Madame Midas

by Fergus Hume

  ‘Yes, but you forget the shares ran up to a pound,’ replied Barraclough, quickly; ‘and now they are so cheap we can snap them up all over the market, and then—’

  ‘Well?’ asked the other, with interest.

  ‘They will run up, old fellow—see?’ and the Broker rubbed his hands gleefully.

  ‘How are you going to get up a “Boom” on them?’ asked the wiry man, sceptically; ‘the public won’t buy blindly, they must see something.’

  ‘And so they shall,’ said Barraclough, eagerly; ‘Tollerby is sending down some of the stone.’

  ‘From the Magpie Reef?’ asked the other, suspiciously.

  ‘Of course,’ retorted the Broker, indignantly; ‘you did not think it was salted, did you? There is gold in the reef, but it is patchy. See,’ pulling out a pocket-book, ‘I got this telegram from Tollerby at four o’clock to-day;’ he took a telegram from the pocket-book and handed it to his companion.

  ‘Struck it rich—evidently pocket—thirty ounces to machine,’ read the other slowly; ‘gad! that looks well, why don’t you put it in the papers?’

  ‘Because I don’t hold enough shares,’ replied the other, impatiently; ‘don’t you understand? To-morrow I go on ‘Change and buy up all the shares at four shillings I can lay my hands on, then at the end of the week the samples of stone—very rich—come down. I publish this telegram from the manager, and the “Boom” starts.’

  ‘How high do you think the shares will go?’ asked the wiry man, thoughtfully.

  Barraclough shrugged his shoulders, and replaced the telegram in his pocket-book.

  ‘Two or three pounds, perhaps more,’ he replied, rising. ‘At all events, it’s a good thing, and if you go in with me, we’ll clear a good few thousand out of it.’

  ‘Come and see me to-morrow morning,’ said the wiry man, also rising. ‘I think I’ll stand in.’

  Barraclough rubbed his hands gleefully, and then slipping his arm in that of his companion they left the balcony and went back to the theatre.

  Vandeloup felt every nerve in his body tingling. Here was a chance to make money. If he only had a few hundreds he could buy up all the Magpie shares he could get and reap the benefit of the rise. Five hundred pounds! If he could obtain that sum he could buy two thousand five hundred shares, and if they went to three pounds, he could clear nearly eight thousand. What an idea! It was ripe fruit tumbling off the tree without the trouble of plucking it. But five hundred pounds! He had not as many pence, and he did not know where to get it. If he could only borrow it from someone—but then he could offer no security. A sense of his own helplessness came on him as he saw this golden tide flowing past his door, and yet was unable to take advantage of it. Five hundred pounds! The sum kept buzzing in his head like a swarm of bees, and he threw himself down again in his chair to try and think where he could get it.

  A noise disturbed him, and he saw that the opera was over, and a crowd of gentlemen were thronging into the bar. Jarper was among them, and he thought he would speak to him on the subject. Yes, Barty was a clever little fellow, and seemed always able to get money. Perhaps he would be able to assist him. He stepped out of the balcony into the light and touched Barty on the shoulder as he stood amid his friends.

  ‘Hullo! it’s you!’ cried Barty, turning round. ‘Where have you been, old chap?’

  ‘Out on the balcony,’ answered Vandeloup, curtly.

  ‘Come and have supper with us,’ said Barty, hospitably. ‘We are going to have some at Leslie’s.’

  ‘Yes, do come,’ urged Bellthorp, putting his arm in that of Vandeloup’s; ‘we’ll have no end of fun.’

  Vandeloup was just going to accept, as he thought on the way he could speak privately to Barty about this scheme he had, when he saw a stout gentleman at the end of the room taking a cup of coffee at the counter, and talking to another gentleman who was very tall and thin. The figure of the stout gentleman seemed familiar to Vandeloup, and at this moment he turned slowly round and looked down the room. Gaston gave a start when he saw his face, and then smiled in a gratified manner to himself.

  ‘Who is that gentleman with the coffee?’ he asked Barty.

  ‘Those stout and lean kine,’ said Barty, airily, ‘puts one in mind of Pharaoh’s dream, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ retorted Gaston, impatiently; ‘but who are they?’

  ‘The long one is Fell, the railway contractor,’ said Barty, glancing with some surprise at Vandeloup, ‘and the other is old Meddlechip, the millionaire.’

