His obvious sincerity and the spontaneous nature of his answer seemed to allay for a moment her incomprehensible agitation.
“Thank you, you have done me good. Of course, I am a little beside myself. It is the result of all this strain, and then what do you expect, my dear Frederic,” she went on with a forced smile, “since I have seen the beautiful Sonia I feel that if I were a man an insignificant little girl like me would mean so little compared with her.”
“You do yourself less than justice when you say that. Look! Here is the major. I’ll go and tell, him.”
“No, please don’t say a word.”
Jacques came into the room. Lydia ran up to him, crimson with an excitement which she made no attempt to conceal.
“Oh, Jacques, how glad I am to see you after that dreadful sitting.”
“My dear Lydia!”
She began to cry quietly. Very pretty at all times, her tears seemed to make her adorable. When he saw those tears, which he was usually able to wipe away at once, he could not repress a gesture of irritation that did not escape her. And when he told her that he wished to see his mother because he had to return to M. Lavobourg — to Sonia Liskinne she thought — she uttered no word of complaint, and nothing in her bearing betrayed the acute disappointment that wrung her heart.
Nevertheless they knew each other so well, and Jacques’s love for her was so sincere, that he intuitively grasped what was passing in that young and eager heart that beat only for him, and he availed himself of a moment when Frederic seemed engrossed in the examination of an old picture representing one of Lydia’s ancestors at the battle of Marignan to take her in his arms and console her with a kiss and a few sweet words, at which she grew pale with joy and he reddened with remorse. “My dear Lydia, I adore you.”
It was true, but it was true also that at that moment he was thinking of the beautiful Sonia.
Cecily came in. She uttered a cry of joy. Mother and son embraced. It was not so much admiration or love that she felt for him as worship. In her inner consciousness she never despaired of him even in crucial times, for she looked upon him as well-nigh invulnerable. She had never attempted to dissuade him from his great project. But in her simple heart, in which good and evil never became confused, she was still greatly troubled by the tragic happenings which bore so much resemblance to assassinations and so fortuitously and strangely cleared the way for the hero on the war-path. It was very different when Jacques told her the latest news.
“Just think, Cravely had the mysterious stranger followed after he left Carlier. Now this man managed to give the detective the slip for a time, but he found him again.”
“Well, what did the man say?” asked Cecil anxiously.
“He said nothing because he was found hanged.”
“Hanged!”
“Yes, hanged to the sash of his window. Cravely, it seems, is in a tremendous rage over it.”
Frederic could not believe his ears.
“All the same,” he said, “the day has ended for us better than it began.”
But they did not continue the conversation. When they turned towards the Marchioness they observed with alarm that she seemed to be gasping for breath. They darted forward. Lydia held a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils, and she came to herself almost at once. She apologized for causing so much trouble, kissed her son, enjoined him to exercise greater prudence than ever, and expressed a desire to go to bed. She went out on the arm of Jacqueline, who had been called in.
“Poor mother,” said Jacques. “She must be utterly exhausted, for she is not lacking in courage. Look after her, my dear Lydia; don’t leave her during these all-important days, for I may not have time to come here even for a word with you.”
“Rely on me, Jacques,” said Lydia, stifling the sob that trembled in her throat. “Rely on me... And may you win through.”
She clung to him. He gave her a last kiss, his thoughts wholly on her now, for he knew that if he were to fail he would probably never see her again; and he left, taking Frederic with him. They had scarcely passed into the street when two dark forms emerged from the shadow of the wall and followed them. But these forms were themselves pursued by two others, who began to talk in a low voice....
“It is we now who are keeping an eye on the police. How times are changed!” said Jean Jean to Polydore....
Cecily was worn out when she reached her bedroom and rejected Jacqueline’s attentions.
“There are more urgent things to see to than nursing me when everyone round my son is being murdered.”
“What do you mean, madame? I have seldom seen you in such a state.”
