by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER XIII*
*BEGINNING A JOURNEY*
It would have been easy for Quinlevin to have shot him in the back, andat the moment Jim Horton wouldn't much have cared if he had. He wentdown the stairs slowly, across the court and out into the street,wandering aimlessly, bare headed, with no sense of any intention ordirection. "There's no divorce--but death." Moira's words rang againand again in his brain. That was a part of her creed, her faith, herreligion. She had once spoken of what her Church had always meant toher--her Mother, she had called it,--and she was true to herconvictions. "There's no divorce--but death." The revelation of herbeliefs was not new to him, yet it came to him with a sense of shockthat she had chosen at the last to remain with Harry and Quinlevin andall the degradation that the association meant to her. It had been achoice between two degradations, and force of habit had cast the lastfeather into the balance. In the bitterness of his ownsituation--isolated, outcast, with no hope of regeneration, he tried tofind it in his heart to blame her. But the thought of the pain andbewilderment he had seen in her eyes made him only pitiful for hermisfortunes. It seemed as though the shock of the many revelations ofthe evening had deadened her initiative, enfeebled her fine impulses andmade her like a dependent child--at the mercy of custom and tradition.And he could not forget that he had gone to her asking nothing,expecting nothing, and that in spite of all the barriers that sherecognized between them, in spite of the deception he had practiced, shehad still clung to him and even acknowledged him in the presence of herhusband and the man she called her father. Love had glowed in her eyesand in her heart, lifting her for a time above the tragic mystery of herorigin and the broken ideals of a lifetime. It was almost enough forhim to ask of her.
It didn't seem to matter much now what happened to him. But almostunconsciously he found himself casting an occasional glance over hisshoulder to see if he was followed. He had no fear of Harry. Hisbrother had shown to-night in his true colors, but the picturesquescoundrel whose name Moira bore was clearly a person to be reckonedwith. Why Quinlevin hadn't taken a pot-shot at him on the stairs wasmore than Jim Horton could understand, unless some consideration forMoira had held his hand. The impulse of fury that had made him draw hisrevolver had faded. But their controversy was still unsettled and JimHorton knew that the one duty left him must be done at once. After hehad told what he knew to de Vautrin, Quinlevin could try to kill him ifhe liked--but not before....
Would the memories of the past prevail in Moira's relations withQuinlevin? Would he be able to convince her that she was the Duc'sdaughter? He remembered that most of what he had heard from his placeof concealment could be susceptible of a double interpretation under theskillful manipulation of the resourceful Irishman.
Jim Horton knew that Piquette had told him the straight story, fromHarry's own lips, but he could not violate her confidence by using hername. It meant danger for Piquette from Quinlevin and perhaps arevelation of her breech of Pochard's confidence and a greater dangereven from Tricot. He knew that he must move alone and reach the ear ofde Vautrin at once with his testimony.
He approached the cafe of Leon Javet when he heard the light patter offeet behind him and stopped and turned. It was Piquette, divested ofher fine raiment and dressed in the simple garb of a _midinette_.
"Jeem----," she said. "I 'ave been waiting for you--outside----"
"Oh, Piquette----"
"You mus' not go in Javet's--come, _mon ami_, to de oder side of destreet----"
"Why, Piquette?" he asked curiously.
"Because Tricot and _Le Singe_ are looking for you and dey will watchJavet's."
"H-m. Who told you this?"
But he let her take him by the elbow to the darkness opposite.
"Pochard. De house in de Rue Charron is watch' by de police. Dey areafraid you will give de evidence----"
"They needn't worry just now," he muttered. "I've something else todo."
"But you mus' keep away from de _Quartier_----"
"I expect to. I'm going away, Piquette----"
"Jeem! Where?"
"To Nice. I've got to see your friend de Vautrin, at once."
"Ah--de Vautrin!"
She walked along with him for a moment in silence.
"Where is your 'at, _mon ami_?"
He ran his fingers through his hair, aware for the first time of hisloss.
"I left it----"
"In the Rue de Tavennes?"
"Yes."
"Ah, you mus' tell me. Come to de Boulevard Clichy. It is safer."
"I've taken a lodging in the Rue Jean Paul."
"No," she insisted. "You mus' take no more chances on dis side of deriver jus' now--nor mus' I."
"You mean that they suspect----?"
"Not yet--but dey will if dey see us--you and I----"
"You can't run that chance, Piquette."
"We are quite safe in de Boulevard Clichy. Come."
