Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  Sonia poured out the tea; and over it they babbled about the coming marriage, the frocks they would wear at it, and the presents Germaine had already received. That reminded her to ask Sonia if any one had yet telephoned from her father’s house in Paris; and Sonia said that no one had.

  “That’s very annoying,” said Germaine. “It shows that nobody has sent me a present to-day.”

  Pouting, she shrugged her shoulders with an air of a spoiled child, which sat but poorly on a well-developed young woman of twenty-three.

  “It’s Sunday. The shops don’t deliver things on Sunday,” said Sonia gently.

  But Germaine still pouted like a spoiled child.

  “Isn’t your beautiful Duke coming to have tea with us?” said Jeanne a little anxiously.

  “Oh, yes; I’m expecting him at half-past four. He had to go for a ride with the two Du Buits. They’re coming to tea here, too,” said Germaine.

  “Gone for a ride with the two Du Buits? But when?” cried Marie quickly.

  “This afternoon.”

  “He can’t be,” said Marie. “My brother went to the Du Buits’ house after lunch, to see Andre and Georges. They went for a drive this morning, and won’t be back till late to-night.”

  “Well, but — but why did the Duke tell me so?” said Germaine, knitting her brow with a puzzled air.

  “If I were you, I should inquire into this thoroughly. Dukes — well, we know what dukes are — it will be just as well to keep an eye on him,” said Jeanne maliciously.

  Germaine flushed quickly; and her eyes flashed. “Thank you. I have every confidence in Jacques. I am absolutely sure of him,” she said angrily.

  “Oh, well — if you’re sure, it’s all right,” said Jeanne.

  The ringing of the telephone-bell made a fortunate diversion.

  Germaine rushed to it, clapped the receiver to her ear, and cried: “Hello, is that you, Pierre? ... Oh, it’s Victoire, is it? ... Ah, some presents have come, have they? ... Well, well, what are they? ... What! a paper-knife — another paper-knife! ... Another Louis XVI. inkstand — oh, bother! ... Who are they from? ... Oh, from the Countess Rudolph and the Baron de Valery.” Her voice rose high, thrilling with pride.

  Then she turned her face to her friends, with the receiver still at her ear, and cried: “Oh, girls, a pearl necklace too! A large one! The pearls are big ones!”

  “How jolly!” said Marie.

  “Who sent it?” said Germaine, turning to the telephone again. “Oh, a friend of papa’s,” she added in a tone of disappointment. “Never mind, after all it’s a pearl necklace. You’ll be sure and lock the doors carefully, Victoire, won’t you? And lock up the necklace in the secret cupboard.... Yes; thanks very much, Victoire. I shall see you to-morrow.”

  She hung up the receiver, and came away from the telephone frowning.

  “It’s preposterous!” she said pettishly. “Papa’s friends and relations give me marvellous presents, and all the swells send me paper-knives. It’s all Jacques’ fault. He’s above all this kind of thing. The Faubourg Saint-Germain hardly knows that we’re engaged.”

  “He doesn’t go about advertising it,” said Jeanne, smiling.

  “You’re joking, but all the same what you say is true,” said Germaine. “That’s exactly what his cousin Madame de Relzieres said to me the other day at the At Home she gave in my honour — wasn’t it, Sonia?” And she walked to the window, and, turning her back on them, stared out of it.

  “She HAS got her mouth full of that At Home,” said Jeanne to Marie in a low voice.

  There was an awkward silence. Marie broke it:

  “Speaking of Madame de Relzieres, do you know that she is on pins and needles with anxiety? Her son is fighting a duel to-day,” she said.

  “With whom?” said Sonia.

  “No one knows. She got hold of a letter from the seconds,” said Marie.

  “My mind is quite at rest about Relzieres,” said Germaine. “He’s a first-class swordsman. No one could beat him.”

  Sonia did not seem to share her freedom from anxiety. Her forehead was puckered in little lines of perplexity, as if she were puzzling out some problem; and there was a look of something very like fear in her gentle eyes.

  “Wasn’t Relzieres a great friend of your fiance at one time?” said Jeanne.

  “A great friend? I should think he was,” said Germaine. “Why, it was through Relzieres that we got to know Jacques.”

