know which of them annoyed me more. Notwithstanding the letter,
notwithstanding the disappearance, my scheme must be carried out. And
then--for home! But the conclusion came glum and displeasing.

The scheme was very simple. I intended to spend the hours of the night in
an excursion to the duke's house. I knew that old Jean slept in a detached
cottage about half a mile from the _château_. Here I should find the old
man. I would hand to him the necklace in its box, without telling him what
the contents of the box were. Jean would carry the parcel to his master,
and deliver with it a message to the effect that a gentleman who had left
Avranches that afternoon had sent the parcel by a messenger to the duke,
inasmuch as he had reason to believe that the article contained therein
was the property of the duke and that the duke would probably be glad to
have it restored to him. The significant reticence of this message was
meant to inform the duke that Marie Delhasse was not so solitary in her
flight but that she could find a cavalier to do her errands for her, and
one who would not acquiesce in the retention of the diamonds. I imagined,
with a great deal of pleasure, what the duke's feelings would be in face
of the communication. Thus, then, the diamonds were to be restored, the
duke disgusted, and I myself freed from all my troubles. I have often
thought since that the scheme was really very ingenious, and showed a
talent for intrigue which has been notably wanting in the rest of my
humble career.

The scheme once prosperously carried through, I should, of course, take my
departure at the earliest moment on the following day. I might, or I might
not, write a line of dignified remonstrance to the duchess, but I should
make no attempt to see her; and I should most certainly go. Moreover, it
would be a long while before I accepted any of her harum-scarum
invitations again.

"Elsa" indeed! Somehow I could not say it with quite the indignant scorn
which I desired should be manifest in my tone. I have never been able to
be indignant with the duchess; although I have laughed at her. Now I could
be, and was, indignant with Marie Delhasse; though, in truth, her
difficult position pleaded excuses for her treatment of me which the
duchess could not advance.

As the clock of the church struck ten I walked downstairs from my room,
wearing a light short overcoat tightly buttoned up. I informed the waiter
that I was likely to be late, secured the loan of a latchkey, and left my
good friend under the evident impression that I was about to range the
shores of the bay in love-lorn solitude. Then I took the footpath down the
hill and, swinging along at a round pace, was fairly started on my
journey. If the inference I drew from the next thing I saw were correct,
it was just as well for me to be out of the way for a little while. For,
when I was still about thirty yards from the main road, there dashed past
the end of the lane leading up the hill a carriage and pair, traveling at
full speed. I could not see who rode inside; but two men sat on the box,
and there was luggage on the top. I could not be sure in the dim light,
but I had a very strong impression that the carriage was the same as that
which had conveyed Mme. Delhasse out of my sight earlier in the evening.
If it were so, and if the presence of the luggage indicated that of its
owner, the good lady, arriving alone, must have met with the scantest
welcome from the duke. And she would return in a fury of anger and
suspicion. I was glad not to meet her; for if she were searching for
explanation, I fancied, from glances she had given me, that I was likely
to come in for a share of her attention. In fact, she might reasonably
have supposed that I was interested in her daughter; nor, indeed, would
she have been wrong so far.

Briskly I pursued my way, and in something over an hour I reached the turn
in the road and, setting my face inland, began to climb the hill. A mile
further on I came on a bypath, and not doubting from my memory of the
direction, that this must be a short cut to the house, I left the road and
struck along the narrow wooded track. But, although shorter than the road,
it was not very direct, and I found myself thinking it very creditable to
the topographical instinct of my friend and successor, Pierre, that he
should have discovered on a first visit, and without having been to the
house, that this was the best route to follow. With the knowledge of where
the house lay, however, it was not difficult to keep right, and another
forty minutes brought me, now creeping along very cautiously, alertly, and
with open ears, to the door of old Jean's little cottage. No doubt he was
fast asleep in his bed, and I feared the need of a good deal of noisy
knocking before he could be awakened from a peasant's heavy slumber.

My delight was therefore great when I discovered that--either because he
trusted his fellow-men, or because he possessed nothing in the least worth
stealing--he had left his door simply on the latch. I lifted the latch and
walked in. A dim lantern burned on a little table near the smoldering
log-fire. Yet the light was enough to tell me that my involuntary host was
not in the room. I passed across its short breadth to a door in the
opposite wall. The door yielded to a push; all was dark inside. I listened
for a sleeper's breathing, but heard nothing. I returned, took up the
lantern, and carried it with me into the inner room. I held it above my
head, and it enabled me to see the low pallet-bed in the corner. But Jean
was not lying in the bed--nay, it was clear that he had not lain on the
bed all that night. Yet his bedtime was half-past eight or nine, and it
was now hard on one o'clock. Jean was "making a night of it," that seemed
very clear. But what was the business or pleasure that engaged him? I
admit that I was extremely annoyed. My darling scheme, on which I had
prided myself so much, was tripped up by the trifling accident of Jean's
absence.

