sputtered.
*CHAPTER XV*
*GREEN EYES*
For a moment after Jim Horton's departure Moira sat in her arm-chair,
her head buried in her arms, more than half stupefied. One horrible
revelation had followed another with such rapidity that she was aghast
at the complete disruption of all the ties that had made her life. And
this last tie--the strongest and the weakest of all--that too had been
broken as relentlessly as the others.
She straightened slowly, her face haggard with her suffering, but she
did not move from her chair and her fingers clutched its arms fiercely.
Her eyes, staring blankly past Quinlevin, were following Jim out into
the darkness of the Rue de Tavennes, but her fingers still clung to the
chair-arms and her body did not move. It seemed that her limbs refused
to obey her will to follow. Then after a moment, she sank down again,
crushed, bruised and nerveless.
She felt the touch of Quinlevin's hand upon her shoulder and his voice
whispering at her ear.
"There, acushla! I'll be explaining it all to you in the morning. Go
to your room now, child, and rest."
She obeyed him silently, mechanically, not replying or looking at him or
at Harry. Her throat like her eyes was dry, and parched, as though with
fever, but her hands, like her heart, were ice cold. In the sanctuary
of her own room with the doors closed, she threw herself headlong upon
the bed, racked for a while by shuddering soundless sobs--and then after
a while merciful tears came.
"Jim," she whispered hopelessly into the darkness. "Jim, forgive me!"
Her fingers groped for her crucifix and clung to it, seeking strength
and courage. And after a long while the spasm of weeping stopped and
she lay motionless and soundless, scarcely breathing. She knew in her
heart that what she had done was best for Jim's soul's good and her own,
but her heart cried out against the cruelty of it. And yet she was sure
that if she had followed him beyond the studio door, she would have gone
out with him into the world, glorying in her shame. She had chosen.
Her one brief, gorgeous, pitiful romance was over.
And what was there left for her here at the studio but the shattered
fragments of ruined affections? She had lived a lie--was living it
now--like her father.... She started up at the horror that she had
forgotten and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect her
thoughts; then she rose with an effort, groped for the matches and
lighted her candle. Her father? By his own admission--her father no
longer. Who was she then? A waif? The daughter of de Vautrin? Her
mirror sent her back a haggard reflection, pale, somber, but with
blue-black eyes that gazed steadily from their swollen lids. Strength
she had prayed for, and courage to do what was right to do, and she
needed them both now....
[Illustration: THE MIRROR SENT HER BACK A HAGGARD REFLECTION, PALE AND
SOMBER]
There was no sound from the studio. She glanced at her clock. For
hours it seemed she had lain upon her bed of pain.
With a new resolution she bathed her face and wrists in cold water, then
went through the kitchenette into the studio to find Barry Quinlevin.
He was not there, but her husband was,--crouched in the armchair by the
table and the whisky bottle was empty.
She shuddered a little but approached him resolutely. He tried to rise
but, with a dull laugh and fumbling the arm of the chair, fell sideways
into a grotesque attitude.
"Where is----?" she began, and halted.
"Gone out," he mumbled, struggling into a straighter posture, "back
soon."
"Where has he gone?"
He shook his head. "Dunno. Asked me to stay--take care of you,
m'dear."
She turned away from him, in disgust.
"Oh--don' worry," he went on--"not goin' bother you. After t'morr'--won'
see me, y'know----"
She turned quickly and he laughed again.
"Goin' join m'regimen'. Furlough up t'morr'."
She whispered a "Thank God" below her breath as she stood looking at
him. And then aloud, gently, in a new kind of pity for him.
"You'd better lie down, Harry, and get some sleep," she said, "or you'll
be in no condition to go on duty."
"Thanks. Ought to sleep. Haven' slep' f'r weeks, seems to me. Don'
seem to care though."
"You'd better. There's a room outside. Your baggage is there too."
"Um--that's nice of you, Moira. R'turnin' good for evil. Baggage.
_He_ brought it--didn' he?"
"Yes, Harry."
He paused a moment and then leaned forward in his chair while she
watched him curiously.
"Rotten mess! What?" he mumbled.
She didn't reply. And he went on, concentrating thought with
difficulty. "He told you I tried--kill him--didn' he?" He wagged his
head comically. "I couldn' do that--not kill 'im--wouldn't do
y'know--m'own brother--no--not that----"
He put his hands to his eyes a moment and swayed, but Moira steadied him
by the shoulder.
"Harry--come. I'll help you. You must go to bed."
"Not yet--in a minute. Somethin'--say."
He groped for her hand on his shoulder, found and clung to it.
"Shame I'm such rotter, Moira. Beas'ly shame. I'm not half bad sort if
leave me 'lone. I was sick--out there. Head of Levinski--grinned at me.
