Gavrolles was an _artiste_, and, with an _artiste’s_ eye, he saw at a
glance that the tactics of the newest thing in journalism furnished
an admirable means of carrying out his designs. The affair was soon
arranged. A few whispers at the Club, a few significant looks and
intonations, a few anonymous lines to the editors of the society
journals, and the thing was complete. It was a neck-to-neck race between
Lagardère and the Yahoo as to which should use the poison first.
Gavrolles bought the ‘Plain Speaker,’ and grinned diabolically. He
bought the ‘Whirligig,’ and positively beamed with malignant delight.
‘Ah, madame!’ he murmured to himself, ‘what will you say for yourself
_now?_’
In the aesthetic circle of which he was so brilliant an ornament, and
where the scandal was soon the topic of passing conversation, Gavrolles
assumed an aspect of lofty indignation, and affected to deplore the
public taste which could find pleasure in journalism so _brutale_.
Pressed by his intimates for an explanation of the innuendoes, he would
smile sadly, pass his thin fingers through his hair, and profess his
determination to ‘compromise no one.’ There were subjects, he said, in
which a woman’s honour was concerned, and which he could not discuss;
there were secrets which it was a man’s duty to lock firmly in his
breast, lest the happiness of another should suffer--ah, yes! And the
lean young gentlemen and limp young ladies looked at their plaster of
Paris idol with increased adoration.
About this time, it should be noted, Gavrolles was sincerely inspired by
the Divine Muse. He wrote a great many verses, which he would read aloud
to himself, with much gesticulation, in the privacy of his lodging.
Sometimes he even entertained his aesthetic admirers with a selection
from these splendid inspirations. Ponto was spellbound, sent a little
article to the ‘Megatherium’ as a sort of puff preliminary, expressing
a hope that these new ‘adumbrations of an august poesy’ would soon
be published in post octavo, on rough paper with blunt type, like the
divine ‘Parfums de la Chair.’ As a specimen of the new work (which, he
took occasion to say, posterity would remember when Racine, Molière,
and Lamartine were all forgotten, and only Gautier, Baudelaire, and
Gavrolles remembered) he quoted at full length the priceless pearl of
loveliness, the ‘ballade’ entitled ‘Diane: Chute d’un Ange.’
One morning, as this great cosmic creature was sipping his coffee
and turning over the leaves of a new book by Zola (not without much
superfine disgust, for he held that eccentric writer in very genuine
dislike), a gentleman was announced, and before Gavrolles could utter
a word the gentleman entered. One glance at his face sufficed. The
Frenchman had seen it already once or twice before, and hated it
cordially.
‘My name is Sutherland,’ said the new comer, quietly closing the door
behind him. ‘Possibly you remember me?’
Gavrolles rose smiling, though his cheek was a little pale, his mouth a
little venomous. ‘Ah! yes,’ he remembered well Monsieur Sutherland, who
had been introduced to him by that ‘drôle’ of a Crieff. He was delighted
to make his acquaintance. If he could serve him in any way, he would be
enraptured.
‘Your rapture will diminish, perhaps,’ said Sutherland, paying no
attention to the hand which waved him to a chair, ‘when I tell you what
brings me here.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Gavrolles, rather nervously, for his visitor’s
manner was not encouraging.
‘You have alluded to our second meeting. Pray do you remember our
first?’
‘Our _first_, Monsieur?’
He did remember, only too well for his mental comfort, and even as he
spoke the dreary _salle à manger_ in the little French town arose before
him, and he faced again the powerful figure with the stern eyes and the
firm square jaw.
‘It was a few years ago, in France. You had then in your company a young
lady whom you called your wife, and to whom, suspecting the nature of
your connection with her, I offered my assistance. I afterwards saw you
again, when this lady was still in your power, and you were using her as
the decoy of a gambling hell.’
Gavrolles was now livid. He saw that his visitor meant mischief,
and with an execration he sprang up as if to move to the door. But
Sutherland blocked the way with an ominous scowl.
‘Keep your seat! I have not yet done with you!’
‘Monsieur, this outrage----’
‘Bah! do not trouble yourself to seem indignant. You shall hear me out.5
‘I shall do nothing of the kind!’
‘If you attempt to leave this room,’ said Sutherland calmly, ‘I shall
thrash you within an inch of your life!’
As he spoke he held in the air a riding-whip, which he appeared to have
provided for the purpose.
