by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER IX*
*PIQUETTE TAKES A HAND*
As Monsieur Valcourt, the sculptor, had said, Piquette Morin was a_gamine_. She liked the warm nest in the Boulevard Clichy, with whichthe Duc de Vautrin had provided her, because it satisfied a craving forthe creature comforts which she had been so long denied, and because itfilled the hearts of other young women of her acquaintance with envy.But she was not happy. After all was she not young and had she not herlife to live?
It was enough indeed to have grown in a few short years from a seller offlowers and a model for the figure into a lady of fashion, but her heartwas still in the _Rive Gauche_ and there she went when she pleased,searching out her old haunts, and the companions of her days of want,with whom she could throw off the restraint of her gilded cage and laughwith an open throat at the ancient jests and dance her way again intohappiness. Life she loved, all shades of it, from the somber in whichshe had been born to the brilliant artificial high lights of cafe andrestaurant. All sorts of people she knew--cochers, bandits, dancers,poet-singers, satirists, artists, journalists, and she rejoiced in themfor what they taught her of the _grande vie_.
Quite unhampered by morals of any sort, trusting entirely to herimpulses, which were often good, the creature of her birth andsurroundings, she was a pupil in the school of the world, speaking,after a fashion, three languages. She discovered that she had a brain,and the war had made her think. Without the help of the Americans,France must fall, and so when they came she rejoiced in their splendidsoldierly appearance and the promise they gave of rescue and help forFrance. She met Harry Horton in the Taverne du Pantheon. He was quitedrunk and didn't seem to have any Hotel, so she took him to theBoulevard Clichy in a _fiacre_ and put him to bed. According to her ownlights, it was the only natural, the only decent thing for her to do.
Thus it happened that Harry Horton found himself, to his surprise, onexcellent terms with a friend of the Duc de Vautrin, about whom BarryQuinlevin had been writing him, the source of the Irishman's income. Ina reckless moment he confided to Piquette Barry Quinlevin's secret. Andas the Duc de Vautrin had provoked her that afternoon by refusing herthe money for a hat that she particularly admired, she turned againsther patron, entering with interest into a plan which eventually seemedto promise much. That she repented of her disloyalty the next day whenMonsieur de Vautrin relented was a disappointment to Harry Horton, whosaw a way in which she could be useful to him. Also, Harry Horton wassure that he had talked too much, for it was hardly safe to make aconfidante of a weathervane.
When Harry Horton left Paris to join his regiment, Piquette shrugged herpretty shoulders and in a few days he was only a memory. He had beenher _bel ami_, but ... _enfin_, even in the _Quartier_, one got drunklike a gentleman.
The meeting in the restaurant of Leon Javet came at an opportune moment.The Duc had again developed a habit of meticulous inquiry; also, forreasons of his own, had reduced her allowance. The familiar figure inbrown was pleasing after the day of labor in the studio of MonsieurValcourt. He represented a part of life that she could not taste--andthis very morning she had read of him in the bulletins as the hero ofBoissiere wood. And so she had welcomed him in her joyous way, sure, inspite of his deficiencies, that their friendship had been no mistake. Ahero. _Saperlotte_! Of course she was glad to see him.
But the reserve in his manner had mystified her. He was like anotherman. He was quieter, finer, gentler and yet very brave and strong. Alittle _triste_, perhaps, but more deep, more interesting, and touchedwith the dignity of one who faces death for a noble purpose. ButPiquette had not lived in the streets of Paris all these years fornothing. A few months of warfare would not change a man's soul. Whatwas this strangeness? What had come over him? He had packed her homein a _fiacre_, just when she was becoming most interested in thisextraordinary transformation. She had never before suffered from pique,and it annoyed her that he shouldn't have been more eager to resumetheir ancient fellowship. Who was this unshaven fellow with the slouchhat and worn clothing who had so great a claim upon his attention? Hisfigure too had a familiar look. His manner had been urgent--threateningeven, and Harry had obeyed the summons, banishing her, Piquette, to theouter darkness of the Boulevard Clichy.
