The Shoes of Fortune

by Neil Munro

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW

  It was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle'sstairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!)responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the samehad been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barrencomfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiledat first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at theunresponse of mine.

  "I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw," said I.

  The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is moretruth in a menial eye than in most others, and this man's fashionablefalsehood extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he wasacting upon instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable forhim, he saw that I saw.

  "Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhoodtill she returns," I said, and leaned against the railing. Thisfrightened him somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did notknow when she might return.

  "It does not matter," I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my couragemuch higher in the circumstances than I had expected. "If it's midnightshe shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance uponwhich to consult her."

  He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon thedoor-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions hadnot gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how hewas further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unableto get a glance of recognition from me, and resenting furtherthe inconvenience to which I was subjecting him, he rose to animpertinence--the first (to do him justice) I had ever found in him.

  "Will Monsieur," said he, "tell me who I shall say called?"

  The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and "My good rogue,"said I, "if the circumstances were more favourable I should have thefelicity of giving you an honest drubbing." He got very red. "Come,Bernard," I said, adopting another tone, "I think you owe me someconsideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to giveyou all the information you required some time ago for your employers,tell me the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?"

  He was saved an answer by the lady herself.

  "La! Mr. Greig!" she cried, coming to the door and putting forth awelcoming hand. "My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he shouldexcept my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors."So much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, "My dearman of Mearns, you are as dour as--as dour as--"

  "As a donkey," I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. "And Ifeel very much like that humble beast at this moment."

  "I do not wonder at it," said she, throwing herself in a chair. "Tothrust yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!"

  "I am the ass--I have been the ass--it would appear, in other respectsas well."

  She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back herhair, that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caughther rather early in the morning; she had not even the preparation ofa _petit lever_; and because of a certain chagrin at being discoveredscarcely looking her best her first remarks were somewhat chilly.

  "Well, at least you have persistency, I'll say that of it," she wenton, with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. "And for what am Iindebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?"

  "It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you foryour offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d'Auvergne issettled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself,for it looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting mydistinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month,and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper Ishould come in my own person to thank you for your good offices."

  "Do not mention it," she said hurriedly. "I am only too glad that Icould be of the smallest service to you."

  "I cannot think," I went on, "what I can have done to warrant yourdispleasure with me."

  "Displeasure!" she replied. "Who said I was displeased?"

  "What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing youfor this past week."

  "Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig," she said, trifling with her rings."Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itselfas a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig's ordinary intuitions."

  "It's a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to," Isaid. "And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arisesnow, and how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me."

  "No matter," said she, and paused. "And so you are going to thefrontier, and are come to say good-bye to me?"

  "Now that you remind me that is exactly my object," I said, rising togo. She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, asif she felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet Inoticed a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed.

  "And so you go, Mr. Greig?" she said. "There's but the one thing I wouldlike to say to my friend, and that's that I should like him not to thinkunkindly of one that values his good opinion--if she were worthy to haveit. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and nowthat I'm to lose them I feel like to greet." She was indeed inclinedto tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of myannoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration.

  "I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "Youfound me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it's a manthat's leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than itwould otherwise have been, and this last kindness--that forces me awayfrom you--is one more I have to thank you for."

  She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or thereverse, and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half.

  "I owed all the little I could do to my countryman," said she.

  "And I hope I have been useful," I blurted out, determined to show her Iwas going with open eyes.

  Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. "I hope you will forgivethat, Mr. Greig," she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to mymeaning.

  "There is nothing to forgive," I said shortly. "I am proud that I was ofservice, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose housesome more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint isthat the person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the littleshare I had unconsciously in preserving his life."

  "I am sure he is very grateful," she cried hastily, and perplexed. "Imay tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in theregiment."

  "So I have been told," I said, and she looked a little startled. "So Ihave been told. It may be that I'll be more grateful by-and-by, when Isee what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitudegreatly hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the--in the person'sactings towards myself!"

  "Inconsistency!" she repeated bitterly. "That need not surprise you! ButI do not understand."

  "It is simply that--perhaps to hasten me to my duties--his RoyalHighness this morning sent a ruffian to fight me."

  I have never seen a face so suddenly change as hers did when she heardthis; for ordinary she had a look of considerable amiability, a soft,kind eye, a ready smile that had the hint (as I have elsewhere said)of melancholy, a voice that, especially in the Scots, was singularlyattractive. A temper was the last thing I would have charged her with,yet now she fairly flamed, "What is this you are telling me, PaulGreig?" she cried, her eyes stormy, her bosom beginning to heave. "Oh,just that M. Albany (as he calls himself) has some grudge against me,for he sent a man--Bonnat--to pick a quarrel with me, and by Bonnat'sown confession the duel that was to ensue was to be _a outrance_. Butfor the intervention of a friend, half an hour ago, there would havebeen a vacancy already in the Regiment d'Auvergne."

  "Good heavens!" she cried. "You must be mistaken. What object in th
ewide world could his Royal Highness have in doing you any harm? You werean instrument in the preservation of his life."

