by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*AT BAY*
Piquette sent one fleeting glance at her, then stepped out upon the sillof the French window which extended to the floor. When she turnedtoward Moira, a little pale and breathing rapidly, her hands were empty.
"What did you throw out of the window? What are you doing here?" Moiraasked again, moving quickly to the push-button by the door. "Answer meor I'll ring."
Piquette by this time had recovered some of her composure. "Oh, Madame,it is not necessaire to ring," she said easily. "I can explain myselfif you will but listen."
"You have no right in this room--unless you are a servant of the hotel.And that you are not----"
"No, Madame," said Piquette coolly, "I am no servant of de hotel. Butstrange to say, even agains' my will, I am your frien'."
"My friend! Who are you?"
Piquette glanced toward the door into the hall rather anxiously.
"If you will permit me to come into your room I will answer you."
Moira hesitated for a moment, and then indicated the door by which shehad entered. Piquette preceded her into the room, as Moira stood by thedoor, still uncertain but curious as to this stranger who claimedfriendship. Piquette indicated the door.
"You will please close it, Madame," she urged with a smile. "I am quite'armless."
And Moira obeyed, catching the bolt into its place and turning with anair very little mollified.
"Who are you?" she demanded shortly. "Answer me."
instead of replying at once Piquette sank into a chair, crossed one kneeover the other and leaned forward, her chin on her fingers, staringfrankly at her companion.
"You are 'andsome, Madame 'Orton," she murmured as though grudgingly."Ver' 'andsome."
Moira flushed a little and returned the other woman's look, a suddensuspicion flashing across her mind that this woman--this was----
"Who are you?" she stammered.
"I--I am Madame Morin--and I am called Piquette," said the visitorclearly.
Moira recoiled a pace, her back as flat as the door behind her.
"You----! Piquette Morin! You'd dare!"
"Quietly, Madame 'Orton," said Piquette gently, "I 'ave tol' you I amyour frien'."
"Go, Madame," said Moira in a choking voice and pointing to the door."Go."
But Piquette did not move.
"Ah! You do not believe me. It is de trut'. I am your frien'. I amproving it by coming in here--by trying to 'elp you in dis----"
"I do not need your help, Madame. Will you go?"
"Yes, Madame 'Orton. I will go in a minute--when I tell you de riskJeem 'Orton an' I 'ave run to keep you from making of yourself a fool."
Moira gasped at the impudence.
"What I am does not matter, but what you and Jim Horton are, does. Iwish to hear no more----"
"Not even dat Monsieur Quinlevin has got de _vilain_ Tricot, to shoot atus in de train----" Piquette shrugged. "_Sapristi_! Madame'Orton,--if we 'ad been kill' you would perhaps t'ink it a proof offriendship."
She had caught the girl's attention, but Moira still demurred.
"I ask no favors of you, Madame Morin," she said haltingly.
"No, Madame 'Orton," said Piquette quietly, "but I 'ave give' demfreely, for you--for _heem_. Perhaps you t'ink dat is not'ing for me todo. _La, la_. I am only human after all."
So was Moira. Piquette's purposeful ambiguity aroused her curiosity andshe turned toward the French girl, her glance passing over her with anew interest.
"I don't understand you, Madame," she said coldly.
"I did not 'ope dat you would. But it is not so _difficile_. I try to'elp Monsieur Jeem 'Orton, because 'e 'as taught me what it means to bebrave an' fait'ful an' honorable to de one 'e love', an' because you areblind, an' will not see."
"Not so blind that I have not seen what you would have hidden."
"I 'ave not'ing to hide from you, Madame 'Orton. I am proud of defrien'ship of Jeem 'Orton. I would go to de en' of de worl' to make 'im'appy."
"Friendship!" gasped Moira.
"Or love, Madame," said Piquette gently, "call it what you please."
"And you dare to tell me this--you!"
Piquette only smiled faintly.
"Yes, I love 'im." And then, with the simplicity of a child, "Don'tyou, Madame?"
Moira stared at her for a second as though she hadn't heard correctly.
"No. No. This is too much. You will oblige me----"
"You wish me to go?" said Piquette with a shrug. "In a moment. Butfirs' let me tell you dat what Monsieur Quinlevin 'as tol' you about usis a lie--all lies."
"You forget, Madame," said Moira, "that I have seen."
Piquette smiled.
"Because I go to sleep wit' my 'ead on 'is shoulder. An' what is dat?For shame, Madame. Jeem 'Orton care' not'ing for me. I bring 'im outof de 'ouse in de Rue Charron--I nurse 'im in my apartment. You t'ink'e make love to me when 'e t'ink of you?"
