Authors: Baroness Emmuska Orczy
Mechanically, St. Genis had once more taken up his knife and fork,
though of a truth the last of his hunger had vanished. But these
Dauphiné peasants were suspicious and queer-tempered, and already the
young man's surprise had matured into a plan which he would not be able
to carry through without the help of Aristide Briot. Noisy cavaliers—he
mused to himself—a wounded man! . . . wounded by the stray shot aimed
at him by Crystal de Cambray! Indeed, St. Genis had much ado to keep his
excite
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ment in check, and to continue with a pretence at eating while
Briot watched him with stolid indifference.
"Petit père," said the young man at last with as much unconcern as he
could affect. "I have been thinking that you have—unwittingly—given me
an excellent piece of news. I do believe that the man in your best
bedroom upstairs is a friend of mine whom I was to have met at Lyons
to-day and whose absence from our place of tryst had made me very
anxious. I was imagining that all sorts of horrors had happened to him,
for he is in the secret service of the King and exposed to every kind of
danger. His being wounded in some skirmish either with highway robbers
or with a band of the Corsican's pirates would not surprise me in the
least, and the fact that he had some half-dozen mounted men with him
confirms me in my belief that indeed it is my friend who is lying
upstairs, as he often has to have an escort in the exercise of his
duties. At any rate, petit père," he concluded as he rose from the
table, "by your leave, I'll go up and ascertain."
While he rattled off these pretty proceeds of his own imagination,
Maurice de St. Genis kept a sharp watch on Aristide Briot's face, ready
to note the slightest sign of suspicion should it creep into the old
man's shrewd eyes.
Briot, however, did not exhibit any violent interest in his guest's
story, and when the latter had finished speaking he merely said,
pointing to the remnants of food upon the table:
"I thought you said that you were hungry."
"So I was, petit père," rejoined Maurice impatiently, "so I was: but my
hunger is not so great as it was, and before I eat another morsel I must
satisfy myself that it is my friend who is safe and well in your old
woman's care."
"Oh! he is well enough," grunted Briot, "and you can see him in the
morning."
"That I cannot, for I shall have to leave here soon after
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dawn. And I
could not get a wink of sleep whilst I am in such a state of uncertainty
about my friend."
"But you can't go and wake him now. He is asleep for sure, and my old
woman wouldn't like him to be disturbed, after all the care she has
given him."
St. Genis, fretting with impatience, could have cursed aloud or shaken
the obstinate old peasant roughly by the shoulders.
"I shouldn't wake him," he retorted, irritated beyond measure at the
man's futile opposition. "I'll go up on tiptoe, candle in hand—you
shall show me the way to his room—and I'll just ascertain whether the
wounded man is my friend or not, then I'll come down again quietly and
finish my supper.
"Come, petit père, I insist," he added more peremptorily, seeing that
Briot—with the hesitancy peculiar to his kind—still made no movement
to obey, but stood close by scratching his scanty locks and looking
puzzled and anxious.
Fortunately for him Maurice understood the temperament of these peasants
of the Dauphiné, he knew that with their curious hesitancy and inherent
suspiciousness it was always the easiest to make up their minds for
them.
So now—since he was absolutely determined to come to grips with that
abominable thief upstairs, before the night was many minutes older—he
ceased to parley with Briot.
A candle stood close to his hand on the table, a bit of kindling wood
lay in a heap in one corner, with the help of the one he lighted the
other, then candle in hand he walked up to the door.
"Show me the way, petit père," he said.
And Aristide Briot, with a shrug of the shoulders which implied that he
there and then put away from him any responsibility for what might or
might not occur after this, and without further comment, led the way
upstairs.
On the upper landing at the top of the stairs Briot paused. He pointed
to a door at the end of the narrow corridor, and said curtly:
"That's his room."
"I thank you, petit père," whispered St. Genis in response. "Don't wait
for me, I'll be back directly."
"He is not yet in bed," was Briot's dry comment.
