“Octave, wake up,” she said.
“Hang it,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Why this thusness? Have you got some guests with you?”
“Don’t be silly. You know I have a horror of society, and my one happiness is to be with you. I have arranged to take a month’s holiday.... I fainted on the stage. I am still far from well, you know. The doctors order me to take a rest in the mountain air. We will leave to-morrow morning early. What do you say to that?” Octave was now completely awake.
“That’s all right,” he said. “But, I say, you do look out of sorts. Tell me the truth. Did you really faint on the stage?”
“Well, yes.”
“Why, of course, you’ve been overworking. You are right, we’ll get away to-morrow to the hills. There you will soon be yourself again, and we will live like hermits. And now go to bed and rest. Sleep well. I’m going to finish my little job, and when we are away we won’t do a stroke of work. No more writing, no more acting.... We’ll drink cow’s milk and gather flowers!”
“But I’m not going to bed either. I’ll pack my trunks and we’ll leave at daybreak.”
“But you are done up. You go to bed.... Hullo, what’s that? The car returning. Didn’t you come back in the car?”
“No, I took a taxi. I looked for Jean, but he wasn’t there.”
Octave opened the window and gave the chauffeur a piece of his mind, but Jean protested: “I did not leave my place, and it was Madame la Comtesse de Tardenois who told me to go home.”
Octave closed the window and turned to Irene. “What does it all mean? Why is the Comtesse mixed up in this? Have you seen her?”
“Yes, she was at the theatre when I fainted.”
“Why didn’t you come back in the car? Why didn’t she come with you? What is this story of the taxi? I see that something has happened — something you are trying to hide from me.”
“Yes,” confessed Irene, dropping into an arm-chair, weary of unnecessary untruths. “What happened was that I saw in the front row of the stalls the man who never ceased to come after me in Brazil and La Plata.”
Octave seized her hands, his eyes flashing fire.” Your Patagonian, the man who treated you so cruelly is in Paris! And you want to go away! Well go. It will, in fact, be all the better. I shall stay here.”
“Octave, Octave, dearest, it’s not he... That’s not the man. Calm yourself. It’s the other man. You can’t find fault with him. This man is the one who was so very good to me.”
“What! If he was so very good to you... Why, he saved your life, and you fainted when you saw him.”
“Anything that recalls that terrible story makes me ill,” she sighed weakly, worn out. “I had forgotten the whole thing. We were so happy together.... Let’s go!”
“Yes, we will go away,” returned Octave, his brows puckered. “We will go away, but there is no great hurry now.”
“But he may come here to-morrow morning.”
“What then?”
“How do I know? I must tell you that I behaved very badly to him. I left him very abruptly.”
“Well, you will have the opportunity of apologizing to him and thanking him. I, too, owe him my thinks.... Go to bed. You need a rest.”
“Octave, you don’t love me any more. You don’t do what I ask you to do.”
“Yes, I do. I will do anything you wish, only, personally, I have no reason to shun this man.” Irene went to bed, but she could not sleep that night.
CHAPTER XXXVII
WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS
NEXT MORNING IRENE told the maid to hurry with the packing, but Octave, who had returned to his shanty to settle his affairs and write a few letters, seemed in no way eager to depart. Irene could not repress her excitement. The Comtesse de Tardenois called.
“I have come to warn you, my dear, that you must expect a visit from him. I have done my utmost, but he is mad about you. I managed to stop him for one entire evening, and it was no easy task, I can tell you. I drove him in the Bois to supper, asserting that I was instructed to take him there and you would join us. As you did not come, he began to take refuge in drink. What a quantity of champagne he can put away! I let him do as he pleased, as you may imagine. But then the stories he told I...”
“What did he tell you?”
“Oh, he said nothing to me personally. He was talking to himself. He was recalling memories of the past in which, of course, you were the only figure. Irene, you behaved very imprudently towards this man.”
“How do you mean imprudently?”
