THE RIVALS
I
The weather did not improve as the night wore on: soon a thin, cold
drizzle added to the dreariness and to Maurice de St. Genis'
ever-growing discomfort.
He had started off gaily enough, cheered by Crystal's warm look of
encouragement and comforted by the feeling of certainty that he would
get even with that mysterious enemy who had so impudently thrown himself
athwart a plan which had service of the King for its sole object.
Maurice had not exchanged confidences with Crystal since the adventure,
but his ideas--without his knowing it--absolutely coincided with hers.
He, too, was quite sure that no common footpad had engineered their
daring attack. Positive knowledge of the money and its destination had
been the fountain from which had sprung the comedy of the masked
highwayman and his little band of robbers. Maurice mentally reckoned
that there must have been at least half a dozen of these bravos--of the
sort that in these times were easily enough hired in any big city to
play any part, from that of armed escort to nervous travellers to that
of seeker of secret information for the benefit of either political
party--loafers that hung round the wine-shops in search of a means of
earning a few days' rations, discharged soldiers of the Empire some of
them, whose loyalty to the Restoration had been questioned from the
first.
Maurice had no doubt that whatever motive had actuated the originator of
the bold plan to possess himself of twenty-five million francs, he had
deliberately set to work to employ men of that type to help him in his
task.
It had all been very audacious and--Maurice was bound to admit--very
well carried out. As for the motive, he was never for a moment in doubt.
It was a Bonapartist plot, of that he felt sure, as well as of the fact
that Victor de Marmont was the originator of it all. He probably had not
taken any active part in the attack, but he had employed the
men--Maurice would have taken an oath on that!
The Comte de Cambray must have let fall an unguarded hint in the course
of his last interview with de Marmont at Brestalou, and when Victor went
away disgraced and discomfited he, no doubt, thought to take his revenge
in the way most calculated to injure both the Comte and the royalist
cause.
Satisfied with this mental explanation of past events, St. Genis had
ridden on in the darkness, his spirits kept up with hopes and thoughts
of a glaring counter revenge. But his limbs were still stiff and bruised
from the cramped position in which he had lain for so long, and
presently, when the cold drizzle began to penetrate to his bones, his
enthusiasm and confidence dwindled. The village seemed to recede further
and further into the distance. He thought when he had ridden through it
earlier in the evening that it was not very far from the scene of the
attack--a dozen kilomètres perhaps--now it seemed more like thirty; he
thought too that it was a village of some considerable size--five
hundred souls or perhaps more--he had noticed as he rode through it a
well-illuminated, one-storied house, and the words "Débit de vins" and
"Chambres pour voyageurs" painted in bold characters above the front
door. But now he had ridden on and on along the dark road for what
seemed endless hours--unconscious of time save that it was dragging on
leaden-footed and wearisome . . . and still no light on ahead to betray
the presence of human habitations, no distant church bells to mark the
progress of the night.
At last, in desperation, Maurice de St. Genis had thought of wrapping
himself in his cloak and getting what rest he could by the roadside, for
he was getting very tired and saddle-sore, when on his left he perceived
in the far distance, glimmering through the mist, two small lights like
bright eyes shining in the darkness.
What kind of a way led up to those welcome lights, Maurice had, of
course, no idea; but they proclaimed at any rate the presence of human
beings, of a house, of the warmth of fire; and without hesitation the
young man turned his horse's head at right angles from the road.
He had crossed a couple of ploughed fields and an intervening ditch,
when in the distance to his right and behind him he heard the sound of
horses at a brisk trot, going in the direction of Lyons.
Maurice drew rein for a moment and listened until the sound came nearer.
There must have been at least a score of mounted men--a military patrol
sent out by M. le Comte d'Artois, no doubt, and now on its way back to
Lyons. Just for a second or two the young man had thoughts of joining up
with the party and asking their help or their escort: he even gave a
vigorous shout which, however, was lost in the clang and clatter of
horses' hoofs and of the accompanying jingle of metal.
He turned his horse back the way he had come; but before he had
recrossed one of the ploughed fields, the troop of mounted men--whatever
they were--had passed by, and Maurice was left once more in solitude,
shouting and calling in vain.
There was nothing for it then, but to turn back again, and to make his
way as best he could toward those inviting lights. In any case nothing
could have been done in this pitch-dark night against the highway
thieves, and St. Genis had no fear that M. le Comte d'Artois would fail
to send him help for his expedition against them on the morrow.
The lights on ahead were getting perceptibly nearer, soon they detached
themselves still more clearly in the gloom--other lights appeared in the
immediate neighbourhood--too few for a village--thought Maurice, and
grouped closely together, suggesting a main building surrounded by other
smaller ones close by.
