XXII
THE PUGILIST'S WHIM
An old servant had brought out the early coffee to the arbour in thegarden. It was about eight o'clock, and in the shady retreat thefreshness of springtime reigned. Soon down the gravel walk appeared thewell-built figure of Dixon, dressed in white flannels. He bent under thearch of greenery that led to the arbour, and seemed vexed to find thatit was empty.
Clearly the pugilist was not going to breakfast alone and, to while awaythe time until his companion should appear, he lighted a cigarette.
Suddenly the door of the house opened to give passage to a graciousapparition--Josephine. Wrapped in a kimona of bright silk and smiling atthe fine morning, the young woman came slowly down the steps and thenstopped short, blushing. Some one came to meet her--it was Dixon.
The giant, too, seemed moved. Lowering his eyes he asked:
"How are you this morning, fair lady?"
"And you, M. Dixon?"
"Mlle. Finette, the coffee is served, won't you join me?"
The two young people broke their fast in silence, exchanging onlymonosyllables, to ask for a napkin, a plate, the sugar. At last,overcoming his bashfulness Dixon asked in a voice full of entreaty:
"Will you always be so hard-hearted?"
Josephine, embarrassed, evaded the question, and with a show of gaietyto hide her confusion, remarked:
"This is an awfully nice place of yours."
The pugilist answered her by describing the calm and simple delights ofa country life in the springtime, and, slipping his arm round her supplewaist, asked her softly:
"As you consented to come this far with me, why did you repel meafterwards? Why resist me so stubbornly?"
"I was a trifle tipsy yesterday," she replied. "I don't know what I didor why I came here with you." And then, with a touch of sadness:"Naturally, finding me in such a place you took me for a----"
"Sure enough," replied the American, "but I can see you are not like theothers."
"And what attracts me to you," continued Josephine, "is that you are nota brute. Why, yesterday evening, if you had wanted, when we were alonetogether, eh?"
And she gave Dixon such a queer look that he asked himself whether shedid not regard him as absurd for having respected her.
"I like you very much," he said, "more than any other woman. In a monthfrom now I shall be off to America. I have already a good deal of moneyand I shall earn much more out there. If you will come with me, we won'tpart any more. Do you agree?"
Josephine was at first amused by this downright declaration, butgradually she took it more seriously. She would see the world, beelegant, rich, well dressed. She would have her future secured and nomore bother with the police. But, on the other hand, it might becometerribly boring after the exciting life she had led. And there wasLoupart. Certainly he was often repellant to her, but he had only tocome back and speak to her to be again submissive, loving and tractable.And, strange to say, there was also--just of late--at the bottom ofJosephine's heart, a feeling of friendship, almost affection, for thestern and thorough-going detective, for Juve, to whom she owed herescape from a very bad fix. Fandor, too, she liked pretty well. Shevalued the daring journalist, quick, full of courage, and yet a goodsort, free from prejudice. The more she thought about it, the moreJosephine felt herself to be strikingly complex: she felt that she couldnot analyse her feelings, she was incomprehensible even to herself.
"Let me think it over a little longer," she asked. Dixon roseceremoniously.
"Dear friend," he declared, "you are at home here, as long as you careto stay, and I hope you will consent to lunch with me at one o'clock.From now till then I shall leave you alone to think at your leisure."
The old servant, too, having gone off shopping, Josephine remained alonein the place, and after visiting the charming villa from top to bottomstrolled delightedly amid the lovely scenery of the park. As she wasabout to turn into a narrow path, she uttered a loud cry. Loupart wasbefore her. The leader of the Gang of Cyphers had his evil look andsavage smile.
"How goes it?" he cried, then queried, sardonically: "Which would madameprefer, the pig-sticker or the barker?"
Josephine, in terror, stepped backwards till she rested against thetrunk of a great tree.
Loupart carelessly got out his revolver and his knife: he seemed tohesitate which weapon to use.
"Loupart," stammered Josephine, in a choking voice, "don't kill me--whathave I done?"
The ruffian snarled.
"Not only do you peach to M. Juve, but you let yourself be carried offby the first toff that comes along; you don't stick at making me acuckold! That's very well!"
