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Title: The Indiscretion of the Duchess

Author: Anthony Hope

Release Date: October 31, 2004 [EBook #13909]
[Date last updated: August 28, 2006]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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[Illustration: "_I plucked him off the duke and flung him on his back on
the sands_,"]




THE INDISCRETION OF THE DUCHESS

_Being a Story Concerning Two Ladies, a Nobleman, and a Necklace_


BY ANTHONY HOPE


AUTHOR OF "THE PRISONER OF ZENDA," ETC.


NEW YORK

1894





CONTENTS.


     I. A MULTITUDE OF GOOD REASONS

    II. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF A SUPPER-TABLE

   III. THE UNEXPECTED THAT ALWAYS HAPPENED

    IV. THE DUCHESS DEFINES HER POSITION

     V. A STRATEGIC RETREAT

    VI. A HINT OF SOMETHING SERIOUS

   VII. HEARD THROUGH THE DOOR

  VIII. I FIND THAT I CARE

    IX. AN UNPARALLELED INSULT

     X. LEFT ON MY HANDS

    XI. A VERY CLEVER SCHEME

   XII. AS A MAN POSSESSED

  XIII. A TIMELY TRUCE

   XIV. FOR AN EMPTY BOX

    XV. I CHOOSE MY WAY

   XVI. THE INN NEAR PONTORSON

  XVII. A RELUCTANT INTRUSION

 XVIII. A STRANGE GOOD HUMOR

   XIX. UNSUMMONED WITNESSES

    XX. THE DUKE'S EPITAPH

   XXI. A PASSING CARRIAGE

  XXII. FROM SHADOW TO SUNSHINE




THE INDISCRETION OF THE DUCHESS.




CHAPTER I.

A Multitude of Good Reasons.


In accordance with many most excellent precedents, I might begin by
claiming the sympathy due to an orphan alone in the world. I might even
summon my unguided childhood and the absence of parental training to
excuse my faults and extenuate my indiscretions. But the sympathy which I
should thus gain would be achieved, I fear, by something very like false
pretenses. For my solitary state sat very lightly upon me--the sad events
which caused it being softened by the influence of time and habit--and had
the recommendation of leaving me, not only free to manage my own life as I
pleased, but also possessed of a competence which added power to my
freedom. And as to the indiscretions--well, to speak it in all modesty and
with a becoming consciousness of human frailty, I think that the undoubted
indiscretions--that I may use no harder term--which were committed in the
course of a certain fortnight were not for the most part of my doing or
contriving. For throughout the transactions which followed on my arrival
in France, I was rather the sport of circumstances than the originator of
any scheme; and the prominent part which I played was forced upon me, at
first by whimsical chance, and later on by the imperious calls made upon
me by the position into which I was thrust.

The same reason that absolves me from the need of excuse deprives me of
the claim to praise; and, looking back, I am content to find nothing of
which I need seriously be ashamed, and glad to acknowledge that, although
Fate chose to put me through some queer paces, she was not in the end
malevolent, and that, now the whole thing is finished, I have no cause to
complain of the ultimate outcome of it. In saying that, I speak purely and
solely for myself. There is one other for whom I might perhaps venture to
say the same without undue presumption, but I will not; while for the
rest, it must suffice for me to record their fortunes, without entering on
the deep and grave questions which are apt to suggest themselves to anyone
who considers with a thoughtful mind the characters and the lives of those
with whom he is brought in contact on his way through the world. The good
in wicked folk, the depths in shallow folk, the designs of haphazard
minds, the impulsive follies of the cunning--all these exist, to be dimly
discerned by any one of us, to be ignored by none save those who are
content to label a man with the name of one quality and ignore all else in
him, but to be traced, fully understood, and intelligently shown forth
only by the few who are gifted to read and expound the secrets of human
hearts. That is a gift beyond my endowment, and fitted for a task too
difficult for my hand. Frankly, I did not, always and throughout, discern
as clearly as I could desire the springs on which the conduct of my
fellow-actors turned; and the account I have given of their feelings and
their motives must be accepted merely as my reading of them, and for what,
as such, it is worth. The actual facts speak for themselves. Let each man
read them as he will; and if he does not indorse all my views, yet he
will, I venture to think, be recompensed by a story which even the
greatest familiarity and long pondering has not robbed of all its interest
for me. But then I must admit that I have reasons which no one else can
have for following with avidity every stage and every development in the
drama, and for seeking to discern now what at the time was dark and
puzzling to me.

The thing began in the most ordinary way in the world--or perhaps that is
too strongly put. The beginning was ordinary indeed, and tame, compared
with the sequel. Yet even the beginning had a flavor of the unusual about
it, strong enough to startle a man so used to a humdrum life and so
unversed in anything out of the common as I. Here, then, is the beginning:

One morning, as I sat smoking my after-breakfast cigar in my rooms in St.
James' Street, my friend Gustave de Berensac rushed in. His bright brown
eyes were sparkling, his mustache seemed twisted up more gayly and
triumphantly than ever, and his manner was redolent of high spirits. Yet
it was a dull, somber, misty morning, for all that the month was July and
another day or two would bring August. But Gustave was a merry fellow,
though always (as I had occasion to remember later on) within the limits
of becoming mirth--as to which, to be sure, there may be much difference
of opinion.

"Shame!" he cried, pointing at me. "You are a man of leisure, nothing
keeps you here; yet you stay in this _bouillon_ of an atmosphere, with
France only twenty miles away over the sea!"

"They have fogs in France too," said I. "But whither tends your
impassioned speech, my good friend? Have you got leave?"

Gustave was at this time an extra secretary at the French Embassy in
London.

"Leave? Yes, I have leave--and, what is more, I have a charming
invitation."

"My congratulations," said I.

"An invitation which includes a friend," he continued, sitting down. "Ah,
you smile! You mean that is less interesting?"

"A man may smile and smile, and not be a villain," said I. "I meant
nothing of the sort. I smiled at your exhilaration--nothing more, on the
word of a moral Englishman."

Gustave grimaced; then he waved his cigarette in the air, exclaiming:

"She is charming, my dear Gilbert!"

"The exhilaration is explained."

"There is not a word to be said against her," he added hastily.

"That does not depress me," said I. "But why should she invite me?"

"She doesn't invite you; she invites me to bring--anybody!"

"Then she is _ennuyée_, I presume?"

"Who would not be, placed as she is? He is inhuman!"

"_M. le mari?_"

"You are not so stupid, after all! He forbids her to see a single soul; we
must steal our visit, if we go."

"He is away, then?"

"The kind government has sent him on a special mission of inquiry to
Algeria. Three cheers for the government!"

"By all means," said I. "When are you going to approach the subject of who
these people are?"

"You will not trust my discernment?"

"Alas, no! You are too charitable--to one half of humanity."

"Well, I will tell you. She is a great friend of my sister's--they were
brought up in the same convent; she is also a good comrade of mine."

"A good comrade?"

"That is just it; for I, you know, suffer hopelessly elsewhere."

"What, Lady Cynthia still?"

"Still!" echoed Gustave with a tragic air. But he recovered in a moment.
"Lady Cynthia being, however, in Switzerland, there is no reason why I
should not go to Normandy."

"Oh, Normandy?"

"Precisely. It is there that the duchess--"

"Oho! The duchess?"

"Is residing in retirement in a small _château_, alone save for my
sister's society."

"And a servant or two, I presume?"

"You are just right, a servant or two; for he is most stingy to her
(though not, they say, to everybody), and gives her nothing when he is
away."

"Money is a temptation, you see."

"_Mon Dieu_, to have none is a greater!" and Gustave shook his head
solemnly.

"The duchess of what?" I asked patiently.

"You will have heard of her," he said, with a proud smile. Evidently he
thought that the lady was a trump card. "The Duchess of Saint-Maclou."

I laid down my cigar, maintaining, however, a calm demeanor.

"Aha!" said Gustave. "You will come, my friend?"

I could not deny that Gustave had a right to his little triumph; for a
year ago, when the duchess had visited England with her husband, I had
received an invitation to meet her at the Embassy. Unhappily, the death of
a relative (whom I had never seen) occurring the day before, I had been
obliged to post off to Ireland, and pay proper respect by appearing at the
funeral. When I returned the duchess had gone, and Gustave had,
half-ironically, consoled my evident annoyance by telling me that he had
given such a description of me to his friend that she shared my sorrow,
and had left a polite message to that effect. That I was not much consoled
needs no saying. That I required consolation will appear not unnatural
when I say that the duchess was one of the most brilliant and well-known
persons in French society; yes, and outside France also. For she was a
cosmopolitan. Her father was French, her mother American; and she had
passed two or three years in England before her marriage. She was very
pretty, and, report said, as witty as a pretty woman need be. Once she had
been rich, but the money was swallowed up by speculation; she and her
father (the mother was dead) were threatened with such reduction of means
as seemed to them penury; and the marriage with the duke had speedily
followed--the precise degree of unwillingness on the part of Mlle. de
Beville being a disputed point. Men said she was forced into the marriage,
women very much doubted it; the lady herself gave no indication, and her
father declared that the match was one of affection. All this I had heard
from common friends; only a series of annoying accidents had prevented the
more interesting means of knowledge which acquaintance with the duchess
herself would have afforded.

"You have always," said Gustave, "wanted to know her."

I relit my cigar and puffed thoughtfully. It was true that I had rather
wished to know her.

"My belief is," he continued, "that though she says 'anybody,' she means
you. She knows what friends we are; she knows you are eager to be among
her friends; she would guess that I should ask you first."

I despise and hate a man who is not open to flattery: he is a hard,
morose, distrustful, cynical being, doubting the honesty of his friends
and the worth of his own self. I leant an ear to Gustave's suggestion.

"What she would not guess," he said, throwing his cigarette into the
fireplace and rising to his feet, "is that you would refuse when I did ask
you. What shall be the reason? Shocked, are you? Or afraid?"

Gustave spoke as though nothing could either shock or frighten him.

"I'm merely considering whether it will amuse me," I returned. "How long
are we asked for?"

"That depends on diplomatic events."

"The mission to Algeria?"

"Why, precisely."

I put my hands in my pockets.

"I should certainly be glad, my dear Gustave," said I, "to meet your
sister again."

"We take the boat for Cherbourg to-morrow evening!" he cried triumphantly,
slapping me on the back. "And, in my sister's name, many thanks! I will
make it clear to the duchess why you come."

"No need to make bad blood between them like that," I laughed.

In fine, I was pleased to go; and, on reflection, there was no reason why
I should not go. I said as much to Gustave.

"Seeing that everybody is going out of town and the place will be a desert
in a week, I'm certainly not wanted here just now."

"And seeing that the duke is gone to Algeria, we certainly are wanted
there," said Gustave.

"And a man should go where he is wanted," said I.

"And a man is wanted," said Gustave, "where a lady bids him come."

"It would," I cried, "be impolite not to go."

"It would be dastardly. Besides, think how you will enjoy the memory of
it!"

"The memory?" I repeated, pausing in my eager walk up and down.

"It will be a sweet memory," he said.

"Ah!"

"Because, my friend, it is prodigiously unwise--for you."

"And not for you?"

"Why, no. Lady Cynthia--"

He broke off, content to indicate the shield that protected him. But it
was too late to draw back.

"Let it be as unwise," said I, "as it will--"

"Or as the duke is," put in Gustave, with a knowing twinkle in his eye.

"Yet it is a plan as delightful--"

"As the duchess is," said Gustave.

And so, for all the excellent reasons which may be collected from the
foregoing conversation,--and if carefully tabulated they would, I am
persuaded, prove as numerous as weighty,--I went.




CHAPTER II.

The Significance of a Supper-Table.


The Aycons of Aycon Knoll have always been a hard-headed, levelheaded
race. We have had no enthusiasms, few ambitions, no illusions, and not
many scandals. We keep our heads on our shoulders and our purses in our
pockets. We do not rise very high, but we have never sunk. We abide at the
Knoll from generation to generation, deeming our continued existence in
itself a service to the state and an honor to the house. We think more
highly of ourselves than we admit, and allow ourselves to smile when we
walk in to dinner behind the new nobility. We grow just a little richer
with every decade, and add a field or two to our domains once in five
years. The gaps made by falling rents we have filled by judicious
purchases of land near rising towns; and we have no doubt that there lies
before us a future as long and prosperous as our past has been. We are not
universally popular, and we see in the fact a tribute to our valuable
qualities.

I venture to mention these family virtues and characteristics because it
has been thought in some quarters that I displayed them but to a very
slight degree in the course of the expedition on which I was now embarked.
The impression is a mistaken one. As I have said before, I did nothing
that was not forced upon me. Any of my ancestors would, I am sure, have
done the same, had they chanced to be thrown under similar circumstances
into the society of Mme. de Saint-Maclou and of the other persons whom I
was privileged to meet; and had those other persons happened to act in the
manner in which they did when I fell in with them.