‘Robber! assassin!’ cried Gavrolles, and he put the table between
himself and his visitor.
‘I am neither,’ said Sutherland. ‘I am simply the friend of a lady whom
it seems your determination to persecute and destroy. Nor is she the
only one of your victims with whom I am acquainted. Have you forgotten
Adèle Lambert?’
‘I know no such person.’
‘You are a liar!’ returned Sutherland dryly. ‘You know her--you betrayed
her--only a few nights ago she struck you in the face.’
‘Leave my apartment--scoundrel!’
‘It is you who are the scoundrel. I have come to call you to an
account.’
Gavrolles threw his arms in the air in savage desperation.
‘I don’t know you or your degraded companions. If we were not living in
a country where the code of honour is unknown, you should answer with
your life for this outrage. But there! You are a coward, and trade
upon the immunity given by your absurd laws. You know that we cannot in
England meet as gentlemen--that is why you venture so far.’
‘You are mistaken,’ returned Sutherland, still with the same
_sang-froid_. ‘It would give me the greatest pleasure to rid the world
of so consummate a reptile, but that is neither here nor there. To come
to my business. You must give me forthwith y our promise to abandon your
persecution of Mrs. Forster, and to leave England with out delay.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Oh yes, you do!’
‘Who is the lady?’ asked Gavrolles, with a sneer. ‘Pray be explicit. I
know no person of the name you mention.’
‘I mean the wife of Mr. James Forster, of Kensington. Do not assume
ignorance. I know the nature of your relations together.’
‘Pardon me, but in your capacity of bully, of _bandit_, monsieur, you
overrate my intelligence. I know the gentleman to whom you allude. I
have not the pleasure of knowing his wife.’
‘Read those paragraphs.’
Sutherland drew from his breast pocket, and handed across the table,
copies of the ‘Whirligig’ and the ‘Plain Speaker,’ with the passages
concerning Madeline marked in pencil. Gavrolles glanced at them, and
smiled curiously--then tossed them back across the table.
‘You understand those references?’
‘Completely,’ answered Gavrolles, with a mock bow. He was rapidly
regaining his composure, and making ready to strike his strongest blow.
‘Yet you have the assurance to tell me that you are unacquainted with
the lady whose name I have mentioned?’ Gavrolles bowed again.
‘Is she not the same with whom I saw you in company over there in
France?’
‘And if she is?’
‘If she is, you are a liar on your own showing. You professed not to
know her.’
‘I professed nothing of the kind. I said I did not know _Mrs. Forster_.’
‘She is the same person.’
‘Pardon me, that is impossible. She may be living under that gentleman’s
roof, she may even be bearing his name--but she is not _his wife!_’
It was now Sutherland’s turn to look astonished. Something in the
man’s supercilious smile, in his growing audacity and self-possession,
disconcerted him.
‘What!--do you actually insinuate----’
‘Nothing whatever, monsieur. I merely state a fact. But before we
continue the conversation, may I ask you a question? Has the lady
herself sent you here?’
‘No,’ returned Sutherland, with a heightened colour; ‘I came on my own
responsibility.’
‘Oh!--a self-constituted champion, I presume?’
‘If you put it in that way, yes.’
‘You are a friend of hers, of course?’
‘I am so far her friend that I will not see her victimised by a
scoundrel.’
‘Referring to me, monsieur?’ asked Gavrolles, with venomous politeness.
Gavrolles, now completely master of himself, leant over the table and
looked straight into Sutherland’s eyes.
‘You are very impetuous, monsieur, and not too choice in your use
of--what you call--Beelingsgate; but I should wish very much to give you
a little piece of advice. Before you proceed any further in this affair
I should recommend you to consult the lady herself.’
‘Why?’
‘It would be better--for the lady.’
There was no mistaking the threatening significance of the Frenchman’s
tone; but, as he spoke, he took a cigarette from a box upon the table,
lit it, and looked keenly through the smoke at Sutherland.
Seeing that he did not immediately reply, but seemed dubious and
perplexed, Gavrolles airily continued--
‘I am content, you see, to take the lady’s opinion on the subject. If
she sends you here as her accredited agent and defender, I will speak
to you, as one gentleman to another. Even then, look you, I should be
condescending, amiable. It is not every man who would permit a complete
stranger to dictate to him on a matter concerning only himself and
madame his wife.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Sutherland, now thoroughly startled. ‘You
cannot mean that----’
‘If you will permit me,’ said Gavrolles, now thoroughly master of the
situation, ‘I will explain; but bear in mind, monsieur, you have forced
this avowal upon me by your brutal English violence. Otherwise, I should
never have spoken. You have been good enough, Monsieur Sutherland, to
say that I am a liar. _Au contraire_, I do not lie. When we first met,
I said the young lady in my company was my wife. It was the truth. A
little while ago, I said there was no such person as Mrs. Forster. It
was the truth. Why? do you ask. Because a lady cannot bear the name of a
second husband, when her first husband is alive.’
