The Trap Closed.
The count did not utter one word. He saw at one glance what had been
done. He recognized the young gentleman whom he had sneered at as Lady
Amelie's victim. He understood at once what had been done.
"She had asked him to destroy the letters, and he has done it," he said
to himself. In one moment he had formed his scheme of revenge. He would
give the young man in charge for stealing his watch and ring. If he
cleared himself at all, he must tell the truth. He must tell that he had
not come there to steal a watch, but to destroy Lady Lisle's letters.
"If he confesses that," said the quick-witted count to himself, "she
will be doubly disgraced; if he declines to confess, I am at least
revenged upon him." So, until the entrance of the policeman, the two men
stood and glared at each other.
"You can save yourself," said the count, "if you will confess what you
came for, and if you will write that confession down."
Basil smiled contemptuously. "Of what do you charge me?" he said.
"I shall charge you with stealing my watch and ring," was the reply.
"Knowing I am innocent?"
"The alternative lies before you. Confess, as I have said, and Lady
Amelie suffers; deny, and you go to prison for stealing."
It seemed to him far easier. "I will go to prison," he thought, "I can
give a false name; no one will know me. There will be no fuss, no stir,
nothing known, and she, my queen, will be saved."
Of course there was no common sense in such a proceeding, nothing but
enthusiasm and romance. He certainly had not calculated upon the fact
being known. He had really believed the false name would shield him. He
found means through a heavy bribe to send one word to Lady Amelie; it
was merely the word, "Destroyed.--B.C." But it gave the queen of
coquettes a sense of security she had not enjoyed for long. While Basil
still lay in prison, Count Jules sought her.
"You have baffled me, my lady," he said.
"Yes," was the calm reply, "I have checkmated you, count. You will
extort no more money from me, nor will you threaten me again."
"Well," said the count, "I confess myself beaten, and I am not a good
man, either, my Lady Amelie, but sooner than have blighted that young
man's life, as you have done, I would have suffered anything."
"My dear count," said Lady Amelie, philosophically, "some men seem, by
fate and by nature, destined to be used as a cat's-paw."
Count Jules was baffled; his only hold upon the rich and beautiful Lady
Amelie was broken. What those letters contained was known only to the
lady and himself. If simply the written expressions of her own
unhappiness, he placed more value on them than they were worth. The
chances are that they held more than that.
He was entirely defeated--they had been his last resources for long. He
had never failed, by means of them, to extort money from Lady Lisle at
pleasure. It was useless to threaten any more. She had but to dare him
to bring forth his proofs, and he had not one word to say.
His only consolation was, that in revenge, he had completely blighted
the young hero's life, for hero he was, although his heroism was of a
mistaken kind.
And Lady Amelie--did she feel any regret for the young life tarnished?
She missed a very pleasant companion, an enthusiastic adorer, but as
fortune would have it, there came to England a young Roman prince, who
was both artist and poet, handsome as a Greek god, and wealthy beyond
compare. His appearance created a perfect furore in fashionable society,
and he, as a matter of course, fell in love with Lady Amelie, so that
she soon forgot the young knight who languished in prison. When the
season was over, she persuaded her husband to go to Rome, and never left
even a line or a message for the mistaken young man who had done so much
for her.
She only did what suited her; she was the queen of coquettes, and she
made him useful to her; nothing else mattered.
The lonely months wore on very slowly for Basil. At first the notion of
heroism and the conviction that he was performing a most noble and
chivalrous deed sustained him; but there was a fund of common sense in
his character, and this common sense suggested to him that instead of
being a hero, he had been the dupe of a wily coquette. Not at first did
this idea strike him; not until long, dreary weeks had passed, and she
had never sent him even one message of thanks or sympathy. He was very
angry with the idea at first, thinking it quite a false one, but
gradually he awakened to the conviction that it was true.
Then his fortitude forsook him, and it was some consolation to hear from
Mr. Forster that what the kind-hearted lawyer called his
misrepresentations had been effectual. People had almost forgotten that
little paragraph that had one morning taken London by storm.
"I have denied it so constantly and emphatically," he said, "that my
words have been believed. As soon as you get out of here, make haste
abroad, then all may be well."
Even he could not help seeing how entirely the light and brightness had
faded from the young face.
"I have never said anything to you," said Mr. Forster, one morning, "but
I have a certain conviction, Mr, Carruthers, that there is some woman in
this; you are here for a woman's sake and to screen her from blame; if
so, it is useless asking you to tell the truth, I know, but make the
best of it; get out of this as soon as you can."
He did so. When the six months were over, "John Smith" was discharged
and did not linger many hours in London; he went at once to Paris, and
there made out where Lady Amelie was.
"In Rome," replied the gentleman of whom he asked the question. "Her
last caprice was a young Roman prince, and they are settled there for
the winter." To Rome he resolved to go. He would see for himself whether
she was all that his dreaming fancy had painted her, or whether she was
what men said--a heartless coquette.
He went to Rome, and found her, as usual, queen of all that was most
brilliant and gay.
It was at a soiree given by the Duchessa Sforza. He saw her again,
beautiful, radiant and magnificent. By her side stood a young man, who
was handsome as one of the grand old statutes that ornamented the
galleries of Rome. He watched her, thinking bitterly of the time that
had passed since be looked his last on that radiant face, and all the
bitter shame that had been his portion since then.
He crossed the room and went over to her. Whatever dismay she may have
felt, she showed none. She looked up with a bright, cold smile, as
though they had parted but yesterday.
"Mr. Carruthers!" she said. "I hope you are well. I really believe that
half of England is coming to Rome."
"Can you wonder," said the prince, "when England's fairest queen is
here?"
Lady Amelie introduced the two gentlemen, and after a time the prince
went away. Then she turned her lovely face to the young man she had
duped so cleverly.
"How do you like Rome?" she asked,
"I cannot talk commonplace to you, Lady Lisle," he said; "I have come
from England purposely to see you,"
She looked slightly impatient.
"Ah," she replied. "Of course I am very much obliged to you; but you
must have been terribly imprudent. Could you not have managed without
being discovered in that suspicious attitude? I was so grievously
distressed. You are too quixotic--you seek needless dangers."
That was the extent of her gratitude to the man who had saved her
reputation, character, and fair fame.
"I did not compromise you," he said. "I preferred imprisonment to that."
"Yes; but it was quixotic; there was no need for anything of the kind."
"I am very sorry to have erred from excess of zeal," he replied,
sarcastically. "It is a comfort to me to think that I shall not so
offend again."
"I hope," she said, more anxiously, "that it will not injure you--that
no one will know about it. It was really too shocking. Prison for a
young man of your position! It was absurd."
"I thought so myself, before I came out; it was absurd; but you will be
comforted to know, Lady Amelie, that no one seems to have known of it
but my mother, Lady Carruthers, and my lawyer, Mr. Forster. So far as
the world is concerned, I am safe."
The prince returned, looking slightly jealous, and then Basil amused
himself, after a bitter fashion. He watched Lady Amelie playing off all
her airs, graces, and fascinations on the young prince, as she had
played them upon him. He was cured. It was a bitter lesson, but it
lasted him. He began to understand the difference between romance and
reality--between dreaming and doing. It had been a hard, bitter, almost
shameful, lesson, but he was thankful in after years that he had learned
it.
He found, after a time, that the world was wiser than he thought.
"There is some story about Mr. Carruthers," people would say, but no one
ever knew exactly what it was. He remained in Rome for a whole week.
Before it was over he was quite cured of his liking for the queen of
coquettes.