Gustave maintained his gayety and good spirits unabated through the trials
of our voyage to Cherbourg. The mild mystery that attended our excursion
was highly to his taste. He insisted on our coming without servants. He
persuaded me to leave no address; obliged to keep himself within touch of
the Embassy, he directed letters to be sent to Avranches, where, he
explained, he could procure them; for, as he thought it safe to disclose
when a dozen miles of sea separated us from the possibility of curious
listeners, the house to which we were bound stood about ten miles distant
from that town, in a retired and somewhat desolate bit of country lining
the seashore.

"My sister says it is the most _triste_ place in the world," said he; "but
we shall change all that when we arrive."

There was nothing to prevent our arriving very soon to relieve Mlle. de
Berensac's depression, for the middle of the next day found us at
Avranches, and we spent the afternoon wandering about somewhat aimlessly
and staring across the bay at the mass of Mont St. Michel. Directly
beneath us as we stood on the hill, and lying in a straight line with the
Mount, there was a large square white house, on the very edge of the
stretching sand. We were told that it was a convent.

"But the whole place is no livelier than one," said I, yawning. "My dear
fellow, why don't we go on?"

"It is right for you to see this interesting town," answered Gustave
gravely, but with a merry gleam in his eye. "However, I have ordered a
carriage, so be patient."

"For what time?"

"Nine o'clock, when we have dined."

"We are to get there in the dark, then?"

"What reason is there against that?" he asked, smiling.

"None," said I; and I went to pack up my bag.

In my room I chanced to find a _femme-de-chambre_. To her I put a question
or two as to the gentry of the neighborhood. She rattled me off a few
distinguished names, and ended:

"The duke of Saint-Maclou has also a small _château_."

"Is he there now?" I asked.

"The duchess only, sir," she answered. "Ah, they tell wonderful stories of
her!"

"Do they? Pray, of what kind?"

"Oh, not to her harm, sir; or, at least, not exactly, though to simple
country-folk--"

The national shrug was an appropriate ending.

"And the duke?"

"He is a good man," she answered earnestly, "and a very clever man. He is
very highly thought of at Paris, sir."

I had hoped, secretly, to hear that he was a villain; but he was a good
man. It was a scurvy trick to play on a good man. Well, there was no help
for it. I packed my bag with some dawning misgivings; the chambermaid,
undisturbed by my presence, went on rubbing the table with some
strong-smelling furniture polish.

"At least," she observed, as though there had been no pause, "he gives
much to the church and to the poor."

"It may be repentance," said I, looking up with a hopeful air.

"It is possible, sir."

"Or," cried I, with a smile, "hypocrisy?"

The chambermaid's shake of her head refused to accept this idea; but my
conscience, fastening on it, found rest. I hesitated no longer. The man
was a cunning hypocrite. I would go on cheerfully, secure that he deserved
all the bamboozling which the duchess and my friend Gustave might prepare
for him.

At nine o'clock, as Gustave had arranged, we started in a heavy carriage
drawn by two great white horses and driven by a stolid fat hostler. Slowly
we jogged along under the stars, St. Michel being our continual companion
on the right hand, as we followed the road round the bay. When we had gone
five or six miles, we turned suddenly inland. There were banks on each
side of the road now, and we were going uphill; for rising out of the
plain there was a sudden low spur of higher ground.

"Is the house at the top?" I asked Gustave.

"Just under the top," said he.

"I shall walk," said I.

The fact is, I had grown intolerably impatient of our slow jog, which had
now sunk to a walk.

We jumped out and strode on ahead, soon distancing our carriage, and
waking echoes with our merry talk.

"I rather wonder they have not come to meet us," said Gustave. "See, there
is the house."

A sudden turn in the road had brought us in sight of it. It was a rather
small modern Gothic _château_. It nestled comfortably below the hill,
which rose very steeply immediately behind it. The road along which we
were approaching appeared to afford the only access, and no other house
was visible. But, desolate as the spot certainly was, the house itself
presented a gay appearance, for there were lights in every window from
ground to roof.

"She seems to have company," I observed.

"It is that she expects us," answered Gustave. "This illumination is in
our honor."

"Come on," said I, quickening my pace; and Gustave burst out laughing.

"I knew you would catch fire when once I got you started!" he cried.

Suddenly a voice struck on my ear--a clear, pleasant voice:

"Was he slow to catch fire, my dear Gustave?"

I started. Gustave looked round.

"It is she," he said. "Where is she?"

"Was he slow to catch fire?" asked the voice again. "Well, he has but just
come near the flame"--and a laugh followed the words.

"Slow to light is long to burn," said I, turning to the bank on the left
side of the road, for it was thence that the voice came.

A moment later a little figure in white darted down into the road,
laughing and panting. She seized Gustave's hand.

"I ran so hard to meet you!" she cried.

"And have you brought Claire with you?" he asked.

"Present your friend to me," commanded the duchess, as though she had not
heard his question.

Did I permit myself to guess at such things, I should have guessed the
duchess to be about twenty-five years old. She was not tall; her hair was
a dark brown, and the color in her cheeks rich but subdued. She moved with
extraordinary grace and agility, and seemed never at rest. The one term of
praise (if it be one, which I sometimes incline to doubt) that I have
never heard applied to her is--dignified.

"It is most charming of you to come, Mr. Aycon," said she. "I've heard so
much of you, and you'll be so terribly dull!"

"With yourself, madame, and Mlle. de Berensac--"

"Oh, of course you must say that!" she interrupted. "But come along,
supper is ready. How delightful to have supper again! I'm never in good
enough spirits to have supper when I'm alone. You'll be terribly
uncomfortable, gentlemen. The whole household consists of an old man and
five women--counting myself."

"And are they all--?" began Gustave.

"Discreet?" she asked, interrupting again. "Oh, they will not tell the
truth! Never fear, my dear Gustave!"

"What news of the duke?" asked he, as we began to walk, the duchess
stepping a little ahead of us.

"Oh, the best," said she, with a nod over her shoulder. "None, you know.
That's one of your proverbs, Mr. Aycon?"

"Even a proverb is true sometimes," I ventured to remark.

We reached the house and passed through the door, which stood wide open.
Crossing the hall, we found ourselves in a small square room, furnished
with rose-colored hangings. Here supper was spread. Gustave walked up to
the table. The duchess flung herself into an armchair. She had taken her
handkerchief out of her pocket, and she held it in front of her lips and
seemed to be biting it. Her eyebrows were raised, and her face displayed a
comical mixture of amusement and apprehension. A glance of her eyes at me
invited me to share the perilous jest, in which Gustave's demeanor
appeared to bear the chief part.

Gustave stood by the table, regarding it with a puzzled air.

"One--two--three!" he exclaimed aloud, counting the covers laid.

The duchess said nothing, but her eyebrows mounted a little higher, till
they almost reached her clustering hair.

"One--two--three?" repeated Gustave, in unmistakable questioning. "Does
Claire remain upstairs?"

Appeal--amusement--fright--shame--triumph--chased one another across the
eyes of Mme. de Saint-Maclou: each made so swift an appearance, so swift
an exit, that they seemed to blend in some peculiar personal emotion
proper to the duchess and to no other woman born. And she bit the
handkerchief harder than ever. For the life of me I couldn't help it; I
began to laugh; the duchess' face disappeared altogether behind the
handkerchief.

"Do you mean to say Claire's not here?" cried Gustave, turning on her
swiftly and accusingly.

The head behind the handkerchief was shaken, first timidly, then more
emphatically, and a stifled voice vouchsafed the news:

"She left three days ago."

Gustave and I looked at one another. There was a pause. At last I drew a
chair back from the table, and said:

"If madame is ready--"

The duchess whisked her handkerchief away and sprang up. She gave one look
at Gustave's grave face, and then, bursting into a merry laugh, caught me
by the arm, crying:

"Isn't it fun, Mr. Aycon? There's nobody but me! Isn't it fun?"




CHAPTER III.

The Unexpected that Always Happened.


Everything depends on the point of view and is rich in varying aspects. A
picture is sublime from one corner of the room, a daub from another; a
woman's full face may be perfect, her profile a disappointment; above all,
what you admire in yourself becomes highly distasteful in your neighbor.
The moral is, I suppose, Tolerance; or if not that, something else which
has escaped me.

When the duchess said that "it"--by which she meant the whole position of
affairs--was "fun," I laughed; on the other hand, Gustave de Berensac,
after one astonished stare, walked to the hall door.

"Where is my carriage?" we heard him ask.

"It has started on the way back three, minutes ago, sir."

"Fetch it back."

"Sir! The driver will gallop down the hill; he could not be overtaken."

"How fortunate!" said I.

"I do not see," observed Mme. de Saint-Maclou, "that it makes all that
difference."

She seemed hurt at the serious way in which Gustave took her joke.

"If I had told the truth, you wouldn't have come," she said in
justification.

"Not another word is necessary," said I, with a bow.

"Then let us sup," said the duchess, and she took the armchair at the head
of the table.

We began to eat and drink, serving ourselves. Presently Gustave entered,
stood regarding us for a moment, and then flung himself into the third
chair and poured out a glass of wine. The duchess took no notice of him.

"Mlle, de Berensac was called away?" I suggested.

"She was called away," answered the duchess.

"Suddenly?"

"No," said the duchess, her eyes again full of complicated expressions. I
laughed. Then she broke out in a plaintive cry: "Oh! were you ever
dying--dying--dying of weariness?"

Gustave made no reply; the frown on his face persisted.

"Isn't it a pity," I asked, "to wreck a pleasant party for the sake of a
fine distinction? The presence of Mlle. de Berensac would have infinitely
increased our pleasure; but how would it have diminished our crime?"

"I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Aycon," said the duchess; "then I
needn't have asked him at all."

I bowed, but I was content with things as they were. The duchess sat with
the air of a child who has been told that she is naughty, but declines to
accept the statement. I was puzzled at the stern morality exhibited by my
friend Gustave. His next remark threw some light on his feelings.

"Heavens! if it became known, what would be thought?" he demanded
suddenly.

"If one thinks of what is thought," said the duchess with a shrug, "one
is--"

"A fool," said I, "or--a lover!"

"Ah!" cried the duchess, a smile coming on her lips. "If it is that, I'll
forgive you, my dear Gustave. Whose good opinion do you fear to lose?"

"I write," said Gustave, with a rhetorical gesture, "to say that I am
going to the house of some friends to meet my sister!"

"Oh, you write?" we murmured.

"My sister writes to say she is not there!"

"Oh, she writes?" we murmured again.

"And it is thought--"

"By whom?" asked the duchess.

"By Lady Cynthia Chillingdon," said I.

"That it is a trick--a device--a deceit!" continued poor Gustave.

"It was decidedly indiscreet of you to come," said the duchess
reprovingly. "How was I to know about Lady Cynthia? If I had known about
Lady Cynthia, I would not have asked you; I would have asked Mr. Aycon
only. Or perhaps you also, Mr. Aycon--"

"Madame," said I, "I am alone in the world."

"Where has Claire gone to?" asked Gustave.

"Paris," pouted the duchess.

Gustave rose, flinging his napkin on the table.

"I shall follow her to-morrow," he said. "I suppose you'll go back to
England, Gilbert?"

If Gustave left us, it was my unhesitating resolve to return to England.

"I suppose I shall," said I.

"I suppose you must," said the duchess ruefully. "Oh, isn't it
exasperating? I had planned it all so delightfully!"

"If you had told the truth--" began Gustave.

"I should not have had a preacher to supper," said the duchess sharply;
then she fell to laughing again.

"Is Mlle. de Berensac irrecoverable?" I suggested.

"Why, yes. She has gone to take her turn of attendance on your rich old
aunt, Gustave."

I think that there was a little malice in the duchess' way of saying this.

There seemed nothing more to be done. The duchess herself did not propose
to defy conventionality to the extent of inviting me to stay. To do her
justice, as soon as the inevitable was put before her, she accepted it
with good grace, and, after supper, busied herself in discovering the time
and manner in which her guests might pursue their respective journeys. I
may be flattering myself, but I thought that she displayed a melancholy
satisfaction on discovering that Gustave de Berensac must leave at ten
o'clock the next morning, whereas I should be left to kick my heels in
idleness at Cherbourg if I set out before five in the afternoon.

"Oh, you can spend the time _en route_," said Gustave. "It will be
better."

The duchess looked at me; I looked at the duchess.

"My dear Gustave," said I, "you are very considerate. You could not do
more if I also were in love with Lady Cynthia."