And he had not written her or telephoned. All day she waited in,expecting to hear from him, and expectation increased her interest andher disappointment. Also, meditation gave her a perspective. They werecurious, these second thoughts, deepening the impression of a strikingdifference between this Harry Horton and the one who had gotten drunk inthe Taverne du Pantheon. Idiosyncrasies that had escaped her during thefew moments they had been together at Javet's, came to her now withstartling clearness, the slow direct gaze, the deliberate motions of thehands, their touch on hers--and _parbleu_!
She started upright as a thought came to her like a _coup de foudre_.The twisted little finger he had broken that night at the Pantheon. Ithad bothered him only a few days and it had never been set. Sheremembered now the fingers of the right hand of the visitor on his wineglass at Javet's, remarking how strong they were. _The little finger wasstraight_!
It was curious that such a trifle should come to her with suchsignificance. It was also curious that she hadn't noticed it at thetime. Could she be mistaken? When night came and she had not heardfrom Harry she went out and made her way across the river, leaving wordwhere she was to be found if the visitor called, and went straight tothe cafe of Gabriel Pochard.
She and Gabriel were friends of long standing. Many years ago, when shewas but a child-model for Fabien, Gabriel Pochard had posed around thestudios with long hair, for prophets and saints. But he had marriedsome money and opened the _cafe_ which bore his name.
It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by personsnot of the _vrai type_, the gamblers, the sharpers, the wealthy outcastsof all kinds, who knew a good omelette when they tasted one and relisheda particular kind of seclusion. For here no questions were asked. Itwas at Gabriel Pochard's that Harry Horton spent much time, for he hadcome with a letter to Gabriel from Monsieur Quinlevin, who had knownPochard since the days of posing for the great Monsieur Gerome. It washere that she would find Harry Horton or news of him, and informationwhich would perhaps answer the strange sequence of questions that hadcome rising to her mind. She had the French passion for the mysterious,the unexplainable, and with her own pride as the stake, she meant toleave no stone unturned which would help her to a solution of theproblem.
She found Gabriel, wearing a sober air, busy with his bottles and thecafe was blue with tobacco smoke.
"All, _mon vieux_," she said in the argot. "You wear a worried look.Has Leon Javet been stealing away your customers?"
"Ah, _c'est toi, petite_! What brings you here alone?"
"_Ma foi_, my legs, if you would know the truth--and a woman'scuriosity."
"_Tiens_! That is nothing new. How can I help you?"
"I want you tell me what you know of 'Arry 'Orton."
Gabriel frowned and glanced about him cautiously.
"Sh----," he said warningly. And then, in a whisper, "Who told you thatMonsieur 'Orton was here?"
She laughed. "Did I not see him myself with my own eyes last night?"
"Where?"
"At Javet's." And then, in a meaning tone, as she looked him in theeyes, "Him--or another."
He glanced at her, his face, which still showed traces of great beauty,twisted unpleasantly, and then beckoned her to follow him through a doornearby into his office. And when they were seated, "What did you mean,Piquette?"
"What I said," put in Piquette, lighting a cigarette. "Him--or another."And then, as Gabriel's frown deepened, she shot straight at her mark."There are two 'Arry 'Ortons, Gabriel Pochard," she said coolly.
The effect of her words on Gabriel was not lost on her. He looked aroundhim furtively and caught her by the wrist.
"Who told you this?"
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"It's true, then?" asked Piquette.
"Who told you?"
"My own eyes. The visitor at Javet's had no twisted little finger."
"And no one else has noticed?"
"Not so far as I am aware."
Gabriel Pochard gave a great gasp of relief.
"_Ma foi_, child, but you have sharp eyes!"
"If they weren't sharp, _mon vieux_, I would still be selling flowersoutside the Cafe Soufflet. Tell me the truth of this thing, Gabriel,"she said, settling herself in her chair with the air of one who has cometo stay, "it is what I came here to find out."
He glanced at her, then frowned at the floor and shook his head.
"Oh, yes, _mon vieux_, you will tell me that it is none of my business,"she said firmly. "_Eh, bien_, it is my business--my right to know."And then, as he remained silent, "You are aware that I am not one to berefused."
