MAXINE MAKES A BARGAIN
We looked everywhere, in all possible places, for the diamond necklace,
Raoul and I; and to him, poor fellow, its second loss seemed
overwhelming. He did not see in glaring scarlet letters always before
his eyes these two words: "The treaty," as I did--for my punishment. He
was in happy ignorance still of that other loss which I--I, to whom his
honour should have been sacred--had inflicted upon him. He was satisfied
with my story; that through a person employed by me--a person whose name
could not yet be mentioned, even to him--the necklace had been snatched
from the thief who had stolen it. He blamed himself mercilessly for
thinking so little of the brocade bag which I had given him at parting,
for letting all remembrance of my words concerning it be put out of his
mind by his "wicked jealousy," as he repentantly called it. For me, he
had nothing but praise and gratitude for what I had done for him. He
begged me to forgive him, and his remorse for such a small thing,
comparatively--wrung my heart.
We searched the garden and the whole street, then came back to search
the little drawing-room for the second time, in vain. It did seem that
there was witchcraft in it, as I said to Raoul; but at last I persuaded
him to go away, and follow his own track wherever he had been since I
gave him the bag with the diamonds. It was just possible, as it was so
late, and his way had led him through quiet streets, that even after all
this time the little brocade bag might be lying where he had left it--or
that some honest policeman on his beat might have picked it up. Besides,
there was the cab in which he had come part of the distance to my house.
The bag might have fallen on the floor while he drove: and there were
many honest cabmen in Paris, I reminded him, trying to be as cheerful as
I could.
So he left me. And I was deadly tired; but I had no thought of sleep--no
wish for it. When I had unlocked the door of my boudoir and found Ivor
Dundas gone, as I had hoped he would be, the next hope born in my heart
was that he might by and by come back, or send--with news. Hour after
hour of deadly suspense passed on, and he did not come or make any sign.
At five o'clock Marianne, who had flitted about all night like a
restless ghost, made me drink a cup of hot chocolate, and actually put
me to bed. My last words to her were: "What is the use? I can't sleep.
It will be worse to lie and toss in a fever, than sit up."
Yet I did sleep, and heavily. She will always deny it, I know, but I'm
sure she must have slyly slipped a sleeping-powder into the chocolate. I
was far too much occupied with my own thoughts, as I drank to please
her, to think whether or no there was anything at all peculiar in the
taste.
Be that as it may, I slept; and when I waked suddenly, starting out of a
hateful dream (yet scarcely worse than realities), to my horror it was
nearly noon.
I was wild with fear lest the servants, in their stupid but well-meant
wish not to disturb me, might have sent important visitors away.
However, when Marianne came flying in, in answer to my long peal of the
electric bell, she said that no one had been. There were letters and one
telegram, and all the morning papers, as usual after the first night of
a new play.
My heart gave a spring at the news that there was a telegram, for I
thought it might be from Ivor, saying he was on the track of the treaty,
even if he hadn't yet got hold of it. But the message was from Raoul;
and he had not found the brocade bag. He did not put this in so many
words, but said, "I have not found what was lost, or learned anything of
it."
From Ivor there was not a line, and I thought this cruel. He might have
wired, or written me a note, even if there were nothing definite to say.
He might, unless--something had happened to him. There was that to think
of; and I did think of it, with dread, and a growing presentiment that I
had not suffered yet all I was to suffer. I determined to send a servant
to the Élysée Palace Hotel to enquire for him, and despatched Henri
immediately. Meanwhile, as there was nothing to do, after pretending to
eat breakfast under the watchful eyes of Marianne, I pretended also to
read the newspaper notices of the play. But each sentence went out of my
head before I had begun the next. I knew in the end only that, according
to all the critics, Maxine de Renzie had "surpassed herself," had been
"astonishingly great," had done "what no woman could do unless she threw
her whole soul into her part." How little they knew where Maxine de
Renzie's soul had been last night! And--only God knew where it might be
this night. Out of her body, perhaps--the one way of escape from Raoul's
hatred, if he had come to know the truth.