"Nor," said the duchess, "if I were quite unfit to be spoken to."

"If my remaining till the afternoon will not weary the duchess--" said I.

"The duchess will endure it," said she, with a nod and a smile.

Thus it was settled, a shake of the head conveying Gustave's judgment. And
soon after, Mme. de Saint-Maclou bade us good-night. Tired with my
journey, and (to tell the truth) a little out of humor with my friend, I
was not long in seeking my bed. At the top of the stairs a group of three
girls were gossiping; one of them handed me a candle and flung open the
door of my room with a roguish smile on her broad good-tempered face.

"One of the greatest virtues of women," said I pausing on the threshold,
"is fidelity."

"We are devoted to Mme. la Duchesse," said the girl.

"Another, hardly behind it, is discretion," I continued.

"Madame inculcates it on us daily," said she. I took out a napoleon.

"Ladies," said I, placing the napoleon in the girl's hand, "I am obliged
for your kind attentions. Good-night!" and I shut the door on the sound of
a pleased, excited giggling. I love to hear such sounds; they make me
laugh myself, for joy that this old world, in spite of everything, holds
so much merriment; and to their jovial lullaby I fell asleep,

Moreover--the duchess teaching discretion! There can have been nothing
like it since Baby Charles and Steenie conversed within the hearing of
King James! But, then discretion has two meanings--whereof the one is "Do
it not," and the other "Tell it not." Considering of this ambiguity, I
acquitted the duchess of hypocrisy.

At ten o'clock the next morning we got rid of my dear friend Gustave de
Berensac. Candor compels me to put the statement in that form; for the
gravity which had fallen upon him the night before endured till the
morning, and he did not flinch from administering something very like a
lecture to his hostess. His last words were an invitation to me to get
into the carriage and start with him. When I suavely declined, he told me
that I should regret it. It comforts me to think that his prophecy, though
more than once within an ace of the most ample fulfillment, yet in the end
was set at naught by the events which followed.

Gustave rolled down the hill, the duchess sighed relief.

"Now," said she, "we can enjoy ourselves fora few hours, Mr. Aycon. And
after that--solitude!"

I was really very sorry for the duchess. Evidently society and gayety were
necessary as food and air to her, and her churl of a husband denied them.
My opportunity was short, but I laid myself out to make the most of it. I
could give her nothing more than a pleasant memory, but I determined to do
that.

We spent the greater part of the day in a ramble through the woods that
lined the slopes of the hill behind the house; and all through the hours
the duchess chatted about herself, her life, her family--and then about
the duke. If the hints she gave were to be trusted, her husband deserved
little consideration at her hands, and, at the worst, the plea of reprisal
might offer some excuse for her, if she had need of one. But she denied
the need, and here I was inclined to credit her. For with me, as with
Gustave de Berensac before the shadow of Lady Cynthia came between, she
was, most distinctly, a "good comrade." Sentiment made no appearance in
our conversation, and, as the day ruthlessly wore on, I regretted honestly
that I must go in deference to a conventionality which seemed, in this
case at least--Heaven forbid that I should indulge in general theories--to
mask no reality. Yet she was delightful by virtue of the vitality in her;
and the woods echoed again and again with our laughter.

At four o'clock we returned sadly to the house, where the merry girls
busied themselves in preparing a repast for me. The duchess insisted on
sharing my meal.

"I shall go supperless to bed to-night," said she; and we sat down glum as
two children going back to school.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside; the girls were talking to one
another in rapid eager tones. The duchess raised her head, listening. Then
she turned to me, asking:

"Can you hear what they say?"

"I can distinguish nothing except 'Quick, quick!'"

As I spoke the door was thrown open, and two rushed in, the foremost
saying:

"Again, madame, again!"

"Impossible!" exclaimed the duchess, starting up.

"No, it is true. Jean was out, snaring a rabbit, and caught sight of the
carriage."

"What carriage? Whose carriage?" I asked.

"Why, my husband's," said the duchess, quite calmly. "It is a favorite
trick of his to surprise us. But Algeria! We thought we were safe with
Algeria. He must travel underground like a mole, Suzanne, or we should
have heard."

"Oh, one hears nothing here!"

"And what," said the duchess, "are we to do with Mr. Aycon?"

"I can solve that," I observed. "I'm off."

"But he'll see you!" cried the girl. "He is but a half-mile off."

"Mr. Aycon could take the side-path," said the duchess.

"The duke would see him before he reached it," said the girl. "He would be
in sight for nearly fifty yards."

"Couldn't I hide in the bushes?" I asked.

"I hate anything that looks suspicious," remarked the duchess, still quite
calm; "and if he happened to see you, it would look rather suspicious! And
he has got eyes like a cat's for anything of that sort."

There was no denying that it would look suspicious if I were caught hiding
in the bushes. I sat silent, having no other suggestion to make.

Suzanne, with a readiness not born, I hope, of practice, came to the
rescue with a clever suggestion.

"The English groom whom madame dismissed a week ago--" said she. "Why
should not the gentleman pass as the groom? The man would not take his old
clothes away, for he had bought new ones, and they are still here. The
gentleman would put them on and walk past--_voilà_."

"Can you look like a groom?" asked the duchess. "If he speaks to you, make
your French just a _little_ worse"--and she smiled.

They were all so calm and businesslike that it would have seemed
disobliging and absurd to make difficulties.

"We can send your luggage soon, you know," said the duchess. "You had
better hide Mr. Aycon's luggage in your room, Suzanne. Really, I am afraid
you ought to be getting ready, Mr. Aycon."

The point of view again! By virtue of the duchess' calmness and Suzanne's
cool readiness, the proceeding seemed a most ordinary one. Five minutes
later I presented myself to the duchess, dressed in a villainous suit of
clothes, rather too tight for me, and wearing a bad hat rakishly cocked
over one eye. The duchess surveyed me with great curiosity.

"Fortunately the duke is not a very clever man," said she. "Oh, by the
way, your name's George Sampson, and you come from Newmarket; and you are
leaving because you took more to drink than was good for you. Good-by, Mr.
Aycon. I do hope that we shall meet again under pleasanter circumstances."

"They could not be pleasanter--but they might be more prolonged," said I.

"It was so good of you to come," she said, pressing my hand.

"The carriage is but a quarter of a mile off!" cried Suzanne warningly.

"How very annoying it is! I wish to Heaven the Algerians had eaten the
duke!"

"I shall not forget my day here," I assured her.

"You won't? It's charming of you. Oh, how dull it will be now! It only
wanted the arrival of--Well, good-by!"

And with a final and long pressure of the duchess' hand, I, in the garb
and personality of George Sampson, dismissed for drunkenness, walked out
of the gate of the _château_.

"One thing," I observed to myself as I started, "would seem highly
probable--and that is, that this sort of thing has happened before."

The idea did not please me. I like to do things first.




CHAPTER IV.

The Duchess Defines Her Position.


I walked on at a leisurely pace; the heavy carriage was very near the top
of the hill. In about three minutes' time we met. There sat alone in the
carriage a tall dark man, with a puffy white face, a heavy mustache, and
stern cold eyes. He was smoking a cigar. I plucked my hat from my head and
made as if to pass by.

"Who's this?" he called out, stopping the carriage.

I began to recite my lesson in stumbling French.

"Why, what are you? Oh, you're English! Then in Heaven's name, speak
English--not that gabble." And then he repeated his order, "Speak
English," in English, and continued in that language, which he spoke with
stiff formal correctness.

He heard my account of myself with unmoved face.

"Have you any writings--any testimonials?" he asked.

"No, my lord," I stammered, addressing him in style I thought most natural
to my assumed character.

"That's a little curious, isn't it? You become intoxicated everywhere,
perhaps?"

"I've never been intoxicated in my life, my lord," said I, humbly but
firmly.

"Then you dispute the justice of your dismissal?"

"Yes, my lord." I thought such protest due to my original.

He looked at me closely, smoking his cigar the while.

"You made love to the chambermaids?" he asked suddenly.

"No, my lord. One evening, my lord, it was very hot, and--and the wine, my
lord--"

"Then you were intoxicated?"

I fumbled with my hat, praying that the fellow would move on.

"What servants are there?" he asked, pointing to the house.

"Four maids, my lord, and old Jean."

Again he meditated; then he said sharply:

"Have you ever waited at table?"

We have all, I suppose, waited at table--in one sense. Perhaps that may
save my remark from untruth.

"Now and then, my lord," I answered, wondering what he would be at.

"I have guests arriving to-morrow," he said. "My man comes with them, but
the work will perhaps be too much for him. Are you willing to stay and
help? I will pay you the same wages."

I could have laughed in his face; but duty seemed to point to seriousness.

"I'm very sorry, my lord--" I began.

"What, have you got another place?"

"No, my lord; not exactly."

"Then get up on the front seat. Or do you want your employers to say you
are disobliging as well as drunken?"

"But the lady sent me--"

"You may leave that to me. Come, jump up! Don't keep me waiting!"

Doubtfully I stood in the road, the duke glaring at me with impatient
anger. Then he leaned forward and said:

"You are curiously reluctant, sir, to earn your living. I don't understand
it. I must make some inquiries about you."

I detected suspicion dawning in his eyes. He was a great man; I did not
know what hindrances he might not be able to put in the way of my
disappearance. And what would happen if he made his inquiries? Inquiries
might mean searching, and I carried a passport in the name of Gilbert
Aycon.

Such share had prudence; the rest must be put down to the sudden impulse
of amusement which seized me. It was but for a day or two! Then I could
steal away. Meanwhile what would not the face of the duchess say, when I
rode up on the front seat!

"I--I was afraid I should not give satisfaction," I muttered.

"You probably won't," said he. "I take you from necessity, not choice, my
friend. Up with you!"

And I got up beside the driver--not, luckily, the one who had brought
Gustave de Berensac and myself the day before--and the carriage resumed
its slow climb up the hill.

We stopped at the door. I jumped down and assisted my new master.

The door was shut. Nobody was to be seen; evidently we were not expected.
The duke smiled sardonically, opened the door and walked in, I just
behind. Suzanne was sweeping the floor. With one glance at the duke and
myself, she sprang back, with a cry of most genuine surprise.

"Oh, you're mighty surprised, aren't you?" sneered the duke. "Old Jean
didn't scuttle away to tell you then? You keep a good watch, young woman.
Your mistress' orders, eh?"

Still Suzanne stared--and at me. The duke chuckled.

"Yes, he's back again," said he, "so you must make the best of it, my
girl. Where's the duchess?"

"In--in--in her sitting-room, M. le Duc."

"'In--in--in,'" he echoed mockingly. Then he stepped swiftly across the
hall and flung the door suddenly open. I believe he thought that he really
had surprised Jean's slow aged scamper ahead of him.

"Silence for your life!" I had time to whisper to Suzanne; and then I
followed him. There might be more "fun" to come.

The duchess was sitting with a book in her hand. I was half-hidden by the
duke, and she did not see me. She looked up, smiled, yawned, and held out
her hand.

"I hardly expected you, Armand," said she. "I thought you were in
Algeria."

Anybody would have been annoyed; there is no doubt that the Duke of
Saint-Maclou was very much annoyed.

"You don't seem overjoyed at the surprise," said he gruffly.

"You are always surprising me," she answered, lifting her eyebrows.

Suddenly he turned round, saying "Sampson!" and then turned to her,
adding:

"Here's another old friend for you." And he seized me by the shoulder and
pulled me into the room.

The duchess sprang to her feet, crying out in startled tones, "Back?"

I kept my eyes glued to the floor, wondering what would happen next,
thinking that it would be, likely enough, a personal conflict with my
master.

"Yes, back," said he. "I am sorry, madame, if it is not your pleasure, for
it chances to be mine."

His sneer gave the duchess a moment's time. I felt her regarding me, and I
looked up cautiously. The duke still stood half a pace in front of me, and
the message of my glance sped past him unperceived.

Then came what I had looked for--the gradual dawning of the position on
the duchess, and the reflection of that dawning light in those wonderful
eyes of hers. She clasped her hands, and drew in her breath in a long
"Oh!" It spoke utter amusement and delight. What would the duke make of
it? He did not know what to make of it, and glared at her in angry
bewilderment. Her quick wit saw the blunder she had been betrayed into.
She said "Oh!" again, but this time it expressed nothing except a sense of
insult and indignation.

"What's that man here for?" she asked.

"Because I have engaged him to assist my household."

"I had dismissed him," she said haughtily.

"I must beg you to postpone the execution of your decree," said he. "I
have need of a servant, and I have no time to find another."

"What need is there of another? Is not Lafleur here?" (She was playing her
part well now.)

"Lafleur comes to-morrow; but he will not be enough."

"Not enough--for you and me?"