Gabriel rose from the chair at the desk and paced up and down the narrowapartment, but still he did not speak. And then at last, "What devil putit into your head to come here inquiring of this matter?"
"The devil himself--I----," she said with a gesture. And then, with alittle shrug and a sober mien, "You may trust me, Gabriel."
He stopped and sat in his chair again.
"_Eh, bien_! As you have said. It is your right. But it is no matterto be breathed outside this room."
"It will not be the first time I have kept your secrets."
"I should not tell you."
"Speak----"
Gabriel Pochard shrugged. "Last night, late, a man came in here to seeme, a man wearing old clothing and a three weeks' growth of beard. Itwas Monsieur 'Orton. He was very much excited and told me a remarkablestory that rivals the tales of Monsieur Hugo."
"Yes, I understand. Go on."
"He said he was wounded upon the battlefield at night, when out of thedarkness appeared just beside him the very image of himself. It was histwin brother, whom he had not seen for five years, a brother with whomhe did not speak."
"Ah--it was what I thought----"
"The brother took from Monsieur 'Orton his uniform and went on, leadinghis men to victory. It was the fight of Boissiere Wood. You haveheard?"
Piquette nodded.
"This interloper took Monsieur 'Orton's uniform, his rank and identity,and now comes back to Paris--to Monsieur 'Orton's own apartment, andMonsieur 'Orton's wife----"
Piquette had started to her feet, her fingers grasping the shoulder ofGabriel.
"His _wife_!" she broke in.
"_Parfaitement_, his wife," repeated Pochard. "You did not know?"
"He never told me," she stammered. "Who----?"
"The daughter of my ancient friend, Monsieur Barry Quinlevin," saidPochard with a shrug.
"You're sure?"
"As certain as I sit here, _ma petite_."
Piquette sank into her chair, frowning deeply.
"Go on," she muttered.
"They had met last night on the street in the dark. Monsieur 'Ortondemanded of his brother to relinquish his identity. He refused.Monsieur 'Orton came to me. It was an act of injustice. Monsieur'Orton was outcast. Something had to be done. I helped him. _Voilatout_."
Piquette had been listening intently, thinking deeply the while. AsPochard finished, she searched his face keenly--her frown deepening.
"There's something at the back of this, Pochard. Tell me the rest."
Pochard hesitated, scratched his head and shrugged a. shoulder. "I donot like it, you understand. It has worried me all day--an American--asoldier. One cannot tell what would happen if the police----"
Piquette understood at once. Her fingers closed again over the arm ofPochard.
"What have you done with him?"
Pochard bent forward, whispering. "He lies in the house in the RueCharron by the river. A knock on the head--_c'est tout_--andchloroform."
Piquette was silent, staring at the wall. Then she fixed her wide gazeon the conspirator.
"Bah! You are a fool, Pochard!" she shot at him. "They will catch yousure. How much?"
"Two thousand francs."
"And you get half," contemptuously. "Who did it?"
"Tricot and _Le Singe Anglais_."
"Tricot!"
Piquette got up and paced the length of the room, turning quickly.
"You are an idiot, Pochard," she stormed at him furiously. "AnAmerican! Don't you know what you have done? It is the hero ofBoissiere Wood that you have struck down. An American--who has riskedhis life for you and me----"
"But Monsieur 'Orton----"
"He has lied to you. I do not believe----" She broke off, caughtPochard by the arm again and shook him. "When did this happen?"
"L-late last right----"
"And 'Arry 'Orton?"
"Was here--this afternoon----"
"Drunk----?"
Pochard shrugged. "No--not bad. He was in uniform."
"Where is he now?"
"I think he has gone to find his wife."
"His wife!"
Piquette sank into her chair, took out a cigarette and smoked rapidlyfor a moment. And then,
"What were you going to do with this--this twin brother?"
"I?" Pochard gave a gesture of abnegation. "Nothing. I am through.That is the affair of Monsieur 'Orton."
"All, _mon ami_, but you can't wriggle out so easily. You've receivedmoney--blood money----"
Pochard put his hands deep in his pockets and extended his long legs,frowning at the floor.
