VICTOR BOURDON GOES OVER TO THE ENEMY.
Major and Mrs. Lennard and Eleanor Monckton had stayed for nearly two
months at the Hôtel du Palais. April was fast melting into May, and
the atmosphere in the city of Boulevards was very different to the
air of an English spring. Miniature strawberries were exposed in the
windows of the cheap restaurants in the Palais Royal, side by side with
monstrous asparagus, and green peas from Algeria; until the mind of the
insular-bred stranger grew confused as to the succession of the months,
and was beguiled into thinking that May must be omitted in the French
almanack, and that capricious April skipped away in a farewell shower
to give place at once to glowing June.
It was difficult for a thorough-bred Briton to believe that the Fête
of the First Napoleon had not yet come to set the fountains playing at
Versailles: for the asphalte on the Boulevards was unpleasantly warm
under one’s boots; airily-attired ladies were lounging upon the chairs
in the gardens of the Tuileries; only the most fragile and vaporous
bonnets were to be seen in the Bois de Boulogne; vanille and strawberry
ices were in constant demand at Tortoni’s; idle Parisians spent the
dusky spring evenings seated outside the lighted cafés, drinking iced
lemonade; and a hundred other signs and tokens bore witness that the
summer had come.
Upon one of these very warm April days, Major Lennard insisted upon
taking his wife and her companion to dine at a restaurant not very far
from the Bourse; where the pastorally-inclined epicure could take his
dinner in a garden, a pleasant quadrangle, festooned with gay blossoms,
and musical with the ripple of a fountain. Eleanor did not often
accompany the major and his wife in their pleasure excursions, the
culminating attraction of which was generally a dinner; but this time
Major Lennard insisted upon her joining them.
“It’s the last dinner I shall give, Meg, in Paris,” he said; “for we
must start for Brussels on Saturday, and I mean it to be a good one.”
Eleanor submitted, for her new friends had been very kind to her, and
she had no motive for opposing their wishes. It was much better for
her to be with them in any scene of gaiety, however hollow and false
that gaiety might be, than alone in the splendid saloon at the Hôtel du
Palais, brooding over her troubles in the dusky twilight, and thinking
of the horrible night on which she had watched for her father’s coming
in the Rue de l’Archevêque.
The restaurant near the Place de la Bourse was very much crowded upon
this sunny April afternoon, and there was only one table vacant when
the major and his party entered the flowery little quadrangle, where
the rippling of the fountain was unheard amidst the clattering of
plates and the chinking of silver forks. It was seven o’clock, and the
dinners were in high progress; the diners eating very fast, and talking
a great deal faster.
The little arbour-like box to which Major Lennard conducted the two
ladies was next to a similar arbour, in which there was a group of
Frenchmen. Eleanor sat with her back to these men, who had very nearly
finished dining, and who, from the style of their conversation,
appeared to have taken plenty of wine. The man who was evidently the
entertainer sat with his legs amongst a forest of empty bottles; and
the jingling of glasses and the “cloop” of newly-drawn corks drowned a
good deal of the conversation.
It was not very likely that Eleanor would listen to these men’s talk;
or, indeed, distinguish one voice from another, or one word from
another, amid the noise of the crowded garden. She had quite enough to
do to attend to Mrs. Lennard, who chattered all dinner time, keeping
up an uninterrupted babble, in which remarks upon the business of the
dinner-table were blended with criticisms upon the dress of ladies
sitting in the other boxes.
“You should eat those little red things—baby lobsters—écrivisses, I
think they call them, dear; I always do. How do you like that bonnet;
no, not that one—a little more St. Jacques, major—the black one, with
the peach-coloured strings? I wonder why they call all the Clarets
saints, and not the Burgundies. Do you think she’s pretty in the box
opposite? No, you don’t think much of her, do you?—_I_ don’t—I like the
one in the blue silk, pretty well, if her eyebrows weren’t so heavy.”
