"Then I am satisfied," the Baron was kind enough to say; and I thought that his low origin came suddenly to the fore in the manner in which he bowed. A low origin is like an hereditary disease--it will bear no strain.
"By the way," he said, pausing near the door, having risen to go, "you have not told me the name of your trusted messenger."
And before the Vicomte opened his lips the answer flashed across my mind.
"Charles Miste," he said.
Chapter X
The Golden Spoon
"Nous avons tous a.s.sez de force pour supporter les maux d"autrui."
A few days later I received a letter from Madame de Clericy. "I write," it ran, "to tell you of the satisfaction that Lucille and I have found in the improvements you initiated here. I laugh--mon ami--when I think of all that you did in three days. It seems as if a strong and energetic wind--such as I imagine your English breezes to be--had blown across my old home, leaving it healthier, purer, better; leaving also those within it somewhat breathless and surprised. I suppose that many Englishmen are like you, and suspect that they will some day master the world. We have had visitors, among others Alphonse Giraud, whom I believe you do not yet know. If contrasts are mutually attractive, then you will like him. I wonder if you know, or suspect, that he is more or less an acknowledged aspirant to Lucille"s hand, but--"
Madame de Clericy had run her pen through the last word, leaving it, however, legible. And here she began a new subject, asking me, indeed, to write and give her news of the Vicomte. I am no indoor man or subtle a.n.a.lyst of a motive--much less of a woman"s motive, if, indeed, women are so often possessed of such, as some believe--but the obliterated word and Madame de Clericy"s subsequent embarkation on a new subject made me pause while I deciphered her letter.
It had originally been arranged that the Vicomte should follow the ladies to La Pauline, leaving me in Paris to attend to my duties, but the sudden political crisis led to a delay in his departure. In truth, I gathered from Madame"s letter that he must have written to her saying that the visit was at present impossible. Madame, in fact, asked me to advise her by return of the state of the Vicomte"s health, and plainly told me that if business matters were worrying him she would return to Paris without delay.
And if Madame returned she would bring Lucille with her, and thus put an end to the aspirations of Alphonse Giraud, for the prosecution of which the seclusion of La Pauline afforded excellent opportunity. I had but to write a word to bring all this about. Did Madame de Clericy know all that she placed within my power? Did she know, and yet place it there purposely? Who can tell? I remembered Lucille"s coldness--her departure without one word of explanation. I recollected that the twenty million francs at that moment in the Hotel Clericy would, in due course, be part of Alphonse Giraud"s fortune. I was mindful, lastly, that in England we are taught to ride straight, and I sat down and wrote to Madame that her husband was in good health, and that I quite hoped to see him depart in a few days for La Pauline. I will not deny that the letter went into the post-box followed by a curse.
We may, however, write letters and post them. We may--if we be great men--indite despatches and give them into the hands of trusty messengers, and a little twirl of Fortune"s wheel will send all our penmanship to the winds.
While I was smoking a pipe and deciphering a long communication received from the gentleman who further entangled my affairs in England, a visitor was announced to me.
"Monsieur Alphonse Giraud."
"Why?" I wondered as I rose to receive this gentleman. "Why, Monsieur Alphonse Giraud?"
He was already in the doorway, and, I made no doubt, had conceived an ultra-British toilet for the occasion. For outwardly he was more English than myself. He came forward, holding out his hand, and I thought of Madame"s words. Were we to become friends?
"Monsieur Howard," he said, "I have to apologise. Mon Dieu!--to think that you have been in Paris three months, and I have never called to place myself at your disposition! And a friend of Alfred Gayerson, of that good, stout John Turner--of half a dozen hardy English friends of mine."
I was about to explain that his oversight had a good excuse in the fact that my existence must have been unknown to him, but he silenced me with his two outstretched hands, waving a violent negation.