A thin streak of light showed underneath the door. As St. Genis walked
rapidly toward it he wondered if the door would be locked. That
certainly was a contingency which had not occurred to him. His design
was to surprise a wounded and helpless thief in his sleep and to force
him then and there to give up the stolen money, before he had time to
call for help.
But the miscreant was evidently on the watch, Briot still lingered on
the top of the stairs, there were other people sleeping in the house,
and St. Genis suddenly realised that his purpose would not be quite so
easy of execution as he had hot-headedly supposed.
But the end in view was great, and St. Genis was not a man easily
deterred from a set purpose. There was the royalist cause to aid and
Crystal to be won if he were successful.
He knocked resolutely at the door, then tried the latch. The door was
locked: but even as the young man hesitated for a moment wondering what
he would do next, a firm step resounded on the floor on the other side
of the partition and the next moment the door was opened from within,
and a peremptory voice issued the usual challenge:
"Who goes there?"
A tall figure appeared as a massive silhouette under the lintel. St.
Genis had the candle in his hand. He dropped it in his astonishment.
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"Mr. Clyffurde!" he exclaimed.
At sight of St. Genis the Englishman, whose right arm was in a sling,
had made a quick instinctive movement back into the room, but equally
quickly Maurice had forestalled him by placing his foot across the
threshold.
Then he turned back to Aristide Briot.
"That's all right, petit père," he called out airily, "it is indeed my
friend, just as I thought. I'm going to stay and have a little chat with
him. Don't wait up for me. When he is tired of my company I'll go back
to the parlour and make myself happy in front of the fire. Good-night!"
As Clyffurde no longer stood in the doorway, St. Genis walked straight
into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving good old Aristide
to draw what conclusions he chose from the eccentric behaviour of his
nocturnal visitors.
With a rapid and wrathful gaze, St. Genis at once took stock of
everything in the room. A sigh of satisfaction rose to his lips. At any
rate the rogue could not deny his guilt. There, hanging on a peg, was
the caped coat which he had worn, and there on the table were two
damning proofs of his villainy—a pair of pistols and a black mask.
The whole situation puzzled him more than he could say. Certainly after
the first shock of surprise he had felt his wrath growing hotter and
hotter every moment, the other man's cool assurance helped further to
irritate his nerves, and to make him lose that self-control which would
have been of priceless value in this unlooked-for situation.
Seeing that Maurice de St. Genis was absolutely speechless with surprise
as well as with anger, there crept into Clyffurde's deep-set grey eyes a
strange look of amusement, as if the humour of his present position was
more obvious than its shame.
"And what," he asked pleasantly, "has procured me the
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honour at this
late hour of a visit from M. le Marquis de St. Genis?"
His words broke the spell. There was no longer any mystery in the
situation. The condemnatory pieces of evidence were there, Clyffurde's
connection with de Marmont was well known—the plot had become obvious.
Here was an English adventurer—an alien spy—who had obviously been
paid to do this dirty work for the usurper, and—as Maurice now
concluded airily—he must be made to give up the money which he had
stolen before he be handed over to the military authorities at Lyons and
shot as a spy or a thief—Maurice didn't care which: the whole thing was
turning out far simpler and easier than he had dared to hope.
"You know quite well why I am here," he now said, roughly. "Of a truth,
for the moment I was taken by surprise, for I had not thought that a man
who had been honoured by the friendship of M. le Comte de Cambray and of
his family was a thief, as well as a spy."
"And now," said Clyffurde, still smiling and apparently quite
unperturbed, "that you have been enlightened on this subject to your own
satisfaction, may I ask what you intend to do?"
"Force you to give up what you have stolen, you impudent thief,"
retorted the other savagely.
"And how are you proposing to do that, M. de St. Genis?" asked the
Englishman with perfect equanimity.
"Like this," cried Maurice, whose exasperation and fury had increased
every moment, as the other man's assurance waxed more insolent and more
cool.
"Like this!" he cried again, as he sprang at his enemy's throat.