"Our party will be larger to-morrow."

"More surprises?" she asked, sinking back into her chair.

"If it be a surprise that I should invite my friends to my house," he
retorted.

"And that you should not consult your wife," she said, with a smile.

He turned to me, bethinking himself, I suppose, that the conversation was
not best suited for the ears of the groom.

"Go and join your fellow-servants; and see that you behave yourself this
time."

I bowed and was about to withdraw, when the duchess motioned me to stop.
For an instant her eyes rested on mine. Then she said, in gentle tones:

"I am glad, Sampson, that the duke thinks it safe to give you an
opportunity of retrieving your character."

"That for his character!" said the duke, snapping his fingers. "I want him
to help when Mme. and Mlle. Delhasse are here."

On the words the duchess went red in the face, and then white, and sprang
up, declaring aloud in resolute, angry tones, that witnessed the depth of
her feelings in the matter:

"I will not receive Mlle. Delhasse!"

I was glad I had not missed that: it was a new aspect of my little friend
the duchess. Alas, my pleasure was short-lived! for the duke, his face
full of passion, pointed to the door, saying "Go!" and, cursing his regard
for the dignity of the family, I went.

In the hall I paused. At first I saw nobody. Presently a rosy, beaming
face peered at me over the baluster halfway up the stairs, and Suzanne
stole cautiously down, her finger on her lips.

"But what does it mean, sir?" she whispered.

"It means," said I, "that the duke takes me for the dismissed groom--and
has re-engaged me."

"And you've come?" she cried softly, clasping her hands in amazement.

"Doesn't it appear so?"

"And you're going to stay, sir?"

"Ah, that's another matter. But--for the moment, yes."

"As a servant?"

"Why not--in such good company?"

"Does madame know?"

"Yes, she knows, Suzanne. Come, show me the way to my quarters; and no
more 'sir' just now."

We were standing by the stairs. I looked up and saw the other girls
clustered on the landing above us.

"Go and tell them," I said. "Warn them to show no surprise. Then come back
and show me the way."

Suzanne, her mirth half-startled out of her but yet asserting its
existence in dimples round her mouth, went on her errand. I leaned against
the lowest baluster and waited.

Suddenly the door of the duchess' room was flung open and she came out.
She stood for an instant on the threshold. She turned toward the interior
of the room and she stamped her foot on the parqueted floor.

"No--no--no!" she said passionately, and flung the door close behind her,
to the accompaniment of a harsh, scornful laugh.

Involuntarily I sprang forward to meet her. But she was better on her
guard than I.

"Not now," she whispered, "but I must see you soon--this evening--after
dinner. Suzanne will arrange it. You must help me, Mr. Aycon; I'm in
trouble."

"With all my power!" I whispered, and with a glance of thanks she sped
upstairs. I saw her stop and speak to the group of girls, talking to them
in an eager whisper. Then, followed by two of them, she pursued her way
upstairs.

Suzanne came down and approached me, saying simply, "Come," and led the
way toward the servants' quarters. I followed her, smiling; I was about to
make acquaintance with a new side of life.

Yet at the same time I was wondering who Mlle. Delhasse might chance to
be: the name seemed familiar to me, and yet for the moment I could not
trace it. And then I slapped my thigh in the impulse of my discovery.

"By Jove, Marie Delhasse the singer!" cried I, in English.

"Sir, sir, for Heaven's sake be quiet!" whispered Suzanne.

"You are perfectly right," said I, with a nod of approbation.

"And this is the pantry," said Suzanne, for all the world as though
nothing had happened. "And in that cupboard you will find Sampson's
livery."

"Is it a pretty one?" I asked.

"You, sir, will look well in it," said she, with that delicate evasive
flattery that I love. "Would not you, sir, look well in anything?" she
meant.

And while I changed my traveling suit for the livery, I remembered more
about Marie Delhasse, and, among other things, that the Duke of
Saint-Maclou was rumored to be her most persistent admirer. Some said that
she favored him; others denied it with more or less conviction and
indignation. But, whatever might chance to be the truth about that, it was
plain that the duchess had something to say for herself when she declined
to receive the lady. Her refusal was no idle freak, but a fixed
determination, to which she would probably adhere. And, in fact, adhere to
it she did, even under some considerable changes of circumstance.




CHAPTER V.

A Strategic Retreat.


The arrival of the duke, aided perhaps by his bearing toward his wife and
toward me, had a somewhat curious effect on me. I will not say that I felt
at liberty to fall in love with the duchess; but I felt the chain of
honor, which had hitherto bound me from taking any advantage of her
indiscretion, growing weaker; and I also perceived the possibility of my
inclinations beginning to strain on the weakened chain. On this account,
among others, I resolved, as I sat in the pantry drinking a glass of wine
with which Suzanne kindly provided me, that my sojourn in the duke's
household should be of the shortest. Moreover, I was not amused; I was not
a real groom; the maids treated me with greater distance and deference
than before; I lost the entertainment of upstairs, and did not gain the
interest of downstairs. The absurd position must be ended. I would hear
what the duchess wanted of me; then I would go, leaving Lafleur to grapple
with his increased labors as best he could. True, I should miss Marie
Delhasse. Well, young men are foolish.

"Perhaps," said I to myself with a sigh, "it's just as well."

I did not wait at table that night; the duchess was shut up in her own
apartment: the duke took nothing but an omelette and a cup of coffee;
these finished, he summoned Suzanne and her assistants to attend him on
the bedroom floor, and I heard him giving directions for the lodging of
the expected guests. Apparently they were to be received, although the
duchess would not receive them. Not knowing what to make of that
situation, I walked out into the garden and lit my pipe; I had clung to
that in spite of my change of raiment.

Presently Suzanne looked out. A call from the duke proclaimed that she had
stolen a moment. She nodded, pointed to the narrow gravel path which led
into the shrubbery, and hastily withdrew. I understood, and strolled
carelessly along the path till I reached the shrubbery. There another
little path, running nearly at right angles to that by which I had come,
opened before me. I strolled some little way along, and finding myself
entirely hidden from the house by the intervening trees, I sat down on a
rude wooden bench to wait patiently till I should be wanted. For the
duchess I should have had to wait some time, but for company I did not
wait long; after about ten minutes I perceived a small, spare,
dark-complexioned man coming along the path toward me and toward the
house. He must have made a short cut from the road, escaping the winding
of the carriage-way. He wore decent but rather shabby clothes, and carried
a small valise in his hand. Stopping opposite to me, he raised his hat and
seemed to scan my neat blue brass-buttoned coat and white cords with
interest.

"You belong to the household of the duke, sir?" he asked, with a polite
lift of his hat.

I explained that I did--for the moment.

"Then you think of leaving, sir?"

"I do," I said, "as soon as I can; I am only engaged for the time."

"You do not happen to know, sir, if the duke requires a well-qualified
indoor servant? I should be most grateful if you would present me to him.
I heard in Paris that a servant had left him; but he started so suddenly
that I could not get access to him, and I have followed him here."

"It's exactly what he does want, I believe, sir," said I. "If I were you,
I would go to the house and obtain entrance. The duke expects guests
to-morrow."

"But yourself, sir? Are not your services sufficient for the present?"

"As you perceive," said I, indicating my attire, "I am not an indoor
servant. I am but a makeshift in that capacity."

He smiled a polite remonstrance at my modesty, adding:

"You think, then, I might have a chance?"

"An excellent one, I believe. Turn to the left, there by the chestnut
tree, and you will find yourself within a minute's walk of the front
door."

He bowed, raised his hat, and trotted off, moving with a quick, shuffling,
short-stepping gait. I lit another pipe and yawned. I hoped the duke would
engage this newcomer and let me go about my business; and I fancied that
he would, for the fellow looked dapper, sharp, and handy. And the duchess?
I was so disturbed to find myself disturbed at the thought of the duchess
that I exclaimed:

"By Jove, I'd better go! By Jove, I had!"

A wishing-cap, or rather a hoping-cap--for if a man who is no philosopher
may have an opinion, we do not always wish and hope for the same
thing--could have done no more for me than the chance of Fate; for at the
moment the duke's voice called "Sampson!" loudly from the house. I ran in
obedience to his summons. He stood in the porch with the little stranger
by him; and the stranger wore a deferential, but extremely well-satisfied
smile.

"Here, you," said the duke to me, "you can make yourself scarce as soon as
you like. I've got a better servant, aye, and a sober one. There's ten
francs for you. Now be off!"

I felt it incumbent on me to appear a little aggrieved:

"Am I to go to-night?" I asked. "Where can I get to to-night, my lord?"

"What's that to me? I dare say if you stand old Jean a franc, he'll give
you a lift to the nearest inn. Tell him he may take a farm-horse."

Really the duke was treating me with quite as much civility as I have seen
many of my friends extend to their servants. I had nothing to complain of.
I bowed, and was about to turn away, when the duchess appeared in the
porch.

"What is it, Armand?" she asked. "You are sending Sampson away after all?"

"I could not deny your request," said he in mockery. "Moreover, I have
found a better servant."

The stranger almost swept the ground in obeisance before the lady of the
house.

"You are very changeable," said the duchess.

I saw vexation in her face.

"My dearest, your sex cannot have a monopoly of change. I change a bad
servant--as you yourself think him--for a good one. Is that remarkable?"

The duchess said not another word, but turned into the house and
disappeared. The duke followed her. The stranger, with a bow to me,
followed him. I was left alone.

"Certainly I am not wanted," said I to myself; and, having arrived at this
conclusion, I sought out old Jean. The old fellow was only too ready to
drive me to Avranches or anywhere else for five francs, and was soon busy
putting his horse in the shafts. I sought out Suzanne, got her to smuggle
my luggage downstairs, gave her a parting present, took off my livery and
put on the groom's old suit, and was ready to leave the house of M. de
Saint-Maclou.

At nine o'clock my short servitude ended. As soon as a bend in the road
hid us from the house I opened my portmanteau, got out my own clothes,
and, _sub æthere_, changed my raiment, putting on a quiet suit of blue,
and presenting George Sampson's rather obtrusive garments (which I took
the liberty of regarding as a perquisite) to Jean, who received them
gladly. I felt at once a different being--so true it is that the tailor
makes the man.

"You are well out of that," grunted old Jean. "If he'd discovered you,
he'd have had you out and shot you!"

"He is a good shot?"

"_Mon Dieu_!" said Jean with an expressiveness which was a little
disquieting; for it was on the cards that the duke might still find me
out. And I was not a practiced shot--not at my fellow-men, I mean.
Suddenly I leaped up.

"Good Heavens!" I cried. "I forgot! The duchess wanted me. Stop, stop!"

With a jerk Jean pulled up his horse, and gazed at me.

"You can't go back like that," he said, with a grin. "You'll have to put
on these clothes again," and he pointed to the discarded suit.

"I very nearly forgot the duchess," said I. To tell the truth, I was at
first rather proud of my forgetfulness; it argued a complete triumph over
that unruly impulse at which I have hinted. But it also smote me with
remorse. I leaped to the ground.

"You must wait while I run back."

"He will shoot you after all," grinned Jean.

"The devil take him!" said I, picturing the poor duchess utterly
forsaken--at the mercy of Delhasses, husband, and what not.

I declare, as my deliberate opinion, that there is nothing more dangerous
than for a man almost to forget a lady who has shown him favor. If he can
quite forget her--and will be so unromantic--why, let him, and perhaps
small harm done. But almost--That leaves him at the mercy of every
generous self-reproach. He is ready to do anything to prove that she was
every second in his memory.

I began to retrace my steps toward the _château_.

"I shall get the sack over this!" called Jean.

"You shall come to no harm by that, if you do," I assured him.

But hardly had I--my virtuous pride now completely smothered by my tender
remorse--started on my ill-considered return journey, when, just as had
happened to Gustave de Berensac and myself the evening before, a slim
figure ran down from the bank by the roadside. It was the duchess. The
short cut had served her. She was hardly out of breath this time; and she
appeared composed and in good spirits.

"I thought for a moment you'd forgotten me, but I knew you wouldn't do
that, Mr. Aycon."

Could I resist such trust?

"Forget you, madame?" I cried. "I would as soon forget--"

"So I knew you'd wait for me."

"Here I am, waiting faithfully," said I.

"That's right," said the duchess. "Take this, please, Mr. Aycon."

"This" was a small handbag. She gave it to me, and began to walk toward
the cart, where Jean was placidly smoking a long black cheroot.

"You wished to speak to me?" I suggested, as I walked by her.

"I can do it," said the duchess, reaching the cart, "as we go along."

Even Jean took his cheroot from his lips. I jumped back two paces.

"I beg your pardon!" I exclaimed, "As we go along, did you say?"