“I will tell you. You will be able to give me good advice and perhaps help me because I want the matter cleared up, and I can’t possibly remain any longer under the weight of the thought that oppresses me.... You remember the evening when we went with Marie Thérèse to the classical concert at the Comédie de l’Elysée?”
“Of course I remember it,” returned Jacqueline. “It was the evening when, overcome by the heat, for the theatre was heated as if we were in the depth of winter, you wished to go outside for a while.”
“Marie Thérèse remained in her place and you and I went outside. Do you remember what happened then?”
“Well, we had a stroll under the trees and then we went back.”
“Don’t you remember that the elections were on, and before going back we had to stop to allow a number of newsboys to pass who were selling an evening paper full of offensive remarks about Jacques?”
“Well no, I don’t. What are you driving at, madame?”
“Don’t you remember that as I was going back to the theatre I gave a silver coin to a poor old peanut dealer who for some little time had been pottering round us?”
“Oh yes, madame, I remember the poor old man. I was puzzled by him for some ten minutes. He looked so miserable, so bent with age, and so unassuming withal — and yet he never took his eyes off us. He certainly expected us to give him something. He spoke to you about Major Jacques. Oh, I remember him quite well...”
“Yes, that’s the man. The poor old fellow knew who we were, and said — I am repeating his exact words— ‘God will repay you, madame. And besides, have no fear, the Government may do what it will, he will be elected. You may take this from me — it’s all up with your son’s opponent.’... Do you remember those words: ‘It’s all up with your son’s opponent’?”
“Very likely.”
“Oh, those words are still ringing in my ear; and they came back to me next day when the morning papers told us that Jacques’s opponent had met with a motor-car accident the evening before, an accident from which he died a few days later.”
“The old fellow had learnt who you were, madame, from words exchanged by people leaving or entering the theatre when we did. Your photograph, as his mother, has appeared in all the papers.”
“He did not say, ‘Your son’s opponent has no chance,’ he said, ‘It’s all up with your son’s opponent.’”
“So you think he already knew about the accident? It’s not impossible.”
“It seems doubtful, for the accident happened pretty well at the same time.”
“Newsboys were passing who would know about it, for it is easy to send a telephone message to a newspaper. It was important news, and the rumour quickly spread outside. He told you about it, the old fellow, delighted with an accident which pleased so many people.”
“Don’t talk like that, Jacqueline. It is not very charitable of you. Now I’m going to tell you something you don’t know. I saw the peanut dealer again in the Champs Elysées. Next day, after I heard of the accident, I went back there on purpose to see him. What he had said aroused my curiosity. Besides, I had a longing to know — his pitiable figure haunted me...
“So next evening when it was dusk I ordered the chauffeur to stop for a few minutes at the corner of the avenue. I watched the passers-by for a while, when suddenly the old man appeared from the da
rkness. He came up to the car window, looking more worn out than ever, and said in a weak voice: ‘What did I tell you yesterday?’ I beckoned to him to come nearer. He did so, trembling like a leaf. ‘Did you know about that accident then?’ I asked. At first he made no answer. I could not see his face, for it was covered with a muffler. Suddenly he straightened his back slightly. He wore a pair of tinted spectacles through which, Jacqueline, I swear I felt a look that scorched me. I was afraid, and I ordered the chauffeur to go on. Then the man, clinging to the window, said:— ‘In case of any danger threatening Major Jacques, you have but to return here in your car as you have done to-night. Remain five minutes, and then drive off again without leaving the car.’ Having said this much he disappeared...
“I thought that I had to do with some unhappy madman, some poor maniac, and I did my utmost to banish him from my mind. How can I explain that it was of him I first thought when we learnt that everything was discovered, and that Jacques and Lavobourg’s list had been stolen?
“Without saying a word to anyone I acted on the peanut dealer’s suggestion. I ordered the car and drove to the spot suggested. I waited a quarter of an hour — half an hour.... No one came. Then I remembered his exact words: ‘Return here in your car as you have done to-night. Remain five minutes, and then leave again without getting out of the car.’