“Why, you understand me quite well. There was that famous night...”
“Heavens, did he tell you about that?”
“I repeat he told me nothing. He would not have dared to. At least, I imagine so.... Irene, I myself find it excusable, when all is said, for this man to come after you here. You must have made a great impression on him.”
“But this is awful. I shall never be rid of him. The whole thing is too terrible. I know nothing of what happened on that particular night.”
“The night at the Palace Hotel in Rio de Janeiro?”
“Yes. You must ask Sylvia about that.”
“Sylvia?”
“Yes, Sylvia took my place so as to relieve me of him, you know.”
The Comtesse gave her a sidelong glance and smiled.
“It was rather clever of you. Well, as it was Sylvia we’ll say no more about it. But I advise you not to tell him so, for one of two things will happen — either he won’t believe you and your stratagem was of no avail, or you will prove to him that you did in fact deceive him by palming your maid off on him, in which case he is the sort of man to shoot Mademoiselle Irene de Troie and commit suicide over her dead body. You ought to have left here by now, Irene.”
The Comtesse had scarcely finished her sentence when Rosario in person burst into the room. He must, in spite of the servants, have forced his way in. Moreover, he was in a state of excitement which every obstacle in his path could only have increased.
Though he was wearing clothes of a pretty nearly European cut, he had become more like a gaucho in his gestures and manner of expressing himself than ever. He spoke no Portuguese, but a mixture of Spanish and French with a suggestion of the campo about it. He at once fell at Irene’s feet.
“I adore you,” he exclaimed.
Irene started back.
“Don’t leave me,” she said to the Comtesse, beside whom she had taken refuge.
“Get up, monsieur,” she flung at Rosario. “Get up and think of what you are saying. My husband is here.”
“Sanguè de dios,” cried Don Manoel, rising to his feet. “Let him come here. I shall be happy to make his acquaintance. You may rely on me, senhora. I shall know how to behave in Paris. In Paris one is not in the campo.... Paris! You don’t know how fantastic that word sounds in the campo — where you deserted poor Rosario! Paris, and the women of Paris! For years and years men of the pampas or primeval forests of Haut Chaco work like slaves, putting aside piastre after piastre, saying to themselves in their heart of hearts: ‘One day I shall go and see Paris!’ And I have known men, for they are all my brethren out there, I have known men who went to Paris and spent an entire fortune in a month, and returned to the campo. They were satisfied. They had seen Paris. They tell how they were received by the ladies after the dancing and the singing and the music. And I... I hold my tongue because I am all discretion. I have been loved by the most famous and most beautiful woman in Paris....”
“My friend!” interposed Irene, who was suffering agonies, and did not loose her hold of the Comtesse’s hand.
“You can imagine whether Rosario wanted to see Paris... and his own special lady love — the woman of my dreams — the rêve del mondo.”
“He is really handsome,” said the Comtesse, while Irene cast a glance through the window to see if anyone was stirring in the shanty. When she turned round again Rosario once more fell at her feet.
“I shall adore you for
life. And you — you adore me!”
“Heavens above, do be quiet. Pull yourself together, Don Manoel.”
“Demonico, not that name,” he cried. “No! Rosario will not hold his tongue, at least till you say: ‘I love you as you love me.’ Ah, I know you have not forgotten the wonderful past. Yes, yes, senhora, I will say no more.... I am all discretion. But I know you have not forgotten. You remembered it in the campo when saw your beautiful eyes smile like a madonna at a king in paradise, when your hand pressed mine so tenderly, when your feet trembled on my wrist as I lifted you, as light as a feather, into the saddle, when I, too, leapt up behind you and clasped you to my heart, and you turned your burning eyes to me and cried: ‘Off we go!’ What road could we take, I ask you, if not the road which leads to love?”
“But you know quite well that I am married, Rosario. I never concealed that from you.”
