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32X

DROSS

By HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

AITIIOU OK
"WITH ED(JKI) TOOLS," " TIIK SOWKKS," I:TC.

<AN.\I>I.\N <'Ol'VKI(illT KhlTION.

TORONTO

THE W. J. GAGE CO. LIMITED

1899

202i;

Klltt■^•<l!U•^•<)^•lHll^; III Art ol' I'iirli.iniciit <il (".niiulit. in llit-DnU f

tlic Minister of AKii«'»ilinn-, by TiiK W.J. (JAdK Comtany
(l/miitLd), in the yt'iuitne llion.xand oi^ilit hunrln-d and ninety-
nine.

DROSS

ii
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til.

tli.'i
TI,
lair
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lion
Cor
A

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inde

DROSS.

CHAPTER I.

MUBIlliOOMS.

" La ctli'brili' est comme le feu, (jui brule dc pris et
illumine dc loin."

Uiuler a j^lorious sky, in the year 1869,
Talis j^ailicied to rejoice in the centenary of
the hirth of tlie First Napoleon. A gather-
ing this of nuishrooni nohiUty, soUhery, and
diplomacy, to celel)rate tlie hnndre(Uh anni-
versary of the greatest nuishrooni that ever
sprang to life in tlie hot-bed of internecine
strife.

Adventnrers all." said John Turner, the
great Paris hanker, with whom 1 was in the
C lunch of the invalides; "and yonder," he
added, indicating the Third Napoleon, " is
the cleverest."

We had i)nshed our way into the gorgeous
church, and now rubbed elbows with some
that wore epaulettes on j)eaceful shoulders.
There were ladies present, too. ]3id not the
fair beings contribute to the rise and fall of
that marvellous Second Kmpire? Represen-
tatives of almost every luiropean pcjwer paid
homage that day to the memory of a little
Corsican officer of artillery.

As for me, I went from motives of curi-
osity, as, no doubt, went many others, if
indeed all had so good a call. In my neigh-

MUSHROOMS.

bourhood, for instance, stood a stout gentle-
man in court uniform, who wept aloud when-
ever the organ permitted his grief to l)e
audible.

'* Who is that?" 1 inquired of my com-
panion.

"A Legitimist, who would perhaps accept
a Nai)oleonic post," repHed John Turner, in
his stout and simple way.

"And is he weeping because the man who
was born a hundred years ago is^dead?"

*' No! lie is weeping because that man's
nephew may perchance, note his emotion."

One could never tell how dense or how
acute John Turner really was. His round,
fat face was always innnobile and lleshy — no
wrinkle, no movement of lip or eyelid ever
gave the cue to his inmost thought. He was
always good-natured and indilTerent — a
middle-aged bachelor who had found life not
hollow', but full — of food.

Nature having given me long legs (where-
with to give the slip to my responsi])ilities,
and also to the bailiffs, as many of my female
relatives have enjoyed saying), 1 could look
over the heads of the n:ajority of people pre-
sent, and so saw the Emperor Napoleon 111.
for the first time in my life. The mind is,
after all, a smaller thing than those who deny
the existence of that which is beyond their
comprehension would have us believe. At
that moment 1 forgot to think of all that lay

MUSHROOMS.

les,

]ile

lok

lll.

is.

jny

leir

lay

l)cliiti(l those (lull, extinj^iiishcd eyes. 1 for-
got tliat this was a maker of history, and one
who will be placed by chroniclers, writing; in
the calm of the twentieth century, only sec-
ond to his i^reater imcle amonj^ remarkable
I'renchmen, and merely wondered whether
Napoleon III. perceived the somewhat ob-
trusive emotion of my neighbor in the court
uniform.

But a keener observer than myself coidd
scarce have discerned the information on the
still, pale features of the Kmperor, who, in-
deed, in his implacability always reminded me
more of my own countrymen than of the
I'rench. The service was procecdinj^^ with
that ciuming rise and fall of voice and music
which. I take it. has won not a few emotional
souls back, to the Mother Church. Suddenly
John Turner chuckled in a way that fat pe(j-
ple have.

** Laughing at your d — d piano-case," he
explained.

I had told him shortly before how I had
boarded the Calais boat at Dover in the form
and semblance of a piano, snui^-ly housed in
one of Messrs. ■ l^rard's cases, while my ser-
vant cnjiajL;ed in pleasant converse on the
quay the bailiff who had been set to watch
for me: this, while they were actually slin.c^-
injT^ me on board. The picture of the sur-
prise of my fellow-passenc^crs when T.oomer
.q:ravely unscrewed me and I emerc^ed from

MUSHROOMS.

my travclHnj^^-carria^^c in niid-clianiK'l had
pleased John Turner vastly. Indeed, he told
the story to the end of his days, and even
hrou^dit that end within hail at times hy an
over-indul^enee in apopletie mirth. lie
ehuekled at it now in the midst of this solenni
service. Hut I, more easily moved perhai)s
by outward show and pomp, could only think
of our surroundin}:i:s. The excitement of i^iv-
Wfji; my creditors the sli|) was a thinp^ of the
past; for those were rapid days, and I no lai;-
j^ard, as many look care to tell me, on the
heel of the flyinj^ moment.

The ceremony in which we were taking
part was indeed strange enouiih to rivet the
attention of any who witnessed it — strani^a*,
I take it, as any historical scene of a century
that saw the rise and fall of Xapoleon I.
Stranpce beyond belief, that this dynasty
should arise from ashes as cold as those that
Europe heaped on St. Helena's dead, to cele-
l)rate the birth of its founder!

Who would have dared to prophecy fifty
years earlier that a second Kmi^eror should
some day sit upon the throne of France?
Who would have ventured to foretell that this
capricious people, loathing as they did in
1815 the naine of Bonaparte, should one
day choose by universal sufTrap^e another of
that family to rule over them?

Few of those assembled in the u^reat tomb
were of devout enough mind to take much

r.
I''.'

wii

i'a

MUSHROOMS.

lis

)nc

nib
Licb

licc<l of the service now proceeding at the
ahar, where the priest (h'oned and the incense
rose in slow, clouds towards the (K)nie. We
all stared at each otlier freely enough, and in
truth the faces of many, not to mention
bright unif«»rms and brilliant names, war-
ranted the abstraction from holy thought and
fervoiu'. The old soldiers lining the aisle had
fought, some at Inkerman, some at Solferino,
some in Mexico, that land of ill-omen. The
generals of all nations, mixing freely in the
crowd, bowed grimly enough to each other.
They had met before.

It was indeed a strange jumble of prince
and paui)er, friend and foe, ])atriot and ad-
venturer. And the face that drew my ga/.e
otttMK'st was one as still and illegible now as
it was «»n the morning of January i ith, four
years later, when 1 bowed before it at Chisel-
luu'st.

The Third Napoleon, with eyes that none
could read — a (juiet, self-possessed enigma —
passed down the aisle between his ranked sol-
diers. an<l the religious part of the day's fes-
tivities was over. I'aris promised to be ^'u
(clc while daylight laste<l, and at night a dis-
])Iay of lirevxorks of unprecedented splemlour
was to close the festive celebration. There
is jio lighter heart than that which beats
witliiu the narrow waistcoat ^ of the little
Parisian bourgeois, mdess indeed it be that
in the trim bodice of Madame his wife; and

6 MUSHROOMS.

even within the church walls we could hear
the sound of merriment in the streets.

When the Emperor had j^one we all moved
towards the doors of the church, congratu-
lating each other, embracing each other,
laughing and weeping all in one breath.

One near to me seized my hand.

" You are English!" he cried.

" I am."

*' Then embrace me."

We embraced.

" Waterloo " — he called it Vatterlo — " is
forgotten. It is buried in the Crimea," cried
this emotional son of Gaul. He was a stout
man who had partaken of garlic at dejeuner.

" It is," I answered.

And we embraced again. Then I got away
from him. It was gratifying but inexpedient
to be an Englishman at that moment, and
John Turner, whose clothes were made in
Paris, silently denied me and edged away.
Others seemed desirous of burying Waterloo
also, but I managed the obsecpiies of that
great victory with a shake of the hand.

" Vive I'Empereur!" they cried. " Long
live Napoleon!"

And I shouted as loud as any. Whatever
one my think, it is always wise to agree with
the mob.

On the steps o^ the church I found John
Turner awaiting me.

" Finished embracing your new-found

MUSHROOMS.

lat

ilh
iii.l

Iricnd?" he asked nic, with a shortness which
may have been a matter of breath. At all
events, it was hal)itual with this well-fed phil-
os()])her.

" We are forgetting Waterloo," I , ans-
wered.

At that moment a merry laus^h behind ns
made me tnrn. It was not directed towards
myself, and was donbtless raised by some
incident which had escaped our notice. The
mere fact that this voice was, raised in merri-
ment did not make me wheel round on my
heel as if 1 had been shot. It was the voice
itself — some note of sympathy which I
seemed to have always known and yet never
to have heard until this moment. A strange
thini;" — the reader will think — to happen to a
man in his thirties, who had knocked about
the world, doing but little good therein, as
some are ready and even anxious to relate.

Strange it may be, but ,it was true, I
seemed to have known that voice all my life
— and it was only the merry laugh of a heed-
less girl.

Has any listened to the prattle of the
school-room without hearing at odd mo-
ments the tone of some note that is not
girlish — the voice of the woman speaking
gravely through the chatter of the child?

T seemed to hear that note now. and turn-
ing, found the cnvner of the voice within
touch of me. She was tall and slim, with a

MUSHROOMS.

certain fresh immaturity, which was Hke the
scent of the first spring llowers in my own
Norfolk woods at home. I'^lower-Hke, too,
was her face — somewhat long and narrow,
with a fair flush on it of youth, health, and
happiness. The merriest eyes in the world
were looking laughingly into the face of an
old gentleman at her side, smiling, hap])y
eyes of innocent maidenhood. And yet here
again I saw the woman in the girl. I saw a
gracious lady, knowing life, and being yet
pure, having learned of good and evil oidy
to remember the good. For the knowledge
of evil is like vaccine — it causes disturbance
only when hidden impurity awaits it.

" Come," said John Turner, taking my
arm, "no one else wants to forget Waterloo."

I went with him a little. Then I j)aused.

" Who is the young lady coming down
the steps behind us?"

John Turner, looking over his shoulder,
gave a grunt.

" Old De Clericy and his daughter," he
answered. ** One of the families that are too
old to keep pace with the times."

We walked on a little.

" There is a chance for you — wants a sec-
retary," muttered my companion.

"Does he?" I exclaimed, stopping. "Then
introduce me."

" Not I."
Why?"

■I

MUSHROOMS.

" Can't introduce a man who came across
in a piano-case." lie answered, with a lau.nh,
wliich made me remember that this was a
man of station and some stan(hng in Paris,
while I was but a vagabond and ne'er-do-
well.

" Then I'll introduce myself," I said,
hastily.

J(jhn Turner shrui.i^ged his broad shoulders
and walked on. As for me, I stopped and
on the impulse of the moment turned.

Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Clericy
were cominc;- slowly towards me, and more
than one looked at the fair young girl with a
franker admiration than I cared about, while
she was happily unconscious of it. It would
ceem that she must lately have left the con-
vent, for the guileless pink and white of that
pure life lingered on her face, while her eyes
danced with an excitement out of all propor-
tion to the moment. What should she know
of Napoleon T.. and how rejoice for France
when she knew but little of the dark days
through which the great general had brought
that land?

I edged my way towards them through the
crowd without pausing to reflect what I was
about to do. I had nm away from my credi-
tors, it is true, but was not called upon to
work for my living. The Howards had not
done much of that, so far as I knew; though
many of my ancestors, if one may credit the

MUSHROOMS.

old port rails at home, had fought for rights,
and even wrongs, with considerable spirit
and success.

The throng was a well-dressed one, and
conse(iuently of a cold and evil temper if one
worked against it. 1 succeeded, however, in
reaching Monsieur de Clericy and touched
his arm. He turned hastily, as one posses-
sing foes as well as friends, and showed me a
most benevolent countenance, kindly and
sym])athetic even when accosted by a total

stranger

" Monsieur de Clericy?" I asked.

He peered up at me with pleasant, short-
sighted eyes while returning my salute.

" But yes. Am 1 happy enough to be al)le
to do anything for ]\lonsieiu*?"

He spoke in a high, thin voice that was
almost childlike, and a feeling of misgiving
ran through me that one so young and inex-
l^erienced as Mademoiselle de Clericy should
l)e abroad on such a day with no better escor*
than this old man.

'' Pardon my addressing you," I said, '' but
I hear that vou are seekine: a secretarv. I
only ask ])ermission to call at your hotel and
apply for the post."

" P.ut. mon grand Monsieur." he said with
a delightful i)layfidncss. spreading out his
hands in recognition of my height and cast-
countrv bulk. " this is no time to talk of
affairs. To-day we are at pleasure."

MUSHROOMS.

1 1

" Not all. Monsieur ; some are busy
enouj^li," 1 replied, liaudiiii;' liini my card,
which he held close lo his eyes, after the
manner of one who has never possessed loni;'
or keen si^ht.

" What determination !" he exclaimed,
with an old man's intolerance. " Mon Dicu!
these ICn^lish allies of ours!"

" Well!" he said, after a pause, *' if Mon-
sieur honours me with such a recpiest, I shall
he in and at your service from ten o'clock
to-morrow morning."

He felt in his i)ocket and handed me a card
with courtesy. It was cjuite refreshinii^ to
meet such a man in Paris in 1869 — so naive,
so unassumini;', so free from tliat ai;"^"ressive
self-esteem which characterized Frenchmen
hefore the war. Since I had arrived in the
capital under the circumstances that amused
John Turner so consumedly, I had been
tempted to raise my fist in the face of every
second flaneur I met on the boulevard.

A|nain I joined my l^n|[;lish friend, who was
standing' where 1 had left him, lof)kin_L;-
around him with a stout, c^ood-natured toler-
ance.

"Well," he asked, '* have you q'ot the situa-
tionr

'' Xo; but T am .c^oiu.c;" to call to-morrow
morninq" at ten o'clock and obtain it."

" l^'mph!" said John Turner; *' 1 did not
know von were such a scoundrel."

CHAPTER II.

MONSIEUR.

" La destitite a deux nianicres de nous briser ; en se
refusant a nos dcsirs et en les accomplissant."

To some the night brings wiser or at all
events a second counsel. For myself, how-
ever, it has never been so. In the prosecution
of such small enterprises as have marked a
life no more eventful than those around it, I
have always awakened in the morning of the
same mind as I was when sleep laid its (juiet
hand upon me. It seems, moreover, that I
have made just as many as but no more mis-
takes than my neighbours. Taking it like-
wise as a broad generality, the balance
seems, in my experience, to tell quite ])er-
ceptibly in favour of those who make up their
minds and hold to that decision firmly, rather
than towards such men as seek counsel of the
multitude and trim their sail to the tame
breeze of precedent.

"Always go straight for a jump." my father
had shouted to me once, years ago, while I
sat up in a Norfolk ditch and watched my
horse disappear through a gap in the next
hedge.

I awoke on the morning after the centen-
ary fetes without any doubt in my mind —

iMUNSlKUR.

hcinj,^ still dclcniiincd lo seek a silualion for
which 1 was unlillcd.

Having' (juarrcllcd with my lather, who
ohslinately refused to pay a few dehts such as
no younj^' man liviiij;' in London could, with
self-resi)ect. avoid, 1 was ritill in the enjoy-
ment of a small annual income left t'j me by a
mother whom I had never seen — upon whose
j^rave in the old, disusetl churchyard at lioi)-
ton 1 had indeed been taught to lay a few
llowers before 1 fully realized the meaning of
such tribute. That my irate old sire had
threatened to cut me olT with as near an
ai)proach to one shilling as an entail would
allow had not given me much anxiety. The
dear old gentleman had done so a hundred
times before — as early, indeed, as my second
term at Cambridge, where he had consider-
ably surprised the waiter at the Bull by a dis-
play of honest l»ritish wrath.

It was, in all truth, necessary that I should
do something- — should fmd one of those
occui)ations (heavily salaried) for which, J
make no doubt, as many inconijietent youths
seek to-day as twenty-five years ago.

'* What you want," John Turner had said,
when I explained my position to him, " is no
doubt something that will enable a gentle-
man to live like a lord."

Now, Monsieur de Clericy was i)robably
prepared to give two liundred pounds a year
to his sccretarv. I'ut it was with ^b'ldemoi-

MCJNSIEUR.

sellc — and 1 did not even know her Christian
name — that 1 was anxious to treat. What
would she y^ive?

It was, 1 remember, a lovely mornint^.
What weather these Napoleons had, from
Austerlitz down to the matchless autumn of
1870!

The address printed in the corner of Mon-
sieur de Clericy's card was unknown to me,
although I was passably ac(iuainted with the
Paris streets. The Rue des Palmiers was, I
learnt, across the river, and, my informant
added, lay between the boulevard and the
Seine. This was a part of the bright city
which Haussmann and Napoleon III. had as
yet left untouched — a quarter of cpiiet,
gloomy streets and narrow alleys. The sun
was shininj;- on the gay river as I crossed the
bridge of the Holy Fathers, and the water
seemed to dance and laugh in the morning
air. The flags were still flying, for these jolly
Parisians are always loth to take in their
bimting. It was, indeed, a gay world in
which I moved that morning.

The Hotel Clericy I found at the end of
the Rue des Palmiers, which short street tlie
great house closed. Indeed, the Rue des
Palmiers was but an avenue of houses ter-
minated by the gloomy abode of the Clericys.
The house was built behind a high stone wall
broken only by a railed doorway.

I rang the bell, and heard its tinkle far

iMUNSlEUR.

away wilhiii llic dwelling'. A covered way
led in Mil the street to the house, and 1 fol-
lowed Mil the heels of the servant, a smart
vounj; !'arisian, lookiiij^" curiously at the little
j^ardci. which in L.onclon would have been
forlorn and snuitly. Here in I'aris hrij^hl
llowers bloomed healthily, and a little foun-
tain i)lashed with that restful monotony

hicl

1 ever suj

;sts tl

le patios of Si)ain

The younj;- man was t)ne of those modern
servants who know their business.

" Monsieur's name?" he said, sharply.

" Howard."

We were within the dindy iis^hted liall,
with its scent of old carpets and rustinj^'
armour, and he led the way upstairs. He
threw open the drawing-room door and men-
tioned my name in his short, well-trained
way. There was l)ut one person in the large
room, and she did not liear the man's voice;
for she was laughing herself, and was at that
moment chasing a small dog aroimd the
room. The little animal, which entered gaily
into the sport, was worrying a dainty hand-
kerchief in his teeth, and so engaged was he
in this destructive i)urpose that he ran
straight into my hands. 1 rescued the be-
draggled piece of cambric and stood upright
to fmd Mademoiselle standing before mc with
mirth and a certain dignified self-]")ossession
in her eves.

Thank vou, Monsieur," she said, taki

MONSIEUR,

the handkerchief from my liand. It was evi-
dent that she (hd nijt reco^^nize me as the
slranj^'^er who had acc(jsted her fatlier on the
previous day.

I exi)hiined my business in as few words
as possible.

'* 'i'he servant," I added. *' made a mistake
in bringing me to this room. 1 (hd not mean
to trouble Mademoiselle; my business is with
M. de Clericy. 1 am applying for the post
of secretary."

She looked at me with a quick surprise,
and her eyes lighted on my clothes with some
significance, which made me think that per-
haps Monsieur de Clericy gave less even than
two hundred pounds a year to his amanu-
ensis.

**Ah!" she said, with her thought apparent
in her candid eyes. " My father is at present
in his study — engaged, I believe, with Mon-
sieur Miste."

" Miste?" I echoed, for the name was no
less peculiar than her vyay of pronouncing
it. She seemed to look for some sign that I
knew this man.

" Yes — your predecessor."

"Ah ! a secretary — a man-machine that
writes."

She shook her head with a happy laugh,
sinking, as it were, into an air of interest,
which gave a sharp feeling that I had per-
haps been forestalled in other matters by the

MONSIKUR,

hat

est,
Iper-
the

man called Miste. She looked at nie witli
such candid eyes, however, tliat the thought
seemed almost a sacrilej^e, offered j^ralu-
ituoiisly to innocence and trustfulness. Her
face was, indeed, a ji^uarantee that if her
maiden fancy ha<l been touched, her heart
was at all e\ents free from that deeper feelini;
which assuredly leaves its mark upon all who
suffer it.

The name of Monsieur de Clericy's former
secretary in some way j^rated on my hearing,
so that instead of retiring- from the ])resencc
of Mademoiselle as my manners hade me do,
I linf,''ered, seeking opportunity to continue
the conversation.

" I do not wish to intrude on Monsieur de
Clcricy," I said. " It is perhaps inexpedi-
ent that the new machine should ])e seen of
the old."

Mademoiselle laughed, and again I caught
the deep silver note of sympathy in her voice
that was so new and yet familiar. In laughter
the soul surely speaks.

" The word scarcely describes Monsieur
Miste," retorted she.

" Does any single word describe him?"

For a moment she reflected. She was
withoiit self-consciousness, and spoke with
me. a stranger, as easily as she talked to her
father.

"A single word?" she echoed. ''Yes — a
chimera."

MOiNsiia^k.

Al this MioiiHMit the sound of voices in the
corridor made further delay ini))ossil)le.

" Perhaps Mademoiselle will allow me to
rinj^ for the servant to cotwluct me to Mon-
sieur de Clericy's study," I said.

** I will show you the room," replied she;
"its door is never closed to me. I hear voices,
which probably betoken the departure of
Monsieur Miste."

1'hc somid, indeed, came distinctly enouj^h
to our ears, but it was of one voice only, the
benevolent tones of the Vicomte de Clericy,
followed by his pleasant lanq^h. If Miste
made reply, the words must have been ut-
tered softly, for T heard them not. I opened
the door, and Mademoiselle led the way.

A mail was descendinu^ the broad staircase
which T had lately mounted — a slim man,
who stepped p^ently. He did not turn, but
continued his way, disappcarinpf in the c^loom
of the larqfe entrance hall. I p^athered a quick
impression of litheness and a noiseless foot-
fall, of a sleek, black head, and somethin.c:
stirrinp^ within me. which was stronc^er than
curiosity. T wondered why he was cpiittiniL^
the Vic(^mte's service. Such was my first
si^ht of Charles Miste, and my first know-
ledpi'e of his existence.

The \^icomte had returned to his room,
closing: t^ic door behind him, upon which
Mademoiselle now tapped lightly.

MONSlliUR.

'* Father," 1 heard her say as she entered.
" a ^entlenian wishes to see you."

As I passed her 1 caiif,dit the seent of some
violets she wore in her (h'ess, and tlie sprini;-
Hke freshness of the odour seemed a part of
herself.

The Vicomte received me so }^racioi..-.ly
that he and not I mif,du have been the appli-
cant for a situation, liowin^, he peered at
me witli short-sij.;hted eyes.

" The I'Ji^lish fj^entleman of yesterday,"
he said, indicating- a chair.

*' I took you at your word. Monsieur," 1
replied, "and now apply for the post of sec-
retary."

Taking the chair he placed at my dis-
j)osal, I awaited liis further pleasure. lie
liad seated himself at the writinij^-tahle, and
was fin<;erinj^ a i)cn with thouj^htfulness or
perhaps hesitation. The table, 1 noticed,
was bare of the litter which usually cumbers
the desk of a l)usy man. The calendar h'miX
at his elbow- was an ornamental cardboard
trille. embellished with cupids and simpering-
shepherdesses — such as j^irls send to each
other at the New ^'ear. The surroundinj^^s.
in fact, were indicative rather of a trilhnq;
leisure than of important affairs. The study
and writing-table seemed tf) me to sut;\Li;-est
a pleasant fiction of labours, to which the
Vicomte retired when he desired solitude

MONSIEUR.

and a cigarette. I wondered what my duties
might be.

After a pause, the old gentleman raised
his eyes — the kindest eyes in the world — to
my face, and I perceived beneath his white
lashes a great benevolence, in company with
a twinkling sense of humour.

'' Does Monsieur know anything of the
politics of this unfortunate country ? " he
asked, and he leant forward, his elbows on
the bare writing-table, his attitude suggest-
ing the kind encouragement which a great
doctor will vouchsafe to a timid pa-
tient. The old Frenchman's manner, indeed,
aroused in me that which I must be allowed
to call my conscience — a cumbrous machine,
I admit, hard to set going and soon running
down. The sport of this adventure, entered
into a spirit of devilry, seemed suddenly
to have shrunk to the dimensions of a some-
what sorry jest. It was, I now reflected, but
a poor game to deceive an innocent girl and
an old man as guileless. Innocence is a great
safeguard.

*' Monsieur," I answered, on the spur of
the moment, " I have no such qualities as you
naturally seek in a secretary. I received my
education at Eton and at Caml)ridc;e Uni-
versity. If you want a secretary to bowl you
a straight ball, or pull a fairly strong oar, I
am your man, for I learnt little else. I pos-
sess, indeed, the ordinary education of an

(iM

MONSIEUR.

^lt

Iuii;lisli i;ciUlenian, sutitkient Latin to mis-
read an epitaph or a motto, and too little
(Jreek to do nie any harm. I have, however,
a knowledj^e of French, which I accpiired at
( icneva, whither my father sent me when I
— cr — was sent down from Cambridj^e. 1
have as^ain (juarrelled with my father. It
is an annnal affair. We usually quarrel when
I he hunting ends. This time it is serious. I
have henceforth to make my way in the
world. I am, IMonsieur, what you would call
a had subject."

The tolerance with which my abrupt con-
fession was received only made me the more
self-reproachful. The worst of beginning to
tell the truth is that it is so hard to stop. I
ci»uld not inform him that I had fallen in love
with a tone in his daughter's voice, with a
light in her eyes — I, \vho had never made
serious love to any woman yet. He would
only think me mad.

There were in truth many matters with
which I ought to have made the Vicomte
ac(|uainted. ^ly quarrel with my father, for
instance, had originated in my refusal to
marry Isabella Gayerson — a young lady with
landed estates and a fortune of eighty thou-
sand pounds. I merely informed IMonsieur,
1 confess, that my father and I had fallen out
over money matters. Cannot most mar-
riages arrano-i

irr

par

)e so

de-

scribed? To my recitation the old gentle-

MONSIEUR.

man listened with much patience, and when
I had partially eased my soul he merely
nodded, saying:

" My question is not yet answered, mon
ami. Do you know aught of French poli-
tics?"

"Absolutely nothing," was my answer,
made in all honesty. And I thought I was
speaking my own dismissal.

Monsieur de Clericy leant back in his chair
with a shrug of the shoulders.

" Well," he muttered, half to himself,
" perhaps it is of little consequence. You
understand, Monsieur," he continued in a
louder tone, looking at me kindly, " I like
you. I may say it without impertinence, be-
cause I am an old man and you are young.
I liked you as soon as I saw you yesterday.
The duties for which I require a secretary are
light. It is chiefly to be near me when I want
you. I have my little estates in the South,
in the Bourbonnais, and near to Orleans. I
recpiire some one to correspond with my
agents, to travel perhaps to my lands when a
cjuestion arises which the 1)ailiflfs cannot settle
unaided."

Thus he spoke for some time, and my
duties, as he detailed them, sounded aston-
ishingly light. Indeed, he paused occasion-
ally as if seeking to augment them by the
addition of trivial household tasks.

" Madame, the Vicomtesse," he said, ''will

MONSIEUR.

my
on-
on-
the

also be glad to avail herself of your ser-
vices."

The existence of this lady was thus made
known to me for the first time. I have won-

dered since why, in this conversation, we with
one accord ignored the first question in such
affairs — namely, the salary paid by Monsieur
to his secretary.

" I should require you," he said finally, "to
live in the Hotel Clericy while we are in
Paris."

Some years earlier, during a hunting ex-
pedition in Africa, I had stalked a lion all
night and far into the following day. On
finally obtaining a sight of my prey, I found
him old, disease-stricken and half-blind. The
feelings of that moment I have never for-
gotten. A sensation near akin to it — a sort
of shame attaching to a pursuit unworthy of
a sportsman — came to me again now, when
1 was told that I might live under the roof
that sheltered Mademoiselle de Clericy.

'' You hesitate," said the Vicomte. " I am
afraid it is an essential. I must have you
always at hand."

CHAPTER III.

MADAME.

" En paroles ou en actions, ctre discret, c'est s'abstenir."

It is to be presumed that the reader knows
the usual result of such a tussle with the con-
science as that upon which I now entered.
At various turning points in a checquered
career I have met my conscience thus face to
face, and am honest enough to confess that
the victory has not always fallen to that
ghostly monitor.

After favouring me with his ultimatum, the
Vicomte looked at me expectantly. I
thought of Mademoiselle de Clericy's pres-
ence in that old house. Who was I to turn
my back on the good things that the gods
gave me? I hate your timid man who looks
behind him on an unknown road.

"As Monsieur wills," I said, and with a
sigh, almost of relief, I thought, my com-
panion rose.

" We will seek the Vicomtesse," he said.
" My wife will have pleasure in making your
acquaintance. And to-morrow you shall
have my answer."

"Ah!" thought I; "the Vicomtesse de-
cides it."

MADAME.

And I followed Monsieur de Clericy to-
wards the door.

** It is half-past eleven," he said, looking at
his modest silver watch. " We shall lind
Madame in her boudoir."

This apartment, it appeared, was situated
beyond the drawing-room, of which we now
passed the door. Below us was the great
square hall, dark and gloomy; for its win-
dows had been heavily barred in the old stir-
ring times, and but little light hltered through
the ironwork. At the head of the stairs was
a gallery completely surrounding the quad-
rangle, and from this gallery access was
gained to all the dwelling rooms.

The Vicomte tapped at the door of
Aladame's room, and without waiting for an
answer passed in. I, having purposely lin-
gered, did not hear the few words spoken
upon the threshold, and only advanced when
bidden to do so by my companion.

An elderly lady stood by the window, hav-
ing just risen from the broad seat thereof,
which was littered with the trifles of a lady's
work-basket. The Vicomtesse was obvi-
ously many years younger than her husband
— a trim woman of fifty or thereabouts, with
crinkled grey hair and the clear brown com-
plexion of the Provencale. Beneath the grey
liair there looked out at me the cleverest eyes
I have ever seen in a human head. I bowed,
made suddenly aware that I stood in the

MADAME.

presence of an individuality, near an oasis — ■
as it were — in the dreary desert of human
commonplace. And strange to say, at the
same moment my conscience laid itself down
to sleep. Madame la Vicomtesse de Clericy
was a woman capable of guarding those near
and dear to her.

" Monsieur Howard," explained her hus-
l)and, looking at me, with his white fingers
nervously intertwined, " is desirous of tilling
the post left vacant by the departure of our
friend, Charles Miste. We have had a little
talk on affairs. It is possible that we may
come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.
Monsieur Howard naturally wished to be
presented to you."

Madame bowed, her clear dark eyes rest-
ing almost musingly on my face. She waited
for me to speak, whereas nine women out of
ten would have broken silence.

" I have explained to Monsieur le Vi-
comte," I hastened to say, " that I have none
of the requisite qualifications for the post,
and that my female relatives — my aunts, in
fact — looked upon me as a mauvais sujet.'*

She smiled, and her eyes sought the lace-
work held in her busy fingers. Mademoiselle
de Clericy had, I remembered, worn a piece
of such dainty needlework at her throat on
tlie previous morning. I learnt to look for
that piece of ever-growing lace-work in later
days. Madaine was never without it, and

MADAM i

IL.

worked (|uaint patterns, learnt in a convent
on the ])ine-cla(l slopes of Var.

*' Monsieur Howard," went on the Vi-
comte, *' is a j^entleman of position in liis own
country on the east coast of EnjT^land. lie
has, however, had a difference — a difference
with his father."

The eyes were raised to my face for a brief
moment.

" Tn the matter of a marria.^e of conveni-
ence." I added, .^ivinj:^ the plain truth on the
impidse of the moment, or under the influ-
ence, perhaps, of Madame de Clericy's .c^lance.
Then T recollected that this was a different
story from that tale of a monetary difficulty
which I had related to Madam's husband ten
minutes earlier. I glanced at him to see
whether he had noticed the discrepancy, but
was instantly relieved of my anxiety, so com-
pletely was the old man absorbed in an affec-
tionate and somewhat humble contempla-
tion of his wife. It was easy to see how mat-
ters stood in the Clericy household, and I
conceived a sudden feeling of relief that so
(Iclicato a flower as Mademoiselle de Clericy
should have so capable a guardian in the
person of her mother. Evil takes that shape
in wh^li it is first held up to our vision. In-
comp'?Gnt and careless mothers are in fact
criminals. Mademoiselle de Clericy had one
near to her who could at all events clothe

MADAME.

necessary knowledge in a reassuring gar-
ment.

"A marriage of convenience," repeated
Madame, speaking for the lirst time, " It is
so easy to be mistaken in such matters, is it
not?"

"As easy for the one as for the other,
Madame," replied I. "And it was I, and not
my father, who was most intimately con-
cerned."

She looked at me with a little upward nod
of the head and a slow, wise smile. One
never knows whence some women gather
their knowledge of the world.

" Monsieur knows Paris?" she asked.

"As an Englishman, ATadame."

" Then you only know the worst," was her
comment.

She did not ask me to be seated. It was,
I suspected the hour for dejeuner. For this
household was evidently one to adhere to
old-fashioned customs. There was some-
thing homelike about this pleasant lady. Her
presence in a room gave to the atmosphere
something refined and womanly, which was
new to one who, like myself, had lived mostly
among men. Indeed, my companions of
former days — no saints, I admit — would have
been surprised could they have seen me bow-
ing and making congest to this elderly lady like
a dancing master. Moreover, the post I
sought was lapsing into a domestic situation,

ill)

MADAME.

for which my antecedents eminently unfitted
me, nor (hd 1 pretend to think otherwise.
Had 1 readied tiie age of discretion? Is
there indeed such an age? 1 have seen old
men and women who make one doubt it. At
thirty-one does a man begin to range him-
self? "Ah, well!" thought I, ''vogue la yalcre.'^
1 had made a beginning, and in Norfolk they
do not breed men who leave a quest half
accomplished.

For a moment I waited, and Madame
seemed to have nothing more to say. 1 had
not at that time, nor indeed have I since,
ac(|uired that polish of the world which takes
the form of a brilliant, and I suspect insin-
cere, manner in society. I had no compli-
ments ready. I therefore took my leave.

The Vicomte accompanied me to the top
of the stairs, and there made sure that the
servants w^ere awaiting my departure in the
hall.

" To-morrow morning," he said, with a
friendly touch on my arm, " you shall have
my answer."

With this news then I returned to my com-
fortable quarters in John Turner's apparte-
iitcnt in the Avenue d'Antan. I found that
.e:reat banker about to partake of luncheon,
which was served to him at midday, after the
fashion of the country of his adoption. Dur-
ing- my walk across the river and through the
gardens of the Tuileries — at that time at the

'^W( f

rll

MADAME.

lieij^lit of tlicir splendour — 1 had not re-
llected very deeply on the nuitler in hand.
I had thouj^ht more of Mademoiselle de
Clericy's hrij^ht eyes than aujj;:ht else.

** Good morning," said my host, whom I
had not seen before going out. *' Where
have you been?"

" To the Vicomte de Clericy's."

"The devil you have! Then you are not
so stolid as you look."

And he laughed as he shook out his table
napkin. His thought was only half with me,
for he was looking at the menu.

"Arcachon oysters!" he added; "the best
in the world! I hate your bloated natives.
Give me a small oyster."

" Give me a dozen," I answered, helping
myself from the dish at my elbow.

"And did the Vicomte kick you down-
stairs?" asked my host, as he compounded
in the di]) of his plate a wonderful mixture
of vinegar and spices.

" No. He is going to consider my appli-
cation, and will give me his answer to-mor-
row morning."

John Turner set down the vinegar bottle
and looked across the table at me with an
expression of wonder on his broad face.

" Well, I never! Did you see Madame?
Clever woman, Madame. Gives excellent
dinners."

" Yes; I was presented to her.'

til

MADAME.

iUent

ii*'

"All! A match for you, Mr. Dick. Did
vol! notice her feet?"

" 1 noticed that ihey were well shod."

"Just so!" nuittered John Turner, who
was now en.£^ajj^ed in j^astrononiic delij^'hts.
" In France a clever woman is .'dways hint
clKiiissce. Her brains run to her toes. In
ICngland it is different. If a woman has a
brain it undermines her morals or ruins her
waist."

"Only the plain women," su^-gested I, who
had passed several seasons in London not
altogether in vain.

"A pretty woman is never clever — she is
too wise," said John Turner, stolidly, and he
sij)ped his chablis.

The mysterious sauce with which this great
gastronome flavoured his oysters was now
prepared, while I, it must be confessed, had
consumed my portion, and John Turner re-
lapsed into silence. I watched him as he ate
delicately, slowly, with a queer refinement.
Many are ready to talk of some crafts under
the name of art, which must now, forsooth,
l)c spelt with a capital letter — why, I know
no more than the artists. John Turner had
his Art, and now exercised it. I always
noticed that during the earlier and more
piquant courses of a meal he was cynical and
apt to give speech on matters of human
meanness and vanity not unknown to many
who are silent about them. Later on, when

MADAME.

the (lislies 1)ecame more succulent, so would
liis views of life sweeten and ac(|nire a mel-
lower Havour. His round face now be^an to
heani more pleasantly at me across the well-
served table, like a rich autumn moon rising
over a fat land,

" Pity it is," he said, as he placed a lamb
cutlet on my plate, *' that you and your
father cannot a.u;^ree."

"Pity that the guv'nor is so unreasonable,"
I answered.

" I do not suppose there is any question
of reason on either side," rejoined my com-
panion, with a laugh. " But I think you
might make a little more allowance. You
must remember that we old fellows are not
so wise and experienced as our youngers and
betters. I know he is a hot-blooded old re-
probate — that father of yours. I thumped
him at Eton for it half a century ago. And
you're a worthy son to him, I make no doubt
you have his great chin. But you are all he
has Dick — don't forget that now and remem-
ber it too late. Have another cutlet?"

" Thanks."

"Gad! Fd give five hundred a year for
your appetite and digestion. Think of that
old man, my boy, down in Norfolk at this
time of year, with nobody to swear at but the
servants. Norfolk is just endurable in Octo-
ber, when game, and 'longshore herrings arc

MADAME.

ir for
that
this

Lit the
»cto-

:s arc

1
%

ill. Hut now — with lamb getting muttony —
|)(»(tr old chap!"

" W clK" I answered, '* he could not cat me
if I was at home. Hut I'll go hack in the
auiunm. 1 generally make it up before the

iMI-.st."

" W hat a beautiful thing is filial love,"
nu.ruiurcd my comi)anion, with a stout sigh,
as he turned his attention to the matter of
iiiiporlance on the plate before him; and
indeed — with its handicap of fifty years — I
think his ai)petite put my hearty craving for
food to shame.

We talked of other things for a while — of
matters connected with the gay town in
which we foimd ourselves. We discussed
the merits of the wine before us, and it was
not until later in the course of the re])ast that
John Turner again reverted to my affairs. If
these portions of our talk alone are reporteil,
the reader must kindly remember that they
are at all events relevant to the subject, how-
ever unworthy, of this narrative.

" So," said my stout companion when the
coffee was served, " you are tricking the
father so that you may make love to the
daughter?"

This view of the matter did not commend
itself to my hearing. Indeed, the truth so
often gives offence that it is no wonder so
few deal in it. A (|uick answ^er was on my
tongue, but fortunately remained there. I

MADAME.

who had never been too difficuU ni such mat-
ters—did not hke something m my friend s
^-oice that savoured of disrespect towards
Mademoiselle de Clericy. In a younger man
I might have been tempted to allow such a
hint to develop into something stronger
which would ofYer me the satisfaction of
throwing the speaker down the stairs. t>ut
John Turner was not a man to quarrel with,
even when one was in the wrong. So I kept
silence and burnt my lips at my coffe cup.

" Well" he went on, placidly, " Mademoi-
selle Lucille is a pretty girl."

'' Lucille," I said. " Is that her name?

He cocked his eye at me across the table.

" Yes — a pretty name, eh?"

" It is," I answered him, with steady eyes.
" T never heard a prettier."

CHAPTER IV.

DISQUALIFIED.

I '

" Rover c'est le bonheur ; attendre c'est la vie."

The Vicomte de Clericy's answer was fav-
ourable to my suit, and I duly received per-
mission to install myself in the apartments
lately vacated by Charles Miste — whoever he
may have beei

"And what, i.ir, is to become of me?" in-
quired my servant, when I instructed him to
pack ni} clothes and made known to him my
movements in the immediate future. I had
forgotten Loonier. A secretary could scarce-
ly come into residence attended by a valet,
rejoicing in the unusual direct or indirect
emoluments, and possessing that abnormal
appetite which only belongs to the man
servant living in the kitchen. I told him,
therefore, that his future was entirely his
own, and that while his final fate was un-
questionable, the making of his earthly
career remained, for the present, in his
IB own hands. In fact, I gave him permis-
sion to commence at once his descent to that
bourne whither, I feared, his footsteps would
tend.

DISQUALIFIED.

Mr. Loomer was good enough to evince
signs of emotion, and from a somewhat con-
fused speech, 1 gathered that he refused to
go to Avernus until he could make the jour-
ney in my service and at my heels. Ulti-
mately it was agreed, however, that he should
seek a temporary situation — he was a man of
many talents, and as handy in the stahle as
in a gentleman's dressing-room — and remain
therein until I should recjuire his services
again. As it happened, 1 had sufficient ready
cash to pay him his wages, with an addi-
tional sum to compensate for the brevity of
his notice to quit a sorry service. He took
the money without surprise. It is surely a
sign of good breeding to receive one's due
with no astonishment.

" Can't you keep me on, sir?" he pleaded
a last time, when 1 had proved by a gift of a
pair of hunting boots (which were too small
for me) that we really were about to part.

" My good Loomer, I am going into ser-
vice myself. I always said I could black a
boot better than you."

As I left the room I heard the worthy
domestic mutter something about " pretty
work," and " a Howard of Hopton," and
made no doubt that he regreted less the fall
of my ancestral dignity than the loss to him-
self of a careless and easily rol)be(l master.
At all events I had been under the im])ression
that I possessed a fuller store of linen than

^
%

DISQUALIFIED.

that wliich emerged from my travel-stained
trunks when these were unpacked later in the
(lay in the Rue des I'almiers.

As for that matter of ancestral dignity, it
gave me no trouble. Such a possession
cumes, 1 think, to little harm while a man
keeps it in his own hands, and only falls to
pieces when it gels into the grasp of a bad
woman. 1 lave we not seen half a dozen, nay,
a dozen, such dchnclcs in our own time? x\nd
1 contend that the degenerate scion of a great
house who goes to the wrong side of the foot-
lights for his wife is a criminal, and deserves
all that may befall him. I bade my friend,
John Turner, farewell, he standing stoutly in
his smoking-room after luncheon, and pro-
pheysing a discouraging and darksome future
for one so headstrong,

" You're going to the devil," he said,
" though you think you are running after an
angel."

" I am going to earn my own livelihood,"
answered I, with a laugh, lighting the last
excellent cigar I v.as to have from his box
for some time, " and make my idle ancestors
turn in their graves. 1 am going to draw
emoluments of not less than one hundred
and fifty pounds jier amium."

1 drove across the river with my simple
baggage, and was in due course installed in
my apartments. With these there was no
fault to fnid — indeed, they were worthy of a

DISQUALIFIED.

l)Ctter inmate. A large and airy bedroom
looking out over the garden where the foli-
age, as I have said, had none of the mournful
sables worn by the trees in London. The
room w'as beautifully furnished. Even one
who knew more of saddles than of Buhl and
Empire could see that at a glance. More-
over, I noted that every ornament or handle
of brass shone like gold.

" Madame's eyes have been here," thought
I; '* the clever eyes."

Adjacent to the bedroom was the study,
wdiich the Vicomte had pointed out as being
assigned to his secretary — adjoining as it did
the room whither he himself retired at times
— not, as I suspected, to engage in any great
labours there.

While I was in my bedroom, the smart
young Paris servant came in, looked care-
lessly at my trunks, and was for withdrawing
when I stopped him.

" Is it the buckles you are afraid of?" I
said. " Beware rather of the strap."

Therewith I threw mv kevs on the table
before him and went into my study. When
I revisited my room later I found everything
neatly placed within the drawers and the
empty trunks removed.

There were upon my study table a number
of books and papers, placed there with such
evident intention that I took cognizance of
them, judging them to be the accounts ren-

DISQUALIFIED.

dered by the Vicomte's various estates. So
far as a cursory examination could prove it,
1 judged that we had to deal with but ckunsy
scoundrels, and in France in those days
scoundrels were of tine fleuv, I can tell you,
while every sort of villainy flourished there.

I was engaged with these books when the
Vicomte entered, after knocking at the door.
He referred to this courteous precaution by
a little gesture indicating the panel upon
which his knuckle had sounded.