"It will be better," said the duchess, getting into the cart (unassisted
by me, I am sorry to say). "Because he may find out I'm gone, and come
after us, you know."

Nothing seemed more likely; I was bound to admit that.

"Get in, Mr. Aycon," continued the duchess. And then she suddenly began to
talk English. "I told him I shouldn't stay in the house if Mlle. Delhasse
came. He didn't believe me; well, he'll see now. I couldn't stay, could I?
Why don't you get in?"

Half dazed, I got in. I offered no opinion on the question of Mlle.
Delhasse: to begin with, I knew very little about it; in the second place
there seemed to me to be a more pressing question.

"Quick, Jean!" said the duchess.

And we lumbered on at a trot, Jean twisting his cheroot round and round,
and grunting now and again. The old man's face said, plain as words.

"Yes, I shall get the sack; and you'll be shot!"

I found my tongue.

"Was this what you wanted me for?" I asked.

"Of course," said the duchess, speaking French again.

"But you can't come with me!" I cried in unfeigned horror.

The duchess looked up; she fixed her eyes on me for a moment; her eyes
grew round, her brows lifted. Then her lips curved: she blushed very red;
and she burst into the merriest fit of laughter.

"Oh, dear!" laughed the duchess. "Oh, what fun, Mr. Aycon!"

"It seems to me rather a serious matter," I ventured to observe. "Leaving
out all question of--of what's correct, you know" (I became very
apologetic at this point), "it's just a little risky, isn't it?"

Jean evidently thought so; he nodded solemnly over his cheroot.

The duchess still laughed; indeed, she was wiping her eyes with her
handkerchief.

"What an opinion to have of me!" she gasped at last. "I'm not coming with
you, Mr. Aycon."

I dare say my face showed relief: I don't know that I need be ashamed of
that. My change of expression, however, set the duchess a-laughing again.

"I never saw a man look so glad," said she gayly. Yet somewhere, lurking
in the recesses of her tone--or was it of her eyes?--there was a little
reproach, a little challenge. And suddenly I felt less glad: a change of
feeling which I do not seek to defend.

"Then where are you going?" I asked in much curiosity.

"I am going," said the duchess, assuming in a moment a most serious air,
"into religious retirement for a few days."

"Religious retirement?" I echoed in surprise.

"Are you thinking it's not my _métier_?" she asked, her eyes gleaming
again.

"But where?" I cried.

"Why, there, to be sure." And she pointed to where the square white
convent stood on the edge of the bay, under the hill of Avranches. "There,
at the convent. The Mother Superior is my friend, and will protect me."

The duchess spoke as though the guillotine were being prepared for her. I
sat silent. The situation was becoming rather too complicated for my
understanding. Unfortunately, however, it was to become more complicated
still; for the duchess, turning to the English tongue again, laid a hand
on my arm and said in her most coaxing tones:

"And you, my dear Mr. Aycon, are going to stay a few days in Avranches."

"Not an hour!" would have expressed the resolve of my intellect. But we
are not all intellect; and what I actually said was:

"What for?"

"In case," said the duchess, "I want you, Mr. Aycon."

"I will stay," said I, nodding, "just a few days at Avranches."

We were within half a mile of that town. The convent gleamed white in the
moonlight about three hundred yards to the left. The duchess took her
little bag, jumped lightly down, kissed her hand to me, and walked off.

Jean had made no comment at all--the duchess' household was hard to
surprise. I could make none. And we drove in silence into Avranches.

When there before with Gustave, I had put up at a small inn at the foot of
the hill. Now I drove up to the summit and stopped before the principal
hotel. A waiter ran out, cast a curious glance at my conveyance, and
lifted my luggage down.

"Let me know if you get into any trouble for being late," said I to Jean,
giving him another five francs.

He nodded and drove off, still chewing the stump of his cheroot.

"Can I have a room?" I asked, turning to the waiter.

"Certainly, sir," said he, catching up my bag in his hand.

"I am just come," said I, "from Mont St. Michel."

A curious expression spread over the waiter's face. I fancy he knew old
Jean and the cart by sight; but he spread out his hands and smiled.

"Monsieur," said he with the incomparable courtesy of the French nation,
"has come from wherever monsieur pleases."

"That," said I, giving him a trifle, "is an excellent understanding."

Then I walked into the _salle-à-manger_, and almost into the arms of an
extraordinarily handsome girl who was standing just inside the door.

"This is really an eventful day," I thought to myself.




CHAPTER VI.

A Hint of Something Serious.


Occurrences such as this induce in a man of imagination a sense of sudden
shy intimacy. The physical encounter seems to typify and foreshadow some
intermingling of destiny. This occurs with peculiar force when the lady is
as beautiful as was the girl I saw before me.

"I beg your pardon, madame," said I, with a whirl of my hat.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the lady, with an inclination of her head.

"One is so careless in entering rooms hurriedly," I observed.

"Oh, but it is stupid to stand just by the door!" insisted the lady.

Conscious that she was scanning my appearance, I could but return the
compliment. She was very tall, almost as tall as I was myself; you would
choose to call her stately, rather than slender. She was very fair, with
large lazy blue eyes and a lazy smile to match. In all respects she was
the greatest contrast to the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.

"You were about to pass out?" said I, holding the door.

She bowed; but at the moment another lady--elderly, rather stout, and, to
speak it plainly, of homely and unattractive aspect--whom I had not
hitherto perceived, called from a table at the other end of the room where
she was sitting:

"We ought to start early to-morrow."

The younger lady turned her head slowly toward the speaker.

"My dear mother," said she, "I never start early. Besides, this town is
interesting--the landlord says so."

"But he wishes us to arrive for _déjeuner_."

"We will take it here. Perhaps we will drive over in the
afternoon--perhaps the next day."

And the young lady gazed at her mother with an air of indifference--or
rather it seemed to me strangely like one of aversion and defiance.

"My dear!" cried the elder in consternation. "My dearest Marie!"

"It is just as I thought," said I to myself complacently.

Marie Delhasse--for beyond doubt it was she--walked slowly across the room
and sat down by her mother. I took a table nearer the door; the waiter
appeared, and I ordered a light supper. Marie poured out a glass of wine
from a bottle on the table; apparently they had been supping. They began
to converse together in low tones. My repast arriving, I fell to. A few
moments later, I heard Marie say, in her composed indolent tones:

"I'm not sure I shall go at all. _Entre nous_, he bores me."

I stole a glance at Mme. Delhasse. Consternation was writ large on her
face, and suspicion besides. She gave her daughter a quick sidelong
glance, and a frown gathered on her brow. So far as I heard, however, she
attempted no remonstrance. She rose, wrapping a shawl round her, and made
for the door. I sprang up and opened it; she walked out. Marie drew a
chair to the fire and sat down with her back to me, toasting her feet--for
the summer night had turned chilly. I finished my supper. The clock struck
half-past eleven. I stifled a yawn; one smoke and then to the bed was my
programme.

Marie Delhasse turned her head half-round.

"You must not," said she, "let me prevent you having your cigarette. I
should set you at ease by going to bed, but I can't sleep so early, and
upstairs the fire is not lighted."

I thanked her and approached the fire. She was gazing into it
meditatively. Presently she looked up.

"Smoke, sir," she said imperiously but languidly.

I obeyed her, and stood looking down at her, admiring her stately beauty.

"You have passed the day here?" she asked, gazing again into the fire.

"In this neighborhood," said I, with discreet vagueness.

"You have been able to pass the time?"

"Oh, certainly!" That had not been my difficulty.

"There is, of course," she said wearily, "Mont St. Michel. But can you
imagine anyone living in such a country?"

"Unless Fate set one here--" I began.

"I suppose that's it," she interrupted.

"You are going to make a stay here?"

"I am," she answered slowly, "on my way to--I don't know where."

I was scrutinizing her closely now, for her manner seemed to witness more
than indolence; irresolution, vacillation, discomfort, asserted their
presence. I could not make her out, but her languid indifference appeared
more assumed than real.

With another upward glance, she said:

"My name is Marie Delhasse."

"It is a well-known name," said I with a bow.

"You have heard of me?"

"Yes."

"What?" she asked quickly, wheeling half-round and facing me.

"That you are a great singer," I answered simply.

"Ah, I'm not all voice! What about me? A woman is more than an organ pipe.
What about me?"

Her excitement contrasted with the langour she had displayed before.

"Nothing," said I, wondering that she should ask a stranger such a
question. She glanced at me for an instant. I threw my eyes up to the
ceiling.

"It is false!" she said quietly; but the trembling of her hands belied her
composure.

The tawdry gilt clock on the mantelpiece by me ticked through a long
silence. The last act of the day's comedy seemed set for a more serious
scene.

"Why do you ask a stranger a question like that?" I said at last, giving
utterance to the thought that puzzled me.

"Whom should I ask? And I like your face--no, not because it is handsome.
You are English, sir?"

"Yes, I am English. My name is Gilbert Aycon."

"Aycon--Aycon! It is a little difficult to say it as you say it."

Her thoughts claimed her again. I threw my cigarette into the fire, and
stood waiting her pleasure. But she seemed to have no more to say, for she
rose from the seat and held out her hand to me.

"Will you 'shake hands?'" she said, the last two words in English; and she
smiled again.

I hastened to do as she asked me, and she moved toward the door.

"Perhaps," she said, "I shall see you to-morrow morning."

"I shall be here." Then I added: "I could not help hearing you talk of
moving elsewhere."

She stood still in the middle of the room; she opened her lips to speak,
shut them again, and ended by saying nothing more than:

"Yes, we talked of it. My mother wishes it. Good-night, Mr. Aycon."

I bade her good-night, and she passed slowly through the door, which I
closed behind her. I turned again to the fire, saying:

"What would the duchess think of that?"

I did not even know what I thought of it myself; of one thing only I felt
sure---that what I had heard of Marie Delhasse was not all that there was
to learn about her.

I was lodged in a large room on the third floor, and when I awoke the
bright sun beamed on the convent where, as I presume, Mme. de Saint-Maclou
lay, and on the great Mount beyond it in the distance. I have never risen
with a more lively sense of unknown possibilities in the day before me.
These two women who had suddenly crossed my path, and their relations to
the pale puffy-cheeked man at the little _château_, might well produce
results more startling than had seemed to be offered even by such a freak
as the original expedition undertaken by Gustave de Berensac and me. And
now Gustave had fallen away and I was left to face the thing alone. For
face it I must. My promise to the duchess bound me: had it not I doubt
whether I should have gone; for my interest was not only in the duchess.

I had my coffee upstairs, and then, putting on my hat, went down for a
stroll. So long as the duke did not come to Avranches, I could show my
face boldly--and was not he busy preparing for his guests? I crossed the
threshold of the hotel.

Just at the entrance stood Marie Delhasse; opposite her was a thickset
fellow, neatly dressed and wearing mutton-chop whiskers. As I came out I
raised my hat. The man appeared not to notice me, though his eyes fell on
me for a moment. I passed quickly by--in fact, as quickly as I could--for
it struck me at once that this man must be Lafleur, and I did not want him
to give the duke a description of the unknown gentleman who was staying at
Avranches. Yet, as I went, I had time to hear Marie's slow musical voice
say:

"I'm not coming at all to-day."

I was very glad of it, and pursued my round of the town with a lighter
heart. Presently, after half an hour's walk, I found myself opposite the
church, and thus nearly back at the hotel: and in front of the church
stood Marie Delhasse, looking at _the façade_.

Raising my hat I went up to her, her friendliness of the evening before
encouraging me.

"I hope you are going to stay to-day?" said I.

"I don't know." Then she smiled, but not mirthfully. "I expect to be very
much pressed to go this afternoon," she said.

I made a shot--apparently at a venture.

"Someone will come and carry you off?" I asked jestingly.

"It's very likely. My presence here will be known."

"But need you go?"

She looked on the ground and made no answer.

"Perhaps though," I continued, "he--or she--will not come. He may be too
much occupied."

"To come for me?" she said, with the first touch of coquetry which I had
seen in her lighting up her eyes.

"Even for that, it is possible," I rejoined.

We began to walk together toward the edge of the open _place_ in front of
the church. The convent came in sight as we reached the fall of the hill.

"How peaceful that looks!" she said; "I wonder if it would be pleasant
there!"

I was myself just wondering how the Duchess of Saint-Maclou found it, when
a loud cry of warning startled us. We had been standing on the edge of the
road, and a horse, going at a quick trot, was within five yards of us. As
it reached us, it was sharply reined in. To my amazement, old Jean, the
duchess' servant, sat upon it. When he saw me, a smile spread over his
weather-beaten face.

"I was nearly over you," said he. "You had no ears."

And I am sorry to say that Jean winked, insinuating that Marie Delhasse
and I had been preoccupied.

