The Firefly of France

by Marion Polk Angellotti

  CHAPTER XV

  GEORGES THE CHAUFFEUR

  Upon descending to the courtyard, I took a seat on a bench beneath avine-covered trellis. To stop here for a time, smoking, would seem anatural proceeding, and while I held such a post of recognizance nothingovert could transpire in the environs without my taking note of thefact. Enough had developed already, though, heaven was witness! I lit acigarette and prepared for a resume.

  Like a sleuth noting salient points, I glanced round the rectangularcourt. At my right, off the gallery, was Miss Falconer's room shroudedin darkness; at the left, up another flight of stairs, my own uninvitingdomain. The quarters of Van Blarcom and his uniformed friends openedfrom the gallery above the street passage, facing the main portion ofthe inn which sheltered the kitchen and _salle a manger_. Such was thesimple, homely stage-setting. What of the play?

  Bleau, I now felt tolerably sure, was merely a mile-stone on the routeof Miss Falconer. Next morning, at sunrise probably, she would resumeher journey for parts unknown. Would they arrest her before she leftthe inn or merely follow her? The latter, doubtless, since they assertedthat she was on her way to get the papers that they wanted for France.

  Upstairs in the room where Van Blarcom and I had held our conferencethe shutters had been reopened. There was just one light to be seen, aglowing point, which was obviously the tip of a cigar. If I was keepingvigil below, from above he returned the compliment; nor did he meanthat I should hold any secret colloquy with the girl that night. Iswore softly, but earnestly. Considering his rather decent attitude,his efforts from the very first to enlighten me as to the dangers I wasrunning, it was odd that my detestation of the man was so thoroughlyingrained and so profound.

  The mystery of the gray car had been solved with a vengeance. Instead ofbeing freighted with accomplices, as I had at first thought possible,it had carried the representatives of justice, in the persons of threeofficers and my secret-service friend. A queer conjunction, that; butthen, my ignorance of French methods was abysmal. Perhaps this was theusual mode of doing things in time of war.

  Van Blarcom's explanation, though it made me furious, had broughtconviction. There was a certain grim appositeness about it all. Thenight in New York, the events of the steamer, the unsatisfactorycharacter of the girl's actions, all fitted neatly into the plan; andthe mere personnel of the pursuing party was sufficient assurance, forFrench officers, as I well knew, were neither liars nor fools. Neither,I patriotically assumed, were the men of my country's secret-service,however humble their part as cogs in that great machinery, or howeverdistasteful Mr. Van Blarcom, personally, might be to me. And finally, Icould not deny that women, clever, well-born, and beautiful, had servedas spies a thousand times in the world's history, urged to it by somesense of duty, some tie of blood.

  Yes, that was it, I told myself in sudden pity, recalling how MissFalconer had stood on the steps in her nurse's costume, straight andslender, her gray eyes full of fire, her face glowing like a rose.Perhaps she was of the enemy's country. Perhaps those she loved,those who made up her life, had set her feet in this path that shewas treading. If she was a spy,--Lord! How the mere word hurt one!--itwasn't for ignoble motives; it wasn't for pay.

  I came impulsively to the conclusion that there was just one coursefor my taking: to see her and to beg, bully, or wheedle from her theunvarnished truth. Then, if it was as I feared, she should go back toParis if I had to carry her; she should accompany me to Bordeaux, and onthe first steamer she should sail from France. Yes; and the army shouldhave its papers, for she should tell me where they were hidden. Her workshould end; but these men upstairs should not track her and trap her anddrag her off to prison, perhaps to death.

  There was danger in the plan, even if I should accomplish it. I shouldget myself into trouble, dark and deep. Well, if I had to languishbehind bars for a while I could survive it. But she might not. As Ithought of this I knew that I had made up my mind irrevocably.

  It was a problem, nevertheless, to arrange an interview, with VanBlarcom sitting at his window, watching me like a lynx. I couldn't goup the stairs and batter on her door till she opened it; apart from thereception she would give me it would simply amount to making a presentof my intentions to the men across the way. Yet who knew how long theywould keep up their surveillance? Till I retired, probably! "I'd givesomething to choke you and be done with it!" was the benediction Iwafted toward the sentinel above.

  I was owning myself at my wit's end when a ray of hope was vouchsafedme. The kitchen door opened and let out a leather-clad figure whichstrode across the courtyard, lantern in hand, and let itself into thegarage. Despite the dimness, I recognized Miss Falconer's chauffeur, theman she had addressed as Georges when they left the rue St. Dominique.The very link I needed, provided I could get into communication with himin some unostentatious way.

  I rose, stretched myself lazily, and began to pace the court. Perhapsa dozen times I crossed and recrossed it, each turn taking me past thegarage and affording me a brief glance within. The chauffeur, coat flungaside, sleeves rolled up, was hard at work overhauling his engine, withan obvious view to efficiency upon the morrow. Up at the window I couldsee the glowing cigar-tip move now to this side, now to that. Not for aninstant was Van Blarcom allowing me to escape from sight.

  After taking one more turn I halted, yawned audibly for the sentry'sbenefit, and seated myself once more, this time on a bench by thedoor of the garage. Van Blarcom's cigar became stationary again. Thechauffeur, who had satisfied himself as to the engine and was nowpassing critical fingers over the gashes in the tires, looked up at mecasually and then resumed his work. Kneeling there, his tools about him,he was plainly visible in the light of the smoky lantern. He was ayoung man, twenty-three or-four perhaps, strongly built and obviouslyof French-peasant stock, with honest blue eyes and a face not undulyintelligent, but thoroughly frank and open in the cast. The actors in mydrama, I had to own, were puzzling. This lad looked no more fitted thanMiss Falconer for a treacherous role.