And so he yielded to her persuasions and followed her by a roundaboutway across the Pont Carrousel and so toward their destination, while hetold her in general terms of the events of the evening. She listened,putting in an exclamation or a brief question here and there, but madeno comments until they reached her apartment, where she made himcomfortable in her best chair, gave him a cigarette and getting out ofher street dress, slipped into her dressing gown. To the western mind,unused to the casual ways of the _atelier_, this informality might haveseemed indecorous. But Jim Horton was deeply absorbed in his ownthoughts and for the moment did not think of her. And when she drew herrobe around her and took up a cigarette, she seemed for the first timeto be aware of his abstraction. To Piquette's mind those things whichwere natural to her must be natural to every one else, and this, afterall, is only the simple philosophy of the child. As she curled herselfup on her _chaise longue_ and lighted her cigarette he smiled at her.
"Well, _mon_ Jeem*," she said, "what you t'ink of Monsieur Quinlevin?"(She pronounced it Canl'van.)
"He's just about the smoothest proposition that ever happened," hereplied. "He'd have gotten me, if I hadn't moved in close."
"An' 'Arry----? 'E did not'ing?"
"No. Just stood there. He's lost his nerve again. He won't bother me,but the Irishman is in this game for keeps."
"He is dangerous, _mon ami_. You 'ad better not go on wit' dis affair."
"Yes, Piquette, I must," he said quietly. "I got into this situation bybeing a moral coward, I'm not going to get out of it by being a physicalone. Besides, I've promised."
"Who?"
"Myself. It's a duty I owe----," he paused.
"To Madame 'Orton? An' what t'anks do you get?" She shruggedexpressively. "A bullet or a knife in de ribs, perhaps. You 'avealready almos' enough been shot and beaten, _mon vieux_."
"And yet here I am quite comfortable in your best chair, and none theworse--thanks to you, Piquette."
"But you cannot always be so lucky. I would be ver' onhappy if you werekill', _mon_ Jeem."
"Would you, Piquette?" he said, taking her hand impulsively and kissingit gently.
"An' den it is too late to be onhappy----," she sighed and put her otherhand over his. "Oh, _mon_ Jeem, life is so short, so sweet. It is notright to take a chance of dying before one's time."
"I don't want to die just yet, and I don't expect to, but life doesn'tmean a whole lot to me. It's too complex, youunderstand?--_difficile_----" He gave a sigh and sank back in hischair, relinquishing her fingers. "I guess I was meant for the simplelife," he said, with his slow smile.
She was silent for a moment, regarding him soberly.
"What 'as happen', _mon ami_? She 'as let you go?"
He paused, frowning at the ash of his cigarette.
"What else could she do?" he asked quietly. "I asked nothing--expectednothing of her."
"Then you cannot be disappoint'!" said Piquette dryly. "She is not worthde trouble. You run
a risk of being kill', to save 'er from 'er 'usban'who is a _vaut rien_, you offer 'er de bes' you 'ave an' she send youaway alone into de darkness. You t'ink she loves you. _Saperlotte_!What she knows of love! If I love a man I would go wit' 'im to de endof de worl', no matter what 'e is."
He sat watching her as she spoke--listening to the clear tones of hervoice, watching the changes in her expressive features.
"I believe you would, Piquette," he muttered.
"An' you," she went on shrilly, "you who 'ave save' 'er 'usban' fromdisgrace, you who win 'im de _Croix de Guerre_ an' den go into dedarkness an outcas'--she let you go--she let you go----!"
"Sh----," he broke in. "She had to--I understand--she is aCatholic----"
She paused and then went on. "Why 'as she marry your broder if she doesnot love 'im? La la!" She stopped and shrugged her pretty shoulders."Perhaps you onderstan' now, _mon petit_ Jeem, why I 'ave not marry.Not onless I love, and den----," her voice sank to a tense whisper, "andden ontil deat' I would be true----"
"Yes, Piquette. You are that sort. But this----," and he glanced aboutthe room.
She shrugged as she caught his meaning.
"Monsieur 'as much money. Why should I not be content as well as someone else?"
Deep in his heart he was sorry for her, but he could see that she wasnot in the least sorry for herself. And the unconventionality of herviews, the total lack of moral sense, seemed somehow less important thanthe rugged sincerity of her point of view and the steadfastness of herfriendship.
"And you have never loved well enough to marry?" he asked.
"No, _mon_ Jeem," she said gently.
