Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  But he feared the derision of his friends. He braced himself with the assurance that there were no such things as ghosts, and that Delamort was an impostor, whom a sharp lookout on his part must baffle. With the determination to watch him very closely, and not permit himself to be fooled, he rose and announced himself ready.

  The host conducted the pair to a room above, leaving the company in a state of mingled excitement and derision, to await the result of this odd experiment. Within the feebly lighted bedchamber which the landlord had assigned to them, Delamort bade his companion be seated, and approached him with eyes riveted on his, and hands busy at mesmeric passes. He had hopes of gaining sufficient influence over Grosjean to be able to mentally suggest to him that he saw the spirit of his dead father.

  But it so happened that Grosjean, who, as I have mentioned, was educated above his station, had once read a book on mesmerism, and was acquainted with its methods. He recognized them in Delamort’s antics and, with an indignant laugh, he rose to his feet.

  “I think we have had enough of this foolery, M. Delamort,” he said. “I half expected that you would resort to hypnotism to gain your ends.”

  “You are acquainted, then, with hypnotism?” quoth Delamort, a trifle crestfallen, slipping his hand into his pocket as he spoke.

  “Sufficiently acquainted with it to see through you, my friend,” answered Grosjean. “I think that I may fairly claim to have won my wager.”

  “One moment,” Delamort implored him.. “It is an interesting topic — hypnotism. Doubtless you are aware of the effect produced by the contemplation of a bright disk or ring?”

  “Yes,” answered the other dubiously. “What of it?”

  “I am about to have recourse to it in consequence of my failure with the mesmeric passes,” was the cool rejoinder. “I beg that you will contemplate this.”

  Grosjean found himself staring at the bright rim of the barrel of a revolver, with which Delamort had suddenly covered him.

  “Bon Dieu!” he ejaculated in affright.

  “Ah!” purred Delamort, with manifest satisfaction. “By your face and manner I see that you are already coming under the influence. Now, be good enough to reseat yourself and listen to me.”

  Grosjean obeyed him with that alacrity which terror alone can impart.

  “Excellent,” murmured the occultist. “The hypnotic power of a pistol-nozzle has no equal. Now, sir, I think that you are sufficiently warned of the manner of man you have to deal with, to sit quietly and listen to what I have to propose.”

  “You don’t mean to shoot me?” cried Grosjean interrogatively.

  “Shoot you? By no means. You will be far too reasonable. I am exerting no more than a slight persuasion to induce you to listen to me.”

  “Then, will you — would you mind putting that thing away? You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to have an accident with firearms.”.

  With the utmost affability, Delamort slipped the pistol back into his pocket.

  III.

  “Now, to business,” said Delamort. “You may think, monsieur, that I am a rank impostor. I am not. I am a genuine spiritualist, as well as something of a hypnotist. Indeed, I have a reputation to maintain. Now, it occasionally happens that I come across a man so strongminded, of such determination and willpower that my art is defeated and baffled. Such a man, my dear M. Grosjean, are you. I confess it with regret, for it is never pleasant to find ourselves confronted by a stronger individuality, which will not bring itself under our control.”

  Grosjean, who was recovering from his fears, smiled, with the pleasure occasioned him by these elaborate compliments.

  “While my failure, monsieur,” Delamort continued, “makes you the gainer of a paltry three napoleons, it occasions me the loss of over six hundred francs. As you will readily perceive, there is no proportion in this. Besides, I am a poor man, M. Grosjean; and, in addition to the loss of all this money, there is the further loss of character and prestige, which will be nothing short of ruinous to me. You understand?”

  Grosjean grinned until his yellow face was wrinkled into the semblance of a crumpled parchment.

  “I understand, but I am afraid I cannot help you. It is the fortune of war.” He endeavored to give his voice an inflection of polite regret, but the pleasure of gaining three napoleons was not so lightly to be suppressed by a man of Grosjean’s grasping nature.

