"MARIE"
Marseilles is one of the most picturesque cities in the world.
Its streets cluster round an ancient harbour, famous before history was
writ, or climb the sides of steep hills enclosing a land-locked bay.
In the suburbs Marseilles is modern enough, but the chief thoroughfare,
known to all who read, the famous and ever busy Cannebiere, plunges
rapidly downhill until it empties itself on the crowded quays that
surround the old port.
With the newer Marseilles of the Joliette--well found in wharfs and
warehouses, steam cranes and railway lines--the town beloved of the
Phoenicians has no concern. There is no touch of modern ugliness in
the tiny maritime refuge which is barely half the size of the
Serpentine. Lofty, old-fashioned, half-ruined houses throng close to its
rugged quays.
At night this quarter of the turbulent city wears an air of intense
mystery. The side streets are narrow and tortuous. Dark courts and
alleys twist in every conceivable direction, while the brightness of the
many wine shops facing each other across the tideless harbour only
serves to enhance the squalid gloom that forms the most marked
characteristic of the buildings clustered behind them.
Edith Talbot, intent on the pursuit of a woman so dramatically bound up
with the mystery affecting her brother, paid heed to no consideration
save the paramount one, that the hurrying figure in front must be kept
in sight.
Contrary to the opinions expressed by the two men, Mlle. Beaucaire did
not board a passing tramcar. To Edith's eyes she seemed to be eagerly
watching for some person who might pass in one of the small open
carriages which in Marseilles take the place of the London hansom. Even
as she rapidly walked down the crowded street mademoiselle closely
scrutinised each vehicle that overtook her, and once, at a busy
crossing, she deliberately stopped. Edith, of course, slackened her
pace, and simultaneously she became aware how incongruous was her
appearance at such an hour in such a thoroughfare.
Much taller than the average Frenchwoman, neatly dressed in an English
tailor-made costume, with her smart straw hat and well-gloved hands,
Miss Talbot naturally attracted the curious gaze of the passers by.
Instantly it occurred to her that some disguise was absolutely necessary
if she would not court an attention fatal to her enterprise. It chanced
that where she stood for a moment a fruit-seller occupied a tiny shop,
squeezed tightly between a church and a restaurant. The interior was
dark enough, for a couple of flaring naphtha lamps were so disposed as
to cast their flickering brilliancy over the baskets of fruits and
vegetables displayed in the window or crowded together on the pavement.
The woman inside had a kindly and contented face, cherry ripe in cheek
and lips, and from a pair of deep-set blue eyes she looked out
quizzically at the hurrying crowd.
Assuring herself with one fleeting glance that La Belle Chasseuse still
remained motionless and intent at the crossing, Edith darted into the
shop. She produced a sovereign.
"I have not much French money," she said hurriedly, "but this is worth
twenty-five francs. Can you let me have a large dark shawl? I do not
care whether or not it is old or worn. It is necessary that I should
remain out for some few minutes longer, and I do not wish to court
observation."
Even as she spoke she removed her straw hat and eagerly tore off her
gloves. The Frenchwoman saw that one of her own sex, English, and
consequently mad, desired to screen her appearance from too inquisitive
eyes.
It was sufficient for her that there should be a spice of romance in the
request. With one hand she pocketed the sovereign; with the other she
dived into a recess beneath the counter and produced the very article
Edith wanted.
"But certainly, mademoiselle," she cried. "See. It will cover you to the
waist."
Edith advanced another pace into the darkest corner of the shop, quickly
arranged the shawl over her head and shoulders, and, hastily murmuring
her thanks, rushed forth into the street again, leaving hat and gloves
behind in her haste.
The fruit-seller was far too wise a woman to call after the other and
apprise her of the loss.
"It must be serious, this adventure," she mused. "And yet the novelists
say that the English are cold! For me, now, I think that women are very
much alike all over the world."
And with this bit of Provençal philosophy she picked up the discarded
articles and discovered, to her joy, that they must be worth at least
ten francs.
"Thirty-five francs for an old shawl is a good night's work," she
murmured. "Who could dream of such fortune at this hour? To-morrow I
will buy a candle and place it in the church of Notre Dame de la Garde."
Meanwhile Edith was just in time to see Mlle. Beaucaire either abandon
her search or resolve it in some manner, for the lady once more resumed
her progress towards the old harbour, in whose placid bosom could be
seen the reflections of numberless lights from the small promontory
beyond, crowned with the Fort St. Nicholas and the Chateau du Phare.
Looking neither right nor left, but hastening onwards with rapid
strides, mademoiselle crossed the rough pavement of the Quai de la
Fraternité, bearing away diagonally towards the left.
