Jason: A Romance

by Justus Miles Forman

  XIII

  THE VOYAGE TO COLCHIS

  Ste. Marie turned away from the window and crossed to the door. The manwith the pointed beard removed his soft hat, bowed very politely, andasked if he had the honor to address M. Ste. Marie.

  "That is my name," said Ste. Marie. "Entrez, Monsieur!" He waved hisvisitor to a chair and stood waiting.

  The man with the beard bowed once more. He said:

  "I have not the great honor of Monsieur's acquaintance, butcircumstances, which I will explain later, have put it in my power--havemade it a sacred duty, if I may be permitted to say the word--to placein Monsieur's hands a piece of information."

  Ste. Marie smiled slightly and sat down. He said:

  "I listen with pleasure--and anticipation. Pray go on!"

  "I have information," said the visitor, "of the whereabouts of M. ArthurBenham."

  Ste. Marie waved his hand.

  "I feared as much," said he. "I mean to say, I hoped so. Proceed,Monsieur!"

  "And learning," continued the other, "that M. Ste. Marie was conductinga search for that young gentleman, I hastened at once to place thisinformation in his hands."

  "At a price," suggested his host. "At a price, to be sure."

  The man with the beard spread out his hands in a beautiful and eloquentgesture which well accompanied his Marseillais accent.

  "Ah, as to that!" he protested. "My circumstances--I am poor, Monsieur.One must gain the livelihood. What would you? A trifle. The meresttrifle."

  "Where is Arthur Benham?" asked Ste. Marie.

  "In Marseilles, Monsieur. I saw him a week ago--six days. And, so far asI could learn, he had no intention of leaving there immediately--thoughit is, to be sure, hot."

  Ste. Marie laughed a laugh of genuine amusement, and the man with thepointed beard stared at him with some wonder. Ste. Marie rose andcrossed the room to a writing-desk which stood against the oppositewall. He fumbled in a drawer of this, and returned holding in his hand apink-and-blue note of the Banque de France. He said:

  "Monsieur--pardon! I have forgotten to ask the name--you have remarkedquite truly that one must gain a livelihood. Therefore, I do not presumeto criticise the way in which you gain yours. Sometimes one cannotchoose. However, I should like to make a little bargain with you,Monsieur. I know, of course, being not altogether imbecile, who sent youhere with this story and why you were sent--why, also, your friend whosits upon the bench in the garden across the street follows me about andspies upon me. I know all this, and I laugh at it a little. But,Monsieur, to amuse myself further, I have a desire to hear from your ownlips the name of the gentleman who is your employer. Amusement is almostalways expensive, and so I am prepared to pay for this. I have here anote of one hundred francs. It is yours in return for the name--the_right_ name. Remember, I know it already."

  The man with the pointed beard sprang to his feet quivering withrighteous indignation. All Southern Frenchmen, like all other Latins,are magnificent actors. He shook one clinched hand in the air, his facewas pale, and his fine eyes glittered. Richard Hartley would have puthimself promptly in an attitude of defence, but Ste. Marie nodded asmiling head in appreciation. He was half a Southern Frenchman himself.

  "Monsieur!" cried his visitor, in a choked voice, "Monsieur, have acare! You insult me! Have a care, Monsieur! I am dangerous! My anger,when roused, is terrible!"

  "I am cowed," observed Ste. Marie, lighting a cigarette. "I quail."

  "Never," declaimed the gentleman from Marseilles, "have I received aninsult without returning blow for blow! My blood boils!"

  "The hundred francs, Monsieur," said Ste. Marie, "will doubtless coolit. Besides, we stray from our sheep. Reflect, my friend! I have notinsulted you. I have asked you a simple question. To be sure, I havesaid that I knew your errand here was not--not altogether sincere, but Iprotest, Monsieur, that no blame attaches to yourself. The blame is youremployer's. You have performed your mission with the greatest ofhonesty--the most delicate and faithful sense of honor. That isunderstood."

  The gentleman with the beard strode across to one of the windows andleaned his head upon his hand. His shoulders still heaved with emotion,but he no longer trembled. The terrible crisis bade fair to pass. Then,abruptly, in the frank and open Latin way, he burst into tears, and weptwith copious profusion, while Ste. Marie smoked his cigarette andwaited.

  When at length the Marseillais turned back into the room he was calmonce more, but there remained traces of storm and flood. He made agesture of indescribable and pathetic resignation.

  "Monsieur," he exclaimed, "you have a heart of gold--of gold, Monsieur!You understand. Behold us, two men of honor! Monsieur," he said, "I hadno choice. I was poor. I saw myself face to face with the misere. Whatwould you? I fell. We are all weak flesh. I accepted the commission ofthe pig who sent me here to you."

