“Gad, M. Louis, a magistrate is a man, isn’t he?” said Henri Verbier gallantly. “The magistrate may have enjoyed talking to Mlle. Jeanne more than he did to you, if I may suggest it without seeming rude.”
There was a general laugh at this sally on the part of the new superintendent, and then M. Louis continued:
“Well, if he wanted to make up to her he went a funny way to work, for he made her angry.”
“Did he really?” said Henri Verbier, turning again to the girl. “Why did the magistrate cross-examine you so much?”
The young cashier shrugged her shoulders.
“We have thrashed it out so often, M. Verbier! But I will tell you the whole story: during the morning of the day when the robbery was committed I had returned to Princess Sonia Danidoff the pocket-book containing a hundred and twenty thousand francs which she had given into my custody a few days before; I could not refuse to give it to her when she asked for it, could I? How was I to know that it would be stolen from her the same evening? Customers deposit their valuables with me and I hand them a receipt: they give me back the receipt when they demand their valuables, and all I have to do is comply with their request, without asking questions. Isn’t that so?”
“But that was not what puzzled the magistrate I suppose,” said Henri Verbier. “You are the custodian of all valuables, and you only complied strictly with your orders.”
“Yes,” M. Muller broke in, “but Mlle. Jeanne has only told you part of the story. Just fancy: only a few minutes before the robbery Mme. Van den Rosen had asked Mlle. Jeanne to take charge of her diamond necklace, and Mlle. Jeanne had refused!”
“That really was bad luck for you,” said Henri Verbier to the girl with a laugh, “and I quite understand that the magistrate thought it rather odd.”
“They are unkind!” she protested. “From the way they put it, M. Verbier, you really might think that I refused to take charge of Mme. Van den Rosen’s jewellery in order to make things easy for the thief, which is as much as to say that I was his accomplice.”
“That is precisely what the magistrate did think,” M. Louis interpolated.
The girl took no notice of the interruption, but went on with her explanation to Henri Verbier.
“What happened was this: the rule is that I am at the disposal of customers, to take charge of deposits or to return them to the owners, until nine P.M., and until nine P.M. only. After that, my time is up, and all I have to do is lock my safe and go: I am free until nine o’clock next morning. You know that it does not do to take liberties in a position like mine. So when, on the day of the robbery, Mme. Van den Rosen came with her diamond necklace at half-past nine, I was perfectly within my rights in refusing to accept the deposit.”
“That’s right enough,” said M. Muller, who, having finished his dessert, was now sipping coffee into which he had tipped sugar until it was as thick as syrup: “but you were disobliging, my dear young lady, and that was what struck the magistrate; for really it would not have been much trouble to register the new deposit and take charge of Mme. Van den Rosen’s necklace for her.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” the girl replied; “but when there is a rule it seems to me that it ought to be obeyed. My time is up at nine o’clock, and I am forbidden to accept any deposits after nine o’-clock: and that’s why I refused that lady’s. I was perfectly right; and I should do the same again, if the same thing happened.”
Henri Verbier was manifestly anxious to conciliate the young cashier. He expressed his approval of her conduct now.
“I quite agree with you, it never does to put interpretations upon orders. It was your duty to close your safe at nine o’clock, and you did close it then, and no one can say anything to you. But, joking apart, what did the magistrate want?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of indifference.
“You see I was right just now: M. Louis is only trying to tease me by saying that the magistrate cross-examined me severely. As a matter of fact I was simply asked what I have just told you, and when I gave all this explanation, no fault at all was found with me.” As she spoke, Mlle. Jeanne folded her napkin carefully, pushed back her chair and shook hands with her two neighbours at table. “Good night,” she said. “I am going up to bed.”
Mlle. Jeanne had hardly left the room before Henri Verbier also rose from the table and prepared to follow her example.
