Domiloff waited until the door closed behind them, then he lit a fresh cigarette and with his hands in his pockets strolled to the window. He looked across the crowded Place, over the heads of the people sitting about listening to the music at the Café de Paris, out across the grey pearly pool of twilight where the lights of the villas were glistening from the hills. Although he had the brain of a maker of laws and had proved himself a fine administrator, Paul Domiloff had much of the romantic idealism of his race. He had lived in the great places of the world, held his own bravely against disaster; he had defied fate, and taking his courage into both hands he had plunged into a new world. More than ever, during the last few hours, he had realized how near he had come to success; more than ever during these last few minutes he had realized what a mistake might cost him. He was conscious of a certain momentary misgiving. Was he, after all, too ambitious? The drama of the last few hours had been perhaps more real to him than to any of the others. The murder of Rothmann, a man of whom he had never heard, was only one of the ugly episodes of life. There was more real tragedy in the flight from his country, the exile, and the present imminent danger of Rudolph Sagastrada. The aristocracy of the world, during the last few years, had been driven remorselessly from their high places, but the House of Sagastrada had represented throughout Europe the very bulwarks of safety in life. At the most exclusive court that Europe had ever known, he himself had been taught to think and speak respectfully of the Rothschilds and the Sagastradas. This young man with his proud, graceful presence and that haunting light in his eyes, seemed to have taken him back to those days of terror. Was it all to come again—the débâcle—first the aristocracy and then . . . There was a light touch on his arm. His dreams suddenly passed away like the fancies of an opium smoker. Nicholas Tashoff was standing by his side. In the background was Sagastrada.
“You will excuse, Baron? It is Monsieur Sagastrada who desires a word with you.”
Domiloff nodded a trifle curtly.
“Well, what is it, my young friend?” he enquired.
Sagastrada was momentarily embarrassed. His tone was apologetic.
“You are busy, without a doubt, Baron,” he remarked. “I should have waited.”
“Now that you are here, proceed, if you please.”
“The young lady—Miss Joan Haskell—to whom I was presented—”
“Well, what about her?”
“I should like to know everything about her,” Sagastrada admitted. “I meant to ask the others but there was no opportunity.”
“It is early days to commence philandering here,” Domiloff declared a little brutally. “You will have plenty to think about during the next few days.”
“I am not a philanderer,” Sagastrada remonstrated. “My interest in the young lady is entirely sincere.”
“She is a stranger here,” the Baron told him. “Everybody likes her, she is very popular, she is American with connections in Washington, she came over to do some work at Geneva. When it was finished she had a small legacy and she has come here to spend it. That is all we any of us know.”
“I apologize for taking up your time,” Sagastrada said, preparing to take his leave. “I am very grateful.”
Domiloff waved his hand. The two men hurried away. A moment later the telephone rang. Domiloff took up the receiver. He listened for a moment.
“Paris speaking? Yes, Domiloff. . . . Yes, is that you, Regnier? . . . Bien, j’écoute.”
The voice at the other end dropped almost to a whisper but the words themselves were significant:—
“Keep it secret until I return but for your information only the charter is signed.”
CHAPTER IX
Table of Contents
ARDROSSEN, returning from his usual afternoon promenade a day or two later, and preserving always that curious air of detachment which saved him the trouble of greetings from possible acquaintances, made his way across the lounge to his own quarters in the Nouvel Hôtel. Here he carefully divested himself of his outdoor clothes, rang the bell for his usual afternoon beverage—a cup of pale but strong tea which he drank with a slice of lemon—and, drawing a recently arrived packet of letters to his side, carefully dealt with them. He slit the envelopes with a long stiletto-shaped opener, tore the former into minute fragments which he deposited in the wastepaper basket, and read slowly and with meticulous care the few which he deemed worthy of notice. The remainder he reduced also to small pieces and consigned to oblivion. There were three communications only which he preserved, and they came apparently from various countries. Each one he studied carefully; and one in particular, which seemed to be in the nature of a report divided under many headings, gave him food for much thought. Finally he rose to his feet, laid the letters face downwards upon the table, locked both doors, and drawing from the cupboard the coffer which he had examined the week before upon his arrival, turned up his sleeve and unlocked it by means of the key which he drew from its secret hiding place. From underneath the neatly disposed packets he drew out a leather-bound volume with the lock of a private ledger. This he opened with another key attached to his chain and carried across to the table. With a small fountain pen he made notes on various pages of the volume—some brief, some involving writing which covered several pages. Once or twice he paused for reflection. At no time did he write with fluency. It was obvious that he was using a cipher which he had committed to memory. In the end, when he had finished his task, he destroyed the three letters he had selected with the same precision and completeness as his other correspondence.