Soon the whole outline of the house could be traced through the
enveloping darkness: two of the windows were lighted from within, and an
oil lamp, flickering feebly, was fixed in a recess just above the door.
The welcome words: "Chambres pour voyageurs. Aristide Briot,
propriétaire," greeted Maurice's wearied eyes as he drew rein. Good luck
was apparently attending him for, thus picking his way across fields, he
had evidently struck an out-of-the-way hostelry on some bridle path off
the main road, which was probably a short cut between Chambéry and
Vienne.
Be that as it may, he managed to dismount--stiff as he was--and having
tried the door and found it fastened, he hammered against it with his
boot.
A few moments later, the bolts were drawn and an elderly man in blue
blouse and wide trousers, his sabots stuffed with straw, came shuffling
out of the door.
"Who's there?" he called in a feeble, querulous voice.
"A traveller--on horseback," replied Maurice. "Come, petit père," he
added more impatiently, "will you take my horse or call to one of your
men?"
"It is too late to take in travellers," muttered the old man. "It is
nearly midnight, and everyone is abed except me."
"Too late, morbleu?" exclaimed the young man peremptorily. "You surely
are not thinking of refusing shelter to a traveller on a night like
this. Why, how far is it to the nearest village?"
"It is very late," reiterated the old man plaintively, "and my house is
quite full."
"There's a shake-down in the kitchen anyway, I'll warrant, and one for
my horse somewhere in an outhouse," retorted Maurice as without more ado
he suddenly threw the reins into the old man's hand and unceremoniously
pushed him into the house.
The man appeared to hesitate for a moment or two. He grumbled and
muttered something which Maurice did not hear, and his shrewd eyes--the
knowing eyes of a peasant of the Dauphiné--took a rapid survey of the
belated traveller's clothes, the expensive caped coat, the well-made
boots, the fashionable hat, which showed up clearly now by the light
from within.
Satisfied that there could be no risk in taking in so well-dressed a
traveller, feeling moreover that a good horse was always a hostage for
the payment of the bill in the morning, the man now, without another
word or look at his guest, turned his back on the house and led the
horse away--somewhere out into the darkness--Maurice did not take the
trouble to ascertain where.
He was under shelter. There was the remnant of a wood-fire in the hearth
at the corner, some benches along the walls. If he could not get a bed,
he could certainly get rest and warmth for the night. He put down his
hat, took off his coat, and kicked the smouldering log into a blaze;
then he drew a chair close to the fire and held his numbed feet and
hands to the pleasing warmth.
Thoughts of food and wine presented themselves too, now that he felt a
little less cold and stiff, and he awaited the old man's return with
eagerness and impatience.
The shuffling of wooden sabots outside the door was a pleasing sound: a
moment or two later the old man had come back and was busying himself
with once more bolting his front door.
"Well now, père Briot," said Maurice cheerily, "as I take it you are the
proprietor of this abode of bliss, what about supper?"
"Bread and cheese if you like," muttered the man curtly.
"And a bottle of wine, of course."
"Yes. A bottle of wine."
"Well! be quick about it, petit père. I didn't know how hungry I was
till you talked of bread and cheese."
"Would you like some cold meat?" queried the man indifferently.
"Of course I should! Have I not said that I was hungry?"
"You'll pay for it all right enough?"
"I'll pay for the supper before I stick a fork into it," rejoined
Maurice impatiently, "but in Heaven's name hurry up, man! I am half dead
with sleep as well as with hunger."
The old man--a real peasant of the Dauphiné in his deliberate manner and
shrewd instincts of caution--once more shuffled out of the room, and St.
Genis lapsed into a kind of pleasant torpor as the warmth of the fire
gradually crept through his sinews and loosened all his limbs, while the
anticipation of wine and food sent his wearied thoughts into a happy
day-dream.
Ten minutes later he was installed before a substantial supper, and
worthy Aristide Briot was equally satisfied with the two pieces of
silver which St. Genis had readily tendered him.
"You said your house was full, petit père," said Maurice after a while,
when the edge of his hunger had somewhat worn off. "I shouldn't have
thought there were many travellers in this out-of-the-way place."
"The place is not out-of-the-way," retorted the old man gruffly. "The
road is a good one, and a short cut between Vienne and Chambéry. We get
plenty of travellers this way!"
"Well! I did not strike the road, unfortunately. I saw your lights in
the distance and cut across some fields. It was pretty rough in the
dark, I can tell you."
"That's just what those other cavaliers said, when they turned up here
about an hour ago. A noisy crowd they were. I had no room for them in my
house, so they had to go."
St. Genis at once put down his knife and fork.