"I am sorry now. It is a bad business----"
"The man is safe?"
"So far, yes----"
"But Tricot?"
"He waits for orders."
Piquette ground her cigarette under her heel and rose abruptly with anair of decision.
"This American must be liberated at once!"
Pochard rose and faced her. "It's too late," he growled,
"No. It's not too late. I know the sort that Tricot is--with the riverjust there--at his elbow."
"I can do nothing. That's what worries me. Tricot and _Le Singe_ willlook after their own skins now."
"You mean," she paused significantly. "The Seine----"
He nodded somberly.
"It is the solution of many problems."
She caught him by the shoulders and shook him.
"But not of _this_ problem. You understand. It will not do. I willnot have it."
"You," he laughed. "What can you do?"
"You shall go with me now--and liberate him----"
He took her hands from his arms roughly and turned away. "No," hegrowled, "not I. Have I not told you that I am through?"
"Yes. You will be through, when the police come to find out what youknow about the matter."
"They will not find out."
"Don't be too sure. 'Arry 'Orton is a fool when he drinks. He willbetray you----"
Pochard scowled. "And betray himself----?"
"You can't be too sure."
"I can't. But I must trust to luck."
Piquette stamped her foot.
"I've no patience with you." And then, "You will not liberate him?"
"No. I refuse to have anything more to do with the matter."
"You will regret it."
"Perhaps. That will be my own lookout."
She stared at him in a moment of indecision, and then with a shrug,turned toward the door into the cafe.
"You are an idiot, Gabriel."
Pochard grunted as he followed her.
"You will say nothing?"
"_Naturellement_," scornfully. "I am not an informer. But I should liketo knock you on the head too."
She put her hand on the knob of the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To the Rue Charron."
He caught her hand away from the knob and held her.
"You----! Why should you intrude in this affair?"
"It amuses me."
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"I warn you that you will run into danger."
"They will not harm me."
"You must not go."
"Yes. I shall save you from the results of your cupidity--since youwill not save yourself."
"I will not permit it----"
"You have nothing to say in the matter--since you've washed your handsof it."
She threw his hand off and opened the door.
"Piquette!" he called, but she went rapidly into the other room beforehe could intercept her, ran quickly out into the street and disappearedin the darkness.
She was throbbing now, deep with purpose. It was only in moments likethese that life ran swiftly in her veins. The excitement of the venturewas like a tonic, and she went on rapidly toward the _Boule' Miche'_.
As she walked she went over in detail the conversation she had had lastnight in the Cafe Javet. It was not surprising that she had not guessedthe truth last night, for the new Harry Horton's information as to hisbrother's affairs had blinded her to the physical differences such asthere were, between them. Perhaps it was the glamor that his heroismhad thrown about him, perhaps it was his gravity, or perhaps the depthof his voice or the penetrating quality of his steady gaze, but she hadnot been able to deny all day a new and extraordinary appreciation ofthe newcomer, whose virtues, half guessed at, seemed to bring HarryHorton's deficiencies into higher relief. And the mystery of his suddenappearance and the strange tale of Gabriel Pochard provided the addedtouches to stimulate her interest in him. As she had told Gabriel,there was something back of this mystery of dual identity, and she meantto discover the truth. As to one thing she was resolved, the beautifulyoung soldier of the Cafe Javet should not die, if there was anythingthat she could do to prevent it.
Tricot was a bad one. So was _Le Singe Anglais_. Either of them wascapable of anything. She was acquainted with them both, but she did notfear them, for she knew the freemasonry of their evil calling and hadeven been in the little room of Gabriel Pochard when they had discussedtheir business affairs. But this matter concerned a human being in whomshe was interested. No harm should come to him. It could not be. Shewanted him for herself.