Of course the enquiry at the hotel was not for Ivor Dundas, but for the
name he had adopted there; yet when my servant came back to me he had
nothing to tell which was consoling--rather the other way. The gentleman
had gone out about midnight (I knew that already), and hadn't returned
since. Henri had been to the Bureau to ask, and it had struck him, he
admitted to me on being catechised, that his questions had been answered
with a certain reserve, as if more were known of the absent gentleman's
movements than it was considered wise to tell.
My servant had not been long away, though it seemed long to me, and he
had delayed only to buy all the evening papers, which he "thought that
Mademoiselle would like to see, as they were sure to be filled with
praise of her great acting." It was on my tongue to scold him for
stopping even one moment, when he had been told to hurry, but he looked
so pleased at his own cleverness that I hadn't the heart to dash his
happiness. I would, however, have pushed the papers aside without so
much as glancing at them, if it hadn't suddenly occurred to me that, if
any accident had befallen Ivor, news of it might possibly have got into
print by this time.
When I read what had happened--how he was accused of murder, and while
declaring his innocence had been silent as to all those events which
might have proved it, my heart went out to him in a wave of gratitude.
Here was a man! A man loyal and brave and chivalrous as all men ought to
be, but few are! He had sacrificed himself to the death, no doubt, to
keep my name out of the mud into which my business had thrown him, and
to save me from appearing in Raoul's eyes the liar that I was. Had Ivor
told that he was with me, after I had prevaricated (if I had not
actually lied) to Raoul about the midnight visitor to my house, what
would Raoul think of me?
Ivor was trying to save me, if he could; and he had been trying to save
me when he went to the room of that dead man, though how and when he had
decided to go I knew not. If it were not for me, he would be free and
happy to-day.
My conscience cried out that the one thing to do was to go at once to
the Chief of Police and say: "Monsieur, this English gentleman they have
arrested cannot have committed a murder in the Rue de la Fille Sauvage,
between twelve and one last night, for he came to my house, far away in
the Rue d'Hollande, at a quarter past twelve, and didn't leave it till
after one o'clock."
I even sprang up from my chair in the very room where I had hidden Ivor,
to ring for Marianne and tell her to bring me a hat and coat, to bid her
order my electric brougham immediately. But--I sat down again, sick and
despairing, deliberately crushing the generous impulse. I couldn't obey
it. I dared not. By and by, perhaps. If Ivor should be in real pressing
danger, then certainly. But not now.
At four o'clock Raoul came, and was with me for an hour. Each of us
tried to cheer the other. I did all I could to make him hope that even
yet he would have news of the brocade bag and its contents. He, thinking
me ill and tired out, did all he could to persuade me that he was not
miserable with anxiety. At least, he was no longer jealous of Godensky
or of any man, and was humbly repentant for his suspicions of me the
night before. When Raoul is repentant, and wishes to atone for something
that he has done, he is enchanting. There was never a man like him.
At five I sent him away, with the excuse that I must rest, as I hadn't
slept much the night before; but really it was because I feared lest I
should disgrace myself before him by breaking down, and giving him a
fright--or perhaps even by being mad enough to confess the thing I had
done. I felt that I was no longer mistress of myself--that I might be
capable of any folly.
I could not eat, but I drank a little beef-tea before starting for the
theatre, where I went earlier than usual. It would be something to be
busy; and in my part I might even forget for a moment, now and then.
Marianne and I were in my dressing-room before seven. I insisted on
dressing at once, and took as long as I could in the process of making
up; still, when I was ready there was more than half an hour to spare
before the first act. There were letters for me--the kind that always
come to the theatre--but I couldn't read them, after I had occupied
myself with tearing open the envelopes. I knew what they would be: vows
of adoration from strangers; poems by budding poets; petitions for
advice from girls and young men who wanted to go on the stage; requests
from artists who wanted to paint my picture. There were always such
things every night, especially after the opening of a new play.
I was still aimlessly breaking fantastic seals, and staring unseeingly
at crests and coronets, when there came a knock at the door. Marianne
opened it, to speak for a moment with the stage door keeper.
"Mademoiselle," she whispered, coming to me, "Monsieur le Comte Godensky
wishes to see you. Shall I say you are not receiving?"