M. Louis gave M. Muller a friendly dig in his comfortable paunch.
“A pound to a penny,” he said, “that friend Verbier means to make up to Mlle. Jeanne. Well, I wish him luck! But that young lady is not very easy to tame!”
“You didn’t succeed,” M. Muller replied unkindly, “but it doesn’t follow that nobody else will!”
M. Louis was not deceived: Henri Verbier evidently did think his neighbour at table a very charming young woman.
Mlle. Jeanne had hardly reached her room on the fifth floor of the hotel, and flung open her window to gaze over the magnificent panorama spread out below her and inhale the still night air, when a gentle tap fell upon the door and, complying with her summons to come in, Henri Verbier entered the room.
“My room is next to yours,” he said, “and as I saw you were standing dreaming at your windows I thought perhaps you would condescend to smoke an Egyptian cigarette. I have brought some back from Cairo: it is very mild tobacco—real ladies’ tobacco.”
The girl laughed and took a dainty cigarette from the case that Henri Verbier offered her.
“It’s very kind of you to think of me,” she said. “I don’t make a habit of smoking, but I let myself be tempted sometimes.”
“If I have been kind, you can show your gratitude very easily,” Henri Verbier replied: “by allowing me to stay here a few minutes and smoke a cigarette with you.”
“By all means,” said Mlle. Jeanne. “I love to spend a little time at my window at night, to get the air before going to bed. You will prevent me from getting tired of my own company, and can tell me all about Cairo.”
“I’m afraid I know very little about Cairo,” Henri Verbier replied; “you see I spent almost the whole of my time in the hotel. But as you seem so kind and so friendly disposed I wish you would tell me things.”
“But I am a very ignorant young woman.”
“You are a woman, and that’s enough. Listen: I am a new-comer here, and I am quite aware that my arrival, and my position, will make me some enemies. Now, whom ought I to be on my guard against? Who is there, among the staff, of whom I ought to be careful as doubtful associates? I ask with all the more concern because I will tell you frankly that I had no personal introduction to the Board: I have not got the same chance that you have.”
“How do you know I had any introduction?” the girl enquired.
“Gad, I’m sure of it,” Henri Verbier answered: he was leaning his elbows on the window-sill and gradually drawing closer to the young cashier. “I don’t suppose that an important position like the one you hold, requiring absolute integrity and competence, is given without fullest investigation. Your work is not tiring, but that does not mean it would be entrusted to anybody.”
“You are quite right, M. Verbier: I did have an introduction to the Board: and I had first-rate testimonials too.”
“Have you been in business long? Two years—three years?”
“Yes,” Mlle. Jeanne replied, purposely refraining from being explicit.
“I only asked because I fancy I have seen you before somewhere. I recognise your eyes!” Henri Verbier smiled, and looked meaningly at the girl. “Mlle. Jeanne, on summer nights like this, when you are looking at a lovely view like this, don’t you have a funny sort of feeling?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But you see, I’m a sentimental chap unfortunately, and I really suffer a lot from always living in lonely isolation, without any affection: there are times when I feel as if love were an absolute necessity.”
The cashier looked
at him ironically.
“That’s all foolishness. Love is only stupid, and ought to be guarded against as the worst possible mistake. Love always means misery for working people like us.”
“It is you who are foolish,” Henri Verbier protested gently, “or else you are mischievous. No: love is not stupid for working people like us; on the contrary, it is the only means we have of attaining perfect happiness. Lovers are rich!”
“In wealth that lets them die of hunger,” she scoffed.
“No, no,” he answered: “no. Look here: all to-day you and I have been working hard, earning our living; well, suppose you were not laughing at me but we were really lovers, would not this be the time to enjoy the living we have earned?” and as the girl did not reply, Henri Verbier, who like an experienced wooer had been drawing closer to her all the time, until now his shoulder was touching hers, took her hand. “Would not this be sweet?” he said. “I should take your little fingers into mine—like this; I should look at them so tenderly, and raise them to my lips——”
But the girl wrested herself away.