  Ste. Marie smoothed the pink-and-blue bank-note in his hands, and theother man's eye clung to it as though he were starving and the bank-notewas food.

  "The name?" prompted Ste. Marie.

  The gentleman from Marseilles tossed up his hands.

  "Monsieur already knows it. Why should I hesitate? The name is Ducrot."

  "What!" cried Ste. Marie, sharply. "What is that? Ducrot?"

  "But naturally!" said the other man, with some wonder. "Monsieur said heknew. Certainly, Ducrot. A little, withered man, bald on the top of thehead, creases down the cheeks, a mustache like this"--he made adescriptive gesture--"a little chin. A man like an elderly cat. M.Ducrot."

  Ste. Marie gave a sigh of relief.

  "Yes, yes," said he. "Ducrot is as good a name as another. The gentlemanhas more than one, it appears. Monsieur, the hundred-franc note isyours."

  The gentleman from Marseilles took it with a slightly trembling hand,and began to bow himself toward the door as if he feared that his hostwould experience a change of heart; but Ste. Marie checked him, saying:

  "One moment. I was thinking," said he, "that you would perhaps not careto present yourself to your--employer, M. Ducrot, immediately--not for afew days, at least, in view of the fact that certain actions of minewill show him your mission has--well, miscarried. It would, perhaps, bewell for you not to communicate with M. Ducrot. He might be displeasedwith you."

  "Monsieur," said the gentleman with the beard, "you speak with acumenand wisdom. I shall neglect to report myself to M. Ducrot, who, Irepeat, is a pig."

  "And," pursued Ste. Marie, "the individual on the bench across thestreet?"

  "It is not necessary that I meet that individual, either!" said theMarseillais, hastily. "Monsieur, I bid you adieu!" He bowed again, aprofound, a scraping bow, and disappeared through the door.

  Ste. Marie crossed to the window and looked down upon the pavementbelow. He saw his late visitor emerge from the house and slip rapidlydown the street toward the rue Vavin. He glanced across into the gardensand the spy still sat there on his bench, but his head lay back and heslept--the sleep of the unjust. One imagined that he must be snoring,for an incredibly small urchin in a blue apron stood on the path beforehim and watched with the open mouth of astonishment.

  Ste. Marie turned back into the room, and began to tramp up and down aswas his way in a perplexity or in any time of serious thought. He wishedvery much that Richard Hartley were there to consult with. He consideredHartley to have a judicial mind--a mind to establish, out of confusion,something like logical order, and he was very well aware that he himselfhad not that sort of mind at all. In action he was sufficientlyconfident of himself, but to construct a course of action he was afraid,and he knew that a misstep now, at this critical point, might befatal--turn success into disaster.

  He fell to thinking of Captain Stewart (alias M. Ducrot) and he longedmost passionately to leap into a fiacre at the corner below, to drive ata gallop across the city to the rue du Faubourg St. Honore, to fall uponthat smiling hypocrite in his beautiful treasure-house, to seize him bythe withered throat and say:

  "Tell me what you have done w
ith Arthur Benham before I tear your headfrom your miserable body!"

  Indeed, he was far from sure that this was not what it would come to, inthe end, for he reflected that he had not only a tremendous accumulationof evidence with which to face Captain Stewart, but also a very terribleweapon to hold over his head--the threat of exposure to the old man wholay slowly dying in the rue de l'Universite! A few words in old David'sear, a few proofs of their truth, and the great fortune for which theson had sold his soul--if he had any left to sell--must pass forever outof his reach, like gold seen in a dream.

  This is what it might well come to, he said to himself. Indeed, itseemed to him at that moment far the most feasible plan, for to suchaccusations, such demands as that, Captain Stewart could offer nodefence. To save himself from a more complete ruin he would have to giveup the boy or tell what he knew of him. But Ste. Marie was unwilling torisk everything on this throw without seeing Richard Hartley first, andHartley was not to be had until evening.

  He told himself that, after all, there was no immediate hurry, for hewas quite sure the man would be compelled to keep to his bed for a dayor two. He did not know much about epilepsy, but he knew that itsparoxysms were followed by great exhaustion, and he felt sure thatStewart was far too weak in body to recuperate quickly from any severecall upon his strength. He remembered how light that burden had been inhis arms the night before, and then an uncontrollable shiver of disgustwent over him as he remembered the sight of the horribly twisted andcontorted face, felt again the shaking, thumping head as it beat againsthis shoulder. He wondered how much Stewart knew, how much he would beable to remember of the events of the evening before, and he was at aloss there because of his unfamiliarity with epileptic seizures. Of onething, however, he was almost certain, and that was that the man couldscarcely have been conscious of who were beside him when the fit wasover. If he had come at all to his proper senses before the ensuingslumber of exhaustion, it must have been after Mlle. Nilssen and himselfhad gone away.