  ‘Meddlechip,’ echoed Vandeloup, as if to himself; ‘my faith!’

  ‘Yes,’ broke in Bellthorp, quickly; ‘the one we were speaking of at the club—do you know him?’

  ‘I fancy I do,’ said Vandeloup, with a strange smile. ‘You must excuse me to your supper to-night.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ said Barty, firmly; ‘you must come.’

  ‘Then I’ll look in later,’ said Vandeloup, who had not the slightest intention of going. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘I suppose it will have to,’ said Bellthorp, in an injured tone; ‘but why can’t you come now?’

  ‘I’ve got to see about some business,’ said Vandeloup.

  ‘What, at this hour of the night?’ cried Jarper, in a voice of disgust.

  Vandeloup nodded, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Well, mind you come in later,’ said Barty, and then he and his friends left the bar, after making Vandeloup promise faithfully he would come.

  Gaston sauntered slowly up to the coffee bar, and asked for a cup in his usual musical voice, but when the stout gentleman heard him speak he turned pale and looked up. The thin one had gone off to talk to someone else, so when Vandeloup got his coffee he turned slowly round and looked straight at Meddlechip seated in the chair.

  ‘Good evening, M. Kestrike,’ he said, quietly.

  Meddlechip, whose face was usually red and florid-looking, turned ghastly pale, and sprang to his feet.

  ‘Octave Braulard!’ he gasped, placing his coffee cup on the counter.

  ‘At your service,’ said Vandeloup, looking rapidly round to see that no one overheard the name, ‘but here I am Gaston Vandeloup.’

  Meddlechip passed his handkerchief over his face and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.

  ‘How did you get here?’ he asked, in a strangled voice.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said M. Vandeloup, putting his coffee cup down and wiping his lips with his handkerchief; ‘suppose we go and have supper somewhere, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘I don’t want any supper,’ said Meddlechip, sullenly, his face having regained its normal colour. ‘Possibly not, but I do,’ replied Vandeloup, sweetly, taking his arm; ‘come, let us go.’

  Meddlechip did not resist, but walked passively out of the bar with Vandeloup, much to the astonishment of the thin gentleman, who called out to him but without getting any answer.

  Meddlechip went to the cloak room and put on his coat and hat. Then he followed Vandeloup down the stairs and paused at the door while the Frenchman hailed a hansom. When it drove up, however, he stopped short at the edge of the pavement.

  ‘I won’t go,’ he said, determinedly.

  Vandeloup looked at him with a peculiar gleam in his dark eyes, and bowed.

  ‘Let me persuade you, Monsieur,’ he said, blandly, holding the door of the cab open.

  Meddlechip glanced at him, and then, with a sigh of resignation, entered the cab, followed by Vandeloup.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ asked the cabman, through the trap.

  ‘To Leslie’s Supper Rooms,’ replied the Frenchman, and the cab drove off.

  CHAPTER IV. THE CASE OF ADELE BLONDET

  Leslie’s Supper Rooms in Bourke Street East were very well known— that is, among a certain class. Religious people and steady businessmen knew nothing about such a place except by reputation, and looked upon it, with horror, as a haunt of vice and dissipation.

  Though Leslie’s, in common
with other places had to close at a certain hour, yet when the shutters were up, the door closed, and the lights extinguished in the front of the house, there was plenty of life and bustle going on at the back, where there were charmingly furnished little rooms for supper parties. Barty Jarper had engaged one of these apartments, and with about a dozen young men was having a good time of it when Vandeloup and Meddlechip drove up. After dismissing the cab and looking up and down the street to see that no policeman was in sight, Vandeloup knocked at the door in a peculiar manner, and it was immediately opened in a stealthy kind of way. Gaston gave his name, whereupon they were allowed to enter, and the door was closed after them in the same quiet manner, all of which was very distasteful to Mr Meddlechip, who, being a public man and a prominent citizen, felt that he was breaking the laws he had assisted to make. He looked round in some disgust at the crowds of waiters, and at the glimpses he caught every now and then of gentlemen in evening dress, and what annoyed him more than anything else—ladies in bright array. Oh! a dissipated place was Leslie’s, and even in the daytime had a rakish-looking appearance as if it had been up all night and knew a thing or two. Mr Meddlechip would have retreated from this den of iniquity if he could, but as he wanted to have a thorough explanation with Vandeloup, he meekly followed the Frenchman through a well-lighted passage, with statues on either side holding lamps, to a little room beautifully furnished, wherein a supper table was laid out. Here the waiter who conducted them took their hats and Meddlechip’s coat and hung them up, then waited respectfully for M. Vandeloup to give his orders. A portly looking waiter he was, with a white waistcoat, a white shirt, which bulged out in a most obtrusive manner, and a large white cravat, which was tied round an equally large white collar. When he walked he rolled along like a white-crested wave, and with his napkin under his arm, the heel of one foot in the hollow of the other, and his large red face, surmounted by a few straggling tufts of black hair, he was truly wonderful to behold.