I thought for a moment. Better see him, perhaps. I might learn
something. If not--if he had only come to torture me uselessly to please
himself, I would soon find out, and could send him away.
I went into my little reception-room adjoining, and received him there.
He advanced, smiling, as one advances to a friend of whose welcome one
is sure.
"Well?" I asked, abruptly, when the door was shut and we were alone. He
held out his hand, but I put mine behind me, and drew back a step when
he had come too close.
"Well--I have news for you, that no one else could bring, so I thought
you would be glad to see--even me," he answered, smiling still.
"What news? But bad, of course--or you wouldn't bring it."
"You are very cruel. Of course, you've seen the evening papers? You know
that your English friend is in prison?"
"The same English friend whom _you_ would have liked to see arrested
early last evening on a ridiculous, baseless charge," I flung at him.
"You look surprised. But you are _not_ surprised, Count
Godensky--except, perhaps, that I should guess who had me spied upon at
the Élysée Palace Hotel. A disappointment, that affair, wasn't it? But
you haven't told me your news."
"It is this: That Mr. Ivor Dundas, of England, has been on the rack
to-day."
"What do you mean?"
"He has been in the hands of the Juge d'Instruction. It is much the
same, isn't it, if one has secrets to keep? Would you like to know, if
some magical bird could tell you, what questions were put to Mr. Dundas,
and what answers he made?"
Strange, that this very thought had been torturing me before Godensky
came! I had been thinking of the Juge d'Instruction, and his terrible
cross-examination which only a man of steel or iron can answer without
trembling. I had thought that questions had been asked and answers given
which might mean everything to me, if I could only have heard them.
Could it be that I was to hear, now? But I reminded myself that this was
impossible. No one could know except the Juge d'Instruction and Ivor
Dundas himself. "Only two men were present at that scene, and they will
never tell what went on," I said aloud.
"Three men were present," Godensky answered. "Besides the two of whom
you think, there was another: a lawyer who speaks English. It is
permitted nowadays that a foreigner, if he demands it, can be
accompanied by his legal adviser when he goes before the Juge
d'Instruction. Otherwise, his lack of knowledge of the language might
handicap him, and cause misunderstandings which would prejudice his
case."
He paused a moment, but I did not reply. I knew that Ivor Dundas spoke
French as well as I; but I was not going to tell this Russian that fact.
"The adviser your friend has chosen," Godensky went on, "happens to be a
protégé of mine. I made him--gave him his first case, his first success;
and have employed him more than once since. Odd, what a penchant Mr.
Dundas seems to have for men in whom I, too, have confidence! Last
night, it was Girard. To-day, it is Lenormand."
This was a blow, and a heavy one; but I wouldn't let Godensky see that I
winced under it.
"You keep yourself singularly well-informed of the movements of your
various protégés," I said--"as well as those of your enemies. But if the
information in the one case is no more trustworthy than in the
other--why, you're not faithfully served. I've good reason to know that
you've made several mistakes lately, and you're likely to make more."
"Thanks for the warning. But I hope you don't call yourself my 'enemy'?"
"I don't know of a more appropriate name--after the baseness that you
haven't even tried to hide, in your dealings with me."
"I thought all was fair in love and war."
"Do you make war on women?"
"No--I make love to them."
"To many, I dare say. But here is one who won't listen."
"At least you will listen while I go on with the news I came to tell?"
"Oh, yes, I confess to being curious. No doubt what you say will be
interesting--even if not accurate."
"I can promise that it shall be both. I called on Lenormand as soon as I
learned what had happened--that he'd been mixed up in this case--and
expressed myself as extremely concerned for the fate of his client,
friends of whom were intimate friends of mine. So you see, there was no
question of treachery on Lenormand's part. He trusts me--as you do not.
Indeed, I even offered my help for Dundas, if I could give it
consistently with my position. Naturally, he told me nothing which could
be used against Dundas, so far as he knew, even if I wished to go
against him--which my coming here ought to prove to you that I do not."
"I read the proof rather differently," I said. "But go on. I'm sure you
are anxious to tell me certain things. Please come to the point."