  “Pardon,” returned Delamort. “But you can help me, and by helping me you can help yourself. Now, if instead of three napoleons, your profit by my failure were to be six, would it not be worth your while to save my reputation?”

  “What do you mean?” quoth Grosjean suspiciously.

  “Just this. If you will acknowledge to your friends that you have seen your father’s ghost, and consequently lost your wager, I will pay you nine napoleons — that is, the three you have staked and the six I am giving you in compensation.”

  Grosjean’s eyes brightened with greed.

  “It would be doing you a good service, would it not — saving your reputation?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “Also, it would be making you a profit of the twenty-six napoleons staked by my friends, eh?”

  “Why, yes. But not twenty-six, my friend. Seventeen napoleons will be my total profit after I have settled with you.”

  Grosjean reflected a moment; then a cunning smile spread on his face. “I admire your method of raising ghosts, M. Delamort,” said he with jeering irony. He shook his head and laughed. “No, no, my friend. Such a service as you are asking of me is worth more than six napoleons. You are proposing a revolting course to me. I can’t do it. I really can’t.”

  “You are throwing away money, monsieur, by your refusal,” Delamort reminded him. “Surely a gain of six napoleons is better than a gain of only three. And you are earning it without any trouble or inconvenience. How much better would you be if I did raise your father’s ghost? It would only scare you to death. I beg that you will seriously consider my proposal.”

  “I can’t be a party to such a swindle. I really can’t — not for six napoleons, anyhow. If I practise this wretched deceit upon my trusting friends, I must have half your profit. That is to say, I must have thirteen napoleons.”

  “I’ll give you ten.”

  “Thirteen or I’ll walk out and denounce you for an impudent impostor. Make your choice.”

  Some one knocked at the door. His friends were becoming anxious.

  “Are you all right, Grosjean?” inquired a voice, to which the old man returned an affirmative reply.

  “Has he raised the spirit yet?”

  “Not yet.” answered Grosjean, while Delamort added: “But I hope to do so in a moment or two, if you will refrain from interrupting me. Have the goodness not to disturb us again.” Then to Grosjean, in a whisper: “Now, monsieur,” said he, “what is it to be? Will you accept ten napoleons?”

  “Thirteen,” was the laconic answer, delivered with finality.

  “Very well, then. Thirteen be it, provided that you will follow out my instructions.”

  “What are they?”

  “You are to scream two or three times, and then fall down and simulate a swoon as best you can, reviving only after I have admitted your friends.”

  “Parfaitement,” said the old traitor, his greedy eyes shining with avarice. “Pay me the money now, so that my friends will have no suspicions.”

  Delamort produced his purse and carefully took thirteen napoleons from it, one by one. One by one he delivered them to his companion.

  “See that they don’t jingle,” he admonished him; “for if any one were to hear it he would suspect.”

  Grosjean nodded that he understood, and pocketed each coin as he received it. When he had received the thirteenth he still put forth his hand, and upon being asked by Delamort what he wanted, he insolently replied that he wanted the return of his stake of three napoleons.

  “That was included. It was to be thirteen altogether,” th
e occultist protested. But Grosjean had not so understood it, and swore that he would not perform his part of the bargain until he received another sixty francs.

  They wrangled for some moments, Delamort protesting that thus Grosjean was making more out of it than he was himself. In the end he was forced to give in and pay the further money demanded, which he did with the worst grace in the world.

  IV.

  “Now for your part, monsieur,” said Delamort; “and see that you play me no tricks.”

  It was unlikely that he would, since were he to betray the occultist he must forego the gain he was making. Rising from his chair, he awoke the echoes of the inn with a scream that was a masterpiece of blood-curdling vociferation.

  “Excellent,” Delamort approved. “Repeat it.”

  Obediently, Grosjean emitted a second shriek more dreadful than the first. There came an excited knocking at the door.

  “Don’t touch me — don’t touch me!” screamed Grosjean, prompted by Delamort. “Mon Dieu! I am terrified. Oh!”