"A noisy crowd of travellers," he exclaimed, "who arrived here an hour
ago?"
"Parbleu!" rejoined the other, "and all wanting beds too. I had no room.
I can only put up one or two travellers. I sent them on to Levasseur's,
further along the road. Only the wounded man I could not turn away. He
is up in our best bedroom."
"A wounded man? You have a wounded man here, petit père?"
"Oh! it's not much of a wound," explained the old man with unconscious
irrelevance. "He himself calls it a mere scratch. But my old woman took
a fancy to him: he is young and well-looking, you understand. . . . She
is clever at bandages too, so she has looked after him as if he were her
own son."
Mechanically, St. Genis had once more taken up his knife and fork,
though of a truth the last of his hunger had vanished. But these
Dauphiné peasants were suspicious and queer-tempered, and already the
young man's surprise had matured into a plan which he would not be able
to carry through without the help of Aristide Briot. Noisy cavaliers--he
mused to himself--a wounded man! . . . wounded by the stray shot aimed
at him by Crystal de Cambray! Indeed, St. Genis had much ado to keep his
excitement in check, and to continue with a pretence at eating while
Briot watched him with stolid indifference.
"Petit père," said the young man at last with as much unconcern as he
could affect. "I have been thinking that you have--unwittingly--given me
an excellent piece of news. I do believe that the man in your best
bedroom upstairs is a friend of mine whom I was to have met at Lyons
to-day and whose absence from our place of tryst had made me very
anxious. I was imagining that all sorts of horrors had happened to him,
for he is in the secret service of the King and exposed to every kind of
danger. His being wounded in some skirmish either with highway robbers
or with a band of the Corsican's pirates would not surprise me in the
least, and the fact that he had some half-dozen mounted men with him
confirms me in my belief that indeed it is my friend who is lying
upstairs, as he often has to have an escort in the exercise of his
duties. At any rate, petit père," he concluded as he rose from the
table, "by your leave, I'll go up and ascertain."
While he rattled off these pretty proceeds of his own imagination,
Maurice de St. Genis kept a sharp watch on Aristide Briot's face, ready
to note the slightest sign of suspicion should it creep into the old
man's shrewd eyes.
Briot, however, did not exhibit any violent interest in his guest's
story, and when the latter had finished speaking he merely said,
pointing to the remnants of food upon the table:
"I thought you said that you were hungry."
"So I was, petit père," rejoined Maurice impatiently, "so I was: but my
hunger is not so great as it was, and before I eat another morsel I must
satisfy myself that it is my friend who is safe and well in your old
woman's care."
"Oh! he is well enough," grunted Briot, "and you can see him in the
morning."
"That I cannot, for I shall have to leave here soon after dawn. And I
could not get a wink of sleep whilst I am in such a state of uncertainty
about my friend."
"But you can't go and wake him now. He is asleep for sure, and my old
woman wouldn't like him to be disturbed, after all the care she has
given him."
St. Genis, fretting with impatience, could have cursed aloud or shaken
the obstinate old peasant roughly by the shoulders.
"I shouldn't wake him," he retorted, irritated beyond measure at the
man's futile opposition. "I'll go up on tiptoe, candle in hand--you
shall show me the way to his room--and I'll just ascertain whether the
wounded man is my friend or not, then I'll come down again quietly and
finish my supper.
"Come, petit père, I insist," he added more peremptorily, seeing that
Briot--with the hesitancy peculiar to his kind--still made no movement
to obey, but stood close by scratching his scanty locks and looking
puzzled and anxious.
Fortunately for him Maurice understood the temperament of these peasants
of the Dauphiné, he knew that with their curious hesitancy and inherent
suspiciousness it was always the easiest to make up their minds for
them.
So now--since he was absolutely determined to come to grips with that
abominable thief upstairs, before the night was many minutes older--he
ceased to parley with Briot.
A candle stood close to his hand on the table, a bit of kindling wood
lay in a heap in one corner, with the help of the one he lighted the
other, then candle in hand he walked up to the door.
"Show me the way, petit père," he said.
And Aristide Briot, with a shrug of the shoulders which implied that he
there and then put away from him any responsibility for what might or
might not occur after this, and without further comment, led the way
upstairs.
II
On the upper landing at the top of the stairs Briot paused. He pointed
to a door at the end of the narrow corridor, and said curtly:
"That's his room."
"I thank you, petit père," whispered St. Genis in response. "Don't wait
for me, I'll be back directly."
"He is not yet in bed," was Briot's dry comment.
A thin streak of light showed underneath the door. As St. Genis walked
rapidly toward it he wondered if the door would be locked. That
certainly was a contingency which had not occurred to him. His design
was to surprise a wounded and helpless thief in his sleep and to force
him then and there to give up the stolen money, before he had time to
call for help.