  Upon that he fell to wondering about the spy and the gentleman fromMarseilles--he was a little sorry that Hartley could not have seen thegentleman from Marseilles--but he reflected that the two were, withoutdoubt, acting upon old orders, and that the latter had probably beenstalking him for some days before he found him at home.

  He looked at his watch and it was half-past twelve. There was nothing tobe done, he considered, but wait--get through the day somehow; and so,presently, he went out to lunch. He went up the rue Vavin to theBoulevard Montparnasse and down that broad thoroughfare to Lavenue's, onthe busy Place de Rennes, where the cooking is the best in all thisquarter, and can, indeed, hold up its head without shame in the face ofthose other more widely famous restaurants across the river, frequentedby the smart world and by the travelling gourmet.

  He went through to the inner room, which is built like a raised loggiaround two sides of a little garden, and which is always cool and freshin summer. He ordered a rather elaborate lunch, and thought that he sata very long time at it, but when he looked again at his watch only anhour and a half had gone by. It was a quarter-past two. Ste. Marie wasdepressed. There remained almost all of the afternoon to be got through,and Heaven alone could say how much of the evening, before he could havehis consultation with Richard Hartley. He tried to think of some way ofpassing the time, but although he was not usually at a loss he found hismind empty of ideas. None of his common occupations recommendedthemselves to him. He knew that whatever he tried to do he wouldinterrupt it with pulling out his watch every half-hour or so andcursing the time because it lagged so slowly. He went out to the terracefor coffee, very low in his mind.

  But half an hour later, as he sat behind his little marble-topped table,smoking and sipping a liqueur, his eyes fell upon something across thesquare which brought him to his feet with a sudden exclamation. One ofthe big electric trams that ply between the Place St. Germain des Presand Clamart, by way of the Porte de Versailles and Vanves, was draggingits unwieldy bulk round the turn from the rue de Rennes into theboulevard. He could see the sign-board along the imperiale--"Clamart-St.Germain des Pres," with "Issy" and "Vanves" in brackets between.

  Ste. Marie clinked a franc upon the table and made off across the Placeat a run. Omnibuses from Batignolles and Menilmontant got in his way,fiacres tried to run him down, and a motor-car in a hurry pulled up justin time to save his life, but Ste. Marie ran on and caught the trambefore it had completed the negotiation of the long curve and gatheredspeed for its dash down the boulevard. He sprang upon the step, and theconductor reluctantly unfastened the chain to admit him. So he climbedup to the top and seated himself, panting. The dial high on the facadeof the Gare Montparnasse said ten minutes to three.

  He had no definite plan of action. He had started off in this headlongfashion upon the spur of a moment's impulse, and because he knew wherethe tram was going. Now, embarked, he began to wonder if he was not afool. He knew every foot of the way to Clamart, for it was a favoritehalf-day's excursion with him to ride there in this fashion, walk thencethrough the beautiful Meudon wood across to the river, and from Bellevueor Bas-Meudon take a Suresnes boat back into the city. He knew, orthought he knew, just where lay the house, surrounded by garden andhalf-wild park, of which Olga Nilssen had told him; he had oftenwondered whose place it was as the tram rolled along the length of itshigh wall. But he knew, also, that he could do nothing there,single-handed and without excuse or preparation. He could not boldlyring the bell, demand speech with Mile. Coira O'Hara, and ask her if sheknew anything of the whereabouts of young Arthur Benham, whom aphotographer had suspected of being in love with her. He certainly couldnot do that. And there seemed to be nothing else that--Ste. Marie brokeoff this somewhat despondent course of reasoning with a sudden littlevoiceless cry. For the first time it occurred to him to connect thehouse on the Clamart road and Mlle. Coira O'Hara and young Arthur Benham(it will be remembered that the man had not yet had time to arrange hissuddenly acquired mass of evidence in logical order and to makedeductions from it), for the first time he began to put two and twotogether. Stewart had hidden away his nephew; this nephew was known tohave been much enamoured of the girl Coira O'Hara; Coira O'Hara was saidto be living--with her father, probably--in the house on the outskirtsof Paris, where she was visited by Captain Stewart. Was not theinference plain enough--sufficiently reasonable? It left, without doubt,many puzzling things to be explained--perhaps too many; but Ste. Mariesat forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming, his face tense withexcitement.

  "Is young Arthur Benham in the house on the Clamart road?"

  He said the words almost aloud, and he became aware that the fat womanwith a live fowl at her feet and the butcher's boy on his other sidewere looking at him curiously. He realized that he was behaving in anexcited manner, and so sat back and lowered his eyes. But over and overwithin him the words said themselves--over and over, until they made asort of mad, foolish refrain.