A past master in the art of self-defence, Clyffurde—despite his wounded
arm—was ready for the attack. With his left on guard he not only
received the brunt of the
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onslaught, but parried it most effectually
with a quick blow against his assailant's jaw.
St. Genis—stunned by this forcible contact with a set of exceedingly
hard knuckles—fell back a step or two, his foot struck against some
object on the floor, he lost his balance and measured his length
backwards across the bed.
"You abominable thief . . . you . . ." he cried, choking with rage and
with discomfiture as he tried to struggle to his feet.
But this he at once found that he could not do, seeing that a pair of
firm and muscular knees were gripping and imprisoning his legs, even
while that same all-powerful left hand with the hard knuckles had an
unpleasant hold on his throat.
"I should have tried some other method, M. de St. Genis, had I been in
your shoes," came in irritatingly sarcastic accents from his calm
antagonist.
Indeed, the insolent rogue did not appear in the least overwhelmed by
the enormity of his crime or by the disgrace of being so ignominiously
found out. From his precarious position across the bed St. Genis had a
good view of the rascal's finely knit figure, of his earnest face, now
softened by a smile full of kindly humour and good-natured contempt.
An impartial observer viewing the situation would certainly have thought
that here was an impudent villain vanquished and lying on his back,
whilst being admonished for his crimes by a just man who had might as
well as right on his side.
"Let me go, you confounded thief," St. Genis cried, as soon as the
unpleasant grip on his throat had momentarily relaxed, "you accursed spy
. . . you . . ."
"Easy, easy, my young friend," said the other calmly; "you have called
me a thief quite often enough to satisfy your rage: and further epithets
might upset my temper."
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"Let go my throat!"
"I will in a moment or two, as soon as I have made up my mind what I am
going to do with you, my impetuous young friend—whether I shall truss
you like a fowl and put you in charge of our worthy host, as guilty of
assaulting one of his guests, or whether I shall do you some trifling
injury to punish you for trying to do me a grave one."
"Right is on my side," said St. Genis doggedly. "I do not care what you
do to me."
"Right is apparently on your side, my friend. I'll not deny it.
Therefore, I still hesitate."
"Like a rogue and a vagabond at dead of night you attacked and robbed
those who have never shown you anything but kindness."
"Until the hour when they turned me out of their house like a dishonest
lacquey, without allowing me a word of explanation."
"Then this is your idea of vengeance, is it, Mr. Clyffurde?"
"Yes, M. de St. Genis, it is. But not quite in the manner that you
suppose. I am going to set you free now in order to set your mind at
rest. But let me warn you that I shall be just as much on the alert
against another attack from you as ever I was before, and that I could
ward off two or even three assailants with my left arm and knee as
easily as I warded off one. It is a way we have in England."
He relaxed his hold on Maurice's legs and throat, and the young
man—fretting and fuming, wild with impotent wrath and with
mortification—struggled to his feet.
"Are you proposing to give me some explanation to mitigate your crime?"
he said roughly. "If so, let me tell you that I will accept none.
Putting the question aside of your abominable theft, you have committed
an outrage
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against people whom I honour, and against the woman whom I
love."
"Nor do I propose to give you any explanation, M. de St. Genis,"
retorted Clyffurde, who still spoke quite quietly and evenly. "But for
the sake of your own peace of mind, which you will I hope communicate to
the people whom you honour, I will tell you a few simple facts."
Neither of the men sat down: they stood facing one another now across
the table whereon stood a couple of tallow candles which threw fitful,
yellow lights on their faces—so different, so strangely
contrasted—young and well-looking both—both strongly moved by passion,
yet one entirely self-controlled, while in the other's eyes that passion
glowed fierce and resentful.
"I listen," said St. Genis curtly.
And Clyffurde began after a slight pause: "At the time that you fell
upon me with such ill-considered vigour, M. de St. Genis," he said, "did
you know that but for my abominable outrage upon the persons whom you
honour, the money which they would gladly have guarded with their life
would have fallen into the hands of Bonaparte's agents?"