Gold tooth--grinned at me--in wheatfield----"
"Come, Harry," she broke in again, "lean on me. I'll help you to bed."
"Ah, I was sick awright----" he shuddered, oblivious of her. "Makes me
sick now--think of it. Jus' a head, Moira, nothin' else. But God!
What a head!"
"It won't do you any good now to think about that," she put in quickly,
for he was shivering as though with a chill.
"No. No goo' now. Awf' rotter, ain't I?"
"Come----"
He stumbled to his feet and she helped him to support himself.
"Will you forgive me, Moira?"
"Of course."
And as she urged him out of the door toward the vacant room, "Knew
y'would," he mumbled. And then, "Goo' ol' Moira!"
In the room she helped him off with his coat, puttees and shoes and then
pulling a blanket over him left him to his own devices and went back to
the studio to wait for Barry Quinlevin.
But she wasn't weary now. From the same reserve force from which she
drew the strength to stand for hours and paint even when her sitters
were weary, she gained new courage and resolution for the return of
Quinlevin. But for a moment she was tempted again. The way was clear.
What was to prevent her from going and finding Jim? For a moment only.
Then she sank, into the chair by the fireplace--to fight her battle with
herself and wait. Her glance restlessly passed from one familiar object
to another, the portrait on the easel, the lay figure in the corner in
its fantastic pose and heterogeneous costume, the draperies for her
backgrounds, hanging just as they had hung this afternoon, and yet all
so strangely changed. The door of the closet where Jim had been hidden
remained open, exhibiting its untidy interior. Instinctively she rose
and closed it, her sense of order triumphant even over her mental
sufferings. Then she went back and sat down to think. There was much
that she and her--that she and Barry Quinlevin would have to say to each
other.
He came at last, expecting to find Harry and not the straight figure of
the woman who faced him like a pale fury. The shadows of pain at her
eyes were gone, lost in deeper shadows of anger and determination.
"You! Moira," he said in surprise.
"Yes, I----"
"Where's Harry?"
"I put him to bed. He was drunk," she said shortly.
"The devil he was!" He frowned darkly and then seemed as ever, quite
the master of himself. If the glance he cast at her discovered her
state of mind, he gave no sign of uneasiness. He approached her with
his easy air as if nothing unusual had happened, but when he spoke again
his voice was pitched low and his eyes were soft.
"I thought you'd be in bed, child----"
"I've something to say to you----" she cut in quickly.
"Oh, very well,--say on, my dear. You don't mind if I smoke a
cigarette?"
As she made no reply he lighted one and sank into the most comfortable
chair with a sigh of content.
"At least you owe me something, Barry Quinlevin," she began tensely,
trying to keep her voice under control, and announcing her _leit motif_,
so to speak, in her first phrase. "I'm no chattel of yours, no infant
any longer, to be bandied about as a dupe in your wild plans for the
future. It's _my_ future you're dealing with just as you've dealt with
my past----"
"Have ye had any cause to complain of my treatment of ye?" he broke in
calmly.
"You've cheated me--lied to me all my life--isn't that enough? Kept me
in ignorance of the source of our livelihood--God knows what else--made
me a partner in a crime--without my knowledge--made me help you to get
dishonest money----"
"Hardly," he said. "It was yer own money."
"I don't believe you," she said icily, "if it was my money you would
have gotten it for me--all of it--long ago."
"And lost yerself, my dear, to the Duc de Vautrin," he countered
quickly.
She started slightly. That possibility hadn't occurred to her. But she
went on rapidly.
"You forget that I heard what you said to Harry--That I know what has
been in your heart all these years. I was your decoy and you used me as
you pleased, glad of my working, which kept me busy so that I couldn't
be inquiring what was going on. You forget that I heard why you wanted
me to marry Harry, but _I_ can't forget it--would to God I could--and
you'd dare to ask me if I have anything to complain of, knowing all that
and knowing that _I_ know it. Do you think I'm a mere piece of
furniture without a soul, not to care what my heritage is, not to
cherish my traditions----? You've built my life on a lie, destroyed my
very identity in a breath, torn down all the sacred idols of my girlhood
and young womanhood and ground them under your feet. You!"
She caught at her heart and took a step nearer him.
"My mother--who was my mother?" she gasped.
He shrugged. "Mary Callonby--the Duchesse de Vautrin," he said easily.
"And you are Patricia Madeline Aulnoy de Vautrin."
"Impossible. I'm no longer credulous."
"You'll have to believe the truth!"
"And who are you to ask me to believe? You who dared to speak to me of
the sanctity of motherhood, who taught me that I was your own
daughter--and that my mother, your wife----"
She broke off with a sob, quickly controlled.