The dinner was drawing to a close, the major was up to his eyes in
roast fowl and water-cress, and Mrs. Lennard was scraping the preserved
fruit out of a shellwork of heavy pastry with the point of her spoon,
trifling idly now that the grand business was done, when Eleanor rose
suddenly from her seat, breathless and eager, as much startled by the
sound of a voice in the next arbour as if a shell had just exploded
amidst the débris of the dinner.
“After?” some one had said, interrogatively.
“After,” answered a man whose voice had grown hoarser and thicker,
as the empty bottles about the legs of the president had become more
numerous, “my stripling has refused me a little bank-note of a thousand
francs. Thou art too dear, my friend, he has said to me; _that_ has
been paid already, and enough largely. Besides, _that_ was not great
things. Ah! ha! I said, thou art there, my drôle; you begin to fatigue
yourself of your confederate. He is too much. Very well; he has his
pride, he also. Thou art the last of men, and I say to you, adieu,
Monsieur Launcelot Darrell.”
This was the name that struck upon Eleanor’s ear, and aroused the old
feeling in all its strength. The snake had only been scotched after
all. It reared its head at the sound of that name, like a war-horse at
the blast of a trumpet. Eleanor, starting to her feet, turned round and
faced the party in the next box. The man who had spoken had risen also,
and was leaning across the table to reach a bottle on the other side.
Thus it was that the faces of the two were opposite to each other; and
Victor Bourdon, the commercial traveller, recognized Gilbert Monckton’s
missing wife.
He dropped the glass that he was filling, and poured some wine into the
cuff of his coat, while he stared at Eleanor in drunken surprise.
“You are here, madame?” he cried, with a look in which astonishment was
blended with intense delight, a sort of tipsy radiance that illuminated
the Frenchman’s fat face. Even in the midst of her surprise at seeing
him, Eleanor perceived that blending of expression and wondered at it.
Before she could speak, Monsieur Bourdon had left his party and had
deliberately seated himself in the empty chair next her. He seized her
hand in both his own, and bent over her as she shrank away from him.
“Do not recoil from me, madame,” he said, always speaking in French
that was considerably disguised by wine. “Ah, you do not know. I can
be of the last service to you; and you can be of the last service to
me also. I have embroiled myself with this Monsieur Long—cell—lotte,
for always; after that which I have done for him, he is an ingrate, he
is less than that,” Monsieur Bourdon struck the nail of his thumb upon
his front tooth with a gesture of ineffable contempt. “But why do I
tell you this, madame? You were in the garden when this poor old,—this
Monsieur de Crespigny, was lying dead. You remember; you know. Never
mind, I lose myself the head; I have dined a little generously.
Will you find yourself to-morrow, madame, in the gardens of the
Palais Royal, at five hours? There is music all the Tuesdays. I have
something of the last importance to tell you. Remember you that I know
everything. I know that you hate this Long—cellotte. I will give you
your revenge. You will come; is it not?”
“Yes,” Eleanor answered, quickly.
“Upon the five hours? I shall wait for you near to the fountain.”
“Yes.”
Monsieur Bourdon rose, put on his hat with a drunken flourish, and
went back to his friends. The major and Mrs. Lennard had been all this
time staring aghast at the drunken Frenchman. He had spoken in a loud
whisper to Eleanor, but neither Frederick Lennard nor his wife retained
very much of that French which had been sedulously drilled into them
during their school-days, and beyond ordering a dinner, or disputing
with a landlord as to the unconscionable number of wax-candles in a
month’s hotel bill, their knowledge of the language was very limited;
so Eleanor had only to explain to her friends that Monsieur Bourdon was
a person whom she had known in England, and that he had brought her
some news of importance which she was to hear the following day in the
gardens of the Palais Royal.
Mrs. Lennard, who was the soul of good-nature, readily assented to
accompany Eleanor to this rendezvous.