And so at last, having decided that she must move with caution and leavethe rest to chance and opportunity, she went toward the house in the RueCharron. She had been there before some years ago with Gabriel Pochard,when the boat-load of champagne from up the river had been smuggled in.Thus it was that she knew the secret of the old passage to the riverbank, hidden from the opposite shore by a barricade of old timber. Soinstead of approaching the house by way of the Rue Charron she went downtoward the river and turned in to the Quai des Augustins. There were afew people about but she watched her opportunity and when she reachedthe steps descended to the boat landing, where she found herself aloneand unobserved, hidden from the lights above by the shadow of theretaining wall. Here she paused a moment to think and plan. Accordingto all the rules of the underworld the prisoner would be in the cellarof the house in the Rue Charron. But if Tricot or _Le Singe_ weretaking turns guarding him there, her problem would be difficult.Because it meant a scene in which her persuasions and promises ofimmunity might fail, and Tricot could be ugly. Money? Yes, perhaps, ifeverything else failed. But she had a sense of pride in the belief thatwith luck favoring her she could accomplish this rescue alone.
At any rate she meant to make the attempt--and so, she found the end ofthe tunnel and with some difficulty and damage to her gloves andclothing, wrenched at the boarding. The timbers were old and rotten, asshe knew, and it was not difficult to make a passage. It was so easy infact that she began to believe that Tricot had more wisely kept hisprisoner upstairs, but as she moved forward cautiously, one handsteadying her progress over the rough masonry, she caught the first dullglimmer of yellow light. As she came to a turn in the passage shepaused a moment and then stole forward quietly, to the foot of thesteps, peering up into the cellar.
At first she could see nothing but a litter of boxes, bottles and wastepaper, and then coming up one step at a time, she searched the recessesof the cavern one by one. A smoke-stained lantern burned dimly near thefoot of the flight of steps, leading to the floor above, but there wasno sign of any one watching. And so she emerged cautiously from thedark hole and stood up. In a moment she found what she was looking for.Huddled in the corner to her right, she made out the contours of a humanfigure. With another quick glance toward the steps and a moment tolisten for any sound above, she approached noiselessly. He was trussedwith a rope from head to foot, his hands tied behind him. But he wasthe man she sought. She bent over him, noticing his heavy breathing andthe odor of the drug. At the touch of her hand he stirred slightly andshe saw the blood upon his face.
"Monsieur!" she whispered quickly, "it is I--Piquette--and I have cometo help you."
He stirred again and tried to move, but the drug was heavy in his blood.So she shook him furiously, trying to arouse him.
"It is Piquette," she whispered again.
His lips moved and his eyelids fluttered open. "Piquette----!" hemuttered, and then breathed stertorously.
This was encouraging. She shook him again and again, fighting thelethargy. He moved and groaned. It seemed almost certain that hisguardians must hear him.
"Sh----," she whispered, "Silence!"
Meanwhile she was struggling with the knots of the cord that bound hiswrists. At last she managed to get his arms free and moved thembackward and forward with all her strength, trying to restore hiscirculation. Then she unfastened the cords at his feet and pulled hisknees up, thumping him from time to time and whispering at his ear.
"Wake up, Monsieur! You mus' get out of dis wit' me----"
His lips moved again. "Who----"
"It's Piquette, Monsieur," she repeated, prodding at him and shaking hisshoulders.
This time his eyelids opened wider, and he looked at her vaguely. Buthis lips muttered her name.
"You mus' rouse yourself--you mus'! We are going out of here--at once."
With an effort he struggled up to a sitting posture while she supportedhim, pinching his shoulders and arms. Then she saw for the first time anearthen pitcher on a stool nearby. There was still some water in it,and she threw it in his face. He sputtered and choked, but she silencedhim.
"Quiet--for your life! Dey're upstairs, aren't dey?"
"Yes--upstairs. I--I'm weak as a cat."
"Naturally, but you've got to 'elp yourself. I can't carry you."
"Carry me--no----" He toppled sideways and would have fallen, but shecaught him and held him, shaking and pinching him again.
"No. You've _got_ to wake up. Do you hear?" she whispered desperately."They may come down 'ere at any moment."
A dim notion of what she was talking about seemed to come to him, forwith an effort he threw off the heaviness that was coming over himagain.
"You--Piquette--How did you----?"
"By an old passage from dis cellar to de river. You mus' go out datway. Do you on'erstand me?"
He nodded feebly. "River----" he muttered.