The diplomacy of non-recognition had failed to strike Jean. I made the
best of a bad job, and asked:

"What brings you here?"

Marie stood a few paces off, regarding us.

"I'm looking for Mme. la Duchesse," grinned Jean.

Marie Delhasse took a step forward when she heard his reference to the
duchess.

"Her absence was discovered by Suzanne at six o'clock this morning," the
old fellow went on. "And the duke--ah, take care how you come near him,
sir! Oh, it's a kettle of fish! For as I came I met that coxcomb Lafleur
riding back with a message from the duke's guests that they would not come
to-day! So the duchess is gone, and the ladies are not come; and the
duke--he has nothing to do but curse that whippersnapper of a Pierre who
came last night."

And Jean ended in a rapturous hoarse chuckle.

"You were riding so fast, then, because you were after the duchess?" I
suggested.

"I rode fast for fear," said Jean, with a shrewd smile, "that I should
stop somewhere on the road. Well, I have looked in Avranches. She is not
in Avranches. I'll go home again."

Marie Delhasse came close to my side.

"Ask him," she said to me, "if he speaks of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou."

I put the question as I was directed.

"You couldn't have guessed better if you'd known," said Jean; and a swift
glance from Marie Delhasse told me that her suspicion as to my knowledge
was aroused.

"And what will happen, Jean?" said I.

"The good God knows," shrugged Jean. Then, remembering perhaps my
five-franc pieces, he said politely, "I hope you are well, sir?"

"Up to now, thank you, Jean," said I.

His glance traveled to Marie. I saw his shriveled lips curl; his
expression was ominous of an unfortunate remark.

"Good-by!" said I significantly.

Jean had some wits. He spared me the remark, but not the sly leer that had
been made to accompany it. He clapped his heels to his horse's side and
trotted off in the direction from which he had come. So that he could
swear he had been to Avranches, he was satisfied!

Marie Delhasse turned to me, asking haughtily:

"What is the meaning of this? What do you know of the Duke or Duchess of
Saint-Maclou?"

"I might return your question," said I, looking her in the face.

"Will you answer it?" she said, flushing red.

"No, Mlle. Delhasse, I will not," said I.

"What is the meaning of this 'absence' of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou
which that man talks about so meaningly?"

Then I said, speaking low and slow:

"Who are the friends whom you are on your way to visit?"

"Who are you?" she cried. "What do you know about it? What concern is it
of yours?"

There was no indolence or lack of animation in her manner now. She
questioned me with imperious indignation.

"I will answer not a single word," said I. "But--you asked me last night
what I had heard of you."

"Well?" she said, and shut her lips tightly on the word.

I held my peace; and in a moment she went on passionately:

"Who would have guessed that you would insult me? Is it your habit to
insult women?"

"Not mine only, it seems," said I, meeting her glance boldly.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Had you, then, an invitation from Mme. de Saint-Maclou?"

She drew back as if I had struck her. And I felt as though I had struck
her. She looked at me for a moment with parted lips; then, without a word
or a sign, she turned and walked slowly away in the direction of the
hotel.

And I, glad to have something else to occupy my thoughts, started at a
brisk pace along the foot-path that runs down the hill and meets the road
which would lead me to the convent, for I had a thing or two to say to the
duchess. And yet it was not of the duchess only that I thought as I went.
There were also in my mind the indignant pride with which Marie Delhasse
had questioned me, and the shrinking shame in her eyes at that
counter-question of mine. The Duke of Saint-Maclou's invitation seemed to
bring as much disquiet to one of his guests as it had to his wife herself.
But one thing struck me, and I found a sort of comfort in it: she had
thought, it seemed, that the duchess was to be at home.

"Pah!" I cried suddenly to myself. "If she weren't pretty, you'd say that
made it worse!"

And I went on in a bad temper.




CHAPTER VII.

Heard through the Door.


Twenty minutes' walking brought me to the wood which lay between the road
and the convent. I pressed on; soon the wood ceased and I found myself on
the outskirts of a paddock of rough grass, where a couple of cows and half
a dozen goats were pasturing; a row of stunted apple trees ran along one
side of the paddock, and opposite me rose the white walls of the convent;
while on my left was the burying-ground with its arched gateway, inscribed
"_Mors janua vitæ_." I crossed the grass and rang a bell, that clanged
again and again in echo. Nobody came. I pulled a second time and more
violently. After some further delay the door was cautiously opened a
little way, and a young woman looked out. She was a round-faced,
red-cheeked, fresh creature, arrayed in a large close-fitting white cap, a
big white collar over her shoulders, and a black gown. When she saw me,
she uttered an exclamation of alarm, and pushed the door to again. Just in
time I inserted my foot between door and doorpost.

"I beg your pardon," said I politely, "but you evidently misunderstand me.
I wish to enter."

She peered at me through the two-inch gap my timely foot had preserved.

"But it is impossible," she objected. "Our rules do not allow it. Indeed,
I may not talk to you. I beg of you to move your foot."

"But then you would shut the door."

She could not deny it.

"I mean no harm," I protested.

"'The guile of the wicked is infinite,'" remarked the little nun.

"I want to see the Mother Superior," said I. "Will you take my name to
her?"

I heard another step in the passage. The door was flung wide open, and a
stout and stately old lady faced me, a frown on her brow.

"Madame," said I, "until you hear my errand you will think me an
ill-mannered fellow."

"What is your business, sir?"

"It is for your ear alone, madame."

"You can't come in here," said she decisively.

For a moment I was at a loss. Then the simplest solution in the world
occurred to me.

"But you can come out, madame," I suggested.

She looked at me doubtfully for a minute. Then she stepped out, shutting
the door carefully behind her. I caught a glimpse of the little nun's
face, and thought there was a look of disappointment on it. The old lady
and I began to walk along the path that led to the burying-ground.

"I do not know," said I, "whether you have heard of me. My name is Aycon."

"I thought so. Mr. Aycon, I must tell you that you are very much to blame.
You have led this innocent, though thoughtless, child into most deplorable
conduct."

("Well done, little duchess!" said I to myself; but of course I was not
going to betray her.)

"I deeply regret my thoughtlessness," said I earnestly. "I would, however,
observe that the present position of the duchess is not due to my--shall
we say misconduct?--but to that of her husband. I did not invite--"

"Don't mention her name!" interrupted the Mother Superior in horror.

We had reached the arched gateway; and there appeared standing within it a
figure most charmingly inappropriate to a graveyard--the duchess herself,
looking as fresh as a daisy, and as happy as a child with a new toy. She
ran to me, holding out both hands and crying:

"Ah, my dear, dear Mr. Aycon, you are the most delightful man alive! You
come at the very moment I want you."

"Be sober, my child, be sober!" murmured the old lady.

"But I want to hear," expostulated the duchess. "Do you know anything, Mr.
Aycon? What has been happening up at the house? What has the duke done?"

As the duchess poured out her questions, we passed through the gate; the
ladies sat down on a stone bench just inside, and I, standing, told my
story. The duchess was amused to hear of old Jean's chase of her; but she
showed no astonishment till I told her that Marie Delhasse was at the
hotel in Avranches, and had declined to go further on her journey to-day.

"At the hotel? Then you've seen her?" she burst out. "What is she like?"

"She is most extremely handsome," said I. "Moreover, I am inclined to like
her."

The Mother Superior opened her lips--to reprove me, no doubt; but the
duchess was too quick.

"Oh, you like her? Perhaps you're going to desert me and go over to her?"
she cried in indignation, that was, I think, for the most part feigned.
Certainly the duchess did not look very alarmed. But in regard to what she
said, the old lady was bound to have a word.

"What is Mr. Aycon to you, my child?" said she solemnly. "He is
nothing--nothing at all to you, my child."

"Well, I want him to be less than nothing to Mlle. Delhasse," said the
duchess, with a pout for her protector and a glance for me.

"Mlle. Delhasse is very angry with me just now," said I.

"Oh, why?" asked the duchess eagerly.

"Because she gathered that I thought she ought to wait for an invitation
from you, before she went to your house."

"She should wait till the Day of Judgment!" cried the duchess.

"That would not matter," observed the Mother Superior dryly.

Suddenly, without pretext or excuse, the duchess turned and walked very
quickly--nay, she almost ran--away along the path that encircled the group
of graves. Her eye had bidden me, and I followed no less briskly. I heard
a despairing sigh from the poor old lady, but she had no chance of
overtaking us. The audacious movement was successful.

"Now we can talk," said the duchess.

And talk she did, for she threw at me the startling assertion:

"I believe you're falling in love with Mlle. Delhasse. If you do, I'll
never speak to you again!"

"If I do," said I, "I shall probably accept that among the other
disadvantages of the entanglement."

"That's very rude," observed the duchess.

"Nothing with an 'if' in it is rude," said I speciously.

"Men must be always in love with somebody," said she resentfully.

"It certainly approaches a necessity," I assented.

The duchess glanced at me. Perhaps I had glanced at her; I hope not.

"Oh, well," said she, "hadn't we better talk business?"

"Infinitely better," said I; and I meant it.

"What am I to do?" she asked, with a return to her more friendly manner.

"Nothing," said I.

It is generally the safest advice--to women at all events.

"You are content with the position? You like being at the hotel perhaps?"

"Should I not be hard to please, if I didn't?"

"I know you are trying to annoy me, but you shan't. Mr. Aycon, suppose my
husband comes over to Avranches, and sees you?"

"I have thought of that."

"Well, what have you decided?"

"Not to think about it till it happens. But won't he be thinking more
about you than me?"

"He won't do anything about me," she said. "In the first place, he will
want no scandal. In the second, he does not want me. But he will come over
to see her."

"Her" was, of course, Marie Delhasse. The duchess assigned to her the
sinister distinction of the simple pronoun.

"Surely he will take means to get you to go back?" I exclaimed.

"If he could have caught me before I got here, he would have been glad.
Now he will wait; for if he came here and claimed me, what he proposed to
do would become known."

There seemed reason in this; the duchess calculated shrewdly.

"In fact," said I, "I had better go back to the hotel."

"That does not seem to vex you much."

"Well, I can't stay here, can I?" said I, looking round at the nunnery.
"It would be irregular, you know."

"You might go to another hotel," suggested she.

"It is most important that I should watch what is going on at my present
hotel," said I gravely; for I did not wish to move.

"You are the most--" began the duchess.

But this bit of character-reading was lost. Slow but sure, the Mother
Superior was at our elbows.

"Adieu, Mr. Aycon," said she.

I felt sure that she must manage the nuns admirably.

"Adieu!" said I, as though there was nothing else to be said.

"Adieu!" said the duchess, as though she would have liked to say something
else.

And all in a moment I was through the gateway and crossing the paddock.
But the duchess ran to the gate, crying:

"Mind you come again to-morrow!"

My expedition consumed nearly two hours; and one o'clock struck from the
tower of the church as I slowly climbed the hill, feeling (I must admit
it) that the rest of the day would probably be rather dull. Just as I
reached the top, however, I came plump on Mlle. Delhasse, who appeared to
be taking a walk. She bowed to me slightly and coldly. Glad that she was
so distant (for I did not like her looks), I returned her salute, and
pursued my way to the hotel. In the porch of it stood the waiter--my
friend who had taken such an obliging view of my movements the night
before. Directly he saw me, he came out into the road to meet me.

"Are you acquainted with the ladies who have rooms on the first floor?" he
asked with an air of mystery.

"I met them here for the first time," said I.

I believe he doubted me; perhaps waiters are bred to suspicion by the
things they see.

"Ah!" said he, "then it does not interest you to know that a gentleman has
been to see the young lady?"

I took out ten francs.

"Yes, it does," said I, handing him the money. "Who was it?"

"The Duke of Saint-Maclou," he whispered mysteriously.

"Is he gone?" I asked in some alarm. I had no wish to encounter him.

"This half-hour, sir."

"Did he see both the ladies?"

"No; only the young lady. Madame went out immediately on his arrival, and
is not yet returned."

"And mademoiselle?"

"She is in her room."

Thinking I had not got much, save good will, for my ten francs--for he
told me nothing but what I had expected to hear--I was about to pass on,
when he added, in a tone which seemed more significant than the question
demanded:

"Are you going up to your room, sir?"

"I am," said I.

"Permit me to show you the way," he said--though his escort seemed to me
very unnecessary.

He mounted before me. We reached the first floor. Opposite to us, not
three yards away, was the door of the sitting-room which I knew to be
occupied by the Delhasses.

"Go on," said I.

"In a moment, sir," he said.

Then he held up his hand in the attitude of a man who listens.

"One should not listen," he whispered, apologetically; "but it is so
strange. I thought that if you knew the lady--Hark!"