"■ You see," he said, " this room is yours.
Let us begin as we intend to go on."

If I was a queer secretary, here at all events
was an uncommon master.

We fell to work at once, and one or two
questions requiring inunediate investigation
came under discussion. I told him mv
opinion of his stewards; K^r I hated to see an
old man so cheated. I li\ed, it will be re-
membered, in a glass house, and naturally
was forever reaching my hand towards a
stone. The Vicomte laughed in hi^ kindly
way at what he w-as pleased to term my high-
handedness.

" Mon Dieu!" he cried; " what a grasp of
steel. But they will be surprised — the bour-
geois. I have always been so tolerant. I
have ruled by kindness."

" He who rules by kindness is the slave of
thieves," T answered, penning the letter we
had decided to indite.

ir.

■^■■1

DISQUALIFIED.

The Vicomte laughed and shrugged his
shoulders.

"Well," he said, "so long as we begin as we
intend to go on."

Such in any case was the beginning, and
this my introduction to the duties I had un-
dertaken. They seemed simple enough, and
especially so to one who was no novice at the
administration of an estate. For my father,
in his softer moments — when, in fact, he had
l)een brought to recognize that my vices were
at least hereditary — had initiated me into the
working of a great landed holding.

At seven o'clock we dined. Mademoiselle
wore a white dress with a broad yellow rib-
bon round her girlish waist. Her sleeves —
I suppose it was the fashion of the period —
were wide and flowing, and her arms and
hands were those of a child.

Madame de Clericy, I remember, did not
talk much, saying little more, indeed, than
such polite words as her position of hostess
rendered necessary. The burden of the con-
versation rested chiefly with her aged hus-
band, who sustained it simply and cheerily.
His chief aim at this, and indeed at all times,
seemed to be to establish an agreeable and
mutual ease. I have seldom seen in a man,
and especially in an old man, such considera-
tion for the feelings of others.

Lucille's clear laugh was ever ready to wel-
come some little pleasantry, and she joined

DISQUALIFIED.

occasionally in the talk. I listened more to
the voice than to the words. Her gay hu-
mour found something laughable in remarks
that sounded grave enough, and I suddenly
felt a hundred years old. As she walked de-
murely into the dining-room on her father's
arm, I thought in truth that she would ^ather
have skipped and run thither.

During dinner mention was made of the
Baron Giraud, and I learnt that that finan-
cier was among the Vicomte's friends. The
name was not new to me, .although the
Baron's personality was unknown.

The Baron was one of the mushrooms of
that day — a nobleman of finance, a true pro-
duct of Paris, highly respected and honoured
there. John Turner knew him well, and was
ponderously silent respecting him,

" But why," asked Lucille, when her father
delivered a little oration in favour of the rich
man, " does Monsieur Giraud dye his hair?"

There was a little laugh and a silence at
this display of naive wisdom. Then it was
Madame who spoke.

" No doubt he feels himself unworthy to
wear it white," she said, rising from the table.

I was given to understand that the re-
mainder of the evening was my own, and the
Vicomte himself showed me the small stair-
case descending from the passage between
my study and his own, and presented me
with a key to the door at the foot of it. This

DISQUALIFIED.

door, he explained, opened to a small pas-
sage running between the Rue des Palmiers
and the Rue Courte. It would serve nie for
egress and entry at any time without refer-
ence to the servants or disturbance to the
house.

" 1 would not give the key to the first
comer," he added.

I learnt later that he and I alone had access
to the door of which the servants had no key,
nor ever passed there. The same evening I
availed myself of my privilege and went to
my club, where over a foolish game of chance
I won a year's salary.

Such was the beginning of my career in the
service of the Vicomte de Clericy. During
the weeks that followed I found that there
was, in fact, plenty for me to do were the
estates to be proi)erly worked — to be admin-
istered as we Englishmen are called upon to
treat our property to-day, that is to say, like
a sponge, to be squeezed to its last drop. I
soon discovered that the \^icomte was in the
hands of old-fashioned stewards, wdio,, besides
feathering their own nests, were not making
the best of the land. IMy conscience, it must
be admitted, w^as at v/ork again — and I had
thought it finally vanquished.

Here was T, admitted to the Hotel Clericy
— welcomed in the family circle, and trusted
there in the immediate vicinity of and with
daily access to as innocent and trusting a soul

DISQUALIFIED.

as ever stepped from a Freneh eonvent. I —
a wolf who had not hitherto even troubled to
eover my shaj^ij;"}' sides with a llcece. What
could I do? Lucille was so .i^ay, so confidini;.
in a i)retty girlish way, w^hich never altered
as we came to know each other better.
Madame was so placid and easy-.i;-oinj;- — in
her stout black silk dress, with her lace-work.
Monsieur de Clericv jjave me his confidence
so unreservedly — what could I do but lapse
into virtue? And I venture to think that
many a blacker sheep than myself would have
blanched in the midst of so pure a Hock.

One evening Madame asked me to join the
family circle in the drawing-room. The room
was very pretty and home-like — quite unlike
our grim drawing-room at Hopton, where
my father never willingly set foot since its
rightful owner had passed elsewhere. There
were flowers in abundance — their scent filled
the air — from the Var estate in Provence,
which had been Madame's home, and formed
part of the doi she brought into the dimin-
ishing Clericy coffers. Two lamps illumi-
nated the room rather dimly, and a pair of
candles stood on the piano.

Monsieur de Clericy played a game at
bezique with Madame, who chuckled a good
deal at her own mistakes with the cards, and
then asked Lucille for some music. The girl
sat down at the piano, and there, to her own
accompaniment, without the printed score.

DlSgUALlFll'lI).

sanj^ such sonj^'^s of lYovciice as tiijj^ at the
heart strinj^s, one knows not why. There
seemed to l)e a wail in the music — and in
shnTin,^^ as it were.jfrom one note to the
other — a trick such Southern sonj^^s demand
— I heard tlie tone 1 loved.

Madame Hstened while she worked. The
Vicomtc dropped gently to sleep, i sat with
my elhow on my knee and looked at the car-
pet. And when the voice rose and fell, 1
knew that none other had the same messaj^^e
for me.

" You are sad," said Lucille, with a little
lauj^h, " with your face in your hand, comnic
car

And she imitated my position and expres-
sion with a merry toss of the head. "Are you
thinkinjT of your sins?"

" Yes, Mademoiselle," answered I, truth-
fully enough.

Many eveninj^s T passed thus in the peace-
ful family circle — and always Lucille san,i^
those j:^aily sad little songs of Provence.

The weeks slipped by, and the outer world
was busy with great doings, while we in the
Rue des Palmiers seemed to stand aside and
watch the events go past.

The Emperor — than whom no greater man
lived at the middle of the present century —
was losing health, and, with that best of
human gifts, his grasp over his fellowmen.
The dogs were beginning to collect — the

DlSOlIALIbllU).

(loj^s that arc ever in readiness to fall on tlie
stricken lion.

I ni.'irvelled to discover how little the
Viconitc interested himself in politics. ( )ne
other discovery only did I make respect in jl;'
my patron: 1 fonnd that he loved money.

My conscience, as I ha\e said, was hnsy at
this time, and the burden of my deception
hcji^an to weii^h ui)on my mind as if I had
heen a mere schoolboy, and no man of the
world. I mijL;ht, however, have borne the
burden easily cnou^^h if chance had not fav-
oured the right.

I was one morninj^- writini,^ in ATonsicur de
Clericy's study, when the door was impetu-
ously thrown open and Lucille came runninu^
in. '*Ah!" she said, sto])pin^-. "only vou?"

"That is all. Mademoiselle."

She was turning to go when on an impulse
of the moment I called to her.

" Mademoiselle!" .She turned and slowly
came back. With a little laugh she stood in
front of me seated at the great table. .She
took up a c|uill pen, which I had laid aside a
moment earlier, and ])layed with it.

" What are you writing?" she aske<l, look-
ing down at the papers before me — " your
own history?"

.\s she sj)oke the pen escaped from her
fmgers and fell upon my i)apers, leaving ink
stains there.

DlSgUALlFlED.

'* There," she cried, with a lau^h of mock
despair, " 1 have spoilt your hfe."

" No; but you have altered its appear-
ance," 1 answered. " Mademoiselle, 1 have
something to say to you. When 1 came here
I deceived your father. 1 told him that 1 was
ruined — that my father had disowned me —
that 1 was forced to earn my own livelihood.
It was untrue — 1 shall one day he as rich as
your father."

" Then why did you come here?" asked the
girl, for a moment grave,
lo be near you.
And she broke into a laugh, shaking her
head.

" I saw you in the crowd at the Fete Napo-
leon — I heard your voice. There is no one
in the world like you. I fell in love, Mademoi-
selle."

Still she laughed, as if I were telling her
an amusing story.

"And it is useless," I pursued, somewhat
bitterly, perhaps. "I am too old?"

There was a little mirror on the mantel-
piece. She ran and fetched it and held it in
front of my face.

'' Look," she cried, merrily. " Yes, hun-
dreds of years!"

With a laugh and flying skirts she ran from
the room.

! . J

CHAPTER V.

O EST LA VIK.

r I

" Les querelles ne dureraient pas longtemps si le tort
n't'tait d'uncotc."

Monsieur Alplioiise Giraud, unlike many
men, had an aim in life — a daily purpose with
which he rose in the mc^rning at, it must
be admitted, a shockingly late hour — with-
out which he rarely sought his couch even
when it was not reached until the foolish
birds were astir.

The son of tlie celebrated ^'aron Giraud
sought, in a word, to be mistaken lor an Eng-
lishman — and what higher aml)ition could
we, who modestly set such store upon our
nationality, desire him to cherish?

In view of this praiseworthy object, Al-
phonse Giraud wore a moustache only, and
this — oh! inconsistency of great minds — he
labouriously twirled heavenwards in the
French fashion. It was, in fact, the guileless
Alphonse's chief tribulation that, however
industriously he cultivated that devil-may-
care upward sweep, the sparse ornament to
his upper lip invariably drooped downwards
again before long. In the sunny land of
France it is held that the moustache worn en

C'EST LA VIE.

croc not only confers upon its possessor an
air of distinction, but renders that happy ir di-
vidual particularly irresistible in the eyes of
the fair. Readers of modern French liction
are aware that the heroes of those edifying
tales invariably were the moustache hardlment
retroussee, which habit doubtless adds a subtle
charm to their singularly puerile and fatuous
conversation imperceptible to the mere
reader

Alpiionse Giraud was a small man, and
would have given a iliousand pounds for an-
other inch, as he frankly told his friends. His
outward garments were fashioned in London,
whence also came his hats, gloves and boots.
But within all these he was hopelessly and
absolutely French. The English boots trod
the pavement — they knew no other path in
life — in a manner essentially Gallic. The
check trousers, of a pattern somewhat loud
and startling, had the mincing gait in them
of any panialon de fantasie, purchased a prix
fixe in the Boulevard St. Germain, across the
water. It is useless to lift a Lincoln and Ben-
nett from a little flat-topped head, cut, as
they say, to the rat, and fringed all over with
black, upright hair.

But young Giraud held manfully to his
j)urpose, and even essayed to copy the atti-
tudes of his own groom, a thin-legged man
from Streatham, who knew^ a thing or two,
let him tell you, about a 'oss. There was no

C'EST LA VIE.

harm in Alphonse. There is, indeed, less
harm in Frenchmen than they — sad dogs! —
would have you believe. They are, as a rule,
domesticated individuals, with a pretty turn
for mixing a salad. Within the narrow but
gay waistcoat of this son of Paris there beat
as kind a little eager French heart as one may
wish to deal with.

" Bon Dieu!" Alphonse would exclaim
when convinced that he had been robbed or
cheated. "What will you? I am like that. I
daresay the poor devil wanted the money
badly — and 1 do not miss it."

There is a charity that gives, and another
that allow^s the needy to take.

It was the Baron Giraud's great desire that
Alphonse should be a gentleman of the great
world, moving in his narrow orbit in the first
circles of Parisian society, which was nothing
to boast or in those days, and has steadily
declines ever since. To attain such an emi-
nciice, the astute financier knew as well as
any that only one tiling was really necessary
— namely, money. This he gave to his son
with an open hand, and only gasj)ed when he
heard whither it went and how freely Al-
phonse spent it.

" There is plenty more," he said. " behind."
And his little porcine eyes twinkled amid
their yellow wrinkles. " I am a man of sub-
stance. You must be a man of positic^i.
Do not lend to the wrong pe(^ple. Rather

C'EST LA VIE.

give to the right and be done with it. They
will take it — Eon Dieu! You need not shake
your head. There is no man who will refuse
money if you offer him enough."

And who shall say that the Baron Giraud
was wrong?

A young man possessing a light heart and
a heavy purse will never want a friend in this
kind world of ours. And Alphonse Giraud
possessed, moreover, a few of the better sort
of friends, who had well-filled purses of their
own, and wanted nothing from him but his
gay laugh and good fellowship. These were
true friends, who did not scruple to tell him,
when they encountered him in the Bois de
Boulogne, afoot or on horseback, that while
the right-hand side of his moustache was most
successfully en croc, the other extremity of
the ornament pointed earthwards. And, let
it be remembered, that to tell a man of a
defect in his personal appearance is always a
doubtful kindness.

"Ah, heavens!" Alphonse would exclaim
to these true comrades, 'T have evil luck, and
two minutes ago I bowed to the beautiful
Comtesse de Peudechose in her buggy."

Alphonse affected the society of English-
men, was a member of the clul)s frequented
by the sons of Albion resident in Paris, and
sought the society of the young gentlemen
of the Embassy. It was in the apartments
of one of these that he made the acquaint-

C'EST LA VIE.

ance of Philip Gayerson, a young fellow in-
tended for the diplomatic service. Phillip
Gayerson, be it known at once, was the
brother of that Isabella Gayerson, to whose
hand, heart and estate the present chronicler
was accredited by a fond father, and about
whom, indeed, he had quarrelled with the
author of his being.

The name of Dick Howard being at that
time unknown to the little Frenchman, Al-
phonse Giraud made no mention of it to Gay-
erson, a self-absorbed man, who had probably
forgotten my existence at this time.

My countryman, as I afterwards learned,
had come to Paris with the object of learning
the language, which by reason of its subtlety
lends itself most readily to diplomatic pur-
poses, the most expressive language, to my
thinking, that the world has yet evolved, not
excepting the much-vaunted tongue in which
Homer wrote. Phillip and I had 1)een boys
together, and of all the comrades of my youth
I should have selected him the last to dis-
tinguish himself in statecraft. He was a quiet,
unobservant, and, as previously noted, self-
absorbed man, with a sense of the pictur-
esque, which took the form of mediocre
water-colour sketching. His appearance was
in his favour, for he was visibly a gentleman ;
a man, moreover, of refined thought and
habit, whom burly Norfolk squires du1)befl
effeminate.

C'EST LA VIE.

Alphonse Giraud liked him — the world is
sunny to those who look at it through sunny
eyes — and took him up, as the saying goes,
without hesitation. He procured for him an
invitation to a semi-state ball, held, as some
no doubt remember, in the autumn of 1869.
It was Lucille de Clericy's first ball, and
Gh-aud renewed there a childish friendship
with one whose hair he confessed to have
pulled in the unchivalrous days of his infancy.
Alphonse, who was of a frank nature, as
are many of his countrymen, told Madame de
Clericy, whom he escorted to the refreshment
room afte dancing with her daughter, that
he loved Lucille.

'' But, my dear Alphonse," retorted that
lady, " you had forgotten her existence until
this evening."

This objection to his passion the lightsome
Alphonse waived aside with a perfectly
gloved little hand.

'' But," he answered earnestly, " unknown
to myself her vision must ahvavs have been
hcrcr

And he touched his shirt-front with the tips
of his fingers gently, rememloering the deli-
cacy of his linen.

" It is an angel!" he added, with an upward
glance of his bright linle eyes, and tossed off
a glass of champagne cup.

Madame de Clericy sipped her coffee slowly,
and said nothing; but her eyes travelled

C'EST LA VIE.

downvvarci from the crown of lici coinpaii-
ioii's head to his dapper feci. And during
that scrutiny there is httle doubt that she
reckoned the value of Monsieur Alplionse
Giraud. What she saw was a pleasant spoken
young man, plus twenty thousand pounds a
year. No wonder the X'icomtesse smiled
softly.

"iVnd 1," went on the Frenchman in half
humorous humility, " what am i ? Not
clever, not handsome, not even tall!"

The lady shrugged her shoulders.

''Vest la vie,'' she said; a favourite retlec-
tion with her.

" Yes, and life and I are ecjual," replied
Alphonse, with his gay laugh. " We are both
short! And now i wish to present to you
and to Lucille my best friend, I'hillip Gayer-
son. He stands over there by the table, he
in English clothes. He only arri\ed in Paris
ten days ago, and speaks T^rench indiffer-
ently. But he is charming, (|uitc charming,
my dearest friend."

" Did yoti know him before he came to
Paris?'

" Oh, no! Excuse me. I will bring him."

Madame made no remark, but watched
Giraud with her quiet smile as he went to seek
this dear friend of eight days' standing.

Phillip Gayerson was distinguished by a
slight shyness. It was as little known or un-
derstood in Paris in the decadent davs of the

Wi '

C'EST LA VIE.

Second Empire as it is now in the time of our
own social collapse in England.

Thus, when the introduction was complete,
Phillip Gayerson found that he had nothing
to say to this elderly French lady, and was
glad when Lucille came up, radiant on the
arm of her partner. Alphonse presented his
friend at once, and here Phillip felt more at
his ease, being a better dancer than talker,
and asked for the honour of a waltz without
delay.

" I have but two left," answered Mademoi-
selle de Clericy, with a gay glance of happi-
ness towards her mother. " They are at the
end of the programme, and I promised to
reserve them for Monsieur Howard."

She handed him her engagement card in
frank confirmation of this statement.

" R. H.," said Gayerson, deciphering the
initials Lucille herself had scribbled. " If
this is Dick Howard, I will take the first of
his two dances, and risk the consequence. It
will not be the first time that Dick and I have
fallen out.

He wrote his name over mine, and returned
the card to its owner.

" Then you know Mr. Howard?" said
Lucille, with another glance at her mother.

" Yes," . . . answered Gayerson, but
had no time for more, for the next dance was
Giraud's, who was already bowing before
her as before a deity.

C'EST LA VIE.

Madame de Clericy made a little move-
ment, as if to speak tt) Gayerson, but that
young gentleman failed to see the gesture,
and moved away to find his partner for the
coming waltz.

With the great people gathered at this as-
sembly we have nothing to do, though the
writer and the reader, no doubt, love to rub
elbows with such lofty persons, if it be only
in a public room. Many of them, be it noted,
were not nearly so important as they con-
sidered themselves, and the greatness of some
was built upon a base too frail to withstand
the storm and stress of the coming years.

Through the brilliant throng Lucille moved
gaily and happily, taking, with the faith of
youth, dross for gold, and a high head for the
token of a nol)le heart. When Phillip Gay-
erson claimed his dance he found her a little
tired, but still dazzled and excited by the bril-
liance of the occasion.

"Is it not splendid?" she exclaimed, taking
his arm. " It is my first bail. I am sure I
shall never be too old to dance, as mother
says she is. Is it not absurd to say such a
thing?"

Gayerson laughed, and as was his wont —
a habit, indeed, w^ith many shy men — came
straight to the point.

" Do you know Dick Howard, then?" he
asked.

i 'I

C'EST LA VIE.

" Yes, a little. Has he arrived? This is
his (lance, you know."

" 1 cannot tell you if he has arrived, Ala-
demoiselle," answered the Englishman, in his
halting I'rench. " 1 know him at home— in
Norfolk. 1 was not aware that he was in
I'aris. But he will not be here to-ni"ht "

** Why?"

" Because his father is dead."

Lucille said nothing. She obeyed the move-
ments of his arm, and they danced, ming-
ling with that gay throng, where the feet
were lighter than the hearts, we may be sure.
They went through the whole dance in sil-
ence, as Phillip afterwards told me — and he
tried in vain to engage Lucille's full atten-
tion to matters of passing interest.

" We must hnd my mother," she said at
length, when the music had ceased. " Mr.
Howard does not know. He has been tra-
veling in the South with my father. His
letters have not been forwarded to him."

Phillip Gayerson guided his partner through
the laughing throng.

'' It will be bad news for Dick," he said,
" for his father has left him penniless."

" I understood," observed Lucille, looking
attentively at her bouquet, "that he was
wealthy."

" No. He quarrelled with his father, who
left him without a sou. But Howard knew
it before he quitted England."

C'EST LA VIE.

Lucille did not speak again tnilil they had
joined her mother, to whom she said some-
thing^ so hurriedly that Gayerson did not
catch the import of her words.

At this moment 1 entered the room, and
made my way towards them, feeling;- more fit
for my bed than a ball-room, for I had tra-
velled night and day to dance a waltz with
Lucille. As I approached, Ciayerson bowed
to the ladies and took his de])arture.

" My dance, Mademoiselle." 1 said, '* if you
have been so kind as to remember it."

*' Yes," answered Lucille, coldly as it
seemed, '* but I am tired, and we are going
home."

I looked towards Madame, and saw some-
thing in her face, I knew not what.

" You arm, mon ami,' she said, lifting her
hand; "we had better go home."

CHAPTER VI.

A f;LIMP.SE OF HOME.

" Pour rendre la societc commode il faut que chacun
conserve sa liberte."

Those who have rattled over the col)bIe
stones of old Paris will understand that we
had no opportunity of conversation during
oyr drive from the Tuileries to the Rue des
Palmiers. Lucille, with her white lace scarf
half concealing her face, sat back in her cor-
ner with closed eyes and seemed to be asleep.
As we passed the street lamps, their light
flashing across Madame's face showed her to
be alert, attentive and sleepless. On crossing
the Pont Napoleon I saw that the sky behind
the towers of Notre Dame was already of a
pearly grey. The dawn was indeed at hand,
and the great city, wrapped in a brief and'
fitful slumber, would soon be rousing itself
to another day of gaiety and tears, of work
and play, of life and death.

The Rue des Palmierg was yet still. A
sleepy servant opened the door, and we crept
quietly upstairs, lest we should disturb the
Vicomte, who, tired from his great journey,
had retired to bed while I changed my clothes
for the Imperial ball.

" Good-night," said Lucille, without look-
ing round at the head of the stairs. Madame
followed her daughter, but I noticed that she
gave me no salutation.

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

I turned to my study, of which the door
stood open, and where a shaded lamp (hs-
cretly Inirned. 1 threw aside my coat and
attended to the Hght. My letters lay on the
table, but before I had taken them up the
rustle of a woman's dress in a gallery drew
my attention elsewhere.

It was Madame, who came in bearing a
small tray, whereon stood wine and biscuits.

" You are tired out," she said. *' You had
no refreshment at the Tuileries. You must
drink this glass of wine."

" Thank you, Madame," I answered, and
turned to my letters, among which were a
couple of telegrams. But she laid her quiet
hand upon them and pointed with the other
to the glass of wine that she had filled. She
watched me drink the strong wine, which
was, indeed, almost a cordial, then took up
the letters in her hands.

" My poor friend," she said, " there is bad
news for you here. You must be prepared."

Handing me the letters, she went to the
door, but did not quit the room. She merely
stood there w^ith her back turned to me, ex-
hibiting a strange, silent patience while I
slowly opened the letters and read that my
father and I had quarrelled for the last time.

It was I who moved first and broke the
silence of that old house. The daylight was
glimmering through the closed jalousies,
making stripes of light upon the ceiling.

^ !>

A GLIMPSE OF IIOMIC.

" MadaiiR'," I said, " 1 must ^o home — to
I'jij^laiid — 1)\ iIr' early train, this moniiiij;!
M.\v 1 ask you to exphiiu to Monsieur le
Vicomte."

" ^'es," she answered, turning and faeing
me. '* Wnw coffee will i)e ready at seven
o'clock. And none of us will come down-
stairs until after )()ur departure. At such
times a man is hetter alone — is it not so? h\)r
a woman it is different."

1 extinj^uished the useless lamp, and we
passed roimd the i^allery together. At the
door of my bedroom she stopped, and turn-
ing, laid her hand — as light as a child's —
upon my arm.

*' What will you, my poor friend?" she
said, with a (pieer little smile. " C'cst la r/e."

It is not my intention to dwell at length
upon my journey to England and all that
awaited me there. There are times in his
life when — as Madame de Clericy said, with
her wise smile — a man is hetter alone. And
are there not occasions when the most elo-
quent of us is best dumb?

I had for travelling companion on the
bright autunui morning when I quitted Paris
my father's friend, John Turner — called sud-
denly to England on matters of business.
He gave a grunt when he saw' me in the
Northern station.

*' Better have taken my advice," he said,
to go home and make it up with your

A GLIMPSE OF IlUiME.

father, rather than stay here to run after tliat
{j^irl with the pretty hair — at your time of life.
Avoid quarrels and seek a reconciliation —
that is my i)lan. Best way is to ask the other
chap to dinner and do him well. What are
you going home for now? It is too late."

As, indeed, I knew without the tellini;-.
For when I reached Hopton my father had
already been laid in the old churchyard be-
neath the shadow of the crumbling walls of
the ruined church, which is now no longer
used. They have built a gaudy new edifice
farther inland, but so long as a Howard owns
Hopton Hall, we shall. T think, continue to
lie in the graveyard nearer to the sea.

I suppose we are a c|uarrelsome race, for
1 fell foul of several persons almost as soon
as I arrived. The lawyers vowed that there
were difficulties — but none. T protest, but
what such parchment minds as theirs would
pause to heed. One tiling, however, was cer-
tain. Did I not read it in black and while
myself? My obstinate old father — and. by
gad! I respect him for it — had held to his
purpose. He had left me ]:>ennilcss unless
I consented to marry Isabella Gayerson.
The estate was bequeathed in trust, to be
admipistered by said trustees during my life-
time iiless T acceded to a certain matri-
moi arrangement entertained for me.

Thi. were the exact words. So Isabella
had .) cause to blush when the will was

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

published abroad. And we may he sure that
the whole county knew it soon enough, and
\o\vcd that they had always thought so.

" If one may inquire the nature of the
matrimonial arrangement so vaguely speci-
fied?" . . . said the respectable Norwich
solicitor who, like all his kind, had a better
coat than his client, for those who live on
the vanity and greed of their neighbours live

well.

" One may," I replied, '* and one may go

to the devil and ask him."

The lawyer gave a dry laugh as he turned
over his papers, and I make no doubt charged
some one for his wounded feelings.

So the secret was kept between me and
the newly raised stone in Hopton church-
yard. And I felt somehow that there was a
link between us in the fact that my father
luid kept the matter of our quarrel from the
mouths of gossips and tattlers, leaving it to
my honour \o obey or disobey him, and abide
bv the result.

' I am not one of those who think it right to
remember tiieir dead as saints who lived a
blameless life, and passed away from a world
that was not good enough for them. Is it
not wMser to remember them as they were
men and women like ourselves, with faults
in number, and a half-developed virtue or
two, possessing something beyond copy-
book JTOod or evil, which won our love in

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

life, and will keep their memory green after
death? 1 did not fall into the error of think-
ing that death had hallowed wishes which
1 had opposed in life; and while standing i)y
my father's grave, where he lay, after long-
years, by the side of the fair girl whom i
liad called mother, I respected him for hav-
ing died without changing his opinion, while
recognizing no call to alter mine.

The hall, it appeared, was to be held at
my disposal to live in whenever I so wished,
l)nt I was forbidden to let it. A young soli-
citor of Yarmouth, working up, as they say,
a practice, wrote to me in confidence, say-
ing that the will w? . an iniquitous one,
and presuming that I naended to contest its
legality. He further informed me that such
work was, singularly enough, a branch of
the profession of which he had made a special
study. I replied that persons who presumed
rendered themselves liable to kicks, and heard
no more from Yarmouth.

The neighbours were kind enough to off-
er me advice or hos])itality, according to their
nature, neither of which I felt inclined, at that
time, to accept, but made some small return
for tlieir good will by inviting them to extend
their shooting over the Hopton preserves,
knowing that my poor old sire would turn
in his grave were the birds allowed to go
free.

y\mong others T received a letter from

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

Isa])ella Gayersoii, conveying the sympathy
of her aged father and mother in my be-
reavement.

"As for myself," she wrote, " you know,
Dick, that no one feels more keenly for you
at this time, and wishes more sincerely that
she could put her sympathy to some prac-
tical use. The Hall must necessarily be but
a sad and lonely dwelling for you now, and
we want you to recollect that Fairacre is now,
as at all times, a second home, where an affec-
tionate welcome awaits you."

So wrote the subject of our quarrel, and in
a like friendly tone I made reply. Whether
Isabella was aware of the part she had played
in my affairs, wiser heads must decide for
themselves. If such was the case, she made
no sign, and wrote at intervals letters of a
spirit similar to that displayed in the para-
gra])h above transcribecl. On such affairs
men are but poor prophets in the strange
country of a woman's mind. A small experi-
ence of the sex leads :ne, however, to suggest
that, as a rule, woi..an — ay, and schoolgirls —
have a greater knowledge of such matters of
the heart than they are credited with — that,
indeed, women usually err on the side of
knowing too much — knowing, in a word,
facts that do not exist.

So disgusted v;as I with the whole business
that I turned my back on the land of my
l)irth and left the lawyers to fight over their

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

details. I appointed a London solicitor to
watch my interests, who smiled at my account
of the affair, saying that things would be
better settled among members of the legal
profession — that my ways were not theirs.
For which compliment I fervently thanked
him, and shook the dust of London from oft"
my feet.

The Vicomte de Clericy had notified to me
by letter that my post would be held vacant
and at my disposal for an indefinite period,
L'Ut that at the same time my presence would
be an infmite relief to him. This was no
(l(jubt the old gentleman's courteous way of
pulling it, for I had done little enough to
make my absence of any note.

Travelling all night, 1 arrived in the Rue
des Palmiers at nine o'clock one morning,
and took coffee as usual in my study. At ten
o'clock Monsieur de Clericy came to me
there, and was kind enough to express both
sympathy at my bereavement and pleasure
at my return. In reply T thanked him.

" But," I added, " t regret that I must
resign my post."

" Resign," cried the old gentleman. "Mon
Oieu! do not talk of it. Why do you think
of such a thing?"

" I am no secretary. T have never had the
taste for such work nor a chance of learning
to do it."

The Vicomte looked at me thoughtfully.

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

" But you are what I want," he replied.
"A man — a responsible man, and not a ma-
chine."

'' Bah," said I, shrugging my shoulders,
" what are we doing — work that any could
do. What am 1 wanted for? I have done
nothing but write a few letters and frighten
a handful of farmers in Provence."

The Vicomte de Clericy coughed confiden-
tially.

" My dear Howard," he answered, looking
at the door to make sure that it was closed.
" I am getting an old man. I am only fit to
manage my affairs while all is tranquil and in
order. Tell me — as man to man — will things
remain tranquil and in order? You know as
well as I do that the Emperor has a malady
from which there is no recovery. And the
Empress, ah! yes — she is a clever woman.
She has spirit. It is not every w^oman who
would take this journey to Egypt to open the
Suez Canal and make that great enterprise
a French undertaking. But has a woman
ever governed France successfully — from the
boudoir or the throne? Look back into his-
tory, my dear Howard, and tell me what the
end of a woman's government has always
been."

It was the first time that my old patron
had named politics in my hearing, or ack-
nowledged their bearing upon the condition
of private persons in France. liis father had

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

been of the emigration. He himself had been
born in exile. The family prestis;e was but a
ghost of its former self — and I had hithetto
treated the subject as a sore one and beyond
my province.

The Vicomte had sat down at my table.
As for me, I was already on the broad win-
dow seat, looking- down into the garden.
Lucille was there upbraiding a gardener. I
could see the nature of their conversation
from the girl's face. She was probably want-
ing something out of season. Women often
do. The man was deprecatory, and pointed
contemptuously towards the heavens with a
rake. There was a long silence in the room
which was called my study.

" I think, mon ami," said my companion
at length. " that there is another reason."

" Yes," answered I, bluntly, " there is."

I did not look round, but continued to
watch Lucille in the garden. The Vicomte
sat in silence — waiting, no doubt, for a fur-
ther explanation. Failing to get this, he said,
rather testily as T thought:

" Is the reason in the gardeti, my friend,
that your eyes are fixed there?"

" Yes, it is. It is scolding the gardener.
And I think I am better away from the Hotel
Clericy, Monsieur de Vicomte."

The old man slowly rose and came to the
window, standing behind me.

"Oh — la. la!" he muttered in his quaint

A GLIMPSE OF HOME.

way — an exclamation nncomplimentary to
myself; for our neighbours across channel
reserve the syllables exclusively for their dis-
asters.

We looked down at Lucille, standing amid
the chrysanthemums, lending to their pink
and white bloom a face as fresh as any of the
flowers.

" But it is a child, men ami," said the
Vicomte, with his tolerant smile.

*' Yes — I ought to know better, I admit,"
answ^ered I, rising and attending to the papers
on the writing table, and I laughed without
feeling very merry. I sai down and began
mechanically to work. At all events, my con-
science had won this time — and if the Vi-
comte pressed me to stay, he did so with full
knowledge of the danger.

The window was open. The Evil One
prompted Lucille at that moment to break
into one of those foolish little songs of Pro-
vence, and the ink dried on my pen.

The Vicomte broke the silence that fol-
lowed.

" The ladies are going away for the winter
months." he said. " They are going to
Draguignan, in Var. At all events, stay with
me until they return."

" I cannot think whv vou ever took me."

"An old man's fancy, mon cher. You will
not forsake me."

" No."

CHAPTER VII.

IN PKOVEJVCE.

" Autant d'amoureux. autant d'amours; chac.n aime
comnu; il est."

The clKUeau of J.a i'auline stands at the
I cad of the valley of the Nartuhie in the
' epann,ent of Var, an.l looks down", on

l-,n! ; , ?"'""^ ••""' 'fs snrronndin.v

■! 'cIs forn,ed the dot of ,l,e ViconUe le

It was to this spot that I.ncille and her
" o I,er repan-ed in the n,onth of Oece ,1 er
^"l f'-"- --'y O'e Baron (iiran.l ha.l 1,"^ ate
-tl en,odern castle of '•.\1 on I'laisir," uUM
US ht e whne tnrret, its porcelain has-reliefl
'" ''""'■•'"' ^■"''""•« let into the walls, its ar!
1,c.al pnlens ornan,ente.l with ,^ol ' ■ , 1

-Iver halls, and snnnner-h.H.ses of ^vh/le
"'"'.""'' were fila^ed wi.l, p,,,vfnl f, -y , 'u
omd.d nature in clothing- ,|,c prosp e',^, ''

cnatean of La Panhne, perched half-wav nn
t'le nionnta.n on a 'ahle-lan.l-its grey 'tone

IN PROVENCE.

face showing grimly against a sombre back-
ground of cypress trees. The house was
buih, as the antiquarians of Draguignan
avow, of stone that was hewn by the Romans
for less peaceful purposes. That an ancient
building must have stood here would, indeed,
be to some extent credible, from the fact that
in front of the house lies a lawn of that weed-
less turf which is only found in this country
in such places as the Arena at Frejus. In the
centre of the lawn stands a sun dial — grey,
green and ancient a relic of those days when
men lived by hours, and not by minutes, as
we do to-day. It is all of the old world — of
that old, old world of France beside which
our British antiquities are, with a few excep-
tions, youthful. This was the birthplace of
Madame de Clericy and of Lucille herself.
Hither the ladies always returned with a quiet
joy. There is no more peaceful spot on earth
than La Pauline, chiefly, perhaps, because
there is nothing in nature so still and lifeless
as an olive grove. Why, by the way, do the
birds of the air never build their nests in these
trees — why do they rarely rest and never sing
there? Behind La Pauline — so close, indeed,
that the little chapel stands in the grey hush
of the trees, guarded, of course, by a sentinel
circle of cypresses — rise the olive terraces,
and stretch up, tier above tier, till the pines
are reached. Below the grey house the valley
opens out like a fan, and far away to the south

IN PROVENCE.

the rugged crags of Roquehrune stand out
against a faint blue haze, which is the Me(h-
terranean.

No better example of Peace on Earth is to
be found than La Pauline after sunset, at
w hich time the olive groves are a silver fairy-
land — when the chapel bell tinkles in vain for
the faithful to come to vespers — when the
stout old placid cure sits down philosophi-
cally in the porch to read the office to him-
self, knowing well that a hot day in the vine-
yard turns all footsteps homewards.

When the ladies are in residence at the
chateau, it is a different matter. Then, in-
deed, the cure lays aside his old soutane and
dons that fine new clerical habit presented to
him by Mademoiselle Lucille at the time of
her first communion, when the Bishop of
Frejus came to Draguignan, and the whole
valley assembled to (lo him honour there.

The ladies came, as we have said, in De-
cember, and at the gate the cure met them as
usual, making there, as was his custom, a
great hesitation as to kissing Lucille, now that
she was a demoiselle of the great world, hav-
ing — the rogue! — shaved with extraordinary
care for that very purpose a few hours earlier.
Indeed, it is to be feared that the good cure
did not always present so cleanly an appear-
ance as he did on the arrivel of the ladies.
Here the family li\ed a quiet life among the
peasants, who loved them, and Lucille

i'fi

,? 1'

IN i'ROVENCE.

\k\\

visited tlicni in tlicir cottaj^cs, lakitiij;- wliat
simple hospitality they could offer her with
a ehariii and ap])etite unrivalled, as the par-
ishioners themselves have often told the
writer. Tn these humhle homes she found
children with skins as white, with hair as fair
luid l)rii;ht, as her own, and if the traveller
wander so far from the heaten track, he can
verify my statement. For in \'ar, hv some
racial freak — which, like all such matters, is
in point of fact inexplicahle — a lar<;c propor-
tion of the people are of fair or ruddy com-
plexions.

Had the Vicomtessc desired it, the neit;!!-
bourliood offered society of a loftier, and, as
some consider, more interesting^, nature, hut
that Indy did not hold much hy social i^ather-
ini^^, and it was only from a sense of diUy that
she invited a few friends, about the time of
Lucille's birthday — her twenty-first 1)irthday,
indeed — to pass some days at La Pauline.

These friends were bidden for the 26th De-
cember, and amoni;- them were the JJaron
(iiraud and his son Alphonse.

Alphonse arrived on horseback in a cos-
tume which wotdd have done credit to the
head-groom of a racing- stable. The right-
liand twist of his moustache was eminently
successful, luit the left-hand extremitv
droo])e(l with a lamentable effect, wdiich he
was not able to verify until after he had

IN i'RUVENCE.

greeted the ladies, wlioni he met in the gar-
den, as he rode toward the chateau.

" My father," he cried, as he descended
from the saddle, " that dear old man, arrives
on the instant, lie is in a carriage — a close
carriage, and he smokes. I'icture it to your-
selves — when there is this air to hreathe —
when there are horses to ride. Madame la
Vicijmtesse " — he took that lady's hand —
'* what a j)leasure! Mademoiselle Lucille —
as heautiful as ever."

" Even more so," replied Lucille with her
gay laugh. " What ex(|uisite riding-boots!
But are they not a little tight, Alphonse?"

For Lucille could not i)erceive why play-
mates should suddenly begin to monsieur and
mademoiselle each other after years of inti-
macy. This was the rock in that path which
Alphonse, like the rest of us, found anything
but smooth. Lucille was so gay. It is diffi-
cult to make serious love to a person who is
not even impressed by English riding-boots.

At this moment the I'aron's carriage a])-
peared on the zig-zag road below the chateau,
and ^Tadame de Clericy's face assumed an
expression of placid resignation. \n due time
the vehicle, with its gorgeous yellow wheels,
reached the level space upon which the party
stood. The Baron Giraud emerged from the
satin-lined recesses of the dainty carriage hke
a stout caterpillar from a rose, a stumpy little
man with no neck and a red face. A strag-

IN PROVENCE.

gling dyed moustache failed to hide an un-
pleasant mouth, with lips too red and loose.
Cunning little dark eyes relieved the coun-
tenance of the Baron Giraud from mere ani-
malism. They were intelligent little eyes,
that looked to no high things and made no
mistake in low places. But the Baron Giraud
did not make one proud of the human race.
This was a man who handled millions with
consunnnate skill and daring, and by a cer-
tain class of persons he was almost wor-
shipped. Personally, a 'longshore loafer
who can handle a boat with the same intre-
pidity is to me a pleasanter object, though
skill of any description must command a cer-
tain respect.

There were other guests to whom the
Baron was presently introduced, and towards
these he carried himself with the pomposity
and hauteur which are only permissible to the
very highest rank of new wealth. Lucille, as
1 learnt from Monsieur Alphonse later — in-
deed, our friendship was based on the pati-
ence with which 1 listened to his talk of that
young lady — was dressed on this particular
afternoon in white, but such matters as these
bungled between two men will interest no
one. Her hair she wore half in curls, accord-
ing to the hideous custom of that day. Is it
not always safe to a1)use the old fashion?
And at no time safer than the present, when
the whole world gapes with its great, foolish
mouth after every novelty. I remember that

IN PROVENCE.

Lucille looked pretty enough; l)Ut you, mes-
(laincs, wlu) lauj^h at me, are no douht (|uite
right, and a thousand times more beautiful in
vour mannish attire.

The guests presently dispersed in the shady
garden, and the Baron accepted Madame's
offer of refreshment on the terrace, whither
a servant brought a tray of licjueurs. The
pleasant habit of afternoon tea had not yet
been introduced across the channel, and
JM"ench ladies had still something to learn.

"Ah, Madame!" said the Baron Giraud in
a voice that may be described as metallic,
inasmuch as it was tinny, " these young
people!"

With a wave of his thick white hand he
indicated Alphonse and Lucille, who had
wandered down an alley entirely composed of
orange trees, where, indeed, a yellow glow
seemed to hover, so thickly hung the fruit
on the branches. Madame followed the direc-
tion of his glance with a non-committing
bow of the head.

'* I shall have to ask Monsieur le Vicomte
what he proposes doing in the way of a dot,"
pursued the financier with a cackling laugh,
which was not silvery, though it savoured of
bullion. The Vicomtesse smiled gravely, and
offered the Baron one of those little square
biscuits peculiar to Frejus.

" Madam knows nothing of such matters?"

7^'

IN I'RCJVIONCI':.

" Xotliiii^," answered .slic, iiiLCliti^" the
U\ iiikliii.L; eyes.

"Ail!" innriiiiirc'(l ilic liaroii, a«l(lrcssin^", it
would scciii, tiic distant ni(jiinlaiiis. " Such
details are not, of course, for the ladies. It
is the other side of the (|uestion '' — lie laid
his h.uid ii])on his waistcoat — "the side of the
alTectioiiM — the heart, my dear Viconitesse,
tlie Iieart."

" Yes," ans^vered Aladaiiie, looking at him
witli that (hs<|uietinj.4' straight i;lai)ce of hers
— "theheiirc."

In the meant inie — in tlie oran^^e alley —
y\lpl]r;nse v\as allein)>tini;' to t^^et a serious
liearin^' from Lucille, and curiously enouj^h
was makin^i;- use of the same word as that
passinj^*- between their elders on the terrace
ahove them.

ilave you no heart?" he cried, stam])injLi-
his foot on the mossy turf, " that you always
lauL'h wiien I am serious— have you no heart,
J.ucille?"

I do not know what yon mean l>y heart,"
answered the j^drl witii a liltle frown, as if (he
suhject did not j)lease \]vr. And wiser men
than Alphonse (iirnud could not ha\'e en-
lii;htened her.

"'Idler,, \ou are incapahle of feelini.';," he
cried, s])re,-idin<j; out his hands as if in invo-
catio]i to the trees to lic.-ir him.

"That may he. hut I do not see that it is
|>ro\-c(i hy the fact that I am not always

IX i'R(jviu\ci':.

^r.'ivc. \ oil, \()ursclf, arc L;ay ciioul;!! wIk-ii
otluTs arc l)\, aixl it is llini tli.'U i like ><>u
hest. It is (>iil\ wlu-ii we ai'e aloiic lliat you
arc — traj^ic. Is!lial lu-arl, Alplioiisc? Aii'l
arc lliosc wlio laii.L;ii heartless? I donht it."

" N'on know I lo\c y<Hi," lie muttered
j^Ioouiily, aixl tlic expression on hi-, lonii'l
face ^\\i\ not >eeni at home there.

" W eh, she an^werc'K with a se\erity ,L;aih
C'i'C'l heaven knows whence- -1 camiot thii'is
tlicy trui,L;ht it to her in the convent — '"yon
have lol<] nic so twice since von hec-ame aware
of my contintic'l existence al the hall la.it
UKJiith. lint yon are hopelessly serious to-
<lay. Let its ^o hack to the terrace."

She stooped and picked up an orange that
had fallen, ihrow.iii,^ it suhse<!uciitly alou;;-
the snuKjtli tmf for her do^" to chase.

" vSec," she said i;aily, " Talleyrand will
scarcely trouhle to run now. lie is so stout
and di^iiilied. lie is afraid that the country
doL^s shr^uld -lee him, It is I'aris. I'aris spoils
— so much."