“Let me go! I won’t have it! Do you understand?” And then, to mitigate the sharpness of her rebuke, and also to change the conversation, she said: “It is beginning to turn cold. I will put a cloak over my shoulders,” and she moved away from the window to unhook a cloak from a peg on the wall.
Henri Verbier watched her without moving.
“How unkind you are!” he said reproachfully, disregarding the angry gleam in her eyes. “Can it really be wrong to enjoy a kiss, on a lovely night like this? If you are cold, Mademoiselle Jeanne, there is a better way of getting warm than by putting a wrap over one’s shoulders: and that is by resting in someone else’s arms.”
He put out his arms as he spoke, ready to catch the girl as she came across the room, and was on the very point of taking her into his arms as he had suggested, when she broke from his grasp with a sudden turn and, furious with rage, dealt him a tremendous blow right on the temple. With a stifled groan, Henri Verbier dropped unconscious to the floor.
Mlle. Jeanne stared at him for a moment, as if dumbfounded. Then with quite amazing rapidity the young cashier sprang to the window and hurriedly closed it. She took down her hat from a hook on the wall, and put it on with a single gesture, opened a drawer and took out a little bag, and then, after listening for a minute to make sure that there was nobody in the passage outside her room, she opened her door, went out, rapidly turned the key behind her and ran down the stairs.
Two minutes later Mlle. Jeanne smilingly passed the porter on duty and wished him good night.
“Bye-bye,” she said. “I’m going out to get a little fresh air!”
Slowly, as if emerging from some extraordinary dream, Henri Verbier began to recover from his brief unconsciousness: he could not understand at first what had happened to him, why he was lying on the floor, why his head ached so much, or why his blood-shot eyes saw everything through a mist. He gradually struggled into a sitting posture and looked around the room.
“Nobody here!” he muttered. Then as if the sound of his own voice had brought him back to life, he got up and hurried to the door and shook it furiously. “Locked!” he growled angrily. “And I can call till I’m black in the face! No one has come upstairs yet. I’m trapped!” He turned towards the window, with some idea of calling for help, but as he passed the mirror over the mantelpiece he caught sight of his own reflection and saw the bruise on his forehead, with a tiny stream of blood beginning to trickle from a cut in the skin. He went close to the glass and looked at himself in dismay. “Juve though I am,” he murmured, “I’ve let myself be knocked out by a woman!” And then Juve, for Juve it was, cleverly disguised, uttered a sudden oath, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth in rage. “Confound it all, I’ll take my oath that blow was never dealt by any woman!”
XIII. THÉRÈSE’S FUTURE
M. Etienne Rambert was in the smoking-room of the house which he had purchased a few months previously in the Place Pereire, rue Eugène-Flachat, smoking and chatting with his old friend Barbey who also was his banker. The two had been discussing investments, and the wealthy merchant had displayed considerable indifference to the banker’s recommendation of various gilt-edged securities.
“To tell you the truth, my dear fellow,” he said at length, “these things interest me very little; I’ve got used to big enterprises—am almost what you would call a plunger. Of course you know that nothing is so risky as the development of rubber plantations. No doubt the industry has prospered amazingly since the boom in motor-cars began, but you must remember that I went into it when no one could possibly foresee the immense market that the new means of locomotion would open for our produce. That’s enough to prove to you that I’m no coward when it’s a question of risking money.” The banker nodded: his friend certainly did display a quite extraordinary energy and will-power for a man of his age. “As a matter of fact,” M. Rambert went on, “any business of which I am not actually a director, interests me only slightly. You know I am not boasting when I say that my fortune is large enough to justify me in incurring a certain amount of financial risk without having to fear any serious modification of my social position if the ventures should happen to turn out ill. I’ve got the sporting instinct.”
“It’s a fine one,” M. Barbey said with some enthusiasm. “And I don’t mind telling you that if I were not your banker, and so had a certain responsibility in your case, I should not hesitate to put a scheme before you that has been running in my head for a year or two now.”