I knew that we ought not to listen. But the mystery of the fellow's manner
and the concern of his air constrained me, and I too paused, listening.

From behind the door there came to our strained attentive ears the sound
of a woman sobbing. I sought the waiter's eyes; they were already bent on
me. Again the sad sounds came--low, swift, and convulsive. It went to my
heart to hear them. I did not know what to do. To go on upstairs to my own
room and mind my own business seemed the simple thing--simple, easy, and
proper. But my feet were glued to the boards. I could not go, with that
sound beating on my ears: I should hear it all the day. I glanced again at
the waiter. He was a kind-looking fellow, and I saw the tears standing in
his eyes.

"And mademoiselle is so beautiful!" he whispered.

"What the devil business is it of yours?" said I, in a low but fierce
tone.

"None," said he. "I am content to leave it to you, sir;" and without more
he turned and went downstairs.

It was all very well to leave it to me; but what--failing that simple,
easy, proper, and impossible course of action which I have indicated--was
I to do?

Well, what I did was this: I went to the door of the room and knocked
softly. There was no answer. The sobs continued. I had been a brute to
this girl in the morning; I thought of that as I stood outside.

"My God! what's the matter with her?" I whispered.

And then I opened the door softly.

Marie Delhasse sat in a chair, her head resting in her hands and her hands
on the table; and her body was shaken with her weeping.

And on the table, hard by her bowed golden head, there lay a square
leathern box. I stood on the threshold and looked at her.

The rest of the day did not now seem likely to be dull; but it might prove
to have in store for me more difficult tasks than the enduring of a little
dullness.




CHAPTER VIII.

I Find that I Care.


For a moment I stood stock still, wishing to Heaven that I had not opened
the door; for I could find now no excuse for my intrusion, and no reason
why I should not have minded my own business. The impulse that had made
the thing done was exhausted in the doing of it. Retreat became my sole
object; and, drawing back, I pulled the door after me. But I had given
Fortune a handle--very literally; for the handle of the door grated loud
as I turned it. Despairing of escape, I stood still. Marie Delhasse looked
up with a start.

"Who's there?" she cried in frightened tones, hastily pressing her
handkerchief to her eyes.

There was no help for it. I stepped inside, saying:

"I'm ashamed to say that I am."

I deserved and expected an outburst of indignation. My surprise was great
when she sank against the back of the chair with a sigh of relief. I
lingered awkwardly just inside the threshold.

"What do you want? Why did you come in?" she asked, but rather in
bewilderment than anger.

"I was passing on my way upstairs, and--and you seemed to be in distress."

"Did I make such a noise as that?" said she. "I'm as bad as a child; but
children cry because they mustn't do things, and I because I must."

We appeared to be going to talk. I shut the door.

"My intrusion is most impertinent," said I. "You have every right to
resent it."

"Oh, have I the right to resent anything? Did you think so this morning?"
she asked impetuously.

"The morning," I observed, "is a terribly righteous time with me. I must
beg your pardon for what I said."

"You think the same still?" she retorted quickly.

"That is no excuse for having said it," I returned. "It was not my
affair."

"It is nobody's affair, I suppose, but mine."

"Unless you allow it to be," said I. I could not endure the desolation her
words and tone implied.

She looked at me curiously.

"I don't understand," she said in a fretfully weary tone, "how you come to
be mixed up in it at all."

"It's a long story." Then I went on abruptly: "You thought it was someone
else that had entered."

"Well, if I did?"

"Someone returning," said I stepping up to the table opposite her.

"What then?" she asked, but wearily and not in the defiant manner of the
morning.

"Mme. Delhasse perhaps, or perhaps the Duke of Saint-Maclou?"

Marie Delhasse made no answer. She sat with her elbows on the table, and
her chin resting on the support of her clenched hands; her lids drooped
over her eyes; and I could not see the expression of her glance, which
was, nevertheless, upon me.

"Well, well," I continued, "we needn't talk about him. Have you been doing
some shopping?" And I pointed to the red leathern box.

For full half a minute she sat, without speech or movement. Then she said
in answer to my question, which she could not take as an idle one:

"Yes, I have been doing some bargaining."

"Is that the result?"

Again she paused long before she answered.

"That," said she, "is a trifle--thrown in."

"To bind the bargain?" I suggested.

"Yes, Mr. Aycon--to bind the bargain."

"Is it allowed to look?"

"I think everything must be allowed to you. You would be so surprised if
it were not."

I understood that she was aiming a satirical remark at me: I did not mind
that; she had better flay me alive than sit and cry.

"Then I may open the box?"

"The key is in it."

I drew the box across, and I took a chair that stood by. I turned the key
of the box. A glance showed me Marie's drooped lids half raised and her
eyes fixed on my face.

I opened the box: there lay in it, in sparkling coil on the blue velvet, a
magnificent diamond necklace; one great stone formed a pendent, and it was
on this stone that I fixed my regard. I took it up and looked at it
closely; then I examined the necklace itself. Marie's eyes followed my
every motion.

"You like these trinkets?" I asked.

"Yes," said she, in that tone in which "yes" is stronger than a thousand
words of rapture; and the depths of her eyes caught fire from the stones,
and gleamed.

"But you know nothing about them," I pursued composedly.

"I suppose they are valuable," said she, making an effort after
_nonchalance_.

"They have some value," I conceded, smiling. "But I mean about their
history."

"They are bought, I suppose--bought and sold."

"I happen to know just a little about such things. In fact, I have a book
at home in which there is a picture of this necklace. It is known as the
Cardinal's Necklace. The stones were collected by Cardinal Armand de
Saint-Maclou, Archbishop of Caen, some thirty years ago. They were set by
Lebeau of Paris, on the order of the cardinal, and were left by him to his
nephew, our friend the duke. Since his marriage, the duchess has of course
worn them."

All this I said in a most matter-of-fact tone.

"Do you mean that they belong to her?" asked Marie, with a sudden lift of
her eyes.

"I don't know. Strictly, I should think not," said I impassively.

Marie Delhasse stretched out her hand and began to finger the stones.

"She wore them, did she?"

"Certainly."

"Ah! I supposed they had just been bought." And she took her fingers off
them.

"It would take a large sum to do that--to buy them _en bloc_," I observed.

"How much?"

"Oh, I don't know! The market varies so much: perhaps a million francs,
perhaps more. You can't tell how much people will give for such things."

"No, it is difficult," she assented, again fingering the necklace, "to say
what people will give for them."

I leaned back in my chair. There was a pause. Then her eyes suddenly met
mine again, and she exclaimed defiantly:

"Oh, you know very well what it means! What's the good of fencing about
it?"

"Yes, I know what it means," said I. "When have you promised to go?"

"To-morrow," she answered.

"Because of this thing?" and I pointed to the necklace.

"Because of--How dare you ask me such questions!"

I rose from my seat and bowed.

"You are going?" she asked, her fingers on the necklace, and her eyes
avoiding mine.

"I have the honor," said I, "to enjoy the friendship of the Duchess of
Saint-Maclou."

"And that forbids you to enjoy mine?"

I bowed assent to her inference. She sat still at the table, her chin on
her hands. I was about to leave her, when it struck me all in a moment
that leaving her was not exactly the best thing to do, although it might
be much the easiest. I arrested my steps.

"Well," she asked, "is not our acquaintance ended?"

And she suddenly opened her hands and hid her face in them. It was a
strange conclusion to a speech so coldly and distantly begun.

"For God's sake, don't go!" said I, bending a little across the table
toward her.

"What's it to you? What's it to anybody?" came from between her fingers.

"Your mother--" I began.

She dropped her hands from her face, and laughed. It was a laugh the like
of which I hope not to hear again. Then she broke out:

"Why wouldn't she have me in the house? Why did she run away? Am I unfit
to touch her?"

"If she were wrong, you're doing your best to make her right."

"If everybody thinks one wicked, one may as well be wicked, and--and live
in peace."

"And get diamonds?" I added, "Weren't you wicked?"

"No," she said, looking me straight in the face. "But what difference did
that make?"

"None at all, in one point of view," said I. But to myself I was swearing
that she should not go.

Then she said in a very low tone:

"He never leaves me. Ah! he makes everyone think--"

"Let 'em think," said I.

"If everyone thinks it--"

"Oh, come, nonsense!" said I.

"You know what you thought. What honest woman would have anything to do
with me--or what honest man either?"

I had nothing to say about that; so I said again.

"Well, don't go, anyhow."

She spoke in lower tones, as she answered this appeal of mine:

"I daren't refuse. He'll be here again; and my mother--"

"Put it off a day or two," said I. "And don't take that thing."

She looked at me, it seemed to me, in astonishment.

"Do you really care?" she asked, speaking very low.

I nodded. I did care, somehow.

"Enough to stand by me, if I don't go?"

I nodded again.

"I daren't refuse right out. My mother and he--"

She broke off.

"Have something the matter with you: flutters or something," I suggested.

The ghost of a smile appeared on her face.

"You'll stay?" she asked.

I had to stay, anyhow. Perhaps I ought to have said so, and not stolen
credit; but all I did was to nod again.

"And, if I ask you, you'll--you'll stand between me and him?"

I hoped that my meeting with the duke would not be in a strong light; but
I only said:

"Rather! I'll do anything I can, of course."

She did not thank me; she looked at me again. Then she observed.

"My mother will be back soon."

"And I had better not be here?"

"No."

I advanced to the table again, and laid my hand on the box containing the
Cardinal's necklace.

"And this?" I asked in a careless tone.

"Ought I to send them back?"

"You don't want to?"

"What's the use of saying I do? I love them. Besides, he'll see through
it. He'll know that I mean I won't come. I daren't--I daren't show him
that!"

Then I made a little venture; for, fingering the box idly, I said:

"It would be uncommonly handsome of you to give 'em to the duchess."

"To the duchess?" she gasped in wondering tones.

"You see," I remarked, "either they are the duchess', in which case she
ought to have them; or, if they were the duke's, they're yours now; and
you can do what you like with them."

"He gave them me on--on a condition."

"A condition," said I, "no gentleman could mention, and no law enforce."

She blushed scarlet, but sat silent.

"Revenge is sweet," said I. "She ran away rather than meet you. You send
her her diamonds!"

A sudden gleam shot into Marie Delhasse's eyes.

"Yes," she said, "yes." And stopped, thinking, with her hands clasped.

"You send them by me," I pursued, delighted with the impression which my
suggestion had made upon her.

"By you? You see her, then?" she asked quickly.

"Occasionally," I answered. The duchess' secret was not mine, and I did
not say where I saw her.

"I'll give them to you," said Marie--"to you, not to the duchess."

"I won't have 'em at any price," said I. "Come, your mother will be back
soon. I believe you want to keep 'em." And I assumed a disgusted air.

"I don't!" she flashed out passionately. "I don't want to touch them! I
wouldn't keep them for the world!"

I looked at my watch. With a swift motion, Marie Delhasse leaped from her
chair, dashed down the lid of the box, hiding the glitter of the stones,
seized the box in her two hands and with eyes averted held it out to me.

"For the duchess?" I asked.

"Yes, for the duchess," said Marie, with, averted eyes.

I took the box, and stowed it in the capacious pocket of the
shooting-jacket which I was wearing.

"Go!" said Marie, pointing to the door.

I held out my hand. She caught it in hers. Upon my word, I thought she was
going to kiss it. So strongly did I think it that, hating fuss of that
sort, I made a half-motion to pull it away. However, I was wrong. She
merely pressed it and let it drop.

"Cheer up! cheer up! I'll turn up again soon," said I, and I left the
room.

And left in the nick of time; for at the very moment when I, hugging the
lump in my coat which marked the position of the Cardinal's Necklace,
reached the foot of the stairs Mme. Delhasse appeared on her way up.

"Oh, you old viper!" I murmured thoughtlessly, in English.

"Pardon, monsieur?" said Mme. Delhasse.

"Forgive me: I spoke to myself--a foolish habit," I rejoined, with a low
bow and, I'm afraid, a rather malicious smile. The old lady glared at me,
bobbed her head the slightest bit in the world, and passed me by.

I went out into the sunshine, whistling merrily. My good friend the waiter
stood by the door. His eyes asked me a question.

"She is much better," I said reassuringly. And I walked out, still
whistling merrily.

In truth I was very pleased with myself. Every man likes to think that he
understands women. I was under the impression that I had proved myself to
possess a thorough and complete acquaintance with that intricate subject.
I was soon to find that my knowledge had its limitations. In fact, I have
been told more than once since that my plan was a most outrageous one.
Perhaps it was; but it had the effect of wresting those dangerous stones
from poor Marie's regretful hands. A man need not mind having made a fool
of himself once or twice on his way through the world, so he has done some
good by the process. At the moment, however, I felt no need for any such
apology.