“Of course I’ll go, my dear, with pleasure; and really I think it’s
quite funny, and indeed actually romantic, to go and meet a tipsy
Frenchman—at least, of course, he won’t be tipsy to-day—near a
fountain; and it reminds me of a French novel I read once in English,
which shows how true it must have been to foreign manners; but as the
major knows we’re going, there’s no harm, you know,” Mrs. Lennard
remarked, as they walked from the Hotel du Palais to the gardens. The
diners were hard at work already at the cheap restaurants, and the
brass band was braying lively melodies amidst the dusty trees and
flowers, the lukewarm fountain, the children, the nursemaids, and the
rather seedy-looking Parisian loungers. It was a quarter past five,
for Mrs. Lennard had mislaid her parasol at the last moment, and there
had been ten minutes employed in skirmish and search. Monsieur Victor
Bourdon was sitting upon a bench near the fountain, but he rose and
darted forward with his hat in his hand as the two ladies approached.
“I’ll go and look in the jewellers’ shops, Miss Villars,” Mrs. Lennard
said, “while you’re talking to your friend; and please come and look
for me when you want me. The major is to join us here, you know, at
half-past six, and we’re to dine at Vèfours’. _Good_ morning.”
Mrs. Leonard bestowed these final words upon the Frenchman, accompanied
by a graceful curtsey, and departed. Victor Bourdon pointed to the
bench which he had just left, and Eleanor sat down. The Frenchman
seated himself next her, but at a respectful distance. Every trace of
the tipsy excitement of the previous night had vanished. He was quite
cool to-day; and there was a certain look of determination about his
mouth, and a cold glitter in his light, greenish-grey eyes that did not
promise well for any one against whom he might bear a grudge.
He spoke English to-day. He spoke it remarkably well, with only an
occasional French locution.
“Madame,” he began, “I shall not waste time, but come at once to the
point. You hate Launcelot Darrell?”
Eleanor hesitated. There is something terrible in that word “hate.”
People entertain the deadly sentiment; but they shrink from its plain
expression. The naked word is too appalling. It is the half-sister of
murder.
“I have good reason to dislike him——” she began.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders as he interrupted her.
“Yes, you hate him!” he said; “you do not like to say so, because the
word is not nice. You are—what is it you call it?—you are _shocked_ by
the word. But it is so, nevertheless; you hate him, and you have cause
to hate him. Yes, I know now who you are. I did not know when I first
saw you in Berkshire, but I know now. Launcelot Darrell is one who
cannot keep a secret, and he has told me. You are the daughter of that
poor old man who killed himself in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine—that is
enough! You are a great heart; you would to avenge the death of your
father. You saw us that night—the night the wills were change?”
“I did,” Eleanor answered, looking at the man with sovereign contempt.
He had spoken of the transaction as coolly as if it had been the most
honourable and commonplace business
“You are there in the darkness, and you see us,” exclaimed Monsieur
Bourdon, bending over Eleanor and speaking in a confidential whisper,
“you watch, you look, you listen, and after, when you go into the
house, you denounce Launcelot. You declare the will is forge. The will
is change. You were witness, you say; you tell all that you saw! But
they do not believe you. But why? Because when you say you have the
true will in your pocket, you cannot find it; it is gone.”
The Frenchman said this in a tone of triumph, and then paused suddenly,
looking earnestly at Eleanor.
As she returned that look a new light flashed upon her mind. She began
to understand the mystery of the lost will.
“It is gone,” cried Monsieur Bourdon, “no trace, no vestige of it
remains. You say, search the garden; the garden is search; but no
result. Then the despair seizes itself of you. Launcelot mocks himself
of you; he laughs at your nose. You find yourself unhappy; they do not
believe you; they look coldly at you; they are harsh to you, and you
fly from them. It is like that; is it not?”
“Yes,” Eleanor answered.
Her breath came and went quickly; she never removed her eyes from the
man’s face. She began to think that her justification was perhaps only
to be obtained by the agency of this disreputable Frenchman.
“What, then, of the lost will? It was not swallowed up by the earth. It
could not fly itself away into the space! What became of it?”
