I opened one of them--a draft for five thousand pounds, drawn by John Turner on Messrs. Sweed & Carter of New York! I counted the drafts aloud and had a long task, for they numbered seventy-nine.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "AND NOW FOR HIS POCKETS!" I SAID, HARDENING MY HEART.]
"That," I said, handing them to Giraud, "is the half of your fortune.
If we have luck we shall find the remainder in Sander"s hands at Genoa."
And Alphonse Giraud must needs embrace me, hurting my shoulder most infernally, and pouring out a rapid torrent of apology and self-recrimination.
"I listened when it was hinted to me that you were not honest," he cried, "that you were not seeking the money at all, or that you had already recovered it! I have watched you as if you were a thief--Mon Dieu, what a scoundrel I have been."
"At all events you have the money now."
"Yes." He paused, fingering the papers, while he thoughtfully looked down into the valley. "Yes, d.i.c.k--and it cannot buy me what I want."
Thus we are, and always shall be, when we possess at length that for which we have long yearned.
We made a further search in Miste"s pockets, and found nothing. The man"s clothing was of the finest, and his linen most clean and delicate.
I had a queer feeling of regret that he should be dead--having wanted his life these many months and now possessing it. Ah--those accomplished desires! They stalk through life behind us--an army of silent ghosts.
For months afterwards I missed him--incomprehensible though this may appear. A good foe is a tonic to the heart. Some of us are virtuous for the sake of our friends--others pay the tribute to their foes.
There was still plenty of work for us to do, though neither was in a state to execute it. My left arm had stiffened right down to the fingers, which kept closing up despite my endeavours to keep life and movement in them. The hurt in my cheek had fortunately ceased bleeding, and Giraud bound it up with Miste"s handkerchief. I recall the scent of the fine cambric to this day, and when I smell a like odour see a dead man lying on a snow-field.
We composed Miste in a decent att.i.tude, with his slim hands crossed on his breast, and then turned our steps downward towards St. Martin Lantosque. To one who had never known a day"s illness, the fatigue consequent upon the loss of so much blood was particularly irksome, and I cursed my luck many a time as we stumbled over the snow. Giraud would not let me finish the brandy in his flask, but kept some for an emergency.
The peasants were at work in the fields when we at length reached the valley, and took no heed of us. We told no one of Miste lying alone on the snow far above, but went straight to the gendarmerie, where we found the chief--a sensible man, himself an old soldier--who heard our story to an end without interruption, and promised to give us all a.s.sistance. He sent at once for the doctor, and held my shoulder tenderly while the ball was taken from it. This he kept, together with Miste"s revolver, and indeed acted throughout with the greatest shrewdness and good sense. As an old campaigner he strongly urged me to remain quietly at St. Martin for a few days until the fever which inevitably follows a bullet wound should have abated; but, on learning that it was my intention to proceed at once to Genoa, placed no difficulty in my way.
Knowing that I should find Sander at Genoa, where I could be tended, Giraud decided to remain at St. Martin Lantosque until Miste had been buried and all formalities observed.
So I set forth alone about midday--in a private carriage placed at my disposal by some local good Samaritan--feeling like a worm and no man.
Chapter XXVII
The Hand of G.o.d
"Chacun ne comprend que ce qu"il retrouve en soi."
Mr. Sander only made a mistake common to Englishmen when he underrated the capacity of his neighbour. Hearing from his colleague in Nice that Miste had left that city for St. Martin Lantosque, with us upon his heels, Sander concluded that our quarry would escape us, and with great prompt.i.tude set forth to Cuneo to await his arrival there.
Before leaving Genoa, however, my agent took steps to ensure the transmission of his correspondence, and a telegram despatched by Giraud from St. Martin, after my departure thence, duly reached the addressee at Cuneo. On arriving, therefore, at Genoa, and going to the Hotel de Genes there, I found, not Mr. Sander, but a telegraphic message from him bidding me await his return.
"At what time," I asked the waiter, "arrives the next train from Cuneo?"
"At eight o"clock, signor."
I looked at the clock. It was now seven.
"There is a steamer sailing this evening for South America," I said.
"Yes, signor; with many pa.s.sengers from this hotel."
"At what time?"
"At seven o"clock--even now."
A minute later I was driving down to the docks--my swimming head full of half-matured ideas of bribing some one to delay the steamer. Then came the blessed reflection that, in the absence of Miste, his confederate would certainly not depart alone. I knew enough of their tactics to feel sure that instead of taking pa.s.sage in the steamer this man (who could only be a subordinate to that master in cunning who had shot me) must perforce await his chief"s arrival.