“Don’t talk to me of your husband,” he said, rising and looking at her sternly. “I shall do the proper thing. But I know you don’t love your husband, and had I not missed the train on the pampas you would never have seen him again. I should have arranged for a divorce, and I am here to bring about a divorce. Everything will be done in the right way. And it would have been done by now had I not been detained by my duel with Ouenetrou. By the way, you will never hear any more of Ouenetrou. No!... He is dead.... I killed him.”
A knock came at the boudoir door. Rosario, suddenly remembering that he had once been first and foremost a society man, assumed an attitude which could not have been more correct had he remained the high public official with whom we are familiar. The maid brought in a letter, and on recognizing the handwriting Irene could not repress an exclamation of surprise. She quickly opened it and read the first lines.
“MADAME, — You will excuse the liberty I am taking in writing to you, but I consider it my duty to inform you that Ouenetrou has arrived in Paris under a false name and with a false passport...”
She read no more. She sank into a chair, and the letter slid to the floor. The Comtesse picked it up, and at a look of entreaty in Irene’s eyes read it. Afterwards she handed it to Rosario.
“I notice people you kill enjoy fairly good health, dear monsieur.”
“Hullo! He’s still alive. Well, I’ll kill him again,” returned the “dear monsieur” coolly. And he drew himself up on his heels with an air which seemed to challenge the world.
Another knock came at the door. This time Rosario did not alter his demeanour, but stared fiercely at the door as though he expected to behold Ouenetrou in person, but once more the maid came in.
“Madame, a lady has called who says she must see you. She says it’s a matter of life or death.”
Irene, who had already heard those words at one of the most painful moments in her career, asked in a trembling voice:
“Did she not give her name?”
“Yes, madame. The lady, who seems to me to be an adventuress, for she is dressed in an extraordinary fashion, told me that I had but to mention her name and you would at once see her. She says her name is Dona Maria de Carangola.”
“Sangué de dios!” cried Rosario.
And he leapt out of the window.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE LAST DOUBT.
“WELL, THIS IS the limit,” said Irene in a faint voice.
“What shall I tell her?” asked the maid.
The Comtesse interposed:
“Tell her that madame is indisposed and is not at home to anyone just now.” And turning to Irene she added: “If you will allow me I’ll see her and try to pacify her.”
“No,” returned Irene in a weak voice, almost fainting. “I may as well get it over at once. The fact that she is here, you know, means that she was looking out for her husband’s arrival. She must have seen him enter. She may assume that he is still with me. If I don’t see her at once she will have recourse to violent measures. You don’t know what sort of woman she is and what she is capable of doing for de Carangola’s sake.” And turning to the maid: “Show her in,” she said.
“But you, my dear Sarah, I beg you not to leave me.”
“You may depend upon me, Irene.”
“Thanks! Ah, if she would only go before Octave’s suspicions are aroused in all this business. My goodness, I shall never get out of it! I feel as though I am in South America again.”
Dona Maria came in. She was still clad in the absurdly antiquated fashion with which we are familiar. She bowed low to Irene. Contrary to Irene’s expectation, Dona Maria seemed quite composed. Possibly she was restraining herself before a stranger, and would break out very soon. Irene introduced the Comtesse to her:
“My best friend, madame. We can talk openly in her presence. She knows everything. You have come, doubtless, for your husband. He called here without being invited, please believe me, and when your name was announced he jumped out of the window.”
“I know, madame,” returned Dona Maria with increasing self-possession. “This is not the first time he has played me that trick. But on this occasion I happened to have your window watched by my daughters, who by now have captured their father and taken him away, and won’t lose sight of him again, I assure you....
“I came here, madame, well knowing that Don Manoel would not fail to pursue you here. We have been in Paris for the last fortnight. We were told that it would not be long before he, too, arrived in Paris. For the last fortnight we have had you watched. I should have liked to see you before, but we feared lest we should make some false step which would enlighten Don Manoel of our presence in Paris. He has already escaped us twice. We could not take too many precautions. I repeat, madame, I should have liked to see you before, and I will tell you why. I have to make a sincere apology to you....