"It was because I loved ye, Moira dear," he said very quietly.
She halted, aghast at this tenderness, the familiar tones of which made
her wonder for a moment whether she weren't dreaming all the dreadful
accusations on her tongue's end. But a pain shot through her heart to
remind her of her sufferings.
"And was it because you loved me that you dared obliterate me, sneered
at my pitiful love affair--the only passion I've had in my life or will
have--and even tried to murder in cold blood--the--the object--of it?
Answer me that--Barry Quinlevin!"
The Irishman's manner now changed. His brows drew together in a tight
knot and the long fingers upon the chair-arm clenched until the knuckles
were white.
"I'll answer ye that," he said abruptly. "And more. I've heard what ye
had to say with patience and chagrin. I'll take the blame for me sins of
omission where blame is due, trusting to yer conscience to be forgiving
me presently for yer harsh tones to one who sinned for the very love of
ye. But when ye speak of this other man who by a trick forces his way
into yer lodgings and yer affections, learns yer family secrets and
mine, reads yer letters and mine, makes love to his own brother's wife
behind his back,--yer own brother-in-law, mind ye--and then tells one
lie after another to make his story good, its time there was a man about
the place to protect ye, if ye can't protect yerself----"
"Stop----!"
"No. I've heard _you_. Now ye'll be listening to me. If Harry isn't
man enough to be looking out fer what belongs to him, then I _am_.
Ye've given this man yer heart, acknowledged yer affections before us
all. God be praised that's all it amounts to! But when ye hear me out,
ye'll be wishing yer tongue had rotted before ye'd made such an
admission."
He saw her shrink and he rose from his chair, following up his advantage
quickly. "There--there my dear, Ye've almost had enough of trouble for
one night----"
"Go on," she murmured stanchly, "but if you're going to speak ill of Jim
Horton I won't believe you."
"Ye can do as ye please about that, but I'll be telling ye what I know
of him just the same. And when I tell ye I wish I'd shot him dead
before yer eyes, I'd only be satisfying the conscience of yer life-long
guardian and protector----"
"Conscience! _You_!" she laughed hysterically. "Go on."
"I will, little as ye'll like it. When I went from here where d'ye
suppose I went? To Pochard. And I wrung from him the truth about yer
friend Jim Horton. It was Piquette Morin who helped him from the house
in the Rue Charron----"
"I know it. I thank God for it."
"It was Piquette Morin who took him back to her apartment in the
Boulevard Clichy and kept him there until he recovered."
"I know that too. Go on----"
"But ye didn't know that Piquette Morin was a woman without a shred of
conscience or morals, a woman of the streets, who glories in her
infidelities to the Duc de Vautrin, whose mistress she is----"
"I care nothing for that," stammered Moira.
"Ye may not care, since Jim Horton has lied about that too, but ye
_will_ care about the relations that exist between the two of them."
"I won't listen," said Moira, making for the door. But he barred her
way.
"Oh, yes, ye'll listen, Moira dear, and I'll be giving ye all the proofs
ye need before I'm through."
"Proofs! I dare you."
"All in good time. If ye'll be patient. Where do ye think I went from
Pochard's? To the Boulevard Clichy, where yer precious friend had
returned to the arms of Madame Morin----"
She waved a hand in protest.
"I watched the door of the apartment. He came out. I followed, and
where do you suppose he went? To the ticket office where he booked a
compartment for two--on the twelve o'clock train to-morrow for
Marseilles."
"And what of that?" she stammered.
"Merely that yer friend Jim Horton, failing of success with his
brother's wife, has decided upon a honeymoon to the Riviera with a lady
who is more _complaisante_ than yerself."
"I don't believe it."
"Ye'd find it less difficult to believe if ye guessed how mad she was
for him, how handsome she is and how skilled in the wily arts of her sex
and trade," he said keenly. "Oh," he said, with a shrug, "it could only
have been a great passion that would have dared the rescue from the
house in the Rue Charron. And no man remains long ungrateful for such
an act of unselfishness."
Moira leaned against the mantel-shelf, staring at him wide-eyed, but he
met her look with one more steady than hers, hardy, indignant, but
injured and grieved too at her attitude. Skillfully he had baited his
hook with a truth that she knew. He saw the fleeting question in her
eyes and answered it quickly.
"If ye want the proofs----go to the Boulevard Clichy now." He paused to
give the suggestion weight, "Or if ye've no heart to-night for such a
brutal encounter--to-morrow--on the train to Marseilles."
He had caught her ear. He knew it by the sudden shutting of her teeth
over her words, the proud lift of her chin, the hard look that came into
her eyes. And though she answered him still defiantly, her tone had no
body in it and trembled with the new uncertainty.
"I don't believe you."