  “Where was that?” said Marie.

  “Here — in this very chateau,” said Germaine.

  “Actually in his own house?” said Marie, in some surprise.

  “Yes; actually here. Isn’t life funny?” said Germaine. “If, a few months after his father’s death, Jacques had not found himself hard-up, and obliged to dispose of this chateau, to raise the money for his expedition to the South Pole; and if papa and I had not wanted an historic chateau; and lastly, if papa had not suffered from rheumatism, I should not be calling myself in a month from now the Duchess of Charmerace.”

  “Now what on earth has your father’s rheumatism got to do with your being Duchess of Charmerace?” cried Jeanne.

  “Everything,” said Germaine. “Papa was afraid that this chateau was damp. To prove to papa that he had nothing to fear, Jacques, en grand seigneur, offered him his hospitality, here, at Charmerace, for three weeks.”

  “That was truly ducal,” said Marie.

  “But he is always like that,” said Sonia.

  “Oh, he’s all right in that way, little as he cares about society,” said Germaine. “Well, by a miracle my father got cured of his rheumatism here. Jacques fell in love with me; papa made up his mind to buy the chateau; and I demanded the hand of Jacques in marriage.”

  “You did? But you were only sixteen then,” said Marie, with some surprise.

  “Yes; but even at sixteen a girl ought to know that a duke is a duke. I did,” said Germaine. “Then since Jacques was setting out for the South Pole, and papa considered me much too young to get married, I promised Jacques to wait for his return.”

  “Why, it was everything that’s romantic!” cried Marie.

  “Romantic? Oh, yes,” said Germaine; and she pouted. “But between ourselves, if I’d known that he was going to stay all that time at the South Pole—”

  “That’s true,” broke in Marie. “To go away for three years and stay away seven — at the end of the world.”

  “All Germaine’s beautiful youth,” said Jeanne, with her malicious smile.

  “Thanks!” said Germaine tartly.

  “Well, you ARE twenty-three. It’s the flower of one’s age,” said Jeanne.

  “Not quite twenty-three,” said Germaine hastily. “And look at the wretched luck I’ve had. The Duke falls ill and is treated at Montevideo. As soon as he recovers, since he’s the most obstinate person in the world, he resolves to go on with the expedition. He sets out; and for an age, without a word of warning, there’s no more news of him — no news of any kind. For six months, you know, we believed him dead.”

  “Dead? Oh, how unhappy you must have been!” said Sonia.

  “Oh, don’t speak of it! For six months I daren’t put on a light frock,” said Germaine, turning to her.

  “A lot she must have cared for him,” whispered Jeanne to Marie.

  “Fortunately, one fine day, the letters began again. Three months ago a telegram informed us that he was coming back; and at last the Duke returned,” said Germaine, with a theatrical air.

  “The Duke returned,” cried Jeanne, mimicking her.

  “Never mind. Fancy waiting nearly seven years for one’s fiance. That was constancy,” said Sonia.

  “Oh, you’re a sentimentalist, Mlle. Kritchnoff,” said Jeanne, in a tone of mockery. “It was the influence of the castle.”

  “What do you mean?” said Germaine.

  “Oh, to own the castle of Charmerace and call oneself Mlle. Gournay-Martin — it’s not worth doing. One MUST become a duche
ss,” said Jeanne.

  “Yes, yes; and for all this wonderful constancy, seven years of it, Germaine was on the point of becoming engaged to another man,” said Marie, smiling.

  “And he a mere baron,” said Jeanne, laughing.

  “What? Is that true?” said Sonia.

  “Didn’t you know, Mlle. Kritchnoff? She nearly became engaged to the Duke’s cousin, the Baron de Relzieres. It was not nearly so grand.”

  “Oh, it’s all very well to laugh at me; but being the cousin and heir of the Duke, Relzieres would have assumed the title, and I should have been Duchess just the same,” said Germaine triumphantly.

  “Evidently that was all that mattered,” said Jeanne. “Well, dear, I must be off. We’ve promised to run in to see the Comtesse de Grosjean. You know the Comtesse de Grosjean?”

  She spoke with an air of careless pride, and rose to go.

