Chapter XIII
The Shadow Again
"Qui ne craint pas la mort craint donc la vie."
As I sat in my study, the sounds of the house gradually ceased, andthe quiet of night settled down between its ancient walls. It seemedto me at times that the Vicomte was moving in his own room. I knew,however, that the passage between us was locked on both sides. My oldpatron had said nothing to me on the subject, but I had found the doorbolted and the key removed. I never was the man to intrude uponanother's privacy, and respected the Vicomte's somewhatincomprehensible humour at this time.
I scarcely knew at what hour I at last went to bed; but the oil in mylamp was nearly exhausted and the candles had burnt low. Taking up oneof these, I went to my bedroom, pausing at the head of the blackstaircase to listen as one instinctively does in a great silence. Thehousehold was asleep. A faint patter broke the stillness; Lucille'sdog--a small white shadow in the gloom--came towards me from herbedroom, outside of which he slept. He looked up at me with arestrained jerk of the tail, for we were always friends, and hisexpression said:
"Anything wrong?"
He glanced back over his shoulder to Lucille's door, as if to intimatethat his own charge was, at all events, safe; then he passed me, andpressed his inquiring nose to the threshold of the Vicomte's studydoor. He was a singular little dog, with a deep sense ofresponsibility, which he only laid aside in Lucille's presence. Inwhich he resembled his betters. Men are usually at ease of mind in thepresence of one woman only. At night I often heard him blowing thedust from his nostrils at the threshold of my door, whither he came tosatisfy himself that I was in my room and all well in the house beforehe sought his own mat.
When I went softly to my bedroom he was still sniffing at the studydoor.
I must have slept a couple of hours only when my door handle wasquietly turned, and, being a light sleeper, I became aware of apresence in the room before a touch was laid upon my shoulder. It wasMadame de Clericy.
"Where is my husband?" she asked, and added: "I thought he was sittingup with you."
"No; I have been alone all the evening," answered I, with a quickfeeling of uneasiness.
"I do not think that he is in the house at all," said Madame, movingtowards the door. "Will you get up and dress? You will find me in themorning-room."
Lighting my candle, this woman of few words left me. The dawn wascreeping up over the opposite roof and through the open window; thefreshness of the March air made me shiver as I hurried into myclothes. In the morning-room I found Madame de Clericy.
"Mother," Lucille had once said to me, "always rises to the occasion,but the process is not visible."
"Come quietly," said Madame, speaking, as indeed was her habit inregard to myself, with a certain kindness and sympathy--"come quietly;for Lucille is asleep. I have been to see."
She took it for granted that she and I should consider Lucille beforeall else, and the assumption gave me pleasure. Although she said"Come," she stood aside and allowed me to lead the way. We naturallywent first to the study. The door was locked. At the entrance from myown room we were again met by bars.
"Can you break it open?" asked Madame.
"Not without noise. Let us make sure that he is not elsewhere in thehouse first."
Together we went up and down the old dwelling, and I traversed manycorridors and chambers for the first time. We found nothing. It wasbeginning to get light when we returned to my study.
"Shall I break open the door?" I asked, when I had unbarred theshutters.
"Yes," answered Madame.
The door was a solid one of walnut, and not to be broken open by merepressure. While I was moving some of the chairs in order to givemyself a run, Lucille came into the room. She had hurried on adressing-gown and her hair was all down her back, but she was much toosimple-minded to think that such things mattered at such a moment.
"What is it?" she cried. "What _are_ you doing?"
Madame explained, and the two stood hand in hand while I made ready toburst in upon the mystery that lay behind that closed door.
I took a run, and brought my shoulder to bear just above the lock,wrenching the four screws out of the wood by the force of the blow. Istaggered into the dark passage beyond, with a sore shoulder and myheart in my mouth. Madame and Lucille followed. I tried the handle ofthe door leading from the passage to the Vicomte's study. The key hadnot been turned.
"I will go in alone," I said, laying a hand on Madame's arm, who gaveme a candle and made no attempt to follow me.
MADAME EXPLAINED, AND THE TWO STOOD HAND IN HAND WHILEI MADE READY TO BURST IN UPON THE MYSTERY THAT LAY BEHIND THAT CLOSEDDOOR.]