"I don't ask ye to. But ye will believe in the evidence of yer eyes,
and I'll be providing ye with that, my dear."
"How you hate him!" she gasped.
He shrugged and turned half toward her.
"Hate? Hardly. I merely despise him. I would have killed him to-night
with a clean conscience, knowing what I do." He dropped the cigarette
he had taken up and approached her a pace or two. "Oh, Moira, alanah,
won't ye see? Is it blind ye are to the truth that lies before yer very
eyes----? Can't ye see that it's the love of ye that drives me to
protect yer happiness? Have I ever failed ye, all these years? Haven't
I given ye yer share of all I had? Answer me that--aye--even when there
was not too much for the both of us?"
"I--I've heard enough--to-night," she said wearily.
"I'm sorry. I--I've done what I thought was the best. I'm still yer
guardian--until ye come into yer own----"
"I can't listen to that," she shuddered. "De Vautrin--my father!"
He bowed his head with tragic grace.
"The same--bad cess to him."
She sank into a chair, bewildered and helpless.
"I want nothing--only to go away somewhere alone. I've heard enough."
"That you shall do presently, alanah," he said, touching her gently, the
familiar voice close at her ear. "But now you must be going to bed and
trying to sleep. 'Tis a cruel day ye've had--cruel! But to-morrow when
ye've had some rest----"
"To-morrow----?" she raised a despairing face.
"Ye've got to be facing it. But no more to-night. Come."
She let him take her by the arm to the door.
"Forgive me, acushla," he whispered.
But she made no reply and left him standing there. And Quinlevin watched
her merge into the darkness within, then turned and picked up the
cigarette he had dropped, lighted it with great care, and sat and
smoked, ruminating over the ashes in the fireplace.
But he had played his cards with the true gambler's knowledge, of the
psychology of his victim. Jealousy! Such a weapon at his very hand. It
was almost a pity to use it. Poor child. As if she hadn't already
suffered enough! But there was no choice. And she would get over it.
Love never killed--only hate ... only hate. He finished one cigarette
and then glanced toward the door through which Moira had passed. Then
lighted another and composed himself for awhile longer.
It was not until he was near the end of this cigarette that a slight
sound caused him to look up over his shoulder. Framed against the black
opening Moira stood, pale, dark eyed, her black hair streaming over her
flimsy dressing-gown, and then came forward noiselessly.
"Moira, child----!" he cried, rising, with an air of surprise.
"You must show me the proof----," she stammered, "what you
said--to-morrow."
"Yes. If ye insist----"
"I do. It's a test--of the truth--between you and--and him----"
"I'll provide it. Ye'll leave with me on the twelve o'clock train for
Marseilles?"
"Yes--anything."
"Very well," he muttered. "I'll arrange for it. I've some business in
Nice. It's just as well if you come along."
"Anything----," she whispered, shivering and still protesting, "but I
don't believe--I don't believe----"
"Go to bed again, child. I'll call ye in the morning."
As she disappeared he turned toward the mantel, hiding the smile of
triumph that crossed his lips. Then he leaned for a long while looking
into the hearth.
"Poor child!" he whispered. "'Tis a cruel pity, but--" He paused and
then turned toward the bottle upon the table, which he raised and
examined carefully, then set down with an air of disgust. "The drunken
scut!" he muttered, then swore softly below his breath.
* * * * *
What remained of Quinlevin's task was not difficult, for he had already
anticipated his success with Moira by making arrangements with Nora
Burke and Tricot, Nora to face de Vautrin with her confession and her
evidence, Tricot to help him in keeping Jim Horton from reaching the
Duke.
By the expression of Moira's face when they met in the studio in the
morning, he discovered that his poison had worked its slow course
through her veins. Irish she was--all Irish now--slow to love and quick
to jealousy--proud to the quick, and capable of a fine hatred when the
proofs were brought as Barry Quinlevin intended to bring them. She
listened with an abstracted air as he told her that her old nurse, Nora
Burke, and a man, a friend of his, were to be the other members of their
party. She showed some surprise and then a mild interest, but he could
see that to Moira her companions meant very little. She was thinking,
brooding somberly over what he had told her, and his air of confidence
in his undertaking did nothing to give her courage for her decision. And
yet he knew that she would abide by it--a choice between Jim Horton and
himself. And he knew already what that choice was to be. For reasons
of his own it was important that Jim Horton and Piquette should not see
him on the train; nor that Moira should be presented merely with the
evidence of the two of them entering the train. The evidence must be
condemnatory. He would wait and trust to circumstances.
The thing was simplicity itself. The window into the corridor was like
a dispensation. He passed the compartment once or twice to make sure
that the shade of the little window had not been drawn and then when it
grew dark saw that Piquette had gone fast asleep with her head on
Horton's shoulder. Then he acted quickly.
