Chapter XI
Theft
"La fortune ne laisse rien perdre pour les hommes heureux."
I thus returned Alphonse Giraud's visit sooner than either of usanticipated, for I had to go and tell him what had happened in the Ruedes Palmiers. I delivered my news in as few words as possible, andcannot tell how he took the evil tidings, for when I had spoken Iwalked 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 stiff collarand patent-leather boots--no bigger than a girl's. The politeness ofour previous 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, inhis 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 tomy father."
We found the Hotel Clericy in that state of hushed expectation whichfollows the dread visit in palace and hut alike. The servants seemedto have withdrawn to their own quarters to discuss the event inwhispers there. We found the Vicomte in my study, still much agitatedand broken. He was sitting in my chair, the tears yet wet upon hiswrinkled cheek. There was a quick look of alertness in his eyes, as ifthe scythe had hissed close by in reaping the mature grain.
"Ah! my poor boy--my poor boy," he cried when he saw Alphonse, andthey embraced after the manner of their race.
"And it is all my fault," continued the broken old man, wringing hishands and sinking into his chair again.
"No!" cried Alphonse, with characteristic energy. "We surely cannotsay that, without questioning--well--a wiser judgment than ours."
He paused, and perhaps remembered dimly some of the teaching of agood, simple bourgeoise who had died before her husband fingered gold.I sought to quiet the Vicomte also. Old men, like old clothes, needgentle handling. I sat down at my table and began to write.
"What are you doing?" asked the Vicomte, sharply.
"I am telegraphing to Madame de Clericy to return home."
There was a silence in the room while I wrote out the message anddespatched it by a servant. The Vicomte made no attempt to stop me.
"Here," he said, when the door was closed--and he handed Giraud thekey of his own study. "The doctors and--the others--have placed him inmy room--that is the key. You must consider this house as your ownuntil the funeral is over; your poor father's house, I know, is indisorder."
Monsieur de Clericy would have it that the Baron should be buried fromthe Rue des Palmiers, which Alphonse Giraud recognised as in some sortan honour, for it proclaimed to the world the esteem in which theupstart nobleman was held in high quarters.
"I am glad," said my patron, with that air of fatherliness which hewore towards me from the first, "that you have telegraphed for mywife--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 thistime--by driving rapidly to Toulon."
"With promptitude," muttered the Vicomte, musingly.
"Yes--such as one may expect from Madame."
The Vicomte looked up at me with a smile.
"Ah!--you have discovered that. One is never safe with you men whoknow horses. You find out so much from observation."
But I think it is no great thing to have discovered that one mayusually look for prompt action in men and women of a quiet tongue.
Lucille's name was not mentioned between us. My own desires andfeelings had been pushed into the background by the events of the lastfew days, and he is but half a man who cannot submit cheerfully tosuch treatment at the hand of Fate from time to time.
During the day we learnt further details respecting the theft of themoney, amounting in all to rather more than eight hundred thousandpounds of our coinage. Miste, it appeared, had been instructed toleave Paris by the eight o'clock train that morning for London, takingwith him a large sum. The Vicomte had handed him the money theprevious evening.
"I carelessly replaced the remainder in the drawer of mywriting-table," my patron told us, "before the eyes of that scoundrel.I went to the drawer this morning, having been uneasy about so large asum--it was arranged that I should see Miste off from the Gare duNord. Figure to yourselves! The drawer was empty. I hastened to therailway station. Miste was, of course, not there."
And he rocked himself backwards and forwards in the chair. Whattrouble men take for money--what trouble it brings them! So distressedwas he that it would perhaps have been wiser to change the current ofhis thoughts, but there was surely work here for an idle man likemyself to do.
"How was the money to be conveyed?" I asked.
"In cheques of ten thousand pounds each, drawn by John Turner onvarious European and American bankers in favour of myself."
"And you had indorsed these cheques?"
"No."
"Then how can Miste realise them?" I asked.
"By forgery--my friend," replied the Vicomte sadly. Which was trueenough. I thought of Monsieur Miste's graceful figure--of his slimneck, and longed to get my fingers around it. I had only seen hisback, after all--and had a singular desire to know the look of hisface. I am no great reader, but have met some words which go well withthe thoughts I harboured at this time of Monsieur Charles Miste, for Icould
"Read rascal in the motions of his back, And scoundrel in the subtle sliding knee."
Seeing that I had risen, the Vicomte asked me where I was going, in atone of anxiety which I had noted in his voice of late, and, in myvanity, attributed to the fact that he was in some degree dependentupon myself.
"I am going to see John Turner, and then I am going to seek CharlesMiste until I find him."
Before I knew what had happened, Alphonse Giraud was shaking my hand,and would have embraced me had he not remembered in time his Englishclothes, and the reserve of manner usually observed inside suchhabiliments.
"Ah! my friend," he said, desperately, "the world is large."
"Yes; but not roomy enough for Monsieur Charles Miste and your humbleservant."