  I bowed extremely low, with a touch of the courts I had not when Ilanded first in Dunkerque.

  "I have had the distinguished honour, Miss Walkinshaw," I said. "AndI should have thought that enough to counterbalance my unfortunate andignorant engagement with his enemies."

  "But why, in Heaven's name, should he have a shred of resentment againstyou?"

  "It seems," I said, "that it has something to do with my boldness inusing the Rue de la Boucherie for an occasional promenade."

  She put her two hands up to her face for a moment, but I could see thewine-spill in between, and her very neck was in a flame.

  "Oh, the shame! the shame!" she cried, and began to walk up and down theroom like one demented. "Am I to suffer these insults for ever in spiteof all that I may do to prove--to prove----"

  She pulled herself up short, put down her hands from a face exceedinglydistressed, and looked closely at me. "What must you think of me, Mr.Greig?" she asked suddenly in quite a new key.

  "What do I think of myself to so disturb you?" I replied. "I do notknow in what way I have vexed you, but to do so was not at all in myintention. I must tell you that I am not a politician, and that since Icame here these affairs of the Prince and all the rest of it are quitebeyond my understanding. If the cause of the white cockade brought youto France, Miss Walkinshaw, as seems apparent, I cannot think you arevery happy in it nowadays, but that is no affair of mine."

  She stared at me. "I hope," said she, "you are not mocking me?"

  "Heaven forbid!" I said. "It would be the last thing I should presumeto do, even if I had a reason. I owe you, after all, nothing but thedeepest gratitude."

  Beyond the parlour we stood in was a lesser room that was the lady'sboudoir. We stood with our backs to it, and I know not how much of ourconversation had been overheard when I suddenly turned at the sound of aman's voice, and saw his Royal Highness standing in the door!

  I could have rubbed my eyes out of sheer incredulity, for that he shouldbe in that position was as if I had come upon a ghost. He stood with aface flushed and frowning, rubbing his eyes, and there was something inhis manner that suggested he was not wholly sober.

  "I'll be cursed," said he, "if I haven't been asleep. Deuce takeClancarty! He kept me at cards till dawn this morning, and I feel as ifI had been all night on heather. _Pardieu_----!"

  He pulled himself up short and stared, seeing me for the first time.His face grew purple with annoyance. "A thousand pardons!" he cried withsarcasm, and making a deep bow. "I was not aware that I intruded onaffairs."

  Miss Walkinshaw turned to him sharply.

  "There is no intrusion," said she, "but honesty, in the person of mydear countryman, who has come to strange quarters with it. Your RoyalHighness has now the opportunity of thanking this gentleman."

  "I' faith," said he, "I seem to be kept pretty constantly in mind ofthe little I owe to this gentleman in spite of himself. Harkee, my goodMonsieur, I got you a post; I thought you had been out of Dunkerque bynow."

  "The post waits, M. Albany," said I, "and I am going to take it upforthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owethe post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should beaddressed."

  "My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us oweher everything, and--egad!--are not grateful enough," and with that helooked for the first time at her with his frown gone.

  "Yes, yes," she cried; "we may put off the compliments till anotheroccasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me thatthis gentleman, who has done so much for me--I speak for myself, yourRoyal Highness will observe--should be so poorly requited."

  "Requited!" cried he. "How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied."His face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at hisunshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child ofkings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myselfupon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true.

  "I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergneoffice, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude----"

  "Bah!" cried he. "Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that doesaught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none ofyour gratitude, Monsieur Greig."

  "'Tis just as well, M. Albany," I cried, "for what there was of it ismortgaged."

  "_Comment?_" he asked, uneasily.

  "I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that callshimself your servant," I replied, always very careful to take his ownword for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. "Heinformed me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing thesame street with you, and had given him his instructions."

  "Bonnat," cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples."I'll be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!--stay--letme think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner,but--but----"

  "After dinner! Then surely it should have been in a more favourable moodto myself, that has done M. Albany no harm," I said. "I do not wonderthat M. Albany has lost so many of his friends if he settles theirdestinies after dinner."

  At first he frowned at this and then he laughed outright.

  "_Ma foi!_" he cried, "here's another Greig to call me gomeral to myface," and he lounged to a chair where he sunk in inextinguishablelaughter.

  But if I had brought laughter from him I had precipitated angerelsewhere.

  "Here's a pretty way to speak to his Royal Highness," cried MissWalkinshaw, her face like thunder. "The manners of the Mearns shine verypoorly here. You forget that you speak to one that is your prince, infaith your king!"

  "Neither prince nor king of mine, Miss Walkinshaw," I cried, and turnedto go. "No, if a hundred thousand swords were at his back. I had once anotion of a prince that rode along the Gallowgate, but I was then a boy,and now I am a man--which you yourself have made me."

  With that I bowed low and left them. They neither of them said a word.It was the last I was to see of Clementina Walkinshaw and the last ofCharles Edward.