"No--no!" he said, smiting himself grievously on the chest. "I have no excuse. You say that I was ignorant of your existence--then it was my business to find it out. Ignorance is often a crime. An English gentleman--a sportsman--a fox-hunter! For you chase the fox, I know. I see it in your brown face. And you belong to the English Jockey Club--is it not so?"
I admitted that it was so, and Alphonse Giraud"s emotion was such that he could only press my hand in silence.
"Ah, well!" he cried almost immediately, with the utmost gaiety. "We have begun late, but that is no reason why it should not be a good friendship--is it?"
And he took the chair I offered with such hearty good-will that my cold English sympathy was drawn towards him.
"I came but yesterday from the South," he went on. "Indeed, from La Pauline, where I have been paying a delightful visit. Madame de Clericy--so kind--and Mademoiselle Lucille--"
He twisted up the unsuccessful side of his mustache, and gave a quick little sigh. Then he remembered his scarf, and attended to the horseshoe pin that adorned it.
"You know my father," he said, suddenly, "the--er--Baron Giraud. He has been more fortunate than myself in making your acquaintance earlier."
I bowed and said what was necessary.
"A kind man--a dear man," said the Baron"s son. "But no sportsman.
Figure to yourself--he fears an open window."
He laughed and shrugged his little shoulders.
"I dare say many Englishmen would not understand him."
"I am not of those," replied I. "I understand him and appreciate his many able qualities."
From which it will be seen that I can lie as well as any man.
"The poor dear has been called to Paris, on his affairs. Not that I understand them. I have no head for affairs. Even my tailor cheats me--but what will you? He can cut a good coat, and one must forgive him. My father"s hotel in the Champs Elysees is uninhabitable at the moment. The whitewashers!--and they sing so loud and so false, as whitewashers ever do. The poor man is desolated in an _appartement_ in the Hotel Bristol. I am all right. I have my own lodging--a mere bachelor kennel--where I hope to see you soon and often."
He threw his card on the table, rising to go, and timing his departure with that tact and grace which is only compa.s.sed by Frenchmen or Spaniards.
Scarcely had I regained my room, after duly admiring Alphonse Giraud"s smart dog-cart, when the servant again appeared. The Baron Giraud had arrived to see the Vicomte, who happened to be out. The affairs of the Baron were urgent, and he desired to see me--was, indeed, awaiting me with impatience in Monsieur de Clericy"s study.
Thither I hastened, and found the great financier in that state of perturbation and perspiration which the political crisis seemed to have rendered chronic. He was, however, sufficiently himself to remember that I was a paid dependent.
"How is this?" he cried. "I call to see the Vicomte on important affairs, and he is out."
"It is," I replied, "that the Vicomte de Clericy is not a man of affairs, but a gentleman of station and birth--that this is not an office, but a n.o.bleman"s private house."
And I suppose I looked towards the door, for the Baron gasped out something that might have been an apology, and looked redder in the face.
"But, my good sir," he whined distractedly, "it is a matter of the utmost gravity. It is a crisis in the money market. A turn of the wheel may make me a poor man. Where is the Vicomte? Where are my twenty million francs?"
"The Vicomte has gone out, as is his custom before dejeuner, and your twenty millions are, so far as I know, safe in this house. I have not the keeping of either."
"But you took the responsibility," snapped the Baron.
"For all that I am worth--namely, one hundred and twenty pounds a year, out of which I have to find my livery."
"Can you go out and find the Vicomte? I will wait here," asked the Baron, in the utmost distress. It is indeed love that makes the world go round--love of money.
"I know where he is usually to be found," was my reply, "and can go and seek him. I will return here in half an hour if I fail to find him."
"Yes--yes; go, my good sir--go! And G.o.d be with you!" With which inappropriate benediction he almost pushed me out of the room.
On making inquiries of the servants, I found my task more difficult than I had antic.i.p.ated. Monsieur de Clericy had not taken the carriage, as was his habit. He had gone out on foot, carrying, as the butler told me, a bundle of papers in his hand.
"They had the air of business papers of value--so closely he held them," added the man.