\'ou know my father's jjlans conccniin<;"
us," said AJplionse, after a pause, whitdi
served to set aside Talleyrand and the orani;e.
" 'I he l>aron's plans are, I am told, won-
derful, l)Ul " — <he j)aused and ,^"a\e a little

laujjii

i d

o not understand hnance

The)' walked up the ste]'^ loi^ciher, Ix-
lwe( n tliC trim horders. where spritn^- llowcr
were already hrcakin.L;- into \)\v\. ( )n ihc ter

It ;

IN PROVENCE.

race they found the Vicomtesse and the
Baron Giraud. A servant was going towards
thq house carrying carelessly a small silver
salver. The Baron was standing with an un-
opened envelope in his hand.

" You will permit me, Madame," they
heard him say with his strident little self-
satisfied laugh. "A man of affairs is the slave
of the moment. And the affairs of state are
never still. A great country moves even in
its sleep."

Having the permission of Madame, he tore
open the envelope, enjoying the importance
of the moment. But his face changed as
soon as his glance fell on the paper.

'* The government has fallen," he gasped,
with white lips and a face wherefrom the
colour faded in blotches. He seemed to for-
get the ladies, and looked only at his son.
" It may mean — much. I must go to Paris
at once. The place is in an uproar. Mon
Dieu — where will it end!"

He excused himself hurriedly, and in a few
minutes his carriage rattled through the grey
stone gateway.

"An uproar in Paris," repeated Lucille,
anxiously, when she was alone with her mo-
ther. " What does he mean? Is there any
danger? Will papa l^e safe?"

" Ves," answered the Vicomtesse c|uictly;
''ho will be safe, I tliink."

CHAPTER Vlll.

IN I'AlilS.

" Le plus grand art d'un habile lionime est celui de
savior cacher son habiletc."

It will l)c necessary to dwell to a certain
extent on those events of the great world
that left their mark on the obscnre lives of
which the present history treats. An old man
may be excnsed for expressing his opinion —
or rather his agreement with the opinions of
greater minds — that our little existence here
on earth is hut part of a great scheme — that
we are hut pawns mo\Td hither and thilher
on a vast chess-board, and that, while our
vision is often obscured by some knight or
bisho]) or king, whose neighbourhood over-
shadows us, yet our presence may affect the
greater moves as certainly as we are affected
by them.

I first became aware of the fact that my
existence was amenable to every political
wind that might blow a week or so after
Lucdlc went to La Patiline. without, indeed,
vouchsafing an explanation of her sudden
coldness.

In my study I was one evening smoking,
and, I admit it, thinking of TvUcille — think-

IN PARIS.

inq- xcry practically, however. For 1 was
relied iniL( with satisfaction over some small
im])rovements 1 had effected — with a Nor-
folk enerf^y which, no donbt, ^ave offence to
some — dtnnn<4- the short time that the Vi-
comte and I had passed in the Provencal
chatean. T had the pleasant conviction that
Tyiicille's health conld, at all events, come to
no liarm from a residence in one of the oldest
castles in France. No very lover-like reflec-
tions, the hii^h-llown will cry. So be it.
Fach nnist love in his ow^n way. "Air and
water — air and water!" the Vicomte had
cried when lie saw the men at work under
my directions. " You Englishmen are mad
on the subject."

While I was eno^ac^'ed in these thouj^hts
the old |L;-entleman came to my room, and in
the next few minutes made known to me a
new and tinsuspected side of his character.
His manner was sinq-ularly alert. He seemed
to be years young-er.

" T said I should want a man at my side —
youns^- and stron.q;," he be.i^an, seating- him-
self. " Pet us understand each other. Mr.
Howard."

" By all means."

He gave a little laugh, and leaning for-
ward took a quill i^en from my writing-table,
disliking idle fingers while he talked.

" That time has come, my friend. Do you
mean to stand bv me?"
" Yes."

IN PARIS.

" You are a man of lew words," he ans-
wered, looking at me witli a new keenness
which sat strangely on his benign features.
" But 1 want no more. The government has
fallen — the doctors say the J'jnperor's life is
not worth that!"

.And he snapped his finger and thumb,
glancing at the clock, it was eight o'clock.
We liad dined at half-past six.

" Can you come with me now? I want to
show vou the slate of l*aris — the condition
of the ]:)eople, the way of their thoughts. ( )ne
cannot know too mtich of the . . . people
— for they will some day rule the world."

"And. rule it devilish badly," 1 added, ])Ut-
ting my papers together.

" We shall be late in returning," the V^i-
comte said to tlie servant who held the car-
riage door. I had heard — through my
thoughts — I'.c stanrj)ing of the horses in the
courtyard .-md the rattle of the harness, but
took no great note of them, as the Vicomte
had the habit of going out in the evening. 1
noticed we never crossed the river during our
sileiU dri\e. A river has two sides, just as a
street, and one of them is usually in tlie
sliade. Tt was aiuong the shadows that our
business lay this evening.

" You know." said the X'iconUe, as we
climbed the narrow staircase of a (pu'et hotise
in the neighbom-h(uvl of the great wine stores
that adjoin the Jardin des Plantes — " ycnt

!!!»■

IN PARIS.

' 1

know tli.'it this is tlic day of the talkers — the
Rcjcheforls, the l*yats — the windha^'-s. Moii
iJieu, wliat ncjiisense! Jiut a windbag may
burst and do harm. One must watch these
i^entry."

Republicanism was indeed in the an- at tliis
time. And has not liistory demonstrated tliat
those wlio cry k)udest for a commonwealtli
are such as wish to draw from that wealth
and add nothini;" to it? The reddest Republi-
can is always the man who has nothing to
lose and all to gain i)y a social upheaval.

I was not sur])rised, therefore, when we
found ourselves in a room full of bad hats and
unkempt heads. A voice was shouting their
recjuirments. I knew that they wanted a
wash more than anything else.

The room was a large, low one, and looked
larger through an atmos|)here blue with
smoke and the fumes of absinthe. The Vi-
comte — a little man, as I have sai't — slip])ed
in un perceived. I was less fortunate, be-
ing of a higher stature. I saw that my ad-
vent did not i)ass unc)l)served on the platform,
where a party of i)atriots sat in a row, like
the Christy nn"nstrels, showing the soles of
their boots to all whom it migh.t concern. In
this case a working col)bler would have been
deeply interested, as in a vast field of labour.
The Vicomte slipped a few yards away from
me. and the shoulders of his fellow-country-
men obsctu'ed him. T could find no such re-

IN PARIS.

treat, for ycjiir true Socialist never has much
to recoiuniend him to tlie notice of society,
being- usually a poor, mean man to look at,
who seeks tcj add a cuhit to his stature by
encouraging the growth of his hair.

One such stood on the ])latform, m(nilhing
the bloodthirsty periods of his creed. He
caught sight of me.

"Ah!" he cried, "here is a new disciple.
And a hardy one! Un (jnind fjaillard, my
brethren, who can strike a solid blow^ for lib-
erty, etjuality and fraternity. Say, brother,
you are with us; is it not so?"

" If you open the casements, not (Mher-
wise," 1 answered. TIk' h^-ench crowd is
ever ready for blood or laughter. 1 have seen
the Republic completely set in tiie back-
ground by a cat looking in a window and
giving voice to the one word assigned to it
by nature. Some laughed now. and the
orator deemed it wise to leave me in peace,
I took advantage of my obscurity to look
around me, and was duly '.'<lilied by what 1
saw. The Paris vaurien is worth less than any
man on earth, and these were choice sj)eci-
mens from the gutter.

We were wasting our time in such a galley,
and as 1 thus rellecte<l a note was slipped
into my hand.

b\)llow me. but not at once." I read and
hid the paper in my pocket. Without star-
ing about me too nuich, \ watched the Vi-

IN J'AklS.

coiiitc make his way towards a door Iialf
hidden \>y a <hrly furlaiii — another to thai
by uhiih wc liad entered. Thither I loihnved
him after a decent interval - no one inolestinj^
nie. (Jne of ihe |>atri(Hs on the |>latforni
seemed to waleli nie willi miderstan(hn^, and
when I reached the cnrtaineil doorway, my
}.;lance meeting- his, he dismissed me willi liis
eyelids.

I f(jiind myself in a dark passai^e, and with
his penile lani^h the V icomte took my arm.

"All lliat ont there,"" he whispered, "is a
mere Mind. It is in the inner looni that they
act. ( )nt there tliey merely talk, ("ome with
me. (iently — there are two steps — my dear
lloward, iliese are tin; men" — he ])aused
with his lingers on the handle of a dooi- —
"who will rnle hrance when the I'jnperor is
dead or deposed."

With that we entered, and those assem
bled — some sittin<^- at a table, others standing-
abonl the room — saluted the Vicomte de
("lericy almost as a leader. Some of the faces
I knew — indeed, they are to be found in tin
illustrated histories of hrance. The thouidits
of others were known to me, for many were
journalists of repute — men of .'id\'anced views
and Tier}' pens. Terhaps, aftei" ail, 1 knew as
little of the Vicomte dc Clericv as of .'in\' man
there. I '"or he sei'Uied to !ia\e laid aside that
pleasant and i^arrulous senility which had
awak(Mied mv dull cous<Mence.

Ji\ I'AKIS.

•^5

Alihoii^li Ik- did II, ,t deliver a speech dur-
iii.l; tlie proiccliii^s, as did some, his atti-
lii'le ua.s raiher that ot'a leader than (.la mere
"" l""l<^''-- (Icic uas IK, inei-e ualcliiiio-.
''"•"'■^'" '• -^ly patinn was kiiouii in all. and
wviil tioiii ,L;foiij) t(. -n,n|, talkiii- in the ear
"I '"•'iiy. Thei-e was, iii<leed, iinich talkin--
-1^ I ha\(' always loiiiid in the world, and hut
'"lit- lislenino-. The Vieonite intnxhiee.l me
1" some of his friends.

"Air. Ilowani,"" he said, "an I'aiolisj,
i^vnlleman, who is kind etion-li to art as my
M-neiaiy. Alf. Ilowaid is t(,o wise to tfc.nhle
IimiM'h with politics."

Aii^l I ihon-hl some <,\ them had a cpieer
Why of looking- at me.

"A 'Ic-eiver or a dupe?" | |,eafd one ask
•""'"'^•'•- ti-i. still- too f.-ir the provei-l.ial dnll^
ii(-ss of Ih-itish ears.

'flK' topic of the eveiiino- was, (,f comse

"h- fall of th' .Ministrv -a matter of -reat

""""^•'" '-i' time, and, it mav he, throng],

•'" ""' ''-^'^ thono-h a recital of its possihie

sheets would he hut dull rearlin- today.

\Mien a chain is riven, the casual on looker

'akes Imt snnll interest in the historv of each

'"'k. This event of hecemher. \Hf>i,, was in

^'"''^'^ •'"• '■'i'l""<aiil link in the chain ..f

stran-e events that -,. to make np the his-

tory of the shortesi and most marvellous of

tlie oreat dynasties of the world.

JN PARIS.

1 sl(j()fl aiiioii^" those |)(jliticians .'iixl won-
dered wliat the j^re.'itest of their race ;it
that time liviiijj;- tlKJiiglit of these matters in
the Tuileries I'alace liard by. 1 could picture
him sitting'-, as was his wont — a ^aavc man
with a keen sense of hinnour — witli his head
a little on one side, his iarj^e, still face drawn
and pale — the evidence of his mala<ly arouri<l
his dull eyes. Was the j^ame j)layed out? The
.greatest since that so jL^loriously won — so
nn'serahly lost at length — by his uncle. The
r>ona])artes were no conuiion men — and it
was no common blood that trickled un-
stanche<l ten years later into the sand of the
African veldt, leavinj^- the world the jxjorer
of one of its ^.^reatest races.

I ^^athered that the fall of the ministry was
no jL;reat surprise to these men assembled in
llii^ inner ro(jm. They formed, so far as 1
i-<)iil(I discover, a sort of administraticju — a
committee which leathered the opinions of
the more intellij^ent citizens of the larger
towns of I'^rance — a head-centre of news and
public thought. Their meetinj^- place was
furnished Vv'ith(»ut ostentation, .and in excel-
lent taste.

These were no mere adventurers, but men
of position and wealth, who had somewhat
to lose and c\ery desire to retain the same.
Tliey did not rave of patriotism, nor was
there any cant of cfjuality and fraternity. It
seemed rather that, linding themselves ])laccd

IN PARIS.

in stirriii}4' times, tlicy dccnicfl it wise t(; ^u:<lc
by sonic means or oilier the conrse of events
into sueh channels as minhi ensnre safety to
themselves and their jjossession^. And who
can hlame them for snch foresij^ht? i'atriots
are, according- to my experience, men who
look for a snhstantial ifnid pro 7//0. 'They
serve tlieir connlr) with the \iew of makin.i;'
their conntry serve them.

Whatever the nsnal deliherations of the
body amon^- whom I fonnd myself mi;;ht be,
the all-absorbing- topic of the eveninj.^ set all
else aside.

" We apj)roach the moment," cried one, a
youn^^ man with a lis])in^ intonation and
^reat possessions, as I afterwards learnt.
" Now is the time for all to do as I have df.ne.
I have sent everything ont of the conntry.
1 and my sword remain for l^'rance."

lie spoke trnly. lie and his sword now lie
side by side — in French soil.

"Let all do the same," ^n-owled an old man,
with eyes (lashinj^ beneath his \^vv:\\ white
brows.

"All who know," sni^i^estcd one, signifi-
cantly. W'herenpon arose a threat discn^sioii,
and many names were ntu-red llial were
familiar to me- anionic' others, in'leed. that
of my friend, John Tnrner. I noticcl that
many lani^hed when his name was ineiilinned.

"Oh!" they cried. " N'on may lea\c |ohn

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/<■

IN PARIS.

I 1 !

Turner to care for his own affairs. 11 est fin
eel III -la.''

Again a familiar name fell on my ears, and
this was received with groans and derisive
laughter. It was that of the Baron (iiraud.
1 gathered that there was (juestion of warn-
ing certain financiers and rich persons out-
side of this circle of some danger, known
only to the initiated. Indeed, the wealthy
were sending their money out of the country
as fast and as secretly as possible.

" No, no," cried the young man I have
mentioned; "the Baron (Iiraud — a line
iiaron, heaven knows! — has risen with the
I'jnpire — nor has he heen over-scrupulous as
to whom he tnul underfoot. With the ICm-
pire he nnist fall."

And one and all fell to abusing the Baron
(jiraud. lie was a thief, and a desjxiiler of
the widow and orphan. His weallh had been
acf|uired not honestly, but at the expense —
nay, at the ruin — of others, lie was an un-
wholesome growth of a nuishroom age — a
bad man, whose god was gold and gain his
only ambition.

" If such men are to grow in France and
govern her, then woe to h'rance," cried one
prophetic voice.

Indeed, if half we heard was true of the
Baron Giraud, he must have been a fme
scoundrel, and T had little comj^unction in
agreeinir that he deserved no consideration

IN PARIS.

«y

at the hands of honest men. Tlie cooler
lieads deemed it wise to witlihold from the
Baron certain details of tlie pniilic teeliiii;.
not out of si)ile, but because such kno\vle<li;e
could not he trusted in notoriously miscrnpu-
lous hands. He would hut turn it to mone\.

For the greater safety all present i»ou nd
themselves upon lionour not to reveal the
residt of their deliberations to certain named
persons, and the Baron (iiraud had the privi-
■ ^i^e of heading this list. 1 was siu'prised
tnai t • form of mutual faith was observed.
'I'hese 'uen seemed to trust each other with-
out so much as a word — and, indeed, what
stronger tie can men have than the connnon
gain?

"We are not conspirators." said one to
me. " Our movements are known."

And he nodded his head in the direction of
the Tuileries. I made no doubt that all,
indeed, was known in that (|uarter, but the
fatalist wlio planned and schemed there
would meet these men the next day with his
gentle smile, betraying nothing.

As my interest became aroused by these
proceedings 1 became aware of the Vicomte's
close scrutiny. It .seemed that he was watch-
ing me — noting the effect of every speecli
and word.

'* You were interested," he said, casually,
as we drove home smoking our cigars.

IN PARIS.

" Yes."

He looked out of the carriage window for
some time, and then, turninjr, he laid his
hand on my knee.

"And it is not a pfame," he said, with his
little lauj^di, which somehow sounded (|uite
different— less senile, less helpless. " It is
not a .e:ame, my friend!"

I' ■ t

ill

1 'R

CIIAITER IX.

FINANCE.

" II ii'est pas si dangereux de faire du mal a la plupart des
hommes que de leur faire trop de bien."

We have seen how the Baron Giraud was
called suddenly away from those pleasures of
the country, which lie had taken up too late
in life, as many do, to the busy — ay, and
slorniy — scenes of I'aris existence during the
winter before the great war. It was perhaps
a week later — one morning, in fact, soon after
the New Year — that my business bade me
seek the V^icomte in his study adjoining my
own. These two apartments, it will be re-
membered, were separated by two doors and
a small intervening corridor. In the days
when the Hotel Clericy was built, walls had
ears, and every keyhole might conceal a
watching eye. Builders understood the ad-
vantage of privacy, and did not construct
rooms where every movement and every
spoken word may be heard in the adjoining
chambers.

No sound had come to me, and I had no
reason for sup])osing the Vicomte engaged
at so early an hour. But as I entered the
room, after knocking and awaiting his per-
mission as usual, I saw that some one was

FINANCE.

] u

leaviiijj^ il by the other dour. His hack was
presentetl to my sij^hl, hut tliere W's no inis-
lakinj^'- the sHiii form and a nonchalant car-
riage. Charles Miste again! And only the
hack of him (jnce more.

'* I have had a visit from my late secre-
tary," said the Yicomte casually, and without
looking Uj) from his occu])ation of opening
some letters. There was no reason to suj)-
pose that he had seen me glance towards the
closing door, recognizing him who went
from it.

We were still engaged with the morning's
corresj)()ndence when a second visitor was
announced, and almost on the heels of the
servant a little fat man came putting into the
room, red-faced and agitated.

"Ah ! Heaven he thanked that I have
found you in." he gasped, and although it
was a cold morning, he wiped his pasty brow
with a gorgeous silk handkerchief where-
upon shone the largest coronet ohtainahlc.

His face was cpiite white and Haccid. like
the imhakcd loaves into which 1 had poked
incpiiring fmgers in my childhood, and there
was an unwholesome look of fear in his little
bright eyes. The I'aron had been badly
scared, and lacked the manhood to conceal
his panic.

"Ah! Mo!i Dieu. mon Dieu!" he gasj)cd
again, and looked at me with insolent in(piiry.
He was, it must be remembered, a very rich

FINANCE.

man, and could atYord to he ill-mannered.
'* 1 must see you, Vicomte."

'* Vou do see me, my friend," replied the
old nohleman, in his most amiahle manner.
"And at your service."

" But — " and the Huttering handkerchief
indicated myself.

"Ah! Let me introduce you. Monsieur
Howard, my secretary — the liaron Ciiraud."

I bowed as one only bows to money-bags,
and the Baron stared at me. Only very rich
or very high-born persons fully understand
the introductory stare.

" You may speak before Monsieur How-
ard," said the Baron, quietly. " He is not a
secretary puur rire.''

Had Miste been a secretary pour rire, 1
wondered?

1 drew forward a chair and begged the
Baron to be seated. He accepted my invita-
tion coldly, and seating himself seemed to
lose nothing in stature. There are some men
who should always be seated. It is, of course,
a mistake to judge of one's neighbour at first
sight, but it seemed to me that the Baron
Giraud only wanted a little courage to be a
first-class scoundrel. He fumbled in his
pocket, glancing furtively at me the while.
At length he found a letter, which he handed
to the Vicomte.

" I have received that," he said. ** It is
anonymous, as you will see, and cleverly

c'j

FINANCE.

1^:

done. There is al)S(jluleIy no clue. It was
sent to my place of l)usiness, and my people
there telej^raphed for tne in l*rt>vence. Of
course 1 came at once. One must sacrifice
everything to affairs."

Naturally 1 ac(iuiesced fervently, for the
last remark had been thrown to me for my
good.

The Vicomte was looking for his si)ec-
tcvcles.

'* But, my friend," he said. " it is atro-
ciously written. One cannot decipher such a
scrawl as this."

In his impatience the IJaron leant forward,
and taking the paper from my patron, handed
it to me.

" Here," he said, ** the secretarv — read it
aloud."

Nothing loth, I read the communication in
my loudest voice. The world holds that
a loud voice indicates honesty or a lack of
brain, and the Baron was essentially of that
world. The anonymous letter was a warning
that a general rising against the rule of the
Emperor was imminent, and that in view of
the probable state of anarchy that would
ensue, wise men should not delay in transfer-
ring their wealth to more stable countries.
Precisely — in a word — the information that
it had been decided to withhold from the
recipient of the letter.

iS;

FINANCE.

The Baron blew and puffed like a prize-
fighter when I had finished the perusal.

*' There," he cried; '* I receive a letter like
that — I, the Baron Giraud — of the high
finance."

" My poor friend, calm yourself," urgetl
the Viconite.

It is easy enough to tell another to calm
himself, hut who among us can compass
such a frame of mind when he is hit in a vital
spot? The Baron wiped his forehead ner-
vously.

" But," he said, " is it true?"

The Vicomte spread out his hands, and
never glanced at me as an ordinary man
would have done towards one who shared his
knowledge.

** Who can tell — but yes! So far as human
foresight goes — it is true enough."

*' Then what am I to do?"

I stared at the great financier asking such
a c|uestion. Assuredly he, of all men, needed
no one's counsel in a matter of money.

Do as 1 have done," said the Vicomte:
" sen'l your money out of the country."

An odd look came over the Baron's face.
He glanced from one of us to the other —
with the cunning, and somewhat the look, of
a cat. The Vicomte was blandly indifferent.
As for me, I had, I am told, a hard face in
those days — hardened by weather and a dis^

' 1

J*' I

FINANCE.

I! .-

belief in human nature which has since been
nioihtied.

'* It is a responsibility that you take there,"
said the hnancier.

" 1 take no responsibility. A man of my
years, of my retired life, knows little of such
matters." (1 thought he looked older as he
spoke.) " 1 only tell you what 1 have done
with my small possessions."

The Baron shook his head with a sly scep-
ticism. After all, the cheapest cunning must
suffice for money-making, for 1 dare swear
this man had little else.

*' But how?" he said.

** In bank notes, by hand," was the Vi-
comte's astonishing answer. And the Baron
laughed incre<luously. It seems that the high-
est aim of the high finance is to catch your
neighbour telling the truth by accident. It
would almost be safe to tell the truth always,
so rarely is it recognized.

It was not until the Vicomte produced his
bank-book and showed the amounts jiaid in
and subsequently withdrawn that the Baron
Giraud believed what he had been told. My
duties, it may be well to mention in passing,
had no part in the expenditure of the Vicomte
de Clericy. I had only to deal with the in-
come derived from the various estates, and,
while being fully aware that large sums had
been placed within the hands of his bankers,
I had not troubled to be curious respecting

FINANCE.

the iiliiinatc (lesiination of such moneys. My
patron possessed, as has already l)een inti-
mated, a lively — nay, an exa^j^^eratc<l — sense
of the value of money. He was, indeed, as I
rememher thinkinji; at this time, somewhat
of a mise'-. loving money for its own sake,
and not. as «lid the Haron (iiraud, merely for
the grandeur and i)osition to be purchased
therewith.

" JUil I am not like vou," said the fmancier
at lenj^th.

*' Xo; you have a thousand louis for every
one that I possess."

" iUu I have nothinj^ solid — no lands, no
estates except my chateau in Var."

His panic had hy no means subsided, and
presently he found himself on the verge of
tears — a pitiable, despicable object. The
Vicomte — soothinji; and benevolent — went
on to explain more fully the position of his
own afTairs. He told us tliat on information
received from a sure source he had months
earlier concluded that the Emperor's illness
was of a more serious nature than the general
public believed.

*' Vou. my dear friend." he said, " engaged
as you have been in the affairs of the outside
world — the Suez Canal, Mexico, the Colonies
— have perhaps omitted to watch matters
nearer home. While looking at a distant
mountain one may fall over a little stone — is
it not so?"

<j8

FINANCE.

He had, he informed us, witlidrawn liis
small interest in siieli securities as dei)ended
upon the stai)ility of the (iovernment, but
that for men occupyinj^ a public position,
either by accident of birth or — and he bowed
in his pleasant way towards the Baron — by
the force of their j^enius, to send their money
out of I'lance by the ordinary financial chan-
nels would excite conuncnt, and perhaps
hasten the crisis that all i^ood i)atriots would
fain avoid. He talked thus collectedly au'!
fairly while the i^aron (iiraud could but wipe
his forehead with a damp handkerchief ai <1
gasp incoherent exclamations of terror.

*■ I could reali/e a couple of million." sai-l
the fmancier, ** in two days, but there is much
that 1 cannot sell just now — the fall of the
(Government makes it necessary to hold much
that 1 covild have sold at a i)r()fit a fortnii^ht

'I he Vicomte was i)laying with a (piill pen.
How well I knew the action! It seemed that
the millionaire was recovering from his shock,
of wliich re-establishment the outward and
visible sign was a dawning gleam of cunning
in the eyes.

" But I have no one T can trust," he said:
and I almost laughed, so well the words be-
spoke the man. " It is different for you," he
added; "you have Monsieur."

And he glanced keenly at me. Indeed, we
were a queer trio; and I began to think that

FINANCE.

I was as ])\^ a scoundrel as my maiden aunts
maintained.

"I would trust Mr. Howard with all my pos-
sessions," said the old X'iconUe. looking at me
almost affectionately; *' but in this matter 1
have found another messenger, less valuable
to me personally, less necessary to my com-
f(»rl and daily happiness, but ecpially trust-
worthy."

"And if 1 j^ave him twenty million francs
to take abroad for mc — ?" suggested the
great financier.

'' Then, my friend, we should be in the
same boat — that is all."

''your boat," said the Baron, with an un-
pleasant laugh.

Monsieur de Clericy shrugged his shoul-
ders and smiled. This grave political crisis
had rejuvenated him, and he seemed to rise
to meet each emergency with a buoyancy
that sat strangely on white hairs.

They talked together upon the fascinating
topic, while I, who had no part in the game,
sat and listened. The Baron was very cim-
ning, and, as it seemed to me. very con-
temptible. With all the vices that are mine,
I thank heaven that I have never loved
money; for that love, it seems, undermines
much that is manly and honest in upright
hearts. Money, it will be remembered, was
at the root of the last quarrel I had with my
father — the last fatal breach, which will have

lOO

FINANCE.

to be patched up in aiiuther world. Money
has, as it will be seen by such as care to follow
me through these pages, dogged my life from
beginning to end. 1 have run my thick head
against those pursuing it, each in his dilTerent
manner, getting lamentably in their way, and
making deadly enemies for myself.

Monsieur de Clericy, in his frank and open
way, gave fuller details of his own intentions.
It seemed that his possessions were at that
moment in the house — in a safe hiding-place;
that the messenger was to make several jour-
neys to London, carrying at one time a sum
of money which would be no very pleasant tra-
velling companion. A safe depository await-
ed the sums in l^^ngland, and, in due course,
reinvestment would follow. Monev it will
be suspected, was by now beginning to be
somewhat of a red rag for me, and J though
1 saw some signs of its evil inlUience over my
kindly patron. He spoke of it almost as if
there were nothing else on earth worth a
man's consideration. In the heal of argu-
ment he lowered his voice, and was no longer
his open, genial self.

What astonished me most, however, was
the facility with which the Baron made a cats-
paw of him. For the olci Vicomte slowly
stepped down as it were from his high stand-
point of indifference, and allowed himself to
be interested in the financier's schemes. It
w^as out of keeping with the attitude which

FINANCE.

lOl

my patron liad assumed a few days earlier at
the meetiiii;' wliicli we liad attended, and I
was more llian ever convinced that the Vi-
comte was too old and too simple to hold his
own in a world of scoundrels.

The Haron led him on from one admission
to another, and at last it was settled that
twenty miilii^ns of francs were to be brouj^ht
to the llotel Clericy and placed in the Vi-
comte's keei)inj4-. To my mind the worst
part of the transaction lay in the fact that the
financier had succeeded in saddling my patron
with a certain moral responsibility which the
old man was in no way called upon to
assume.

" Then," he said. " I may safely leave the
matter thus in your hands? 1 may sleep to-
night?"

"Ah!" replied the other. "Yes — you
may sleep, my friend."

** And Monsieur shares the responsibil-
ity?" added the upstart, turning to me.

" Of course — for all I am worth," was my
rei)ly, and I did not at the time think that
even the X'icomte, whose faculties were
keener in such matters, saw the sarcasm in-
tended by the words.

" Then I am satisfied." the Baron was kind
enough to say; and I thought that his low
origin came suddenly to the fore in the
manner in which he bowed. A low origin
is like an hereditary disease — it will bear no
strain,

:il

)

hi*

I 02

FINANCE.

" By the way," he said, pausing near the
door, having risen to go, " you have not told
me the name of your trusted messenger."

And l)efore the Vicomte opened his Hps
the answer flashed across my mind.

** Charles Miste," he said.

i^ii

CHAPTER X.

THE GOLDEN SPOON.

" Nous avons tous assez de force pour supporter
les tnaux d'autrui."

A few (lays later I received a letter from
Madame de Clericy, "I write," it ran, "to tell
you of the satisfaction that Lucille and 1 have
found in the improvements you initiated
here. I laugh — mon ami — when I think of
all that you did in three days. It seems as if
a strong and energetic wind — such as I ima-
gine your English breezes to be — had blown
across my old home, leaving it healthier,
purer, better; leaving also those within it
somewhat breathless and surprised. I sup-
pose that many Englishmen are like you, and
suspect that they will some day master the
world. We have had visitors, among others
Alphonse Giraud, whom I believe you do not
yet know. If contrasts are nuitually attrac-
tive, then you will like him. T wonder if you
know, or suspect, that he is more or less an
acknowledged aspirant to Lucille's hand,
but—"

Madame de Clericy had run her pen
through the last word, leaving it, however,
legible. And here she began a new subject,
asking mc, indeed, to write and give her
news of the Vicomte. I am no indoor man

.r-

104

THE GOLDEN SPOON.

i/ir

or subtle analyst of a motive — much less of a
.woman's motive, if, indeed, women are so
often possessed of such, as some ijelieve — but
the obliterated word and Madame de Clericy's
subsequent embarkation on a new subject
made me pause while 1 deciphered her letter.

It had originally been arranged that the
Vicomte should follow the ladies to La
Pauline, leaving me in Paris to attend to
my duties, but the sudden political crisis led
to a delay in his departure. In truth, I
gathered from Madame's letter that he must
have written to her saying that the visit was
at present impossible. Madame, in fact,
asked me to advise her by return of the state
of the Vicomte's health, and plainly told me
that if business matters were worrying him
she would return to Paris without delay.

And if Madame returned she would bring
Lucille with her, and thus put an end to the
aspirations of Alphonse Giraud, for the per-
secution of which the seclusion of La Paul-
ine afforded excellent opportunity. I had
but to write a word to bring all this about.
Did Madame de Clericy know all that she
placed within my power ? Did she know,
and yet place it there purposely ? Who can
tell ? I remembered Lucille's coldness —
her departure without one word of explan-
ation. I recollected that the twenty million
francs at that moment in the Hotel Clericy
would, in due course, be part of Alphonse

THE GOLDEN SPOON.

105

Giraiul's fortune. I was tiiindful, lastly, that
in England we are taught to ride straight,
and I sat down and wrote to Madame that
her husband was in good health, and that
I quite hoped to see him depart in a few days
for La Pauline. 1 will not deny that the
letter went into the post-box followed by a
curse.

We may, however, write letters and post
them. We may — if we be great men — indite
despatches and give them into the hands of
trusty messengers, and a little twirl of For-
tune's wheel will send all our penmanship
to the winds.

While I was smoking a pipe and decipher-
ing a long communication received from the
gentleman who further entangled my affairs
in England, a visitor was announced to me.

'' Monsieur Alphonse Giraud."

'' Why?" I wondered as I rose to receive
this gentleman. " Why, Monsieur Alphonse
Giraud?"

He was already in the doorway, and, I
made no doubt, had conceived an ultra-Brit-
ish toilet for the occasion. For outwardly
he was more English than myself. He came
forward, holding out his hand, and I thought
of Madame's words. Were we to become
friends ?

" Monsieur Howard," he said, " I have to
apologize. Mon Dieu! — to think that you

io6

THE GOLDEN SPOON.

have been in Paris three months, and I have
never called to place myself at your disposi-
tion! And a friend of Alfred Gayerson, of
that good, stout John Turner — of half a
dozen hardy English friends of mine."

^ was about to explain that his oversight
had a good excuse in the fact that my exist-
ence must have been unknown to him, but he
silenced me with his two outstretched hands,
waving a violent negation.

" No — no!" he said, smiting himself griev-
ously on the chest. "I have no excuse. You
say that I was ignorant of your existence —
then it was my business to find it out. Ignor-
ance is often a crime. An English gentle-
man — a sportsman — a fox-hunter! For you
chase the fox, I know. I see it in your l)rown
face. And you belong to the English Jockey
Club — is it not so?"

I admitted that it was so, and Alphonse
Giraud's emotion was such that he could only
press my hand in silence.

"Ah, well!" he cried almost immediately,
with the utmost gaiety. '* We have begun
late, but that is no reason why it should not
be a good friendship — is it?"

And he took the chair I offered with such
hearty good-will that my cold English sym-
pathy was drawn towards him.

" I came but yesterday from the South,"
he went on. " Indeed, from La Pauline,
where I have been paying a delightful visit.

THE GOLDEN SPOON.

107

Madame de Clericy — so kind — and Mademoi-
selle Lucille — "

He twisted up the unsuccessful side of his
moustache, and <;ave a (|uick little sigh. Then
he remembered his scarf, and attended to the
horseshoe pin that adorned it.

" You know my father." he said, suddenly,
** the — er — Baron Giraud. He has been more
fortunate than myself in making your ac-
(|uaintance earlier."

I bowed and said what was necessary.

*'A kind man — a dear man," said the
Baron's son. ** But no sportsman. Figure
to yourself — he fears an open window."

He laughed and shrugged his little shoul-
ders.

" I dare say many Englishmen would not
understand him."

*' I am not of those," replied L " I
understand him and appreciate his many able
qualities."

From which it will be seen that I can lie as
well as any man.

'* The poor dear has been called to Paris,
on his affairs. Not that I understand them.
I have no head for affairs. Even my tailor
cheats me — but what will you? He can cut
a good coat, and one must forgive him. My
father's hotel in the Champs Elysoes is unin-
habitable at the moment. The whitewashers!
— and they sing so loud and so false, as white-
washers ever do. The poor man is desolated

I'll

io8

THE GOLDEiN SPOOxN.

in an apparloncHi in the Hotel Bristol. I am
all rif^lit. 1 have my own lo<l^ing — a mere
bachelor kennel — where 1 hope to see you
soon and often."

He threw his card on the table, rising to
go, and timing his departure with that tact
and grace which is only compassed by
Frenchmen or Spaniards.

Scarcely had 1 regained my room, after
duly admiring Alphonse Giraud's smart dog-
cart, when the servant again appeared. The
Baron Giraud had arrivecl to see the Vicomte,
who happened to be out. The affairs of the
Baron were urgent, and he desired to see me
— was, indeed, awaiting me with impatience
in Monsieur de Clericy's study.

Thither I hastened, and found the great
financier in that state of perturbation and
perspiration which the political crisis seemed
to have rendered chronic. He was, however,
sufficiently himself to remember that I was a
paid dependent.

" How is this?" he cried. " I call to see the
Vicomte on important affairs, and he is out."

" It is," T replied, " that the Vicomte de
Clericy is not a man of affairs, but a gentle-
man of station and birth- -that this is not an
office, but a nobleman's private house."

And T suppose T looked towards the door,
for the Baron gasped out something that
might have been an apology, and looked
redder in the face.

THE GOLDKX SlH)ON.

109

*' Rut, iny ^ood sir," he whined chstracl-
edly. " it is a matter of the iitiiiost s^ravity.
It is a crisis in the money market. A turn of
tlie wheel may make me a poor man. Where
is the Vicomte? Where are my twenty mil-
lion francs?"

*' The Vicomte has i^one out, as is his cus-
tom before dejeuner, and your twenty mil-
lions are, so far as I know, safe in this house.
I have not the keeping of either."

"But you took the responsibility," snapped
the Baron.

* For all that I am worth — namely, one
hundred and twenty pounds a year, out of
which I have to find my livery."

" Can you go out and find the Vicomte?
I will wait here," asked the Baron, in the
utmost distress. It is indeed love that makes
the world go round — love of money.

" I know where he is usually to be found,"
was my reply, " and can go and seek him. I
will return here in half an hour if I fail to tind
him."

" Yes — yes; go, my good sir — go! And
God be with you!" W^ith which ina])pro-
priate benediction he almost pushed me out
of the room.

On making inquiries of the servants, T
found my task more difficult than I had
anticipated. Monsieur de Clericy had not
taken the carriage, as was his habit. He had

I lO

TllK GOLDEN SPOON.

gone out on foot, carrying, as the I)utler told
me, a bundle of papers in his hand.

" They had the air of business papers of
value — so closely he held them," added the
man.

He had taken the direction of the Boule-
vard, with the intention, it appeared, of call-
ing a cab. I hurried, however, to the Vi-
comte's favourite club, and learned that he
had not been seen there. His habits being
more or less known to me. I prosecuted my
search in such (piarters as seemed likely, but
without success.

At the Cercle de 1' Union I ran against John
Turner, who was reading the Times there.

"Ah!" he said, '* young Howard. Come to
lunch, I suppose. You look hungry — gad,
what a twist vou had that dav! Tust in time.
I can tell you what is worth eating."

" Thanks; you know such advice is wasted
on a country boor like myself. No; I came
seeking the Vicomte de Clericy. Have you
seen him?"

''Ah ! you are still with old Clericy;
thought you were up to some mischief — so
(1 — d f|uiet. Then Mademoiselle is kind?"

"Mademoiselle is away," I answered. "Do
you know anything of the Baron Giraud?"

" Do I know anything of the devil,"
growled John Turner, returning to the per-
usal of his newspaper. "Are he and old
Clericy putting their heads together? I

THE GOLDEN SruUN.

Ill

would not trust Giraud with ten sous so far
as the club door."

"Exactly!"

*' Then he and old Cleric y are at ii — arc
they?" said John Turner, looking ai nic over
the Times with his twinkling eyes. '\\m\ you,
Monsieur, le aecretaire, are anxious about
your patron. Ha. ha! Vou have a lot to
learn yet, Master Uick."

1 looked impatiently at the clock. Twenty
minutes had alreaily Ijeen wasted in my fruit-
less search.

** Then you haven't seen de Clericy?"

" No — my good boy — 1 haven't. And if
you cannot find him you may be sure that it
is because he tloes not want to be found."

The words followed me as 1 left the room.
It seemed that John Turner believed in no
man.

There was nothing for it but to return to
the Rue des Palmiers. and tell the Baron that
I had failed to find my patron. The cab I
had hired was awaiting me. and in a few min-
utes I was rattling across the bridge of the
Holy Fathers.

" Monsieur le Vicomte returned a few min-
utes ago," the butler told me. '* He has gone
to the study, and is ncnv with the Baron
Giraud. The Vicomte asked that you should
go to him at once."

The atmosphere of the old house seemed
gloomy and full of foreboding as I ran up the

'i'i

I IJ

Till-: (iOLDICX SPOON.

stairs. The servant stood at the open (hjor
and watched nic. In tliat unknown world
behind the j^^reen baize door more is known
than we suspect, and there is (»ften no sur-
prise there when we who live above stairs are
(hnnbfounded.

In my liaste 1 forgot to knock at Monsieur
de Clericy's door before opening it — indeed,
I think it was ajar.

'* My good friend," I heard as I entered
the room, " collect yourself. Be calm. We
are together in a great misfortune — the
money lias been stolen!"

The voice was that of my patron. I went
in and closed the door behind me. For it
seemed, to my fancy, that there were other
doors ajar upon the landing, and listeners on
the stairs.

The two old men were facing each other,
the one purple in the visage, with starting
eyes, the other wdiite and quiet.

'* Stolen?" echoed the Baron in a thick
voice, and with a wild look round the room.
"Then I am ruined!"

The old Vicomte spread out his trembling
hands in despair, a gesture that seemed to
indicate a crumbling away of the world be-
neath us.

The Baron Giraud turned and looked at
me. He did not recognize me for quite ten
seconds.

" Then it is not you," he said, thickly.

THE GULDKX Sl'OON. 113

"As you are there. Voii did not steal it."

'* No— I did not steal it," 1 answered
quietly, for there was a look in hi: ."ace that
1 did not understand, while it frightened nie.
Suddenly his eyes shot red—his face was
almost black. He fell forward into my arms,
and I tore his collar oflf as 1 laid him to the
ground.

"Ah, mon Dieu, nion Dieu!" the Vicomte
was cryin^r as he ran hither and thither,
wnnging his hands, while 1 attended, un-
skdlfully enough, to the stricken man. " Ah
mon Dieu! what is this?"

" It is death," I answered, with my hand
mside the Baron's shirt. '* Who stole that
money?"

The Vicomte looked at me.
" Charles Miste," he said.

CHAPTER XI.

THEFT.

" La fortune ne laisse rien perdre pour les hommes

heureux."

I thus returned Alphonse Giraud's visit
sooner than either of us anticipated, for T
had to go and tell him what had happened in
the Rue des Palmiers. I delivered my news
in as few words as possible, and cannot tell
how he took the evil tidings, for when I had
spoken I walked to the window, and there
stood looking down into the street.

" Have you told me all?" asked Giraud at
length, wondering, perhaps, that I lingered.

'' No."

I turned and faced him, the little French
dandy, in his stifT collar and patent-leather
boots — no bigger than a girl's. The polite-
ness of our previousi intercourse seemed to
have fallen away from us.

" No — I have not told you all. It seems
likely that you, like myself, have been left a
poor man."

" Then we have one reason more for being
good friends," said Giraud, in his quick
French way.

He rose and looked round the room.

"All the same, I have had a famous time."
he said. " Come, let us go to my father."

I [ i'

THEFT.

115

We found the Hotel Clericy in that state
of hushed expectation which follows the
dread visit in palace and hut alike. The ser-
vants seemed to have withdrawn to their own
quarters to discuss the event in whispers
there. We found the Vicomte in my study,
still much agitated and broken. He was sit-
ting in my chaii, the tears yet wet upon his
wrinkled cheek. There was a cpiick look of
alertness in his eyes, as if the scythe had
hissed close by in reaping the mature grain.

"Ah! my poor boy — my poor boy," he
cried when he saw Alphonse, and they em-
braced after the manner of their race.

"And it is all my fault," continued the
broken old man, wringing his hands and sink-
ing into his chair again.

" No!" cried Alphonse, with characteristic
energy. " We surely cannot say that, with-
out questioning — well — a wiser judgment
than ours."

He paused, and perhaps remembered dimly
some of the teaching of a good, simple
bourgeoise who had died before her hus-
band fingered gold. I sought to quiet the
Vicomte also. Old men, like old clothes,
need gentle handling. I sat down at my
table and began to write.

" What are you doing?" asked the Vi-
comte, sharply.

" I am telegraphing lo Madame de Clericy
to return home."

ii6

THEFT.

There was a silence in the room while I
wrote out the message and despatched it by
a servant. The Vicomte made no attempt to
stop me.

" Here," he said, when the door was
closed — and he handed Giraud the key of his
own study, " The doctors and — the others —
have ])]aced him in my room — that is the key.
You must consider this house as your own
until the funeral is over; your poor father's
house, I know, is in disorder."

Monsieur de Clericy would have it that the
Baron should be buried from the Rue des
Palmiers, which Alphonse Giraud recognized
as in some sort an honour, for it proclaimed
to the world the esteem in which the upstart
nobleman was held in high quarters.

" I am glad," said my patron, with that air
of fatherliness which he wore towards me
from the first, *' that you have telegraphed
for my wife — the house is different when she
is in it. When can she be here?"

'■ It is just possible that she may be with us
to-morrow at this time — by driving rapidly
to Toulon."

" With promptitude," muttered the Vi-
comte, musingly.

" Ves — such as one may expect from
Madame."

The Vicomte looked up at me with a smile.

''Ah! — you have discovered that. One is

If ^i

THEFT.

117

le.
is

never safe with you men who know horses.
You find out so much from observation."

But 1 think it is no great thing to have (Us-
covered that one may usually look for prompt
action in men and women of a quiet tongue.

Lucille's name was not mentioned between
us. My own desires and feelings had been
pushed into the background by the events of
the last few days, and he is l)Ut half a man
who cannot submit cheerfully to such treat-
ment at the hand of Fate from time to time.