Nevertheless, I bade the man drive as quickly as the vile pavement would allow, thinking to board the steamer at all events and scrutinise the faces of her pa.s.sengers. We rattled through the narrow and tortuous streets, reaching the port in time to see the last rope cast off from the great vessel as she swung round to seaward. I hurried to the pierhead, and reached the extremity of the port before the _Principe Amadeo_, which had to move with circ.u.mspection amid the shipping.
The pa.s.sengers were a.s.sembled on deck, taking what many of them doubtless knew to be a last look at their native land. The lowering sun cast a glow over city and harbour, while a great silence hovered over all. The steamer came quite close to the pierhead. I could have tossed a letter on her deck.
Suddenly my heart stood still as my gaze lighted on the form of an old man who stood at the stern-rail a little apart from his fellow-pa.s.sengers. He stood with his back turned towards me looking up to the lighthouse. Every line of his form, his att.i.tude, the very locks of thin, white hair were familiar to me. This was the Vicomte de Clericy, and no other--the man whose funeral I had attended at Senneville six months ago. I did not cry out, or rub my eyes, or feel unreal, as people do in books. I knew that I was my sober self, and yonder was the Vicomte de Clericy. But I thought that the pier was moving and not the steamer, and b.u.mped awkwardly against my neighbour, who looked at me curiously and apologised.
The old man by the stern-rail slowly turned and showed me his face--bland, benevolent, short-sighted. I can swear that it was the Vicomte de Clericy, though the world has only my word for it; that Lucille"s father--dead, buried and mourned--stood on the deck of the steamer _Principe Amadeo_ as she steamed out into the Gulf of Genoa on the evening of the 30th of May, 1871.
The precious moments slipped by, the great steamer glided past me. I heard the engine-room gong. The screw stirred the clear water, and I was left gazing stupidly at the receding form of my old patron as he stood with his placid hands clasped behind him.
It was some time before I left the spot; for my wounds had left me weak, and I have never had that quickness of brain which enables men to see the right course, and take it in a flash of thought.
The steamer had gone--was, indeed, now growing smaller on the horizon--and on board of her the Vicomte de Clericy. There was no gainsaying it. I had seen him with my own eyes, but why had he done this thing?
My shoulder throbbed painfully. I was sick at heart, and could not bring my mind to bear upon any one subject. The cab-driver had followed as far as he could, and now stood beckoning to me with his whip. I went back, and bade him drive me to the hotel; for I had not been in bed for three nights, and had a strong desire to get and remain there until this great fatigue should at length leave me.
Of what followed I have but a dim recollection; indeed, remember little from that time until I awoke in a bedroom at the Hotel de Genes and found a gentle pink and white face, surrounded by a snowy cap, bending over my bed.
"What time is it, and what day, my sister?" I asked, and was gently commanded to hold my tongue. She gave me a spoonful of something with no taste to it, without so much as asking me whether I wanted it.
Indeed, this gentle person treated me as a child, as, moreover, I think women always treat such men as are wholly in their power.
"You must keep quiet," she said. "See, I will read to you!" and taking a book from her pocket read aloud the Psalms in a cunning sing-song voice that sent me to sleep.
When I awoke again the nun was still in the room, and, with her, Sander, talking the most atrocious French. A queer contrast. One of the world worldly, a moth that battened on the seamy side; the other far above the wickedness of men.
"Hush!" I heard her say. "He is awake, and must not hear of your affairs."
And she turned away from poor Sander, with his shrewd air, as from the world and the iniquity thereof.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at her placid back, which, indeed, she gave him unceremoniously enough, with a hopeless contempt.
Womanhood had earned, it appeared, his profoundest scorn as unbusinesslike and incompetent. Nunhood simply astounded him.
"Look here, my sister!" he said, plucking impatiently at her demure sleeve, and even in my semi-consciousness I smiled at the sound of the words from his c.o.c.kney lips.
"Well?" she answered, turning her unruffled glance upon him.
Sander lowered his voice and talked hurriedly in her ear. But she only shook her head. How small the things of this world are to those who look with honest eyes beyond it!
"Well, I _must_ tell him--there!" exclaimed Sander, angrily, and he made a step towards the bed. But she laid her hand on his arm and held him. It was a queer picture.