But the miscreant was evidently on the watch, Briot still lingered on
the top of the stairs, there were other people sleeping in the house,
and St. Genis suddenly realised that his purpose would not be quite so
easy of execution as he had hot-headedly supposed.
But the end in view was great, and St. Genis was not a man easily
deterred from a set purpose. There was the royalist cause to aid and
Crystal to be won if he were successful.
He knocked resolutely at the door, then tried the latch. The door was
locked: but even as the young man hesitated for a moment wondering what
he would do next, a firm step resounded on the floor on the other side
of the partition and the next moment the door was opened from within,
and a peremptory voice issued the usual challenge:
"Who goes there?"
A tall figure appeared as a massive silhouette under the lintel. St.
Genis had the candle in his hand. He dropped it in his astonishment.
"Mr. Clyffurde!" he exclaimed.
At sight of St. Genis the Englishman, whose right arm was in a sling,
had made a quick instinctive movement back into the room, but equally
quickly Maurice had forestalled him by placing his foot across the
threshold.
Then he turned back to Aristide Briot.
"That's all right, petit père," he called out airily, "it is indeed my
friend, just as I thought. I'm going to stay and have a little chat with
him. Don't wait up for me. When he is tired of my company I'll go back
to the parlour and make myself happy in front of the fire. Good-night!"
As Clyffurde no longer stood in the doorway, St. Genis walked straight
into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving good old Aristide
to draw what conclusions he chose from the eccentric behaviour of his
nocturnal visitors.
With a rapid and wrathful gaze, St. Genis at once took stock of
everything in the room. A sigh of satisfaction rose to his lips. At any
rate the rogue could not deny his guilt. There, hanging on a peg, was
the caped coat which he had worn, and there on the table were two
damning proofs of his villainy--a pair of pistols and a black mask.
The whole situation puzzled him more than he could say. Certainly after
the first shock of surprise he had felt his wrath growing hotter and
hotter every moment, the other man's cool assurance helped further to
irritate his nerves, and to make him lose that self-control which would
have been of priceless value in this unlooked-for situation.
Seeing that Maurice de St. Genis was absolutely speechless with surprise
as well as with anger, there crept into Clyffurde's deep-set grey eyes a
strange look of amusement, as if the humour of his present position was
more obvious than its shame.
"And what," he asked pleasantly, "has procured me the honour at this
late hour of a visit from M. le Marquis de St. Genis?"
His words broke the spell. There was no longer any mystery in the
situation. The condemnatory pieces of evidence were there, Clyffurde's
connection with de Marmont was well known--the plot had become obvious.
Here was an English adventurer--an alien spy--who had obviously been
paid to do this dirty work for the usurper, and--as Maurice now
concluded airily--he must be made to give up the money which he had
stolen before he be handed over to the military authorities at Lyons and
shot as a spy or a thief--Maurice didn't care which: the whole thing was
turning out far simpler and easier than he had dared to hope.
"You know quite well why I am here," he now said, roughly. "Of a truth,
for the moment I was taken by surprise, for I had not thought that a man
who had been honoured by the friendship of M. le Comte de Cambray and of
his family was a thief, as well as a spy."
"And now," said Clyffurde, still smiling and apparently quite
unperturbed, "that you have been enlightened on this subject to your own
satisfaction, may I ask what you intend to do?"
"Force you to give up what you have stolen, you impudent thief,"
retorted the other savagely.
"And how are you proposing to do that, M. de St. Genis?" asked the
Englishman with perfect equanimity.
"Like this," cried Maurice, whose exasperation and fury had increased
every moment, as the other man's assurance waxed more insolent and more
cool.
"Like this!" he cried again, as he sprang at his enemy's throat.
A past master in the art of self-defence, Clyffurde--despite his wounded
arm--was ready for the attack. With his left on guard he not only
received the brunt of the onslaught, but parried it most effectually
with a quick blow against his assailant's jaw.
St. Genis--stunned by this forcible contact with a set of exceedingly
hard knuckles--fell back a step or two, his foot struck against some
object on the floor, he lost his balance and measured his length
backwards across the bed.
"You abominable thief . . . you . . ." he cried, choking with rage and
with discomfiture as he tried to struggle to his feet.
But this he at once found that he could not do, seeing that a pair of
firm and muscular knees were gripping and imprisoning his legs, even
while that same all-powerful left hand with the hard knuckles had an
unpleasant hold on his throat.
"I should have tried some other method, M. de St. Genis, had I been in
your shoes," came in irritatingly sarcastic accents from his calm
antagonist.