There was another struggle against the drug and another, but at last shegot him to understand. He was very weak, but managed to support himselfwith an effort, sitting upright, while Piquette ran over toward the footof the steps and listened intently, for if Tricot and the Englishmanwere listening, they must surely have heard something of the commotionshe had made. But there was no sound.
She went back to the injured man. Would he be able to walk? She shookhim again and pointed to the way by which she had come.
"It is dere--in de corner--the way of escape. You mus' make de effort."
She helped him struggle to his knees, one of his arms around hershoulders, but when she attempted to get him to his feet, his knees gaveout and he fell, dragging her down with him.
It was at this moment of failure, that a sudden clamor of knocking atthe street door upstairs came, with terrifying clearness, to her ears.And t
he sound of a masculine voice calling the name of Tricot. Therewas no time to be lost, yet what was she to do? She was strong, but shecould not lift the American bodily and he had collapsed again upon thefloor. For an agonized moment she listened. A long silence and then theknocking was renewed, followed by the sound of another voice upstairsand the tread of heavy feet going toward the door. Desperate now, andaware that only the American's own efforts could save him, she liftedhim again by sheer strength to his knees.
"Dey'll be down 'ere in a moment," she stammered in his ear. "You'vegot to help yourself. You've got to. Crawl--on your knees--toward decorner beyond de pillar. I will 'elp you."
He seemed to understand and struggled a few feet, paused in weakness,then struggled on again. And all the while Piquette was listening tothe sounds upstairs, the voices which now seemed to be near the head ofthe stairway, coming to her ears distinctly.
"We've got to get him away from here--out into the countrysomewhere--and lose him." Harry Horton's voice.
"Why?" growled a voice in English.
"Moira Quinlevin knows the truth."
An oath from Tricot as the other translated.
"Who told her?"
"No one. She guessed it."
"Parbleu! We shall take no chances then."
"You must take him away--a cab--out into the country," said Harry'svoice again.
"And leave him to recover and set the police on us? Not much. He'llhave to go the long road."
"My God! No. Not that!" cried Harry.
"The river!" growled Tricot.
And then the other voice.
"You started this thing. And it's got to be finished. Did you bring themoney?"
"To-morrow. But--I can't----"
There was the beginning of a violent discussion in which Tricot's adviceseemed to prevail. Harry's opinions wouldn't matter much to theseprecious villains.
But Piquette had heard enough. It seemed that they were about todescend the stairs to the prisoner, and glancing backward she laboredwith the injured man until they reached the shadows of the pillar intowhich she pushed and dragged him until they were both hidden from thelight of the lantern. But the steps into the passage were still tenfeet away. Already there were footsteps on the stair, where one of themen stood, still arguing with Harry Horton. With a final effort, sheurged the drugged man toward the opening and then tumbled him down intothe darkness.
She heard the steps coming down the stairs, heard them pause and a voiceagain raised in argument. But she listened no more. The situation wasdesperate, for in a few seconds at the least, the escape of the prisonerwould be discovered, so forgetting caution, she pinched and shook him,by main strength of her strong young arms, urging him forward.Something of the imminence of his danger seemed to come to him, for hecrawled to the corner and then stumbled in some fashion to his feet,clinging to her. The air beyond the turn in the passage seemed torevive him and in a moment, swaying and struggling against his weakness,he stood outside the opening upon the river-bank, leaning against thewall, while Piquette thrust the boards across the opening.
She heard a cry now from beyond the passage and with the injured man'sarm around her shoulders, led the way down the bank to the landing. Hecaught her intention. There was a boat there and she got him into itand pushed off from the shore into the stream. She was almost exhaustedby this time, but managed to get out the oars and make some progressdown the river before the timbers fell from before the opening in thewall and three men appeared--Tricot, Harry and the Englishman. She sawtheir shapes dimly in the shadow of the wall.
But a strange thing happened then. For the three figures went flying upthe steps to the Quai and then ran as though for their lives in thedirection of the Pont St. Michel.
But she managed at last to reach the Quai du Louvre, where with the helpof a belated passer-by, she managed to get the man she had rescued intoa _fiacre_ and so to the Boulevard Clichy.