"Come," he said to Moira. "It is time I showed you who is the liar."
And resolutely she followed him, looked--and saw.
* * * * *
Nothing seemed to matter to her after that. Incredulity, surprise and
then guilt, all expressed so clearly in Jim Horton's face in the brief
moment when their glances had met. The pretty painted face upon his
shoulder, the arm that he withdrew from around the woman's waist, her
sudden awakening as he started--all these brief impressions so vivid, so
terrible in their significance, armed her with new strength and courage
to hide her pain from Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. He watched her
with admiration. Her heart might be breaking but she'd never whimper
now. He knew her.
"Are ye satisfied, my dear?" he asked.
"Yes. Quite," she gasped.
"And you'll be listening to Nora while she tells ye the truth?"
"I will."
"Good. I must be leaving ye for a while to talk with my friend. And
don't be distrusting me again, alanah."
Moira was silent and gazed out of the window into the darkness until
Nora came. And she listened to the tale that Nora Burke told, or seemed
to listen, and thus Quinlevin found them later, the girl's hand in that
of her old nurse.
The announcement that they were to get out of the train at St. Etienne
created no astonishment. Moira moved as in a dream, obeying blindly as
she had always been accustomed to obey the suggestions of her protector,
caring nothing for their significance and reassured as to the integrity
of his intentions with regard to herself. There was no doubting that he
loved her in his strange way. And the fury he had expended upon Jim
Horton seemed scarcely less than that she now felt for him. A man could
kill--but a woman could only despise.
She was at least thankful when she saw the train bearing the couple pass
out of her sight into the darkness, and followed Quinlevin where he
led--to a hotel for the night--to another train in the morning, to
Marseilles, to Nice, and the Hotel Ruhl, where in the privacy of a room
of her own, she threw herself upon the bed and gazed dry-eyed at the
ceiling.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*NORA SPEAKS*
The attention of Monsieur de Vautrin having been attracted by Piquette's
news of the immediate threat against his fortune, it was no longer
difficult to persuade him to listen to what Jim Horton had to say.
Madame Thibaud was therefore conducted with scant ceremony to an
apartment in the Hotel de Paris, after which the Duc rejoined Piquette
and Jim in the Casino. The unflattering opinion Jim Horton had formed
of this French nobleman was, upon closer acquaintance, in no way
modified. The peevish and supercilious air with which he had greeted
Piquette had changed to one scarcely less unpleasant,--a fidgety anxiety
and apprehension which revealed weaknesses of fiber one would not have
expected to discover between the points of so long and so imposing a
mustache. He gave Jim the impression of being very weary in the pursuit
of a will-o'-the-wisp. And in repose, his face bore the scars worn by
those who live for pleasure alone. Altogether he seemed a person
scarcely worth borrowing so much trouble about. His attitude of
suspicion toward Jim Horton was illy concealed, but he listened,
frowning and questioning, until at last convinced of the reality of his
danger at the hands of the renegade Irish adventurer to whose venial
cleverness he had so long paid handsome tribute.
"But they can do nothing," he said at last in excellent English, with an
air of bravado which was meant to be effective, and which was only
pitiful.
"I'm not so sure about that," said Jim, "the mere fact of your having
paid for the support of the child for so many years makes it seem as
though you believed in the thing."
"What do I care? I have the money. Let them take it if they can."
"Oh, they'll take it all right, if you don't find some way to meet their
evidence."
"Lies."
"Yes, of course. But you've got to prove that they are. Where's your
defense? You didn't even know you had a daughter until Barry Quinlevin
told you you had. What proof have you that your own child died? And if
you believed Quinlevin then, why shouldn't you believe him now----?"
"I had my suspicions----"
"Pardon me. Suspicions won't satisfy an Irish court or a French one.
What proof have you that Madame Horton isn't your own child? None?
Exactly! But everybody who could have known anything about the matter
is dead except Nora Burke, and you've already heard what she has to
say."
"H--m. And what is _your_ interest in this matter, Monsieur?"
"That's a fair question," said Jim slowly. "I'll give you a fair
answer. Madame Horton is my brother's wife. The story I've given you
is straight--as Piquette will tell you since she heard much of it from
my brother. Your daughter died shortly after her mother, your wife. My
interest in this affair is personal to this extent. I don't intend to
have Madame Horton used any longer by an unprincipled blackmailer."
"Surely then you would have told Madame Horton the truth and saved me
this unpleasantness----"
"Yes--I've told her," said Jim slowly, "but she's helpless. Can't you
see, Monsieur? It has all been very sudden--for her. She doesn't know
what to believe. Besides, Monsieur Quinlevin has the birth certificate
and the testimony of the nurse."