Indeed, the insolent rogue did not appear in the least overwhelmed by
the enormity of his crime or by the disgrace of being so ignominiously
found out. From his precarious position across the bed St. Genis had a
good view of the rascal's finely knit figure, of his earnest face, now
softened by a smile full of kindly humour and good-natured contempt.
An impartial observer viewing the situation would certainly have thought
that here was an impudent villain vanquished and lying on his back,
whilst being admonished for his crimes by a just man who had might as
well as right on his side.
"Let me go, you confounded thief," St. Genis cried, as soon as the
unpleasant grip on his throat had momentarily relaxed, "you accursed spy
. . . you . . ."
"Easy, easy, my young friend," said the other calmly; "you have called
me a thief quite often enough to satisfy your rage: and further epithets
might upset my temper."
"Let go my throat!"
"I will in a moment or two, as soon as I have made up my mind what I am
going to do with you, my impetuous young friend--whether I shall truss
you like a fowl and put you in charge of our worthy host, as guilty of
assaulting one of his guests, or whether I shall do you some trifling
injury to punish you for trying to do me a grave one."
"Right is on my side," said St. Genis doggedly. "I do not care what you
do to me."
"Right is apparently on your side, my friend. I'll not deny it.
Therefore, I still hesitate."
"Like a rogue and a vagabond at dead of night you attacked and robbed
those who have never shown you anything but kindness."
"Until the hour when they turned me out of their house like a dishonest
lacquey, without allowing me a word of explanation."
"Then this is your idea of vengeance, is it, Mr. Clyffurde?"
"Yes, M. de St. Genis, it is. But not quite in the manner that you
suppose. I am going to set you free now in order to set your mind at
rest. But let me warn you that I shall be just as much on the alert
against another attack from you as ever I was before, and that I could
ward off two or even three assailants with my left arm and knee as
easily as I warded off one. It is a way we have in England."
He relaxed his hold on Maurice's legs and throat, and the young
man--fretting and fuming, wild with impotent wrath and with
mortification--struggled to his feet.
"Are you proposing to give me some explanation to mitigate your crime?"
he said roughly. "If so, let me tell you that I will accept none.
Putting the question aside of your abominable theft, you have committed
an outrage against people whom I honour, and against the woman whom I
love."
"Nor do I propose to give you any explanation, M. de St. Genis,"
retorted Clyffurde, who still spoke quite quietly and evenly. "But for
the sake of your own peace of mind, which you will I hope communicate to
the people whom you honour, I will tell you a few simple facts."
Neither of the men sat down: they stood facing one another now across
the table whereon stood a couple of tallow candles which threw fitful,
yellow lights on their faces--so different, so strangely
contrasted--young and well-looking both--both strongly moved by passion,
yet one entirely self-controlled, while in the other's eyes that passion
glowed fierce and resentful.
"I listen," said St. Genis curtly.
And Clyffurde began after a slight pause: "At the time that you fell
upon me with such ill-considered vigour, M. de St. Genis," he said, "did
you know that but for my abominable outrage upon the persons whom you
honour, the money which they would gladly have guarded with their life
would have fallen into the hands of Bonaparte's agents?"
"In theirs or yours, what matters?" retorted St. Genis savagely, "since
His Majesty is deprived of it now."
"That is where you are mistaken, my young friend," said the other
quietly. "His Majesty is more sure of getting the money now than he was
when M. le Comte de Cambray with his family and yourself started on that
quixotic if ill-considered errand this morning."
St. Genis frowned in puzzlement:
"I don't understand you," he said curtly.
"Isn't it simple enough? You and your friends credited me with
friendship for de Marmont: he is hot-headed and impetuous, and words
rush out of his mouth that he should keep to himself. I knew from
himself that Bonaparte had charged him to recover the twenty-five
millions which M. le préfet Fourier had placed in the Comte de Cambray's
charge."
"Why did you not warn the Comte then?" queried St. Genis, who, still
mistrustful, glowered at his antagonist.
"Would he have listened to me, think you?" asked the other with a quiet
smile. "Remember, he had turned me out of his house two nights before,
without a word of courtesy or regret--on the mere suspicion of my
intercourse with de Marmont. Were you too full with your own rage to
notice what happened then? Mlle. Crystal drew away her skirts from me as
if I were a leper. What credence would they have given my words? Would
the Comte even have admitted me into his presence?"
"And so . . . you planned this robbery . . . you . . ." stammered St.
Genis, whose astonishment and puzzlement were rendering him as
speechless as his rage had done. "I'll not believe it," he continued
more firmly; "you are fooling me, now that I have found you out."
"Why should I do that? You are in my hands, and not I in yours.
