Left on my Hands.
"There is nothing else for it!" I exclaimed, as I set out for the hotel.
"I'll go back to England."
I could not resist the conclusion that my presence in Avranches was no
longer demanded. The duchess had, on the one hand, arrived at a sort of
understanding with her husband; while she had, on the other, contrived to
create a very considerable misunderstanding with me. She had shown no
gratitude for my efforts, and made no allowance for the mistakes which,
possibly, I had committed. She had behaved so unreasonably as to release
me from any obligation. As to Marie Delhasse, I had had enough (so I
declared in the hasty disgust my temper engendered) of Quixotic endeavors
to rescue people who, had they any moral resolution, could well rescue
themselves. There was only one thing left which I might with dignity
undertake--and that was to put as many miles as I could between the scene
of my unappreciated labors and myself. This I determined to do the very
next day, after handing back this abominable necklace with as little
obvious appearance of absurdity as the action would permit.
It was six o'clock when I reached the hotel and walked straight up to my
room in sulky isolation, looking neither to right nor left, and exchanging
a word with nobody. I tossed the red box down on the table, and flung
myself into an armchair. I had half a mind to send the box down to Marie
Delhasse by the waiter--with my compliments; but my ill-humor did not
carry me so far as thus to risk betraying her to her mother, and I
perceived that I must have one more interview with her--and the sooner the
better. I rang the bell, meaning to see if I could elicit from the waiter
any information as to the state of affairs on the first floor and the
prospect of finding Marie alone for ten minutes.
I rang once--twice--thrice; the third was a mighty pull, and had at last
the effect of bringing up my friend the waiter, breathless, hot, and
disheveled.
"Why do you keep me waiting like this?" I asked sternly.
His puffs and pants prevented him from answering for a full half-minute.
"I was busy on the first floor, sir," he protested at last. "I came at the
very earliest moment."
"What's going on on the first floor?"
"The lady is in a great hurry, sir. She is going away, sir. She has been
taking a hasty meal, and her carriage is ordered to be round at the door
this very minute. And all the luggage had to be carried down, and--"
I walked to the window, and, putting my head out, saw a closed carriage,
with four trunks and some smaller packages on the roof, standing at the
door.
"Where are they going?" I asked, turning round.
The waiter was gone! A bell ringing violently from below explained his
disappearance, but did not soothe my annoyance. I rang my bell very
forcibly again: the action was a welcome vent for my temper. Turning back
to the window, I found the carriage still there. A second or two later,
Mme. Delhasse, attended by the waiter who ought to have been looking after
me, came out of the hotel and got into the carriage. She spoke to the
waiter, and appeared to give him money. He bowed and closed the door. The
driver started his horses and made off at a rapid pace toward the
carriage-road down the hill. I watched till the vehicle was out of sight
and then drew my head in, giving a low puzzled whistle and forgetting the
better part of my irritation in the interest of this new development.
Where was the old witch going--and why was she going alone?
Again I rang my bell; but the waiter was at the door before it ceased
tinkling.
"Where's she going to?" I asked.
"To the house of the Duke of Saint-Maclou, sir," he answered, wiping his
brow and sighing for relief that he had got rid of her.
"And the young lady--where is she?"
"She has already gone, sir."
"Already gone!" I cried. "Gone where? Gone when?"
"About two hours ago, sir--very soon after I saw you go out, sir--a
messenger brought a letter for the young lady. I took it upstairs; she was
alone when I entered. When she looked at the address, sir, she made a
little exclamation, and tore the note open in a manner that showed great
agitation. She read it; and when she had read it stood still, holding it
in her hand for a minute or two. She had turned pale and breathed quickly.
Then she signed to me with her hand to go. But she stopped me with another
gesture, and--and then, sir--"
"Well, well, get on!" I cried.
"Then, sir, she asked if you were in the hotel, and I said no--you had
gone out, I did not know where. Upon that, she walked to the window, and
stood looking out for a time. Then she turned round to me, and said: 'My
mother was fatigued by her walk, and is sleeping. I am going out, but I do
not wish her disturbed. I will write a note of explanation. Be so good as
to cause it to be given to her when she wakes.' She was calm then, sir;
she sat down and wrote, and sealed the note and gave it to me. Then she
caught up her hat, which lay on the table, and her gloves; and then, sir,
she walked out of the hotel."
"Which way did she go?"
"She went, sir, as if she were making for the footpath down the hill. An
hour or more passed, and then madame's bell rang. I ran up and, finding
her in the sitting room, I gave her the note."
"And what did she say?"
"She read it, and cried 'Ah!' in great satisfaction, and immediately
ordered a carriage and that the maid should pack all her luggage and the
young lady's. Oh! she was in a great hurry, and in the best of spirits;
and she pressed us on so that I was not able to attend properly to you,
sir. And finally, as you saw, she drove off to the house of the duke,
still in high good humor."