Their glances met, his level and friendly. And it was her look thatfirst turned away. "No, _mon_ Jeem," she repeated slowly. "One doesnot meet such a man, ontil it is too late." She gave a sharp littlegasp and sat up facing him. "An' I speak of my troubles when you 'avegreater ones of your own. I want to 'elp you, _mon ami_. You 'ave inyour mind a duty to do with Monsieur the Duc de Vautrin. You 'ave makeme t'ink. Perhaps it is my duty too."
"I've got to see him at once, before Quinlevin does."
"_Eh bien_. He is on the Riviera--Nice. We s'all find 'im."
"We?"
"_Parfaitement_! Perhaps I can make it easier for you to see him----"
"You'll go with me?"
"Why not? Onless you do not want me----?"
"Of course I'll be only too happy, only----"
"What, _mon petit_?"
"It seems a great deal to ask. You've already done so much."
"No," she said with a smile. "It will perhaps be safer for both of usaway from Paris. An' you are onhappy. Will I perhaps not cheer you up alittle?"
"There's no doubt of that, Piquette----"
"I would like to go wit' you. It will give me pleasure--if you do notmind."
"But Monsieur the Duc----"
"_Je ne me fiche pas_. Besides, shall I not now be doing him aservice?"
"Yes, that's true." He stopped as a thought came to him. "The Ducsuspects something. What made him go to Ireland and question NoraBurke?"
"Perhaps I talk' a little too much dat night----"
"Has he spoken of it since?"
"Yes. But I tol' 'im not'ing. I did not wish to get 'Arry in trouble.But now----," she shrugged and lighted a fresh cigarette. "I do notcare about what 'appen to 'Arry or Monsieur Quinlevin. It is only what'appens to you dat matters, _mon_ Jeem.
"But in befriending me you've made enemies of all that crowd----"
"Not onless dey find out. It is you who are in danger. After what you'ave 'eard to-night, you are more dangerous to Quinlevin dan ever."
"I gave him his chance. He didn't take it."
"But he'll make anoder chance. You do not know dat man. Even Tricot isafraid of 'im."
"Well, I'm not. He thinks the world owes him a living. But he wouldn'tlast half an hour out in the country where I come from. He's cleverenough, to put it over Moira all these years----"
"Yes, _mon_ Jeem. An' 'e may 'put it over' still--now dat you go from'er----"
"Perhaps," he muttered, with a frown. "But that doesn't matter. She'snot de Vautrin's daughter--or his--I'd take an oath on it. I've got toclear her skirts of this dirty mess. She wouldn't come. They've gother there now--a prisoner. She can't help herself. I can't be losingany time."
He rose suddenly as though aware of the passage of time and took a fewpaces away from her.
"Not to-night?" said Piquette.
"The first train. I've got to go and find out."
She glanced at the small enameled clock upon the mantel.
"It is too late. Dere would be no fas' express until de morning."
"Very well. I'll see." And he strode toward the door.
"At de Hotel Gravelotte--at de corner you will find out, but wait----"She had sprung up and running out of the apartment, returned in a momentwith a soft hat, which she gave him.
"Thanks, Piquette--you're my good angel. I do seem to need you, don'tI?"
"I 'ope you do, _mon vieux_," she said quietly. And then, "Go an' 'urryback. I will wait for you."
Thus it was that the next day found Jim Horton and Piquette together ina compartment of the Marseilles Express on their way to the Riviera.Jim had managed to get reservations in a train which was now runningregularly, and then, after advising Piquette, had returned to hislodgings in the Rue Jean Paul, meeting her at the Gare de Lyon at noon.Piquette seemed to have thought of everything that he had forgotten, andgreeted him with an air of gayety which did much to restore his droopingspirits. It was very cozy, very comfortable, in their compartment _adeux_, and Piquette looked upon the excursion from the angle of thechild ready and willing to take a new pleasure in anything. Curiouslyenough, she had traveled little--only once to the Cote d'Azur, andlooked forward with delight to the southern sunshine, the blue of thesea, and the glimpse of the world of fashion which was once more to beseen upon the _Promenade des Anglais_. The passing landscape shegreeted with little childish cries as she recognized familiarscenes--the upper reaches of the Seine, Juvisy, then Arpajon, Etampesand Orleans.