"In a few words, then, the point is this: One of the most important
questions put by the Juge d'Instruction, after hearing from Mr. Dundas
the explanation of a document found on him by the police--ah, that wakes
you up, Mademoiselle! You are surprised that a document was found on the
prisoner?"
I was half fainting with fear lest Ivor had regained the treaty, only to
lose it again in this dreadful way; but I controlled myself.
"I rather hope it was not a letter from me," I said. "You know so much,
that you probably know I admitted to the police at the Élysée Palace a
strong friendship for Mr. Dundas. We knew each other well in London. But
London ways are different from the ways of Paris. It isn't agreeable to
be gossipped about, however unjustly, even if one is--only an actress."
"You turn things cleverly, as always. Yes, you are afraid there might
have been--a letter. Yet the public adores you. It would pardon you any
indiscretion, especially a romantic one--any indiscretion _except
treachery_. There might, however, be a few persons less indulgent. Du
Laurier, for instance."
I shivered. "We were speaking of the scene with the Juge d'Instruction,"
I reminded him. "You have wandered from the point again."
"There are so many points--all sharp as swords for those they may
pierce. Well, the important question was in relation to a letter--yes.
But the letter was not from you, Mademoiselle. It was written in
English, and it made an appointment at the very address where the crime
was committed. It was, as nearly as I could make out, a request from a
person calling himself a jeweller's assistant, for the receiver of the
letter to call and return a case containing jewels. This case had been
committed to Mr. Dundas' care, it appeared, while travelling from London
to Paris, and without his knowledge, another packet being taken away to
make room for this. Mr. Dundas replied to the Juge d'Instruction that
his own packet, stolen from him on the journey, contained nothing but
papers _entirely personal,_ concerning himself alone.
"'What was in the case which the man afterwards murdered slipped into
your pocket?' asked the Juge d'Instruction--Lenormand tells me.
"'A necklace,' answered Mr. Dundas.
"'A necklace of diamonds?'
"'Possibly diamonds, possibly paste, I wasn't much interested in it.'
"'Ah, was this not the necklace which you--staying at the Élysée Palace
under another name--gave to Mademoiselle Maxine de Renzie last evening?'
was the next question thrown suddenly at Mr. Dundas' head. Now, you see,
Mademoiselle, that my story is not dull."
"Am I to hear the rest--according to your protégé?" I asked, twisting my
handkerchief, as I should have liked to twist Godensky's neck, till he
had no more breath or wickedness left in him.
"Mr. Dundas tried his best to convince the Juge d'Instruction, a most
clever and experienced man, that if he had, as an old friend, brought
you a present of diamonds, it was something entirely different, and
therefore far removed from this case.
"'Are you not Mademoiselle de Renzie's lover?' was the next enquiry. 'I
admire her, as do thousands of others, who also respect her as I do,'
your friend returned very prettily. At last, dearest lady, you begin to
see what there is in this string of questions and answers to bring me
straight to you?"
"No, Count Godensky, I do not," I answered steadily. But a sudden
illuminating ray did show me, even as I spoke, what _might_ be in his
scheming mind.
"Then I must be clear, and, above all, frank. Du Laurier loves you. You
love him. You mean, I think, to marry him. But deeply in love as he is,
he is a very proud fellow. He will have all or nothing, if I judge him
well; and he would not take for his wife a woman who accepts diamonds
from another man, saying as she takes them that he is her lover."
"He wouldn't believe it of me!" I cried.
"There is a way of convincing him. Oh, _I_ shall not tell him! But he
shall see in writing all that passed between the Juge d'Instruction and
Mr. Dundas, unless--"
"Unless?--but I know what you mean to threaten. You repeat yourself."
"Not quite, for I have new arguments, and stronger ones. I want you,
Maxine. I mean to have you--or I will crush you, and now you know I can.
Choose."
I sprang up, and looked at him. Perhaps there was murder in my eyes, as
for a moment there was in my heart, for he exclaimed:
"Tigeress! You would kill me if you could. But that doesn't make me love
you less. Would du Laurier have you if he knew what you are--as he will
know soon unless you let me save you? Yet I--I would love you if you
were a murderess as well as a--spy."
"It is you who are a spy!" I faltered, now all but broken.