“YOU TOOK IT FROM ME!” cried Eleanor. “Yes, I remember how closely you
brushed against me. The paper was too big to go altogether into the
pocket of my dress. The ends were sticking out, and you——”
“I did all my possible to teach you a lesson! Ah, when young and
beautiful ladies mix themselves with such matters, it is no wonder they
make mistakes. I was watching you all the time, dear madame. I saw you
change the papers, and I drew the will out of your pocket, as easily as
I could rob you of that handkerchief.”
The corner of a lace-bordered handkerchief was visible amid the folds
of Eleanor’s dress. The Frenchman took the scrap of lace between his
fingers, and snatched the handkerchief away with an airy lightness of
touch that might have done credit to a professional adept in the art of
picking pockets. He laughed as he returned the handkerchief to Eleanor.
She scarcely noticed the action, so deeply was she absorbed in the
thought of the missing will.
“You have the will, then?”
“Si, madame.”
“Why did you take it from me?”
“But why, madame? For many reasons. First, because it is always good to
seize upon anything that other people do not know how to keep. Again,
because it is always well to have a strong hand, and a card that one’s
adversary does not know of. An extra king in one’s coat-cuff is a good
thing to have when one plays écarté, madame. That will is my extra
king.”
The Frenchman was silent for some little time after having made what he
evidently considered rather a startling _coup_. He sat watching Eleanor
with a sidelong glance, and with a cunning twinkle in his small eyes.
“Is it that we are to be friends and allies, madame?” he asked,
presently.
“Friends!” cried Eleanor. “Do you forget who I am? Do you forget whose
daughter I am? If Launcelot Darrell’s was the only name written in
my father’s last letter, you were not the less an accomplice in the
villany that led to his death. The pupil was no doubt worthy of the
master.”
“You reject my friendship, then, madame? You wish to know nothing of
the document that is in my possession? You treat me from high to low?
You refuse to ally yourself with me? Hein?”
“I will use you as an instrument against Launcelot Darrell, if you
please,” Eleanor answered, “since it seems that you have quarrelled
with your fast friend.”
“But yes, madame. When pussy has pulled the chestnuts out of the fire,
she is thenceforward the most unuseful of animals, and they chase
her. Do you understand, madame?” cried the Frenchman, with a sudden
transformation from the monkey to the tiger phase of his character,
that was scarcely agreeable. “Do you understand?” he hissed. “Monsieur
Launcelot has ennuied himself of me. I am chased! ME!”
He struck his gloved fingers upon his breast to give emphasis to this
last word.
“It is of the last _canaille_, this young man,” he continued, with a
shrug of disgust. “Ingrate, poltroon, scoundrel! When the forge will,
forge at my suggestion by the clerk of the avoué de Vindsor, has been
read, and all is finish, and no one dispute his possession, and he
enter his new domain as master, the real nature of the man reveal
itself. The _genuine_ will is burn, he think. He defies himself of his
dear friend, this poor Bourdon, and he will not even tell him who would
have benefit by that genuine will. It is burn! Did he not see it scorch
and blaze with his own eyes? There is nothing to fear; and for this
poor comrade, who has helped my gentleman to a great fortune he is less
than that!”
Monsieur Bourdon snapped his fingers derisively, and stared fiercely at
Eleanor. Then he relapsed into a sardonic smile, and went on.
“At first things go on charmingly. Monsieur Launcelot is more sweet
than the honey. It is new to him to be rich, and for the first month
he scatters his money with full hands. Then suddenly he stops. He
cries out that he is on the road to ruin; that his friend’s claims are
monstrous. Faith of a gentleman, I was, perhaps, extravagant; for I am
a little gamester, and I like to see life _en grand seigneur. A bas la
moutarde_, I said. My friend is _millionnaire_. I am no more commercial
traveller. Imagine, then, when mon garçon shuts up his—what is it you
call it, then—cheque-book, and refuse me a paltry sum of a thousand
francs. I smile in his face,” said Monsieur Bourdon, nodding his
head slowly, with half-closed eyes, “and I say, ‘Bon jour, Monsieur
Darrell; I shall make you hear some news of me before I am much older.’”
“You did not tell him that the will was in your possession?”