It was nearly an hour and a half before he had finished. He then returned the ledger to the chest, which he carefully relocked and pushed back in the spot where he had found it. The keys were then replaced, one in the aperture of his bracelet and the other on his chain, and everything was in order. Afterwards, he sat down and wrote one or two letters which apparently gave him little occasion for thought, and left them, properly stamped and addressed, in a little heap upon the table. He glanced at his watch. It was now a quarter past six. He opened the window and leaned out. The showers which had been falling now and then during the day had ceased. The sky was clear, a very pleasant breeze was rustling amongst the leaves of the lime trees. He stood there for several minutes watching the lights appear in the harbour and in the old town opposite. Then, wearing his sun glasses, although the need for them existed no longer, and abandoning his umbrella for a Malacca cane, he left the hotel and descended the hill until he reached the point where the tramcars started for old Monaco. Arrived there he stepped into one of the waiting carriages and indicated the ascent with a little wave of the hand.
“La vieille ville?” the cocher enquired.
Ardrossen nodded assent. He leaned back under the hood of the victoria and was driven with a noisy burst of speed at first, but afterwards with slow and painful efforts on the part of the horse, and a good many exclamations and crackings of the whip by the cocher, to the summit of the hill. In the shadow of some trees, Ardrossen descended from the vehicle.
“Presently,” he told the driver, handing him a ten-franc note, “I return. In the meantime, sit at the café opposite but drink only the light beer.”
The cocher removed his hat with a sweeping bow, and his patron crossed the road, climbed a little higher, and entered the Place. He made slow progress up some steps set between two of the prominent buildings. Halfway up he paused at a beautifully carved oak door with a highly polished brass bell. Above it rose three storeys of dark unlit windows. He pressed the bell. A light flashed out almost immediately from behind. The door opened before him. He passed in and again there was darkness whilst the door was closed. The air, however, was heavy with the scent of some unusual perfume and the eyes of the woman who had admitted him flashed a welcome as she stood by his side.
“Thou hast found the courage, then, mon brave,” she whispered, leaning down towards him.
“Turn up the light,” he directed.
“Oh, la la!” she
scoffed. “Is it that thou art afraid to be alone in the darkness for a moment with thy Hortense?”
“I hate the darkness,” he muttered. “I like to see my way wherever I am. Good.”
A subdued light shone out into the square entrance hall with its massive furniture, thick rugs, its air of cold luxury. She took his hat and cane from him.
“Come, chéri,” she said. “You will mount, or we talk here below?”
“We will talk in your salon,” he decided.
She ushered him into a large, very handsome apartment, so large, indeed, that the single light she turned on left half of it in gloom. Massive paintings with heavy gilt frames were dimly visible upon the walls. A broad divan spread with cushions was drawn up before a closed stove set in the recesses of the huge chimney place. She turned on other lights and the room developed a more hospitable aspect. There were cupboards filled with old china and glass, beautiful cupboards, themselves of great value, and the faded painting upon the dimly seen ceiling might almost have been the work of Watteau himself. The woman had passed her first youth but she was still attractive. Her eyes were beautiful, her complexion perfect. She moved so lightly that one might easily have forgotten that the slightness of girlhood had passed. Her unringed hands, one of which was clasped through his arm as she led him to a seat, were beautifully shaped.
“Sit down, my man of stone,” she invited. “Relax, I implore you.”
“Tell me your news,” he enjoined, removing her hand gently. They were seated side by side upon the divan.
“News!” she scoffed. “What interest can the news of what passes in these few square yards have for you? Passionate talk—fiery words—a lot of rubbish! Men who would kill others—excitable fellows tired of vapouring in the cafés who come to the Assembly and would draw down the thunderbolts. Oh, they talk, they talk, they talk!”
“And sometimes,” he said quietly, “things happen.”
She looked at him, a flash of curiosity in her bright eyes.
“Yes,” she admitted, “there is movement.”
“Your husband?”
“Eh bien?”
“He has returned from Paris?”
“Last night—by car from Marseilles.”
“And now?”
“He is with Monsieur le Baron at the new meeting place. You know where that is.”
“I think so. Continue, if you please. I came to hear what you can tell me about that trip to Paris.”
She slapped him lightly upon the cheek.
“I thought that you came to see me,” she complained.
“Afterwards,” he said patiently.
“Well, this is what Pierre said to me when he arrived last night. He had a very good dinner and he drank a bottle of old Burgundy. He was sober enough. ‘It is not here any longer,’ he told me, ‘that the affairs of Monaco are to be transacted. It is not at the Préfecture. It is across the harbour.’”
“It is as I thought,” the listener said slowly. “It is where those hundred workpeople have been employed in the secret part of the Sporting Club.”
Ardrossen nodded meditatively. For a few minutes it seemed that his thoughts were far away. Then he patted Madame gently upon the knee—a gesture which she seemed to appreciate.
“You are very kind to me, Hortense,” he said. “You tell me the things I wish to hear.”
She drew a little closer to him but he remained rigid.
“Why do you not tell me the things I should like to hear from you?” she whispered.
He had the air of one striving to the limit of his powers to humour a child.
“Hortense,” he confided, “there are few men made in whom your words, to be near you in this darkened room, would not light the great fires, but I am one of those for whom they burn less often. I have a different life. I live towards a different end. Nevertheless, I am grateful.”
His hand stole into his breast coat pocket. The eyes of Madame Hortense were more beautiful than ever when she saw this plain but very impressive-looking pocketbook between his fingers.