  “Only by name. Papa used to know her husband on the Stock Exchange when he was still called simply M. Grosjean. For his part, papa preferred to keep his name intact,” said Germaine, with quiet pride.

  “Intact? That’s one way of looking at it. Well, then, I’ll see you in Paris. You still intend to start to-morrow?” said Jeanne.

  “Yes; to-morrow morning,” said Germaine.

  Jeanne and Marie slipped on their dust-coats to the accompaniment of chattering and kissing, and went out of the room.

  As she closed the door on them, Germaine turned to Sonia, and said: “I do hate those two girls! They’re such horrible snobs.”

  “Oh, they’re good-natured enough,” said Sonia.

  “Good-natured? Why, you idiot, they’re just bursting with envy of me — bursting!” said Germaine. “Well, they’ve every reason to be,” she added confidently, surveying herself in a Venetian mirror with a petted child’s self-content.

  CHAPTER II

  THE COMING OF THE CHAROLAIS

  SONIA WENT BACK to her table, and once more began putting wedding-cards in their envelopes and addressing them. Germaine moved restlessly about the room, fidgeting with the bric-a-brac on the cabinets, shifting the pieces about, interrupting Sonia to ask whether she preferred this arrangement or that, throwing herself into a chair to read a magazine, getting up in a couple of minutes to straighten a picture on the wall, throwing out all the while idle questions not worth answering. Ninety-nine human beings would have been irritated to exasperation by her fidgeting; Sonia endured it with a perfect patience. Five times Germaine asked her whether she should wear her heliotrope or her pink gown at a forthcoming dinner at Madame de Relzieres’. Five times Sonia said, without the slightest variation in her tone, “I think you look better in the pink.” And all the while the pile of addressed envelopes rose steadily.

  Presently the door opened, and Alfred stood on the threshold.

  “Two gentlemen have called to see you, miss,” he said.

  “Ah, the two Du Buits,” cried Germaine.

  “They didn’t give their names, miss.”

  “A gentleman in the prime of life and a younger one?” said Germaine.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I thought so. Show them in.”

  “Yes, miss. And have you any orders for me to give Victoire when we get to Paris?” said Alfred.

  “No. Are you starting soon?”

  “Yes, miss. We’re all going by the seven o’clock train. It’s a long way from here to Paris; we shall only reach it at nine in the morning. That will give us just time to get the house ready for you by the time you get there to-morrow evening,” said Alfred.

  “Is everything packed?”

  “Yes, miss — everything. The cart has already taken the heavy luggage to the station. All you’ll have to do is to see after your bags.”

  “That’s all right. Show M. du Buit and his brother in,” said Germaine.

  She moved to a chair near the window, and disposed herself in an attitude of studied, and obviously studied, grace.

  As she leant her head at a charming angle back against the tall back of the chair, her eyes fell on the window, and they opened wide.

  “Why, whatever’s this?” she cried, pointing to it.

  “Whatever’s what?” said Sonia, without raising her eyes from the envelope she was addressing.

  “Why, the window. Look! one of the panes has been taken out. It looks as if it had been cut.”

  “So it has — just at the level of the fastening,” said Sonia. And the two girls stared at the gap.

  “Haven’t you noticed it before?” said Germaine.

  “No; the broken glass must have fallen outside,” said Sonia.

  The noise of the opening of the door drew their attention from the window. Two figures were advancing towards them — a short, round, tubby man of fifty-five, red-faced, bald, with bright grey eyes, which seemed to be continually dancing away from meeting the eyes of any other human being. Behind him came a slim young man, dark and grave. For all the difference in their colouring, it was clear that they were father and son: their eyes were set so close together. The son seemed to have inherited, along with her black eyes, his mother’s nose, thin and aquiline; the nose of the father started thin from the brow, but ended in a scarlet bulb eloquent of an exhaustive acquaintance with the vintages of the world.

  Germaine rose, looking at them with an air of some surprise and uncertainty: these were not her friends, the Du Buits.

  The elder man, advancing with a smiling bonhomie, bowed, and said in an adenoid voice, ingratiating of tone: “I’m M. Charolais, young ladies — M. Charolais — retired brewer — chevalier of the Legion of Honour — landowner at Rennes. Let me introduce my son.” The young man bowed awkwardly. “We came from Rennes this morning, and we lunched at Kerlor’s farm.”

