“You’ll end by getting the blues,” said Chéri-Bibi, pouring out another glass of brandy. “You see, when sorrow comes in through the door it soon fills the whole house. If I were in your place I’d have a change of scene.”
“Look out, we are coming to it!” thought M. Hilaire. “What’s he going to suggest now?”
“I agree with you,” went on Chéri-Bibi, “your wife was a superior woman and you’ll never find another like her. Without her you’ll go bankrupt to a certainty.”
“Come, I say, don’t let’s overdo it,” the Dodger ventured to say, regretting his too lavish display of conjugal grief. “Hang it all, I am a man.”
“Do you mean that? Don’t forget that your political opinions must have made a fair number of enemies for you in your neighborhood.”
“Well, I’ve done good service to everyone about here,” protested the Dodger.
“It’s a thankless world.”
“So I am not asking for anything out of the way. I only had two friends — Barkimel and Florent. They have been swept away by the storm. I shall know how to console myself, though I should like to see their cheerful faces in the morning for a glass of white wine as an appetizer.... As for my other customers, they will turn up as they did in the past, for the world, monsieur le Marquis, will always go where they can get the best goods. There you have the secret of business — there’s no magic in it.”
“In spite of the loss of your wife, I see that you intend to stick to your groceries.”
Hilaire grew pale, but he mustered up his courage.
“Yes, with your permission, monsieur le Marquis.”
“All right. I have nothing to say,” said Chéri-Bibi, rising.
The Dodger was beside himself. He gave a gesture of childish rage.
“I don’t know what stuff you are made of, but I feel the need, at my age, to settle down and live quietly and be respected, I deserve it, and if you will allow me to express my opinion, you, too, monsieur le Marquis, should be content with what you’ve done. Take care lest a final blow should destroy the whole beautiful structure.”
“It’s wisdom itself that speaks through your lips,” snorted Chéri-Bibi, “and you chatter with such eloquence that I don’t wonder at your success at the Club, but I must tell you one thing — unless I pull off this last coup it’s all up and everything else will be useless.”
“You are perhaps fancying things — in the past you sometimes had such fancies.”
“Don’t talk like that,” yelped Chéri-Bibi, holding the Dodger’s wrist in a grip that made him cry out. “No, no, I never fancied things.... I never took life unless it was absolutely necessary.”
M. Hilaire shrank back and his cheeks blanched.
“Then is there still some one who stands in your way?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“Two!”
A silence ensued between them. It was M. Hilaire who broke it first.
“Upon my soul, it’s a great nuisance,” he said, slapping his thigh.
“All the same, I am not forcing you to anything, M. Hilaire.”
“Well, monsieur le Marquis, you see I am all attention. It’s a great nuisance, but I’m all attention. What’s the trouble, anyway?”
“It’s like this,” said Chéri-Bibi after a few minutes’ reflection, “Subdamoun is depressed.”
“Why should he be, in Heaven’s name?”
“He is depressed because his life was saved by a man whom he doesn’t know, and this man in order to save him killed M. Dimier, an honest man, and several others besides.”
“Pah! Subdamoun is a soldier. Why should he even trouble about that? These are mere trifles. Besides, I don’t see how we shall make him less depressed by killing a couple more! That would only, on the contrary, if I understand you aright, increase his depression.”
“Subdamoun is depressed to death,” returned Chéri-Bibi harshly, “because he has been tormented by a number of letters, anonymous letters, which follow him everywhere, some of which I have intercepted. These letters tell him that in all this business he has been merely the tool of the greatest bandit in the world, and offer to give him proof whenever he likes, and the name of the man.”
“Whew! that’s a pretty big offer!”
Chéri-Bibi put his hand on the Dodger’s lips.
“Hold your tongue.... These letters contain particulars of this man’s intervention, and draw the conclusion that unless Subdamoun himself gets rid of him or denounces him to the police as he deserves, he must be regarded as morally the accomplice of a murderer.”
“Did Subdamoun at once believe all this?”
“No, at first he refused to believe it. It seemed to him, of course, inconceivable. Then in order to get at the facts Subdamoun asked the Detective Service to send him Daddy Peanuts. But Daddy Peanuts was nowhere to be found. After the Revolution was over Daddy Peanuts disappeared. ‘He must be dead,’ said Cravely. And I believe Cravely is right!”
“Well, you certainly promised me that he should die,” said Hilaire.
“Look here, nothing will bring Daddy Peanuts to life again, and you may take it from me that Chéri-Bibi would rather die himself than allow Subdamoun to hear of certain things.”
“Does the writer of the letters know as much as all that?” asked M. Hilaire with a catch in his breath.
“The writer knows everything.”
“It’s d’Askof!” exclaimed Hilaire.
“No, it’s not d’Askof. D’Askof is dead by my hand as a punishment for his treachery. It’s his wife. I recognized her handwriting.”
“The Baroness! Damn it all, why isn’t she dead?”