After all, the precaution was unnecessary, for the room was empty.
"You may come," I said; and the ladies stood in the dimly lightedchamber. None of us had entered there since the Baron Giraud had cometo occupy it in his coffin. The dust was thick on the writing-table.Some flowers, broken from the complimentary wreaths, lay on the floor.The air was heavy. I kicked the withered lilies towards the fireplace,and looked carefully round the room. The furniture was all in order.Madame went to the window and threw it open. A river steamer, movingcautiously in the dawning light, cast its booming note over thehousetops towards us. The frog in the fountain--a family friend--wascroaking comfortably in the courtyard below us.
"Lucille, my child," said Madame, quietly, "go back to bed. Yourfather is not in the house. It will explain itself to-morrow."
But the face that Madame turned towards me, when her daughter hadreluctantly left us, was not one that looked for a pleasant solutionto the mystery. It is said that wherever a man may be cast he makes alittle world around him. But it seemed rather that for me a world ofhope and fear and interest and suspense was forming itself, despiteme, encompassing me about so that I could not escape it.
"I will go out," I said to Madame, and left her abruptly. I had noplan or intention--for where could I seek the Vicomte at thathour--but a great desire came over me to get away from this gloomyhouse, where trouble seemed to move and live.
The streets were empty. I walked slowly to the _quai_, and then,turning to the left, approached the palace of the D'Orsays, whichstood then, though to-day, in a fine irony, the broken walls aloneremain, amid the new glory of republican Paris. I knew I was going inthe wrong direction, and at length, with a queer feeling of shame,turned and crossed to the Isle St. Louis.
Of course, the Vicomte had not done away with himself! The idea wasabsurd. Aged men do not lay violent hands upon themselves. It wasdifferent for Pawle, a friend of mine, who had shot himself as hedescended the club stairs, a ruined man. Nevertheless, I walkedinstinctively towards the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and past thatbuilding to the little square house--like a roadside railwaystation--where Paris keeps her nameless dead.
Half guiltily I went in at one door and out by the other. Two men layon the slates--the lowest of the low--and even the sanctifying hand ofdeath could not allay the conviction that the world must necessarilybe the richer for their removal from it. I came away and walkedtowards the river again. Standing on one of the bridges, I never knewwhich, I looked down at the slow green water. As I stood a municipalguard passed me with a suspicious glance. The clocks of the citystruck six in a solemn jangle of tones. The boats were moving on theriver--the great unwieldy barges as big as a ship. The streets werenow astir. Paris seemed huge and as populous as an ant-hill. I feltthe hopelessness of seeking unaided one who purposely hid himself inits streets.
I went back to the Morgue and made some inquiries of the attendantthere. Nay, I did more--for why should a man be coward enough to shuthis eyes to patent fact?--I gave my name and address to the courteousofficial and asked him to send for me should any news come his way. Itwas plain enough that the Vicomte de Clericy had of late been in sucha state of mind that the worst fears must needs be kept in view.
I went back to the Faubourg St. Germain and crept quietly into thehouse of my patron by the side door, of which
he himself had given methe key. Despite my noiseless tread, Madame was waiting for me at thehead of the stairs.
"Nothing?" she asked.
"Nothing," replied I, and avoided her persistent eyes. To share anunspoken fear is akin to the knowledge of a common crime.
At nine o'clock I sought John Turner in his apartment in the AvenueD'Antan, almost within a stone's throw of the British Embassy. Thereare some to whom one naturally turns in time of trouble andperplexity, while the existence of others who are equally important intheir own estimation is at such moments forgotten. Our fellows seem tomove around us in a circle--some step out of the rank and touch us asthey pass--one, if it please God, comes out and stands beside us. JohnTurner had, I suppose, touched me in passing. He was at breakfast whenI was shown into his presence.
"You are looking fresh and well," he said, in his abrupt way, "so Isuppose you are engaged in some mischief."
"Not exactly. But what I began in play is continuing in earnest."
"Yes," he said, looking at me with his easy smile while he dropped apiece of sugar into his coffee-cup. "Yes; young men are fond ofwalking into streams without ascertaining the depth on the fartherside."