“He did not say that he would come. My presence in the car for five minutes at this street corner would mean that Jacques was in danger, so I argued with myself, and I went back home. A few hours later I called myself a fool.... This peanut dealer is now, I confess, a nightmare to me. What was his reason for telling me to appeal to him whenever my son was in any pressing danger, and how is it that after I gave him the intimation he asked for every danger threatening Jacques was swept away so quickly and so tragically?”
“What is it you have in your mind, madame?”
“Jacques feared, above all, Bonchamps and Carlier,” went on Cecily, growing more and more excited, “and they are dead. Jacques would have given anything to recover the stolen papers, and they are in his possession again as a result of this afternoon’s tragedy. What is the secret of it all?”
“I am too unimportant a person to express an opinion in such terrible circumstances,” returned Jacqueline, “but what surprises me most of all is that you should see any connection between the poor beggar and the incidents that are worrying you.”
Cecily did not at once answer. She seemed to be deep in reflection, and allowed herself to be undressed without demur. But when she was in bed she said:
“Jacqueline, I want to know who this peanut dealer is. It can’t be difficult to find him again. We’ve only got to look for him in the Champs Elysées in the evening, he told me. When did you see M. Hilaire last?”
“Oh, well, a good two months ago.”
“Why doesn’t he come here now? We are always pleased to see him. He may be ill.”
“The last time I saw him it was, I confess, madame, to find fault with him. I really had to complain of the week’s groceries. I went myself to his ‘Up-to-date Grocery Stores.’ Virginie wasn’t in the cash desk. He took advantage of that fact to accuse her of ‘mistakes’ in the delivery, and promised to see personally that they didn’t occur again. But he seemed very annoyed, for he has a great deal of self-esteem, and looks upon himself now as a person of importance.”
“He was very devoted to the late Marquis when he was his secretary, my dear Jacqueline, and I must say that after the fire at the Château du Puys [See Chéri-Bibi and Cecily, by Gaston Leroux. Translated by Hannaford Bennett] he would have made any sacrifice to do me a service. You must go and see him to-morrow for me. Of course, there’s no need to tell him anything of this story, but you can give him a description of the peanut dealer, and say that I am interested in finding out what the man really is. You must tell him to keep the whole thing to himself.”
CHAPTER IV
THE BEAUTIFUL SONIA
THAT SAME EVENING at eight o’clock — dinner was at nine — the blue drawing-room in Sonia Liskinne’s house in the Boulevard Pereire was already thronged with guests. In the absence of the delightful hostess, who kept them waiting, but whom they excused since they were aware that she had come in late from the Chamber, they were received by Aunt Natacha.
Among the guests were the great Republicans Michel and Oudart, and Barclet, Senator and Member of the Institute, who firmly believed that the new idol was working for them; in other words, for the purification of the Republic. They held this opinion because they thought that in reality Jacques could do nothing without them.
The other guests who did not belong to their party shared the same hopes and perhaps the same illusions. That was why Baron de la Chaume, one of the most regular guests, who represented the old diplomacy, prudent and temporizing, whispered in the ear of whoso came up to him that if it were true the Jacques could begin nothing without the great Democrats it was equally true that he could complete nothing without the help of the great Conservatives.
Young Caze of the Action Gauloise, who would gladly have called de la Chaume an old dotard, made answer that he and his friends would decline to be the dupes of anyone, and that if the “new idol” delayed showing under which flag he was fighting they would make short work of him. It was said that the Empire party — for there was an Imperialist party — was represented secretly in Sonia Liskinne’s house by the d’Askofs.
The d’Askofs were a singular couple. Baron d’Askof was much younger than his wife. She was a Délianof, of Russian Poland, and her first husband, Prince Galitza, was killed while wolf-hunting. She had one daughter by her first marriage, Marie Thérèse, now eighteen years of age, who attended the same classes as Mlle Lydia de la Morlière, Jacques’s promised wife.