CHAPTER IX.

An Unparalleled Insult.


I was thoughtful as I walked across the _place_ in front of the church in
the full glare of the afternoon sun. It was past four o'clock; the town
was more lively, as folk, their day's work finished, came out to take
their ease and filled the streets and the _cafés_. I felt that I also had
done something like a day's work; but my task was not complete till I had
lodged my precious trust safely in the keeping of the duchess.

There was, however, still time to spare, and I sat down at a _café_ and
ordered some coffee. While it was being brought my thoughts played round
Marie Delhasse. I doubted whether I disliked her for being tempted, or
liked her for resisting at the last; at any rate, I was glad to have
helped her a little. If I could now persuade her to leave Avranches, I
should have done all that could reasonably be expected of me; if the duke
pursued, she must fight the battle for herself. So I mused, sipping my
coffee; and then I fell to wondering what the duchess would say on seeing
me again so soon. Would she see me? She must, whether she liked it or not;
I could not keep the diamonds all night. Perhaps she would like.

"There you are again!" I said to myself sharply, and I roused myself from
my meditations.

As I looked up, I saw the man Lafleur opposite to me. He had his back
toward me, but I knew him, and he was just walking into a shop that faced
the _café_ and displayed in its windows an assortment of offensive
weapons--guns, pistols, and various sorts of knives. Lafleur went in. I
sat sipping my coffee. He was there nearly twenty minutes; then he came
out and walked leisurely away. I paid my score and strolled over to the
shop. I wondered what he had been buying. Dueling pistols for the duke,
perhaps! I entered and asked to be shown some penknives. The shopman
served me with alacrity. I chose a cheap knife, and then I permitted my
gaze to rest on a neat little pistol that lay on the counter. My simple
_ruse_ was most effective. In a moment I was being acquainted with all the
merits of the instrument, and the eulogy was backed by the information
that a gentleman had bought two pistols of the same make not ten minutes
before I entered the shop.

"Really!" said I. "What for?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir. It is a wise thing often to carry one of these
little fellows. One never knows."

"In case of a quarrel with another gentleman?"

"Oh, they are hardly such as we sell for dueling, sir."

"Aren't they?"

"They are rather pocket pistols--to carry if you are out at night; and we
sell many to gentlemen who have occasion in the way of their business to
carry large sums of money or valuables about with them. They give a sense
of security, sir, even if no occasion arises for their use."

"And this gentleman bought two? Who was he?"

"I don't know, sir. He gave me no name."

"And you didn't know him by sight?"

"No, sir; perhaps he is a stranger. But indeed I'm almost that myself: I
have but just set up business here."

"Is it brisk?" I asked, examining the pistol.

"It is not a brisk place, sir," the man answered regretfully. "Let me sell
you one, sir!"

It happened to be, for the moment, in the way of my business to carry
valuables, but I hoped it would not be for long, so that I did not buy a
pistol; but I allowed myself to wonder what my friend Lafleur wanted with
two--and they were not dueling pistols! If I had been going to keep the
diamonds--but then I was not. And, reminded by this reflection, I set out
at once for the convent.

Now the manner in which the Duchess of Saint-Maclou saw fit to treat
me--who was desirous only of serving her--on this occasion went far to
make me disgusted with the whole affair into which I had been drawn. It
might have been supposed that she would show gratitude; I think that even
a little admiration and a little appreciation of my tact would not have
been, under the circumstances, out of place. It is not every day that a
lady has such a thing as the Cardinal's Necklace rescued from great peril
and freely restored, with no claim (beyond that for ordinary civility) on
the part of the rescuer.

And the cause did not lie in her happening to be out of temper, for she
greeted me at first with much graciousness, and sitting down on the corn
bin (she was permitted on this occasion to meet me in the stable), she
began to tell me that she had received a most polite--and indeed almost
affectionate--letter from the duke, in which he expressed deep regret for
her absence, but besought her to stay where she was as long as the health
of her soul demanded. He would do himself the honor of waiting on her and
escorting her home, when she made up her mind to return to him.

"Which means," observed the duchess, as she replaced the letter in her
pocket, "that the Delhasses are going, and that if I go (without notice
anyhow) I shall find them there."

"I read it in the same way; but I'm not so sure that the Delhasses are
going."

"You are so charitable," said she, still quite sweetly. "You can't bring
yourself to think evil of anybody."

The duchess chanced to look so remarkably calm and composed as she sat on
the corn bin that I could not deny myself the pleasure of surprising her
with the sudden apparition of the Cardinal's Necklace. Without a word, I
took the case out of my pocket, opened it, and held it out toward her. For
once the duchess sat stock-still, her eyes round and large.

"Have you been robbing and murdering my husband?" she gasped.

With a very complacent smile I began my story. Who does not know what it
is to begin a story with a triumphant confidence in its favorable
reception? Who does not know that first terrible glimmer of doubt when the
story seems not to be making the expected impression? Who has not endured
the dull dogged despair in which the story, damned by the stony faces of
the auditors, has yet to drag on a hated weary life to a dishonored grave?

These stages came and passed as I related to Mme. de Saint-Maclou how I
came to be in a position to hand back to her the Cardinal's Necklace.
Still, silent, pale, with her lips curled in a scornful smile, she sat and
listened. My tone lost its triumphant ring, and I finished in cold,
distant, embarrassed accents.

"I have only," said I, "to execute my commission and hand the box and its
contents over to you."

And, thus speaking, I laid the necklace in its case on the corn bin beside
the duchess.

The duchess said nothing at all. She looked at me once--just once; and I
wished then and there that I had listened to Gustave de Berensac's second
thoughts and left with him at ten o'clock in the morning. Then having
delivered this barbed shaft of the eyes, the duchess sat looking straight
in front of her, bereft of her quick-changing glances, robbed of her
supple grace--like frozen quicksilver. And the necklace glittered away
indifferently between us.

At last the duchess, her eyes still fixed on the whitewashed wall
opposite, said in a slow emphatic tone:

"I wouldn't touch it, if it were the crown of France!"

I plucked up my courage to answer her. For Marie Delhasse's sake I felt a
sudden anger.

"You are pharisaical," said I. "The poor girl has acted honorably. Her
touch has not defiled your necklace."

"Yes, you must defend what you persuaded," flashed out the duchess. "It's
the greatest insult I was ever subjected to in my life!"

Here was the second lady I had insulted on that summer day!

"I did but suggest it--it was her own wish."

"Your suggestion is her wish! How charming!" said the duchess.

"You are unjust to her!" I said, a little warmly.

The duchess rose from the corn bin, made the very most of her sixty-three
inches, and remarked:

"It's a new insult to mention her to me."

I passed that by; it was too absurd to answer.

"You must take it now I've brought it," I urged in angry puzzle.

The duchess put out her hand, grasped the case delicately, shut it--and
flung it to the other side of the stable, hard by where an old ass was
placidly eating a bundle of hay.

"That's the last time I shall touch it!" said she, turning and looking me
in the face.

"But what am I to do with it?" I cried.

"Whatever you please," returned Mme. de Saint-Maclou; and without another
word, without another glance, either at me or at the necklace, she walked
out of the stable, and left me alone with the necklace and the ass.

The ass had given one start as the necklace fell with a thud on the floor;
but he was old and wise, and soon fell again to his meal. I sat drumming
my heels against the corn bin. Evening was falling fast, and everything
was very still. No man ever had a more favorable hour for reflection and
introspection. I employed it to the full. Then I rose, and crossing the
stable, pulled the long ears of my friend who was eating the hay.

"I suppose you also were a young ass once," said I with a rueful smile.

Well, I couldn't leave the Cardinal's Necklace in the corner of the
convent stable. I picked up the box. Neddy thrust out his nose at it. I
opened it and let him see the contents. He snuffed scornfully and turned
back to the hay.

"He won't take it either," said I to myself, and with a muttered curse I
dropped the wretched thing back in the pocket of my coat, wishing much
evil to everyone who had any hand in bringing me into connection with it,
from his Eminence the Cardinal Armand de Saint-Maclou down to the waiter
at the hotel.

Slowly and in great gloom of mind I climbed the hill again. I supposed
that I must take the troublesome ornament back to Marie Delhasse,
confessing that my fine idea had ended in nothing save a direct and
stinging insult for her and a scathing snub for me. My pride made this
necessity hard to swallow, but I believe there was also a more worthy
feeling that caused me to shrink from it. I feared that her good
resolutions would not survive such treatment, and that the rebuff would
drive her headlong into the ruin from which I had trusted that she would
be saved. Yet there was nothing else for it. Back the necklace must go. I
could but pray--and earnestly I did pray--that my fears might not be
realized.

I found myself opposite the gun-maker's shop; and it struck me that I
might probably fail to see Marie alone that evening. I had no means of
defense--I had never thought any necessary. But now a sudden nervousness
got hold of me: it seemed to me as if my manner must betray to everyone
that I carried the necklace--as if the lump in my coat stood out
conspicuous as Mont St. Michel itself. Feeling that I was doing a
half-absurd thing, still I stepped into the shop and announced that, on
further reflection, I would buy the little pistol. The good man was
delighted to sell it to me.

"If you carry valuables, sir," he said, repeating his stock
recommendation, "it will give you a feeling of perfect safety."

"I don't carry valuables," said I abruptly, almost rudely, and with most
unnecessary emphasis.

"I did but suggest, sir," he apologized. "And at least, it may be that you
will require to do so some day."

"That," I was forced to admit, "is of course not impossible." And I slid
the pistol and a supply of cartridges into the other pocket of my coat.

"Distribute the load, sir," advised the smiling nuisance. "One side of
your coat will be weighed down. Ah, pardon! I perceive that there is
already something in the other pocket."

"A sandwich-case," said I; and he bowed with exactly the smile the waiter
had worn when I said that I came from Mont St. Michel.




CHAPTER X.

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.




CHAPTER XI.

A Very Clever Scheme.


I must confess at once that I might easily have displayed more acumen, and
that there would have been nothing wonderful in my discerning or guessing
the truth about Marie Delhasse's movements. Yet the truth never occurred
to me, never so much as suggested itself in the shape of a possible
explanation. I cannot quite tell why; perhaps it conflicted too strongly
with the idea of her which possessed me; perhaps it was characteristic of
a temperament so different from my own that I could not anticipate it. At
any rate, be the reason what it may, I did not seriously doubt that Marie
Delhasse had cut the cords which bound her by a hasty flight from
Avranches; and my conviction was deepened by my knowledge that an evening
train left for Paris just about half an hour after Marie, having played
her trick on her mother and on the Duke of Saint-Maclou, had walked out of
the hotel, no man and no woman hindering her.

Under these circumstances, my work--imposed and voluntary alike--was done;
and the cheering influence of the dinner to which I sat down so awoke my
mind to fresh agility that I found the task of disembarrassing myself of
that old man of the sea--the Cardinal's Necklace--no longer so hopeless as
it had appeared in the hungry disconsolate hour before my meal. Nay, I saw
my way to performing, incidentally, a final service to Marie by creating
in the mind of the duke such chagrin and anger as would, I hoped,
disincline him from any pursuit of her. If I could, by one stroke, restore
him his diamonds and convince him, not of Marie's virtue, but of her
faithlessness, I trusted to be humbly instrumental in freeing her from his
importunity, and of restoring the jewels to the duchess--nay, of restoring
to her also the undisturbed possession of her home and of the society of
her husband. At this latter prospect I told myself that I ought to feel
very satisfied, and rather to my surprise found myself feeling not very
dissatisfied; for most unquestionably the duchess had treated me
villainously and had entirely failed to appreciate me. My face still went
hot to think of the glance she had given Marie Delhasse's maladroit
ambassador.

After these reflections and a bottle of Burgundy (I will not apportion the
credit) I rose from the table humming a tune and started to go upstairs,
conning my scheme in a contented mind. As I passed through the hall the
porter handed me a note, saying that a boy had left it and that there was
no answer. I opened and read it; it was very short and it ran thus:

I wish never to see you again. ELSA.

Now "Elsa" (and I believe that I have not mentioned the fact before--an
evidence, if any were needed, of my discretion) was the Christian name of
the Duchess of Saint-Maclou. Picking up her dropped handkerchief as we
rambled through the woods, I had seen the word delicately embroidered
thereon, and I had not forgotten this chance information. But why--let
those learned in the ways of women answer if they can--why, first, did she
write at all? Why, secondly, did she tell me what had been entirely
obvious from her demeanor? Why, thirdly, did she choose to affix to the
document which put an end to our friendship a name which that friendship
had never progressed far enough to justify me in employing? To none of
these pertinent queries could I give