During the day we learnt further details
respecting the theft of the money, amounting
in all to rather more than eight hundred
thousand pounds of our coinage. Miste, it
appeared, had been instructed to leave Paris
by the eight o'clock train that morning for
London, taking with him a large sum. The
Vicomte had handed him the money the pre-
vious evening.

" I carelessly replaced the remainder in the
draw'er of my writing-table," my patron told
us, " before the eyes of that scoundrel. I
went to the draw^er this morning, having been
uneasy about so large a sum — it was ar-
ranged that I should see Miste off from the
Gare du Nord. Figure to yourselves! The
drawer was empty. I hastened to the railway
station. Miste was, of course, not there."

And he rocked himself backwards and for-
w'ards in the chair. What trouble men take
for money — what trouble it brings them!

r ]

' ii

Ii8

THEFT.

;J1

So distressed was he that it would perhaps
have been wiser to change the current of his
thoughts, but there was surely work here for
an idle man like myself to do.

*' How was the money to be conveyed?"
I asked.

" In cheques of ten thousand pounds each,
drawn by John Turner on various European
and American bankers in favour of myself."

*'And you had indorsed these cheques?"

" No."

" Then how can Miste realize them?" I
asked.

"By forgery — my friend," replied the Vi-
comte sadly. Which was true enough. I
thought of Monsieur Miste's graceful figure
— of his slim neck, and longed to get my
fingers around it. I had only seen his back,
after all — and had a singular desire to know
the look of his face. I am no great reader,
but have met some w^ords which go well with
the thoughts I harboured at this time of Mon-
sieur Charles Miste, for I could

" Read rascal in the motions of his baclc,
And scoundrel in the subtle sliding knee."

Seeing that I had risen, the Vicomte asked
me where I was going, in a tone of anxiety
which I had noted in his voice of late, and,
in my vanity, attributed to the fact that he
was in some degree dependent upon myself.

" I am going to see John Turner, and then

THEFT.

119

If.

[ am going to seek Charles Miste until I find
him."

Before I knew what had happened, Al-
phonse Giraud was shaking my hand, and
would have embraced me had he not remem-
bered in time his English clothes, and the
reserve of manner usually observed inside
such habiliments.

"Ah! my friend," he said, desperately,
" the world is large."

*' Yes; but not roomy enough for Mon-
sieur Charles Miste and your humble ser-
vant."

I spent the remainder of the day with John
Turner, who was cynical enough about the
matter, but gave me, nevertheless, much val-
uable information.

" You may be sure," he said, " that I did
not sign the cheques until Clericy and the
Baron had handed over the equivalent in
notes and gold. One man's scare is another
man's profit."

And my stout friend chuckled. He heard
my plans and laughed at them.

" Very honourable and fine, but out of
date," he said, " You will not catch him, but
you W'ill, no doubt, enjoy the chase im-
mensely, and in the meantime you will leave
a clear field for Alphonse Giraud aupres de
Mademoiselle."

I instituted inquiries the same evening,
and determined to await the result before

■i

120

THEFT.

setting off to seek Miste in person. Nor will
1 deny that this decision was brought about,
in part, by the reflection that Madame de
Clericy and Lucille might arrive the follow-

mg mornnig.

At the Lyons station the next morning I
had the satisfaction of seeing the two ladies
step from the Marseilles express. Lucille
would scarcely look at me. During the drive
to the Rue des Palmiers I acquainted Ma-
dame with the state of affairs, and she lis-
tened to my recital with a grave attention
and a quiet occasional glance into my face
which w'ould have made it difficult to tell
aught but the truth.

When we reached home Alphonse Giraud
had gone out; the Vicomte was still in his
room. He had slept little and w^as much dis-
turbed, the valet told us. As we mounted
the stairs, 1 saw the two ladies glance instinc-
tively tow^ards the closed door of the Vi-
comte's study. We are all curious respecting
death and vice. Madame went straight to her
husband's apartment. At the head of the
stairs the door of the morning-room stood
open. It was the family rendezvous, where
we usually found the ladies at the luncheon
hour.

Lucille went in there, leaving the door
open behind her. I have always rushed at
my fences, and have had the falls I merited.
I followed Lucille into the sunlit room. She

THEFT.

121

must have heard my footsteps, but took no
notice— walking to the window, and standing
there, rested her two hands on the sill while
she looked down into the garden
''Mademoiselle!"

She half turned her head with a little
haughty toss of it, looking not at me, but at
the ground beneath her feet.
'' Well, Monsieur?"
" In what have I offended you?"
She shrugged her shoulders, and I, look-
mg at her as she stood with her back to me,
knew again and always that the world con-
tained but this one woman for me.

" Since I told you of my feeling towards
yourself," I went on, " and was laughed at for
my pams, I have been careful not to take ad-
vantage of my position in the house. I have
not been so indiscreet again."

She was playing with the blind-cord in an
attitude and humour so youthful that I had a
sort of tugging at the heart.

" Perhaps, though," I continued, " I have
offended in my very discretion. I should
nave told you again— that I love you— that
you might again enjoy the joke."
She stamped her foot impatiently.
" Of course," she said, " you are cleverer
than I— you can be sarcastic, and say things
I do not know how to answer."

^t"7^".^^" ^* ^^^^^ answer my question-
Mademoiselle."

122

THEFT.

She turned and faced me with angry eyes.

'* Well — then. 1 do not like the ways of
English gentlemen."

"Ah!"

" You told me that you were not poor, hut
rich — that you had not hecome my father's
secretary because such a situation was neces-
sary, hut — but for quite another reason."

" Yes."

**And I learned immediately afterwards
from Mr. Gayerson that you are penniless,
and must work for your living."

'' Merely because Alfred Gayerson knew
more than I did," I replied. " I did not know
that my father in the heat of a passing quarrel
had made such a will — or, indeed, could make
it if he so desired. I was not aware of this
when I spoke to you — and, knowing it now,
I must ask you to consider my words unsaid.
You may be sure that I shall not refer to
them again, even with the hope of making
you merry."

She laughed suddenly.

" Oh." she said, " I find plenty to amuse
me — thank you. You need not give yourself
the trouble. D'nllleurs," she paused and
looked at me with a quick and passing
gravity, "that has never been your role. Mon-
sieur I'Anglais — you are not fitted for it."

She pulled a long face — such as mine, no
doubt, appeared in her eyes — and left me.

I had business that took me across the

THEFT.

123

Seine during the morning, and lunched at a
clul) — so did not again see the hidies until
later in the day. The desire of speech with
Alphonse Giraud on a matter connected with
his father's burial took me hack to the Rue
des Palmiers in the afternoon, when I learnt
from the servant that the Baron's son had
returned, and was, so far as he knew, still in
the house. I went to the drawing-room and
there found Madame alone.

'T am seeking Monsieur Alphonse Giraud,"
I said.

" Whose good genius you are."

" Not that I am aware of, Madame."

" No," she said slowly, " that is just it. In
a crowded street the strongest house does
not know how many weaker buildings are
leaning against it. Alphonse Giraud is not a
strong house. He will lean against you if you
permit it. So be warned."

"By my carelessness," I answered, "I have
done Alphonse Giraud a great injury — I have
practically ruined him. Surely the least T
can do is to attempt to recover for him that
which he has lost."

Madame de Clericy was of course engaged
in needlework. I never saw her fingers idle.
It appeared that at this moment she had a
diflFiCult stitch to execute.

" One never knows," she said, without
looking up, " what is the least or the most
that men can do. We women look at things

124

THEFT.

■■I

in a different li^ht, and therefore cannot say
wlial is right or what is wrong; it is better
that men slionhl judge for themselves."
" Yes," 1 said.

" Of course," said Madame de Clericy,
quietly, ** if you recover Alphonse's fortune
you will earn his gratitude, for without it the
Vicomte would never recognize his preten-
sions to Lucille's hand."

" Of course," I answered; and Madame's
clever eyes were lifted to my face for a mo-
ment.

'' You think it the least you can do?"
" I do," said I. " Can you tell me if Al-
phonse Giraud is in this house?"
"No; I cannot."

" Perhaps Mademoiselle Lucille "

** Perhaps. You can ask her — if you like."
Madame looked at me again. And I made
my enquiries elsewhere.

CHAPTER XII.

BDIN.

" I! ne faut reg.rder dans ses amis que la seuk ver.u
qui nous attache a eux."

If the Baron GiraucI was unable in the na-
ture o Innnan altairs to take his wealth with
n,. ,t accompanied him, at all events, to

o XT'- 7''''' '^'"'^^^ '"^''^ - fi"<^ show
worfk ; "> T "."f " S''""'^'' consolatory
«ords, aid cherub-faced bovs swung theni'-
selves and censers nonchalanily aIon| s" c
who owed their wealth to Giraud sent the
empty carriages to n,ourn his <lecease: others

eathes" of ""■ f"" "' '''"<^^^' "'^^^^'^^
grave " °''"'' '° '^^ '^''' "P°" '-is

The Vicomte had been early astir that
■noi-nin,^: i„clee.l, I heard him moving be ore
'laylifih n, the room where the coffin was
was gl^l w,,en that san,e mortting ^al ed'
for ,,,y kind old patron seemed ^„,hi,^ed'
by these events, and couW not keep af.y
from the apartment where the Baron' la" '
froL thl r'' ?^ T"'"'- "° k^<^Pi"? him

t nded at d"r ■ ^''"' u^^'"^'"°">' ' ^^^^ «"
t was when ^''"' '^'"^ '''^' '="■'" f° <^'-"-th

cier to his lasr' T'^T'^ "^^ ^''^-''t «"«"-
a Kl -n h I ■■'^fing^-place. Alphonse Gir-
aud, ,n his absurd French way, eiiibraced me

126

RUIN.

wlien llic last carriaj^e drove away from the
gates of Tere la Chaise.

*' And now, nion ami," he said, with a siy;h
of relief, " let us f(o and lunch at the club."

He meant no disrespect towards his de-
parted sire, it was merely that his elastic
nature could not always he at a tension. His
quick brit^ht face was made for smiles, and
naturally relaxed to that happy state. He
clapped me on the back.

** You are my best friend," he cried.

And I had, indeed. arran,i;ed the funeral
for him. Those who had honoured the cere-
mony with their ])resence showx'd much sym-
pathy for Alphonse. They i)ressed his hand;
some of them embraced him. A few — elderly
men with dauj^hters — told him that they felt
like fathers towards him. All this Alphonse
received with a bland innocence which his
Parisian education had no doubt taught him.

When they w^ere gone, rattling away in
their new^ carriages, he looked after them
with a laugh.

" And now," he said, " for ruin. I wonder
what it w^ill be like — new at all events. And
we all live for novelty nowadays. There is
the price of a luncheon at the club, however.
Come, my friend, let us go there."

" One change you must, at all events, be
prepared for," I said, as we stepped into his
carriage. " A change of friends."

Alphonse understood and laughed. Cynic-

i
I

■li^

RUIN.

1^7

ism is ail arid growth, found lo perfection on
the pavement, and this little Frenchman wore
his boots out thereon.

During hmcheon my host recovered his
spirits; ahhough, to do him justice, he was
melancholy enough when he remembered
his recent loss. Once or twice he threw
down his knife and fork, and for quite three
minutes all fcjod and drink were nauseous to
him.

"Ah!" he cried, "that poor old man. It
tears the heart to think of him."

lie sat for a few moments with his chin
in the palm of his hand, and then slowly
took up again the things of this life, wielding
them heartily enough.

" I wonder," he went on in a rellective
voice. " if I did my duty towards him. It was
not difficidt, only to make a splash and spend
money, and I did that — beautifully!"

" Coffee and chart re use,'' he said to the
waiter, when we had finished. "And leave
the bottle on the table. Vou know," he
added, addressing me, his face beaming with
conscious ])ride, his hand laid impressively
on my arm — *' you know this club drinks
chartreuse in claret glasses. It is our great
distinguishing feature."

W^hile religiously observing this law we

fell to discussing the future

)serv

't-.

One cannot," obj

companion,
philosophically, ** bring on the thunder-

128

RUIN.

I I

storm, however heavy the air may be. One
can only gasp and wait. I suppose the crash
will come soon enough. But tell me how I
stand; I have not had time to think the last
few days."

He had, indeed, thought only of others.

" We have," answered I, " done all that is
])ossil)le to stop the payment of these cheques;
1)ut a clever villain might succeed in realizing
them one by one in different parts of the
world, and thus outwit us."

" I wonder how it is," said my companion,
afloat on a side issue like any woman, " that
a fool like myself — an incompetent ass with
no l)rains, eh? — always finds such a friend as
you."

He leant forward and tapped me on the
chest in his impulsive way, as if sounding
that part of me.

"A solid man," he added, apparently satis-
fied with the investigation.

" I do not know%" answered I, truthfully
enough; "unless it be that solid men are
fools enough to place themselves in such a
position."

" How have you placed yourself in such
a position? When you have finished that cup
of coffee — you have no sugar, by the way —
vou have but to take vour hat and — 'Bon
jour.' ^'ou leave me still in your debt."

With a few quick gestures he illustrated his
argument, so that I saw myself — somewhat

RUIN.

129

■

siift and British, with my hat upon my head
— quit the room, having wished him good
day, and leaving him overwhehiied in mv
debt in a chair.

" 1 told your father that I would share the
responsibility as regarded the safety of his
inoney, 1 replied. " It was said only half in
earnest, Init he took it seriously."

"Ah! the poor, dear man! He always
took money matters seriously," put in \1-
phonse.

I am, at all events, going to try to re-
cov.^r your wealth for you. Besides, I have
a singiilar desire to twist the neck of Mon-
sieur Charles Miste. 1 ought to have known
tliat the \ icomte was too old to he trusted
with the arrangement of affairs such as that.
V our tather knew it, but thought that I was
taking an active part in the matter. I was a

''Ah! said Alphonse Giraud, "we are all
^ools. mon cher, or knaves."

And long afterwards, remembering the
words. I recognized that truth often bubbles
to the lips of irresponsible people

I told him of my plans, which were simple
enough, for I had called in the aid of men
whose profession it was to deal with scoun-

Ih I •/ " ""r'-' ""^'^ '''^ ^"^^^ ^''^e ^»'^t we
think It complicated or interesting. There is
really no man so simple as vour thorough
scoundrel. A picture all shade is less diffi-

130

RUIN.

I m

cult to comprehend than one where Hght
and shade are mingled. 1 had only asked to
be put on the track of Charles Aliste, for evil
men, like water, run in one channel and one
direction only. I wished to deal with him
myself, law or no law. Indeed, there had
been a sufhciency of law and lawyers in my
affairs already.

"And I will help you," exclaimed Alphonse
Giraud, when he had heard, not without in-
terruption, my proposed plan of campaign.
" I will go with you."

" No; you cannot do that. You may be
sure that Miste has accomplices who will, of
course, watch you, and warn him the moment
they suspect you of being on the right scent.
Whereas I am nobody. Miste does not even
know me. I wish I knew him."

And I remem1)ered with regret how igno-
rant I was.

''Besides," I added, "you surely have other
calls. The Vicomte requires some one near
him — the ladies will be glad of your advice
and assistance."

He was scarcely the man to whom I should
have applied for either, but one can never
tell with women. Some of them look up to
us when we know in our hearts that we are
no better than asses.

We talked of details which may well be
omitted here, for the majority of them were
l)ased upon assumptions subsequently to be

RUIN.

131

proved erroneous. It seemerl flmf \i,.i
Cii.aucl had al„,ost give,:';; H,op o'^

aneu in l„s breast so his face grew graver
A gi-eat hope „,akes a gra^•e fact ^

lieve that 'Zll "'''''' '/' ■'""■''• '•"'^'^^"'« l>e-

changea '.he"suiiecr'Tl i '' '"' ■ '"^''"""'^'y
me. suDjecl. His gravity disturbed

But he returned to his thought again and

again.

'•It is not the money," he said at length

-5^|^l:eaga-rs--:--p--

ne said, I never noticed it liefore I nitv
tliat poor Miste, \ou kno«- if "^ ?

him" Know— If you catch

<ws^rhrorv'ir;:uZ\.r^^^^^^^^^
r:vrrr-\'-^^-''- Hrs'';r

a-".osr4::do:":;;r,::™;T;ea-''^"/

R"e des Pahniers. ^ '^"""^ "'<=

i!!

132

RUIN.

•f ' ill

"Ah!" he said, *' what a terrible day — and
that poor Alphonse! How did you leave
him?"

I thought of Alphonse as I had left him,
smiling under his mourning hat-band, wav-
ing a black glove gaily to me in farewell.

** Oh," I answered, "Alphonse will soon be
himself again."

"Ah, my friend," exclaimed the Vicomte,
after a sorrowful pause, *' the surprises of life
are all unpleasant. Pfuit!" He spread out
his hands suddenly as if indicating a quick
flight, " and I lose a friend and four hundred
thousand francs in the twinkling of an eye.
To think that a mere shock can kill a man as
it killed the poor Baron."

" He had no neck, and systematically ate
too much," I said. " I am now going to see
if we cannot repair some of the harm that has
been done."

" How?" asked the old man, with all the
suspicion that had recently come into his
character.

" I am going to look for Miste."

He shook his head.

"Very quixotic, but quite useless," said he;
and then set himself to dissuade me from my
quest with every argument that he could
bring to bear upon me. Some of these, in-
deed, I thought he might well have omitted.

" We cannot spare you at this time, when
the political world is so disturbed, and inter-

RUIN.

^33

nal affairs are on the brink of catastrophe.
We cannot spare you, 1, the Vicomtesse —
Lucille. It was only last night that she was
rejoicing at your presence with us in our time
of trouble. I shall tell her that you wish to
leave us, and she will, 1 am sure, dissuade
you."

Which treat he carried out, as will be re-
corded later. I was, however, fixed in my
determination, and only gave way in so far
as to promise to return as soon as possible.
These details are recorded thus at length, as
they are all links of a chain which pieced itself
together in my life. Such links there are in
the story of every human existence, and no
incident seems to stand quite alone.

After dinner that evening I went to my
own study, leaving the Vicomte to join the
ladies in the drawing-room without me. So
far as I was able I had arranged during the
last few days the affairs which had been con-
fidingly placed in my care, and desired to
leave books and papers in such a condition
that a successor could at once take up the
thread of management.

The Vicomte was so disturbed at the men-
tion of my departure that the topic had been
carefully avoided during dinner, though I
make no doubt that he knew my purpose in
refusing to go to the drawing-room.

I was at work in my room — between the
two tall candles — when the rustle of a wo-

134

RUIN.

man's dress in the open doorway made me
look up. Lucille had come into the room —
her eyes bright, her cheeks Hushed. And 1
knew, or thought 1 knew, her thoughts.

" My father tells me that you are going to
leave us," she said in her impetuous way.

" Yes, Mademoiselle."

"I have come to ask you not to do so. You
may — think what you like."

I did not look at her, but guessed the ex-
pression of her determined lips.

"And you are too proud," I said, " to
explain. You think that I, like a school-boy,
am going off in a fit of w^ounded vanity —
jileased to cause a little inconvenience, and
thus prove my own importance. You think
that it is yourself who sends me away, and
your father cannot afford to lose my services
at this time. You consider it your duty to
suppress your own feelings, and tread under
foot your own pride — to serve the Vicomte.
Your pride further prompts you to give me
permission to think what I like of you. Thank
you Mademoiselle."

I was making pretence, in a shallow way,
no doubt, to study the papers on the table,
and Lucille standing before my desk was
looking down at my bent head, noting per-
haps the grey hairs there. Thus we remained
for a minute in silence.

Then turning, she slowly left the room, and
T would have given five years of my life to see
the expression of her face.

CHAPTER XIII.

TIIK SHADOW AOAIN.

' i

" Qui ne craint pas la mort craint done la vie."

As I sat in my study, tlie sounds of the
house gra(hially ceased, and the quiet of nig'ht
settled down ])etween its ancient walls. It
seemed to me at times that the Vicomte was
moving in his own room. 1 knew, however,
that the passage hetween us was locked on
both sides. My old patron had said nothing
to me on the subject, but I had found the
door bolted and the key removed. I never
w'as the man to intrude upon another privacy,
and respected the Vicomte's somewhat in-
comprehensible humour at this time.

I scarcely knew at what hour I at last went
to bed; but the oil in my lamp was nearly
exhausted and the candles had burnt low.
Taking up one of these, I went to my bed-
room, pausing at the head of the black stair-
case to listen as one instinctively does in a
great silence. The household was asleep.
A faint patter broke the stillness; Lucille's
dog — a small white shadow in the gloom —
came towards me from her bedroom, outside
of which he slept. He looked up at me with
a restrained jerk of the tail, for we were always
friends, and his expression said:

136

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

■ «1?

"Anything wrong?"

He glanced back over his shoulder to
Lucille's door, as if to intimate that his own
charge was, at all events, safe; then he passed
me, and pressed his inquiring nose to the
threshold of the Vicomte's study door. He
was a singular little dog, with a deep sense of
responsibility, which he only laid aside in
Lucille's presence. In which he resembled
his betters. Men are usually at ease of mind
in the presence of one woman only. At night
I often heard him blowing the dust from his
nostrils at the threshold of my door, whither
he came to satisfy himself that I was in my
room and all well in the house before he
sought his own mat.

When I went softly to my bedroom he was
still sniffing at the study door.

I must have slept a couple of hours only
when my door handle w^as quietly turned,
and, being a light sleeper, I became aware of
a presence in the room before a touch was
laid upon my shoulder. It was Madame de
Clericy.

" Where is my husband?" she asked, and
added: " I thought he was sitting up with
you."

" No; I have been alone all the evening,"
answered I, with a quick feeling of uneasi-
ness.

" I do not think that he is in the house at
all," said Madame, moving towards the door.

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

137

" Will you get up and dress? You will find
me in the morning-room."

Lighting my candle, this woman of few
words left me. The dawn was creeping up
over the opposite roof and through the open
window; the freshness of the March air made
me shiver as I hurried into my clothes. In
the morning-room I found Madame de
Clericy.

'' Mother," Lucille had once said to me,
** always rises to the occasion, but the pro-
cess is not visible."

'' Come quietly," said Madame, speaking,
as, indeed, was her habit in regard to myself,
with a certain kindness and sympathy —
'' come quietly; for Lucille is asleep. I have
been to see."

She took it for granted that she and I
should consider Lucille before all else, and
the assumption gave me pleasure. Although
she said "Come," she stood aside and allowed
me to lead the way. We naturally went first
to the study. The door was locked. At the
entrance from my own room we were again
met by bars.

" Can you break it open?" asked Madame.

*' Not without noise. Let us make sure
that he is not elsewhere in the house first."

Together we went up and down the old
dwelling, and I traversed many corridors and
chambers for the first time. We found noth-
ing. It was beginning to get light when we
returned to my study.

138

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

*' Shall 1 break open the door?" I asked,
when 1 had unbarred the shutters.
'* Yes," answered Madame.
The door was a solid one of walnut, and not
to be broken open l)y mere pressure. While
I was moving some of the chairs in order to
give myself a run, Lucille came into the
room. She had hurried on a dressing-gown,
and her hair was all down her back, but she
was nuich too simple-minded to think that
such things mattered at such a moment.

" What is it?" she cried. " What are you
doing?"

Madame explained, and the two stood
hand in hand while I made ready to burst in
upon the mystery that lay behind that closed
door.

I took a run, and brought my shoulder to
bear just above the lock, wrenching the four
screws out of the wood by the force of the
blow. I staggered into the dark passage
beyond, with a sore shoulder and my heart
in my mouth. Madame and Lucille follow^ed.
I tried the handle of the door leading from
the passage to the Vicomte's study. The key
had not been turned.

" I will go in alone," I said, laying a hand
on Madame's arm, who gave me a candle,
and made no attempt to follow^ me.

After all, the precaution was unnecessary,
for the room w^as empty.

"You may come," I said; and the ladies

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

139

stood in the dimly lij4litcd clumiljcr. None
of us had eiilered there since the Haron
Giraud had come to occupy it in his coftin.
The (hist was thick on tlie writinL;-tahic.
Some tiowers, broken from ihe complimen-
tary wreaths, lay on the iloor. The air was
heavy. 1 kicked the withered lilies towards
the fireplace, and looked carefully round the
room. The furniture was all in order. Ma-
tlame went to the window and threw it open.
A river steamer moving cautiously in the
dawning light, cast its booming note over
the housetops towards us. The frog in the
fountain — a family friend — was croaking
comfortably in the courtyard below us.

" Lucille, my child," said Madame, (juietly,
** go back to bed. Your father is not in the
house. It will explain itself to-morrow."

But the face that Madame turned towards
me, when her daughter had reluctantly left
us, was not one that looked for a pleasant
solution to the mystery. It is said that wher-
ever a man may be cast he makes a little
world around him. But it seemed rather
that for me a world of ho])e and fear and in-
terest and suspense was forming itself, de-
spite me, encompassing me about so that I
could not escape it.

" I wiU go out," I said to Madame, and left
her abruptly. I had no plan or intention —
for where could I seek the Vicomte at that
hour — but a great desire came over me to get

140

Tin-: SHADOW AGAIN.

1: I

away from this gloomy house, where trouble
seemed to move and live.

The streets were empty. I walked slowly
to the tpKii, and then, turning to the left,
approached the palace of the D'Orsays, which
stood then, though to-day, in a tine irony,
the broken walls alone remain, amid the new
glory of republican Paris. 1 knew i was
going in the wrong direction, and at length,
with a queer feeling of shame, turned and
crossed to the Isle St. Louis.

Of course, the Vicomte had not done away
with himself! The idea was absurd. Aged
men do not lay violent hands upon them-
selves. It was different for Pavvle, a friend of
mine, who had shot himself as he descended
the club stairs, a ruined man. Nevertheless,
I walked instinctively to\vards the Cathedral
of Notre Dame, and past that building to the
little square house — like a roadside railway
station — where Paris keeps her nameless
dead.

Half guiltily I went in at one door and out
by the other. Two men lay on the slates —
the lowest of the low — and even the sancti-
fying hand of death could not allay the con-
viction that the world must necessarily be
the richer for their removal from it. I came
away and walked towards the river again.
Standing on one of the bridges, I never knew
which, I looked down at the slow green w^a-
ter. As I stood a municipal guard passed me

THK SHADOW AGAIN.

'41

with a suspicious glance. Tlie clocks of llie
city struck six in a solemn jangle of tones,
'i'lie boats were moving on tlie river — the
great imwieldy barges as big as a ship. The
streets were now astir. Paris seemed huge
and as populous as an ant-hill. I felt the
hopelessness of seeking unaided one who
puriwsely hid himself in its streets.

I went back to the Morgue and made some
incpiiries of the attendant there. Nay, I did
more — for why should a man l)e coward
enough to shut his eyes to patent fact? — T
gave my name and address to the courteous
official and asked him to send for me should
any news come hi way. Tt was plain enough
that the Comte de C'lericy had of late been
in such a state of mind that the worst fears
must needs be kept in view.

I went back to the Faubourg St. Germain
and crept quietly into the house of my patron
by the side door, of which he himself had
given me the key. Despite my noiseless
tread, Madame was waiting for rne at the
head of the stairs.

" Nothing?" she asked.

" Nothing," replied I, and avoided her per-
sistent eyes. To share an unspoken fear is
akin to the knowledge of a common crime.

At nine o'clock I sought John Turner in
his apartment in the Avenue D'Antan. almost
within a stone's throw of the British Em-
bassy. There are some to whom one natu-

142

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

rally turns in time of trouble and perplexity,
while the existence of others who are equally
important in their own estimation is at such
moments forgotten. Our fellows seem to
move around us in a circle — some step out of
the rank and touch us as they pass — one, if it
please God, comes out and stands beside us.
John Turner had, 1 suppose, touched me in
passing. He was at breakfast when I was
.^.lown into his presence.

" You are lo'-'king fresh and well," he said,
in his abrupt way, " so I suppose you are
engaged in some mischief."

*' Not exactly. But what I began in play
is continuing in earnest."

" Yes," he said, looking at me with his easy
smile while he dropped a piece of sugar into
his coffee-cup. " Yes; young men are fond
of walking into streams without ^ascertaining
the depth on the farther side."

" I suppose you were young yourself
once?" retorted I, bringing forward a chair.

*' Yes — but I was always fat. Women
always laughed at me behind my back. And,
with a woman half the fun is to let you know
her intention as she passes. I returned the
compliment in my sleeve."

" I do not see what women have to do in
this matter," said I.

" No — but I do. How is Mademoiselle
this morning? Sit down; have a cup of
coffee, and tell me all about her."

'■■,M -

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

143

I sat down and related to him the events
of the past night. Turner's face was grave
enough wlien I had linished, and 1 saw him
note with some surprise thai he had allowed
his coffee to get cold.

" I don't like the sound of it," he said.
"One never knows with a Frenchman — he is
never too old to talk of his mother, or make
an ass of himself."

The English banker was of the greatest
assistance to me during that most anxious
day. But we found no clew, nor discovered
any reason for the Vicomte's disappearance.
I went back in the evening to the Hotel
Clericy, and there found Madame de Clericy
and Lucille awaiting me, with that calmness
which is admirable when there is nothing else
but waiting to be done.

It was at eight o'clock in the evening that
the .ivplanation came, from a source as natu-
ral as it w'as unexpected. A letter was de-
livered by the postman for Afadame de
Clericy, who at once recognized her husband's
unsteady handwriting. She crossed the room,
and stood beside me while she opened the
envelope. Lucille, seeing the action, frowned,
as I thought. I was still under displeasure —
still learning that the better sort of woman
will not forgive deception so long as she her-
self is its motive, as cheap cynics would have
us believe.

Madame read the letter with that self-

I^p

144

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

? 1

repression which was habitual to her, and
made me ever wonder what her youth had
been. Lucille and 1 watched her in silence.

" There," she said, and gave me the letter
to pass to Lucille, who received it from my
hand without taking her eyes from her
mother's face. Then 1 quitted the room,
leaving the two w omen alone. Madame fol-
lowed me presently to the study, and there
gave me the Vicomte's last letter to read. It
was short and breathed of affection.

'* Do not seek for me," it ran. *' I cannot
bear my great misfortunes, and the world
will, perhaps, be less cruel to two women who
have no protector."

Madame handed me the envelope, which
bore the Passy postmark, and I read her
thoughts easily enough.

I saw John Turner again that evening, also
iVlphonse Giraud, who had called at the Hotel
Clericy during the day. With these gentle-
men I set off the next morning for Passy.
taking passage in one of those little river
steamers which we had all seen a thousand
times, without thinking of a nearer acquaint-

ance

This is gay," cried Alphonse, on w'hom
I lie sunshine had always an enlivening effect,
as we sped along. " This is what you call
sport — \i('d cc. ))((s? For you are a maritime
race, is it not so, Howard?"

" Yes," answered I, " we are a maritime

race.

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

145

:>"

lie

"And figure to yourself this is the iirst time
that 1 am atloat 011 anything larger than a
ferry-boat."

During our short trip Alphonse fully de-
cided that if his fortune should be recovered
he would buy a yacht.

*' Do you think you can recover it
he asked quite wistfully, his mind full of this
new scheme, and oblivious to the mournful
object of our journey.

At Passy we were received with shrugging
shoulders and outspread hands.

No, such an old gentleman had not been
seen — but the river was large and deep. If
one wanted — mon Dieu! — one could do such
a thing easily enough. To drag the river — yes
— but that cost money. Ten francs a day for
each man. It was hard w ork out there in the
stream. And if one found something — name
of a dog — it turned on the stomach.

We arranged that two men should drag
the river, and, after a weary day, went back
to Paris no wiser than we came.

In this suspense a week passed, while I,
unwilling to touch my patron's papers until
we had certain news of his death, could
render little assistance to Madame de Clericy
and Lucille. That the latter resented any-
tliing in the nature of advice or su.i;"^estion
was soon made clear enough to me. Xay!
she left no doubt of her distrust, and showed
this feeling whenever we exchanged words.

ll.-',> ■

146

THE SHADOW AGAIN.

** It is a small thing upon which to con-
demn a man, Mademoiselle,'' I said to her
one morning when chance left us together.
" I told you what i thought to be the truth.
Fate ruled that I was after all a poor man —
but I have not been proved a liar."

" I do not understand you," she answered,
with hard eyes. " You are such a strange
mixture of good and bad."

An hour afterwards I received a telegram
advising me that the body of the Vicomte de
Clericy had been found in the river at Passy.

CHAPTER XIV.

A LITTLE CLOUD.

" Rien ne nous rend si grand qu'une grande douleur."

Jr\

Alphoiise Giraucl and I — between whom
had sprung up tliat friendship of contrasts
which JMadanie de Clericy had foreseen —
were in constant communication. My sum-
mons brought him to the Hotel Clericy at
once, where he found the ladies already ap-
prised of their bereavement. He and I set of¥
again for Passy, by train this time, as our
need was more urgent. I despatched in-
structions to the Vicomte's lawyer to follow
by the next train — bringing the undertaker
with him. There was no heir to my patron's
titles, but it seemed necessary to observe
every formality at this, the dramatic extinc-
tion of a long and noble line.

As we drove through the streets, the news-
boys were shrieking some tidings which we
had neither time nor inclination to inquire
into at that moment. It was a hot July day,
and Paris should have been half empty, but
the pavements were crowded.

*' \Miat is the matter?" I said to Alphonse
Giraud, who was too ])usy with his horse to
look about. " See the faces of the men at the
cafes — they are wild with excitement and
some look scared. There is news afoot."

148

A LITTLE CLOUD.

" I\Ty .e^oocl friend." returned Giraud, " I
was in bed wlicn yonr note reached me. Be-
sides, I only read the sportinj^ cokimns of the
papers."

So we took train to Passy, without learn-
\n^ what it was that seemed to be stirring
Paris as a squall stirs the sea.

At Passy there was indeed q-rim work
awaitinof us. The Prefet himself was kind
enough to busy himself in a matter which
was scarcely within his province. He had
instructed the police to conduct us to his
house, where he received us most hospitably.

"Neither of you is related to the Vicomte?"
he said, interrogatively; and we stated our
case at once.

" It is well that you did not bring Madame
with you," he said. " You forbade her to
come?"

And he looked at me with a keenness
which, I trust, impressed the police ofificial
for whose benefit it was assumed.

" T begged her to remain in Paris."

**Ah!" and he gave a significant laugh.
" However — so long as she is not here."

He was a white-faced man, who looked as
if he had been dried up by some blanching
process. One could imagine that the heart
inside him was white also. In his own eyes
it was evident that he was a vastly clever
man. T thought him rather an ass.

" You know, gentlemen," he said, as he

A LITTLE CLOUD.

149

prepared his papers, " the recognition of the
body is a mere formality."

" Then let us omit it, Monsieur le Prefet,"
exclaimed Alphonse, with characteristic cheer-
fulness; but the remark was treated with
contempt.

'• In July, gentlemen," went on the Prefet,
" the Seine is warm — there are eels — a hun-
dred animalculae — a score of decomposing
elements. However, there are the clothes —
the contents of Monsieur le V'icomte's poc-
kets — a signet ring. Shall we go? But tirst
take another glass of wine. If the nerves are
sensitive — a few drops of Benedictine?"

" If I may have it in a claret glass," said
Alphonse, and he launched into a voluble
explanation, to which the Prefet listened with
a thin, transparent smile. I thought that he
would have been better pleased had some of
the \ icomte's titled friends come to observe
this formality. But one's grand friends are
better kept for fine weather only, and the
official had to content himself with the com-
pany of a private secretary and the son of a
ruined financier.

Alphonse and I had no difficulty in recog-
nizing the small belongings which had been
extracted from my old patron's sodden
clothing. In the letter case was a letter from
myself on some small matter of business. T
I)ointed this out, and signed my name a
second time on the yellow and crinkled paper

150

A LITTLE CLOUD.

for the further satisfaction of the lawyer.
Then we passed into an inner room and stood
in the presence of the dead man. The recog-
nition was, as the Prefet had said, a painful
formality. Alphonse Giraud and 1 swore to
the clothing — indeed, the linen was marked
plainly enough — and we left the undertaker
to his work.

Giraud looked at me with a dry smile when
we stood in the fresh air again.

" You and I, Howard," he said, " seem to
have got on the seamy side of life lately."

And during the journey 1 saw him shiver
once or twice at the recollection of what we
had seen. His carriage w^as awaiting us at
the railway station. Alphonse had been
brought up in a school where horses and ser-
vants are treated as machines. The man who
stood at the horse's head was, however, any-
thing but mechanical, for he ran up to us as
soon as we emerged from the crowded exit.

*' Monsieur le Baron!" he cried excitedly,
with a dull light in his eyes that made a man
of him, and no servant. " Has Monsieur le
Baron heard the news — the great tidings?"

" No — we have heard nothing. What is
your news?"

" The King of Prussia has insulted the
French Ambassador at Ems. He struck him
on the face, as it is said. And war has been
declared by the Emperor. They are going
to march to Berlin, Monsieur!"

A LITTLE CLOUD.

151

As he spoke two groups of men swaggered
arm in arm along the street. They were sing-
ing, " Partant ])our la Syrie," very much out
of tune. Others were crying, "A Berlin — a
Berlin!"

Alphonse Giraud turned and looked at me
with a sudden rush of colour in his cheeks.

"And I, who thought life a matter of coats
and neckties," he said, with that quick recog-
nition of his own error that first endeared
him to me and made him the better man of
the two.

We stood for a few minutes watching the
excited groups of men on the Boulevard. At
the cafos the street boys were selling news-
papers at a prodigious rate, and wherever a
soldier could be seen there were many press-
ing him to drink.

"' In Berlin," they shouted, "' you will get
sour beer, so you must drink good red wMue
when it is to be had." And the diminutive
bulwarks of France were ready enough, we
may be sure, to swallow Dutch courage.

" In Berlin!" echoed Giraud, at mv side.
" Will it end there?"

'' There or in Paris." answered I, and lay
no claim to astuteness, for the w'ords were
carelessly uttered.

We drove through the noisy streets, and
Frenchmen never before or since showed
themselves to such small advantage — ■ so
puerile, so petty, so vain. It was " Berlin "

'lil

152

A LITTLE CLOUD.

♦I

here and '* Berlin " there, and " Down with
Prussia " on every side. A hundred eatch-
words, a thousand raised voiees, and not one
cool head to realize that war is not a game.
The very sellers of toys in the gutter had
already nicknamed their wares, and offered
the passer a black doll under the name of Bis-
marck, or a monkey on a stick called the
King of Prussia.

It was with difficulty that I brought Al-
phonse Giraud to a grave discussion of the
pressing matter we had in hand, for his super-
ficial nature was open to every wind that
blew, and now swayed to the tempest of mar-
tial ardour that swept across the streets of
Paris.

" I think," he said, " I will l)uy myself a
conmiission. 1 should like to go to Berlin.
Yes — Howard, mon brave, I will buy myself
a commission."

"With what?"

''All — mon Dieu! — that is true. I have no
money. I am ruined. I forgot that."

And he waved a gay salutation of the whip
to a passing friend.

"And then, also," he added, with a face
suddenly lugubrious, " we have the terrible
business of the Vicomte. Howard — listen
to me — at all costs the ladies must never see
that — must never know. Dieu! it was hor-
rible. I feel all twisted here — as wdien I
smoked my first cigar."

A LITTLE CLOUD.

153

He touched liiniself on the chest, and with
t)ne of his inimitable gestures descril)ed in the
air a great upheaval.

*' 1 will try to prevent it," I answered.

" Then you will succeed, for your way of
suggesting might easily l)e called by another
name. And it is not only the women who
ol)ey you. 1 told Lucille the other day that
she was afraid of you, and she blazed up in
such a fury of denial that 1 felt smaller than
nature has made me. Her anger made her
more beautiful than ever, and 1 was stupid
enough to tell her so. She hates a compli-
ment, you know."

" Indeed, I have never tried her with one."

Alphonse looked at me with grave surprise.

" It is a good thing," he said. " that you
do not love her. Name of God! where should
I be?"

" But it is with Madame and not Mademoi-
selle Lucille that we shall have to do this
afternoon," I said hastily.

Although he was more or less acknow-
ledged as an aspirant to Lucille's hand,
(iiraud refused to come within the door when
we reached the Hotel Clericy.

'* No," he answered; "they will not want
to see me at such a time. It is only when
people want to laugh that \ am required."

I found Madame quite calm, and all her
thoughts were for Lucille. The more a man
is brought into contact with maternal love,

154

A LITTLE CLOUD.

Ill

even if il hear in no way upon his own life,
the hclter he will he for it — for this is surely
the loftiest of human feelings.

My own mother having- died when I was
but an infant, it had never been my lot to live
in intimacy with women, until fate guided me
to the Hotel Clericy.

At no time had 1 felt such respect for that
(|uiet woman, Madame de Clericy, as on this
afternoon when widowhood lirst cast its sable
veil over her.

*' Lucille," she said at once, " must not be
allowed to grieve for me. She has her own
sorrow to bear, for she loved her father dearly.
Do not let her have any thought tor me."

And later, when the gods gave me five
minutes alone with Lucille herself —

" \'ou must not," she said, her face drawn
and white, her lips ([uivering, " you must not
let mother think that this is more than I can
bear. It falls heavier upon her."

I blundered on somehow during those two
days, making, no doubt, a hundred mi -.tal-
for what comfort could I oiYer? >
tence could I make to understand th celing
of these ladies? l\Iy task was not so difficult
as I had anticipated in regard to the gnni
cofifin lying at Passy. To spare the other,
both ladies agreed with me separately that the
Vicomte should be buried from Passy as
quietly as possible, and Lucille overlooked

A LITTLE CLUUU.

155

the fact that the suggcstiuii came from such
an unwelcuiiie source as uiyseh".

So, amid the wild excitement of July, 1870,
we laid Charles Albert Malaunay, V'icomte
de Clericy, to rest among his ancestors in the
little church of Senneville, near Xevers. The
war fever was at its height, and all France
convulsed with passionate hatred for the
Prussian.

It is not for one who has found his truest
friends — ay, and his keenest enemies — in
I'rance to say aught against so great and
gifted a people. But it seems, as i look back
now, that the French were ripe in 1870 for
one of those strokes by which High Heaven
teaches nations from time to time through the
world's history that human greatness is a
small affair.

There are no people so tolerant of folly as
the Parisians. It walks abroad in the streets
of the great city with such unblushing self-
satisfaction — such a brazen sense of its own
superiority — that any Englishman must long-
to import a hundred London street boys,
with their sense of ridicule and fearless
tongue. At all times the world has ])()ssessed
an army of genuises whose greatness con-
sists of faith and not of works — of faith in
themselves, which lakes the outward form of
weird clothing, long hair, and a literary or
artistic pose. Paris streets were so full of
such in 1870 that all thoughtful men could

M 4!.

156

A LITTLE CLOUD.

scarce fail to recognize a nation in its de-
cadence.

" The asses preponderate in the streets,"
said John lurner to me. " You may hear
their Ijray in every cafe, and France is going*
to the devil."

And indeed the voices raised in the drink-
ing dens were those of the fool and the knave.
I busied myself with looking into the
money affairs of my poor patron, and found
them in great disorder. All the ready cash
had fallen into the hands of Miste. Some of
the estates, as. indeed, I already knew, yielded
little or nothing. The commerce of France
was naturally paralyzed by the declaration of
war. and no one wanted a vast old house in
the Faubourg St. Germain — a hotbed of
Legitimism, where no good Bonapartist
cared to own a friend or show his face.

I disguised nothing from Madame de
Clericy, whom indeed it was hard to deceive.

" Then," she said, " there is no money."

We were in my study, where I was seated
at the table, while Madame moved from table
to mantel])iece with a woman's keen sight for
the blemishes to be found in a bachelor's
apartment.

" For the moment :ou are in need of ready
money — that is all. if the war is brought to
a speedy termination, all will be set right."

*'And if the war is not brought to a speedy

A LITTLE CLOUD.

157

ive.

Ited
Ible
for
)r's

termination — you are a second-rate optimist,
mon ami — what then?"

** Then I shall have to find some ex-
pedient."

She looked at me probingly. The windows
were open, and we heard the cries of the
newsboys in the streets.

" Hear!" she said; "they are shouting of
victories."

I shrugged my shoulders.

" You mean," said the Vicomtesse slowly,
" that they will shout of victories until the
Prussians are in sight of Paris."

" The Parisians wall pay two sous for good
news, and nothing at all for evil tidings," I
answered.

Thus we lived for some weeks, through the
heat of July — and 1 could neither leave Paris
nor give thought to Charles Miste. That
scoundrel was, however, singularly quiet. No
checjue had been cashed, and we knew, at all
events, that he had realized none of his stolen
wealth. On the tenth of July the Ollivicr
Ministry fell. Things were going from ba<l
to worse. At the enrl of the month the Em-
peror quitted St. Cloud to take conmiand of
the army. He never came to France again.

idy
to

edy

CHAPTER XV.

FLIGHT.

" Repousser sa croix, c'est I'appesantir."