Bonaparte is victorious at Grenoble. I could take the money to him and
earn his gratitude, or use the money for mine own ends. What have I to
fear from you? What cause to fool you? Your opinion of me? M. le Comte's
contempt or goodwill? Bah! after to-night are we likely to meet again?"
St. Genis said nothing in reply. Of a truth there was nothing that he
could say. The Englishman's whole attitude bore the impress of truth.
Even through that still seething wrath which refused to be appeased, St.
Genis felt that the other was speaking the truth. His mind now was in
turmoil of wonderment. This man who stood here before him had done
something which he--St. Genis--could not comprehend. Vaguely he realised
that beneath the man's actions there still lay a yet deeper foundation
of dignity and of heroism and one which perhaps would never be wholly
fathomed.
It was Clyffurde who at last broke the silence between them:
"You, M. de St. Genis," he said lightly, "would under like circumstances
have acted just as I did, I am sure. The whole idea was so easy of
execution. Half a dozen loafers to aid me, the part of highwayman to
play--an old man and two or three defenceless women--my part was not
heroic, I admit," he added with a smile, "but it has served its purpose.
The money is safe in my keeping now, within a few days His Majesty the
King of France shall have it, and all those who strive to serve him
loyally can rest satisfied."
"I confess I don't understand you," said St. Genis, as he seemed to
shake himself free from some unexplainable spell that held him. "You
have rendered us and the legitimate cause of France a signal service!
Why did you do it?"
"You forget, M. de St. Genis, that the legitimate cause of France is
England's cause as well."
"Are you a servant of your country then? I thought you were a tradesman
engaged in buying gloves."
Clyffurde smiled. "So I am," he said, "but even a tradesman may serve
his country, if he has the opportunity."
"I hope that your country will be duly grateful," said Maurice, with a
sigh. "I know that every royalist in France would thank you if they
knew."
"By your leave, M. de St. Genis, no one in France need know anything but
what you choose to tell them. . . ."
"You mean . . ."
"That except for reassuring M. le Comte de Cambray and . . . and Mlle.
Crystal, there is no reason why they should ever know what passed
between us in this room to-night."
"But if the King is to have the money, he . . ."
"He will never know from me, from whence it comes."
"He will wish to know. . . ."
"Come, M. de St. Genis," broke in Clyffurde, with a slight hint of
impatience, "is it for me to tell you that Great Britain has more than
one agent in France these days--that the money will reach His Majesty
the King ultimately through the hands of his foreign minister M. le
Comte de Jaucourt . . . and that my name will never appear in connection
with the matter? . . . I am a mere servant of Great Britain--doing my
duty where I can . . . nothing more."
"You mean that you are in the British Secret Service? No?--Well! I don't
profess to understand you English people, and you seem to me more
incomprehensible than any I have known. Not that I ever believed that
you were a mere tradesman. But what shall I say to M. le Comte de
Cambray?" he added, after a slight pause, during which a new and strange
train of thought altered the expression of wonderment on his face, to
one that was undefinable, almost furtive, certainly undecided.
"All you need say to M. le Comte," replied Clyffurde, with a slight tone
of impatience, "is that you are personally satisfied that the money will
reach His Majesty's hand safely, and in due course. At least, I presume
that you are satisfied, M. de St. Genis," he continued, vaguely
wondering what was going on in the young Frenchman's brain.
"Yes, yes, of course I am satisfied," murmured the other, "but . . ."
"But what?"
"Mlle. Crystal would want to know something more than that. She will ask
me questions . . . she . . . she will insist . . . I had promised her to
get the money back myself . . . she will expect an explanation . . .
she . . ."
He continued to murmur these short, jerky sentences almost inaudibly,
avoiding the while to meet the enquiring and puzzled gaze of the
Englishman.
When he paused--still murmuring, but quite inaudibly now--Clyffurde made
no comment, and once more there fell a silence over the narrow room. The
candles flickered feebly, and Bobby picked up the metal snuffers from
the table and with a steady and deliberate hand set to work to trim the
wicks.
So absorbed did he seem in this occupation that he took no notice of St.
Genis, who with arms crossed in front of him, was pacing up and down the
narrow room, a heavy frown between his deep-set eyes.
III
Somewhere in the house down below, an old-fashioned clock had just
struck two. Clyffurde looked up from his absorbing task.
"It is late," he remarked casually; "shall we say good-night, M. de St.
Genis?"
The sound of the Englishman's voice seemed to startle Maurice out of his
reverie. He pulled himself together, walked firmly up to the table and
resting his hand upon it, he faced the other man with a sudden gaze made
up partly of suddenly conceived resolve and partly of lingering
shamefacedness.