"But if Madame Horton is an honorable woman----"
"You can count on that," put in Horton quickly. "She doesn't want your
money--she isn't Quinlevin's kind----"
"Then why doesn't she renounce him?"
"She might--but what difference would that make? She might permit
herself to think she was Joan of Arc, but that wouldn't make her any one
but Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin, if Barry Quinlevin has
evidence enough to prove that she is...."
De Vautrin frowned darkly and twitched his jeweled fingers.
"But she would have something to say about her own desires in the
matter," he said.
"Her own desires haven't anything to do with it. See here, Monsieur de
Vautrin--Barry Quinlevin proves her birth by a certificate; he also
proves by the nurse that she was the child brought into his house, and
the child he has brought up as his ward, bearing his name and accepting
your money for twenty-one years--hush money, monsieur, that you paid to
keep her out of a fortune you thought belonged to her."
"But it doesn't belong to her," cried de Vautrin, gesticulating. "It's
mine since the child is dead. Monsieur Harry Horton----"
Piquette broke in. "Monsieur 'Arry 'Orton could be call' to the stan'
of course, but 'is testimony is not to be relied upon."
"Your brother, Monsieur----?"
"Yes, Monsieur de Vautrin," replied Jim, "my brother--but an intimate of
Barry Quinlevin's----"
"Ah, I comprehend--an accomplice?"
"You might call him that--if you like." He shrugged and turned aside.
"We don't get along, my brother and I, but I don't think you'll find
much to gain by putting him on the witness stand. Besides, it won't
look very pretty in the papers. It's as much to my interest as yours to
keep it out."
The Duc eyed him suspiciously again.
"But you must have some other interest besides this in wishing to help
me. What's the ax you have to grind, Monsieur?"
Jim Horton grinned and shrugged.
"For myself--nothing."
"That is difficult to believe."
"Then I would advise you to tax your imagination to the utmost. I don't
want Madame Horton to figure in an affair that she will regret the rest
of her life."
"But why----?"
"Monsieur is in love wit' Madame 'Orton----" Piquette's voice broke in
very calmly.
There was a silence for a moment in which Jim Horton looked at Piquette,
Piquette gazed at de Vautrin and de Vautrin stared from one to the other
in astonishment.
His knowledge of the world had given him no instinct to appraise a
situation such as this. But Piquette met his gaze clearly.
"It is de trut', Olivier," she repeated. "An' now perhaps you
on'erstan'."
"It is extraordinary," he gasped. "And you two----?"
"I brought 'im to you. Your interests are de same--and mine, wit'
both."
"_Parbleu_! If I could believe it----!"
Jim Horton rose, aware of a desire to pull the waxed mustaches to see if
they were real.
"You needn't believe it, if you don't want to," he said carelessly.
"And you don't have to believe my story. But I've given you your
warning. Barry Quinlevin may be in Nice now, with his birth certificate
and his Nora Burke." He buttoned his overcoat and turned toward the
door. "I think I'll be going back to Nice, Piquette," he said coolly,
and then to the bewildered Frenchman, "Good-night, Monsieur."
"One moment," gasped the Duc, toddling after him and catching him by the
hand, "I believe you, Monsieur. Why should I not believe you since what
you say is what I wish to believe? It is all very bewildering. I
should have thanked you long ago for your kindness."
Jim Horton turned with a smile.
"It's about time. And it ought to be fairly clear that I have little
interest in your fortune or even in you, Monsieur. I don't mind being
shot at for my interference in Mr. Quinlevin's affairs, but I might have
been hit--or Piquette might--which would have been worse, and I don't
relish having my word doubted--or hers."
"I beg forgiveness. You have been shot at?"
Piquette explained quickly while de Vautrin's watery eyes grew larger.
"_Mon Dieu_! And you say they are coming here?"
"Yes. If their dinky little train ever reaches its destination. I'm
afraid you're in for it, Monsieur de Vautrin."
De Vautrin threw out his arms wildly.
"I will not see them. I will go away."
Jim Horton nodded. "That's all right--but it's only putting off the
evil moment. When they get their evidence working you'll have to meet
it, someway. And then what will you do?"
De Vautrin had caught Jim by the coatsleeve and pulled him down into the
seat beside him. And then with a pseudo-dramatic air which failed of
conviction,
"I shall fight, Monsieur."
"With what?"
"With the evidence you've given me."
"It's not enough."
Horton shook his head and laughed.
"It looks to me as though you were elected President of the Quinlevin
Endowment Association."
"But there must be some way of getting at the truth," cried the
Frenchman, now really pitiful in his alarm.
"Ah, that's it," laughed Jim. "_You_ know Madame Horton is not your
daughter and _I_ know it, but that doesn't beat Quinlevin."