“A scheme of your own, Barbey?” said M. Rambert. “How is it you have never told me about it? I should have thought we were close enough friends for that.”
The hint of reproach in the words pricked the banker, and also encouraged him to proceed.
“It’s rather a delicate matter, and you will understand my hesitation when I tell you—for I’ll burn my boats now—that it isn’t any ordinary speculation, such as I am in the habit of recommending to my customers. It is a speculation in which I am interested personally: in short, I want to increase the capital of my Bank, and convert my House into a really large concern.”
“Oh-ho!” said M. Etienne Rambert, half to himself. “Well, you are quite right, Barbey. But if you want to suggest that I shall help to finance it, you had better put all the cards on the table and let me know exactly what the position is; I need not say that if nothing comes of it, I shall regard any information you give me as absolutely confidential.”
The two men plunged into the subject, and for a good half-hour discussed it in all its bearings, making endless calculations and contemplating all contingencies. At last M. Rambert threw down his pen and looked up.
“I’m accustomed to the American method of hustle, Barbey. In principle I like your proposition quite well; but I won’t be one of your financial partners; if the thing goes through I’ll be the only one, or not one at all. I know what is in your mind,” he went on with a smile, as he noticed the banker’s surprise; “you know what my fortune is, or rather you think you do, and you are wondering where I shall get the million sterling, or thereabouts, that you want. Well, make your mind easy about that; if I talk like this, it’s because I’ve got it.” The banker’s bow was very deferent, and M. Rambert continued: “Yes, the last year or two have been good, even very good, for me. I’ve made some lucky speculations and my capital has further been increased by some lotteries which have turned out right quite lately. Well!” he broke off with a sigh, “I suppose one can’t always be unlucky in everything, though money can’t cure, or even touch, the wounds in one’s heart.”
The banker made no answer: he shrank from waking, by untimely words, the sad memories which were hardly dormant yet in the old man’s mind. But M. Rambert soon reverted to his business tone.
“I’m quite disposed to be interested in a financial venture like yours, Barbey. But you must understand that you will have a good deal more than a sleeping p
artner in me. Will that suit you? I should not ask you to abdicate your authority, but I tell you frankly I should follow all the operations of your house very closely indeed.”
“There shall be no secrets from you, my dear friend, my dear partner, if I may call you that,” said M. Barbey, rising: “quite the contrary!”
The banker looked towards the mantelpiece, as if expecting to see a clock there; M. Rambert understood the instinctive action and drew out his watch.
“Twenty minutes to eleven, Barbey: late hours for you. So off with you.” He cut short the banker’s half-hearted apologies for not prolonging the evening. “I am turning you out quite unceremoniously, my dear chap, and besides, as you know, I’m not lonely to-night as I generally am. I have a young and very charming companion, for whom I have the greatest possible affection, and I am going to join her.”
M. Etienne Rambert conducted his friend to the hall door, heard the sound of his motor-car die away in the distance, and then walked across the hall and, instead of going back to the smoking-room, turned into the adjoining drawing-room. He paused for a moment in the doorway, tenderly contemplating the charming spectacle that met his eyes.
The shaded light from an electric lamp fell upon the bent head, oval face and delicate features of Thérèse Auvernois, who was intent upon a book. The girl was emerging from childhood into young womanhood now, and sorrow had heightened her natural distinction by giving her a stamp of gravity that was new. Her figure showed slight and supple, delicate and graceful, and her long, taper fingers turned over the pages of the book with slow and regular movement. Thérèse looked round towards Etienne Rambert when she heard him coming in, and laying down her book she came forward to meet him, moving with a very graceful, easy carriage.
“I am sure I am keeping you up most dreadfully late, dear M. Rambert,” she said apologetically, “but what am I to do? I must wait for the Baronne de Vibray, and the dear thing is so often late!”
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