Josephine fell on her knees in the thick grass. Sure enough she hadplayed Loupart false, and suddenly a wave of remorse rose in her heart.She was overcome at the thought that she could have endangered her lovereven for a moment, that she could have informed the police. She washonestly maddened by the thought that Loupart had all but been arrestedthrough her fault. Yes, he was right in reproaching her, she deserved tobe punished. As for having wronged him, that was not true. She protestedwith all her might against his accusation of unfaithfulness.
"I was wrong in listening to the pugilist, in coming here, but in spiteof appearances--Loupart, believe me, I am still worthy of you."
Loupart shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, we'll leave that for the moment. Just now you are going to obeyme without a word or protest."
Josephine's heart stopped; she knew these preambles. She tried to turnthe conversation.
"And how did you get here?"
"How did you get here yourself?"
"M. Dixon's motor-car."
"And who tracked you?"
"Why--no one."
"No one?" jeered the ruffian. "Then what was Juve doing in the taxiwhich was rolling after you?"
Josephine uttered an exclamation of surprise. Loupart went on, greatlysatisfied with himself:
"And what was Loupart up to? That crafty gentleman was cosily ensconcedon the springs behind the taxi in which the worthy inspector wasriding."
The ruffian was teasing, and that showed he was in good humour again.Josephine put her arms round his neck and hugged him.
"It's you that I love and you alone--let's go, take me away, won't you?"
Loupart freed himself from the embrace.
"Since you are at home here--the American said as much--I must see toprofiting by it. You will stay here till this evening: at five you willbe at the markets, and so shall I. You won't recognise me, but I shallspeak to you, and then you will tell me exactly where this pugilistlocks up his swag. I want a full plan of the house, the print of thekeys, all the usual truck. This evening I shall have something new forJuve and his crew, an affair in which you will serve me."
Josephine, panting, did not pay heed to this last sentence. She flushedcrimson, perspiration broke out on her forehead, a great agony tightenedher heart. She, so docile till then, so devoted, suddenly felt animmense scruple, an awful shame at the thought of being guilty of whather lover demanded. Against any other man, she would have obeyed, but toact in that way toward Dixon, who had treated her so considerately, shefelt was beyond her powers. Here Josephine showed herself truly a woman.While determined not to be false to Loupart, she would not leave thepugilist with an evil memory of her. She hesitated to betray him andunwittingly proved the truth of the philosopher's dictum: "The mosthonest of women, though unwilling to give hope, is never sorry to leavebehind her a regret!"
But Loupart was not going to stay discussing such subtleties with hismistress. He never gave his orders twice. To seal the reconciliation heimprinted a hasty kiss on Josephine's cheek and vanished. A sound ofcrackling marked his passage through the thickets. Josephine was oncemore alone in the great park around the villa.
* * * * *
Fandor and Dixon were taking tea in the drawing-room. The journalistcame, he alleged, to interview Dixon about his fight with Joe Sans, th
enegro champion of the Soudan, which was to come off next day. Aftergetting various details as to weight, diet and other trifles, Fandorinquired with a smile:
"But to keep in good form, Dixon, you must be as sober as a camel, aschaste as a monk, eh?"
The American smiled. Fandor had told him a few moments before that hehad seen him supping at the "Crocodile" with a pretty woman.
At Juve's instigation Fandor had alleged a sporting interview, in orderto get into the American's house and discover if Josephine was stillthere. He meant to ascertain what the relations were between thepugilist and the girl.
The allusion to that evening loosened the American's tongue. Absorbed bythe pleasing impression which his pretty partner had made on him, Dixonbegan talking on the subject. He belonged to that class of men who, whenthey are in love, want the whole world to know it.
The American set the young woman on such a pedestal of innocence andpurity--that Fandor wondered if the pugilist were not laughing at him.But Dixon, quite unconscious, did not conceal his intention to elopewith Josephine and shortly take her to America. Suddenly he rose.
"Come," he said, "I will introduce you to her."
Fandor was about to protest, but the American was already scouring thehouse and searching the park, calling:
"Finette, Mlle. Finette, Josephine!"
Presently he returned, his face distorted, unnerved, dejected, and in atoneless voice he ejaculated painfully:
"The pretty little woman has made off without a word to me. I am verymuch grieved!"
Five minutes later, Fandor jumped into a train which took him back toParis.