  This magnificent creature, who answered to the name of Gurchy, received Vandeloup’s orders with a majestic bend of his head, then rolling up to Mr Meddlechip, he presented the bill of fare to that gentleman, who, however, refused it.

  ‘I don’t want any supper,’ he said, curtly.

  Gurchy, though a waiter, was human, and looked astonished, while Vandeloup remonstrated in a suave manner.

  ‘But, my dear sir,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘you must have something to eat. I assure you,’ with a significant smile, ‘you will need it.’

  Meddlechip’s lips twitched a little as the Frenchman spoke, then, with an uneasy laugh, he ordered something, and drew his chair up to the table.

  ‘And, waiter,’ said Vandeloup, softly, as Gurchy was rolling out of the door, ‘bring some wine, will you? Pommery, I think, is best,’ he added, turning to Meddlechip.

  ‘What you like,’ returned that gentleman, impatiently, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘That’s a great mistake,’ replied Gaston, coolly; ‘bad wine plays the deuce with one’s digestion—two bottles of Pommery, waiter.’

  Gurchy nodded, that is to say his head disappeared for a moment in the foam of his collar, then re-appeared again as he slowly rolled out of the door and vanished.

  ‘Now, then, sir,’ said Meddlechip, sharply, rising from his seat and closing the door, ‘what did you bring me here for?’

  M. Vandeloup raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘How energetic you are, my dear Kestrike,’ he said, smoothly, lying down on the sofa, and contemplating his shoes with great satisfaction; ‘just the same noisy, jolly fellow as of yore.’

  ‘Damn you!’ said the other, fiercely, at which Gaston laughed.

  ‘You had better leave that to God,’ he answered, mockingly; ‘he understands more about it than you do.’

  ‘Oh, I know you of old,’ said Meddlechip, walking up and down excitedly; ‘I know you of old, with your sneers and your coolness, but it won’t do here,’ stopping opposite the sofa, and glaring down at Vandeloup; ‘it won’t do here!’

  ‘So you’ve said twice,’ replied M. Vandeloup, with a yawn. ‘How do you want me to conduct myself? Do tell me; I am always open to improvement.’

  ‘You must leave Australia,’ said Meddlechip, sharply, and breathing hard.

  ‘If I refuse?’ asked M. Vandeloup, lazily, smiling to himself.

  ‘I will denounce you as a convict escaped from New Caledonia!’ hissed the other, putting his hands in his pockets, and bending forward.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Gaston, with a charming smile, ‘I don’t think you will go so far as that, my friend.’

  ‘I swear,’ said Meddlechip, loudly, raising his hand, ‘I swear—’

  ‘Oh, fie!’ observed M. Vandeloup, in a shocked tone; ‘an old man like you should not swear; it’s very wrong, I assure you; besides,’ with a disparaging glance, ‘you are not suited to melodrama.’

  Meddlechip evidently saw it was no good trying to fight against the consummate coolness of this young man, so with a great effort resolved to adapt himself to the exigencies of the case, and fight his adversary with his own weapons.

  ‘Well,’ he said at length, resuming his seat at the table, and trying to speak calmly, though his flushed face and quivering lips showed what an effort it cost him; ‘let us have supper first, and we can talk afterwards.’

  ‘Ah, that’s much better,’ remarked M. Vandeloup, sitting up to the table, and unrolling his napkin. ‘I assure you, my dear fellow, if you treat me well, I’m a very easy person to deal with.’

  The eyes of the two men met for a moment across the table, and Vandeloup’s had such a meaning look in them, that Meddlechip dropped his own with a shiver.