“Because I don’t know where she is. It’s just that. And she knows everything. Her husband must have told her everything. Before he died he was but a quivering mass in my hands, for I kept him on the rack, but he had the strength to shout out my name: ‘Chéri-Bibi,’ and also, ‘Subdamoun is the son of a murderer....’ You see, Hilaire, how very simple it is. His wife is avenging his death. That’s where I stand....
“Nothing, however, is lost. Fortunately, she has not yet put everything in writing.... She wants to see Subdamoun and tell him herself the main things, and in order to prove that the peanut dealer was mixed up with the coup d’état and directed the whole affair from the outset, she is bringing with her a witness whose allegations it would be impossible to refute. You can guess who that witness is — Little Buddha — and she has promised him at the same time to reveal the name of the man who made away with his father. I, too, promised Little Buddha to disclose the name, but you will understand why I was in no hurry to do so.”
“What a rotten business! Then it’s necessary to do away with Little Buddha as well?”
“Of course. But where are they? You see, as they are lying low they are taking their precautions. They must be hiding in their burrows like rabbits. They will only come out to tell my son: ‘Chéri-Bibi is your father!’”
Chéri-Bibi stood up in the semi-darkness a prey to extraordinary excitement.
“Yes, their days are numbered,” said M. Hilaire, quietly seeking to appease him. “But how is the thing to be done?”
“Oh, that’s very easy. They have made an appointment for to-morrow night.”
“How do you know that?”
“I never leave the Morlière’s house. I am living with Cecily, with my son; I am living side by side with them, among them. They are searching for me high and low. I am there! Subdamoun is having a search made for me in the provinces.... I see him coming, going, living, breathing. The folds of a curtain, a piece of furniture, a little shadow, the cellar, the attic — anything, everything that can hide a person is my home. I see what he is writing, I rummage among the remnants of the letter that he has received, I hear the orders that he gives. I am the most happy and most miserable of men and I know everything. Their house is my refuge and my lair. And in this house I have worked out my plan for to-morrow. It was the Baroness who fixed the fatal hour and i
nsisted upon a meeting in his house. She thinks that she will be entirely safe there. She is convinced that she will be better protected there than anywhere else. She will enter the house openly, and she imagines that she will come out of it again avenged, having at last struck to death father, mother, son.... And she will have Little Buddha with her. She asked Subdamoun to reply to her under her initials through the agony column of a newspaper, and he did reply to her. She has reckoned on everyone but me. You see for yourself, Hilaire, how easy it all is. I don’t know where they are to-day, but at nine o’clock to-morrow evening they will be in the small drawing-room of the Morlière’s house, where Subdamoun will meet them.”
“Yes, it’s very simple,” agreed M. Hilaire in a muffled voice.
“Just one word more and I have done. Be at your place to-morrow night at eight o’clock. Mazeppa, who of course knows nothing of all this, will call for you from me, and you must come along with him....”
Nothing more was said, and they left Little Buddha’s cabaret with the same stealth and caution as they had entered it and, after shaking hands, took leave of each other in the darkness of the night.
On his way home M. Hilaire could not help saying to himself:— “As the job is so easy, why does he need my assistance? He will make short work of the Baroness and Little Buddha.”
Such being the trend of his reflections he at last convinced himself that his presence could only be a hindrance.
During the rest of the night and the following day the very simple nature of the job weighed on his mind like an obsession. A preliminary announcement in the morning papers describing the Government’s clemency towards the misdeeds of the past and the complete amnesty that it intended to grant to its enemies on condition that they severed all connection with revolutionary proceedings; the peaceful and stable aspect of his shop with its rows of jars and boxes; the freedom from agitation of his little staff eagerly serving the various customers — all these things combined to persuade him of the futility of jeopardizing his personal liberty so happily and recently recovered in an adventure of such simplicity.
He took a sheet of paper headed “Up-to-date Grocery Stores” and wrote to Chéri-Bibi in his best handwriting:
“Monsieur le Marquis, “I am exceedingly sorry to be unable to keep our appointment. I have received an order from the Prefect of Police to attend his office at half-past eight to-night without fail. I am afraid there is some unpleasantness in store for me, and it will be better for me to know where I am at once, if only in your interests. Detectives are keeping watch from the street on my movements. I wish you the best of luck.”
At eight o’clock he went out, after giving the letter to his head assistant with his instructions:
“A youth will call for me at half-past eight. Tell him I am not in. He will then buy a small ball of string. Give him the string and this letter, and ask him to take it once to his employer.”
Mazeppa received the latter at half-past eight and returned to Chéri-Bibi, who was waiting for him in a small café near by.
Chéri-Bibi read the letter:
“There’s no doubt every one is deserting me,” he said with a sigh. “Very well, I’ll do the job myself.”
CHAPTER XXXVI
AT HOME
THE DINNER HOUR in the de Touchais household was half-past seven. On that evening the meal which passed almost in gloom was over at eight o’clock.
Marie Thérèse was dining in town with a school friend, and Frederic Héloni availed himself of her absence to turn the conversation to the difficulty of arranging his marriage to a girl whose mother could not be found.