“I know now that you are not implicated in anything that has occurred, and have behaved with absolute propriety. I was greatly pained when the secret inquiry revealed to me that Don Manoel had spent the night before your departure in your rooms. I could not doubt the misfortune that had befallen me.... You must understand that I was prepared for the worst, and there was no sacrifice that I would not have made for my husband’s sake. I said to myself: ‘When he has got over his mad infatuation perhaps he will return to us.’ All the same, in my heart of hearts I execrated you; all the more so since he did not return to us as I had hoped. He tried even to forget us entirely and live the life of a savage on the pampas....
“Well, madame, I learnt that you had succeeded in eluding him, and by a clever subterfuge your maid had taken your place without Don Manoel suspecting for a moment the truth about his grotesque conquest.... How did I get to know this? Simply through your maid, who came to us as we were leaving South America, for she herself was arranging to return to France a few days later. Perhaps she is already here. In any case I have come to fulfil the mission with which she entrusted me. After making her great disclosure, observing that I was most favourably disposed towards her, she said:
“‘When you see madame, tell her that the king of the Patagonians is done for, and since I have managed to get away from him my one desire is to return to Paris and enter her service again. I can still be very useful to her. Ouenetrou intends to go to Europe under a false name, which will excite less notice than the name of his ancestors. He is frightfully vindictive. He will not allow one to escape from his tyranny. After all the agony which he made madame suffer he will be careful to keep in the shadow, but it is from the shadow that he will strike. When I am with madame there will be two of us to defend ourselves. She knows how devoted I am to her and what I am capable of doing for her.’
“I have repeated the poor girl’s exact words,” concluded Dona Maria. “She cries when she thinks of you. She gave me a picture of your goodness and virtue which greatly touched me. I told her that she could rely on me. I think that you can rely on her! With a man like Ouenetrou one never knows what may happen. Sylvia’s last words were: ‘Tell madame that it’s a matter of life or death for her.’”
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Intensely astonished by what she had heard, but by no means disposed to take Sylvia back, Irene said:
“I am much obliged to you, Dona Maria, for the care you have taken in telling me what my late maid said. She has, as you assumed, already arrived in Paris, and I have just received a letter from her putting me on my guard against Ouenetrou’s new schemes, but I conclude from her letter and from what you tell me that Sylvia, whom I am beginning to know, is using Ouenetrou as a means to re-enter my service and force my hand. — I doubt whether Ouenetrou, after the way in which he has acted towards me, dare set foot in France, and particularly in Paris where my husband, if he met him, would shoot him like a dog. ‘It’s a matter of life or death for madame,’ Sylvia asked you to say. In my view it’s chiefly a matter of life or death for her, for if Ouenetrou is ruined she must be left without resources. In any case I will think it over and send her my answer.”
They exchanged a few civilities, and Dona Maria took her leave, having accomplished what she considered her duty.
“Well, I confess she surprised me,” said Irene, alone once more with Sarah.
“And me too,” agreed Sarah.
“She does not doubt what I told you. She believes Sylvia, but you don’t believe me.”
“Dona Maria seems to me to be cast in the mould of a bygone day. She believes in the tears and sincerity of servants! For my part I came to the conclusion long ago that Sylvia, with consummate art, was playing a part behind the scenes, and what I have just heard is not calculated to make me alter my opinion. Wishing to return to your good graces, Sylvia imagines that she cannot do you a more signal service than to take everything on herself and for herself. She has sent you an ambassadress who, without suspecting it, offers you peace or war. I find Sylvia once more ready to show her devotion to you, but using veiled threats to make you take her back again.”
“In short,” exclaimed Irene,” you don’t believe Sylvia any more than you believe me when I tell you that Don Manoel was absurdly deceived.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 453