During the first week of August the excite-
ment in Paris reached its greatest height, and
cuhninated on the Saturday after the battle
of W^eissenburg. Of this defeat John Turner
had, as 1 believe, the news before any other
in Paris. Indeed, the evil tidings came to the
city from the English Tunes. The stout
l)anker, whose astuteness I had never doubt-
ed, displayed at this time a number of those
(jualities — such as courage, cool-headedness
and foresight — to which we undoubtedly owe
our greatness in the world. We are, as our
neighbours say, a nation of shopkeepers, but
we keep a rifle under the counter. A man
may prove his courage in the counting-house
as eft'ectually as on the field of battle.

" These," I said to Turner, " are stirring
times. I suppos'j you are very anxious?"

1 had passev. oefore the Bourse in coming
to the Avenue d'Antan, and had, as I spoke,
a lively recollection of the white-faced and
panic-stricken financiers assembled there. For
one franc that these men had at stake, it was
l)robable that John Turner had a thousand.

" ^'es — T am anxious," he said, qv.'etly.
** These are stirring times, as you say; they

FLIGHT.

159

nig

tly.
Ihey

stimulate the appetite wonderfully, and, I
think, help the digestion."

As he spoke a clerk came into the room
without knocking — his eyes bright with ex-
citement. He gave John Turner a note,
which that stout gentleman read at a glance,
and rose from the breakfast table.

" Come with me," he said, '* and you will
see some history."

We drove rapidly to the Bourse, through
crowded streets, and there I witnessed a scene
of the greatest excitement that it has been my
lot to look upon; for it has pleased God to
keep me from any battle-field.

Above a sea of hats a score of tricolour
flags fluttered in the dusty air, and wild
strains of the Marseillaise dominated the roar
and babble of a thousand tongues wagging
together. The steps of the great building
were thronged wath men, and on the bases of
the statuary orators harangued high heaven,
for no man had the patience to listen.

*' What is it?" I asked my companion.

" News of a French victory; but it wants
confirmation."

Some who could sing, and others who only
thought they could, were shouting the Mar-
seillaise from any elevation that presented
itself — an omnibus or a street refuse-box
served equally well for these musicians.

" How on earth these people have ever
grown to a great nation!" muttered John

160

FLIGHT.

Turner, who sat in his carriage. A man clam-
bered on the box beside the coachman.

** I will sing you the Marseillaise!" he
shouted.

" Thank you." replied John Turner.

But already the humour of the throng was
changing, and some began to reliect. In a
few minutes doubt swept over them like a
shower of rain, and the expression of their
faces altered. Almost immediately it was
announced that the news of the victory had
l)een a hoax.

" I am going to my office," said Turner
curtly. " Come and see me to-morrow morn-
ing. I may have some advice to give you."

In the evening I saw Madame, and told
her that things were going badly on the
frontier; 1)ut I did not know that the Ger-
mans were, at the time of speaking, actually
on French territory, and that MacMahon had
been beaten at Metz.

" Get the women out of the country," said
John Turner to me the next morning, '* and
don't bother me."

I went back to th Hotel Clericy, and there
found Alphonse Giraud. He was in the
morning-room with the two ladies.

" I have come," he said, " to bid you all
good-bye, as I was just telling these ladies.

" You remember," he went on. taking my
hand and holding it in his effusive French
way — '* you remember that I said I would

FLIGHT.

161

Iv
ad

he
all

ich
lid

Ijuy myself a commission? The good God
has sent me one, but it is a ritle instead of a
sword."

"Alphonse has volunteered to fight as a
common soldier!" cried Lucille, her face
glowing with excitement. " Is it not splen-
did? Ah, if I were only a man!"

Madame looked gravely and almost appre-
hensively at her daughter. She did not join
in Giraud's proud laugh.

" There is bad news," she said, looking at
my face, "What is it?"

" Yes, there is bad news, and it is said that
Paris is to be placed under martial law. You
and Mademoiselle must leave."

iVlphonse protested that it was only a tem-
porary reverse, and that General Frossard
had but retreated in order to strike a harder
blow. He nodded and winked at me, but I
ignored Lis signals; for I have nev^er held
that women are dolls or children, that the
truth nuist be withheld from them because it
is unpleasant.

So Alphonse Giraud departed to fight for
his country. He was drafted into a cavalry
regiment, " together with some grooms and
hostlers from the stables of the Paris Omni-
bus Company," as he wrote to me later in
good spirits. He proved himself, moreover,
a brave soldier as well as a true and honest
French gentleman.

162

FLIGHT.

Madame de Clericy and Lucille made pre-
parations for an early departure, l)ut were
averse to quitting Paris until such time as ne-
cessity should drive them into retreat. I saw
nothing of John Turner at this time, but learnt
from others that he was directing the course
of his great banking-house with a steady hand
and a clear head. I wanted money, but did
not go to him, knowing that he would require
explanations w hich I was in no wise prepared
to give him. Instead I telegraphed to my
lawyer in London, who negotiated a loan for
me, mortgaging, so far as I could gather from
his technical communications, my reversion
of Hopton in case Isabella Gayerson should
marry another than myself. The money was
an absolute necessity, for without it Madame
and Lucille could not leave France, and T
took but little heed of the manner in which
it was procured.

It was in the evening of August 2(Sth, a few
hours after General Trochu's decree calling
upon foreigners to cjuit Paris, that I sought
a consultation wntli Madame. The Vi-
comtesse came to my study, divining perhaps
tliat what I had to say to her were better
spoken in the absence of Lucille.

" You wish to speak to me, mon ami," she
said.

In reply I laid before her the proclamation
issued by General Trochu. In it all foreign-
ers were warned to leave, and persons who

FLIGHT.

163

were not in a position to ^'faire face a Ven-
nemi" invited to quit Paris. She glanced
through the paper hurriedly.

''Yes," she said; "I understand. You
as a foreigner cannot stay."

'' I can stay or go," I replied; " but I can-
not leave you and IMademoiselle in Paris."

" Then what are we to do?"

I then laid before her my plan, which was
simple enough in itself.

" To England?" said Madame de Clericy,
when I had finished, and in her voice I de-
tected that contempt for our grey country
which is held by nearly all Frenchwomen.
" Has it come to that? Is France then un-
safe?"

" Not yet — but it may become so. The
Germans are nearer than any one allows him-
self to suppose."

I saw that she did not believe me. Madame
de Clericy was not very learned, and it is pro-
bable that her history was all forgotten. Paris
had always seemed to her the centre of civili-
zation and safety withdrawn from the perils
of war or internal disorder.

I begged her to leave the capital, and
painted in lurid colours the possible effects of
further defeat and die resulting fall of the
French Empire.

" See," I said, opening the drawer of my
writing table, " I have the money here. All
is prepared, and in England I have arranged

1 64

FLIGHT.

i , i

for your reception at a house which, if it is
not palatial, will at all events be comfortable.''

*' Where is the house?"

"At a place called Hopton, on the border
of Suffolk and Norfolk. It stands empty and
quite ready for your reception. The servants
are there."

"And the rent?" said she, without looking
at me. " Is that within our means?"

" The rent will be almost nominal," I re-
plied. " That can be arranged without diffi-
culty. Many of our English country houses
are now neglected. It is the fashion for our
women, Madame, to despise a country life.
They prefer to wear out themselves and their
best attributes on the pavement."

Madame smiled.

'* Everything is so strong about you," she
said; "especially your prejudices. And this
house to which we are to be sent — is it large?
Is it well situated? May one inquire?"

I could not understand her eyes, which
were averted with something like a smile.

" It is one of the best situated houses in
England," I answered, unguardedly, and
Madame laughed outright.

" My friend," she said, " one reason why I
like you is that you are not at all clever. This
house is yours, and you are offering Lucille
and me a home in our time of trouble — and
I accept."

She laid her hand, as light as a leaf, on my

FLIGHT.

165

1(1

shoulder, and when I looked up she was
gone.

On the morning of Saturday, September
3rd, I received a note from John Turner."

"If you have not gone — go!" he wrote.

Our departure had been iixed for a later
date, but the yacht of an English friend had
been lying in the port of Fecamp at my dis-
l)osal for some days. We embarked there the
same evening, having taken train at the St.
Lazare station within two hours of the receipt
of John Turner's warning. The streets of
Paris, as we drove through them, were singu-
larly quiet, and men passing their friends on
the pavement nodded in silence, without ex-
changing other greeting. Hope seemed at
last to have folded her wings and fled from
the bright city. Some indefina1)le knowledge
of coming catastrophe hovered over all.

It was a quiet sunset that clothed sea and
sky with a golden splendour as we steamed
out of Fecamp harbour that evening. I
walked on the deck of the trim yacht with its
captain until a late hour, and looked my last
on the white cliffs and headlands of the doom-
ed land about midnight — the hour at which
the news was spreading over France, as black,
swift and terrible as night itself, that hope was
dead, that the whole army had been captured
at Sedan, and the Emperor himself made
prisoner. All this, how^ever, we did not learn
until we landed in England, although I have

i66

FLIGHT.

no doubt that John Turner knew it when he
gave us so sharp a warning.

Tlie weatlier was favouraljle to us, and tlie
ladies came on deck the next morning in a
cahu sea as we sped past the North Foreland
between the Goodwin Lightships and the
land. It was a lovely morning, and the sea
all stripes of deep blue and green, and even
yellow where the great sand l)anks of the
Thames estuary lay l^eneath the rippled sur-
face.

Lucille thought but little of England, as
she judged it from the tame l)lufYs of Thanet.

*'Are these the famous white cliffs of Eng-
land?" she said to the captain, for she rarely
addressed herself unnecessarily to me. *'Why
they are but one quarter of the height of those
of St. Vak'ry that I saw from the cabin win-
dow last night."

The captain, a simple man, sought to prove
that England had counterbalancing advan-
tages. He knew not that in certain humours
a woman w^ill find fault with anything. I
thought that Mademoiselle took exception
to the poor cliffs because they were those of
my native land.

Madame proved more amenable to reason,
however, and the captain, w^hose knowledge
of French was not great, made an easier con-
vert of her than of Lucille, wdio spoke Eng-
lish prettily enough, while her mother knew
only the one tongue.

FLIGHT.

167

" There is bad weather coining," said the
captain to me later in the day, "iVnd I wish
the tide served for Lowestoft harbour earher
than ten o'clock."

We anchored just astern of the coast-
service gunboat, and a few hundred yards
south of the pier at Lowestoft, awaiting the
rise of the tide. At eleven o'clock we moved
in, and passing through the dock into the
river, anchored there for the night. I gave
Madame the choice of passing the night on
board and going ashore to the hotel, as it was
too late to drive to llopton. She elected to
remain on board.

As ill fortune would have it, the evil weather
foreseen by the captain came upon us in the
night, and daylight next morning showed a
grey and hopeless sea, with lowering clouds
and a slantwise rain driving across all. The
tide was low when the ladies came on deck,
and the muddy banks of the river looked dis-
mal enough, while the flat meadow-land
stretched away on all sides into a dim and
mournful perspective of mist and rain.

The liopton carriage was awaiting us at
the landing-stage, and to those unaccus-
tomed to such work the landing in a small
boat no doubt presented difficulties and dan-
gers of which we men took no account. The
streets of Lowestoft were s1o])py and half-
deserted as we drove through tlicm. A few
fishermen in their oilskins seemed to em-

1 68

FLIGHT.

phasize the wetness and dismalness of Eng-
land as they hurried down to their harbour
in their j^a-eat sea-boots. On the uplands a
line drizzle veiled the landscape, and showed
the gnarled and sparse trees to small ad-
vantage.

Lucille sat with close-pressed lips and
looked out of the streaming windows. There
were unshed tears in her eyes, and 1 grimly
realized the futility of human effort. All my
plans had been frustrated by a passing rain.

At home, however, 1 found all comfort-
able enough, and tires alight in the hall and
principal rooms.

It was late in the day that I came upon
Lucille alone in the drawing-room. She was
looking out of the window across the bleak
table-land to the sea.

" I am sorry, Mademoiselle," I said, sud-
denly conscious of the stiff bareness of my
ancestral home, ''that things are not brighter.
I have done my best."

" Thank you," she said, and there was still
resentment in her voice. " You have been
very kind."

She stood for a few moments in silence,
and then turning flashed an angry glance
at me.

" I do not know who constituted you our
protector," she said scornfully.

" Fate, Mademoiselle."

■■■

CHAPTER XVI.

EXILE.

" 11 y a done des malheiirs tellement bien caches (jue ceux
qui en sont la cause, ne les devinent nicine pas."

The first to show kindness to the UkHcs
exiled at liopton was Isa))ella Gayerson, wlu),
in response to a letter from the rightful owner
of the old manor house, called on iVladame
de Clericy. Isabella's pale face, her thin-
lipped, determined mouth and reserved glance
seem to have made no very favourable im-
pression on Madame, who indeed wrote of
her as a disappointed woman, nursing some
sorrow or grievance in her heart.

With Lucille, however, Isabella speedily
inaugurated a friendship, to which Lucille's
knowledge of English no doubt contributed
largely, for Isabella knew but little French.

" Lucille," wrote Madame to me, for I had
returned to London in order to organize a
more active pursuit of Charles Miste, " Lu-
cille admires your friend, Miss Gayerson,
immensely, and says that the English drmoi-
scIIps suggest to her a fine and delicate por-
celain — but it seems to me," Madame added,
" that the grain is a hard one."

»eress of this friend-

rapi(

pro(

ship that the two girls often met either at
TTopton or at Little Corton, tw^o miles away.

170

EXILE.

where Isaljella, now left an orphan, Hved with
an elderly aunt for her companion.

Girls, It would appear, possess a thousand
topics of common mterest, a hundred small
matters of mutual conlidence, which conduce
to a greater intimacy than men and boys ever
achieve. In a few weeks Lucille and Isabella
V ere at Christian names, and sworn allies,
though any knowing aught of them would
have iiLclined to the suspicion that here, at
all events, the confidences were not mutual,
for Isabella Gayerson w^as a woman in a thou-
sand in her power of keeping a discreet coun-
sel. 1, who have been inthiiate with her since
childhood, can boast of no great knowledge
to this day of her inward hopes, thoughts and
desires.

The meetings, it would appear, took place
more often at Hopton than in Isabella's
home.

'* I like Hopton," she said to Lucille one
day, in her quiet and semi-indifferent way.
" I have many pleasant associations in this
;i(;i!se. The squire was always kind to me."

"yVnd I suppose you played in these sleepy
old rooms as a cliild," said Lucille, looking
round at the portraits of dead and gone
Howards, whose mistakes were now forgot-
ten. " Yes."

Lucille waited, but the conversation seemed
I0 Qud there naturally. Isabella had nothing
more to tell of those bygone day:.. And,

■"♦"•"^-"^t^w ■ I WiiBiwritetiiftiito

EXILE.

i7i

unlike other women, when she had nothing
to say she remained silent.

" iJid you know Mr. Howard's mother?"
asked Lucille presently. " 1 have often won-
dered what sort of woman she must have

1 ' '
been.

" 1 did not know her," was the answer,
made more openly. It was only in respect to
herself that Isabella cultivated reticence. It
is so easy to he candid about one's neigh-
bour's affairs. " Neither did he— -it was a
great misfortune."

" Is it not always a great misfortune?"
" Yes — but in tliis case especially so."
" Ho\\ ? What do ycu mean, Isabella?"
asked Lucille, in her impulsive way. '' You
iwe so cold and reserved. Are all Entrlish-
,?

out of you,

" Because there is nothing to drag,"

" Yes, there is. I want to know why it
was srich a special misfortune that Mr.
Howard should never have known his mo-
ther. You may not be interested in him, but
T am. My mother is so fond of him — my
f;ither trusted him,"

"Ah!"

" There, again," cried Lucille, with a lau^h
of annoyance. '* You say 'Ah!' and it means
notiiing, I look at your face, and it says
nothing. With us it is different — we have a
hundred little exclamations — look at mother

women so," It is so difiticult to drag things

172

EXILE.

when she talks — but in England when you
say 'Ah!' you seem to mean nothing."

Lucille laughed and looked at Isabella, who
only smiled.

" Well, well!" answered Isabella, reluc-
tantly, " if Mr. How^ard's mother had lived
he might have been a better man."

" You call him Mr. Howard," cried Lucille,
darting into one of those side issues by which
women so often reach their goal. " Do you
call him so to his face?"

" No."

" What do you call him?" asked Lucille,
with the persistence of a child on a tritie.

" Dick."

"And yet you do not like him?"

'' I have never thought whether I like him
or not — one does not think of such questions
with people who are like one's own family."

" But surely," said Lucille, '* one cannot
like a i)erson who is not good?"

" Of course not," answered the other, with
her shadowy smile. "At least it is always so
written in books."

After this qualified statement Isabella sat
with her firm wliite hands clasped together
in idleness on her lap. She was not a wotnan
to fill in the hours with the trifiing occupa-
tion of the work-l)asket, and yet was never
aught l)Ut womanly in dress, manner, and. as,
I take it. thought. Lucille's fingers, on the
contrary, were never still, and before she had

EXILE.

173

lived at Hopton a fortnight she had half a
dozen small protegees ni the village for whom
she fashioned little garments.

It was she who broke the short silence —
her companion seemed to be waiting for that
or for something else.

" Do you think," she asked, '' that mother
trusts Mr. Howard too much? She places
implicit faith in all he says or does — just as
my father did when he was alive."

Isabella — than whom none was more
keenly alive to my many failings — paused
])efore she answered, in her measured way:

" It nil depends upon his motive in under-
taking the management of your affairs."

" Oh — he is paid," said Lucille, rather hur-
riedly. " He is paid, of course."

" This house is his; the land, so far as you
can see from any of the windows, is his also.
He has affairs of his (nvn to manage, which
he neglects. A mere salary seems an insuffi-
cient motive for so deep an interest as he
displays."

Lucille did not answer for some mo-
ments. Indeed, her needlework seemed at
this moment to require carcfid attention,

" What other motive can he have?" she
asked at length, indifferently.

" T do not understand the story of the large
fortune that slipped so unaccountably through
liis fingers." murmured Isabella, and her
hearer's face cleared suddenly.

174

EXILE.

"Alphonse Giraud's fortune?"

" Yes," said Isabella, looking at her com-
panion with steady eyes, *' Monsieur Giraud's
fortune."

" It was stolen, as you know — for I have
told you about it — by my father's secretary,
Charles Miste."

*' Yes; and Dick Howard says that he will
recover it," laughed Isabella.

"Why not?"

" Why not, indeed? He will have good
use for it. He has always been a spendthrift."

" What do you mean?" cried Lucille, lay-
ing down her work. " What can you mean,
Isabella?"

" Nothing," replied the other, who had
risen, and w^as standing by the mantelpiece
looking down at the wood fire with one foot
extended to its warmth. " Nothing — only I
do not understand."

It would appear that Isabella's lack of
comprehension took a more active form than
that displayed in the conversation reported,
iaui hicn que mal, from sul^sequent hearsay.
Indeed, it has been my experience that when
a woman fails to comprehend a mystery —
whether it be her own affair or not — it is
rarely for the want of trying to sift it.

Tliat Isabella Gayerson made further at-
tempt to discover my motives in watching
over Madame de Clericy and Lucille was ren-
dered apparent to me not very long after-

EXILE.

175

wards. It was, in fact, in the month of No-
vember, while i'aris was still besieged, and
rnmours of Connnune and Anarchy reached
us in tranquil England, that 1 had the oppor-
tunity of returning in small part the hospi-
tality of Alphonse Giraud.

Wounded and taken prisoner during the
disastrous retreat upon the capital, my friend
ojjtained after a time his release under pro-
mise to take no further part in the war, a pro-
mise the more freely given that his hurt was
of such a nature that he could never hope to
swing a sword in his right hand again.

This was forcibly brought home to me
when I met Giraud at Charing Cross station,
when he extended to me his left hand.

" The oiher 1 cannot offer you," he cried,
" for a sausage-eating Uhlan, who smelt
shockiiiglj, of smoke, cut the tendons of it."

He lifted the hand hidden in a black silk
handkerchief worn as a sling, and swaggered
along the platform with a military air and
bearing far above his inches.

We dined together, and he passed that
night in my rooms in London, where I had
a spare bed. He evinced by his every word
and action that spontaneous affection which
he had bestowed upon me. We had, more-
over, a merry evening, and only once, so far
as I remember, did he look at me with a grave
face.

176

EXILE.

" Dick," he then said, " can you lend me a
thousand francs? I have not one sou."

"Nor 1," was my reply. " But you can
have a thousand francs."

'' The Vicomtesse writes me that you are
supplying them with money during the pre-
sent standstill in France. How is that?" he
said, putting the notes 1 gave him into his
purse.

*' I do not know," I answered; " but 1
seem to be able to borrow as much as I want.
I am wdiat you call in Jewry. 1 have mort-
gaged everything, and I am not quite sure
that 1 have not mortgaged you."

We talked very gravely of money, and
doul)tless displayed a vast ignorance of the
subject. All that I can remember is, that we
came to no decision, and laughingly con-
cluded that we were both well sped down the
slope of Avernus.

It had l^een arranged that we should go
down to Hopton the following day, where
Giraud was to pass a few weeks with the ladies
in exile. And I thought — for Giraud was
transparent as the day — that the wounded
liand, the l)ronze of battle-field and camp,
and the dangers lived through, aroused a
hope that Lucille's heart might be touched.
For myself, I felt that none of these were re-
quired, and was sure that Giraud's own good
quaHties had already won their way.

EXILE.

177

ere
ies
as
ed
ip,
a
e<l.
re-

" She can, at all events, not laugh at this,"
he sail], lifting the hurt member, nor ridicule
our great charge. Oh, Dick, mon ami, you
have missed something,'' he cried, to the as-
tonishment of the porters in Liverpool Street
Station. " Vou have missed something in
life, for you have never fought for France!
Mon Dieu! — to hear the bugle sound the
charge — to see the horses, those brave beasts,
throw up their heads as they recognized the
call — to see the faces of the men! Dick, that
was life — real life! To hear at last the crash
of the sabres all along the line, like a butler
throwing his knife-box down the back stairs."

We reached ITopton in the evening, and 1
was not too well pleased to hnd that Isabella
had been invited to dine, " to do honour," as
Lucille said, to a " hero of the great retreat."

" W^e knew also," added Madame, address-
ing me, " that such old friends as Miss Gayer-
son and yourself would be glad to meet."

And Isabella gave me a queer smile.

During dinner the conversation was gen-
eral and mostly carried on in English, in
which tongue Alphonse Giraud discovered a
wealth of humour. In the drawing-room I
had an opportunity of speaking to Madame
de Clcricy of her affairs, to which report T
also 1)egged the attention of Lucille.

It appeared to me that there was in the
atmosphere of my own home some subtle
feeling of distrust or antagonism against my-

178

EXILE.

self, and once 1 thought 1 intercepted a glance
of understanding exchanged by Lucille and
Isabella. We were at the moment talking of
Giraud's misfortunes, which, indeed, that
stricken soldier bore with exemplary cheer-
fulness.

" What is," he asked, " the equivalent of
our sou when that coin is used as the syml:)ol
of penury?" and subsequently explained to
Isabella with much vivacity that he had not
a l)rass farthing in the world.

During the time that I spoke to Madame
of her affairs, iVlphonse and Isabella were
engaged in a game of billiards in the hall,
where stood the tal)le; but their talk seemed
of greater interest than the game, for I heard
no sound of the balls.

The ladies retired early, Isabella passing
the night at Hopton, and Alphonse and I
were left alone with our cigars. In a few mo-
ments I was aware that the feeling of an-
tagonism against myself had extended itself
to Alphonse Giraud, who smoked in silence,
and whose gaiety seemed suddenly to have
left him. Not being of an expansive nature,
I omitted to tax Giraud with coldness — a
proceeding which would, no doubt, have been
wise towards one so frank and open.

Instead I sat smoking glumly, and might
have continued silent till bedtime had not a
knocking at tlic door aroused us. The snow
was lying thickly on the ground, and the

iiiiitilM

EXILE.

179

flakes, drove into the house when 1 opened
the door, expecting to cuhiiit the coast guards-
man, who often came for help or a messenger
in times of shipwreck. It was, however, a
kid who stood shaking himself in the hall — a
telegraph messenger from Yarmouth, who.
having walked the whole distance, demanded
six shillings for his pains, and received ten,
for it was an evil night.

I opened the envelope, and read that the
message had been despatched that evening
by the manager of a well-known London
bank:

" Draft for five thousand pounds has been
presented for acceptance — compelled to cash
it to-morrow mornino-."

" Miste is astir at last," I said, handing the
messa.:re to Giraud.

|g|

CHAPTER XVll.

ON TJIE TJiA(JK.

" Le vrai moyen d'etre trompc c'este de se croire plus fin
<|ue les mitres."

1 Stole out of the house before daybreak
the next morninij;', and riding to Yarmouth,
tot)k a very early and (with perhaps a subtle
appropriateness) a very fishy train to London.

So ill ecpiipped was I to contend with a
financier of Aliste's force that I did not even
know the hour at which the London banks
opened for business. A general idea, how-
ever, that half-past ten w^ould make quite a
long enough day for such work made me
hope to be in time to frustrate or perchance
to catch red-handed this clever miscreant.

The train was due to arrive at Liverpool
Street station at ten o'clock, and ten minutes
after that hour I stepped from a cab at the
door of the great bank in Lombard Street.

*' The manager," I said, hurriedly, to an
individual in brass buttons and greased hair,
whose presence in the building was evidently
for a purely ornamental purpose. I was
shown into a small glass room like a green-
house, where sat two managers, as under a
microscope — a living example of frock-coat-
ed respectability and industry to half a hun-
dred clerks who w^ere ever peeping that way

ON THE TRACK.

i8i

as
n-
a
tit-
m-
ay

as they turned the pages of their ledgers and
circulated in an undertone the latest chop-
house tale.

" Air. Howard," said the manager, with
his watch in his hand, " 1 was waiting for
you."

"Have you cashed the draft?"

" Ves — at ten o'clock. The payee was
waiting on the doorstep for us to open. The
clerk delayed as long as possible, but we
could not refuse payment. Hundred-pound
notes as usual. Never trust a man who takes
it in hundred-pound notes. Here are the
numbers. As hard as you can to the l»ank of
England and stop them! Vou may catch
him there."

He pushed me out of the room, sending
with me the imi)ression that inside the frock-
coat, behind the bland gold-rinnned spec-
tacles, there was yet something left of man-
hood and that vague quality called fight,
which is surely hard put to live long between
four glass walls.

The cabman, who perhaps scentcfl sport,
was waiting for me though I had ])aid him,
and as I drove along Lombard Street T
thought affectionately of Miste's long thin
neck, and wondered whether there would be
room for the two of us in the Bank of Eng-
land.

The high-born reader doubtless has money
in the Eimds. and knows without the advice

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i^iA

182

ON THE TRACK.

hi.

r '

of a penniless country squire that the ap-
proach to the Bank of England consists of a
porch, through which may be discerned a
small courtyard. Opening on this yard are
three doors, and that immediately opposite to
the porch gives entrance to the department
where gold and silver are exchanged for
notes.

As 1 descended from the cal) I looked
through the porch, and there, across the
courtyard, 1 saw the back of a man who was
pushing his way through the swing doors.
Charles Miste again! 1 paid the cabman, and
noting the inches of the two porters in their
gorgeous livery, reflected with some satisfac-
tion that Monsieur Miste would have to
reckon with three fairly heavy men before he
got out of the courtyard.

There are two swing doors leading into the
bank, and the man passing in there glanced
back as he crossed the second threshold, giv-
ing me, however, naught but the momentary
gleam of a white face. Arrived in the large
room I looked quickly around it. Two men
were changing money, a third bent over the
table to sign a note. None of these could be
Charles Miste. There was another exit lead-
ing to the body of the building.

" Has a gentleman passed through here?"
T asked a clerk, whose occupation seemed to
consist in piling sovereigns one upon an-
otlier.

ON THE TRACK.

'83

'* Yes," he said, through his counting.

"Ah!" thought 1. ' Now 1 have him Hkc
a rat in a trap."

*' Me cannot get through?" I said.

'* Can't he — yoa bet," said the yoimg man
uitli nuich humour.

I hurried on, and at last found the exit to
Lothbury.

** Has a gentleman just passed out this
way?" I in(|uire(l of a porter, who looked
sleepy and dignified.

*' Thr« V have passed out this five minutes
— old gem n. h a scjuint, belongs to Coutts's
— tall fair man — tall dark man."

'* The dark one is mine," I said. " Which
wav?"

" Turned to the left."

I hurried on with a mental note that sleepy
men may see more than they appear to do.
Standing on the crowded pavement of Loth-
bury, I realized that Madame de Clericy was
right, and T little better than a fool. For it
was evident that I had been tricked, and that
c|uitc easily by Charles Miste. To seek him
ill the throng of the city was futile, and an
attempt predestined to failure. T went back,
however, to the bank, and handed in the
numbers of the stole notes. Here again I
learnt that to refuse payment was impossible,
and that all I could hope was that each note
changed would give me a clue as to the
whereabout of the thief. Each forward step

i84

ON THE TRACK.

1% :

11.:.:

in the matter showed me more plainly the
difticulties of the task 1 had undertaken, and
my own incapacity for such work. Nothing
is so good for a man's vanity as contact with
a clever scoundrel.

1 resolved to engage the entire services of
some one who, without being a professed
ihicf-catcher, could at all events meet Charles
iMiste on his own slippery ground. With the
hclj) of the bank manager, 1 found one named
Sander, an accountant, who made an especial
study of the shadier walks of finance, and this
man set to work the same afternoon. It was
his opinion that MivSte had been confined in
Paris by the siege, and had only just effected
his escape, probably with one of the many
permits obtained from the American Minister
at this time by persons passing themselves as
foreigners.

The same evening I received information
from an ofificial source that a man answering
to my description of Miste had taken a ticket
at Waterloo station for Southampton. The
temptation was again too strong for one who
had been brought up in an atmosphere and
culture of sport. I set off by the mail train
for Southamjjton, and amused myself by
studying the faces of the passengers on the
Jersey and Cherbourg boats. There was no
sailing for Havre that night. At Radley's
TTotel, where T had secured a room, I learnt
that an old gentleman and lady with their

ON THE TRACK.

i^5

-ain
by

Ithe
no

;ys

irnt
leir

no one else. At the railway station I could
(lauj^htcr ha<l arrived Ijy the earlier train, and
hear of none answering to my description.

If Charles Miste had entered the train at
Waterloo station, he had disappeared in his
shadowy way en route.

During the stirring months of the close of
1S70. men awoke each morning with a certain
glad expectancy. For myself — even in my
declining years — the stir of events in the
outer world and near at home is preferable
to a life of that monotony which I am sure
ages quickly those that live it. Circum-
stances over which I exercised but a nominal
control — a description of human life it ap-
pears to me — had thrown my lot into close
connection with France, that " light-hearted
heroine of tragic story"; and at this time I
watched with even a greater eagerness than
other Englishmen the grim tragedy slowly
working to its close in Paris.

It makes an old man of me to think that
some of those who watched the stupendous
events of '70 are now getting almost too old
to preserve the keenest remembrance of their
emotions, while many of the actors on that
great stage have passed beyond earthly shame
or glory. Keen enough is my own memory
of the thrill with which I opened my news-
paper, morning after morning, and read that
Paris still held out.

186

ON THE TRACK.

Mr',-

Before (|iiitting I^ondon, I liad heard that
the r'rench had recaptured the small town of
Le Boiir^et, in the neighbourhood of l*aris,
and were holding it successfully against the
Trussian attack. Telegraphic communication
with Paris itself had long been suspended,
and we, watchers on the hither side, only
heard vague rumours of the doings within the
ramparts. It appeared that each day saw an
advance in the organization of the defence.
The distribution of food was now carried out
with more system, and the defenders of the
capital were confident alike of being able to
repel assault and withstand a siege.

The Empress had long been in England,
whither, indeed, she had fled, v. ith the assist-
ance of a worthy and courageous gentleman,
her American dentist, within a few hours of
our departure from Fecamp. The Emperor,
a broken man bearing the seed of death, had
been allowed to join her at Chiselhurst. thus
returning to the land where he had found
asylum in his early adversity. It is strange
how the Bonapartes. from the beginning to
the close of their wondrous dynasty, had to
deal with England. The first of that great
line died a captive to English arms, the last
perished fighting our foes.

" Paris has not fallen yet. has it, sir?" the
waiter asked me when he brought my break-
fast on the following day — and I think the
world talked of little else than Paris that

ON THE TRACK.

187

the

tak-

Ithe

hat

rainy morning. For the siege had now lasted
six weeks, and the ring of steel and iron was
closing around the doomed city.

The London newspapers had not arrived,
so the morning news was passed from mouth
to mouth with that eagerness wliich is no
respecter of persons. Strangers spoke to eacli
other in the coffee-room, and no man hesi-
tated to ask a question of his neighbour — the
wliole workl seemed kin. In those days
Southampton was the port of (hscharge for
the Inchan Hners, and the hotel was full, every
table being occupied. I looked over the
bronzed faces of these administrators, i)y
sword and pen, of our great empire, and soon
decided that Charles Miste was not among
them. The wisdom that cometh in the morn-
ing had, in fact, forced me to conclude ihat
the search for the nnscreant was better left
in the hands of Mr. Sander and his profes-
sional assistants.

At the breakfast table 1 received a tele-
gram from Sander informing me that Paris
still held out. He wired me this advice ac-
cording to arrangement; for he had decided
that Miste, feeling, like all Frenchmen, ill at
ease abroad, w'as only awaiting the surrender
to return to Paris, and there begin more
active measures to realize his wealth. As
soon, therefore, as the city fell 1 was to hasten
thither and there meet Sander.

I I

1 88

ON THE TRACK.

K^ '•'■ ,' •<

The arrival of my message occasioned a
small stir in the room, and many keen glances
were directed towards me as 1 read it. 1
handed it to my nearest neighhonr, explaining
that he in tnrn was at liberty to i)ass the paper
on. It was not long before the waiter came
to me with the recpiest that he might make
known to a young French lady travelling
alone any news that would interest one of her
nationality.

** Certainly," answered I. " Take the tele-
gram to her that she may read it for herself."

** But, sir, she knows no I^nglish, an<l
although I understand a little I'rench, I can-
not speak it."

" Then bring me the telegram, and point
out to me the lady."

** It is the lady who arrived yesterday,"
answered the waiter. " She came, as I under-
stand, with an old lady and gentleman, but
they have left this morning for the Isle of
Wight, and she remains alone."

He indicated the fair traveller, and I might
have guessed her nationality from the fact
that, unlike the Englishwomen present, she
was breakfasting in her hat. She was a pretty
woman — no longer quite young — with a pale
oval face and deep brown hair. As I ap-
proached she, having breakfasted, was draw-
ing her veil down over her face, and subse-
cpiently attended to her hat w^ith pretty,

ON THE TRACK.

189

studied niovenieiits of the hands and arms
which were iseiitially French.

She returned my bow with quiet self-posses-
sion, and graciously looked to me to speak.

*' The waiter tells me," I said in French,
" that 1 am fortunate enough to possess some
news which may be of interest to you."

** If it is news of France, Monsieur, I am
tiur des epiiujies until 1 hear it."

I laid the telegram before her, and she
looked at it with a pretty shake of the head
which wafted to me some faint and pleasant
scent.

" Translate, if you please," she said. ** I
blush for an ignorance of which you might
have spared me the confession."

It was a pretty profile that bent over the
telegram, and I wished that I had arrived
sooner, before she had lowered her veil. She
followed my translation with a nod of the
head, but did not raise her eyes.

"And this word?" pointing out the name
of my agent with so keen an interest that she
touched my hand with her gloved fingers.
" This word ' Sander '; what is that?"

" That," I answered, '* is the name of my
agent, ' Sander,' the sender of the telegram."

" Ah— yes, and he is in London?" "Yes."

" And is he reliable? — excuse my perti-
nacity, Monsieur — you know, for a French-
woman — who has friends at the front " — she

190

ON THE TRACK.

gave a little shiver. "Mon Dieu! it is killing."

She gave a momentary glance with won-
derliil eyes, which made me wish she vvuuld
look up again. 1 wondered whom she had at
the front.

" Ves, he is reliable," 1 answered. *' You
may take this news, Mademoiselle, as abso-
lutely true."

And then, seeing that she was travelling
alone, 1 made so bold as to place my poor
services at her disposal. She answered very
prettily, in a low voice, and declined with
infinite tact. She had no reason, she said, at
the moment to trespass on my valuable time,
but if 1 would tell my name she would not
fail to avail herself of my offer should occa-
sion arise during her stay in England. 1 gave
her my card, and as her attitude betokened
dismissal, returned to my table, accompanied
thither by the scowls of some of the young
military gentlemen present.

Had I been a younger fellow, open to the
fire of any dark eyes, I might have surren-
dered at discretion to the glance that accom-
panied her parting bow. As it was, I left
her, desiring strongly that she might have
need of my service. For reasons which the
reader knows, all Frenchwomen were of
special interest in my eyes, and this young
lady wielded a strong and lively charm, to
which I was fully alive so soon as she raised
her deep eyes to mine.

^IT

CHAPTER XVllI.

A DAUK 110BS£.

};

" Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savoir
cacher son habilete."

Later in the clay 1 was ignoniiniously re-
called to London.

** Useless to remain in Soutliampton. First
note has been chany^ed in London," Sander
telejj^raphed to me.

While lunching at the hotel, I learnt from
the waiter that the young French lady had
received letters causing her to change her
plans, and that she had left hurriedly for
Dover, the waiter thought.

Sander came to see me the same evening
at my club in London.

'* There are at least two in it — probably
three," he said. ** The note was changed at
Cook's office, in the purchase of two tourist
tickets to Baden-Baden, which can, of course,
be resold or used in part only. It was done
by an old man — wore a wig. they tell me —
but he was genuine; not a young man in dis-
guise. I mean."

If Mr. Sander knew more he did not take
me further into his confidence. He was a
pale-faced, slight man, having the outward
appearance of a city clerk. But the fellow
had a keen look, and there was something in

I'l

i:J

192

A DARK HORSE.

m '

the lines of his thin, determined lips that gave
one confidence. I saw that he did not re-
ciprocate this feeling. Indeed, I think he
rather despised nie for a thick-headed country
bumpkin.

He glanced around the gorgeously de-
corated smoking-room of the club with a look
half-contemptuous and half-envious, and sat
restlessly in the luxurious arm-chair native to
club smoking-rooms, as one cultivating a
Spartan habit of life.

" It is probable," he said bluntly, *' that
you are being watched."

" Yes — I know the bailiffs keep their eye

on me.
"I

suppose you are not gomg away to
shoot or anything like that?"

" I can go to France and look after Ma-
dame de Clericy's property," answered I, and
the prospect of a change of scene was not un-
pleasant to me. For, to tell the truth, I was
ill at ease at this time, and while in England
fell victim to a weak and unmanly longing to
be at Hopton. For, however strong a man's
will may be, it seems that ore woman in his
path must have the power to inspire him with
such a longing that he cannot free his mind
of thoughts of her. nor interest himself in any
other part of the world but that which she
inhabits. Thus, to a grey-haired man who
surely might have been wiser, it was actual
misery to be in England and not at Hopton,

A DARK HORSE.

•93

y to

Ma-
, and

it nn-
was
flanfl
ig to
nan's
in his
with
Imind
\\ any
she
who
ictual
)ton,

where Alphonsc (iiraud was no doubt happy
cnou^li in ihc neighbourhood of the woman
we both loveil.

'* Ves," said Sander to me, after long
thought. " Do tliat. 1 shall get on better
if you are out of ICngiand."

J'he man's air, as 1 have said, inspired con-
fidence; and 1, seeking an excuse to be mov-
ing, determined to obey him without delay.
Moreover, ! was beginning to realize more
and more the ditliculties of my task, and the
remembrance of what had passed at llopton
made failure singularly distastefid.

The Vicomtesse had property in the Mor-
bihan, to which i could penetrate without
great risk of arrest. We had heard nothing
from the agent in charge of this estate since
the outbreak of war, and it seemed probable
that the man had volunteered for active ser-
vice in one of the Breton regiments, raised
in ail haste at this time.

Writing a note to Madame, I left England
the next day, intending to be absent a week
or ten days. My journey was uneventful,
and needs not to be detailed here.

During the writer's absence in stricken
France, Miss Isabella (iayerson, who seemed
as restless as himself, suddenly bethought
herself to oj^en her London house and fill it
with guests. It must be remembered that
this lady was an heiress, and, if report be true,
more than one needy nobleman offered her

194

A DARK llORSK

h ^

a lit' J and that wliicli lie called his heart, only
to meet with a rold refusal. I who know her
so well can fancy that these disinterested
i^entlemen hesitated to repeat the exi)eri-
nient. It is vanity that too often makes a
wcjman consent at last (thouf(h sometimes
l.ove may awake and do it), and I think that
Isabella was never vain.

"1 have jLi^ood reason to he without vanity,"
slic once said in my hearin.ij^, hnt I do not
know what she meant. The remark, as 1 re-
member, was made in answer to f^ncille, who
ha])|)ened to say tliat a woman can dress well
without l)eini( vain, and lauj^diini^ly jc^avc
Isabella as an example.

Isabella's chief reason in cominjc^ to Lon-
don durinjT^ the winter was a kind one —
namdy. to put a temporary end to an im-
prisonment in the country wlu'ch was irksome
to T.ucille. And T make no doubt the two
ladies were jL^lad enoujL^h to avail theiuselves
of this op])ortunity of seeint^ [.ondon. (iod
made the country and men the towns, it is
said: .and I think they made them for the
women.

( )n retiuMiinji; to London 1 found letters
from Madame de Clericy exj)laining this
chan,L(e of residence, and in the same enveloj)e
a note from Isabella (her letters were always
kinder than her speech), invitin^i;- me to stay
in Hyde Park Street.

A DARK HORSE.

195

We are sufUciently old friends," she

wrote,

to allow thus of a Lieiieral iiivitatKJii,

and if it sliares the usual fate of such, the fault
will be yours, and n(jt mine.

The letter was awaiting me at the clul), and

I (h

.1 it

able t(

all

deemed it allowable to can m response llie
same afternoon. ihe news of Lucille's en-
j^agement to Alphonse (iiraud was eN er dang-
ling;- before my eyes, and I wished to get tlie
announcement swallowed without further
suspense.

Aljihonse. a perfect s(|uire of dames, was
engaged in dispensing tliin bread and butter
when I entered the room, feeling, as 1 feel to
this day, somewhat out of place and heavy
amid the delicate ornaments and llowers of a
lady's drawing-room. My rece])tion was not
exactly warm, and I was struck by the pallor
of Isabella's face, which, however, gave place
to a more natural colour before h^ng. Ma-
dame alone showed gladness at the sight of
me, and held cnit both her hands in a welcome
full of affection. I thought Lucille's black
dress very becoming to her slim form.

We talked, of ccnu'se. of the war. before
which all other topics faded into insignifi-
cance at that time — and I liad but dis(|uieting
news from France. The siege had now lasted
seven weeks, and none knew what the end
might be. The oj)portunity awaited the
brenchmen, but none rose to meet it. I^>ance

I i

196

A DARK liORSE.

blundered on in the hands of political medio-
crities, as she has done ever since.

1 gathered that Alphonse was staying in
the house, and wondered at the news, con-
sidering that Isabella knew him but slightly.
It was the V^icomtesse who gave me the in-
formation, with one of her quiet glances that
might mean much or nothing. For myself,
1 confess they usually possessed but small
significance — men being of a denser (though
perhaps deeper) comprehension than women,
who catch on the wing a thought that flies
past such as myself, and is lost.

I could only conclude that Isabella was
seeking the happiness of her new-found friend
in thus offering Giraud an opportunity, which
he doubtless seized with avidity.

Isabella was kind enough to repeat her
invitation, which, however, 1 declined with
Madame's eye upon me and Lucille's back
suddenly turned in my direction. Lucille, in
truth, was talking to Al])honse, and gaily
enough. He had the power of amusing her,
in which I was deficient, and she was always
merry.

While we w'ere thus engaged, a second
visitor was announced, but T did not hear his
name. His face was unkown to me — a nar-
row, foxy face it was — and the man's perfect
self-assurance had something offensive in it,
as all shams have. I did not care for his man-
ner towards Isabella — which is, however, as

A DARK HORSE.

197

|e. in

^aily

her,

l^vays

:oncl
his
Inar-
Hect
11 it.
lian-
as

1 understaiul, (luite a la nwde cT aujourdliul
— a sort of careless, patronizing admiration,
with no touch of respect in it.

lie made it quite apparent that he had
come to see the young mistress of the house,
and no one else, acknowledging the introduc-
tions to the remainder of the company with
a scant courtesy. He talked to Isabella with
a confidential inclination of his body towards
her as they sat on low chairs with a small
table between them, and it was easy to see
that she appreciated the attention of this
middle-aged man of the world.

** Vou see, Aliss Gayerson," I heard him
say with a bold glance, for he was one of those
fine fellows who can look straight enough at
a woman, but do not care to meet the eye of
a man. " You see, 1 have taken you at your
word. I wonder if you meant me to."

'* 1 always mean what 1 say," answered
Isabella; and 1 thought she glanced in my
direction to see whether I was listening.