Where had Princess Galitza discovered Baron d’Askof? He was a tall, handsome, spare man, with a spreading golden beard, the only gold, it was suggested, that he had brought to the wedding. It was stated that he was of Hungarian birth, but no one could say for certain. The d’Askofs were unknown until the Princess produced her new husband from the heart of the steppes and thrust him upon the higher cosmopolitan society — a task which did not take her long.
She seemed to worship the Baron, her “handsome George,” and was very jealous of him, which did not prevent him from making love to women in general, and Sonia Liskinne in particular. He was not the only one. Every man in the room was more or less attracted by the irresistible charm of the great actress; even the agreeable crank Lespinasse representing the Agrarian party, even Bassouf the Trades Unionist leader, even Lazare the Jew and principal shareholder in a great newspaper, even old Renard the scarcely civilized working man whom Sonia had contrived to lure to her house.
“We shall know through him how we stand with the trades unions,” Sonia had said to Jacques.
To avoid the charge of devoting herself exclusively to politics, Sonia took good care to mix her guests. Among the number were Lucienne Drice of the Comédie Française; Yolande Pascal of the Grand Theatre, a little creature as dark as a plum, the mistress of the managing director of the Machinery Trust, a company with a capital of one hundred million francs, a considerable power; and many persons of importance in the industrial world.
So even in her relations with women Sonia managed to turn everything to account for the triumph of Jacques and, of course, Lavobourg. But Lavobourg seemed such a paltry figure compared with Jacques. What would Lavobourg have been without her? It was to her that he owed his political success, and even his position as Vice-President of the Chamber. He was well aware of it. Thus, as she told Jacques, the poor man never said a word when she rushed him into the obscure adventure without asking his opinion. Now came Martinez, the fop, sculptor, poet and dancer of the tango, greatly in fashion; and then Tiffoni the leading dancer of the Opera, representing in herself the moderate party.
All these guests at first thought that in the circumstances the famous Friday evening dinner-party would not take pla
ce; they telephoned to enquire, but were informed that nothing had been changed in the usual custom of the house. And so the regular frequenters had flocked in.
Some of them were impelled by an eager curiosity — those who had not witnessed the scenes in the Chamber. Others assumed an attitude of some reserve. Jacques’s wonderful luck bewildered and, we must perforce admit, terrified them. Lespinasse, who always went straight to the point, was the only one to display unbounded enthusiasm. He repeated to Martinez Jacques’s words — his cry in the tribune: “I wish to banish you from the Republic.” And, turning to them all: “Why, I tell you he has only to offer himself for election in every constituency — it would be a plebiscite. And I know what his idea is,” he added, waving his arms and beating a roll of the drum with imaginary drum-sticks. “He means to revive the drum of Brumaire.”
“And here is Our Lady of Thermidor!”
Sonia had, in fact, come into the room. A proud murmur greeted her dramatic entrance. Martinez dropped into poetry, declaring that Parisians had never seen a more beautiful woman.
And, indeed, she had never seemed more beautiful, more radiant, more alluring. Was she determined to turn every head, or, still more important, to win one particular heart? Rumour had it, of course, that she was deeply in love with her great man — they were not referring to Lavobourg — and added that the great man lived for politics alone and gave little heed to women.
After shaking hands with her guests she went up to Lavobourg, who appeared in the doorway.
“Good gracious, how pale you are!” she said, adding with a deep-toned laugh slightly too reminiscent of the theatre, “Oh, my dear, you must pull yourself together! You will outlive worse things.” Lavobourg, pale as he was, grew yellow, and, concealing with some difficulty the grimace that he intended as a smile, bent low to press his lips upon those lovely hands that held him captive. When he was able to say a word to her in private it was to impart to her his terrible anxiety:
“What are we going to do? What course had we better follow? The police are on our heels. This house is under observation. I have heard that the Commission of Inquiry will sit to-morrow and adopt exceptional measures...”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 208