"What then, Monsieur?"
"You've got to kill his evidence."
"But how?"
"With stronger evidence of your own. You haven't it, or any prospect of
getting it that I can see. So there's only one course open."
"And that, Monsieur?" asked de Vautrin eagerly.
"To break down Quinlevin's. I'm no lawyer, but that's only common
sense. Nora Burke is a liar bribed with five thousand pounds. And
there never was a lie that didn't have its weak points. You've got to
make her speak the truth----"
"How?"
"I don't know. But I wouldn't mind trying. Then you've got to get that
birth certificate----"
"I don't see how you expect to do that."
"Neither do I--Quinlevin is no fool, but then he's not super-natural
either."
The Duc was silent, appalled by the undertaking which had presented
itself. And the calm way in which his visitor discussed his projects
filled him with wonder.
"Justice, Monsieur de Vautrin, is on your side. Will you fight for it?"
"Assuredly, Monsieur--if you will but help."
Jim Horton laughed.
"Then you no longer believe I have an ax to grind?"
"No--no, Monsieur."
"And you no longer cherish evil thoughts of Piquette?"
"Upon my honor," said the Duc, a jeweled hand at his heart. "And yet,
Monsieur, you can hardly blame me for some irritation at meeting her
here with you."
Jim Horton glanced toward the door significantly. And then dryly, "You
hardly deserve her, Monsieur de Vautrin. I am proud of her friendship.
It's the finest thing in my life."
De Vautrin wagged his head foolishly and then shrugged a futile
shoulder.
"What do you want me to do, Monsieur?" he asked peevishly.
Horton lighted a cigarette carefully and took Piquette by the hand.
"First, Monsieur de Vautrin," he said coolly, "you will send Madame
Thibaud about her business----"
"Monsieur!" said the Duc with a show of dignity.
"Suit yourself. But she's in the way. This is no time for fooling.
Does she go or doesn't she?"
De Vautrin's injured dignity trembled in the balance for a moment and
then fell away, merged in his apprehension for the immediate future.
"That can--can doubtless be arranged," he said with a frown.
"Good," said Horton jovially. "And the sooner the better. It will
clear the atmosphere amazingly. Then we will prepare to fight Monsieur
Quinlevin with his own weapons."
"Yes. You--I--Piquette. That's what we came here for. You've made the
mistake of under-rating Barry Quinlevin. He's desperate. He is playing
a big game and if you don't want to be the goat you'll do what I
advise."
"I'm listening."
"If I'm not mistaken he will reach here to-morrow afternoon with Madame
Horton and Nora Burke. And you've got to see them."
"I--Monsieur?"
"Yes--you--here in your rooms in the Hotel de Paris. You will give it
out that you are here for a week. They must take rooms in Monte Carlo.
Then you will listen politely to everything Quinlevin has to say--to
everything Nora Burke has to say, but you yourself will say nothing."
"But you, Monsieur?"
"I shall be in an adjoining room, but they must not know it."
"But Barry Quinlevin will discover that you have been here."
"Of course. You will tell him that. They will tell you that I have
lied. But you won't believe them. And then you will tell them that I
have gone away."
"But when will you come in to my assistance?"
"That depends upon what I hear through the keyhole."
"But would it not be simpler to pay this Nora Burke for telling the
truth?"
Horton laughed. "It does seem simple, doesn't it? I don't know much
about French law, but I wouldn't want to be caught at it out where I
come from. Let's play this game straight and trust to luck. If
Quinlevin is too sharp for us we'll try something else. Do you agree?"
"Of course, Monsieur."
And so it was settled. On the following morning Madame Thibaud was sent
back to Paris. And Piquette and Jim Horton ostentatiously took the
train for Nice, returning subsequently by automobile to Monte Carlo,
where they were hidden in rooms in the Hotel de Paris. In this they were
aided by an official of the Hotel who proved to be an old acquaintance
of Piquette's in Paris. And so when Barry Quinlevin arrived from Nice in
the afternoon, with Moira and Nora Burke, inquiring for the Duc, the
information was conveyed directly to Horton, who was happy to learn that
Tricot had not yet caught up with the party.
Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was
to play, seemed to enter into the game with some spirit, and was sent
over to the Casino to play _trente et quarante_ where after awhile Barry
Quinlevin found him, deeply absorbed in his game of chance. The Duc
manifested polite surprise, Quinlevin polite insistence, and then they
talked for awhile, the Duc indifferently, Quinlevin impressively,--to
the end that an appointment was made for an hour later the following
afternoon in the Duc's apartment, where he would listen in all good
nature and tolerance to what his visitors would have to say. He hoped
his "daughter" was handsome. It would be a pity if all this money was
to go to one who could not use it with dignity. All this in an ironic
and jocular mood which only brought a dour smile upon Quinlevin's face.