  The door opened, and the billowy waiter rolled up to the table, and having left a deposit of plates and food thereon, subsided once more out of the door, then rolled in again with the champagne. He drew the cork of one of the bottles, filled the glasses on the table, and then after giving a glance round to see that all was in order, suddenly found that it was ebb-tide, and rolled slowly out of the door, which he closed after him.

  Meddlechip ate his supper in silence, but drank a good deal of champagne to keep his courage up for the coming ordeal, which he knew he must go through. Vandeloup, on the other hand, ate and drank very little, as he talked gaily all the time about theatres, racing, boating, in fact of everything except the thing the other man wanted to hear.

  ‘I never mix up business with pleasure, my dear fellow,’ said Gaston, amiably, guessing his companion’s thoughts; ‘when we have finished supper and are enjoying our cigars, I will tell you a little story.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ retorted the other, harshly, having an intuitive idea what the story would be about.

  ‘Possibly not,’ replied M. Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘nevertheless it is my wish that you should hear it.’

  Meddlechip looked as if he were inclined to resent this plain speaking, but after a pause evidently thought better of it, and went on tranquilly eating his supper.

  When they had finished Gaston rang the bell, and when the billow rolled in, ordered a fresh bottle of wine and some choice cigars of a brand well known at Leslie’s. Gurchy’s head disappeared in foam again, and did not emerge therefrom till he was out of the door.

  Try one of these,’ said M. Vandeloup, affably, to Meddlechip, when the billow had rolled in with the cigars and wine, ‘it’s an excellent brand.’

  ‘I don’t care about smoking,’ answered Meddlechip.

  ‘To please me,’ urged M. Vandeloup, persuasively; whereupon Meddlechip took one, and having lighted it puffed away evidently under protest, while the billow opened the new bottle of wine, freshened up the glasses, and then rolled majestically out of the door, like a tidal wave.

  ‘Now then for the story,’ said M. Vandeloup, leaning back luxuriously on the sofa, and blowing a cloud of smoke.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ retorted the other, quickly; ‘name your terms and le
t us end the matter.’

  ‘Pardon me,’ said M. Vandeloup, with a smile, ‘but I refuse to accept any terms till I have given you thoroughly to understand what I mean; so you must hear this little tale of Adele Blondet.’

  ‘For God’s sake, no!’ cried the other, hoarsely, rising to his feet; ‘I tell you I am haunted by it; by day and by night, sleeping or waking, I see her face ever before me like an accusing angel.’

  ‘Curious,’ murmured M. Vandeloup, ‘especially as she was not by any means an angel.’

  ‘I thought it was done with,’ said Meddlechip, twisting his fingers together, while the large drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, ‘but here you come like a spectre from the past and revive all the old horrors.’

  ‘If you call Adele a horror,’ retorted Vandeloup, coolly, ‘I am certainly going to revive her, so you had best sit down and hear me to the end, for you certainly will not turn me from my purpose.’

  Meddlechip sank back into his chair with a groan, while his relentless enemy curled himself up on the sofa in a more comfortable position and began to talk.

  ‘We will begin the story,’ said M. Vandeloup, in a conversational tone, with an airy wave of his delicate white hand, ‘in the good old-fashioned style of our fairy tales. Once upon a time—let us say three years ago—there lived in Paris a young man called Octave Braulard, who was well born and comfortably off. He had a fancy to be a doctor, and was studying for the medical profession when he became entangled with a woman. Mademoiselle Adele Blondet was a charmingly ugly actress, who was at that time the rage of Paris. She attracted all the men, not by her looks, but by her tongue. Octave Braulard,’ went on M. Vandeloup, complacently looking at himself, ‘was handsome, and she fell in love with him. She became his mistress, and caused a nine days’ wonder in Paris by remaining constant to him for six months. Then there came to Paris an English gentleman from Australia—name, Kestrike; position, independent; income, enormous. He had left Madame his wife in London, and came to our wicked Paris to amuse himself. He saw Adele Blondet, and was introduced to her by Braulard; result, Kestrike betrayed his friend Braulard by stealing from him his mistress. Why was this? Was Kestrike handsome? No. Was he fascinating? No. Was he rich? Yes. Therein lay the secret; Adele loved the purse, not the man. Braulard,’ said Gaston, rising from the sofa quickly and walking across the room, ‘felt his honour wounded. He remonstrated with Adele, no use; he offered to fight a duel with the perfidious Kestrike, no use; the thief was a coward.’