"A privilege of your sex — also to mean what
you don't say."

At this moment Madame spoke to me, and
I heard no more, but we mav be sure that his
further conversation was of a like intellectual
and notew'orthy standard. There was some-
thing in the man's lowered tone and insinuat-
ing manner that made me set him down as a
lawyer,

198

A DARK HORSE.

■i

. •('

■1

1 ■

*' Uo you notice," said Madame to me,
** that Lucille is in better spirits?"

" Yes — 1 notice it with pleasure. Good
spirits are for the young — and the old."

" I suppose you are right," said Madame.
" Before the business of life begins, and after
it is over."

Apropos of business, I gave the Vicomtesse
at this time an account of my journey to
Audierne, and was able to inform her that I
liad brought back money with me sufficient
for her present wants.

While I was thus talking I heard, through
my ow'n speech, that Isabella invited the
stranger to dine on the following Thursday.

*' I have another engagement," he ans-
W'ered, consulting a small note-book. " But
that can be conveniently forgotten."

Isabella seemed to like such exceedingly
small social change, for she smiled brightly as
he rose to take his leave.

To the Vicomtesse he paid a pretty little
compliment in French, anticipating much
enjoyment on the following Thursday in im-
proving upon his slight acquaintance. He
shook hands with me, his gaze fixed on my
necktie. He then bowed to Lucille and Al-
»^honse, who were talking together at the
: . of the room, and made a self-possessed
exit.

"Who is your friend?" I asked Isabella,
bluntly, when the door was closed.

A DARK HORSE.

i9(j

"A Mr. Devar. Does he interest you?"

There was something in lsal)ella's tone that
betokened a readiness, or perhaps a desire, to
light Mr. Devar's battles. Had i been a wo-
man, or wiser than 1 have ever proved my-
self, I should, no doubt, have ignored this
challenge instead of promptly meeting it by
my answer.

*' 1 cannot say he does."

" You seem to object to him," she said,
sharply. '* IMease remember that he is a
friend of mine."

" He cannot be one of long standing," I
was foolish enough to answer. '* For he is
not an East Country man, and I never heard
of him before."

"As a matter of fact," said Isabella, *' I met
him at a ball in town last week, and he asked
permission to call."

1 gave a short laugh, and Isabella looked
at me with calm defiance in her eyes. It was,
of course, no business of mine, which know-
ledge probably urged me on to further
blunders.

Isabella's mental attitude was a puzzle to
me. She was ready enough to supply infor-
mation respecting Mr. Devar, whose pro-
gress towards intimacy had. to say the least
of it, been rapid. But she supplied, as I
thought, from a small store. She alternately
allayed and aroused an anxiety which was
natural enough in so old a friend, and to a

200

A DARK HORSE.

I'M 'j^

man who had moved among adventurers
nearly all his life. Alfred Gayerson, her broth-
er and my earliest friend, was now in Vienna.
Isabella had no one to advise her. She was,
1 suppose, a forerunner of the advanced
young women of to-day, who, with a diminu-
tive knowledge of the world culled from the
imaginative writings of females as ignorant,
are pleased to consider themselves competent
to steer a clean course over the shoals of life.

Isabella had had, as 1 understood, a cer-
tain experience of the ordinary fortune-
hunters of society — pleasant enough fellows,
no doubt, but lacking self-respect and man-
hood — and it seemed extraordinary that her
eyes should be closed to Mr. Devar's mani-
fold qualifications to the title.

** Perhaps," she said at length, " you also
will do us the pleasure of dining with us on
Thursday, as you appear to be so deeply inter-
ested in Mr. Devar despite your assurances
to the contrary."

" I shall be most happy to do so," ans-
wered I — ungraciously, 1 fear — and there
arose a sudden light, almost of triumph, to
her usually repressed glance.

Alphonse Giraud acceded to my sugges-
tion that he should walk with me towards my
club. His manner towards me had been re-
served and unnatural, and I wished to get to
the bottom of his feeling in respect to one
whom he had always treated as a friend.

A DARK HORSE.

201

Isabella was the only person to suggest an
objection to my proposal, reminding Al-
phonse, rather pointedly, that he had but
time to dress for dinner.

" Well," 1 said, when we were turning into
Piccadilly, " Miste has begun to give us a
scent at last."

" It is not so much in Monsieur Miste as in
the money that I am interested," answered
Giraud, swinging his cane, and looking
about him with a simulated interest in his
surroundings.

''Ah!"
" Yes; and I am beginning to be convinced
that I shall never see either."

" Indeed."

" Let us quit an unpleasant subject," said
the Frenchman, after a pause, and in the
manner of one seeking to avoid an impending
quarrel. '* What splendid horses you have in
England! See that pair in the victoria? one
could not tell them apart. And what action!"

"Yes," I answered, lamely enough; "we
have good enough horses."

And before I could return to the subject,
which no longer drew us together, but sepa-
rated us, he dragged out his watch and hur-
riedly turned back, leaving me with a foolish
and inexplicable sense of guilt.

< I

*^'

I
i

,;r ;vs

CHAPTER XIX.

sroBT.

•• L'amour du mieux t'aura interdit le bien."

" Do I look as if 1 had come out of Paris
in a balloon?" said John Turner, in answer to
my suggestion that he had made use of a
method of escape at that time popular. *' No,
1 left by the Creteil gate, without drum or
trumpet, or anything more romantic than a
laissez-passei' signed by Favre. There will be
the devil to pay in Paris before another week
has passed, and I am not going to disburse."

'* In what way will he want paying?" 1
asked.

" Well," answered John Turner, dragging
at the knees of his trousers, which garments
invariably incommoded his stout legs, "Well,
the Government of National Defence is be-
ginning to show that it has been ill-named.
Before long they will be replaced by a Gov-
ernment of National Ruin. The ass in the
streets is wanting to bray in the Hotel de
Ville, and will get there before he has
finished."

" You are well out of it," said I, " and do
not seem to have suffered by the siege."

" Next to being a soldier it is good to be a
banker in time of war," said Turner, pulling

SPORT.

203

down his waistcoat, which, indeed, had been
in no way affected l)y tlie privations currently
reported to be the lot of the besieged Par-

isians.

What al)out Miste?" he added, abruptly.

'* 1 have seen his back again; I do not be-
lieve the man has a face."

And I told my astute friend of my failure
to catch Charles Miste at the Bank of Eng-
land.

" Truth is," commented the banker, " that
Monsieur Miste is an uncommonly smart
rogue. You must be careful — when he does
show you his face, have a care. And if you
take my advice you will leave this little busi-
ness to the men who know what they are
about. It is not every one who know's the
way to tackle a fellow carrying a loaded re-
volver. By the way, do you carry such a thing
yourself?"

" Never had one in my life."

" Then buy one," said Turner. '' I always
w'ear one — in a pocket at the back, where
neither I nor any one else can get at it. Sorry
you could not come to luncheon," he con-
tinued. " I want to have a long talk with
you."

He settled himself in the large arm-chair,
which he completely filled. 1 like a man to
be bulky in his advancing years."

"Take that chair," he said, "and this cigar.
I suppose you want something to drink.

204

SPORT.

ft?''.;;

It •■';

I "'

Waiter, take this gentleman's order. Vou
young fellows cannot smoke without drink-
ing, nowadays — horrid bad habit. Waiter,
bring me the same."

When we were alone, John Turner sat
smoking and looking at me with beady, re-
flective eyes.

" You know, Dick," he said at length, "1
have got you down in my will."

*' Thanks — but you will last my time."

" Then it is no good, you think?" he in-
quired, with a chuckle.

"Not much."

" You want it now?" he suggested.

" No."

" Your father's son," commented my fath-
er's friend. '* Stubborn and rude. A true
Howard of Hopton. I have got you down
in my will, however, and I'm going to inter-
fere in your affairs. That is why I sent for
you.

I smoked and waited.

" I take it," he went on in his short and
breathless way, " that things are at a stand-
still somewhat in this position. If you marry
Isabella Gayerson. you will have with her
money, which is a tidy fortune, four thou-
sand a year. If you don't have the young
woman, you can live at Hopton, but without
a sou to your name. You want to marry
Mademoiselle, who thinks you are too old
and too big a scoundrel. That is Mademoi-

SPORT.

205

sclle's l)iisiness. Giraiul junior is also in love
with Mademoiselle Lucille, who would doubt-
less marry iiim if he had the wherewithal. In
the mean time she is coy — awaiting the re-
sult of your search. N'ou are seekini;-
(iiraud's money, so that he may marry Made
moisclle of the bright eyes — you understand
that, I sui)pose?"

" Thoroughly."

** That is all right. It is best to have these
affairs clearly stated. Now, why the devil
do you not ask Isabella to marry you — "

'* To begin with, she would not have me,"
I interrupted.

" Nice girl, capable of a deep and passion-
ate affection — I know these (|uiet women —
two thousand five hundred a year."

'* She wouldn't have me."

" Then ask her, and when she has refused
you fight the validity of your father's will."

" But she might not refuse me," said I.
"She hates me, though! I know that. There
is no one on earth with such a keen scent for
my faults."

'"Ye-es," said Turner slowly. "Well?"

** She might think it her duty to accept me
on account of the will."

'* Have you ever known a woman weigh
duty against the inclination of her own
heart?"

" I know little about women," replied I,
*' and doubt whether you know more,"

206

SPORT.

I' I, ;•

" That is as may be. And yuu wouUhrt
marry Isabella for two thousand a year?"

" Not for twenty thousand," replied I, half
in my wineglass.

"Virtuous young man! VVliy?"

I looked at Turner and laughed.

"A slip of a French girl," he muttered con-
temptuously. " No bigger round than the
calf of my leg."

And I suppose he only spoke the truth.

He continued thus to give me much good
advice, to which, no doubt, had I been pru-
dent, I should have listened with entire faith.
But my friend, like other worldly wiseacres,
had many theories which he himself failed to
put into practice. And as he spoke there was
a twinkle in his eye, and a tone of scepticism
in his voice, as if he knew that he was but
whistling to the wind.

Then John Turner fell to abusing Miste
and Giraud and the late poor Vicomte as a
parcel of knaves and fools.

" Here am I," he cried, " with a bundle of
my signatures being hawked about the worUl
by a thief and cannot stop one of them.
Every one knows that my paper is good; the
drafts will be negotiated from pillar to post
like a Bank of England note, and the ac-
count will not be closed for years."

It was a vexatious matter for so distin-
guished a banker to be mixed in, and I could
give him but little comfort. While I was

SPORT.

207

still with him, however, a letter was brought
to nie which enlightened us somewhat. Thi;

:ati

fron

irent, Sander,

commu

and bore the Brussels postmark.

" This Miste." he wrote, * is no ordinary
scoundrel, but one who will want most care-
ful treatment, or we shall lose the whole
amount. 1 have now arrived at the conclu-
sion that he has two accomplices, and one of
these in London; for 1 am undoul>tedly
watched, and my movements are probably
reported to Miste. Yourself and Monsieur
Giraud are doubtless under surveillance also.
I am always on Miste's heels, but never catch
him up. It seems quite clear, from the incon-
sequence of his movements, that he is en-
deavouring to meet an accomplice, but that
my presence so close upon his heels repeat-
edly scares them apart. He receives letters
and telegrams at the Poste Restante, under
the name of Marcel. So close was I upon
his track, that at Bruges I caused him to
break his appointment by a few hours only.
He sent off a telegram, and made himself
scarce only two hours before my arrival. This
is a large affair, and we must have great pa-
tience. In the meantime, I think it probable
that Miste will not endeavour to cash any
more drafts. He only wants suf^cient for
current expenses, and will j)rol)al)ly endea-
vour to negotiate the whole amount to some
small foreign government in guise of a loan."

208

SPORT.

" That is what he will do," affirmed John
Turner. " Persia or China or a needy South
American state."

It pleased me at times to think that I could
guess Lucille's thoughts, and indeed she
made it plain at this time that she cherished
some grudge against me. It was, I suppose,
only natural that she should suspect me of
lukewarmness in a search which, if successful,
would inevitably militate to my own discom-
fiture. iVlphonse Giraud was doubtless await-
ing, with a half-concealed impatience, the
moment when he might honourably press
his suit. Thus, Charles Miste held us all in
the hollow of his hand, and the news I had
received was as important to others as to
myself.

I, therefore, hurried to Hyde Park Street,
and had the good fortune to find all the party
within. I made known the contents of San-
der's letter, adding thereto, for the benefit of
the ladies, John Turner's comments and my
own suspicions.

" We shall catch him yet!" cried Alphonse,
forgetting in the excitement of the moment
the dignified reserve which had of late stood
between us. " Bravo, Howard! we shall
catch him yet."

He wrung my hand effusively, and then,
remembering himself, glanced at Isabella, as
I thought, and lapsed into attentive and sus-
picious silence.

SPORT.

209

Having made my report I withdrew, and
at the corner of the street was nearly run
over by a private hansom cab, at that tnne a
fashionable vehicle among men about town.
1 caught a ghmpse of a courteous gloved
hand, and Mr. Devar's face wreathed in the
pleasantest of smiles.

" You omitted to tell me at what hour you
dme, ' was the remark with which Air. Devar
made his entrance. He refused to accept a
chair, and took his stand on the hearth-rug
without monopolizing the fire, and with per-
fect ease and a word for every one.

"As I drove here I passed your friend, Mr

" aT.m^"^'" ^^ ^^^^ presently, and Isabella said
An!

''Yes, and he looked somewhat absorbed "

Mr. Devar waited, and after a pause kindly

continued to interest himself in so unworthy

a subject. ^

" Did you not tell me," he remarked, " that
Mr. Howard is engaged on some— er—
quixotic enterprise— the search for a fortune
he has lost?"

"The fortune is Monsieur Giraud's," said
the lady of the house.

Devar turned to Alphonse with a bow ap-
propriately French.

" Then I congratulate Monsieur on his—
possibilities."

His manner of speech was suggestive of a
clesire to conceal a glibness which is usually
accounted a fault. ^

- !

210

SPORT.

"And I hope that Mr. Howard's obvious
absorption was not clue to — discourage-
ment."

** On the contrary," answered Isabella,
" Mr. Howard has just given us a most hope-
ful report."

" Has he caught the thief?"

" No; but his agent, a Mr. Sander, writes
from Brussels that he has traced the thief to
the Netherlands, and there seems to be some
probability that he will be taken."

" My experience of thieves," said Mr.
Devar arily, " has been small. But I imagine
they are hard to take when once they get
away. Mr. Howard is, I fear, wasting his
time."

Isabella answered nothing to this, though
her pinched lips seemed to indicate a doubt
whether such a waste was in reality going-
forward.

" Our neighbour's enterprise usually ap-
pears to be a waste of time, does it not?" he
said, with the large tolerance of a man own-
ing to many failings.

Alphonse shrugged his shoulders and
spread out his hands with a gesture of help-
lessness, further accentuated by the bandage
on his wrist.

" I do not so much want to catch the thief
as to possess myself of the money," he said.

" You are charitable, Monsieur Giraud."

" No — I am poor."

SPORT.

211

Devar laughed in the pleasantest manner
imaginable.

"And of course," he said, indicating the
Frenchman's maimed hand, which was usu-
ally in evidence, " you are unable to under-
take the search yourself?"
"As yet."

" Then you intend ultimately to join in the
chase— you are a great sportsman, I hear?"
The graceful compliment was not lost upon
Alphonse, who beamed upon his interlocutor.
" In a small way — in a small way," he ans-
wered. " Yes, when they strike a really good
scent I shall follow, wounds or no wounds."
At this Mr. Devar expressed some concern,
and made himself additionally agreeable. He
refused still to be seated, saying that he had
but come to ascertain the dinner hour on the
following Thursday. Nevertheless, he pro-
longed his stay and made himself vastly fas-
cinating.

! I

CHAPTER XX.

UJS'DElillAND.

" Le doute empoisonne tout et ne tue rien."

As I walked through the park towards
Isabella's house on the evening of the din-
ner-party, Devar's hansom cab dashed past
me and stopped a few yards farther on. The
man must have had sharp eyes to recognize
me in a London haze on a November even-
ing. Devar leapt from his cab and came
towards me.

*' Shall I walk with you or will you drive
with me?" he said.

Placed between two evil alternatives, I sug-
gested that it would be better for his health
to walk with me — hoping, although it was a
dry night, that his shiny boots were too
precious or tight for such exercise. Mr.
Devar, however, made a sign to the groom
to follow, and slipped his hand engagingly
within my arm.

" Glad of the chance of a walk," he said.
" Wish I was a free man like you, Howard;
London would not often see me!"

" What would?" I asked, for I like to know
where vermin harbours.

*'Ah!" — he paused, and, as I thought,
glanced at me. " The wide world. Should
like, for instance, a roving commission such

UNDERHAND.

is?"

213

ber ,7 hV-^'^^ '"^ ''^^ "^ London in Novem-

hC Lt ' ^"'^'"^ "P ^'^^ ^">' ^^«"ar of

We walked on a little farther

• said my bland companion to whirh r
made no articulate reply ""'' ^

. "^^>'^"^'»o^v?" he asked at length as nn^
in a corner. '^''gcn, as one

;; Do you «.a«^ to know?" retorted I.
. Oh-no, with a laugh.

wnii. ." ". ''"'"'" '^'^ I fi'-allv. And we

^chT„,^rer,-\-^^^^^^^^^^

for": for" """"'^ =* good-n'aU.rT.rporso, •
for^he^forgave my rudeness as soon as' it was

I know not exactly how he compassed it
bm he restored peace so effectually tl IT be
fore we reached Hyde Park Street e had
forced me to invite him to lunch with me a

world is °'l •^' ',°"°«'"'^ Saturday "
world IS certainly for the thick-skinned

ff-l

214

UNDERHAND.

We entered Isabella's drawing-room, there-
fore, together, and a picture of l)rotherly love.

" Force of good example," explained Mr.
Devar airily. *' 1 saw Howard walking, and
walked with him."

There were assembled the house-party
only, Devar and 1 being the guests of the
evening. Isabella frowned as we entered to-
gether. 1 wondered why.

Devar attached himself to Alphonse
Giraud, whom he led aside under pretext of
examining a picture.

" Monsieur Giraud," he then said to him
in French, " as a man of affairs I cannot but
deplore your heedlessness."

He was a much older man than Giraud,
and had besides the gift of uttering an im-
pertinence as if under compulsion.

" But, my dear sir — " exclaimed Alphonse.

" Either you do not heed the loss of your
fortune or you are blind."

" You mean that I cannot trust my friend,"
said Alphonse.

Mr. Devar spread out his hands in denial
of any such meaning.

" Monsieur Giraud," he said, " I am a man
of the world, and also a lawyer. I suppose I
am as charitable as my neighbours. But it
is never wise to trust a single man with a
large sum of money. None of us knows his
own weakness. Put not thy neighbour into
temptation. "

UNDERHAND.

215

lit

lis

Which sounded Hke Scripture, and doubt-
less passed as such. Air. Devar nodded
easily, smiled like an advertisement of denti-
frice, and moved back to the centre of the
room. It naturally fell to him to offer his
arm to the hostess, while Madame accom-
panied me to the dining-room. Alphonse
and Lucille paired oft', as it seemed to me,
very naturally.

As we passed down the stairs I fell into
thought, and made a mental survey of all
these people as they stood in respect to my-
self. Alphonse had progressed, as was visible
on his telltale face, from suspicion to some-
thing near hostility. Isabella — always a
puzzle — was more enigmatic than ever; for
she showed herself keenly alive to my faults,
and made no concealment of her distrust,
though she threw open her house to me with
a persistent and almost anxious hospitality.
Here was no friend. Had I, in Isabella, an
enemy ? Of Devar. all that I could con-
clude was that he was suspicious. His inter-
est in myself was less gratifying than the
deepest indifference. In Madame de Clericy
I had one who wished to be my friend, but
her attitude towards me was inscrutable.
She seemed to encourage Alphonse. Did
she, like the rest of them, suspect me of seek-
ing to frustrate his suit by withholding his
fortune ? She merely looked at me, and
would say no word. And of Lucille, what

I' 'S ' '

216

UNDERHAND.

could I think hut that she hated me ?

At dinner we spoke of the siege, and of
^hose sad affairs of France which drew all
men's thoughts at this time. Mr. Devar was,
1 remember, well informed on the points of
the campaign, and seemed to talk of them
with equal facility in French and English;
but I disliked the man. and determined to
make my thoughts known to Isabella.

It was no easy matter to outstay Mr.
Devar, but, asserting my position as an old
friend, this was at last accomplished. When
we were left alone, Alphonse must have
divined my intention in the quick way that
was natural to him; for he engaged Lucille
and her mother in a discussion of the latest
news, which he translated from an evening
paper. Indeed, Lucille and he put their
heads together over the journal, and seemed
to find it damnably amusing.

" Isabella," I said, ** w^ill you allow me to
make some inquiries concerning this man
Devar before you ask him to your house
again?"

" Are you afraid that Mr. Devar will in-
terfere with your own private schemes?" she
replied, in that tone of semi-banter which she
often assumed towards me when we were
alone.

" Thanks — no. I am quite capable of tak-
ing care of myself, so far as Mr. Devar is con-
cerned. It is — if you will believe it — in re-

UNDERHxVND.

-217

lin-

;re

ik-
)n-
■e-

gard to yourself that I have misgivings. I
look upon myself as in some sort your pro-
tector."

She looked at me, and gave a sudden
laugh.

" A most noble and competent pro-
tector!" she said, in her biting way, " when
you are always fortune-hunting, or else in
France taking care of beauty in distress."

She glanced across the room towards
Lucille in a manner strangely cold.

" Why do you encourage this man?" I
asked, returning to the sul)ject from which
Isabella had so easily glided away. " He is
not a gentleman. Seems to me the man is a
— dark horse!"

" Well, you ought to know," said Isabella,
with a promptness which made me reflect
that I was no match for the veriest school-
girl in a warfare of words.

" I did not understand," continued Isa-
bella, looking at me under her lashes, " that
you looked upon yourself as my protector.
It is rather an amusing thought!"

"Oh! I do not pretend to competence,"
answered I; "I know you to be cleverer,
and quite capable of managing your own
affairs. If there was anything you wanted,
no doubt you could get it better without my
assistance than with it."

" No doubt," put in Isabella, with a queer
curtness.

.f^ -"■

2l8

UNDERHAND.

" But my father looked upon you rather
in the light J mentioned. He was very fond
of you, and thought much of your welfare,
and—"

" You think the burden should be heredi-
tary," she interrupted again, but she smiled
in a manner that softened the acerbity of her
words.

" No, Dick," she said, " you are better at
your fortune-hunting."

" It is not for myself," I said too hurriedly;
for Isabella had always the power to make
me utter hasty words, involving me in some
quarrel in which I invariably fared badly.

" Who knows?"

" You think that if the fortune fell into
my hands, the temptation would be too
strong for a poor man like myself?" I in-
quired.

" Poor by choice!" The words were
hardly audible, for Isabella was busying her
fingers with some books that lay on the table
between us. It may have been the effect of
the lamp shade, but I thought her colour
heightened when I glanced at her face.

" It is hard to believe that you are hon-
estly seeking a fortune, which, when found,
will enable another man to marry Lucille,"
she said significantly, without looking at me.
And I suppose she knew that which was in
my heart.

UNDERHAND.

2 It)

-»

He.
in

'* Some day," 1 retorted, *' you will have
to apologise for having said that!"

*' Then others will need to do the same !
Lucille herself does not believe in you."

" Yes," 1 answered, ** others will have to
do the same, and thank you for it."

" Lucille will not," answered Isabella, with
a note of triumph in her voice, *' for she had
reason to distrust you in Paris."

" You seem to l)e on very confidential
terms with Mademoiselle."

" Yes," she answered, looking at me with
quiet defiance.

'* Is the confidence nuitual, Isabella?"
asked I, rising to go; and received no answer.

When I bade good-night to Madame de
Clericy, she was standing alone at the far
end of the room.

" Ah! mon ami," she said, as she gave me
her hand, " I think you are blinder than
other men. Women are not only clothes.
We have feelings of our own, which spring
up without the help of any man — in despite
of any, perhaps — remember that."

Which I confess was Greek to me, and
sent me on my way with the feeling of a
hunter who, in following one all-absorbing
quarry through the forest, and hearing on all
sides a suppressed rustle or hushed move-
ment, pauses to wonder whence they come
and what they mean.

Iih''

220

UNDliRllAND.

ii i£

" Tell iiie," said Alplioiise, who helped nic
with my lieavy coat, " if you have news of
Miste or pnjpose to follow him ? I will
accompany you."

He said it awkwardly, after the manner of
one avowiiij4 an unworthy suspicion of which
he is ashamed. So Alphonse Giraud was to
follow me and watch my every movement,
treating me like a servant unworthy of trust.
1 made answer, promising to advise him of
any such intention; for Giraud's company
was pleasant under any circumstances, and
there would be some keen sport in running
Miste to earth with him beside me.

Thus 1 came away from Isabella's house
with the conviction that she and no other
was my most active enemy. It was Isabella
who had poisoned Giraud's mind against me.
He was too simple and honest to have con-
ceived unaided such thoughts as he now har-
boured. Moreover, he was, like many good-
hearted people, at the mercy of every wind
that blows, and, like the chameleon, took his
colour from his environments.

It was to no other than Isabella that I
owed Lucille's coldness, and I shrewdlv sus-
pected some ulterior motive in the action
that transferred the home of the distresse<:l
ladies — for a time at least — from my house at
Hopton to her own house in London.
Madame de Clericy and Lucille were no
longer my guests, but hers; and each day

UNDERHAND.

221

(liminishccl llicir dcln towards nie and inatlc
tlicin more beholden to Isal)ella.

'* i know," Lucille had said lo me one day,
" that you despise us tor being happier in
London than at llopton; wc are conscious
of your contempt."

And with a laugh she linked arms with
Madame de Clericy, who hastened to say that
llopton was no doubt charming in the
spring.

1 had long ago discovered that Lucille
ruled her mother's heart, where, indeed, no
other interest entered. This visit to Isa-
bella's town house had, it appears, l)een
arranged by the two girls, Madame accpii-
escing, as she accpiiesced in all that was for
her daughter's happiness.

In whatsoever line I moved, Isabella
seemed to stand in my path, ready to frus-
trate my designs and impede my progress.
/\nd Lsabella Gayerson had been my only
l)laymate in childhood — the companion of
my youth, and, if the matter had rested with
me, might have remained the friend of my
whole lifetime.

As I walked down Oxford Street (for in
those days I could not afiford a cab, my every
shilling l)eing needed to keep open Hoi)ton
and pay the servants there) I jiondered over
these things, and quite failed to elucidate
them. And writing now, after many stormy
years, and in quiet harbour at Hopton, T still

Tm^oBemmm

222

UNDERHAND.

fail to understand Isabella; nor can I tell
what it is that makes a woman so uncertain
in her friendships.

Tiicn my thoughts returned to Mr. Devar,
where the necessity for action presented diffi-
culties more after my own heart.

I went to the club and there wrote a letter
to Sander, who was still in the Netherlands,
asking- him if he knew aught of a gentleman
calling himself Devar, who appeared to me
to be no gentleman, who spoke French like
any Frenchman, and had the air of a prosper-
ous scoundrel.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHECKMATE.
" '■'''°"""" "'"•'''' <'- P°- -- qui o,„ de n.„nneur,

^rlrirl' '^T ^^' '^'^^ I ■■"^ived a tele-
gram from Sander, couched in the al.nmf
langtutge affected by that keen-wiUed ind':-'

"Ask John Turner if he knows Devar "

to trouMe h,T\;i';h\;;;Sdr "iti

as begmmng to learn a lesson which L

"nnr-L:j?;ris-^ -=

ner was a kind friend an fone who-^n l""
bestowed a P-rpat ,ffl • ' ^ '>el>eve,

worthy obje«buf,t'°" ?°" ' ^'^^-^ """
France seemerl f^ ^\"''' ''' '""<^' "hen

'>e had estabhsl ed Seif and h r''"""
fi-oni his valet th-)t m, • '■ "'*^''*^ '^■'"■"f

of .".ttin; hL':'::,™^;:-:, , -« ';i;^,;'-''"-'

day not to return until even.ng ' '" ""^
Where does he lunch?" I asked.

I d

■ I

524

CHECKMATE.

" Sometimes at one place, sometimes at
another — wherever they have a good chef,
sir," the man repHed.

1 bethought me of my own chib and its
renown. Come peace or war, I knew that
John Turner never missed his meals. I left
a note asking him to take luncheon with me
at the club on the following day, to discuss
matters of importance and meet a mutual
acquaintance. I invited him fifteen minutes
later than the hour named to Mr. Devar, and
in the evening received his acceptance. As
I was walking down St. James Street the next
morning I met Alphonse Giraud.

" Will you lunch with me at the club," I
said, " to-day, at one. I want to give you
every facility to carry out your scheme to
keep an eye on me."

Poor Alphonse blushed and hung his head.

" John Turnner will be there," I said, with
a laugh, " and perhaps we may hear some-
thing that will interest you — at all events, he
will talk of money, since vou are so absorbed
in it."

So my luncheon party formed itself into a
rather queer partie carree; for I knew John
Turner's contempt for Alphonse, and hoped
that he might cherish a yet stronger feeling
against Devar.

At the hour appointed that gentleman
arrived, and was pleased to be very gracious
and patronizing. His manner towards me

CHKCKMATE.

2^5

was tha of a „,an of ll,e uorl.l who is kin.llv
l^spose, .o.vanls a country 1,„mpkin
eceived !,„„ ,„ the smaller s„,okinVroon,
uliere ue were alone, an<l were stillsittino:
there when Alphonse can,e. It was qni e evi"
;cnt ihat the little Frenohntan appreciate!
the great English cluh rtciateil

." Now, in Paris," he said, " we copy all
th>s. Bnt n ,s not tl,e san,e thing. VVe have
our clubs, ,nt they are c,uite different-thev
are but cafes — and why?"

He looked at us in the deepest distress.
Because, I suo-c^ested. " you arc hv
"ature too sociable. Frenchmen cannot u.ee^
)vi hout hemg polite to each other, so the

"nTw "' r "" ''f '' '''''■ Englishm n
can shaie a cabm, and still be distant."

ihe furniture is the same," said Giraud

ookmo- round with a reflective eye 'but

there ,s a difi-erent feelino- i„ tjie air' Is

different from the Paris cinlw n t

PiHc ^T ■ '^^ '^'^'-'^ ^i"bs. Do you know
J ans, Monsieur Devm-^" n^

^ !, Devar paused.

look]

course, I have been there " h

las not.?

"R at the carpet

e replied,

What Eno-lish

man

And he was still say

e capital, when the buttl^n -I

John T

"g |)leasant th

in.q-s of

entl

iiniers card. I told I

odd feel

eman upstairs, and

nrner's

"ifi- in the throat
step.

)oy brouo-ht mc
lini to l)rino- the
remember still the
with which I heard

!■( M

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226

CHECKMATE.

:,i-: "l

.'■ 1

';.

The door was thrown open. The boy
announced Mr. John Turner, and for a brief
moment Devar's eye meeting mine told me
that I had another enemy in tlie world. The
man's face was mottled, and he sat quite still.
I rose and shook hands with John Turner,
who had not yet recovered his breath.
Alphonse — ever polite and affable — did the
same. Then I turned and said :

" Let me introduce to you Mr. Devar —
Mr. John Turner."

Turner's face, at no time expressive, did
not change.

"Ah!" he said, slowly— " Mr. Devar of
Paris."

There was a short silence, during which
the two men looked at each other, and
Alphonse shuffled from one foot to the other
in an intense desire to keep things pleasant
and friendly in circumstances dimly adverse.

" Mr. Devar," repeated Turner, " let me
draw your attention to the door!"

There was nothing dramatic about my old
friend. He never forgot his stoutness, and
always carried it with dignity. He merely
jerked his thumb towards the door by which
he had entered.

Devar must have known Turner better
than I did. Perhaps he knew the sterner side
of a character of which T had only experi-
enced the kindness and friendship, for he
stood with a white face, and never looked at

CHECKMATE.

22^

Is that what you invited me fnr?" . i i

" Partly."

LnJlheon/" '"'"'°'' ^^^ ^--^ '"^ '"''ve some
;; Yes; there is some luncheon."

reached tlie door mL , ''f^"""^ '^^ ''=i''

shoulder " sav nr^.i , ^ Frenchman's

■"atter or pH;L rv"^' "'°"' ''• ^^ "'^ "°
and wo.dd no f'be Z: T T" "'^ '''''''■
had not let h m off*- P^"''' '■^^'•^■'"'le if I
luncheon?" ^^ ^'^^" "'^ Ro to

Rut Alphonse was not to be mnllifi,>,t
""""R a meal, of which Tnr^er'dn'lf' p, ^^^

with a tact' t?:^^' ;s'^vr ^"•■4^^

11-1 r^r^ r ,. .^. ^^'="<-n- hie was n iff «

more formal \x\ h

IS s

was a little

peech— a h'ttle more cere-

228

CHECKMATE.

monious in manner, and John Turner ignored
these signs with a placid assurance for which
I was grateful.

'' Where did you pick up Devar?'' asked
the banker, when the edge of his appetite had
been blunted by cold game pie.

" He picked me up," answered I; and went
on to explain how this gentleman had forced
himself upon us, and how Sander had given
me a plain hint how to rid myself of him.

" Of course," said John Turner, " he is in
league with Miste, and has l)ecn keeping him
informed of your movements. If you see
Devar again, kick him. I had that pleasure
myself once, but I'm afraid you will never
get the chance. The man has had a linger in
every Anglo-French swindle of the last ten
years. He dares not show his face in Paris."

We continued to talk of Air. Devar and his
liabilities, of which the least seemed to l)e the
risk of a kicking from myself. The man had,
it appeared, sailed too near the wind of fraud
on several occasions, and John Turner held
him in the hollow of his hand.

Alphonse, however, was not to l)e ap-
peased. His honour, had, as he imagined, been
assailed by this insult to one upon whom he
had bestowed his friendship, and he took no
part in our talk when it was of Devar.

Turner did not stay long after we had fin-
ished our wine.

CHECKMATE.

229

" No," lie said, " if I do not keep movin-
J shall go to sleep." ^

\y'hen he had left iis, Alphonse showed a
restlessness which soon culminated in depar-
ture, and I sat down to write to Sander The
rapid exit (which ultimately proved to he as
complete as it was sudden) of Mr Devar
could not fail to have some hearing- on the
quest m which Sander was engaged, and I
now recapitulated in mind many^ suspicious
incidents connected with the well-dressed
adventurer who had so easily found an entree
to Isahella's house.

Alphonse went, as T later learnt, straight
to Hyde Park Street, and found Isahella
alone. For Madame de Clericv and Lucille
were regular in their attendance at a neio-h-
bourmg Roman Catholic 'church, whither
many Frenchwomen resorted at this time to
pray for their friends and country

• " Ih'^^r^'''^''^ Alphonse, ''has grossly
insu ted Mr. Devar. In mv countrv such an
incident would not pass without hloodshed "
Ancl he related, with considerahle f^re the
scene in the smoking-room at the cluh
. But It was Mr. Turner and not Dick who
insulted Mr. Devar."

"That is true, but Howard planned the
whole— -It was a trick, a trap."

" A clever trap," said Isabella, with her in-
coniprehensible smile. " T did not know that
Dick had the wit."

t li

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230

CHECKMATE.

*'Mr. Turner appears to have known Devar
before," explained Alphonse, " and seemed
to have some cause for complaint against
him, though I do not believe all he said. /Vnd
now Howard wantonly insults one of your
friends, a gentleman who has dined in this
house. He takes too much upon himself.
If you will only say the word, IVIiss Gayer-
son, I will quarrel with Howard myself."

And Isabella, as 'Alphonse subsequently
told me, received this offer with an ill-con-
cealed smile.

" Dick is not afraid of the responsibility,"
she said, and did not appear so resentful as
her champion.

" But why did he do it?"

Isabella did not answer at once, and
Alphonse, whose good heart invariably
tricked his temper, made a suggestion.

" Is it because he thought Mr. Devar no
fit friend for yourself. Miss Gayerson?"

Isabella laughed derisively before she did
me another wrong.

" He does not trouble about me or my
affairs," she answered. '* No, it is because
Mr. Devar is too clever a person to be a wel-
come observer of Dick's actions. Dick prob-
ably knows that Mr. Devar is an expert in
money matters, and less easy to deceive than
yourself and a few ignorant and trusting
women."

" You mean in the matter of my fortune?"

CHECKMATE.

231

^^ ' Yes," replied the friend of my childhood.
It IS probable that Air. Devar suspects what
others suspect. But you are so simple, Alon-
sieur Giraud!"

Alphonse shrugged his shoulders.

"It is not that— Mademoiselle," he said
with his light laugh. '' It is that I am a fool."

Isabella was not looking at him, but at
her quiet hands clasped together on her lap.

" We all know," she said, " that Dick is
supplying Madame de Clericy with money
that does not come from her estates. Whence
does it come?"

"You suggest," said Alphonse, "that
Howard has recovered my money and is sup-
porting Madame de Clericy and Lucille
with it."

What answer Isabella would have made to
this I know not, for it was at this moment
that the servant threw open the door and
ushered me into a silence which was signifi-
cant even to one of no very quick understand-
mg. I saw that Alphonse Giraud was agi-
tated and caught a singular gleam in Isa-
bella's eyes. I suppose she was one of those
women who take pleasure in stirring up strife
between men. Her cheeks had a faint pink
flush on them that made her suddenly beau-
tiful. I had never noticed her looks before.

It was Alphonse who spoke first.

" There are several points, Monsieur," he
said, angrily, '^ upon which 1 demand an
explanation."

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232

CHECKMATE.

" All right — but I am not going to quarrel
with you, Giraud."

I looked very straight at lsal)el]a, whose
eyes, however, did not fall under mine. But
I think she knew that I blamed her for this.

" You have insulted a friend of Miss Gay-

erson s.

A matter," was my reply, " whieh rests
between Miss Gayerson and myself. J have
rid her house of a scoundrel — that is all."

I thought Isabella was going to speak, but
she closed her pale lips again and glanced at
Alphonse.

" You have been supplying Madame dc
Clericy with money during the last six
months?" said he. — " Yes."

" Your own money?" — " Alost certainly "
— and I was soft-hearted enough to omit re-
minding him that he ow^ed me a thousand
francs.

" You have repeatedly told me," pursued
Alphonse, who seemed to be nursing his
anger into an artificial life, " that you arc
penniless. Whence comes this money?"

" I borrowed it."

" And if Madame de Clericy fails to repay
you, you will be ruined?"

"Precisely."

" And you ask me to believe that," laughed
Giraud, scornfully.

" No," answered I, going towards the
door, for my temper was rising, and there

CHECKMATE.

233

remained but that way of avoiding a quarrel.
" You may do as you like."

As I turned to close the door I cau<rht
sight of Isabella's face, and it wore a look that
took me back to school holidays, when she
and I wandered in the Hopton woods to-
gether, and were, I dare say, sentimental
enough.

r^'

t
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1

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CHAPTER XXll.

HOME.

" Les plus g^n^reux sont toujours ceux qui n'ont rien."

The events in France, stupendous in them-
selves, seemed to have shaken the nerves of
nations. That great sleeping Bear of the
North roused itself, and in its clumsy awak-
ening put a heavy paw through the Treaty of
Paris. The Americans — our brothers in
thought, speech and energetic purpose —
raised a great cry against us in that we had
allowed the ill-fated Alabama to leave our
shores equipped for destruction. There was
a spirit of strife and contention in the atmo-
sphere of the world. Friendly nations nursed
an imaginary grievance against their neigh-
bours, and those that had one brought it out,
as a skeleton from a cupboard, and inspected
it in public.

In a school playground the rumour of a
fight stirs latent passions, and doubles many
a peaceful fist. France and Prussia, grasping
each other by the throat, seemed to have
caused such an electric disturbance in the
atmosphere of Europe, and many English-
men were for fighting some one — they did
not care whom.

During this disturbed spring of 1871, Ma-
dame de Clericy and Lucille returned to Hop-

.1 '1:

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HOME.

^35

Ion, where a warm and pleasant April made
lliem admit tliat the lui^i^lish climate was not
wholly bad. For my own part, it is in the
antnmn that 1 like Hopton best, when the
old cock i)heasants call defiance to each other
in the spinneys, and the hedg^erows rnstle
with life.

The ladies were kind enoup^h to make
known to me their amended opinion of I'J1|L^-
land when I went down to my home, soon
after hLaster; and indeed 1 thon.i^ht the old
place lookin^e^ wonderfully homelike and beau-
tiful, with the young green about its gray
walls and the sense of spring in the breeze
that blew across the tableland.

1 arrived unexpectedly; for some instinct
told me that it would be better to give Isa-
bella no notice of my coming into her neigh-
bourhood. As I rode up the avenue I saw
Lucille, herself the incarnation of spring,
moving among the flowers. She turned at
the sound of the horse's tread, and changed
color when she recognized me. A flush — I
suppose of anger — spread over her face.

" I have come, Mademoiselle," I said,
" with good news for you. You may soon
return home now, and turn your back for-
ever on Hopton."

" I am not so ungrateful as you persist in
considering me," she said, with vivacity, "and
I Hke Hopton."

IIHMi

flr^'

r--

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]

236

HOME.

The gardener came forward to take 'My
horse, and we walked towards the house
together.

** I am grateful to you, Monsieur How-
ard," said Lucille, \v. a softer voice than I had
yet heard her use towards me — and in truth
I knew every tone of it — " for all that you
have done for mother — for us, I mean. You
have b'^en a friend in need."

This sudden change of manner was rather
bewildering, and I iiia,de no doubt that the
victim of it was dumb and stupid enough to
arouse any woman's anger. But Lucille was
always too f|uick for me, and by the time I
began to understand her humour it changed
and left me far behind.

"' Where have you been all these months?'
she asked, almost as if the matter interested
he*". " And why have you not written?"

''' I have been chasing a chimera. Mademoi-
selle."

" Which you will never catch."

" Which I shall never abandon," answered
L quite failing to emulate her lightness of
tone.

When we went indoors and found Madame
with her lace-work in the; morning-room
upstairs, with the windows overlooking the
sea — the room, by the way, where 1 now sit
and write — Lucille's manner as abruptly
changed again.

HOME.

^17

,:>•»

"Mother," she said, "here is Monsieur
llovvanl, our benefactor."

" 1 ani glad, mon ami, tliat you have
come," were Madame's words of welcome
And after the manner of j^ood housewives
she then mquired when and where I had hist
eaten.

I had hroujrht a numl)er of the illustrated
journals of the day, and with the aid of these
conymced even Lucille that the Hight from
1 ans had not been an imnecessary j)recau-
tion. Upon the heels of the horror of the
lono- siege had followed the greater disorder
of the Commune, when brave men were shot
down by the insurgent National Guard, and
all Pans was at the mercy of the rabble
Indeed, this Reign of Terror must ever
remam a l)lot on the civilization of the cen-
tury and t:.^ history of the French people.

It w:,-: apparent to^^me that while Madame
do ^lericy, who was of a more philosophic
nature, accepted exile and dependence on
myself without great relttctance, Lucille
chafed under the knowledge that tliev were
for the moment beholden to me. T had, as a
matter of fact, come at Madame's request
who could make but little of the Lnglish
newspaj)ers, and thirsted for tidings From
Paris. The respectable Paris newspapers had
one after the other been seized and stopped
by the Commune, while the postal service
had itself collapsed.

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238

HOME.

The Vicomtesse also wished for details of
her own affairs, and had written to me
respecting a sale of some property in order
to raise ready money and pay off her debt
towards myself. It was with a view of dis-
cussing these qeustions that 1 had journeyed
down to Hopton. So at least I persuaded
myself to believe, and knew, at the sight of
Lucille among the gnarled old trees, that the
self-deception was a thin one. Alphonse had
gone to France, being now released from his
parole, so I was spared the sight of Lucille
and him together.

Madame, however, would not allow me to
make my report until we had dined, and we
spent the intervening hour in talk of Paris,
and the extraordinary events passing there.
The ladies, as indeed ladies mostly are, were
staunch Royalists, and while evincing but
little sympathy for the fallen Bonapartes,
learnt with horror of the rise of Anarchy and
Republicanism in Paris.

" My poor country," exclaimed IMadame.
" It will be impossible to live in France
again."

And Lucille's eyes lighted up with anger
when I told her of the plots to assassinate
the Due D'Aumale — that brave soldier and
worthiest member of his family — merely
because he was of the Royal race.

All Europe awaited at this time the fall of
the desperate Communards, who held Paris

HOME.

239

and defied the government of Versailles,
while experts vowed that the end could not
be far off. It seemed impossible that a rabble
under the command of first one and then
another adventurer could hold the capital
against disciplined troops, and I, like the
majority of onlookers, underestimated the
possible duration of this second siege. How-
ever, my listeners were consoled with the
prospect of returning to their beloved France
before the summer passed.