There was no mistaking the supreme assurance of the man; he spoke with
the strength of a settled conviction. Sutherland looked at him in amaze,
as the full horror of the situation dawned upon his bewildered mind.
‘You thought me a commonplace seducer,’ continued the Frenchman,
loftily; ‘on the contrary, I am an _artiste_ and a man of honour. I took
that lady in honourable marriage. Afterwards, a cruel series of events
drew us asunder, that was all.’
‘You deserted her,’ cried Sutherland. ‘You left her to starve or die!’
‘Unfortunately, we did not agree; she was violent, and I--I will confess
it--I was violent too. _Eh bien_! At the time of which I speak I
was heavily in debt, and had to escape my creditors. I asked her to
accompany me, and she refused. A brief separation was necessary. Alas!
Little did I dream that in so short a space of time she would forget her
lawful husband, and contract a bigamous union with another man.’
He paused a moment, then he concluded--
‘Now, monsieur, the champion of madame, I hope you are satisfied. In any
case, there is the door.’
As he spoke he sat down in his chair beside the fire as if intimating
that the interview had come to an end.
Sutherland stood perplexed, and watched him for some moments in silence.
Then putting on his hat, he said in a low voice--
‘Your tale is plausible, but I do not believe it. In any case you
proclaim yourself a scoundrel. If it were not for your victim’s sake,
for the fear of creating a scandal, I think I should carry out my
promise, and thrash you. However, I shall postpone your punishment for
the present. But remember, if the lady we have been discussing comes
to grief through your malignity, if these calumnies grow, and any evil
happens to her through them or you, you will have to settle accounts
with _me!_’
So saying he left the room, and rapidly descended the stairs into the
street.
No sooner had he gone than Gavrolles, who with assumed _sang-froid_ had
with difficulty concealed a savage ferocity, sprang wildly up, crossed
the room, and took from a sideboard an oblong mahogany box, which
he opened with a small key. Inside was a set of delicately finished
duelling pistols, with cartridges to match.
And now, with eyes flashing, mouth foaming, all his body working in
epileptiform rage, Gavrolles took up one of the weapons, and evoked an
imaginary opponent in the air.
‘You would thrash me, you would profane me with a blow!’ he hissed
aloud. ‘Ah, ruffian! bandit! devil! dog of an Englishman! if I had you
before me--thus!--in my own country, I would put a bullet through your
heart. Come again, with your bulldog face, and I shall be prepared!’
With these words the cosmic creature put the pistol back in its case,
and proceeded to dress himself for his usual morning promenade.
Meanwhile Sutherland was pursuing his way along the streets, in a brown
study--or shall we rather say a black one--as expressed in a face of
the blackest gloom. So! His ideal heroine, the idol he had set up in
his heart as a type of all-patient and suffering woman, was a guilty
creature, one who, to entrap an honourable man, had represented herself
as single, whereas she knew that her husband lived! It was scarcely
credible, yet the tale, as he had said, seemed plausible enough, and the
Frenchman seemed to have the courage of conviction.
A man less satisfied in his own mind of the superiority of the
weaker sex over the stronger would doubtless have withdrawn from all
interference in an affair so suspicious; but Sutherland, perhaps because
he was a bachelor with very little practical experience of female
baseness, took an optimistic view of womankind. He could scarcely
conceive the idea of an utterly impure and wicked woman, though he had
the strongest possible belief in the impurity and wickedness of men. He
was thoroughly inexperienced, impartial, and ideal. Having decided
in his own mind that women are the victims of a social conspiracy
(a terrible social truth, although one which he lacked the worldly
philosophy to formulate truly), he never hesitated for a moment to
battle upon their side, with all the deep enthusiasm and moral pugnacity
of his nature. So there is little occasion for wonder in the fact that
the more he thought over the matter the deeper grew his conviction that
Madeline was a martyr and Gavrolles an even blacker scoundrel than he
had at first believed.