And Jim Horton sat watching her, detached by her magnetism from thegloom of his thoughts, aware of the quality of her devotion to thisnewly found friend for whom with joyous carelessness she was risking thegood-will of her _patron_, the displeasure of her bloodthirsty friendsof earlier days and even perhaps her very life. She was a new event inhis experience, giving him a different meaning for many things. Therehad been no new passages of anything approaching sentiment between themand he watched her curiously. It seemed that what she wished him tounderstand was that she was merely a good friend that he could tie toand be understood by. Even when he took her hand in his--a naturalimpulse on Jim's part when it lay for a moment beside him--she only letit rest there a moment and then gave a careless gesture or made a swiftuseful motion which dispelled illusions and exorcised sentiment. Andyet of sentiment of another sort she was full, fairly bubbling over withsympathy and encouragement, inviting him to share her enjoyment of thegray and brown pastoral from the car window, peaceful, beautiful anduntouched by the rough hand of war. It was a kind of friendship hecouldn't understand and wouldn't have understood perhaps even if he hadbeen skilled in the knowledge of women. And yet, there it was, veryreal, very vital to him in all its beauty and self-effacement.
Whatever her past, her strange philosophy of life, her unique code ofmorals, he had to admit to himself that she was a fine young animal,feminine to the last glossy hair of her head, and compact of splendidforces which had been diverted--of virtues which refused to be stifledby the mere accident of environment. But most of all was she thatproduct of the Latin Quarter, which knows and shares poverty andaffluence, friendship and enmity,--the _gamine_, the _bonne camarade_.
She thought nothing of her exploit in rescuing him from the house in theRue Charron, nor would she permit a repetition of his admiration andgratitude. The impulse th
at had driven her to the rescue wasspontaneous. He was one she knew, an American soldier, a friend ofFrance, in trouble. Was not that enough?
As the day wore on Piquette grew tired looking at the scenery and afteryawning once or twice, laid her head quite frankly upon his shoulderwith all the grace of a tired child and immediately went to sleep. JimHorton smiled down at her with a new sense of pride in this strangefriendship, admiring the fine level brows, the shadows on her eye-lids,slightly tinted with blue, the well-turned nose, the scarlet curve ofher under lip and the firm line of her jaw and chin. Two outcasts theywere, he and she, strangely met and more strangely linked in the commonpurpose of protecting the destinies of a decadent French gentleman whomJim Horton had never seen and in whom he had no interest. AndPiquette----? What was her motive? Her loyalty to de Vautrin, unlikethat which she had shown for him, was spasmodic, actuated by noaffection but only by the humor of the moment. She did not love thisman. He had never been to her anything more than a convenience.
He smiled. The word suggested a thought to him. Convenience! Was thisrelation of Piquette to her patron any worse than those marriages of theambitious girls of his own country, without love, often without hope oflove, to bring themselves up in the world? Piquette at least washonest--with the _patron_ and with herself.
The vows at the altar were sacred. He knew how sacred now. He had notdared to think of Moira and he knew that it was well that Piquette hadkept his thoughts from her. But now as his companion slept, his armaround her slim figure, he began to think of Moira and the tragicdecision that he had given her to make. She had chosen to remain therein the Rue de Tavennes because that was the only home she knew, and inthe agony of her mind she felt that she must find sanctuary in her ownroom with her thoughts and her prayers. And the love she bore him, heknew was not a mere passing fancy, born of their strange romance, but aliving flame of pure passion, which could only be dimmed by her duty toher conscience--but not extinguished.
* * * * *
Piquette stirred slightly in her sleep and spoke his name. "_Mon_Jeem," she muttered, and then settled herself more comfortably againsthis shoulder. Jim Horton did not move for fear of awakening her, buthis gaze passed over her relaxed features and a generous wave ofgratitude swept over him for all that she had done for him. What atrump she was! What a loyal little soul to help him with no hope ofreward but the same kind of loyalty she had given him. He must not failher. If there were only some way in which he could help her tohappiness. In sleep she was so gentle--so child-like--so confiding.Thinking of all that he owed her, he bent over and kissed her gently onthe brow.
She did not waken, and Jim Horton raised his head. Then suddenly, as ifin response to an impulse, looked at the small, uncurtained window thatlet out upon the corridor of the carriage. There, two dark eyes staredat him as though fascinated from a pallid face, the whiter for its frameof dusky hair--the face of Moira Quinlevin. He thought for a moment thatthe vision was a part of his obsession and for a second did notmove--and then started forward, awakening Piquette, for behind the face,in the obscurity of the corridor, he made out another head--and theiridescent eyes of Barry Quinlevin.