Madame, as I remember, made a great
feast in honor of my coming, and the old but-
ler, who has served my father and still called
me Master Dick, with an admonishing shake
of the head, brought from the cellar some
great vintage of claret which Madame said
could not have been bettered from the cave
at La Pauline.

Again at dinner I thought there was a
change in Lucille, who deferred to me on
more than one occasion, and listened to my
opinion almost as if it deserved respect. After
dinner she oiTered to sing, which she had
rarely done since the last sad days in Paris,
and once more I heard those old songs of
Provence that melt the heart.

It was when Lucille was tired that Madame
asked me to make my report, and I
produced the books. 'l had made a
rough account showing Madame's liability
to myself, and can only repeat now the con-

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240

HOME.

fession made long ago that it was an
infamous swindle. Madame had no head for
figures, as she had, indeed, a hundred times
informed me, and I knew well that she had
no money to pay me. I had lived in this
lady's house a paid dependant only in name
and treated as an honoured guest. A time
of trouble and distress having come to them,
what could I do but help such friends to the
best of my power, seeking to avoid any hurt
to their pride?

I explained the figures to Madame de
Clericy, whose bright quick eyes seemed to
watch my face rather than the paper as my
pen travelled down it. I began to feel con-
scious, as I often did in her presence, that I
was but a clumsy oaf; and, furthermore, sus-
pected that Lucille was watching me over the
book she pretended to read.

"And this," said the Vicomtesse, when I
had finished, " is how we stand towards each
other?" " Yes, Madame."

And I dared not raise my eyes from the
books before me. The Vicomtesse rose and
moved towards the fireplace, where the logs
l)urned l)rightly, for the spring evenings are
cold on the East Coast, and we are glad
enough to burn fires. She held my dis-
honest account in her hand, and quietly
dropped it into the fire.

" You are right, mon ami," she said, with
a smile. " What we owe you cannot be set

HOME.

241

down on paper — but it was kind of you
to try."

Lucille had risen to her feet. Her glance
flashed from one to the other.

*' Mother," she said, coldly, " what have
you done? How can we now pay Mr.
Howard?"

Madame made no reply, reserving her de-
fence — as the lawyers have it — until a fltter
occasion. This presented itself later in the
evening when mother and daughter were
alone. Indeed, the Vicomtesse went to
Lucille's room for the purpose.

" Lucille," she said, " I wish you would
trust Mr. Howard as entirely as I do."

" But no one trusts him," answered Lu-
cille, and her slipper tapped the floor. "Al-
phonse does not believe that he is looking for
the money at all. It was for his own ends
that he dismissed Mr. Devar, who was so
hurt that he has never appeared since. And
you do not know how he treated Isabella."

'' How did he treat Isabella?" asked Ma-
dame quietly, and seemed to attach some im-
portance to the question.

" He— well, he ought to have married her."
" AVhy?" asked Madame.
" Oh— it is a long story, and Isabella has
only told me parts of it. She dislikes him,
and with good cause."

Madame stood with otic arm resting on the
mantelpiece, the firelight glowing on her

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242

HOME.

black dress. Her clever speculative eyes were
fixed on the smouldering logs of driftwood.
Lucille was moving about the room, ex-
hibiting by her manner that impatience which
the mention of my name seemed ever to
arouse.

'' Do not be hasty in judging," said the
elder woman with a tolerance that few pos-
sess. " Isabella may have cause for com-
plaint against him, or she may be suffering
from wounded vanity. A woman's vanity is
the rudder that shapes her course through
life. If it be injured, the course will 1)e a
crooked one. Ir.al^ella is a disappointed wo-
man — one sees it in her face. Of the two I
prefer to trust Dick Howard, and wish that
you could do the same. We know nothing
of what may have passed between them, and
can therefore form no opinion. One person
alone knows, and that is John Turner. He
is coming to stay here with Dick in a fort-
night. Ask him to judge."

Madame continued thus to plead my cause,
while I, no doubt, slept peacefully enough
under the same roof, for I have never known
what it is to lie awake with my troubles.
One damning fact the Vicomtesse could not
disguise, namely, that she was for the mo-
ment dependent upon me.

" I would rather," said Lucille, " that it
had been Alphonse."

HOME.

243

To which Madame made no reply. She
was a wise woman in that she never asked a
confidence of her daughter, in whose hap-
piness, I know, the interest of her life was
centred. It is a great love that discriminates
between curiosity and anxiety.

Lucille, however, wanted no help in the
management of her life or the guidance of
her heart, and made this clear to Madame.
Indeed, she had of late begun to exercise
somewhat of a sway over her mother, and ap-
peared to be the ruling spirit; for youth is
a force in itself. For my own part, however,
I have always inclined to the belief that it is
the quiet member of the family who manages
and guides the household from the dim back-
ground of social obscurity. And although
Madame de Clericy appeared to be mastered
by her quick-witted, quick-spoken daughter,
it was usually her will and not Lucille's that
gained the victory in the end.

Lucille defended her absent friend with
much spirit, and fought that lady's battles for
her, protesting that Isabella had l)een ill used,
and the victim of an unscrupulous adven-
turer. She doubtless said hard things of me,
which have now been forgotten, for the lady
who took my heart so c|uick1y, and never lost
her hold of it, was at this time spontaneous
in thought and word, and quick to blame or
praise.

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244

HOME.

Mother and daughter parted for the night
with a colder kiss than usual, and half an
hour later, when Madame was at her prayers,
a swift white form hurried into the room, held
her for a moment in a quick embrace, and
was gone before Madame could rise from her
knees.

On the following afternoon, some hours
after my departure, Isabella came to liopton;
and the dear friends, between whom there had
never been a difference, had, as it appeared,
a quarrel which sent Isabella home w^ith close-
pressed lips, and hurried Lucille to her room,
her eyes angry and tearful. But the subject
of the disagreement was not myself — nor,
indeed, was any definite explanation ever
given as to why the two fell out.

CHAPTER XXllI.

WliECKED.
': 11 ne faut confier son secret qu' a celui qui n'apascher-

"I do not care whelhcr Paris is in the
hands of the Coninuniards or the other bung-
lers so lonjr as the Bank of Prance holds
good," said John Turner; and, indeed, I
afterwards learnt that his whole fortune de-
pended on this turn of the wheel.

We were travelling down to Hopton, and
It was the last week of May. We bore to
Madame de Clericy the news that at last the
government troops had made their entry into
Paris and were busy fighting in the streets
there, hunting from pillar to post the remnant
of the Communard rabble. The reign of ter-
ror which had lasted two and a half months
was ended, and Paris lay like a ship that, hav-
ing passed through a great storm, lies at last
m calm water, battered and beaten. Price-
less treasure had perished by the incendiarism
of the wild mob— the Tuileries were burnt,
the Louvre had barely escaped a like fate'
The matchless Hotel de Ville had vanished,
and a thousand monuments and relics were
lost for ever. Paris would never be the same
again. Anarchy had swept across it, razing-
many buildings and crushing out not a few

246

WRECKED.

of those qualities of good taste and feeling
which had raised Frenchmen to the summit
of civilization before the Empire fell.

John Turner was in good humour, for he
had just learnt that, owing to the wit and
nerve of one man, the Bank of France had
stood untouched. With it was saved the
house of Turner & Co., of Paris and London.
The moment my friend's affairs were on a
safe footing he placed himself at my service
to help with the Vicomtesse de Clericy's more
complicated difficulties. I was glad to avail
myself of the assistance of one whose name
was a by-word for rectitude and stability.
Here, at all events, I had a colleague whose
word could not be doubted by Isabella, of
whose father John Turner had been a friend
as well as of my own.

" Heard any more of Miste?" inquired
Turner, while the train stood at Ipswich sta-
tion; for he was much too easy-going to
shout conversation during the progress of
our journey.

" Sander writes that he has nearly caught
him twice, and singularly enough has done
better since you gave Mr. Devar his conge."

" Nothing singular a1)out that. Devar was
in the swindle, and kept Aliste advised of your
movements. But there is some one else in
it, too."

'A third person?"
Yes." answered Turner, ** a third person.
1 have been watching the thing, Dick, and

((

WRECKED.

247

am not such a fat old fool as you take nie for.
It was neither IMiste nor Devar who cashed
that draft. If you catch iVliste you will pro-
bably catch some one else, too, some knight-
erram of fmance, or I am much mistaken."

At this moment the train moved on, and
my friend composed his person for a sleep,
which lasted until we reached Saxmundham.
" I suppose," said my companion, waking
up there, " that Mademoiselle of the beaux
yciix is to marry Alphonse when the fortune
is recovered?"

^ " I suppose so," answered I, and John
Turner closed his eyes again with a queer look.
In the station enclosure at Lowestoft we
found Alphonse Giraud enjoying himself im-
mensely on the high seat of a dog-cart, con-
trolling, with many French exclamations,
and a partial success, the movements of a col)
which had taken a fancy to progress hack-
wards round and round the yard.

" It is," he explained, with a jerky saluta-
tion of the whip, " the Sunday School treat
departing for Yarmouth. They marched in
here with a brass band — too much — Whoa!
Je petit, whoa! — too much for our feelings.
There — Ion jour, Monsieur Turner — how goes
it? There — now we stand still."

" Not for long," said Turner, doubtfully;
*'and I never get in or out of anything when
it is in motion."

With the assistance of sundry idle persons
we held the horse still enough for my friend

248

VVRIiCKl'lD.

to take liis seat l)esi(le Alplioiisc, while 1 and
the luf^j^ai^e found phice hehind them. We
dashed i>ut of the gate at a speed and risk
whieh j^ave ol)vious satisfaction to our
(h-iver, and our pro^^ress up the narrow I lij^h
Street was a series of hairbreadth escapes.

" It is a pleasure,' said Alphonse, airily, as
we passed the IijT;"hthouse and the cob settled
down into a steady trot, '* to drive such a
horse as this."

" No doubt." said Turner; " but next time
1 take a cab."

We arrived at the Manor House in time for
hmcheon, and were received by the ladies at
the door. Lucille, T remember, looked jTi-avc,
but it appeared that the Vicomtessc was in
Sood spirits.

" Then the news is true," she cried, before
we had descended from our hic^h places.

" Yes. Madame, for a wonder q^ood news
is true," answered Turner, and he stood bare-
headed, after the manner of his adopted coun-
try while he shook hands.

On this occasion we all frankly spoke
French, for to John Turner this lanq'uaci'e was
second nature. We had plenty to talk of dur-
ing;- luncheon, and learnt much from the Paris
banker which had never appeared in the new^s-
papers. He had. indeed, passed throuo^h a
tryinis: ordeal, and that with an imperturbable
nerve and coolness of head. He made, how^-
ever, little of his own diflFiculties. and o-ave all
his attention to Madame's afifairs. When-

WRECKED.

249

ever lie made mention of my name I saw
Lucille frown.

After luncheon we went to the j^^anlen,
which extends from the grim old house to the
cliff edge, and is protected on either side by
a double rank of Scotch firs, all twisted and
gnarled by the winter winds — all turning
westward, with a queer effect as of raised
shoulders and shivering limbs.

Within the boundary we have always, how-
ever, succeeded in growing such simple
llowers as are indigenous to British soil —
making a gay appearance and idling the air
with clean-smelling scents.

'* Your garden," said Madame touching
my arm as we passed out of the dining-room
window, " always suggests to me the bjiglish
character — not nnich flower, but a quantity
of tough wood,"

Alphonse joined us, and embarked at once
on the description of an easterly gale such as
are too common on this coast, Init new to
him and grand enough in its onslaught. For
the wind hurls itself unchecked against the
cliff and house after its career across the
North Sea.

Lucille and John Turner had walked slowly
away together down the narrow path run-
ning from the house to the solid entrench-
m i( of turf that stands on Ihe cliff edi^e, cov-
ei 1 with such sparse grass and herb as the
. id and spray may nourish.

rr, ■-*■

r '

250

WRECKED.

^' I

" It is pleasant," Lucille said, as they went
from us, " to have some one to talk French
with."

She was without her hat or gloves, and I
saw the sunlight gleaming on her hair.

"Vou have Alphonse Giraud," said Turner,
in his blunt way.

Lucille shrugged her shoulders.

"And Howard, from time to time," added
the banker, w^ho, having received permission
to smoke a cigar, was endeavouring to ex-
tract a penknife from his waistcoat pocket.

" Who talks French \A'ith the understand-
ing of an Englishman," said Lucille, quickly.

" You do not like Englishmen?"

" I like honest ones, Monsieur," said Lu-
cille, looking across the sea.

"Ah!"

" Oh, yes — I know," cried Lucille, impa-
tiently. " You are one of Mr. Howard's
])artisans. They are so numerous and so
ready to speak for him — and he will never
speak for himself."

" Then," said John Turner, smoking
])1aci(lly, "let us agree to differ on that point."

But Lucille had no such intention.

" Does Mr. Howard ask you — you and
mother, and sometimes Alphonse — to fight
his battles for him and to sing his praises to
me?"

Turner did not answer at once.

"Well?" she inquired, impatiently.

" I was just thinking how long it is since

WRECKED.

251

Dick Howard mentioned your name to me —
about three months, I beheve."

Lucille walked on with her head erect.
"What have you against him?" asked
Turner, after a short silence.

" It was from your house that Mr. Howard
came to us. He came to my father assuring-
him that he was poor, which he told me after-
wnrds was only a subterfuge and false i)re-
tence. I then learnt from Mr. Gaycrson that
this was not the truth. I suppose Mr.
Howard thought that a woman's affection is
to be bought by gold."

*|A11 that can be explained, Mademoiselle."
" Then explain it, Monsieur."
" Let Howard do it," said Turner, pausing
to knock the ash from his cigar.

I^do not care for Mr Howard's explana-
tions," said Lucille, coldly. " One never
knows what to believe. Is he rich or poor?"
" He is which he likes."
Lucille gave a scornful laugh.
" He could be rich to-morrow if he would
do^as I advise him," grunted Turner.
" What is that, Monsieur?"
" Marry money and a woman he does not
love."

They walked on for some moments in
silence, and came to the turf entrenchment
raised against the wind, as against an assault-
ing army. They passed through a gangway.
cut in the embankment, to one of the seats
built against the outer side of it. Below them

252

WRECKED.

lay the clean sands, stretching away on either
side in unbroken smoothness — the sands of
Corton.

"And why will he not take your advice?"
asked Lucille.

" Because he is a pig-headed fool — as his
father was before him. it is all his father's
fault for placing him in such an impossible
position."

" I do not understand," said Lucille.

John Turner crossed his legs with a grunt
of obesity.

" It is nevertheless simple, Mademoiselle, "
he said; " father and son quarrelled because
old Howard, who was as obstinate as his son,
made up his mind that Dick should marry
Isabella Gayerson. Plenty of money, adjoin-
ing estates, the old story of misery with many
servants. Dick, being his father's son, at
once determined that he would do no such
thing, and there was a row royal. Dick went
off to Paris, in debt and heedless of the old
man's threat to cut him off with a shilling.
He had never cared for Isabella, and was not
going to sell his libf y for the sake of a ring
fence. His own words, Mademoiselle. At
Paris sundry things happened to him, of
which you probably know more than I."

He glanced up at Lucille, who was picking
blades of p-rass from the embankment against
which he leant. ?Ier eyelids ilickered, but
she made no reply.

WRECKED.

253

headed old ool hi '"'T^''^"^ "'^' '^e hot-

special delec aln of °° ' ""'^^ f^"- 'he
He had left U ck ,1 r'"'''' ^'"^ '^^^y«^^-

your father he was nonr , ''"" ^"^'^ '"^
the limits of the r?„H ; ^ "'" ^^^" "'"hin

lundersanl o™^Mf°"^''''^'''^".-«

hetoMyou;di#e":„t'':tZ"r'" )'""'
stimed that this quarrel :T' ''I '"^'"^'y 'ts-

e-Kl it, a reconcil 'a io , ' He'fe7t '"' "°';'^'
that he had nrartis»,l , , ' ^'norseful

your father/a"d":fsh:d™^;r;T" '^"

anTpTaced^r r---'' ^^^ — t,"

fortahle pos,° o,/of hf "" 1^ '^' ""<=""''
round. Yo prolllt r"^ -,°''' ""'^"'hs all

Mademoisell^ why h'eLT ■"'";;'''" ^ ^'°'
hobble." ^ ^°' himself into this

sion."' "-""''"^ "•°"'" "-"^e no such adniis-

young ?ady.' ""' '"°" "-^ '° "° '"at. my dear

marry her ornot?" " '"<^l'ned to

s.-..-dTS'TLn:r''"n"l''" ^ ''"^^«""-"
.on. ago. in Z' ..^ Ttl.l^"t^

4-'-'!

■*-''"■

254

WRECKED.

Isabella must be aware of his decision. Be-
sides, Mademoiselle, you can judge for your-
self. Is there any love lost between them,
think you?"

" No."

" Is there any reason why they should be
miserable if they do not w^ant to be?"

" Isabella could not be more miserable than
she is now, though she hides it well."

" Ah," said John Turner, thoughtfully.
*' Iv> that so? I wonder why."

Lucille shrugged her shoulders. She either
could not or would not answer.

" Too much money," suggested Turner.
" When women have plenty of money they
usually want something that cannot be
bought."

Lucille frowned.

"And now you are angry, Mademoiselle,"
said John Turner, placidly, " and I am not
afraid. I will make you still more angry."

He rose heavily, and stood, cigar in hand,
looking out to sea — his round face puckered
with thought.

"Mademoiselle Li 'lie," he said slowly,
" I have known some men and quite a num-
ber of women who have sacrificed their hap-
piness to their pride. I have known them late
in life, when the result had to be lived through.
They were not good company. If pride or
love must go overboard. Mademoiselle, throw
pride."

Be-

your-
them,

uld be

le than

itfully.

; either

rurner.
y they
lot be

)iselle,"
im not

1 hand,
ickered

slowly,
a num-
sir hap-
lem late
hrough.
)ride or
J, throw

CHAPTER XXIV.

AN EXPLANATION.
-a;'?de S; f.^^^-^ ^« questionner. la delicatesse defend

Mal'nie'havin'g Tcidi:r to' t^ ^^^"^"^'
"leet us. It was ]Z. f^ "^ «»e to

^^•^e, for all had mtt iJ'T ""^ '^'^ ^^^ ^^''^'^
that city andsno^., "; ''^""' «^ ^^^^-^e in
brilliant'^'caSar^' '^'' ^^"^"^^e of the once

^^^^V'^:'J'1 ' ^'^-^^^ take the
chair at th^f^^j^^ --^f^ occupying a

f^ ^ong as I could emeXr S "'r'^ '"'T'
the f^rst time in the Tea ' /' ^ '^^ ^^^

whence my father Li /''^^ ancestors,

,n^andates, only '/fet to"f '" ^^^^^"^
hotly. ^' ^^^^' to be answered as

glance searched my h"')Ta • - "".^'" '^^■-

new

((

l^'^lGtv

Say h

way that was

e is dull,

P"t in Alphonse. wh

Dickl-hl '• ^^'S-h-water mark. ^Ve

e IS naturally so

And he hushed
of af=fection.

" Mademoiselle
than usual " ^

ose
cher

at me with h

nieanj
suggested.

that I

Js okl look
am duller

-• ,-

^^^SSS"^^'

11' S^

256

AN EXPLANATION.

" No," said Lucille, " I meant what I said."

"As always?" inquired Alphonse, in a low
voice aside.

"As always," she answered, gravely. And
I think she only spoke the truth.

We did not sit long over our wine, and
John Turner reserved his cigar until a later
opportunity.

" I'll play you a game of billiards," he said,
looking at me.

In the drawing-room we found Lucille
already at the piano.

" I have some new songs," she said, *' from
the Basque country. I wonder if you will
prefer them to the old?"

I was crossing the room towards Madame,
and a silence made me pause and look towards
the piano. Lucille was addressing me — and
no doubt I was clumsy enough to betray my
surprise.

'' I think I shall prefer the old ones. Ma-
demoiselle," I answered.

She was fingering the pages carelessly, and
Alphonse, who was always quick at such mat-
ters, stepped forward.

"As the songs are new the pages will re-
quire turning."

" Thank you," answered Lucille, rather
coldly, as I thought, and Madame looked at
me with a queer expression of impatience, as
if I had done something amiss. She took up
her book and presently closed her eyes. John

And

AN EXPLANATION. >r7

Um'h.' '"'' ?' '"'"^' ^''^l I' remembering
tlut he was a Ijeavy breatlier, went up to him

said. ''^"^^ '" ''^'" >'°" ^' l^illiards," I

gaged at the piano as to be apparently ol)-

ernrate°fu;' ^''""""i ' '"^'^'^ "-' "' X
M,5f °, "' '" ""'"■ '"='"•'« for goin/

and 1 hke all ne'er-do-wells, played a fair
game ni those days. -^

","1'^^^''','^^.^''"''' "'''<^" 'laiidsomely beaten
you evidently play on Sundays. Let us sU

down and smoke."

I could not help noticing that the niii«i,-

b.tlv't'^t'- "-"""^ '-""' -^''honse ver " ro-
bably talkmg together in low voices at the
pmno wlnle Ma<lame kindly slept.

Turner"- I^^V'' "'' "^ ''^^'•" «■-"■'' Joh"
urner. but take oie of these cigars "

in sLS' '°""' ^"" ^"-'^^'' f- -"- time

len'lJh '''?o"' *'"'"•''•" '''■'' "^>' ^°"iPanion at

Ser tn tl*^"' '' '™" ''" ^'''" "^^ance, and
another to throw away your own."

What do you mean?"

" '^V';.^, "larry Mademoiselle to a weak
K-need fellow like Giraud?"

r.u'.tS^ '' ""! ''' "'^'^'^-'^"^e'' fellow," I inter-

n.pted, and can sit a horse as well as anv

man m the county." ^

"Life does not consist of sitting on horses."

^.l

2^8

AN EXPLANATION.

''And he has proved himself a brave sol-
dier."

''A man may be a brave soldier and make
a poor fight of his life," persisted Turner.
" Besides, it is against her will."

''Against her will?"

" Yes," said John Turner. '' She wants to
marry quite a different man."

" That may be," answered I, " but it is
none of my business. I have no influence
with Mademoiselle, who is one of my ene-
mies. I have many."

" No — you haven't," said Turner, stoutly.
" You have but one, and she is a clever one.
Isabella Gayerson is a dangerous foe, my
boy. She has poisoned the minds of Lucille
and Alphonse against you. She has tried to
do the same by the Vicomtesse. and failed.
She encouraged and harboured Devar in
order to annoy you. You and I start for
Paris to-morrow afternoon. Take my advice
and ride over to Little Gorton to-morrow
morning. See Isabella, and have it out with
her. Talk to her as you would to a man. Life
would be so much simpler if people would
only recognize that sex is only a small part
of it. Tell her you will see her d — d before
you marry her, or w^ords to that effect. It is
all a matter of vanity or money. I'm going
to bed. Good-night. My apologies to the
ladies."

AN EXPLANATION.

sol-

259

He took his caudle, and left me with lialf
a cigar to smolce.

i was up betimes the next mornine- and
set o« on horseback through the quief iXs
soon a ter breakfast. L.ttle Corton stands a
™ le mland and two miles nearer to Lowes!
toft than the old Manor House of HoZl

land, and 1 rode through fresh green corn
w.th the dew still on it. The larks-^d hey

world was mdeed happy that May morning

The sight of the homely red walls of Littfe

Corton nestling an>ong the elnis rough "o

my nund a hundred me.nories of tlf't

corded a welcome to myself— a muddv-

servants opmed that she could norS far

■etters there, ^r^ .u:^Vte7^
her dress stirring the dead leaves She d d
nm hear my footstep until I was dc^'^pon

cili?andA7I''°" '"'"' '" ''^^ '"^ that Lu-
cille and Alphonse are engaged?" she n*«l

without even bidding me good morm^g^'t

260

AN EXPLANATION.

Ik-.

her eyes, usually quiet and reserved, there
was a look of great expectancy.

'' No."

She folded her letters slowly, and as we
walked side by side her quiet eyes came slant-
wise to my face in a searching- glance. She
asked no other question, however, and left
the burthen of the silence with me. There
was a rustic seat near to us, and with one ac-
cord we went to it and sat down. Isabella
seemed to be breathless, 1 know not why,
and her bodice was stirred by the rapidity of
her breathing. 1 noticed again that my old
playmate was prettier than 1 had ever sus-
pected — a strongly-built woman, upright and
of a fV.ie, graceful figure.

" Don't beat about the bush," John Turner
had advised, and 1 remembered his words
now.

'' Isabella," I said, awkwardly enough, as
I stirred the dead leaves with my whip, '" Isa-
bella, do you know the terms of my father's
will?"

She did not answer at once, and, glancing
in her direction, I saw that she had flushed
like a schoolgirl.

" Yes," she answered at length.

" I am penniless unless vou marry me.**

" Yes— I know."

Her voice was quiet and composed. Isa-
bella w^as younger than I, but in her presence
I always felt myself her inferior and junior,

AN KXPLANATION.

26 J

:\Vl,y should 11,0 that?" she a.skc,l
will." '''''"''•■ " '^ "" ^'^^■""■" of ll.e squires

•• I care nothiug for that."
Jheu. if _vou arc not luv enemv if ,.

encouraee Dpvnr „.i, , ^ ''"' ^o"

enemy?" ' "''"'" >°" "^'"^w to he my

i am letting- yoii know thm^ t
that V011 rlidii.^ , "'^^ ^ ^'" ^'i^^are

Do7rreni;^i:,;;'rci:thr°i''"'''^-

c] Z^^ ^""''^ >'"" "" P"^^h as you were

climbing over, and von fell "

;;Ves," said Isabella, ''I Veniemher"
^ou hurt yourself, and cried and said
you hated me then. And I behe;e^ m,

BHf

^T -^

■

}

1- {■:

262

AN EXPLANATION.

for you have never been the same since. That
was fourteen years a^o. Isabella — my first
year at Cambridge. Vou were ei.i^hteen
then."

** Yes," answered Isabella, in a chilly voice.
" You have all your dates very correct, and
a simple addition sum will tell you that I am
thirty-two now — a middle-aged woman,
whose hair is turning grey! Thirty-two!"

And I was too stupid, or too wise, to tell
her that she did not look it.

" I do not know," I said instead, *' why
you should have turned against me then, and
remembered so long a mere boyish jest; for
I thought we were to be good friends always
— as we had been — and never dreamt that a
few hairpins could make us different."

Isabella sat with her still, white hands
clasped in her lap, and looked towards the
gate that had caused this childish breach;
but I could not see the expression on her
face.

" My father," I went on, determined to
speak out that which was in my mind, *' had
no business to make such a will, which could
only lead to trouble. And I should have
been a scoundrel had I sacrificed your happi-
ness to my owm cupidity — or, rather, had I
attempted to do so. You might have thought
it your duty to take me, Isabella, had I asked
you to, for the sake of the money — though
you have always spared me any doubts as to

«:

AN liXi'LANATlON.

2()3

tell

id to

'*' had

Icould

have

lappi-

bad T

asked

ioii£?h

as to

your opinion of me. Von have always known
my fauUs, and been less chariial)le towards
them tlian anyone else. 1 should have been
a scoundrel indeed had 1 asked you to sacri-
fice yourself."

She sat quite still, and was breathing
quietly now.

'* So 1 came to talk it over with you — as
old friends, as if we were two men."

"Which we are not," put in Isabella, with
her bitter laugh; and God knows what she
meant.

" We were placed in an impossible position
by being thus asked to marry against our
will. I did not ever think of you in that way
— think of loving you, I mean. And you
have made it plain enough, of course, that
yoti do not love me. On the contrary — "

" Of course," she echoed, in a queer, tired
voice. " On the contrary."

I somehow came to a stop, and sat mutely
seeking words. At last, however, I brt)ke
the silence.

" Then," I said, making an effort to speak
lightly and easily, *' we understand each other
now." "Yes," she answered; "we under-
stand each other now."

I rose, for there seemed nothing more to
he said, and yet feeling that I w^as no further
on — that there was something yet misunder-
stood between us.

"And we are friends again, Isabella."

f !

^ ;i

264

AN EXPLANATION.

1 held out my hand, and, after a momen-
tary pause, she placed her lingers in it. They
were cold. "Ves, 1 suppose so," slie said, and
her lips were quivering.

1 left her slowly, and with a feeling of re-
luctance. My way lay over the gate, Vvhere
fourteen years earlier I IukI made that mis-
take. As I climbeti it, I looked l)ack. Isa-
bella had turned sideways on the seat, and
her face v as hidden in her arms fc Ided on the
hack of Jt. She seemed to l^e weeping. I
stood for a minute or two in indecision. Then,
remembering how she disliked me, went
slowly on to the stable, and found my horse.

mmm.

and

CHAPTER XXV.

PA141S AGAliS'.
"Le courage commence I'oeuvre et . . . ••

The same afternoon John Turner and I
quitted Hopton. I with a heavy enou-h
leart, which, d'ailleurs, I ahvays carried when
leaymg Lucille. There was, however, work
to be (lone, and a need for instant action is
one of the surest antidotes to sad thought
1 was tngageil moreover, in atfairs inti-
mately concerning Lucille. A man, it ap-
pears, whose heart is taken from him, is best
einployed m doing something for the woman
who has It. No other occupation will fully
satisfy him. ^

We journeyed to London, and there took
the night train to Paris, crossing the Channel
m a boat crowded with Frenchmen, who had
contented themselves with deploring their
country s evil day from across seas \s we
drove through the streets of Paris in the earlv
mornmg, John Turner sat looking out of the
window of a cab. Never, surelv, has a citv
heen so wasted and destroyed

Tile (\—(\ fools; the 'd—d fool^

companion muttered under his breath. And

r bel

leve the charred walls (.f

landmark burnt into his soul

ach ruined

266

PARIS AGAIN.

I left John Turner in his rooms in the
Avenue d'Antan, where everything seemed
to be in order, and drove across to the (Juar-
tier St. Germain. It was my intention to
dwell in the Hotel Clericy until that house
could be made haljital)le for tlie ladies. The
concierye, 1 found, had Ijeen killed in one of
the sorties, and his wife had, with the quick
foresight of her countrywomen, secured the
safety of the hcnise by letting a certain i)or-
tion of it in apartments to the officers of the
National Guard as soon as the Connnune was
declared.

These gentlemen (one arrogant captain, I
was informed, s(jld cat's meat in times of
peace) had lived with a fnie military freedom,
and left marks of their boots on all the satin
chairs. They had made a practice of throw-
ing cigar ends and matches on the car])ets,
had stabbed a few pictures and bespattered
the walls with wine, but a keen regard for
their own comfort had jjrevented further
wanton damage, and all could be repaired
within a few days.

The woman made me some coffee, and
while i was drinking it brought me a tele-
gram.

" .Sander wires that lie has run Aliste to
earth in Nice. Wait for me. 1 follow by day
mail."

The message was from Alphf>nse Giraud.

PARIS AGAIN.

267

the

lay

\u\

I laboured all day in Madame's interests.
and re-en,[(a^'ed some of the servants who had
been scattererl by the war and Comninne, an<l
a fear, perhaps, of ack!iowled,[j:"in,i^ any sym-
pathy for the nobility.

In the eveninju;' I met ,\lphonse Ciiraud on
his arrival at the Clare dn Nord, and found
him in fine feather, carryinj^ a stick of British
oak, which he had bouj^ht, he told me, for
Miste's back.

" It will not be a matter of hittiuLj;- each
other with walkini[T- sticks." T answered.

We drove across to the Lyons station, and
took the nio-ht mail to Marseilles. It was my
second mr'ht out of bed. P.ut T was hardy in
those days, and can still thank God that T am
stroncrer than many of mv contemporaries.

" Confounrl you!" cried Alphonse to me
the next tnorninir as the train raced down the
vallev oi the Loire. " You have slept all
nij^ht!"

" Of course."

"And T not a wink — when each moment
brinq-s us nearer to Miste. You are no sports-
man after all. Dick."

" He is the best s])ortsman who has the
cr)olest head," replied 1. sleepily.

We arrived at .Vice in the afternoon. The
very pa\'ement smelt of heat. At the station
a man came v]) to me. and. raising his hat,
spoke my name. Tie handed me a letter,
which I read then and there.

j68

PARIS AGAIN.

" The bearer is watching Miste in Nice. I
am going to stop the passages by Ventimiglia
and the Col di Tende. Miste has evidently
appointed to meet his confederate at Genoa.
Two passages have been taken on the steamer
sailing Saturday thence to Buenos Ayres."

The letter was unsigned, but the hand-
writing that of my astute agent, Sander.
Things were beginning to look black for
Monsieur Miste. I saw plainly enough that
Sander was thinking only of the money, and
meant to catch both the thieves. The bearer
of the letter, who was a Frenchman, said that
he had his eye on Miste, who was staying in
tlie old inn of the Chapeau Rouge at the top
of the Quai Massena, and passed for a com-
mercial traveller there.

" Monsieur must not molest my charge,"
he said. " Mr. Sander has so ordered. It is
probal)le that Miste has in his possession only
a portion of the money."

We went to the Hotel des Anglais, and
there wrote fictitious names in the police
register; for it was impossible to be too care-
ful. Alphonse, in his zeal, would have writ-
ten himself down an Englishman had I not
remonstrated, and told him that the ordinary
housefly could have in its mind no doubt as
to his nationality. So lie borrowed the name
of a friend who had gone to Pondicherry.
Our orders were to keep within the hotel
garden, and thus in masterly inactivity we

PARIS AGAIN.

2()iJ

passed the afternoon and evenin.q-. The lieat
was intense, and the .e^av town deserted. In-
deed, one-lialf of the shops were closed.

I went to bed early, and was already asleej)
when a .i,r,-eat rapping- aroused me. ' It was
Sander's collea,q-ue. who came into mv room
and dismissed the waiter who had brought
liim thither. Alphonse, aroused by the
clamour, appeared on the scene, makinsr use
of a door of communication connecting our
rooms.

" Quick, Messieurs!" the man said. " Into
your clothes. I will tell vou my news as vou
dress. My man," he went on. actinj- valet as
he spoke, "has left by the ni-ht dili-ence for
St. Martin Lantosque. Rut, tell me, are these
S-entlemen .orood for forty miles on horseback
to-nij^ht?'

"Are we men?" retorted Alphonse, in re-
sponse, as lie wrestled with his shirt collar,
we schoolq-irls

Pol

Tell

iceman

me that, Mr. the

back

You can only hope to do it on h

continued the man,

orse-

motres, and for thirty of tl

is sixty kilo-
lem vou mount.

o carna,q-e ascends at the trot. The dili-

irence is the quickest

ceeds at the trot wh

on the road. It pro-

cre the hired carriac^es j^o

ey are

at a snail's pace. You hire horses— th
your own. You beat them— //^/w /"

And he made a ,q-esttire descriptive of a
successful and timely arrival,

270

PARTS AGAIN.

ifri

W!!

" It is my custom," he went on, confiden-
tially, " to make sure that my patients are
''omfortably in bed at ni,e^ht. I jc^o this even-
in.8^ to the Chapeau Rou.c^e — Monsieur knows
the house — faciujef the river: wine excellent
— drainae^e leaves nothinq- to be desired.
Well, I find our friend is absent — has taken
his lu^i^ag'e. He has vanished — Pfvi! I
know he is safe at ei.qht o'clock — at ten he is
srone. There are no trains. This man wants
to g-et to Italy, T know. There is no boat.
One way remains. To take the dilig^ence to
St. Martin I.antosque, five miles from the
frontier, at the head of the valley of the
Vesubie — to walk over the pass: it is but a
footpath, and now buried under the snow —
to reach the wildest nart of northern Italy,
and. if the eood God so will it, arrive at
Entraque. Thence by way of Cuneo and
Savona one takes the train to Genoa. I in-
cjuire at the dilic^ence office. It is as T sus-
pected. Miste is in the dilic^-ence. He is
now " — the man paused to consult his watch
" between I>a Tourette and Levens. It is
IT. 30. The dilig-ence was twenty minutes
late in starting-. Our friend has two hours
and ten minutes start of these gentlemen."

By way of reply we made L;reater haste,
and, in truth, were aided therein by our new
ally, who. if he possessed a busy tongue, had
fini^ers as active.

PARIS AGAIN.

271

" The horses," he continued, " await us in
the Rue I'aratHs, just behind here — a quiet
street— -good horses of two conn*ades of mine
in the mounted gendarmie who are away on
furlough. If necessary, you can leave them
at the Hotel des Alpes, at St. Martin, and
write me word. If the horses come to harm,
I know these gentlemen will not let my com-
rades suffer."

Here A.lphonse. who had borrowed the
money from me earlier in the day, produced
two notes of five hundred fraiics and pressed
them unavailingly on the agent.

As we walked rapidly towards the Rue
Paradis, our masterful friend gave us par-
ticulars of the road.

" It is," he said. '* the route de T.evens.
Monsieur knows it — well, no matter! They
say it was built hundreds of years before the
Romans came. One ascends this bank of the
river until the road divides, then to the left
through the village of St. Andre. After two
kilometres one finds one's self in a gorge —
the cliffs on either side of many hundred feet.
There are places where the sunlight never
enters. It is an ascent always — follows La
Tourette, a fortified village high above the
road on the right. Then the road becomes
dangerous. There are places between Levens
and St. Jean de la Rixir-re where to make a
false step is to fall a thousand feet. One hears
the Vesubie roaring far below, but the river

272

PARIS AGAIN.

is invisible — it is dark even at midday. The
great cliffs are unbroken l)y a tree or a path-
way. This is the Col du Dragon, a great
height. In descending one passes through
a long tunnel cut in the rock, and that is
half-way. At St. Jean de la Riviere you will
find yourselves in the valley of the Vesubie.
Here, again, one mc-unts continually by the
side of the river. The road is a dangerous
one, for there are landslij)s and chutes of
stone — at times the whole roadway is swept
down into the river."

The man, with the quick gestures of his
people, described all so graphically that I
could see the road and its environments as he
traversed it in imagination.

" Before long, however, one sees Venan-
son," he went on, " a church and village on
a point of rock far above the river. At a turn
of the road Venanson is left behind; and in
front, three thousand feet above the sea, sur-
rounded by snow mountains, lies St. Martin
Lantosque. The air is cold, the people are
different from the Nigois — it is another
world. These gentlemen have a wonderful
ride before them, and there is a moon. If I
were a younger man — 1)ut there! I am mar-
ried, and have two children. Also I am
afraid of my wife. Mon Dieu! T make no
concealment of it. ATy comrades know that
T fear nothing that comes in the way of our
business; but T tretuble before my wife — a

PARIS iVGAiN.

273

woman as lug

li as my elbow. W n

will

A tongue!—

-raitr'

id vvitli his tor

elinger he described

the

little
you ?

air the descent of a tork of lightning.

"Ihese are the horses, geiulemeii.'

And indeed he had done us well.

" Your comrades," i said, " must be line
fellows," as 1 climbed up the side of a horse
as tail as one of my own hunters at home.

We were soon on the road, which was plain
enough, and Alphonse had crammed a hand-
ful of the hotel matches into his pocket in
case we should have to climb the sign posts.

My companion, it may be imagined, was in
high good humour, and sat on the top of his
great charger in a state of ebullient excite-
ment worthy of a schoolboy on his tirst
mount.

"Ah!" he cried, as we clattered along the
dusty road before the great mad-house, " this
is sport, my fp'^nd. Surely, fox-hunting can-
not beat ' ■ "

'' 'Tis . ither like riding to covert, btit we
cannot tell what sport this fox will give us."

The police horses were heavy-footed, and
wore part of their professional accoutremenr.
so we made a military clatter which obviously
pleased the brave soul of my coni])anion.

We had to make all s[)eed, and yet spare
no care, for should we make a false turn there
would be no stopping Monsieur Miste on tills
side of the frontier. There were, fortunatelv.

274

PARIS AGAIN.

■ii

many carts on llic road with teams of four or
five horses, carrying vast loads ot procUice
from the outlying vdlages to Nice. Of the
drivers of these we made careful inquiries,
though we often had to wake them for the
purpose, as they lay asleep on the top of the
load of hay or straw. One of these men
thanked us for arousing him, and would have
detained us to relate a tale of some carter
who, at a spot called the " Saut du Frangais,"
had been thrown thus, as he slept, from the
summit of his hay cart, and was broken to
pieces on the rock two thousand feet below.

As we topped the Col du Dragon the day
broke, and lighted up the white peaks in front
of us with a pink glow. The vast snow-
capped range of the Alpes Maritimes was
stretched out before us like a panorama —
behind us the Mediterranean lay in a blue and
perfect peace. The air was cool and clear as
spring water.

Alphonse Giraud pulled off his hat as he
looked around him,

" Blessed Name," he cried, " what a world
the good God made when He was l)usy
with it."

Our horses threw up their heads, and
answered to the voice wnth a willingness that
made us wnsh we had a shorter journey
before us.

At St. Jean de la Riviore w^e rested them
for fifteen minutes. The villagers \vere

PARIS AGAIN.

-275

already astir, and we learnt that we had as yet
.qaitied only half an honr on the dili^enee.

There was no doubt about the road now.
for we were enclosed in a narrow valley, witli
only the i^'reat thoroui^hfare built above the
river, and that not too securely. We made
qood speed, and soon sighted Venanson, a
queer villac^e perched above all vegetation
on the sjnir of a mountain.

At a turn of the road we seemed suddenly
to quit France, and wheel into Switzerland.
Tlie air was Alpine, and the vepfetation that
of the hiq-her valleys there. Tt was near seven
o'clock when we approached St. Martin T.an-
tosque, a quaint brown villac^e of wood, clus-
terinof aroimd a domed church.

We soon found the Hotel des Alpes, which
was but a sorry inn of no j^reat cleanliness.
The proprietor, a white-faced man, watched
us descend without enthusiasm.

"What time did the dilii^ence come in?" T
asked him.

" These .q-entlemen have ridden." he said
])leasantly.

He was joined at this moment bv a person
who seemed to be a waiter, thouo-h he was
clad more like a stable help.

I repeated my f|uestion at a shout, and the
attendant, placino- his lips ac^ainst the inn-
keeper's ear. issued another edition of it in a
voice that awakened an echo far across the
vale, and startled the tired horses.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

"4^

1.0

I.I

|jo ■^™ H^H

12.0

1.8

1.25 1.4 16

4 6"

►

C'J!^

/(S«

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY I4S80

(716) 872-4S03

^s'

'^''''.

^ %
'^^ ^"''

K°

2'j('i

I'ARIS AGAIN.

** Tlic patron is deaf," explained ihe ser-
vant.

*' ^^)u don't say so." T answered.

We q^ave these people up as hopeless, and
Alphojise had the brilliant idea of applying
at the post-ofTlice across the way. Here we
found an intelligent man. Miste had arrivevl
hy the dilit^aMice. lie had sent a telegram to
Genoa. He had po.sted a letter; and, after a
hurried breakfast at the hotel, he had set off
half an hour at^'^o by the bridle path to the
Col di Finestra. alone and on foot.

i.-il

CllAlTER XXVI.

AUOVli TllK S.NUVV LKNE.

" . . . . le temps la'chcve. "

Ijctore settinjj^ out we had a light hreaktast
at the Hotel ties Alpes, where we were
intornied by several other persons, and on
two turther occasions by the waiter, that t!ie
" patron " was deal. Indeed, the village had
no other news.

The postmaster had ordered a carriage,
which, however, could only take us two miles
on our road, for this ceased at that distance,
and only a bad bri(ile path led onward to
Italy.

Alphonse was by this time beginning to
feel the effects of his long ride and sleepless
night; for he had not closed his eyes, while
I had snatched a priceless hour of sleep.
Moreover, the hardships of the campaign had
rendered him less equal to a sudden strain
than a man in good condition. He kept up
bravely, however, despite a great thirst which
at thi: time assailed him. and sent him to the
brook at the side of the path much too often
for his good.

We entered at once upon a splendid piece
of mountain scenery, and soon left behind us
the vivid green of the upper valley. To our

278 ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.

w >

left a sheer cray; rose from the valley in one
unbroken slope, and in front the mountains
seemed to close and bar all progress. We
had five thousand feet to climb from the fron-
tier stone, and 1 anticipated b.aving to accom-
plish the larger part of it alone. They had
warned us that we should fmd eight feet of
snow at the summit of the pass.

Miste had assuredly been hard ])ressed to
attempt such a passage alone, and bearing,
as he undoubtedly did, a large sum of money.
The man had a fine nerve, at all events; for
on the other side he would plunge into the
wildest part of northern Italy, where the
'luman scum that ever hovers on frontiers
had many a fastness. Villainy always requires
more nerve than virtue.

I meant, however, to catch Mr. Charles
IVIiste on the French side of the Chapel of
the Madonna di Finestra.

We trod our first snow at an altitude of
about five thousand feet. The spring, it will
be remembered, was a cold one in 1870, and
the snow lay late that year. At last, on turn-
ing a corner, we saw about two miles ahead
of us a black form on the white ground, and
I confess my heart stood still.

Alphonse, who had no breath for words,
grasped my arm, and we stood for a moment
watching Miste, for it could be no other. The
sun was shining on the great snow-field, and
the man's figure was the one dark spot there.