  With that final moan he let himself fall heavily, and from his position he winked wickedly at Delamort. The occultist now turned to the door, which he opened immediately.

  “What are you doing to him?” demanded half a dozen of Grosjean’s friends as they sprang into the room.

  “No more than I undertook to do,” Delamort replied. “I think you had better attend to him. The sight of his father has frightened him a little, but he will be all right shortly.”

  They hastened to the prostrate man, and raised him tenderly.

  “There. He is better now,” exclaimed one.

  “His color is returning,” announced another.

  “I feared that ill would come of it,” put in a third. “It is an evil thing to tamper with the dead.”

  “As for you,” snarled a fourth, angrily shaking his fist in Delamort’s face, “you ought to be hanged, you wizard.”

  “I am no wizard,” answered Delamort, truthfully enough. “As M. Grosjean there can tell you, I have worked by perfectly natural means.”

  Grosjean, now feigning to recover, was giving the company an awe-inspiring account of the apparition that had visited him.

  “I am punished,” groaned that old scoundrel. “Never again will I laugh at spiritualism.” Then to the host: “You may hand the stakes to M. Delamort,” he said. “He has certainly won his wager, curse him!”

  It was with an extremely ill grace that the landlord handed the occultist the package containing the money. Delamort accepted it in silence, and slipped it into his pocket. His business being thus concluded, he was on the point of taking his leave of the company, when the landlord rudely accelerated his departure by a request that he should take himself off the premises.

  “I’ve had enough of spiritualism in my house,” he swore, with a vigorous oath.

  “Monsieur is a bad loser,” was Delamort’s cold answer, as he took the hint and his leave without further delay.

  It was after his departure that old Grosjean felt the need of a glass of cognac to revive him. That was natural enough, but that he should invite several of his friends to a glass of something, at his expense, was a departure from the ordinary grasping course of his existence which occasioned them some measure of surprise.

  Seeing ghosts was evidently a salutary occupation, if it could instil generosity into so mean a heart as Grosjean’s. They profited by his mood, and accepted with alacrity the offer he made; and while they drank his health he fished from his pocket a golden napoleon with which to pay.

  The landlord took the coin, glanced at it, and rang it on the table. It emitted a most unmusical timbre.

  “It’s cracked,” some one suggested.

  “It’s bad,”, the landlord stated as he handed it back to Grosjean.

  “Bad?” echoed the old fellow, with a sudden pang of apprehension. “Bad? Impossible! Anyhow, here is another one.”

  While he was examining the coin the landlord had returned to him, he heard the second one give out the same false sound. Dim suspicion now became sickening certainty. With an oath he drew from another pocket a five-franc piece, to pay for the drink which in a moment of expansion he had offered his compeers.

  “Wherever did you get those coins from, M. Grosjean?” inquired the host. “Surely some one has victimized you.”

  Deeper than words can tell were his rage and mortification. Yet deeper still was the old man’s wisdom, for he held his peace touching the transaction by which those coins had passed into his hands.

  THE FOSTER LOVER

  The Storyteller, October 1910.

  Up the hill from Horsebridge, dust-clogged in every pore, jaded and saddle-worn, I urged my weary nag — the second that I had spent since leaving London at daybreak on my traitor’s errand. On the hill’s crest I drew rein, as much out of instinct and sheer habit as out of mercy for the poor beast that bore me.

  On my left a long line of shadow, tall and black, stretched the trees of Dunstock Park adown the hill half-way to Romsey town. And yonder, through the thinning topmost branches, was a golden glory where the moon was rising, big as a millstone, yellow as a guinea. Here, close at hand, atop its flight of terraces, stood Dunstock House, holding the thing dearest to me in all the world; and Dunstock House, to my vast surprise, was now one blaze of light, its windows glowing like jewels in the setting of the cool, fragrant night.