  How theatrical it all was! And yet it had its zest. I confess Iexperienced a certain thrill, entirely new to me, as I bent forward withmy arms on my knees and my head lowered to hide my face.

  "_Attention, Georges!_" I muttered beneath my breath.

  The chauffeur started, knocking a tool from the running-board besidehim. His eyes, half-startled, half-fierce, fixed themselves on me; hishand went toward his pocket in a most significant way. In a minutehe would be shooting me, I reflected grimly. And upstairs the verystillness of Van Blarcom shrieked suspicion; he could not have helpedhearing the clatter that the falling tool had made.

  "Don't be a fool," I muttered, low, but sharply. "I know where you andmademoiselle come from; I know she is upstairs now; if I wished you anyharm I could have had the mayor and the gendarmes here an hour ago! Keepyour head--we are being watched. Have a good look at me first if youfeel you want to. Then take your hand off that revolver and pretend togo to work."

  Throwing my head back, I began blowing clouds of smoke, wondering everyinstant whether a bullet would whiz through my brain. I could feelGeorges' gaze upon me; I knew it was a critical moment. But as his kindare quick, shrewd judges of caste and character, I had my hopes.

  They were justified; for presently I heard him draw a breath of relief.His hand came out of his pocket.

  "Pardon, Monsieur," he whispered, and began a vigorous pretense ofpolishing the car.

  Again I leaned forward to hide the fact that my lips were moving.

  "When you speak to me, keep your head bent as I do."

  "Monsieur, yes."

  "Now listen. Men of the French army are here, with powers from thepolice. They accuse mademoiselle of serious things, of acts of treason,of being on her way to secure papers for the foes of France. They arewatching. To-morrow, if she departs, they mean to follow and to arresther when they have gained proof of what she is hunting."

  "_Mon Dieu, Monsieur!_ What shall I do?"

  There was appeal in his
voice. Convinced of my good faith, he wasquite simply shifting the business to my shoulders--the French peasanttrusting the man he ranked as of his master's class. And oddly enoughI found myself responding as if to a trusted person. I smoked a little,wondering whether Van Blarcom could catch the faint mutter of ourvoices. Then I gave my orders in the same muffled tones:

  "You will tell the servants that you wish to sleep here to-night, towatch the car. You will stay here very quietly until it is nearly dawn.Then you will creep to mademoiselle's door and whisper what I have toldyou and say that I beg her to meet me before those others have awakenedat five o'clock in--"

  Pondering a rendezvous, I hesitated. The room where I had dined, withits stone floor, its beamed ceiling, and dark panels, came first tomy mind. I fancied, though, that some outdoor spot might be safer. Iremembered opportunely that a passage led past this room, and that atits end I had glimpsed a little garden behind the inn.

  "In the garden," I finished, and risked one straight look at him. "I cantrust you, Georges?"

  The young man's throat seemed to close.

  "_Monsieur le duc_ was my foster-brother, _Monsieur_," he whispered. "Iwould die for him."

  Who the deuce _monsieur le duc_ might be I did not tarry to discover.I had done all I could; the future was on the knees of the gods. Havingsmoked one more cigarette for the sake of verisimilitude, I rose,stretched myself ostentatiously, and crossed the courtyard to thestairs, where madame was descending. She had, she informed me, beenpreparing my bed.

  "And I wish monsieur good repose," she ended volubly. "Hitherto, noZeppelins have come to Bleau to disturb our dreams. Though, alas, whoknows what they will do, now that we have lost our most gallant hero?Monsieur has heard of the Firefly of France, he who is missing?"

  That name again! Odd how it seemed to pursue me.

  "I believe I shall meet that fellow sometime if he's living," Ireflected as I climbed the stairs.

  In my room, my candle lighted, I resigned myself to a ghastly night. Idon't like discomfort, though I can put up with it when I must. Thebed looked as hard as nails; the bowl made cleanliness a duty, not apleasure. And to think that I might have been sleeping in comfort at theRitz!

  Tossing from side to side, pounding a cast-iron pillow, I dozed throughuneasy intervals, and woke with groans and starts. I could not ridmyself of the sense of something ominous hanging over me. The gray carramped through my dreams; so did Van Blarcom; and between sleepingand waking, I pictured my coming interview with the girl, her probableterror, the force and menaces I should have to use, our hurried flight.

  At length I fell into a heavy, exhausted slumber, from which, towardmorning I fancied, I sat up suddenly with the dazed impression of somesound echoing in my ears. Springing out of bed, I groped my way to thewindow. The galleries lay peaceful and empty in the moonlight, and downin the courtyard there was not the slightest sign of life.

  I went back to bed in a state of jangled nerves. Again I dozed, anda dim light was creeping through the window when I woke. I looked outagain.

  "Hello!" I muttered, for though the hotel seemed wrapped in slumber, thedoor of the garage now stood ajar. Was it possible that Miss Falconerhad stolen a march on me, that the automobile could have left thepremises without my being roused? It was only four o'clock, but all wishfor sleep had left me. I decided to investigate without any more ado.

  I made the best toilet that cold water and a cracked mirror permitted,longing the while for a bath, for a breakfast tray, for a hundredcivilized things. Taking my hat and coat, I went quietly down thestaircase. The garage door beckoned me, and all unprepared, I walkedinto the tragedy of the affair.

  In the dim place there were signs of a desperate struggle. The rugs andcushions of Miss Falconer's automobile were scattered far and wide. Thegray car had vanished; and in the center of the floor was Georges,the chauffeur, lying on his back with arms extended, staring up at theceiling with wide, unseeing blue eyes.