Piquette laughed scornfully.
"What kind of woman are you to see de love in de eyes of an hones' manan' not remember it, for de greates' t'ing dat come' in a woman's life?'Is eyes! _Mon Dieu_, Madame. I know de eyes of men. 'E on'y loveonce, Jeem 'Orton--an' you t'ink 'e make love to me. I would givemyself to 'im, but what Jeem 'Orton give' to me is much more sweet, morebeautiful. 'E kees me on de brow, Madame, like I was a chil', when Iwould give 'im my body." Piquette stopped, and then, gently, "A womanlike me, Madame, can on'y worship a man like dat."
Moira was leaning against the bed rail, her head bent, her eyessearching out Piquette's very soul.
"And you, Madame," said Piquette, her voice gathering scorn in its verysuppression. "You, Madame, who love 'im too, you listen to everyt'ing'is enemies say agains' 'im--you believe dese lies, you let dem try tokeel 'im, you 'elp dem bring you to _deshonneur_. You try to keep 'imfrom saving you from disgrace! What kind of a woman are you, Madame, to'ave a love like dat t'rown at your feet an' walk away an' leave it likea dead flower upon de groun'? Mus' it take a woman like me to show youwhat is fine and noble in de worl'? You sen' 'im away into de night._Juste ciel_! Is dere no blood in your heart, Madame, no tenderness, nopity, for de love of a man like Jeem 'Orton? Love! You do not knowwhat love is, you----"
"Stop, Madame!" gasped Moira, her lips gray and trembling under thewrist that masked her eyes. "You dare not tell me what love is. Youdon't know--everything."
"Yes," said Piquette quietly. "I know everyt'ing. But only God couldkeep me from de man I love."
"Yes, God!" whispered Moira tensely. "Only God."
The pallor of her face, the agonized clutch of her white fingers on thetable and the tone of her voice silenced Piquette, and she glanced up atMoira partly in pity, partly in scorn. Piquette's education had notfitted her to understand the motives of women different from herself,but she saw in Moira's face the scars of a great passion and the marksof suffering not to be denied. And so after a painful moment for Moira,she turned her glance aside.
"I cannot speak of this to you, Madame," she heard the girl stammer."You have no right to judge me or to question my motives. And if I'vemisjudged you--or Jim Horton, God knows I'm sorry for it. Butyou--Madame--why should _you_ come and tell me these things?"
Moira's breath seemed suspended while she waited for the woman's answer.Piquette traced for a moment with her finger on the arm of the chair.
"You may be' sure it 'as cos' me somet'ing," she said slowly.
"Does he know--does Jim Horton know?"
"No, Madame. He knows noding."
"Then why----?"
"Because," said Piquette, rising with some dignity, "because it pleasesme, Madame. What Jeem 'Orton wish'--is my wish too. 'E love you. _Ehbien_! What 'e is to me does not matter."
Moira stared at her dully. She could not believe.
"If you do not on'erstan' me, Madame," Piquette continued, "it isbeca
use you do not wish to on'erstan', because all de sacrifice 'e makefor you is in vain. You listen to deir lies, become a partner in acrime to get money which does not belong to you----"
"How do you know this?"
"'Arry 'Orton--your 'usband--tol' me de trut'."
"Harry!"
"Yes, Madame. I was a frien' to your 'usband."
"You----?"
The glances of the two women met, held each other--read each other,omitting nothing. It was Piquette who looked away. If self-abasementwas to be the measure of her sacrifice, she had neglected nothing.
"An' now," she said quietly, "if you please, I shall go away."
"Not yet, Madame," said Moira gently. "Not until I tell you that I knowwhat you have done--that I believe what you have said."
"Thank you."
She caught Piquette by the hand and held her.
"I cannot be less noble than you, Madame. Forgive me."
"It is Jeem 'Orton who should forgive."
"I have done him a great wrong--and you. And I must do him anothergreat wrong. You have said that only God could keep you from the manyou love. God _has_ kept me from Jim Horton. I cannot see him again."
"But you cannot stay here, Madame," put in Piquette earnestly.
"No, perhaps not," wearily, "but you have taught me something. Ifsacrifice is the test that love exacts, like you, I can bear it----"
"An' make Jeem 'Orton suffer too----!" cried Piquette wildly. "What foryou t'ink I tell you dese t'ings, Madame? You mus' go wit' 'im toParis."
"No. I can't."
"What will you do?"
"I don't know yet. I must think."
"You will do what 'e ask of you."
"No."
"You mus' see 'im."