  “Shall I order tea for them?” whispered Sonia.

  “Gracious, no!” said Germaine sharply under her breath; then, louder, she said to M. Charolais, “And what is your object in calling?”

  “We asked to see your father,” said M. Charolais, smiling with broad amiability, while his eyes danced across her face, avoiding any meeting with hers. “The footman told us that M. Gournay-Martin was out, but that his daughter was at home. And we were unable, quite unable, to deny ourselves the pleasure of meeting you.” With that he sat down; and his son followed his example.

  Sonia and Germaine, taken aback, looked at one another in some perplexity.

  “What a fine chateau, papa!” said the young man.

  “Yes, my boy; it’s a very fine chateau,” said M. Charolais, looking round the hall with appreciative but greedy eyes.

  There was a pause.

  “It’s a very fine chateau, young ladies,” said M. Charolais.

  “Yes; but excuse me, what is it you have called about?” said Germaine.

  M. Charolais crossed his legs, leant back in his chair, thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and said: “Well, we’ve come about the advertisement we saw in the RENNES ADVERTISER, that M. Gournay-Martin wanted to get rid of a motor-car; and my son is always saying to me, ‘I should like a motor-car which rushes the hills, papa.’ He means a sixty horse-power.”

  “We’ve got a sixty horse-power; but it’s not for sale. My father is even using it himself to-day,” said Germaine.

  “Perhaps it’s the car we saw in the stable-yard,” said M. Charolais.

  “No; that’s a thirty to forty horse-power. It belongs to me. But if your son really loves rushing hills, as you say, we have a hundred horse-power car which my father wants to get rid of. Wait; where’s the photograph of it, Sonia? It ought to be here somewhere.”

  The two girls rose, went to a table set against the wall beyond the window, and began turning over the papers with which it was loaded in the search for the photograph. They had barely turned their backs, when the hand of young Charolais shot out as swiftly as the tongue of a lizard catching a fly, closed round the silver statuette on the top of the cabinet beside him, and flashed it into his jacket pocket.


  Charolais was watching the two girls; one would have said that he had eyes for nothing else, yet, without moving a muscle of his face, set in its perpetual beaming smile, he hissed in an angry whisper, “Drop it, you idiot! Put it back!”

  The young man scowled askance at him.

  “Curse you! Put it back!” hissed Charolais.

  The young man’s arm shot out with the same quickness, and the statuette stood in its place.

  There was just the faintest sigh of relief from Charolais, as Germaine turned and came to him with the photograph in her hand. She gave it to him.

  “Ah, here we are,” he said, putting on a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. “A hundred horse-power car. Well, well, this is something to talk over. What’s the least you’ll take for it?”

  “I have nothing to do with this kind of thing,” cried Germaine. “You must see my father. He will be back from Rennes soon. Then you can settle the matter with him.”

  M. Charolais rose, and said: “Very good. We will go now, and come back presently. I’m sorry to have intruded on you, young ladies — taking up your time like this—”

  “Not at all — not at all,” murmured Germaine politely.

  “Good-bye — good-bye,” said M. Charolais; and he and his son went to the door, and bowed themselves out.

  “What creatures!” said Germaine, going to the window, as the door closed behind the two visitors. “All the same, if they do buy the hundred horse-power, papa will be awfully pleased. It is odd about that pane. I wonder how it happened. It’s odd too that Jacques hasn’t come back yet. He told me that he would be here between half-past four and five.”

  “And the Du Buits have not come either,” said Sonia. “But it’s hardly five yet.”

  “Yes; that’s so. The Du Buits have not come either. What on earth are you wasting your time for?” she added sharply, raising her voice. “Just finish addressing those letters while you’re waiting.”

  “They’re nearly finished,” said Sonia.

  “Nearly isn’t quite. Get on with them, can’t you!” snapped Germaine.

  Sonia went back to the writing-table; just the slightest deepening of the faint pink roses in her cheeks marked her sense of Germaine’s rudeness. After three years as companion to Germaine Gournay-Martin, she was well inured to millionaire manners; they had almost lost the power to move her.