But the main object of the preliminary encounter was achieved, for Barry
Quinlevin accepted without reservation the Duc's assertion that Jim
Horton, having performed his mission, had returned to Paris.
When the hour of the appointment arrived, Jim Horton sat behind the door
into the bedroom of Monsieur de Vautrin, carefully studying the pages of
an English-French dictionary. The Duc sat over his paper with an air of
unconcern he was far from feeling. Piquette, at the American's
instructions, was elsewhere.
Quinlevin, shown to the door of the room by a servant of the hotel, met
the Duc with his most amiable smile and introduced the women of his
party. Moira was pale, Nora Burke uncomfortable but arrogant.
"Monsieur de Vautrin," Quinlevin began with something of an air, "permit
me to present to ye yer daughter, Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin."
The Duc smiled politely, bowed--and stared. Moira, who, as though in
duty, had taken a step toward him, paused. And then as she saw the look
that Monsieur de Vautrin swept over her, the color flamed into her
cheeks. The Duc's rebuff gave for the first time a true perception of
the position in which she had voluntarily placed herself. If she were a
mere adventuress he could not have accused her more eloquently and the
admiration in his impudent stare was even more insulting. This
man--this effete boulevardier--her father----? Impossible! And the
repulsion she felt at the sight of him made her wish only to go anywhere
away from the sight of him. What else she had expected, she didn't
know, for even Barry Quinlevin had not been too explicit as to what
would be likely to happen. But there was her mentor at her side, a
gentle hand upon her elbow urging her forward into the arm-chair by the
window, which Monsieur de Vautrin was indicating with a rather
exaggerated gesture of formality.
"Thanks, Monsieur," said Quinlevin with an easy laugh, sinking into
another chair. "Ye're not to be blamed for not flying to each other's
arms after all these years, when yer acquaintance in the beginning was
to say the least a most trivial affair. But in a while, perhaps, ye'll
be knowing each other better and I'm sure, Monsieur, ye'll be finding my
ward as I have done, a fine creature capable of a most filial devotion."
"Ah," said de Vautrin. "I don't doubt that. It would truly be a great
pleasure to me to discover so beautiful a creature to be a daughter of
mine, but the facts of the matter unfortunately----"
"One moment, Monsieur," broke in Quinlevin, "before we arrive at the
facts in the matter. Ye must be aware that this situation is none of my
ward's choosing. She came because she knew that it was a sacred duty
which she owed to the memory of her mother. Many years have passed
since yer affairs--er--called ye away from Ireland and she lays no fault
to yerself for yer desertion, for which I have taken all the blame. She
knows that ye've provided for her comfortably, and that I have made it
my pleasure to act as yer substitute, as well as I could. But the time
has come when she must take her place in the world to which she belongs,
and it's my duty to be putting her there. To this end, as ye'll see,
I've brought with me her old nurse, Nora Burke, with whom ye're already
acquainted, and who will be answering any questions that ye would like
to put to her."
Monsieur de Vautrin frowned and moved his gaze from Moira to the servant
who stood, her large hands, badly gloved, folded upon her stomach, her
feet shifting uneasily.
"I've heard something of Nora Burke's story," said de Vautrin dryly,
"but there are parts of it that I have not heard."
"Ye're quite at liberty to question, Monsieur," put in Quinlevin, "Nora
too is merely an instrument of truth in the hand of Providence."
"Since Providence has ceased providing," said the Duc dryly, "I
comprehend. But I will listen to this extraordinary tale again, since I
have promised to do so. It can do no harm. _Allons_! Proceed, Nora
Burke. My poor wife, you say, engaged you some weeks before my daughter
was born?"
"She did, yer Highness----" And, as the woman hesitated----
"Go on, Nora," said Quinlevin.
"The choild was born, this very girl they call Moira Quinlevin, who sits
before ye, a beautiful choild she was, fine and healthy that the poor
Duchesse never lived to see, for she died that night, God rest her soul,
faded away before our very eyes."
"And who was there beside yourself," asked the Duc coolly.
"Dominick Finucane, the doctor from Athlone, and Father Reilly, the
priest who gave her Absolution----"
"And who has since died," said de Vautrin dryly.
"Yes, yer Highness--but the birth certificate I was afther kapin' since
no father came near us, nor any relation. Mary Callonby was a lonely
kind and when she came back to Galway took to living solitary-like on
the small farm with only the one servant, Mrs. Boyle, to look afther
her."
"And Mrs. Boyle is also dead?" put in de Vautrin keenly.
"She is."
"It's very unfortunate that all the witnesses have seen fit to die."
"All but me, yer Highness," said Nora assertively.