“You are treated cruelly by Monsieur,” he went on. “You are a woman of beauty who loves the styles and the fashions, and here, within a mile of where you might study all the women whom you could outshine, he keeps you a prisoner. But Madame, as you have told me once before—there is Nice.”
“Nice is permitted,” she admitted breathlessly.
He passed a little roll of notes into her eager grasp. She grabbed them, counted them by sense of touch even in that dim light, and thrust them into the bosom of her gown. It was amazing, this. It was the gift of a prince—and for how little!
“You will not permit, my dear friend,” she whispered, “that I give you just a little of my affection?”
Her arm stole towards him. He did not actually move away but something in his attitude chilled her.
“Hortense,” he said, “I have told you before, there are few men breathing who would not be on their knees, but I am one of them. Treat me as something inhuman—inhuman save for one redeeming quality, gratitude. You have told me something I desired to know. Very soon you may tell me something else.”
“I can tell you something now.”
“Please.”
“When you leave here,” she whispered, “glance backwards towards the Palace. The blinds are drawn, there is not a light in the windows, the flagstaff is empty and gaunt. . . . So it will remain. All that is finished. You understand?”
“The new charter?” he exclaimed.
“It is arranged,” she told him. “Domiloff signed provisionally ten days ago. Pierre signed whilst in Paris.”
His hand gripped her wrist.
“Hortense,” he whispered, “a copy of that charter, an abstract of it even, will be an affair of one hundred thousand francs.”
She felt a thrill pass through her whole body. The grip of his fingers upon her wrist had stirred that ever-consuming passion. One hundred thousand francs! For that, if it were necessary, Pierre could go over the bluff into the sea below!
“You shall have it,” she promised.
“When?”
The grip of his fingers upon her wrist was like a band of steel—now hot, now cold.
“I will send you the message in the usual way,” she told him, “but this time it must be at night.”
“Let it be soon,” he begged.
“It shall be soon.”
He rose to his feet. She walked arm in arm with him across the room, turned on the dim light in the hall and drew down the latch of the ponderous, stately door.
“When the time comes,” she whispered, “my message will arrive. Remember—it will be at night.”
He bowed over her fingers and looked away from the eyes which were filled with so much unspoken pleading.
“I thank you, Hortense,” he said. “Until I receive the message, then.”
The door closed behind him so softly that its framework might have been of velvet. He descended the steps, walked on the dark side of the square and climbed noiselessly into his voiture.
“We return,” he directed the cocher. “Drive carefully down the hill.”
The cocher gathered up the reins, the little dog by his side, who had come to life since the patron’s return, wagged its tail furiously, and so they descended.
CHAPTER X
Table of Contents
AT six o’clock on the fourth evening after his arrival in Monaco, Rudolph Sagastrada, with a sigh of relief, caught up his cap, made his way through the network of passages, and on the steps of the Sporting Club almost collided with Joan. She gave a little start of genuine surprise.
“So you really are still here!” she exclaimed. “What on earth have you been doing with yourself?”
“On parole,” he answered, with a very attractive grimace. “Piles of books—French, English and German—brought me by the charming Baroness, a priceless Bechstein small grand piano, far too much to eat and drink, but a prisoner in two rooms till six o’clock this eve
ning. Now I am free, for the present at any rate.”
“You poor dear! What use are you going to make of your freedom?”
“Drink in long draughts of this marvellous air,” he answered. “Show me the Terrace. I can walk on the Terrace for an hour. Some of the Baron’s new body-guard—special constables—are to be there. I am not to notice them. They will not address me, but it gives one an odd sort of feeling all the same to realize that they are necessary. Have you the courage to walk with me?”
“Of course I have,” she laughed. “Come along. We cross the road here. There’s the Terrace below.”
“And music,” he cried. “They are playing O sole mio! And the perfume of those hyacinths—marvellous! Do you know,” he went on, “that I have been alone all day? I had breakfast alone in my room, luncheon alone, I have read the papers alone, I have watched the people go by and all the time I have been doing only one thing.”
“And that?”
“Waiting until six o’clock,” he replied. “I hate solitude.”
“Hasn’t the Baron been to see you even?”
“Not for two days. Have you seen him? Has he told you anything about my affairs?”
She shook her head.
“I think that he has been keeping out of our way. Certainly he has not been in the bar or the restaurant. We have all been so sorry,” she went on after a moment’s hesitation, “about your friend Paul Rothmann. I hope you have got over the shock just a little.”
“Yes,” he answered quietly. “Those were terrible moments and it was a cruel, a bitter death, but Rothmann knew all the time that he was doomed. He was too deeply committed. I did my best but he was not an easy person to move. He was full of fiery genius and immovable prejudices.”
“Nothing fresh has happened—about yourself?” she asked eagerly.
“You mean about the police and that sort of thing? Roussillon came the day before yesterday. I was put through what seemed to me rather an absurd examination. Afterwards I had an hour alone with Roussillon and an official from some Foreign Office. They tried hard to get me to return to my country of my own accord. They offered no guarantees. Every sentence they spoke was a threat. Since they left, no one has come near me except the Baroness and Nicholas Tashoff, the secretary. The only other people I have spoken to have been the servants and the telephone operator.”
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