I spent the remainder of the day with John Turner, who was cynicalenough about the matter, but gave me, nevertheless, much valuableinformation.
"You may be sure," he said, "that I did not sign the cheques untilClericy and the Baron had handed over the equivalent in notes andgold. 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 notcatch him, but you will, no doubt, enjoy the chase immensely, and inthe mean time you will leave a clear field for Alphonse Giraud _aupresde_ Mademoiselle."
I instituted inquiries the same evening, and determined to await theresult before setting off to seek Miste in person. Nor will I denythat this decision was brought about, in part, by the reflection thatMadame de Clericy and Lucille might arrive the following morning.
At the Lyons station the next morning I had the satisfaction of seeingthe two ladies step from the Marseilles express. Lucille wouldscarcely look at me. During the drive to the Rue des Palmiers Iacquainted Madame with the state of affairs, and she listened to myrecital with a grave attention and a quiet occasional glance into myface which would have made it difficult to tell aught but the truth.
When we reached home Alphonse Giraud had gone out; the Vicomte wasstill in his room. He had slept little and was much disturbed, thevalet told us. As we mounted the stairs, I saw the two ladies glanceinstinctively towards the closed door of the Vicomte's study. We areall curious respecting death and vice. Madame went straight to herhusband's apartment. At the head of the stairs the door of themorning-room stood open. It was the family rendezvous, where weusually found the ladies at the luncheon hour.
; Lucille went in there, leaving the door open behind her. I have alwaysrushed at my fences, and have had the falls I merited. I followedLucille into the sunlit room. She must have heard my footsteps, buttook no notice--walking to the window, and standing there, rested hertwo 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 notat me, but at the ground beneath my feet.
"Well, Monsieur?"
"In what have I offended you?"
She shrugged her shoulders, and I, looking at her as she stood withher back to me, knew again and always that the world contained butthis one woman for me.
"Since I told you of my feeling towards yourself," I went on, "and waslaughed at for my pains, I have been careful not to take advantage ofmy position in the house. I have not been so indiscreet again."
She was playing with the blind-cord in an attitude and humour soyouthful that I had a sort of tugging at the heart.
"Perhaps, though," I continued, "I have offended in my verydiscretion. I should have told you again--that I love you--that youmight 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."
"You can at least answer my question--Mademoiselle."
She turned and faced me with angry eyes.
"Well--then. I do not like the ways of English gentlemen."
"Ah!"
"You told me that you were not poor, but rich--that you had not becomemy father's secretary because such a situation was necessary, but--butfor quite another reason."
"Yes."
"And I learn immediately afterwards from Mr. Gayerson that you arepenniless, and must work for your living."
"Merely because Alfred Gayerson knew more than I did," I replied. "Idid not know that my father in the heat of a passing quarrel had madesuch a will--or, indeed, could make it if he so desired. I was notaware of this when I spoke to you--and, knowing it now, I must ask youto consider my words unsaid. You may be sure that I shall not referto 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 notgive yourself the trouble. _D'ailleurs_," she paused and looked at mewith a quick and passing gravity, "that has never been your role,Monsieur l'Anglais--you are not fitted for it."
She pulled a long face--such as mine, no doubt, appeared in hereyes--and left me.
I had business that took me across the Seine during the morning, andlunched at a club--so did not again see the ladies until later in theday. The desire of speech with Alphonse Giraud on a matter connectedwith his father's burial took me back to the Rue des Palmiers in theafternoon, when I learnt from the servant that the Baron's son hadreturned, and was, so far as he knew, still in the house. I went tothe drawing-room and there found Madame alone.
"I 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 thestrongest house does not know how many weaker buildings are leaningagainst it. Alphonse Giraud is not a strong house. He will leanagainst you if you permit it. So be warned."
"By my carelessness," I answered, "I have done Alphonse Giraud a greatinjury--I have practically ruined him. Surely the least I can do is toattempt to recover for him that which he has lost."
Madame de Clericy was of course engaged in needlework. I never saw herfingers idle. It appeared that at this moment she had a difficultstitch to execute.
"One never knows," she said, without looking up, "what is the least orthe most that men can do. We women look at things in a differentlight, and therefore cannot say what is right or what is wrong; it isbetter that men should judge for themselves."
"Yes," I said.
"Of course," said Madame de Clericy quietly, "if you recoverAlphonse's fortune you will earn his gratitude, for without it theVicomte would never recognise his pretensions to Lucille's hand."
"Of course," I answered; and Madame's clever eyes were lifted to myface for a moment.
"You think it the least you can do?"
"I do," said I. "Can you tell me if Alphonse Giraud is in thishouse?"
MADAME LOOKED AT ME AGAIN. AND I MADE MY INQUIRIESELSEWHERE.]
"No; I cannot."
"Perhaps Mademoiselle Lucille--"
"Perhaps. You can ask her--if you like."
Madame looked at me again. And I made my inquiries elsewhere.