_ PART IV CHAPTER VI. MAN TO MAN
There was a quick movement in answer to the summons, and in a moment the visitor presented himself. He had taken the false hair from his face, and his gait was no longer halting. He looked up at Mordaunt with sharp anxiety as he came through.
"No one else has recognized me?" he asked.
"I believe not."
He drew a quick breath of relief. "_Bien_! It has been an affair _tres difficile_. I have feared detection _mille fois_. Yet I did not expect you to recognize me so soon."
"You see, I happen to know you rather well," Mordaunt said.
The Frenchman spread out his hands protestingly. The excitement of the adventure had flushed his face and kindled his eyes. He looked younger and more ardent than Mordaunt had ever seen him. The weariness that had so grown upon him during his exile had fallen from him like a cloak. "But you do not know me at all!" he said.
Mordaunt passed over the remark as if he had not heard it. "What have you come for?" he asked.
"To see you, monsieur." The reply was as direct as the question. A momentary challenge shone in Bertrand's eyes as he made it.
But Mordaunt remained coldly unimpressed. "It was not a very wise move on your part," he remarked. "You will be arrested if you are discovered. The authorities are not ready for you yet. They are quite capable of suppressing you for good and all if it suits their purpose."
"I know it. But that is of no importance after to-night." Bertrand stood and faced him squarely. "After to-night," he said, "they may do what they will. I shall have accomplished that which I came to do."
"And that?" said Mordaunt. He looked back into the eager eyes with the aloofness of a stranger. His manner was too impersonal to express either enmity or contempt.
The keenness began to die out of Bertrand's face, and a certain dignity took its place. "That," he made answer, "is to tell you the truth in such a fashion that, although you think that I am a thief, you will believe it."
"I do not think that you are in a position to tell me anything that I do not know already," Mordaunt answered quietly. "By the way, it may interest you to hear that the affair of the cheque has been cleared up. I wronged you there, but I do not think that I was responsible for the wrong."
"I was responsible," Bertrand said, his voice very low. "I deceived you. And for that you will not pardon me, no?"
But the level grey eyes looked through and beyond him. "That," Mordaunt said, "is a matter of small importance now. Deceptions of that kind are never excusable in my opinion; but as I do not expect you to share my point of view, it seems scarcely worth while to discuss it."
Bertrand bowed stiffly. "It is not of that that I desire to speak. Of myself you will think--what you will. I have merited--and I will endure--your displeasure. But of _la petite_"--he paused--"of Christine"--he faltered a little, and finally amended--"of _madame votre femme_, you will think only that which is good. For that is her nature, that. And for me," his voice throbbed with sudden passion, "I would rather bear any insult than that you should think otherwise of her. For she is pure and innocent as a child. Do you not see that I would sooner die than harm her? And it has always, always been so. You believe me, no?"
Mordaunt's face was as stone. "I shouldn't go on if I were you," he said. "You have nothing whatever to gain. As I have told you, I know already all that you can tell me upon this subject, and what I think of it is my affair alone. It is a pity that you took the trouble to come here. If you take my advice, you will leave me on the earliest opportunity."
"But you are mistaken. You do not know all." Impulsively Bertrand threw back the words. "You cannot refuse to listen to me," he said. "I appeal to your honour, to your sense of justice. If you knew all, as you say, you would not leave her thus. If you believed her to be blameless--as she is--you would not abandon her in her hour of trouble. I tell you, monsieur"--his breath quickened suddenly and he caught his hand to his side--"if you know the truth, you are committing a crime for which no penalty is enough severe."
He broke off, panting, and turned towards the open window.
Mordaunt said nothing whatever. His face was set like a mask. The only sign of feeling he gave was in the slow clenching of one hand.
After a few moments Bertrand wheeled round. "See!" he said. "I have followed you here to tell you the truth face to face, as I shall tell it--_bientot_--to the good God. You shall bind me by any oath that you will, though it should be enough for you that I have nothing at all to gain, as you have said. I shall hide nothing from you. I shall extenuate nothing. I shall tell you only the truth, man to man, as my heart knows it. For her sake, you will listen, yes?"
His voice slipped into sudden pleading. He stretched out his hands persuasively to the impassive Englishman, who still seemed to be looking through him rather than at him. He waited for an answer, but none came.
"_Eh bien_!" he said, with a quick sigh of disappointment. "Then I shall speak in spite of you. I begin with our meeting four years ago among the rocks of Valpre. It was an accident by which we met. I was working to complete my invention, and for the greater privacy I had taken it to the old cave of the contrabandists upon the shore--a place haunted by the spirits of the dead--so that I was safe from interruption. Or so I thought, till one afternoon she came to me like a goddess from the sea. She had cut her foot among the stones, and I bound it for her and carried her back to Valpre. She was only a child then, with eyes clear as the sunshine. She trusted herself to me as if I had been her brother. That is easy to comprehend, is it not?"
Again he paused for an answer, but Mordaunt said no word; his lips were firmly closed.
