CHAPTER XXVII.
THE ABBÉ’S SALAD.
“He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.”
“And mademoiselle’s witnesses?” inquired the notary, when he hadaccommodated the ladies with chairs.
“Will arrive at ten o’clock,” answered Mademoiselle Brun, with a glanceat the notary’s clock.
It was three minutes to ten. The notary was a young man, with smooth hairbrushed straight back from a high forehead. He was one of those men wholook clever, which, in some respects, is better than being clever. For aman who really has brains usually perceives his own limitations, while hewho looks clever, and is not, has that boundless faith in himself whichserves to carry men very far in a world which is too lazy to get up andkick impertinence as it passes.
The room had that atmosphere of mixed stuffiness and cigarette smokewhich the traveller may sample in any French post-office. It is also theofficial air of a court of justice or a public bureau of any sort inFrance. There was a blank space on the wall, where a portrait of theemperor had lately hung. The notary would fill it by-and-by with apresident or a king, or any face of any man who was for the moment inauthority. Behind him, on the wall, was suspended a photograph of anelderly lady--his mother. It established confidence in the hearts offemale clients, and reminded persons with daughters that this risinglawyer had as yet no wife.
The notary’s bow to Mademoiselle Brun when she was seated wascondescending, which betrayed the small fact that he was not so clever ashe looked. To Denise he endeavoured to convey in one graceful inclinationfrom the waist the deep regard of a legal adviser, struggling nobly tokeep in bounds the overwhelming admiration of a man of heart and (out ofoffice hours) of spirit. Gilbert, who had already exchanged greetingswith the ladies, was leaning against the window, playing idly with theblind-cord. The notary’s office was on the third floor. The colonel couldnot, therefore, see the pavement without leaning out, and the window wasshut. Mademoiselle Brun noted this as she sat with crossed hands. Shealso remembered that the Hotel Clément was on the same side of theBoulevard du Palais as the house in which she found herself.
The notary had intended to be affable, but he dimly perceived that Denisewas what he tersely called in his own mind _grande dame_, and was wiseenough to busy himself with his papers in silence. He also suspected thatColonel Gilbert was a friend of these ladies, but he did not care to takeadvantage of his privilege in the presence of a fourth person, which leftan unpleasant flavour on the palate of the smooth-haired lawyer. Heglanced involuntarily at the blank space on the wall, and thought of theRepublic.
“I have prepared a deed of sale,” he said, in a formal voice, “which isas binding on both sides as if the full purchase-money had been exchangedfor the title-deeds. All that will remain to be done after the presentsignature will be the usual legal formalities between notaries.Mademoiselle has but to sign here.” And he indicated a blank space on thedocument.
Mademoiselle Brun was looking at the timepiece on the notary’s wall. Thetown clocks were striking the hour. A knock at the door made the notaryturn, with his quill pen still indicating the space for Denise’ssignature. It was the dingy clerk who sat in a sort of cage in the outeroffice. After opening the door he stood aside, and Susini came in withglittering eyes and a defiant chin. There was a pause, and Lory deVasselot limped into the room after him. He was smiling and pleasant ashe always was; even, his friends said, on the battlefield.
He looked at Denise, met her eyes for a moment and turned to bow withgrave politeness to Gilbert. It was, oddly enough, the colonel whobrought forward a chair for the wounded man.
“Sit down,” he said curtly.
“These are my witnesses, Monsieur le Notaire,” said Mademoiselle Brun.
The abbé was rubbing his thin, brown hands together, and contemplatingthe notary’s table as a greedy man might contemplate a laden board. Thenotary himself was looking from one to the other. There was something inthe atmosphere which he did not understand. It was, perhaps, the presencein the room of a cleverer head than his own, and he did not know uponwhose shoulders to locate it. Denise, whose nature was frank andstraightforward, was looking at Lory--looking him reflectively up anddown--as a mother might look at a son of whose health she refrains fromasking. Mademoiselle was gazing at the blank space on the wall, and thecolonel was looking at mademoiselle with an odd smile.