  Sir William entertained — that much was plain — and I had known nothing of it; but then, where was the wonder of that, since for three weeks I had lain close in London, waiting to receive and bear my lord the news for which all true lovers of King James, the exile, were now athirst? A ball, it seemed, was toward. The scrape of fiddles reached me there at the park gates; aye, and the shuffle of feet, I could have sworn, so calm and silent was the summer night.

  I sat awhile, what time my horse, with pendent head and neck outstretched, breathed raucously in its greed for air. And as I waited there the gavotte came to an end, the fiddling ceased, and in its room arose a babble of many voices, touched off with frequent laughter, and out on to the terrace came by twos and threes Sir William’s guests to breathe the grateful cool.

  It occurred to me then that I need ride no farther. Here was my goal; for if Sir William entertained, there was little doubt — aye, and the thought was bitter enough, God knows! — that here I should find my lord. So I roused the mare and urged her through the gates and up the broad avenue, black now in the shadow of the elms. A truer motive lay, no doubt, in the hope of seeing another than my lord — Alicia, whom I never tired of seeing whom I sought every chance to see, although I knew that she was not for me. She was a matter that lay between Captain Percy, whom she loved, and my lord, whom she detested, yet who was insistent and persistent, and being a great man, had, every hope of winning her, her detestation notwithstanding. As for me — But why say more of myself, who, afterall, am of small account — the foster-lover, no more — in this tale of that sweet lady’s nuptials?

  Erebus was not so black as were the shadows there beneath the elms, and when my horse had stumbled twice I thought I should be safer afoot. I tethered the brute to a tree and went on. Quitting the avenue, I struck a well-known shorter road, a pathway through the shrubbery, leading to the lower terrace; and Fate herself, I think, must have been leading me.

  At the shrubbery’s end I paused, however, on the edge of the gloom. The sweep of lawn before me was now alight from the risen moon, and I bethought me that I was proceeding a thought recklessly. How should I, charged with that secret business, present myself thus, all grimed and dusty from the road, to seek my lord among Sir William’s guests? Such an advent must fire the train of much surmising; and all surmising was dangerous to my lord and me, and to the Cause itself. I paused then and pondered. Aye, I were better away to Romsey, to await my lord’s coming. But since my lord would not yet be leaving — you see, I had no doubt touching his presence at that dance — there was time to spare, and it was sweet and fragrant in
the shrubbery after the dust of the high road; sweet it was to know — although the stiffness and the impression of it still abode with me — that there was no horse between my knees; sweet to spy upon the merry-makers, what time I stretched my legs and snatched a brief rest, to which the great diligence I had made that day gave me the title; and there was the greatest sweet of all — and this may have been the real truth of my abiding — the chance of a glimpse of my dear Alicia.

  And presently this glimpse I had and more. A couple descended the steps from the upper terrace, where other couples sauntered; a man, tall and graceful in a lilac satin that gleamed silvery in the moonlight, and a lady, more graceful still though not so tall, a white ghost in that ghostly radiance. They were Alicia and Captain Percy, the man to whom her heart was given. A good fellow enough he was, a blundering, honest, good-natured lad, yet scarce worthy to be the custodian of that treasure. But then — where was the man of whom I should not think the same? Moreover, she loved him, as I knew, for she herself had told me. Was not I her friend — the sometime playmate of her childhood, who had now the confidence of her adolescence — and was it not to me she came for counsel when she had need of it? And that was scarce as often as I could have wished.

  More than once as they advanced she looked behind her, and the impulse of that backward glancing was not to be mistaken. It was fear. Lest I should have played the eavesdropper on that pair of lovers, I had departed then, but those timid, over-shoulder glances argued trouble. The thought of my lord surged on the instant in my mind, and I decided to remain.

  “Nay, nay, sweetheart,” I caught his ardent murmur. “Never tremble. Let the ogre come and be — eaten.”

  “You’d not—” she began. “You’d never—”

  “Aye, sweet, would I? More I will; it is the one clear way. Since ’tis not possible to unravel his vile knot, we’ll cut it, as did Alexander that other Gordian one,” spoke the man he was, direct and simple, with no mind for subtleties.