With a characteristic lift of the shoulders Bertrand continued. "_Apres cela_ we met again and then again. _La petite_ was lonely, and I, I played with her. I drew for her the pictures in the sand. We became--pals." He smiled with a touch of wistfulness over the word that his English friend had taught him. "We shared our secrets. Once--she was bathing"--his voice softened imperceptibly--"and I took her into my boat and rowed her back. It was then that I knew first that I loved her. Yet we remained comrades. I spoke to her no word of love. She was too young, and I had nothing to offer. I said to myself that I would win her when I had won my reputation, and in the meantime I would be patient. It was not very difficult, for she did not understand. And then one day we went to explore my cavern--she called it the Magic Cave, of which she was the princess and I her _preux chevalier_. We were as children in those days," he put in half-apologetically, "and it was her _fete_. _Bien_, we started. _Le petit_ Cinders went with us, and almost before we had entered he ran away. We followed him, for Christine was very anxious. I had never been beyond the second cavern myself, and we had only one lantern. We came to a place where the passage divided, and here we agreed that she should wait while I went forward. I took the lantern. We could hear him yelp in the distance, and she feared that he was hurt. So I left her alone, and presently, hearing him, as I thought, in front of me, I ran, and stumbled and fell. The lantern was broken and I was stunned. It was long before I recovered, and then it was with great difficulty that I returned. I found her awaiting me still, and Cinders with her. It was dark and horrible, but she was too brave to run away. I heard her singing, and so I found her. But by that time the sea had reached the mouth of the cave, and there was no retreat. We had no choice. We were prisoners for the night. It might have happened to anyone, monsieur. It might have happened to you. You blame me--not yet?"
Again the note of pleading was in his voice, but Mordaunt maintained his silence. Only his eyes were no longer sphinx-like. They were fixed intently upon the Frenchman's face.
Bertrand went on as though he had been answered. "I kept watch all through the night, while she slept like an infant in my arms. You would have done the same. In the morning when the tide permitted, we laughed over the adventure and returned to Valpre. She went to her governess and I to the fortress. By then everybody in Valpre knew what had happened. They had believed that we were drowned, and when we reappeared all were astonished. Later they began to whisper, and that evening the villain Rodolphe, being intoxicated, proposed in my presence an infamous toast. I struck him in the mouth and knocked him down. He challenged me to a duel, and we fought early in the morning down on the sand. But that day the gods were not on my side. Christine and Cinders were gone to the sea to bathe, and, as they returned, they found us fighting. _Le bon_ Cinders, he precipitate himself between us. _La petite_ rush to stop him--too late. Rodolphe is startled; he plunge, and my sword pierce his arm. _C'etait la un moment tres difficile. La petite_ try to explain, to apologize, and me--I lead her away. _Apres cela_ she go back to England, and I see her not again. But Rodolphe, he forgive me--never. That, monsieur--and only that--is the true story of that which happened at Valpre. The little Christine left--as she arrived--a pure and innocent child."
He stopped. Mordaunt's eyes were still studying him closely. He met them with absolute freedom.
"I will finish," he said, "and you shall then judge for yourself. As you know, I had scarcely attained my ambition when I was ruined. It was then that you first saw me. You believed me innocent, and later, when Destiny threw me in your path, you befriended me. I have no need to tell you what your friendship was to me. No words can express it or my desolation now that I have lost it. I fear that I was never worthy of your--so great--confidence." His voice shook a little, and he paused to steady it. "It was my intention--always--to be worthy. The fault lay in that I did not realize my weakness. I ought to have left you when I knew that _la petite_ was become your fiancee."
For the first time Mordaunt broke his silence. "Why not have told me the truth?"
Bertrand raised his shoulders. "I did not feel myself at liberty to tell you. Afterwards, I found that her eyes had been opened, and she was afraid for you to know. It did not seem an affair of great importance, and I let it pass. We were pals again. She gave me her confidence, and I would sooner have died," he spoke passionately, "than have betrayed it. I thought that I could hide my heart from her, and that only myself would suffer. And this I can say with truth: by no word, no look, no action, of mine were her eyes opened. I was always _le bon frere_ to her, neither less nor more, until the awakening came. I was always faithful to you, monsieur. I never forgot that she belonged to you--that she was--the wife of--my friend."
Something seemed to rise in his throat, and he stopped sharply. A moment later very slowly he sat down.
"You permit me?" he said. "I am--a little--tired. As you know, I began to see at last that I could not remain with you. I resolved to go. But the death of Cinders prevented me. She was in trouble, and she desired me to stay. I should have grieved her if I had refused. I was wrong, I admit it. I should have gone then. I should have left her to you. I do not defend myself. I only beg you to believe that I did not see the danger, that if I had seen it I would not have remained for a single moment more. Then came the day at Sandacre, the encounter with Rodolphe. I knew that evening that something had passed between them; what it was she would not tell me. I tried to persuade her then to let me tell you the whole truth. But she was terrified--_la pauvre petite_. She thought that you would be angry with her. She feared that you would ask questions that she could not answer. She had kept the secret so long that she dared not reveal it."