But if the Frenchwoman was a good walker, Edith Talbot was a better one,
and now that she no longer feared notice--for she draped the large shawl
as elegantly about her shoulders as any woman in Marseilles--she decided
to adopt a little strategy. Instead of keeping directly behind
mademoiselle she broke into a run under the shadow of the houses. By
thus making up ground she approached the narrow street towards which the
Frenchwoman was heading almost simultaneously with her quarry, but
apparently from an opposite direction. The aspect of the thoroughfare
through which the two women sped was forbidding in the extreme. The
houses were many storeys in height, of disreputable appearance, and so
close together on both sides that, were other conditions equal, an
active man might easily spring from one room into another across the
street.
The walls appeared to be honeycombed with doors and windows, while an
indescribable number of shutters, balconies, projecting poles and
clothes-lines created such a medley in the darkness, which was only made
visible by a solitary bracket lamp, that Edith felt some anxiety as to
whether or not she would be able to recognize the house into which
mademoiselle disappeared, should her destination be close at hand.
There were, of course, many other people in the street besides
themselves, else Edith's self-imposed piece of espionage would have been
rendered difficult, if not impossible.
Men, women, and children lounged about the doorways and kept up a
constant cackle of conversation in a mysterious _patois_ which Miss
Talbot, though an excellent French scholar, could make nothing of. The
presence of these people naturally shielded her from the direct
observation of La Belle Chasseuse, but nevertheless threatened a slight
danger should it be necessary for her to stand still, for she well
understood that in such a locality each person was known to the other,
and the loitering of a stranger could not fail to arouse curiosity.
Soon after passing beneath the lamp mademoiselle vanished into a
doorway. Edith perceived to her joy that at this point there was no
group of loungers. Indeed, for a few yards the street was empty. Keeping
her eyes sedulously fixed upon the exact spot where the Frenchwoman
disappeared, she reached the door, and, after a moment's hesitation,
stepped lightly into the interior darkness.
The narrow entrance was at once lessened to half its width by a
staircase. She listened intently, and could hear the other woman
ascending the second flight of stairs.
At the next landing mademoiselle paused and knocked three times.
Presumably in reply to a question within, she murmured something which
Edith could not catch, and was at once admitted. The shooting of a rusty
bolt supplied further evidence that the door was locked behind her.
Edith's next task was to identify the house. She stepped out into the
street again and crossed to the opposite pavement. She looked up to the
second storey, but, owing to the short distance--barely fourteen
feet--that separated her from the house--she could discern nothing, save
that the windows on that floor were closely shuttered.
She rapidly noted that the door was the third removed from the lamp.
Whilst wondering what to do next, a couple of girls approached her. They
were young and of course inquisitive. Without any dissimulation, they
stood in front of her and scrutinized her face, wondering, no doubt, who
this tall and graceful newcomer could be.
"What is your name?" said one. "Where do you live? Have you just come
here? Are you staying with old Mother Peter?"
With difficulty Edith caught the drift of their questions. But she
answered smilingly--
"No, I do not live here, and I do not know Mother Peter. But I want you
to tell me who lives in the house opposite?"
Her Parisian French greatly surprised the two girls, who giggled at each
other, and one of them cried--
"Oh, here's a lark!"
But they scented an intrigue, and were quite ready to give all the
information in their power.
"A lot of people live there," said the elder one, trying, with the ready
tact of her nation, to accommodate her words to the understanding of the
stranger. "It all depends who you want to know about. On the ground
floor is Josef the barber and his wife, with three little ones. It
cannot be them, I am sure, and it cannot be Monsieur Ducrot, who is
their lodger, for he is seventy years old and a sacristan in the Church
of the Sacred Heart. Then on the first floor there are three men, not a
woman amongst them. One is a bill-sticker, another a fisherman, and the
third a waiter in the Café du Midi. I do not know their proper names. We
call the bill-sticker 'Paste-pot,' and the fisherman 'Crab.' The waiter
is called 'Thomas' in the café, but when a letter comes for him it is in
another name. Then, on the second floor--by the way, Marie, who is it
that lives on the second floor?"
Edith with difficulty restrained her excitement. She felt that if only
these youngsters rattled on a little longer she might gain some valuable
information.
Marie, thus appealed to, was evidently of a more cautious temperament
than her companion.
"If the young lady will tell us why she wants to know, we may be able to
help her?" she stipulated.