He was standing in the embrasure of the window, and at this momentglanced at his watch. The notary looked at him inquiringly; for hisattitude seemed to indicate that he expected some one else. And at thismoment the music of a military band burst upon their ears. The colonellooked over his shoulder down into the street. He had his watch in hishand. De Vasselot rose instantly and went to the window. He stood besidethe colonel, and those in the notary’s office could see that they weretalking quickly and gravely together, though the music drowned theirvoices. Behind them, on the notary’s table, lay their differences; infront lay that which bound them together with the strongest ties betweenman and man--their honour and the honour of France. The music died away,followed by the diminishing sound of steady feet. All in the room weresilent for a few moments, until the two soldiers turned from the windowand came towards the table.
Then the notary spoke:--
“Mademoiselle has but to sign here,” he repeated.
He indicated the exact spot, dipped the pen in the ink, and handed it toDenise. She took the pen and half turned towards Lory, as if she knewthat he would be the next to speak and wished him to understand once andfor all that he would speak in vain.
“Mademoiselle cannot sign there,” he said.
Denise dipped the pen into the ink again, but she did not sign.
“Why not?” she asked without looking round, her hand still resting on thepaper.
“Because,” answered Lory, addressing her directly, “Perucca is not yoursto sell. It is mine.”
Denise turned and looked straight at Colonel Gilbert. She had never beenquite sure of him. He had never appeared to her to be quite in earnest.His face showed no surprise now. He had known this all along, and did noteven take the trouble to feign astonishment. The notary gave a polite,incredulous, legal laugh.
“That is an old story, Monsieur le Comte.”
At which point Susini so far forgot himself as to make use of a rudelocal method of showing contempt in pretending to spit upon the notary’sfloor.
“It is as old as you please,” answered Lory, half turning towardsGilbert, who in his turn made a gesture in the direction of the notary,as if to say that the lawyer had received his instructions and knew howto act.
“Of course,” said the notary in a judicial voice, “we are aware that theconveyance of the Perucca estate by the late Count de Vasselot to thelate Mattei Perucca lacked formality; many conveyances in Corsica lackedformality in the beginning of the century. In many cases possession isthe only title-deed. We can point to a possession lasting over manyyears, which carries the more weight from the fact that the late countand his neighbour Monsieur Perucca were notoriously on bad terms. If thecount had been able, he would no doubt have evicted from Perucca aneighbour so unsympathetic.”
“You seem,” said de Vasselot, quickly, “to be prepared for my objection.”
The notary spread out his hands in a gesture that conveyed assent.
“And if I had not come?”
“I regret to say, Monsieur le Comte, that your presence here bears littleupon the transaction in hand. You are only a witness. Mademoiselle willno doubt complete the document now.”
And the notary again handed Denise a pen.
“Hardly upon a title-deed which consists of possession only.”
“Pardon me, but you have even less,” said the notary. “If I may remindyou of it, you have probably no title-deeds to Vasselot itself since theburning of the château.”
“There you are wrong,” answered Lory, quietly.
And the abbé snapped bothfingers and thumbs in a double-barrelled _feu de joie_.
“The count may have possessed title-deeds before his death, thirty yearsago,” said the notary, with that polite patience in argument which thecertain winner alone can compass.
Then the colonel’s quiet voice broke into the conversation. His mannerwas politely indifferent, and seemed to plead for peace at any cost.
“I should much like to be done with these formalities,” he said--“if Imay be allowed to suggest a little promptitude. The troops are moving, asyou have heard. In an hour’s time I sail for Marseilles with these men.Let us finish with the signatures.”
“Let us, on the contrary, delay signing until the war is over,” suggestedLory.
“You cannot bring your father to life again, monsieur, and you cannotmanufacture title-deeds. Your father, the notary tells us, has been deadthirty years, and the Château de Vasselot has been burnt with all thepapers in it. You have no case at all.”