ABOVE THE SXUW LINE. J79

He was cvitlcntly tired, aiul made l)Ut slow
progress.

** 1 am not going to lose liim now," 1 said
to Alplionse. " H you cannot keep up with
nic, say so, and 1 will go on alone."

** \\n\ go at your own pace," answered
the Frenchman, with admirable spirit, ** and
1 will keep up till 1 drop. 1 mean to be in
at the death if I can."

Misle never turned, hut continued his pain-
ful, upward way. lie was a light stepper, as
his shallow footprints betokened; but I saw
with grim delight that each step of mine
overlapi)ed his measure by a couple of inches.

There is nothing so still as the atmosphere
of a sununit. and in this dead silence we hur-
ried on. Giraud's laboured breathing alone
broke it. 1 glanced at him, and saw that his
face was a pasty white and gleaming with
perspiration. Poor Alphonse Iiad not much
more in him. I slackened i)ace a little.

'* We are gaining on him, every stej) tells,"
said I encouragingly, but it was clear that
my companion would soon drop.

We went on in silence for nearly half an
hour, and gained \isibly on .Misie. who never
looked back or paused. .\t the end of the
time we were within a mile of him, and only
spoke in whispers, for at such an altitude
sound travels far. F.vcry moment that Miste
was ignorant of the ])ursuit was invaluable
to us. I could see clearly now that it was he

28o ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.

I'' 'J

and no other; the man's back was familiar
to m<v and his Hthe, sprinj^y j^ail.

*' Have yon a revolver?" whispered (iirand
as we stnnihled on.

" Not I."

*' Then take mine, I cannot — last — mnch
longer."

SnpposinjT that Miste shonld be in better
traininjj; than myself! Snpposinjj that when
he tnrncd and saw ns he shonld be able to
mcrease his pace materially, he would yet
escape me!

I stretched ont my hand and took the
revolver, which was of a familiar pattern. T
made np my mind to shoot Miste sooner than
lose him. for the chase had been a long one,
and my blood was hot.

We were qfainincf on him still, and the heat
of the day made him slacken his pace. The
snn beat down on ns from a clondless sky.
My lips and throat were like dry leather.
Alphonse had lonp;* been coolinjjf his with
snow. We did not care to speak now. All
onr hearts were in onr eyes: at any moment
Miste micfht turn.

Snddenly Alphonse lacfjcfed behind. I
ijlanced at him, and he pointed npward, so
I went on. Tt was difficnlt enoncfh to breathe
at snch an altitnde. and my heart kept makin.of
matters worse bv leapin.e: to my throat and
chokinj; me. I felt giddy at times, and shiv-

ABOVE THE SXUW LINE. j8i

so
ithe

irijCf
and

liv'

ercd, though the perspiration ran off my face
hke rain.

1 was within three hundred yards of Miste
now. and Alphonse was somewhere behind
me, 1 could not pause to note how far. We
were near the sunnnit. and the world seemed
to contain hut three men. My breath was
short, and there was clockwork going in my
head.

Then at length Miste turned. He took
all in at a glance. prol)ably recognizing us.
At all events he had no doubt of our business
there: for he hurried on, and I could see his
hand at his jacket pocket. Still I gained on
him.

" Beer against absinthe," T rcmem!)er
thinking.

There was an unbroken snow-field ahead
of us, the .sheer side of a mountain with the
footpath cut across it — a strip of blue shadow.

After ten minutes of rapid climbing. Miste
turned at length, and waited for me. He had
a cool head: for he carefully buttoned his
coat and stood sideways, presenting as small
a target as possible.

He raised his rev'olver and covered me.

" He won't fire yet," thought T, forty yards
below him, and T advanced quickly.

He stood covering me for a few seconds,
and then lowered his arm and waited for me.
Tn such an atmosphere we could have spoken
in ordinary tones, but we had nothing to say.

V '

:': I

282 ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.

Monsieur Miste and I understood each
other without need of words.

*' Fire, you fool!" cried Giraud hehind
me — nearer than I had suspected.

I was within twenty yards of Miste now;
the man liad a narrow, white face, and was
clean shaven. I saw it only for a moment,
for the revolver came up ap^ain.

" He is probably a bad shot, and will miss
first time," I thouc^ht cpiickly, as I crept
upward. The slope was steep at this point.

I saw the muzzle of the revolver quiver —
a sit^^n, no doubt, that he was bearing on the
trigger. Then there was a flash, and the
report, as it seemed, of a cannon. I stag-
gered back, and dropped on one knee. Miste
had hit me in the shoulder. T felt the warm
blood running down within my clothes, and
had a queer sensation of having fallen from
a great height.

'" I'll kill him!— I'll kill him!" I found my-
self repeating in a silly way, as I got to my
feet again.

No sooner was T up than Miste fired again,
and T heard the bullet whistle past my ear.
At ihis T whipped out Giraud's revolver, for T
thought the next shot would kill me. The
.scoimdrel let me have it a third time, and
tore a piece out of my cheek: the pain of it
was damnable. T now stood still and took
a careful sijrht. remembering, in a dull wav,
to fire low. I aimed at his knees. Monsieur

Abovl: thk snow link. 283

Charles Aiislc icapi luu icct up into the air,
tell tact torwards, and came sliding duwn
towards me, clutching at the snow with both
hands.

1 was trying to stop my two wounds, and
began to be conscious oi a swimming in the
head. In a moment Giraud was by my side,
and c'apped a handtul ot snow on my cheek.
He had been tlirough the winter's campaign,
and this was no new work tor him. He tore
open my shirt and pressed snow on tiie
wound in my shoulder, from which the blood
was pumping slowly. 1 was in a horrid
plight, but in my heart knew all the while that
Miste had failed to kill me.

Giraud poured some brandy into my
mouth, and 1 suppose that 1 was nearly losing
consciousness, for 1 felt the spirit running
into me like new life.

In a minute or two we began to think of
Miste, who was lying on his face a few yards
away.

" All right now?" asked Alphonse,
cheerily.

" All right," T answered, rising and going
towards the black form of my enemy.

We turned him over. The eyes were open
— large, liquid eyes, of a peculiarly gentle
expression. I had seen them before, in Rad-
ley's Hotel at Southamptr)n. under a gay
little Parisian hat. I was down on my knees
in the snow in a moment — all cold with the
thought that I had killed a woman.

J;'!

284 ABOVK THE SNOW LliNK.

liui Charles Misle was a man — and a dead
one at llial. My reliet was so great lliat 1
could have shouted aloud. Miste ha<l, there-
lore, been within my grasp at Southampton,
only eluding me by a clever trick, carrie<l out
with consunmiate art. The tlead face seemed
to wear a smile as 1 looked at it.

Alphonse opened the man's shirt, and we
looked at the small blue hole through wiiich
m\ bullet had tound his heart. Ueatii must
have been \ery (juick. I closed the gentle
eyes, for they seemed to look at me from a
woman's face.

'* And now for his pockets!" I said, harden-
ing my heart.

We tiu'ned them out one by one. His
purse contained but little, and in an inner
pocket some Italian silver, for use across the
frontier. He had thought of everything, this
careful scoimdrel. In a side ])ocket. pinned
to the lining of it, 1 found a flat packet.
envelo])ed in newspaper. This we unfolded
hastily. It contained a num])er of papers. 1
opened one of them — a draft for five thous-
and ])ounds, drawn by John Turner on
Messrs. Sweed t^ Carter, of New ^'ork! I
counted the drafts aloud and had a long task,
for they numbered seventy-nine.

** That." I said, handing them to Giraud,
*' is the half of your fortune. If we have luck
we shall find the remainder in Sander's hands
at Genoa.'

1 m

ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.

j8;

His
nner

tlic

this
ined

ket.
llded

. 1

)US-

on
! I
lask.

iiid.

luck

luls

And Alphonsc Giraud niiist needs cnihrace
me, hurling my sliouldcr most infernally, and
pouring out a rapid lorreiu of apology an<l
self-recrimination.

'■ I listene<l wiien it was hinted to me llial
you were n(jt honest," lie cried. * that yoii
were not seeking the money at all, or that
you had already recovered it! 1 iiave walchccl
you as if you were a thief — Mon Dieu, what
a scoundrel 1 have been."

*' At all events you have the money now."

"Yes." He paused, fingering the papers,
while lie thoughtfully looked down into the
valley. ** Yes. Dick — and it cannot huy mr
what I want."

Thus we are. and always shall he. when wo
possess at length that for wliich we have long
yearned.

We made a further search in Mistc's
pockets, and found nothing. The mans
clothing was of the finest, and his linen most
clean and delicate. I had a (pieer feeling of
regret that he should be dead — having
wanted his life these many months and now
possessing it. Ah — those accomplished de-
sires! They stalk through life behind us —
an army of silent ghosts. For months after-
wards I missed him — incomprehensible
though this may appear. A good foe is a
tonic to the heart. Some of us arc virtuous
for the sake of our friends — others pay the
tribute to their foes.

I 1

286 ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.

There was still plenty of work for us to do.
tlKJUgh neither was in a stale to execute it.
My left arm had stiltened right down to the
linj^ers, which kept closing up despite my
endeavours to keep life and movement in
them. The hurt in my cheek lunl fortunately
ceased bleeding, and Giraud hound it up with
M isle's liandkerchief. I recall the scent of
the line cambric to this day, and when 1 smeil
a like odour see a dead man lying on a snow-
lield.

We comj)osed Miste in a decent attitude,
with his slim hands crossed on his breast, and
then turned our steps downward towards St.
Martin Lantoscjue. To one who had never
known a day's illness, the fatigue conse(|uent
upon the loss of so much blood was particu-
larly irksome, and I cursed my luck many a
time as we stumbled over the snow. ( iiraud
would not let me finish the brandy in his flask,
biU kept some for an emergency.

The ])easants were at work in the fields
when we at length reached the valley, and
took no heed of us. We told no one of Miste
lying alone on the snow far above, but went
straight to the gendarmerie, where we fount'
the chief — a sensible man. himself an old sol-
dier — who heard our story to an end without
interruption, and promised to give us all
assistance. He sent at once for the doctor,
and held my shoulder tenderly while the ball
was taken from it. This he kept, together

ABOVE THE SNOW LINE. jS;

to do.
ule it.
to the
le my
ciU in
.mately
\p with
cent of
I snieil
:i snow-

iltitude,
ust. and
urds Sl-
id never
isetjuent
particn-
iiiany a
( iiraud
lis llask.

with Miste's revolver, and indeed acted
tliroujjhout with the greatest shrew(hiess and
jjfood sense. As an ohl campaigner he
stronp^ly nrj^ed me to remain (|uietly at St.
Martin for a few days imtil the fever v.hich
inevitably follows a bullet wound should have
abated; but, on learning; that it was my inten-
tion to proceed at once to Genoa, placed no
difficulty in my way.

Knowing that I should find Sander at
Genoa, where I could be tended, Giraud de-
cided to remain at St. Martin Lantosque until
Miste had been buried and all formalities
observed.

So I set forth alone about midday — in a
private carriap^e placed at my disposal by
some local g^ood Samaritan — feeling like a
worm and no man.

he fields
lev. and
lof Miste
|)Ut went
•e found
old sol-
withou:
re us all
doctor.

the ball
[together

I- ' I

CllAlTER XX\ 11.

TIIK IIA.ND OF (;OD.

"Chacun ne comprend que ce qu'il retrouve en soi."

Mr. Sander only made a mistake connnon
lo rjii;lishmen when he underrated the
capacity of his neighbour, llearini^ from his
colleague in Xice that Miste liad left that city
for St. Martin Lantosque, with us upon his
lieels, Sander conckided that our c[uarry
would escape us, and with great promptitude
set forth to Cuneo to await his arrival there.

Before leaving Genoa, however, my agent
took steps to ensure the transmission of his
correspondence, and a telegram despatched
by Giraud from St. Martin, after my depar-
ture thence, duly reached the addressee at
Cuneo. On arriving, therefore, at Genoa,
and going to the Hotel de Gf-nes there. 1
found, not Mr. Sander, but a telegraphic mes
sage from him bidding me await his return.

" .\t what time," T asked the waiter,
** arrives the next train from Cuneo?"

" At eight o'clock, signor."

T looked at the clock. Tt was now seven.

" There is a steamer sailing this evening
for South America," T said.

" Yes, signor: with many passengers from
this hotel."'

THE HAND OF GOD.

JS9

SOI.

3inmon
lmI ihc
rom hi"^
hat city
poll hi-^
(liiarry
iptitucle
il there,
ly agent
n of his
matched
(Icpar-
ssec at
Genoa,
here, 1
lie mes-
retnrn.
waiter.

V seven,
eveniniz;

?rs from

"At what time?"

*' At seven o'clock — even now."

A minute later 1 was driving down to the
docks — my swiming head full of half-matured
ideas of bribing some one to delay the
steamer. Then came the blessed reflection
that, in the absence of Miste, his confederate
would certainly not depart alone. I knew
enough of their tactics to feel sure that
instead of taking passage in the steamer this
man (who could only be a subordinate to
that master in cunning who had shot me)
must perforce await his chief's arrival.

Nevertheless, I bade the man drive as
quickly as the vile pavement would allow,
thinking to board the .steamer at all events
and scrutinize the faces of her passengers.
We rattled through the narrow and tortuous
streets, reaching the port in time to see the
last rope cast off from the great vessel as she
sw^ung round to seaward. T hurried to the
pierhead, and reached the extremity of the
port before the Prinripp Amndeo, which had
to move with circumspection amid the ship-
ping.

The passengers were assembled on deck,
taking what many of them doubtless knew
to be a last look at their native land. The
lowering sun cast a glow over city and har-
bour, while a great silence hovered over all.
The steamer came quite close to the pierhead.
T could have tossed a letter on her deck.

i':

290

THE HAND OF GOD.

Suddenly my heart stood still as my gaze
lighted on the form of an old man who stood
at the stern-rail, a little apart from his fel-
low-] )assengers. He stood with his back
turned towards me, looking uj) to the light-
house. Every line of his form, his attitude,
the very locks of thin, white hair were familiar
to me. This was the ViconUe de Clericy. and
no other — the man whose funeral I had
attended at Senneville six months ago. I did
not cry out, or rub my eyes, or feel unreal,
as people do in books. I knew that T was
my sober self, and yonder was the Vicomte
de Clericy. But I thought that the pier was
moving and not the steamer, and bumped
awkwardly against my neighbour, who
looked at me curiously and apologised.

The old man by the stern-rail slowly turned
and .showed me his face — bland, benevolent,
short-sighted. T can swear that it was the
Vicomte de Clericy, though the world has
only my word for it; that Lucille's father —
dead, buried and mourned — stood on the
deck of the steamer Principe Amndeo as she
steamed out into the Gulf of Genoa on the
evening of the 30th of May, 1871.

The precious moments slipped by, the
great steamer glided past me. I heard the
engine-room gong. The screw stirred the
clear water, and I was left gazing stupidly
at the receding form of my old patron as he
stood with his placid hands clasped behind
him.

THE HAND OF GOD. 291

It was some time before I left the spot; for
my wounds had left me weak, and I have
never had that quickness of brain which

,>"!;,«"!" '? T "'" "£'" ^°"'-^"^' and take
It m a flash of thought.

The steamer had gone— was, indeed, now
gro«,„g smaller on the horizon— and on
board of her the Vicomte de Clericy. There
was no gamsaying it. 1 had seen him with

My shoulder throbbed painfully. I was
sick at heart, and could not bring my mind
to bear upon any one subject. The cab-.lriver

stood beckonmg to me with his whip. I went

for r' r '"""'! '•"" '^"'^ "'^ «° th^ ''ote!
tor I had not been in bed for three nights

tll>mti^r"^'^^'^^'"Setandrel;trin
leave me ^'"''' ''"^"' ^'^°"''' ^' '^"S'l-

lecHo,v'''-'i""?"'''' ' '^■''^'^ ''"' ^ ''"" ■•<^c"l-

in Tuntn T "'•,, ■■^•"^■"b^'- 'ittle from that

t me unt,l I awoke u, a bedroom at the flotel

de Gones and found a gentle pink and wh tc

T JllJ^'i''''* '","^ '"' ''*• ^'"' "f'^f ''3V- "IV sisters-
asked, and was gently commanded to hold
"y tongue. She gave me a spoonful of sc me
h.ng w,th no taste to it. without so much as
askmg ,ne whether I ,vante,l it. Tndoed his

!■ k

if. ' ;

1 '"

292

THE HAND OF GOD.

gentle person treated me as a child, as, more-
over, 1 think women always treat such men
as are wholly in their power.

'* You must keep quiet," she said. *' See,
1 will read to you!" and taking a book from
her pocket read aloud the Psalms in a cun-
ning sing-song voice that sent me to sleep.

When 1 awoke again the nun was still in
the room, and, with her, Sander, talking the
most atrocious French. A queer contrast.
One of the world worldly, a moth that bat-
tened on the seamy side; the other far above
the wickedness of men.

" Hush!" I heard her say. " He is awake,
and must not hear of your affairs."

And she turned away from poor Sander,
with his shrewd air, as from the world and
the iniquity thereof.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at
her placid back, which, indeed, she gave him
unceremoniously enough, with a hopeless
contempt. Womanhood
appeared, his profoundest
nesslike and incompetent,
astounded him.

" Look here, my sister!" he said, plucking
impatiently at her demure sleeve, and even
in my semi-consciousness I smiled at the
sound of the words from his cockney lips.

" Weil?" she answered, turning her un-
ruffled glance upon him.

Sander lowered his voice and talked hur-
riedly in her ear. But she only shook her

had earned, it

scorn as unbusi-

Nunhood simply

THE HAND OK GOD.

'r';;, H,7 "?" ,"'^ """S^ of this worl,l

be^o':, it'r" """ '°"' ""'" ""»-' eyes

" Well, I nn/sl tell l,i„,_thcrc!" cxclainicl

I 1 , , , " ^'"^ '■''"' 'x^"" ''■-'nd on liis arm
ami .e <| h,n,. It was a queer picture
Let me go," he sakl. " I know l.est "
Her face flusliecl sud.lenlv, an.I the nun
stood before the detective '

know best''"T T"""' ^"''^''y' " >"" ''" ""'

klm^ go?" "" "'""■"" '^<^'-<=- ^^''" y-

. She went to the door and held it open for
''""• I'er actions an,l words belyin. the mceT
denieanour which belongs to her o-.| nV \,!
wl,,ch she never .aid aside for a nVon'nt

bo with a hopeless nnen Sander left the
roon,, and my nurse ca.ne towards the bed.

man!" ''"^' '°'"y' " '" ■'' "''y ^^"l^

sisl'e?' " ""' ^'""■''"'y considered so, n,y

She paid as little heed to niv words as •,

mmse to the prattle of a child. """''=•'•'

You have moved." she sai.l. "and ^uh

handage ,s ruffled. Vou nn.st trv to lie

s otdder T-T' '"7 ' """''y — ' '•' vo

that oe^ce tT"' k'"'' r" ''•" ^"^'' <-' '"'" """'
mat peace has been declared?"

H' ^

2ij4

THE HAND UF GOD.

" The other man came l)y a worse one, for
he is dead."

" Then the good God forj^ive you. But
you must keep quiet. See — 1 will read to

you."

Atid out came the book again in its devo-
tional black cover. She read for a long while,
but 1 paid no heed to her voice, nor fell under
its sleepy spell. Presently she closed the
pages with a pious look of reproach.

" You are not attending," she said.

" No."

"Why not?"

" Because I was wondering what cause you
had to fall out with my agent, Mr. Sander,
who is not so stupid as you think."

" He is one of those," she answered primly,
" who do not know how to behave in a sick
room. He foolishly wanted to talk to you
of affairs — when you are not well enough.
Affairs — to a sick man!"

" Who should be thinking of the affairs of
another world, my sister."

" Those always should come first," she
answered, with downcast eyes.

** And of what did Mr. Sander want to
speak?" I asked.

She looked up with a gleam of interest.
Beneath the demure bib of her professional
apron there beat still a woman's heart. Sister
Renre wanted to tell me the news herself.

)nc,

for

I. But
•ead to

s (levo-
r while,
1 under
ied the

use you
Sander,

primly,
1 a sick

to you
snou^h.

ffairs of

St," she

.vant to

interest,
iessional
. Sister
erself.

THE HAND OF GOD. 295

■■ Oh," she answered, " it is nothing that

onlvri-^'° r , ^"^ "' "°' "•^" ^" Italian
—only an iinglishnian."

" That is all, my sister."

abou^'i't."'" ^'"°' '^ °" "'^ ''°"^""1«
"Ah!"

" Ves. Never has there l)eeii so great a

so ft .^f '; 'T ^°" ''"^-^ "" f"-'^« '■'«

so It will not alfect you."

" Therefore, I may be the more safely tol.l
I am not affected by great catastrophes fron.
a hmnane point of view."

rnn,n\^";, ''"'•'?'''' ''"'>'"« '"^''^^'f ^'^Ol" the

• I i T"^ """^ ""'''^''^ "lovements,

but u IS always terrible to hear of such ,1

tlnng when one reflects that we are all «>

"nprepare<l." »e ait all so

■' I^or wliat. my .sister?"

awe I the most innocent eyes i„ ,|,e worM.

iiut who IS dead.'
_' Three hundred people." she answere.l
rhe passengers and crew of the frlnnpe

America •" "''• '""' ''"'''^'^"'' ^"' South

"And all are drowned?" I asked qfter n
pan.se, thankful that nty face w^ 't',,:
shadow of the curtain.

" All except two of the crew. The steamer
had only left the harbour an hour before an"

)^t

296

THE HAND OF GOD.

. i

all the passengers were at dinner. There
came, 1 think, a fog, and in the darkness a
collision occurred. The Principe Ainadeo
went down in hve minutes."

She spoke quietly, and with that calm
which religion, doubtless, gave her. Indeed,
her only thought seemed to be that these
people had passed to their account without
the ministrations of the church.

She soon left me, having my promise to
sleep quietly and at once. Soeur Renc-e,
despite her grey hairs and the wrinkles that
the years (for her life seemed purged of other
cause) had left, was an easy victim to decep-
tion.

I did not sleep, but lay awake for many
hours, turning over in my mind the events
that had followed each other so quickly. And
one thought came ever uppermost — namely,
that in the smallest details of our existence a
judgment far superior to ours must of neces-
sity be at work. This wiser judgment I
detected in the chance, as some will call it.
that sent Sister Renee to me with this news.
For if Sander had told me of the sinking of
the Principe Ainadeo I must assuredly, in the
heat of the moment, have disclosed to him,
in return, my knowledge that the Vicomte de
Clericy was on board of her when she sailed
from Genoa. Whereas, now that I had time
to reflect, I saw clearly that this news
belonged to Madame de Clericy alone, and

;"herc
ess a
\iadeo

calm
deed,
these
thout

ise to
len6e,
s that
other
Jecep-

many
events
And
mely,
nee a
neces-
ent I
all it,
news,
ling of
lin the
him,
ite de
sailed
time
news
, anil

THE IIAXD OF GOD.

J97

was in nowise the business of Mr. Sander.
That keen-witted man IkhI faithfully per-
formed the duty on which he had been
employed — namely, to enable me to lay my
hands on Charles Miste. One half of the
money — a fortune in itself — had been recov-
ered. There remained, therefore, nothing
but to pay Air. Sander and bid him farewell.

I was, however, compelled to await the
arrival of Alphonse Giraud, who telegraphed
to me that he was still in Nice. 1 did not
know until long after that he had been for-
mally arrested there for his participation in
the chase of Miste that ended in that ill-
starred miscreant's death. Nor did I learn,
until months had elapsed, that my good
friend John Turner had also hastened to Nice,
taking thither with him a great Parisian law-
yer to defend me in the trial that took place
while I lay ill at Genoa. Sister Renoe, more-
over, had not laid aside her womanly guile
when she took the veil, for she concealed
from me with perfect success that I was under
guard night and day in my bedroom at the
Hotel de Genes. What had T done to earn
such true friends or deserve such faithful
care?

The trial passed happily enough, and
Alphonse arrived at Genoa ere I had been
there a week. Tie had delayed little in realiz-
ing with a boyish delight one of his recovered
drafts for five thousand pounds. He repaid

'*in

if'

i'-

298

THE HAND OF GOD.

such loans as 1 had been able to make him,
selllctl accounts with Sander, and greatly
relieved my mind by seeing him depart. For
• 1 felt in some sort a criminal myself, and the
secret, which had by the merest accident been
thrust upon me, discomfited me under the
keen eye of the expert.

The weather was exceedingly hot, and
sickness raged unchecked in the city. A fort-
night elapsed, during which Giraud was my
faithful attendant. The doctor who had been
called in, the first of his craft with whom 1
had had business, a Frenchman and a clever
surgeon, restored me to a certain stage of
convalescence, but could not get Ijeyond it.

" Where do you live," he asked me one
day, with a grave face, '* when you arc at
home?"

" In Suffolk, on the east coast of Eng-
land."

" Where the air is different from this."

" As different as sunrise from afternoon,"
1 answered, with a sudden longing for the
bluff, keen air of Hopton.

" Are you a good sailor?" he asked.

** I spent half my l)oyhood on the North
Sea."

He walked to the window and stood there
in deep thought.

" Then," he said at length, *' go home at
once by steamer from here, and stay there.
Your own country will do more for you than
all the doctors in Italy."

I,!

CllAlTKR XXVllI.

'-'If?-

THE Ll.NKtJ.

ce^hfJ'!l'^^'^'^''^'!T^ d'abncgation que donne I'aniitic
c est de vu re a cote de 1 amour." -"■>"t

Earlier in this record nieiiticjii has been
made— an.l. indeed, the reader's attention
called thereto— of certain events which, in
I he h<,du of subsequent knowledge, i)ie'ced
themselves together like links of a chain into
one complete whole.

iOuring the quiet months that closed the
year oi the Commune I dwelt at Hopton.
Isabella bemg away, and Little CorKm in the
care of a housekeeper. Leisure was thus
afforded me for the task of piecing together
these links of the past.

It was hard at first to realize that those
few moments passed on the pierhead at
(lenoa did not form part of my illness and
the dreamy memories of that time. But hav-
ing ahyays been of a matter of fact mind I
allowed myself no illusions in this respect
and this strange detail of an incomprehensible
ife forced itself upon my understanding at
ength when the inexplicable became dimlv
legible.

3UO

THE LINKS.

111 my iialivc air 1 soon picked up strength,
forgcitiiiy, ill truth, my wounds and ilhicss
hclurc tlic .shooting season. Neverilieless, 1
throw a gun up to my slioulder less nimbly
than I (lid before iMiste's bullet found its
l>illet among the muscles of my arm.

Madame de Clericy and Lucille had
returned to I'aris, but, the former wrote me.
were anxious to get away from the capital,
which no longer offered a pleasant home to
av(jwed Legitimists. Madame still entrusted
me with the management of her affairs, which
I administered fatit bicn (jitr vial by corres-
pondence, and the harvest promised to be
such a good one as to set our minds at rest
respecting the immediate future.

Alphonse (iiraud passed a few days, from
time to time, with the ladies. biU he being a
poor correspondent, and 1 no better, we ha<l
but little knowledge of each other at this
time.

Madame. T observed, made but brief refer-
ence to Lucille now. '* Alphonse is with us,"
she would write, and nothing else: or " Lu-
cille keeps well and is ever gay," with which
scant details T had to content myself.

Twice she invited me to pass some davs. or
weeks, if it could l)e so arranged, at the Rue
dcs Palmiers. and twice T refused. For in
truth T scarcely wished to meet Madame de
Clericy until my chain was pieced together

tiil: links.

3^»'

and I (.oiild lay bcfurc her a laic of cviilciicc
lliat had IK) weak link in it.

In I lie nionlli of September 1 jonrneved to
Tails, staving there hiU two (hivs, and so
airanj^' 1^ my movements that I met neither
Madame dc ( lericy and her dan^hter nor
Alphonse. 1 succeeded beyond my expecta-
tions in for^int,^ an imi)ortant link.

"Perhaps, as you cannot leave yom* estates
just now," Madame had written, *' yon will
come to us at La I'aidinc towanls the end of
the vinta.ne. Indeed, my friend, 1 nuist ask
you to make an effort to do so. for 1 learn
that the harvest will be a heavy one. and your
judi^ment will be re(iuired in hnancial mat-
ters since you are so ^ood as to place it at
our disposal."

To this I had returned a vaquc answer,
thinkino; tliat before that time Alphonse
mii^ht have news to tell us whidi would alter
many arranu^ements and a few lives. I^'or
now that he had recovered a j^reater ])art of
his vast wealth there could, assuredly, be no
reason for further delay in pressing his suit
(luprrs fir Lucille.

T had. by the way. propounded to John
Turner the prol)lem that W(^u1d arise in the
case of our havini^ to conclude that Miste's
c(^nfederatc had perished in the ill-fated
Prinr'ipr Amndro, takinq' out of this world, if
he could not carry it to the next, the remain-
der of Giraud's fortune.

302

THE LINKS.

:WI|! ^'

" Within live years," he answered me,
" Giraud will be repaid the value of the miss-
ing drafts, for we have now a sufficient ex-
cuse to stop payment of them, assuming, as
we may safely do, that the bills were lost at
sea."

In the same letter my old friend imparted
some news affecting myself.

" 1 am," he wrote, '* getting on in years,
and fatter. In view of these facts 1 have made
a will leaving you, by the way, practically my
heir. A man who could refuse to marry such
a pretty girl as Isabella Gayerson, with such
an exceedingly pretty fortune as she poss-
esses, deserves to have money troubles; so I
bequeath 'em to you."

Towards the end of September Madame
again wrote to me with the information that
they were installed at La Pauline for the win-
ter, and 1)egged me to name the day when I
could visit them. With due deliberation I
accepted this invitation, and wrote to Giraud
in Paris that T was about to pass through that
city, and would much like to see him as often
as possible.

" You know, Dick," he said to me, when
we had dined together at his club, " it is bet-
ter fun being ruined. All this money — Mon
Dicu — what a trouble it is!"

" Yes." answered T — and the words came
from my heart — " it only brings ill-fortune to
those that have it."

UJ.

THE LINKS.

303

Nevertheless, Alphonse Giraud was quite
happy in the recovery of his weaUh, and took
much enjoyment in its expenditure on others.
Never, surely, beat a more generous heart
than Giraud's, for whom to spend his money
on a friend was the greatest known happiness.

" V ou remember," he cried, " how we used
to drink our Benedictine in claret glasses
only. Ah! what it is to be young, nest ce pas '
and to think that we shall one day jret all we
want!"

His quick face darkened suddenlv, and all
the boyishness vanished from it.

" 1 have been," he said, *' a famous fool—
and thou art another, my grim-faced English-
man. But I have found out my folly, and dis-
cover that there is still happiness in this world
—enough to go on with, at all events."

I rose to bid him good-night, for I had to
make an early start the next morning.

I only hope, mon ami," he said, takimr
my hand in his small fingers, '' that the good
God will show you soon what a fool you have

I arrived at Draguignan late on the follow-
ing evening, and put up at the Hotel Rertin
there, than which the traveller will find no
better accommodation in Provence I had
not named the hour or day of mv proposed
arrival at La Pauline, knowing that the affairs
of Madame de Clericy might delay me in
i"ans, which, in fact, they did.

■:

■

■ ■'

111 '

3«4

THE LINKS.

The next morning 1 set out on foot for the
Chateau of La PauHne by the road passing
through the vineyards and olive groves lately
despoiled of their fruit. The rich hues of
autumn were creeping up the mountains,
where the cool air of the upper slopes pre-
served the verdure longer than in the sun-
burnt valley. The air was light and fresh,
with a brisk breeze from the west. The world
seemed instinct with fruition and the gather-
ing of that which had been sown with toil and
carefulness. Is it the world that fits itself to
our humour, or does the Creator mould our
thoughts with wind and sky, light and shade?

As I neared the Chateau my heart sank
within me, for I had but evil news for the
lady whom I respected above all women, save
one — and how would Madame take my tid-
ings? It seemed best to ask her to speak to
me alone, for much that I had to relate was
surely for the wife's ear, and would need to
be tempered to the daughter's hearing. This
expedient was, however, spared me ,for as I
ap])roached the old Chateau I noted the pres-
ence of some one in the trellis-covered sum-
mer-house at the eastern end of the terrace,
and caught the flutter of what seemed to be
a white handkerchief. It was, I soon per-
ceived. ]\Iadame at her lace-work — and alone.

Leaving the road I took a path througli
the olive groves and came upon Madame,

THE LINKS.

3^S

not, however, by surprise, for she saw nie
approaching and laid aside her work.

" So you have come at last," she said, hold-
ing out her kind hand.

We went into the vine-grown luU and sat
down, Madame looking at me with deep
speculation.

" Vou are a strong man, mon ami.'" she
said. " For one sees no signs in your face of
what you have gone through."

But it was not of myself that I had come
to talk. The tale had to be told to Madame
de Clericy, and being a plain-spoken English-
man and no hero of a book, 1 purposed tell-
ing It briefly without allegory or symbol

"Madame," I said, " it was not Aliste who
took the money. It was not the Baron
Cjiraud that we buried from the Rue dcs Pal-
miers. It was not the Vicomte de Clericy
that we found in the Seine near Passv and
laid to earth in the churchyard at Senne'ville "
And I saw that the Vicomtesse thou<>ht mc
mad. '^

" My poor friend," she said, with the deep-
est pity in her voice, "why do vou talk like
tnat, and what do you mean?"

"I only mean, "^fadame, that no man is
sate in temptation, and that monev is the
greatest of all. T would not trust mv.^elf with
ten million francs. T would not liow trust
any man on earth "

" Why?"

rTT

\i r

306

THE LINKS.

^.1

And 1 thought that in Madame's eyes there
was already the hght of understanding. For
a moment i paused, and she said quickly:

" Is my husband alive?"

" No, Madame."
The Vicomtesse turned a little in her chair,
and, leaning her elbow on the table, showed
me only her profile as she sat, with her chin
in the palm of her hand, looking down into
the valley.

" Tell me all you know," she said. '* I will
not interrupt you; but do not pity me."

*' The Baron Giraud did my old patron a
great wrong when, in his selfish fear, he
placed that great fortune in his care. For it
appears that no man may trust himself where
money is concerned, and no other has a right
to tempt him. So far as we can judge, the
Vicomte had all that he could want. I know
he had more money than he cared to spend.
You are aware, Madame, that I had the great-
est respect and admiration for your husband.
During the months that we were in daily
intercourse he endeared himself to me by a
hundred kindnesses, a thousand tokens of
what I hope was afifection."

Madame nodded briefly, and I hastened on
with my narrative, for suspense is the keenest
arrow in the quiver of human suffering.

" What I have learnt has been gathered
wn'th the greatest care from many sources,
and what I now tell you is neither known nor

THE LINKS.

307

suspected by any other on earth. If you so
desire, the knowledge can well remain the
property of two persons only."

" My friend," Madame said on the impulse
of the kmdest heart in the world, " I think
your strength lies in the depth of your
thought for others."
^^ "The Vicomte was tempted," I went on.

He had m his nature a latent love of money.
The same is in many natures, but the majority
have never the opportunity of gratifying it.
He did what ninety-nine out of a hundred
other men would have done— what I think I
should have done myself. He yielded. He
had at hand a ready tool and the cleverest aid
in Charles Miste, who actually carried the
money, but for some reason— possibly be-
cause he was unable to forge the necessary
signatures— could not obtain the cash for the
drafts without the Vicomte's assistance. Un-
consciously, I repeatedly prevented their
meeting, and thus frustrated the design."

All the while Madame sat and looked down
into the valley. Her self-command was in-
finite, for she must have had a thousand ques-
tions to ask.

" It was, T think, my patron's intention to
go to the New World with his great weahh
and there begin life afresh— this, however, is
one of the details that must ever remain in-
comprehensible. Possiblv when the tempta-
tion gripped him he ceased to reflect at all-

3u8

THE LINKS.

:\ r

else he must assuredly have recognized all
ihat he was sacrilicing for the mere posses-
sion of money that he could never live to
spend. Men usually pay too high a price for
their desires. In order to carry out his scheme
he conceived and accomplished — with a
strange cunning, which develops, I am told,
after crime — a clever ruse."

Madame turned and looked at me for a
moment.

*' We must think of him, Madame," I ex-
plained, '* as one suffering from a mental dis-
ease; for the love of money in its acute stages
is nothing else, lacking, as it assuredly does,
common sense. The most singular part of
his mental condition was the rapidity and
skill with which he turned events to his own
advantage, and seized each opportunity for
the furtherance of his ends. The Baron
Giraud died at the Hotel Clericy — here was
a chance. The Vicomte, with a cunning
which was surely unnatural — you remember
his strange behaviour at that time, how he
locked himself in his study for hours to-
gether — took therefore the Baron's body
from the cof^n, dressed it in his own gar-
ments, placed in the clothing his own purse
and pocket-book, and cast the body into the
Seine. T have had the cofifin that we laid in
Pere la Chaise exhumed and opened. It con-
tained only old books from the upper shelves
in the study in the Rue des Palmiers. The

THE LINKS. 309

Vicomte must have packed it thus when he
took the Baron's body - doubtless with
Miste s clever aid-and threw it into the
river fo- us to find and identify."

" Yes," said Madame, slowly, '• he was

cleverer than any suspected. 1 knew that."

Ihe body, I went on. for mv tale was

buried at Senneville was undoubtedly that of

detail of my story which I am unable to asser't
as a positive fact."

"Of the rest you have no doubt?" \ra-
dame asked, slowly. And I shook my head
that nlf"''' P^^^^^'^C «'^^ suggested, with
thinV^y. 1'''""'' °^ J^dgnient which, I
think, is rarely given to women. " that Miste

IS alone responsible and the criminal.^ Of
course, I cannot explain the Baron Giraud's

M rmrr""'"^ V' '"^'^'y P-^'^^'e Iha

th own hll 17 "'"'^^f ^^^ '^'^ ^^^«"^te and
thrown his body into the Seine.

done/'''' ^^'^^'""^^ ^^'^'^ Ji'-^s '^een no murder
"You are sure?"

CHAPTER XXIX.

AT LA TAULINE.

*' Le plus lent k promettre est toujours le plus fidcle a tenir."

The tale was thus told to her whom it most
concerned, clearly and without reservation.
The details are, however, known to the pa-
tient reader, and call for no recapitulation
here. When Madame de Clericy heard the end
of it — namely, the sad fate of the unfortunate
Pi'incipe Amadco and all, save two, on board
that steamer — she sat in silence for some mo-
ments, and indeed made no comment at any
other time. Assuredly none was needed,
nor could any human words add to or detract
from that infallible Divine judgment which
had so ruled our lives.

For when one who is dear to us has for-
feited our love by one of those great and
sorrowful alterations of the mind, scarce
amounting to madness, and yet near akin to
it, which, alas! are frequently enough l:)rought
about by temptation or an insufficient self-
control — surely, then, it is only Heaven's
kindness that takes from us the erring one
and leaves but a brief memory of his fall. Has
not a great writer said that a dead sorrow is
better than a living one?

I rose to my feet and stood for a moment
in the doorway of the summer-house, intend-

AT LA PAULINE. 3,,

ing to leave Madame with her dead grief
But as I crossed the threshold her quiet voice
arrested me.

"Mon ami!" she said, and, as J paused
without looking round, presently went on—
well pleased, perhaps, that I should not see
her face.

" One mistake you make in the kindness
of your heart, for you are a stern man with a
soft heart, as many English are— vou grieve
too much for me. Of course, it is a sorrow-
but It is not the great sorrow. You under-
stand?"

" I think so."

" That came to me many years ago, and
was not connected with the Vicomte de
Uericy. hut wn'th one who had no title beyond
that of gentleman— and I think there is none
higher. It is an old story, and one that is too
often enacted in France, where convenience
IS placed before happiness and money above
affection. My life has been, well-happy.
Lucille has made it so. And I have an aim
in existence which is in itself a happiness-
to make Lucille's life a happy one, ti ensure
her that which I have missed, and to avoid a
mistake made by generation after generation
of women— namely, to believe that love
comes to us after marriage. It never does so
my friend-never. Tolerance may come, or,'
at the best afifection-which is making an

■ )■

312

AT LA TAULINE.

ornament of brass and setting it up where
there should be gold — or nothing."

1 stood, half turning my back to Madame,
looking dcjwn into the valley — not caring to
meet the (juiet eyes that had looked straight
into my heart long ago in the room called
the boudoir of the house in the Rue des Pal-
iiiiers, and had ever since read the thoughts
and desires which I had hidden from the rest
of the world. Madame knew, without any
words of mine, that I also had one object in
existence, and that the same as hers — namely,
that Lucille's life should be a happy one.

" There is no task so difficult," said Ma-
dame, half talking, as I thought, to herself,
" unless it be undertaken by the one man
who can do it without an effort — no task so
difficult as that of making a woman happy.
Even her mother cannot be sure of the wis-
dom of interference. I always remember
some words of your friend, John Turner,
' When in doubt, do nothing,' and he is a
wise man, I think."

The Vicomtesse w^as an economist of
words, and explained herself no further. We
remained for some moments in silence, and
it was she who at length broke it.

" Thank you," she said, " for all your
thought and care in verifying the details of
the story you have told me."

" I might have kept it from you, Madame,"
answ^ered I, " and thus spared you some sor-

AT LA I'AULINE.

3'3

nnv. Perhaps you had been happier in

Ignorance.

•' 1 think, my dear friend, I am better
knowing it. Shall we tell Lucille?"

1 turned and looke at Madame, whose man-
ner bespoke my attention. There was more
in the words than a single question — indeed.
I thoui^ht there were many questions.

" That shall be as you decide."

•* I ask your opinion, mon ami."

*' I am not in favour of keeping any secrets
from Mademoiselle."

For a time Madame seemed lost in thought.

" if you go to the chateau," she said at
length, taking up her lace-work as she spoke.
*■ you will find Lucille either in the garden
or the chapel, where she claily tends the
flowers. Tell her anything — you ])lease."

T left ^Tadame and walked slowly across
the garden. Lucille was not among the gay
flower borders. I passed by the old sun-dial
anrl into the shade of the trees that stood by
the moat, where the frogs chattered inces-
santly in the cool shadows. I never hear the
sound now but something stirs in my breast,
which is not regret nor yet entire happiness,
but that strange blending of the two which
is far above the mere earthly understanding
of the latter state.

In the shadow of the cypress trees T ap-
proached the chapel quietly, of which the
door and windows were alike thrown open.

3^4

AT LA 1»AUL1NE.

Slanding in the cool shadow of the porch 1
saw tliat Lucille was not busy with the llowers,
but having completed her task, knelt for a
moment before the altar, raising t(j heaven a
face surely as pure as that of any angel there.

1 sat down in the porch to wait.

Presently Lucille rose from her knees and
turning came towards me. 1 thought, as I
always did on seeing her after an absence,
short or long, that 1 had never really loved
her until that moment.

1 looked for some expression of surprise
in her eyes, but it seemed that she nuist have
known who had entered before she turned.
Instead I saw in her face a strange new ten-
derness that set my heart beating. She gave
me her hand with a gesture of shyness that
was likewise unknown to me.

" Why do you look at me like that?" she
asked, sharply.

" I was wondering what your thought was
as you came towards me, Mademoiselle."

"Ah!" she answered, with a shake of the
head.

" It could not have been that you were glad
to see me here? Yet, one would almost have
thought—"

She broke into a light laugh.

" It is so easy to think wrong," she said

I had sat down again, hoping that she
would do the same; but she remained stand-
ing a few yards away from me, her shoulder

AT LA PAULINE.

315

against tlie grey old wall of the porch. She
was looking out into the shadow of the trees,
and to be near her was a greater happiness
than 1 can tell.

" Do you lind it easy to think wrong, Ma-
demoiselle?"

'* Yes," she answered, gently.

"And 1 also."

We remained silent for a few minuies, and
the chatter of the frogs in the moat - >unded
pleasant and peaceful.

"What have you thought that was wrong?"
asked Lucille at length.

" I thought that you loved Alphonse
Giraud, and would marry him."

Lucille stood and never looked at me.

'* Was I wrong, Mademoiselle?"

*' Yes — and I told Alphonse so from the
beginning, but he did not believe me until
lately."

" I thought it was he," I said.

" No — nor any like him. If ever I did —
either of those things — it w'ould need to be a
man — one of strong will who would be mas-
ter, not only of me, but of men; one whom
1 should always think wiser and stronger and
braver than any other."

I looked at her, and saw nothing but her
profile and the gleam of a sun-ray on her hair.

"Am I a man, Mademoiselle?"

There was a silence, a long one, I
thought it.

316

AT LA PAULINE.

"Yes," she answered at last, barely audible;
and as she spoke stepped out into ihe broken
shade of the cypress trees. She went a tew
paces away from me — then came slowly back
and stood before me. Her face was quite
colourless, but there was that in her eyes that
brings heaven down to earth.

"i/e voila," she said, with a queer little ges-
ture of self-abandonment. "Me coila, if you
want me."

THE END.

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