"Certainly," cried Edith, instantly resolving to pursue the tactics of
the penny novelette. "I have been deserted. My lover has been taken away
from me by another woman--at least, that is what I am informed. I do not
wish to make any trouble about it. There are plenty as good men as he
left in the world; but, on the other hand, I must not act unjustly. I
have been told that he lives in this house--that he is living with her
here at this moment, in fact. If I can make sure of it, I will go away
and never set eyes on him again unless by chance, and then you may be
sure I will take no notice of him. I am not one of those silly girls who
break their hearts over a faithless sweetheart."
Marie was reassured.
"I should think not," she said, with a sympathetic and defiant sniff. "I
had the very same experience last Sunday, when Phillippe--the grocer's
boy at the corner, you know--walked along the Corniche Road with a chit
of a girl out of a shop. She thinks herself better than we are because
she stands behind a counter, and I am sure she made eyes at Phillippe
one day when his master sent him there on an errand."
"Phillippe must have bad taste," broke in Edith. "But I am sorry I must
hasten away. If you girls will tell me quickly all the other people that
live in that house I will give you two francs each. That is all the
money I have got."
She produced the coins, which she easily distinguished from the gold in
her pocket by their size. She knew that to appear too well supplied with
money in that neighbourhood was to court danger, if not disaster, to her
undertaking.
Both girls eagerly seized the forty-sous pieces.
"Oh, on the second floor," said Marie, "I am afraid you will find your
young man. They are a funny couple that live there. They only came here
on Monday. When did your young man leave you?"
"I saw him on Saturday."
"Where?"
This was a poser, but Miss Talbot answered desperately:
"At Lyon."
"What is he like?"
Another haphazard shot.
"He is tall and dark, and, oh! so good-looking, with a beautifully white
skin and a pink complexion."
"That is he!" cried both girls together.
"The scoundrel! But tell me," went on Edith, whose excitement was
readily construed as the pangs of jealousy, "who is the creature that
lives with him?"
"We think she is a music-hall artiste," replied Marie. "At least, that
is what the people say. I have not heard yet what hall she appears in.
They say she is very pretty. Are you going to throw vitriol over her?"
"Not I," said Edith, with a fine scorn. "Do they live there alone?"
"Yes, quite alone. They rent the place from Père Didon. He owns most of
the houses in this street, you know, and is a regular skinflint. He
won't let any one get behind with their rent for an hour. He is old, so
old that you would not think that he could live another week, yet he is
that keen after his francs you would imagine he was a young man anxious
to get money for a gay life. You ought to have heard the row here last
Saturday when he turned the people out from their rooms where your lover
now lives with his mistress. It was terrible. There was a poor woman
with two sick children."
How much further the revelations as to Père Didon's iniquity might have
gone, Miss Talbot could not say, but at that moment there came an
interruption.
From the opposite doorway appeared the figure of Mlle. Beaucaire,
carrying a small bag. She was followed by a man, tall, slight, and
closely muffled up, who shouldered a larger portmanteau. Edith grabbed
both the girls, and pulled them close to her against the closed door
behind them.
"It is he!" she whispered tragically. "Silence! Let us watch them!"
The man darted a suspicious glance up and down the street. There was no
one whom even the clever Henri Dubois could construe as an enemy--no one
save some chattering Marseillais loitering around their doorsteps, and
three girls huddled together in close conclave directly opposite.
Thus reassured, he strode after La Belle Chasseuse, who cried out
impatiently:
"Come quick, Henri; what are you waiting for?"
"Is his name Henri?" whispered the awe-stricken Marie.
"Yes. Isn't he a villain? I wonder where they are going now!"
"Let us follow them and see," suggested Marie.
"Yes, let us follow them and see," chimed in the other one, who
delighted in this nocturnal romance. It was a veritable page out of one
of Paul de Kock's novels.
The programme suited Miss Talbot exceedingly well.
They strolled off down the street, nestling together, Edith in the
centre, and keeping the shrouded couple in front well in sight. This
time, when Mademoiselle Beaucaire and her companion reached the point
where the street emerged on to the harbour, they did not cross over
towards the broad and brilliantly-lighted Cannebiere, but hurried on
through the darkness in the direction of a cluster of fishing smacks
that lay alongside the Quai de Rive Neuve.
"My faith, Eugenie!" cried Marie, "they must be going on board one of
the vessels."
"What a lark!" was the answer. "I suppose they fear you," she added,
turning her sharp eyes on Edith. "What is your name?"
"Lucille," came the answer on the spur of the moment.
"Lucille what?"
"Lucille Beauharnais."
"My gracious!" cried Eugenie, "what a swell name!"