"I suppose you were young yourself once?" retorted I, bringing forwarda chair.
"Yes--but I was always fat. Women always laughed at me behind my back.And, with a woman half the fun is to let you know her intention asshe passes. I returned the compliment in my sleeve."
"I do not see what women have to do in this matter," said I.
"No--but I do. How is Mademoiselle this morning? Sit down; have a cupof coffee, and tell me all about her."
I sat down, and related to him the events of the past night. Turner'sface was grave enough when I had finished, and I saw him note withsome surprise that he had allowed his coffee to get cold.
"I don't like the sound of it," he said. "One never knows with aFrenchman--he is never too old to talk of his mother, or make an assof himself."
The English banker was of the greatest assistance to me during thatmost anxious day. But we found no clew, nor discovered any reason forthe Vicomte's disappearance. I went back in the evening to the HotelClericy, and there found Madame de Clericy and Lucille awaiting me,with that calmness which is admirable when there is nothing else butwaiting to be done.
It was at eight o'clock in the evening that the explanation came, froma source as natural as it was unexpected. A letter was delivered bythe postman for Madame de Clericy, who at once recognized herhusband's unsteady handwriting. She crossed the room, and stoodbeside me while she opened the envelope. Lucille, seeing the action,frowned, as I thought. I was still under displeasure--still learningthat the better sort of woman will not forgive deception so long asshe herself is its motive, as cheap cynics would have us believe.
Madame read the letter with that self-repression which was habitual toher, and made me ever wonder what her youth had been. Lucille and Iwatched her in silence.
"There," she said, and gave me the letter to pass to Lucille, whoreceived it from my hand without taking her eyes from her mother'sface. Then I quitted the room, leaving the two women alone. Madamefollowed me presently to the study, and there gave me the Vicomte'slast letter to read. It was short and breathed of affection.
"Do not seek for me," it ran. "I cannot bear my great misfortunes, andthe world will, perhaps, be less cruel to two women who have noprotector."
Madame handed me the envelope, which bore the Passy postmark, and Iread her thoughts easily enough.
I saw John Turner again that evening, also Alphonse Giraud, who hadcalled at the Hotel Clericy during the day. With these gentlemen I setoff the next morning for Passy, taking passage in one of those littleriver steamers which we had all seen a thousand times, withoutthinking of a nearer acquaintance.
"This is gay," cried Alphonse, on whom the sunshine had always anenlivening effect, as we sped along. "This is what you callsport--_n'est ce pas_? For you are a maritime race, is it not so,Howard?"
"Yes," answered I, "we are a maritime race."
"And figure to yourself this is the first time that I am afloat onanything larger than a ferry-boat."
During our short trip Alphonse fully decided that if his fortuneshould be recovered he would buy a yacht.
"Do you think you can recover it?" he asked quite wistfully, his mindfull of this new scheme, and oblivious to the mournful object of ourjourney.
At Passy we were received with shrugging shoulders and outspreadhands.
No, such an old gentleman had not been seen--but the river was largeand deep. If one wanted--mon Dieu!--one could do such a thing easilyenough. To drag the river--yes--but that cost money. Ten francs a dayfor each man. It was hard work out there in the stream. And if onefound something--name of a dog--it turned on the stomach.
We arranged that two men should drag the river, and, after a wearyday, went back to Paris no wiser than we came.
In this suspense a week passed, while I, unwilling to touch mypatron's papers until we had certain news of his death, could renderlittle assistance to Madame de Clericy and Lucille. That the latterresented anything in the nature of advice or suggestion was soon madeclear enough to me. Nay! she left no doubt of her distrust, and showedthis feeling whenever we exchanged words.
"It is a small thing upon which to condemn a man, Mademoiselle," Isaid to her one morning when chance left us together. "I told you whatI thought to be the truth. Fate ruled that I was after all a poorman--but I have not been proved a liar."
"I do not understand you," she answered, with hard eyes. "You are sucha strange mixture of good and bad."
An hour afterwards I received a telegram advising me that the body ofthe Vicomte de Clericy had been found in the river at Passy.
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