The waiter paused. I sat silent in thought.
"Is there anything else you wish to know, sir?" asked the waiter.
Then my much-tried temper gave way again.
"I want to know what the devil it all means!" I roared.
The waiter drew near, wearing a very sympathetic expression. I knew that
he had always put me down as an admirer of Marie Delhasse. He saw in me
now a beaten rival. Curiously I had something of the feeling myself.
"There is one thing, sir," said he. "The stable-boy told me. The message
for Mlle. Delhasse was brought from a carriage which waited at the bottom
of the hill, out of sight of the town. And--well, sir, the servants wore
no livery; but the boy declares that the horses were those of the Duke of
Saint-Maclou."
I muttered angrily to myself. The waiter, discreetly ignoring my words,
continued:
"And, indeed, sir, madame expected to meet her daughter. For I chanced to
ask her if she would take with her a bouquet of roses which she had
purchased in the town, and she answered: 'Give them to me. My daughter
will like to have them.'"
The waiter's conclusion was obvious. And yet I did not accept it. For why,
if Marie were going to the duke's, should she not have aroused her mother
and gone with her? That the duke had sent his carriage for her was likely
enough; that he would cause it to wait outside the town was not
impossible; that Marie had told her mother that she had gone to the duke's
was also clear from that lady's triumphant demeanor. But that she had in
reality gone, I could not believe. A sudden thought struck me.
"Did Mlle. Delhasse," I asked, "send any answer to the note that came from
the carriage?"
"Ah, sir, I forgot. Certainly. She wrote an answer, and the messenger
carried it away with him."
"And did the boy you speak of see anything more of the carriage?"
"He did not pass that way again, sir."
My mind was now on the track of Marie's device. The duke had sent his
carriage to fetch her. She, left alone, unable to turn to me for guidance,
determined not to go; afraid to defy him--more afraid, no doubt, because
she could no longer produce the necklace--had played a neat trick. She
must have sent a message to the duke that she would come with her mother
immediately that the necessary preparations could be made; she had then
written a note to her mother to tell her that she had gone in the duke's
carriage and looked to her mother to follow her. And having thus thrown
both parties on a false scent, she had put on her hat and walked quietly
out of the hotel. But, then, where had she walked to? My chain of
inference was broken by that missing link. I looked up at the waiter. And
then I cursed my carelessness. For the waiter's eyes were no longer fixed
on my face, but were fastened in eloquent curiosity on the red box which
lay on my table. To my apprehensive fancy the Cardinal's Necklace seemed
to glitter through the case. That did not of course happen; but a jewel
case is easy to recognize, and I knew in a moment that the waiter
discerned the presence of precious stones. Our eyes met. In my puzzle I
could do nothing but smile feebly and apologetically. The waiter smiled
also--but his was a smile of compassion and condolence. He took a step
nearer to me, and with infinite sympathy in his tone observed:
"Ah, well, sir, do not despair! A gentleman like you will soon find
another lady to value the present more."
In spite of my vanity--and I was certainly not presenting myself in a very
triumphant guise to the waiter's imagination--I jumped at the mistake.
"They are capricious creatures!" said I with a shrug. "I'll trouble myself
no more about them."
"You're right, sir, you're right. It's one one day, and another another.
It's a pity, sir, to waste thought on them--much more, good money. You
will dine to-night, sir?" and his tone took a consolatory inflection.
"Certainly I will dine," said I; and with a last nod of intelligence and
commiseration, he withdrew.
And then I leaped, like a wildcat, on the box that contained the
Cardinal's Necklace, intent on stowing it away again in the seclusion of
my coat-pocket. But again I stood with it in my hand--struck still with
the thought that I could not now return it to Marie Delhasse, that she had
vanished leaving it on my hands, and that, in all likelihood, in three or
four hours' time the Duke of Saint-Maclou would be scouring the country
and setting every spring in motion in the effort to find the truant lady,
and--what I thought he would be at least anxious about--the truant
necklace. For to give your family heirlooms away without recompense is a
vexatious thing; and ladies who accept them and vanish with them into
space can claim but small consideration. And, moreover, if the missing
property chance to be found in the possession of a gentleman who is
reluctant to explain his presence, who has masqueraded as a groom with
intent to deceive the owner of the said property, and has no visible
business to bring or keep him on the spot at all--when all this happens,
it is apt to look very awkward for that gentleman.
"You will regret it if you don't start with me;" so said Gustave de
Berensac. The present was one of the moments in which I heartily agreed
with his prescient prophecy. Human nature is a poor thing. To speak
candidly, I cannot recollect that, amid my own selfish perplexities, I
spared more than one brief moment to gladness that Marie Delhasse had
eluded the pursuit of the Duke of Saint-Maclou. But I spared another to
wishing that she had thought of telling me to what haven she was bound.