Subdamoun, who disliked any mention of the d’Askofs now that he knew that the Baron had betrayed his confidence, did not open his lips. Thereupon Frederic rose from the table, took leave of the Marchioness and Lydia, and said he was going out for a stroll.
He forbore to shake hands with Subdamoun. He resented his strange inertia at a time when, to his mind, he ought to have proclaimed himself the happiest of men.
After Frederic’s departure Subdamoun rose in his turn, stating that he would be working throughout the night. He had given instructions for two persons whom he was expecting to call to be shown into the small drawing-room, and he asked that he should not be disturbed.
He went to his study. Lydia moved closer to the Marchioness, who saw that she was in tears.
“Lydia, my dear child...” sighed Cecily.
“It can’t go on like this,” said Lydia. “It is more than I can bear. He is too miserable. I must speak to him. He does not care for me any more. His thoughts are only of her. He is living on her memory.”
“You must have a little patience, Lydia.”
“I hate myself. I ought not to hide from him any longer the sacrifice she made for me. For his sake, and above all for her sake, I ought to tell him. She died for me. She died in my stead. Alas, why did she make me this gift of life? I would never have accepted her sacrifice.... But as it was made it is right that he should know about it.”
“He would never, perhaps, forgive you for it, my dear Lydia.”
The Marchioness at once regretted allowing these clumsily expressed words to slip out which, however, explained her conduct and the care with which she treated the confidences that Lydia was ever ready to share with her. On hearing the unfortunate words she gave a cry:
“Oh, you see for yourself he is not in love with me,” she said, rising. “I will go and tell him everything.”
From the tone in which Lydia spoke the Marchioness saw that it would be useless to argue with her.
“Go then and make him still more miserable,” she said.
Lydia groaned but did not look round. She went to her room and came away from it carrying a small box. She did not knock at Subdamoun’s door. She opened it and walked in.
Subdamoun was in his study, his head buried in his hands. He did not hear her come in. She walked the length of the room, stood before him, placed the box on his table, went down on her knees and waited.
He looked up and saw the kneeling figure, the sweet face bathed in tears.
“What are you doing here, Lydia?” he asked gently.
“I have brought you Sonia’s hair,” she said with a sob, opening the box.
The lustrous, living gold of the dead woman’s hair shot forth its radiance. He rose trembling.
“What did you say?” he stammered.
“I said I have brought you Mlle Liskinne’s hair,” she repeated weakly.
He came over to her in time to support her and, faint though he was himself, saved her from sinking to the floor. And as she rested half unconscious in his arms:
“How good of you, Lydia. I love you for doing this. You may believe me, Lydia.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead, which gave her new life. But he still gazed, haggard-eyed, on the hair that he dared not touch.”
“Take it. It belongs to you. I give it to you,” she said.
The sacrifice fulfilled, she recovered in part her strength. He took the gift and his hands stole over the silken wonder that he had so recently caressed.
“Do you mind?” he said. “She was a faithful friend and gave her life for me.” Tears prevented Lydia from replying. “Poor Sonia!” he went on. “Oh, Lydia, you deserve my utmost gratitude for giving me such a moment as this. Her hair! Where did you get it, Lydia?”
“She gave it to me before she died.”
“How do you mean?”
“We shared the same cell.”
“You have had it in your possession all this time and waited until to-day!...”
“I am, I know, to blame, more to blame than you think, dear,” confessed Lydia, lowering her head under the half-expressed reproach from those beloved lips. “I thought to myself that if I gave you her hair and told you the circumstances in which it came to me you would perhaps never forgive me.”
“You frighten me.”
“I assure you that I am not to blame for what happened
. I swear that.”
“But what did happen?”
She told him the story, and with a sob exclaimed: “You must always love her as I shall always pray for her.” Then she collapsed, worn out.
Jacques uttered a dull cry, but he checked himself in his vain regrets. To regret that one was dead, was not that to regret that the other was living?
He looked at the frail child who had so greatly suffered and so heroically come to him to say: “You must always love her.” He bent over her and took her in his arms.
“You are worthy of her, Lydia. It is I who do not deserve the love of two such women.... Take away this relic of her. It belongs to you. We will never part with it.”
Lydia took from him this token of a love in which she found it hard to believe.... And as she rose bewildered, dazed, not knowing whither to turn her steps, Subdamoun said to the Marchioness, who had come in quietly and witnessed the end of the scene:
“This box will be as sacred to you, mother, as it is to us, because it contains the hair of a woman who sacrificed herself to save the life of my promised wife.”
He led Lydia up to his mother. The scene might perhaps have been prolonged had not the manservant come in to tell him that two persons were waiting to see him in the small drawing-room.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE SMALL DRAWING-ROOM
“VERY WELL,” SAID Subdamoun in a different voice. “Ask them to wait.”
He begged his mother and Lydia to leave him. The tender feeling of a moment before was gone, giving place to an excitement which he vainly strove to control.
While the two women stood in amazement at the change in him he made a gesture for them to go and sat down at his desk. He endeavored to become a master of himself again.
The enemy was in the house, for obviously it was an enemy who had come to make such a disclosure, an enemy to the death.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 236