"Oh, let us hurry," interrupted Miss Talbot desperately. "You girls know
everybody. You must know all the vessels. If they are going on a boat
and you find out the name and number for me I will give each of you a
whole louis. I will give them to you now--I mean, that is, if you will
walk with me afterwards to my lodgings."
Even amidst the exciting circumstances surrounding her, Edith recognized
the absolute necessity there was to maintain the credibility of her
previous narrative.
Unquestionably Dubois and the lady intended to embark on one of the
fishing boats. They hastened to the further end of the harbour, through
whose tiny entrance Edith could now see the dark waters of the bay
beyond, for the night was beautifully clear and fine, and the bright
stars of the south lent some radiance to the scene, when the girls
quitted the deep shadow of the houses.
A solitary boat, a decked fishing-smack of some forty tons, was lying by
the side of the quay, apart from the others. Edith, who knew something
about yachting, recognized that her gearing was not fastened in the trim
manner suggestive of a craft laid by for the night. At the same instant,
too, she caught sight of a third form--that of a man who had been seated
on a fixed capstan, and who now strode forward to peer at the
newcomers.
Some few words passed between the three, but it was impossible for the
girls to hear a syllable. Instantly the sailor assisted Dubois and
Mademoiselle Beaucaire to step down from the quay on board the smack. He
followed them, and three other men, who appeared out of the chaos of
sails and ropes, commenced to labour with a large pole in order to shove
the sturdy vessel out into the harbour.
"Quick!" murmured Edith, in an agony lest the opportunity should slip.
"Tell me what vessel it is."
"I think," said Marie, "it is the _Belles Soeurs_. Anyhow, we can
easily make certain. All we have to do is to go back around the top of
the harbour, walk down the Quai du Port, and watch her as she passes
under the lighthouse of the Fort St. Jean. They will hoist her sail then
and we shall see her number."
"Oh, come," cried Edith, "let us run!"
"We can run if you like," replied Marie coolly, "but there is no need.
They have to get out by using the sweeps, and we will be underneath the
lighthouse at least a minute or two before they pass, even if we walk
slowly."
Whilst they were talking the three girls put their words into practice,
and Edith found herself battling with a logical dilemma. Dubois was
evidently escaping from France--making out from Marseilles at this late
hour on a vessel capable of sailing to almost any point of the
Mediterranean.
What could she do? Was it possible to invoke the aid of a policeman and
get some authority to hail the craft and order her to return, or was
there time to take a cab in the Cannebiere and drive furiously to the
hotel, where Brett, Fairholme, and her brother must be anxiously
awaiting her return?
Rapidly as these alternatives suggested themselves, she dismissed them.
It was best to fall in with Marie's suggestion and ascertain beyond
doubt the identity of the fishing smack. Then, at any rate, Brett would
have a tangible and definite clue.
So she hastened with her companions along the three sides of the now
almost deserted quay, and, in accordance with the prediction of her
youthful guides, she reached the promenade beyond the small lighthouse
of the inner port before the vessel had quitted the harbour. To move a
forty-ton boat with oars is a slow matter at the best.
As the craft came creeping steadily through the narrow channel Edith
saw, to her great relief, that two of the men drew in their sweeps, and
commenced to haul upon ropes whilst the clanking and groaning of pulleys
heralded the slow rising of the mainsail.
She thought the sail would never climb up in time, but as it began to
yield to the steady pull of the men it mounted more and more rapidly,
and at last, feeling the influence of a gentle breeze blowing off the
land, it shook out its cumbrous folds and the number stood clearly
revealed in huge white letters on the dark brown canvas.
At first, in her eagerness, she could hardly discern it, save a big "M"
and an "R."
"There!" cried Eugenie, bubbling over with excitement. "There it is!
'M.R. 107,' Marseilles, No. 107, you know. Why, isn't that Jacques le
Bon's boat?" she demanded from her companion.
"Yes, it is," said Marie; "and there is Jacques himself standing by the
tiller."
Edith's eyes were now becoming accustomed to the night and the dancing
water.
"Where are the others?" she said. "I cannot see them. There is no one
standing on the deck but the sailors."
"Oh, they have gone below, I expect," said the practical Marie. "They
will be in the way of the sails, you know. There is not much room for
people who don't work on the deck of a small ship like that. Besides,
they don't want to be seen. If a customs officer or a harbour official
were to notice the boat now he would think that Le Bon was going out
fishing for the night, but he would be sure to wonder what was happening
if he caught sight of a woman on board. Funny, isn't it," she rattled
on, "that Jacques should be called 'Le Bon,' for he is the worst man in
Marseilles? They say that his ugly grin when he draws a knife would
frighten anybody!"