"In short," Mordaunt said, "she was afraid that I should suspect her of caring for you."
His words were too quiet to sound brutal, but they were wholly without mercy. Bertrand's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and he winced visibly.
Yet he answered with absolute candour. "Yes, monsieur. I believe she was. I believe that it was the beginning of all this trouble. But had I known that Rodolphe would use his knowledge to extort money from her, I would not have yielded--no, not one inch--to her importunity. I did not know it. Christine was afraid of me also. I had fought one duel for her; perhaps she dreaded another. And so the mischief was done."
"And who told you that she had been blackmailed?" Mordaunt demanded curtly.
Bertrand made answer without hesitation. "I heard that two days ago from Max."
"Max?"
"Her brother, Max Wyndham."
"And who told him?"
Bertrand's black brows went up. "I believe it was his cousin Captain Forest."
"Ah! So he sent you, did he? I might have known he would." For the first time Mordaunt spoke with bitterness.
"Monsieur, no one sent me." There was dignity in Bertrand's rejoinder, a dignity that compelled belief. "I came as soon as I knew what had happened. I came to redress a great wrong. I came to restore to you that which is your own property--of which, in truth, you have never been deprived. With your permission, I will finish. On the night of the fireworks, the night you were in London, I--betrayed myself. I cannot tell you how it happened. I know only that my love became suddenly a flame that I could not hide. She had been in danger, and me--I lost my self-control. The veil was withdrawn, I could hide my love no more. I showed her my heart just as it was, and--she showed me hers."
Bertrand rose with none of his customary impetuosity and stood in front of Mordaunt, meeting the steady eyes with equal steadiness.
"I tell you the truth," he said. "We understand each other, and we love each other. But you--you are even now more to her than I have ever been. She has need of you as she has never had of me. You are the reality in her life. I"--he spread out his hands--"I am the romance."
He paused as if to gather his strength, then went rapidly on. But his face was grey. He looked like a man who had travelled fast and far. "Monsieur," he said very earnestly, "believe me, I do not stand between you. I love her--I love you both--too much for that. My one desire, my one prayer, is for her happiness--and yours. Do not, I beseech you, make me an obstacle. You are her protector. Do not leave her unprotected!"
Again for an instant he paused, seeming to strive after self-control. Then suddenly he relinquished the attempt. He flung his dignity from him; he threw himself on his knees at the impassive Englishman's feet. "Mr. Mordaunt," he cried out brokenly, "I have told you the truth. As a dying man, I swear to you--by God--that I have hidden nothing. Monsieur--monsieur--go back to her--make her happy--before I die!"
His voice dropped. He sank forward, murmuring incoherently.
Mordaunt stooped sharply over him. "Bertrand, for Heaven's sake--" he began, and broke off short; for the face that still tried to look into his was so convulsed with agony that he knew him to be for the moment beyond the reach of words.
He lifted the huddled Frenchman to a chair with great gentleness; but the paroxysm did not pass. It was terrible to witness. It seemed to rack him from head to foot, and through it he still strove to plead, though his speech was no more than broken sound, inexpressibly painful to hear, impossible to understand.
Mordaunt bent over him at last, all his hardness merged into pity. "My dear fellow, don't!" he said. "Give yourself time. Haven't you anything with you that will relieve this pain?"
Bertrand could not answer him. He made a feeble gesture with his right hand; his left was clenched and rigid.
Mordaunt began to feel in his pockets; his touch was as gentle as a woman's. But his search was unavailing. He only found an empty bottle. Bertrand had evidently taken the remedy it had contained earlier in the evening.
He turned to get some brandy, but Bertrand clutched at his sleeve and detained him. "Max is here," he gasped. "Find Max! He--knows!"
His hand fell away, and Mordaunt went to the door. Holmes had returned to his post in the passage. He came forward as the door opened.
"Mr. Max Wyndham is somewhere here," Mordaunt said. "Go and find him, and bring him back with you--at once."
Holmes nodded comprehension and went.
Mordaunt turned back into the room. Bertrand had slipped to the floor again, and was lying face downwards. His breathing was anguished, but he made no other sound.
Mordaunt poured out some brandy and went to him. He knelt down by his side and tried to administer it. But Bertrand could not drink. He could only gasp. Yet after a moment his hand came out gropingly and touched the man beside him.
Mordaunt took it and held it.
"You--believe me?" Bertrand jerked out.
"I believe you," Mordaunt answered very gravely.
"You--you forgive?"
Painfully the question came. It went into silence. But the hand that had taken Bertrand's closed slowly and very firmly.
"_Et la petite--la petite--_" faltered Bertrand.
The silence endured for seconds. It seemed as if no answer would come. And through it the man's anguished breathing came and went with a dreadful pumping sound as of some broken machinery.
At last, slowly, as though he weighed each word before he uttered it, Mordaunt spoke.
"You may trust her to me," he said.
And the hand in his stirred and gripped in gratitude, Bertrand de Montville had not spent himself in vain. _