"Mr. Clyffurde," he began abruptly.
"Yes?"
"Have you any cause to hate me?"
"Why no," replied Clyffurde with his habitual good-humoured smile. "Why
should I have?"
"Have you any cause to hate Mlle. Crystal de Cambray?"
"Certainly not."
"You have no desire," insisted Maurice, "to be revenged on her for the
slight which she put upon you the other night?"
His voice had grown more steady and his look more determined as he put
these rapid questions to Clyffurde, whose expressive face showed no sign
of any feeling in response save that of complete and indifferent
puzzlement.
"I have no desire with regard to Mlle. de Cambray," replied Bobby
quietly, "save that of serving her, if it be in my power."
"You can serve her, Sir," retorted Maurice firmly, "and that right
nobly. You can render the whole of her future life happy beyond what she
herself has ever dared to hope."
"How?"
Maurice paused: once more, with a gesture habitual to him, he crossed
his arms over his chest and resumed his restless march up and down the
narrow room.
Then again he stood still, and again faced the Englishman, his dark
enquiring eyes seeming to probe the latter's deepest thoughts.
"Did you know, Mr. Clyffurde," he asked slowly, "that Mlle. Crystal de
Cambray honours me with her love?"
"Yes. I knew that," replied the other quietly.
"And I love her with my heart and soul," continued Maurice impetuously.
"Oh! I cannot tell you what we have suffered--she and I--when the
exigencies of her position and the will of her father parted
us--seemingly for ever. Her heart was broken and so was mine: and I
endured the tortures of hell when I realised at last that she was lost
to me for ever and that her exquisite person--her beautiful soul--were
destined for the delight of that low-born traitor Victor de Marmont."
He drew breath, for he had half exhausted himself with the volubility
and vehemence of his diction. Also he seemed to be waiting for some
encouragement from Clyffurde, who, however, gave him none, but sat
unmoved and apparently supremely indifferent, while a suffering heart
was pouring out its wails of agony into his unresponsive ear.
"The reason," resumed St. Genis somewhat more calmly, "why M. le Comte
de Cambray was opposed to our union, was purely a financial one. Our
families are of equal distinction and antiquity, but alas! our fortunes
are also of equal precariousness: we, Sir, of the old noblesse gave up
our all, in order to follow our King into exile. Victor de Marmont was
rich. His fortune could have repurchased the ancient Cambray estates and
restored to that honoured name all the brilliance which it had
sacrificed for its principles."
Still Clyffurde remained irritatingly silent, and St. Genis asked him
somewhat tartly:
"I trust I am making myself clear, Sir?"
"Perfectly, so far," replied the other quietly, "but I am afraid I don't
quite see how you propose that I could serve Mlle. Crystal in all this."
"You can with one word, one generous action, Sir, put me in a position
to claim Crystal as my wife, and give her that happiness which she
craves for, and which is rightly her due."
A slight lifting of the eyebrows was Clyffurde's only comment.
"Mr. Clyffurde," now said Maurice, with the obvious firm resolve to end
his own hesitancy at last, "you say yourself that by taking this money
to His Majesty, or rather to his minister, you, individually, will get
neither glory nor even gratitude--your name will not appear in the
transaction at all. I am quoting your own words, remember. That is so,
is it not?"
"It is so--certainly."
"But, Sir, if a Frenchman--a royalist--were able to render his King so
signal a service, he would not only gain gratitude, but recognition and
glory. . . . A man who was poor and obscure would at once become rich
and distinguished. . . ."
"And in a position to marry the woman he loved," concluded Bobby,
smiling.
Then as Maurice said nothing, but continued to regard him with glowing,
anxious eyes, he added, smiling not altogether kindly this time,
"I think I understand, M. de St. Genis."
"And . . . what do you say?" queried the other excitedly.
"Let me make the situation clear first, as I understand it, Monsieur,"
continued Bobby drily. "You are--and I mistake not--suggesting at the
present moment that I should hand over the twenty-five millions to you,
in order that you should take them yourself to the King in Paris, and by
this act obtain not only favours from him, but probably a goodly share
of the money, which you--presumably--will have forced some unknown
highwayman to give up to you. Is that it?"
"It was not money for myself I thought of, Sir," murmured St. Genis
somewhat shamefacedly.
"No, no, of course not," rejoined Clyffurde with a tone of sarcasm quite
foreign to his usual easy-going good-nature. "You were thinking of the
King's favours, and of a future of distinction and glory."
"I was thinking chiefly of Crystal, Sir," said the other haughtily.
"Quite so. You were thinking of winning Mlle. Crystal by a . . . a
subterfuge."