“A thousand thunders! No!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “I was not so much
foolish as to show him the beneath the cards. I come over here to
consult a friend, an avoué.”
“And he tells you——?”
“No matter. You are better than the avoué, madame. You hate Launcelot
Darrell; this will is all you want to prove him a cheat and a
blacksmith—pardon, a forger.”
“But to whom does Mr. de Crespigny leave his estate in this genuine
will?” asked Mrs. Monckton.
The Frenchman smiled, and looked at Eleanor thoughtfully for a few
moments before he answered her.
“Wait a little, madame,” he said; “that is my little secret. Nothing
for nothing is the rule here below. I have told you too much already.
If you want to know more you must pay me.”
“Prove that I spoke the truth upon that night,” exclaimed Eleanor,
“and I promise you that my husband, Gilbert Monckton, shall reward you
handsomely.”
“But if monsieur should repudiate your promise, madame, since he has
not authorized you to give it? I am not very wise in your English law,
and I would rather not mix myself in this affair. I do not want to be
produced as witness or accomplice. I want, all simply, to get a price
for this document. I have something to sell. You wish to buy it. Name
your price.”
“I cannot,” answered Eleanor; “I have no money. But I might get some,
perhaps. Tell me, how much do you want?”
“A thousand pounds.”
Eleanor shook her head despondently.
“Impossible!” she said; “there is no one, except my husband, from whom
I could get such an amount, and I could not ask him for money until
after I had proved Launcelot Darrell’s infamy.”
The Frenchman watched her closely. He saw that she had spoken the truth.
“You do not know how much this will is worth to you, madame,” he
said. “Remember, I could make terms with Launcelot Darrell, and sell
it to him for perhaps ten times the sum I ask of you. But Monsieur
Darrell was insolent to me; he struck me once with the butt end of his
hunting-whip; I do not forget. I could get more money from him; but I
can get my revenge through you.”
He hissed out these words between his teeth and glared vindictively at
the fountain, as if the phantom of Launcelot Darrell had been looking
at him out of the sparkling water-drops. Revenge was not a beautiful
thing, as represented by Victor Bourdon. Perhaps Eleanor may have
thought of this as she looked at him.
“I want my revenge,” he repeated; “after all, gold is a villain thing.
Revenge is more dear—to gentlemen. Besides, I do not think you would
pay me ungenerously if I helped you to crush this scoundrel, and helped
you to something else by the market, Hein?”
“I tell you again that you shall be well rewarded,” Mrs. Monckton said,
gravely.
“Very well, then, listen to me. It is to-day Tuesday. In a week I shall
have time to think. In a week you will have leisure to gather together
a little money—all you can get. At the end of that time come to me at
my apartment—bring with you any friend you like. I do not think that
you are traitor—or ingrate—and you see I trust you. I will have my
friend, the—what you call him—attorney, with me—and we may come to an
arrangement. You shall sign a contract—well ruled—for to pay me in
the future, and then the will is to you. You return to England; you
say, ‘Aha, Monsieur Launcelot, walk out of that. It is your turn to be
chased.’”
Victor Bourdon grinned ferociously, then took a memorandum-book from
his pocket, wrote a few words in pencil, tore out the leaf upon which
they were written, and handed it to Mrs. Monckton.
“That is my address,” he said. “On Tuesday, at seven o’clock in the
evening, I shall expect to see you there, and your friend. But if you
think to betray me, remember I am not the man to forgive an injury. I
have the honour to salute you, madame. Bon jour.”
He took off his hat with a flourish, and walked away. Eleanor sat for
some minutes where he had left her, thinking over what had happened,
before she went into the arcades to look for Mrs. Lennard.
That night she told the Lennards who she was, and all her story. She
felt that it was better to do so. She must have freedom now to act, and
to act promptly. She could not do this, and yet preserve her secret.
Her old ally, Richard Thornton, would be indispensable to her in this
crisis, and she wrote to him early on the morning after her interview
with Monsieur Bourdon, imploring him to come to her immediately.