Lory was unbuttoning his tunic, awkwardly with one hand.
“But the notary is wrong,” he said. “The Château de Vasselot was burnt,it is true, but here are the title-deeds. My father did not die thirtyyears ago, but yesterday morning, in my arms.”
Gilbert smiled gently. His innate politeness obviously forbade him tolaugh at this absurd story.
“Then where has he been all these years?” he inquired with agood-humoured patience.
“In the Château de Vasselot.”
There was a dead silence for a moment, broken at length by a movement onthe part of Mademoiselle Brun. In her abrupt way she struck herself onthe forehead as a fool.
“Yes,” testified Susini, brusquely, “that is where he has been.”
Denise remembered ever afterwards, that Lory did not look at her at thismoment of his complete justification. It was now, and only for a moment,that Colonel Gilbert lost his steady imperturbability. From the time thatLory de Vasselot entered the room he had known that he had inevitablyfailed. From that instant the only question in his mind had been that ofhow much his enemies knew. It could not be chance that brought deVasselot, and the Abbé Susini, and Mademoiselle Brun together to meet himat that time. He had been out-manoeuvred by some one of the three, and heshrewdly suspected by whom. There was nothing to do but face it--and hefaced it with a calm audacity. He simply ignored mademoiselle’s blinkingglance. He met de Vasselot’s quick eyes without fear, and smiled coollyin the abbé’s fiery face. But when Denise turned and looked at him withdirect and honest eyes, his own wavered, and for a brief instant he sawhimself as Denise saw him--the bitterest moment of his life. The esteemof the many is nothing compared to the esteem of one.
In a moment he recovered himself and turned towards Lory with his lazysmile.
“Even to a romance there must be some motive,” he said. “One naturallywonders why your father should allow his enemy to keep possession of ahouse and estate which were not his, and why he himself should remainconcealed in the Château de Vasselot.”
“That is the affair of my father. There was that between him and MatteiPerucca, which neither you nor I, monsieur, have any business toinvestigate. There are the title-deeds. You have a certain right to lookat them. You are therefore at liberty to satisfy yourself that you cannotbuy the Perucca estate from Mademoiselle Lange, because it does notbelong to Mademoiselle Lange, and never has belonged to her! A fact ofwhich you may have been aware.”
“You seem to know much.”
“I know more than you suspect,” answered de Vasselot. “I know, forinstance, your reason for desiring to buy land on the western slope ofMonte Torre.”
“Ah?”
By way of reply, de Vasselot laid upon the table in front of ColonelGilbert, the nugget no larger than a pigeon’s egg, that Mademoiselle Brunhad found in the _débris_ of the landslip. The colonel looked at it, andgave a short laugh. He was too indolent a man to feel an acute curiosity.But there were many questions he would have liked to ask at that moment.He knew that de Vasselot was only the spokesman of another whodeliberately remained in the background. Lory had not found the gold, hehad not pieced together with the patience of a clocksmith the wheelswithin wheels that Colonel Gilbert had constructed through the carefulyears. The whole story had been handed to him whom it most concerned,complete in itself like a barrister’s brief, and de Vasselot was notsetting it forth with much skill, but bluntly, simply and generously likea soldier.
“Surely I have said enough,” were his next words, and it is possible thatthe colonel and Mademoiselle Brun alone understood the full meaning ofthe words.
“Yes, monsieur,” said Gilbert at length, “I think you have.”
And he moved towards the door in an odd, sidelong way. He had taken onlythree steps, when he swung round on his heel with a sharp exclamation.The Abbé Susini, with blazing eyes--half mad with rage--had flown at himlike a terrier.
“Ah!” said the colonel, catching him by the two wrists, and holding himat arm’s length with steady northern nerve and muscle. “I know youCorsicans too well to turn my back to one.”
He threw the abbé back, so that the little man fell heavily against thetable; Susini recovered himself with the litheness of a wild animal, butwhen he flew at the closed door again it was Denise who stood in front ofit.