"If I am, I haven't spied in vain. Not only can I ruin you with du
Laurier, and before the world, but I can ruin him utterly and in all
ways."
"No--no," I gasped. "You cannot. You're boasting. You can do nothing."
"Nothing to-night, perhaps. I'm not speaking of to-night. I am giving
you time. But to-morrow--or the day after. It's much the same to me. At
first, when I began to suspect that something had been taken from its
place, I had no proof. I had to get that, and I did get it--nearly all I
wanted. This affair of Dundas might have been planned for my advantage.
It is perfect. All its complications are just so many links in a chain
for me. Girard--the man Dundas chose to employ--was the very man I'd
sent to England; on what errand, do you think? To watch your friend the
British Foreign Secretary. He followed Dundas to Paris on the bare
suspicion that there'd been, communication between the two, and he was
preparing a report for me when--Dundas called on him."
"What connection can Ivor Dundas' coming to Paris have with Raoul du
Laurier?" I dared to ask.
"You know best as to that."
"They have never met. Both are men of honour, and--"
"Men of honour are tricked by women sometimes, and then they have to
suffer for being fools, as if they had been villains. Think what such a
man--a man of honour, as you say--would feel when he found out the
woman!"
"A woman can be calumniated as well as a man," I said. "You are so
unscrupulous you would stoop to anything, I know that. Raoul du Laurier
has done nothing; I--I have done nothing of which to be ashamed. Yet you
can lie about us, ruin him perhaps by a plot, as if he were guilty,
and--and do terrible harm to me."
"I can--without the trouble of lying. And I will, unless you'll give up
du Laurier and make up your mind to marry me. I always meant to have
you. You are the one woman worthy of me."
"You are the man most unworthy of any woman. But, give me till to-morrow
evening--at this time--to decide. Will you promise me that?"
"No, I know what you would do. You would kill yourself. It is what is in
your mind now. I won't risk losing you. I have waited long enough
already. Give me a ring of yours, and a written word from you to du
Laurier, saying that you find you have made a mistake; and not only will
I do nothing to injure him, but will guard against the discovery of--you
know what. Besides, as a matter of course, I'll bring all my influence
to bear in keeping your name out of this or any other scandal. I can do
much, everything indeed, for I admit that it was through me the
Commissary of Police trapped you with Dundas. I will say that I
blundered. I know what to do to save you, and I will do it--for my
future wife."
"No power on earth could induce me to break with Raoul du Laurier in the
way you wish," I said. "If--if I am to give him up, I must tell him with
my own lips, and bid him good-bye. I will do this to-morrow, if you will
hold your hand until then."
We looked at each other for a long moment in silence. Godensky was
trying to read my mind, and to make up his accordingly.
"You swear by everything you hold sacred to break with him to-morrow?"
"By the memory of my father and mother, martyred by bureaucrats like
you, I pledge my word that--that--if I can't break with Raoul, to let
you know the first thing in the morning, and dare you to do--what you
will."
"You will not 'dare' me, I think. And because I think so, I will wait--a
little longer."
"Until this time to-morrow?"
"No. For if you cheated me, it would be too late to act for another
twelve hours. But I will give you till to-morrow noon. You agree to
that?"
"I agree." My lips formed the words. I hardly spoke them; but he
understood, and with a flash in his eyes took a step towards me as if to
snatch my hand. I drew away. He followed, but at this instant Marianne
appeared at the door.
"There is a young lady to see Mademoiselle," she announced, her
good-natured, open face showing all her dislike of Count Godensky. "A
young lady who sends this note, begging that Mademoiselle will read it
at once, and consent to see her."
Thankful that the tête-à-tête had been interrupted, I held out my hand
for the letter. Marianne gave it to me. I glanced at the name written
below the lines which only half filled the first page of theatre paper,
and found it strange to me. But, even if I had not been ready to snatch
at the chance of ridding myself immediately of Godensky, the few words
above the unfamiliar name would have made me say as I did say, "Bring
the young lady in at once."
"I come to you from Mr. Dundas, on business which he told me was
of the greatest and most pressing importance.
"DIANA FORREST."
That was the whole contents of the note; but a dozen sheets closely
filled with arguments could not have moved me more.