"No. Don't ask me, Madame----"
There was a knock upon the door into the corridor--repeated quickly.The two women exchanged glances, Moira bewildered, Piquette dismayed.She had remained too long.
"Monsieur Quinlevin----!" she whispered.
Moira, a finger to her lips, beckoned her toward the door into NoraBurke's room, when there was another quick knock and Quinlevin enteredquickly, followed by another figure.
"Moira, why didn't ye----" the Irishman began, and then his glancepassed to Piquette. "Ah--you here, Madame," he frowned with quicksuspicion, glancing toward the door into his own room. And thensuddenly beckoned his follower in. It was Monsieur Tricot, bent,hobbling, but full of every potentiality for evil.
Quinlevin closed and locked the door behind him, putting the key intohis pocket, and then with a muttered injunction to his companion,unbolted and opened the door into his own room and disappeared. Moirahad scarcely time to note the villainous look the _apache_ cast inPiquette's direction, when Quinlevin came striding in like a demon ofvengeance.
"Ah, Madame Morin," he snapped, "it seems as though I were just in time.What have ye done with the papers?"
The little patches of color upon Piquette's lips and eyes seemedsuddenly to grow darker in the pallor of her face; for Tricot's evilface nearby was leering at her, Tricot whose secrets she knew and whosesecrets she had betrayed. She was horribly frightened, but she managedto control her voice as she replied steadily.
"What papers, Monsieur? I know nothing of any papers."
"The papers referring to the de Vautrin case. _Your_ papers, Moira, yerbirth certificate and the letters which went with it."
Moira stood near the door into Nora's room, pale but composed. And nowshe spoke bravely.
"Madame Morin has not left this room since she came into it. I knownothing of any papers."
Piquette smiled inwardly. Her embassy had not been entirely withoutsuccess. But Quinlevin glanced quickly at Moira, suspicion becoming acertainty.
"Oh, we'll see about this." And striding quickly to Nora Burke's doorlocked it securely. And then to Piquette.
"Ye'll please accompany me into my room, Madame Morin," he said dryly."Perhaps Monsieur Tricot and I can find a way to unlock yer lips."
Piquette cast an appealing glance at Moira.
"You will let Madame Morin go," pleaded the girl to the Irishman.
"No!" he thundered. "There will be no more trickery here. And ye'llstay here too--under lock and key, until yer new friend speaks."
The two women were helpless and they knew it. Already Tricot's sharptalons had closed on Piquette's shoulder, but with an effort atcomposure she shrugged him off and entered the door beside which BarryQuinlevin stood, bowing with ironical politeness. Piquette caught justone glimpse of Moira's white face before the door closed between them.Then the key was turned in the lock, the other key also and she sankrather helplessly into a chair, a prisoner.
"This locking of doors is a game that two persons may play at, Madame,"said Quinlevin easily, in French. "Our friend, the deserter, locks mein with Monsieur de Vautrin while you rifle my papers, and now I keepyou prisoner until they are found. Where are they, Madame?"
His voice was soft, but even in the dim light iridescent fires playedforbiddingly in his little eyes.
Piquette was silent, her glance passing about the obscurity as though insearch of a resting place. She feared Quinlevin, but more than him shefeared the evil shape just beside her shoulder. She could not seeTricot, but she felt his presence, the evil leer at his lips, the bentshoulders, the vulture-like poise of his head and the vengeance lustburning in his little red eyes. For whatever Monsieur Quinlevin owedher, here she knew was her real enemy.
"The papers, Madame," Quinlevin repeated more brusquely.
Still no reply.
"You took them from behind the bracket yonder. What did you do withthem?"
"They are gone," she said quickly.
"Where?"
"That I shall not tell you."
She felt the claws of Tricot close upon her shoulder until she shrankwith the pain, but she made no sound.
"One moment, Tricot," said the Irishman, "there are first other ways ofmaking Madame speak. Release her."
Tricot obeyed.
"Of course Tricot and I can search you."
Piquette laughed.
"Search me, Monsieur. It is your privilege. I am not squeamish."
The Irishman frowned. There was no doubt that what he had proposed hadno terrors for a life model. But there were other means at hisdisposal, to find out what he wished to know.
"I should have remembered your metier, Madame," he sneered. And then,"Our friend Tricot has a long memory. He is not a man who forgets. Ifyou will look at him you will see that this chance meeting is much tohis liking."
Piquette did not dare to look.
"It seems," the Irishman went on, "that the betrayal of the secrets ofthe small society to which you belong is a grave offense."