  "Is Arthur Benham in the house on the Clamart road? Is Arthur Benham inthe house on the Clamart road?" He was afraid that he would say it aloudonce more, and, he tried to keep a firm hold upon himself.

  The tram swung into the rue de Sevres, and rolled smoothly out the long,uninteresting stretch of the rue Lecourbe, far out to where the houses,became scattered, where mounds and pyramids of red tiles stood alongsidethe factory where they had been made, where an acre of little glasshemispheres in long, straight rows winked and glistened in the afternoonsun--the forcing-beds of some market gardener; out to the Porte deVersailles at the city wall, where a group of customs officers sprawledat ease before their little sentry-box or loafed over to inspect anincoming tram.

  A bugle sounded and a drum beat from the great fosse under the wall, anda company of piou-pious, red-capped, red-trousered, shambled throughtheir evolutions in a manner to break the heart of a British or a Germandrill-sergeant. Then out past level fields to little Vanves, with itssteep streets and its old gray church, and past the splendid grounds ofthe Lycee beyond. T
he fat woman got down, her live fowl shriekingprotest to the movement, and the butcher's boy got down, too, so thatSte. Marie was left alone upon the imperiale save for a snuffy oldgentleman in a pot-hat who sat in a corner buried behind the day's_Droits de l'Homme_.

  Ste. Marie moved forward once more and laid his arms upon the iron railbefore him. They were coming near. They ran past plum and apple orchardsand past humble little detached villas, each with a bit of garden infront and an acacia or two at the gate-posts. But presently, on theright, the way began to be bordered by a high stone wall, very long,behind which showed the trees of a park, and among them, far back fromthe wall beyond a little rise of ground, the gables and chimneys of ahouse could be made out. The wall went on for perhaps a quarter of amile in a straight sweep, but half-way the road swung apart from it tothe left, dipped under a stone railway bridge, and so presently ended atthe village of Clamart.

  As the tram approached the beginning of that long stone wall it began toslacken speed, there was a grating noise from underneath, and presentlyit came to an abrupt halt. Ste. Marie looked over the guard-rail and sawthat the driver had left his place and was kneeling in the dust besidethe car peering at its underworks. The conductor strolled round to himafter a moment and stood indifferently by, remarking upon the strangevicissitudes to which electrical propulsion is subject. The driver,without looking up, called his colleague a number of the most surprisingand, it is to be hoped, unwarranted names, and suddenly began to burrowunder the tram, wriggling his way after the manner of a serpent untilnothing could be seen of him but two unrestful feet. His voice, thoughmuffled, was still tolerably distinct. It cursed, in an unceasingstaccato and with admirable ingenuity, the tram, the conductor, thesacred dog of an impediment which had got itself wedged into one of thetrucks, and the world in general.

  Ste. Marie, sitting aloft, laughed for a moment, and then turned hiseager eyes upon what lay across the road. The halt had taken placealmost exactly at the beginning of that long stretch of park wall whichran beside the road and the tramway. From where he sat he could see theother wing which led inward from the road at something like a rightangle, but was presently lost to sight because of a sparse and unkemptpatch of young trees and shrubs, well-nigh choked with undergrowth,which extended for some distance from the park wall backward along theroad-side toward Vanves. Whoever owned that stretch of land hadseemingly not thought it worth while to cultivate it or to build upon itor even to clear it off.

  Ste. Marie's first thought, as his eye scanned the two long stretches ofwall and looked over their tops to the trees of the park and the far-offgables and chimneys of the house, was to wonder where the entrance tothe place could be, and he decided that it must be on the side oppositeto the Clamart tram-line. He did not know the smaller roads hereabouts,but he guessed that there must be one somewhere beyond, between theroute de Clamart and Fort d'Issy, and he was right. There is a littleroad between the two; it sweeps round in a long curve and ends near thetiny public garden in Issy, and it is called the rue Barbes.

  His second thought was that this unkempt patch of tree and brush offeredexcellent cover for any one who might wish to pass an observant houralongside that high stone wall; for any one who might desire to cast aglance over the lie of the land, to see at closer range that house ofwhich so little could be seen from the route de Clamart, to look overthe wall's coping into park and garden.

  The thought brought him to his feet with a leaping heart, and before herealized that he had moved he found himself in the road beside thehalted tram. The conductor brushed past him, mounting to his place, andfrom the platform beckoned, crying out:

  "En voiture, Monsieur! En voiture!"

  Again something within Ste. Marie that was not his conscious directionacted for him, and he shook his head. The conductor gave two littleblasts upon his horn, the tram wheezed and moved forward. In a moment itwas on its way, swinging along at full speed toward the curve in theline that bore to the left and dipped under the railway bridge. Ste.Marie stood in the middle of that empty road, staring after it until ithad disappeared from view.

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