"An innocent one, Sir, you will admit. I should not be robbing you in
any way. And remember that it is only Crystal's hand that is denied me:
her love I have already won."
A look of pain--quickly suppressed and easily hidden from the other's
self-absorbed gaze--crossed the Englishman's earnest face.
"I do remember that, Monsieur," he said, "else I certainly would never
lend a hand in the . . . subterfuge."
"You will do it then?" queried the other eagerly.
"I have not said so."
"Ah! but you will," pleaded Maurice hotly. "Sir! the eternal gratitude
of two faithful hearts would be yours always--for Crystal will know it
all, once we are married, I promise you that she will. And in the midst
of her happiness she will find time to bless your generosity and your
selflessness . . . whilst I . . ."
"Enough, I beg of you, M. de St. Genis," broke in Clyffurde now, with
angry impatience. "Believe me! I do not hug myself with any thought of
my own virtues, nor do I desire any gratitude from you: if I hand over
the money to you, it is sorely against my better judgment and distinctly
against my duty: but since that duty chiefly lies in being assured that
the King of France will receive the money safely, why then by handing it
over to you I have that assurance, and my conscience will rest at
comparative ease. You shall have the money, Sir, and you shall marry
Mlle. Crystal on the strength of the King's gratitude towards you. And
Mlle. Crystal will be happy--if you keep silence over this transaction.
But for God's sake let's say no more about it: for of a truth you and I
are playing but a sorry rôle this night."
"A sorry rôle?" protested the other.
"Yes, a sorry rôle. Are you not deceiving a woman? Am I not running
counter to my duty?"
"I but deceive Crystal temporarily. I love her and only deceive in order
to win her. The end justifies the means: Nor do you, in my opinion, run
counter to your duty. . . ."
But Clyffurde interrupted him roughly: "I pray you, Sir, make no comment
on mine actions. My own silent comments on these are hard enough to
bear: your eulogies would raise bounds to my patience."
Whereupon he walked quickly up to the bed and from under the mattress
extricated five leather wallets which he threw one by one upon the
table.
"Here is the King's money," he said curtly; "you could never have taken
it from me by force, but I give it over to you willingly now. If within
a week from now I hear that the King has not received it, I will
proclaim you a liar and a thief."
"Sir . . . you dare . . ."
"Nay! we'll not quarrel. I don't want to do you any hurt. You know from
experience that I could kill you or wring your neck as easily as you
could kill a child; but Mlle. Crystal's love is like a protecting shield
all round you, so I'll not touch you again. But don't ask me to measure
my words, for that is beyond my power. Take the money, M. de St. Genis,
and earn not only the King's gratitude but also Mlle. Crystal's, which
is far better worth having. And now, I pray you, leave me to rest. You
must be tired too. And our mutual company hath become irksome to us
both."
He turned his back on St. Genis and sat down at the table, drawing
paper, pen and inkhorn toward him, and with clumsy, left hand began
laboriously to form written characters, as if St. Genis' presence or
departure no longer concerned him.
An importunate beggar could not have been more humiliatingly dismissed.
St. Genis had flushed to the very roots of his hair. He would have given
much to be able to chastise the insolent Englishman then and there. But
the latter had not boasted when he said that he could wring Maurice's
neck as easily with his left hand as with his right, and Maurice within
his heart was bound to own that the boast was no idle one. He knew that
in a hand-to-hand fight he was no match for that heavy-framed,
hard-fisted product of a fog-ridden land.
He would not trust himself to speak any more, lest another word cause
prudence to yield to exasperation. Another moment of hesitation, a shrug
of the shoulders--perhaps a muttered curse or two--and St. Genis picked
up one by one the wallets from the table.
Clyffurde never looked up while he did so: he continued to form awkward,
illegible characters upon the paper before him, as if his very life
depended on being able to write with his left hand.
The next moment St. Genis had walked rapidly out of the room. Bobby left
off writing, threw down his pen, and resting his elbow upon the table
and his head in his hand, he remained silent and motionless while St.
Genis' quick and firm footsteps echoed first along the corridor, then
down the creaking stairs and finally on the floor below. After which
there came the sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the dragging
of a chair across a wooden floor, and nothing more.
All was still in the house at last. The old-fashioned clock downstairs
struck half-past two.
With a smothered cry of angry contempt Clyffurde seized on the papers
that lay scattered on the table and crushed them up in his hand with a
gesture of passionate wrath.
Then he strode up to the window, threw open the rickety casement and let
the pure cold air of night pour into the room and dissipate the
atmosphere of cowardice, of falsehood and of unworthy love that still
seemed to hang there where M. le Marquis de St. Genis had basely
bargained for his own ends, and outraged the very name of Love by
planning base deeds in its name.