"I've betrayed no secrets," said Piquette, finding her voice. "No oneknows of the affair of the Rue Charron----"
"Except Monsieur Horton, who will tell it when he is less busy----"
"No. He will tell nothing----"
"Tricot is not willing to take that chance. Eh, Tricot?"
"No," snapped the vulture. "Piquette knows the penalty. She'll payit."
"And if I pay it," said Piquette bravely, "you'll know no more aboutwhat has become of your papers than you do now."
Quinlevin made a sign to Tricot.
"There's something in that.--but I'm in no mood to be trifled with.That ought to be pretty clear."
"It is. I'm not trifling."
"Then speak. Or----" Quinlevin paused significantly.
Piquette continued to glance around the room as though in a hope thatsomething might happen to release her from her predicament. It had nowgrown dark outside, but her captors showed no disposition to make alight. And yet it seemed impossible that they would dare...
She tried to gain time.
"And if I could tell you what has happened to the papers," she askeduncertainly, "will you let me go?"
"Yes--speak."
"And if I cannot tell you----"
"I will tell you, Madame. You will be left here alone in this room withthe good Tricot." And as Piquette shrank down into her chair, "He is avery ingenious rascal, Tricot. Never yet has he been caught by thepolice." Quinlevin stopped suddenly, his gaze on the rectangle of theopen window, as though listening. "An open window," he mumbled. "Ileft it so--perhaps. But do you go, Tricot, and look out. Perhapsthere is some one below."
The man obeyed, without a sound, vanishing outside the window upon thesmall portico.
"No one can help you, Madame," Quinlevin said in a threatening whisper,"for at my word Tricot shall be quick and silent." He caught Piquettefuriously by the wrist and twisted it. "What have you done with myproperty?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You are lying."
Tricot's silhouette appeared at the window.
"Monsieur," he whispered tensely, "there's a man--below."
"Horton!" said Quinlevin. "What is he doing?"
"Crawling in the bushes, Monsieur."
The clutch on Piquette's arm grew tighter.
"What did you do with the papers?"
"I burned them in the fireplace," she said desperately.
Quinlevin rushed to the hearth and struck a match, examining the ashesminutely. Then he straightened quickly.
"You lie, Madame. I burned some letters here this morning. The ashesare just as I left them." In one stride he was at her side again, apistol in his hand.
He caught her roughly by the arm and she bit her lip to keep from cryingout with pain.
"He is down there. What did you do with the papers? Answer me."
"Let me go."
"No."
"What will you do?"
"Unless you tell me the truth--shoot him from the window."
"You would not dare----" she whispered, in spite of her pain, "thepeople of the hotel--will investigate. The police----"
"Bah! A burglar comes along the portico, I shoot him. He falls--willyou tell the truth? Are the papers in this room?"
"I won't tell."
"Very well." And then turning to his companion at the window, "What ishe doing now, Tricot?"
"He does not move----"
The Irishman released Piquette suddenly.
"A better chance for a shot, then," he snapped. "Here, Tricot." And hemoved toward the window, his weapon eloquent.
Piquette sprang up despairingly.
"Monsieur," she cried, "for the love of God. Don't shoot. I willtell."
"I thought so. Where are they? Quick."
"I--I----"
He had her by the wrists now, one on each side, and Tricot's skinny handthreatened her throat.
"Speak----!"
"I--I threw them out of the window," she gasped.
It was evident that at last in her terror she had spoken the truth.With an oath Quinlevin threw her aside and ran to the window whileTricot twisted her arm back of her, his other hand at her throat.
"Jeem!" she shrieked in a last despairing effort. "Go! Go!" And thenthe fingers of the _apache_ closed and the sound was stifled as she fellback in a chair helpless.
"Shut up, damn you," growled Quinlevin. "Keep her quiet, you. Notdeath, you understand. We may need her."
Piquette heard these things dimly. A torrent was roaring at her earsand her eyeballs seemed to be starting from her head as she fought forher breath, but the relentless fingers pressed at her windpipe.
"And you, Monsieur?" she heard Tricot ask.
"I'm going down--into the garden. If she speaks the truth I'll find itout."
Dimly she heard the door open and shut and the key turned in the lock,while she fought Tricot. But strong as she was, she knew, that she wasno match for him. His arms were like steel springs, his fingers likeiron. But still she fought, trying to make a commotion that wouldarouse the hotel. But Tricot had pinioned her in her chair and even thedim light that came in at the open, window grew black before her eyes.She struggled again at the very verge of the gate of oblivion it seemed,choking--choking, when a pain sharper than that at her throat came ather side.
"Be quiet," croaked Tricot's voice at her ear--"or I'll----"
And she obeyed. For death was in his voice and in his hand.