What in the world, I asked again, kept the old man from his bed? It
suddenly struck me that he might, by the duke's orders, have accompanied
Mme. Delhasse back to Avranches, in order to be able to report to his
master any news that came to light there. He might well have been the
second man on the box. This reflection removed my surprise at his absence,
but not my vexation. I did not know what to do! Should I wait? But he
might not be back till morning. Wearily, in high disgust, I recognized
that the great scheme had, for tonight at least, gone awry, and that I
must tramp back to Avranches, carrying my old man of the sea, the
Cardinal's Necklace. For Jean could not read, and it was useless to leave
the parcel with written directions.

I went into the outer room, and set the lantern in its place; I took a
pull at my flask, and smoked a pipe. Then, with a last sigh of vexation, I
grasped my stick in my hand, rose to my feet, and moved toward the door.

Ah! Hark! There was a footstep outside.

"Thank Heaven, here comes the old fool!" I murmured.

The step came on, and, as it came, I listened to it; and as I listened to
it, the sudden satisfaction that had filled me as suddenly died away; for,
if that were the step of old Jean, may I see no difference between the
footfalls of an elephant and of a ballet-dancer! And then, before I had
time to form any plan, or to do anything save stand staring in the middle
of the floor, the latch was lifted again, the door opened, and in
walked--the Duke of Saint-Maclou!

CHAPTER XII.

As a Man Possessed.

The dim light served no further than to show that a man was there.

"Well, Jean, what news?" asked the duke, drawing the door close behind
him.

"I am not Jean," said I.

"Then who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?" He advanced and
held up the lantern. "Why, what are you hanging about for?" he exclaimed
the next moment, with a start of surprise.

"And I am not George Sampson either," said I composedly. I had no mind to
play any more tricks. As I must meet him, it should be in my own
character.

The duke studied me from top to toe. He twirled his mustache, and a slight
smile appeared on his full lips.

"Yet I know you as George Sampson, I think, sir," said he, but in an
altered tone. He spoke now as though to an equal--to an enemy perhaps, but
to an equal.

I was in some perplexity; but a moment later he relieved me.

"You need trouble yourself with no denials," he said. "Lafleur's story of
the gentleman at Avranches, with the description of him, struck me as
strange; and for the rest--there were two things."

He seated himself on a stool. I leaned against the wall.

"In the first place," he continued, "I know my wife pretty well; in the
second, a secret known to four maidservants-- Really, sir, you were very
confiding!"

"I was doing no wrong," said I; though not, I confess, in a very convinced
tone.

"Then why the masquerade?" he answered quickly, hitting my weak point.

"Because you were known to be unreasonable."

His smile broadened a little.

"It's the old crime of husbands, isn't it?" he asked. "Well, sir, I'm no
lawyer, and it's not my purpose to question you on that matter. I will put
you to no denials."

I bowed. The civility of his demeanor was a surprise to me.

"If that were the only affair, I need not keep you ten minutes," he went
on. "At least, I presume that my friend would find you when he wanted to
deliver a message from me?"

"Certainly. But may I ask why, if that is your intention, you have delayed
so long? You guessed I was at Avranches. Why not have sent to me?"

The duke tugged his mustache.

"I do not know your name, sir," he remarked.

"My name is Aycon."

"I know the name," and he bowed slightly. "Well, I didn't send to you at
Avranches because I was otherwise occupied."

"I am glad, sir, that you take it so lightly," said I.

"And by the way, Mr. Aycon, before you question me, isn't there a question
I might ask you? How came you here to-night?" And, as he spoke, his smile
vanished.

"I have nothing to say, beyond that I hoped to see your servant Jean."

"For what purpose? Come, sir, for what purpose? I have a right to ask for
what purpose." And his tone rose in anger.

I was going to give him a straightforward answer. My hand was actually on
the way to the spot where I felt the red box pressing against my side,
when he rose from his seat and strode toward me; and a sudden passion
surged in his voice.

"Answer me! answer me!" he cried. "No, I'm not asking about my wife; I
don't care a farthing for that empty little parrot. Answer me, sir, as you
value your life! What do you know of Marie Delhasse?"

And he stood before me with uplifted hand, as though he meant to strike
me. I did not move, and we looked keenly into one another's eyes. He
controlled himself by a great effort, but his hands trembled, as he
continued:

"That old hag who came to-night and dared to show her filthy face here
without her daughter--she told me of your talks and walks. The girl was
ready to come. Who stopped her? Who turned her mind? Who was there but
you--you--you?"

And again his passion overcame him, and he was within an ace of dashing
his fist in my face.

My hands hung at my side, and I leaned easily against the wall.

"Thank God," said I, "I believe I stopped her! I believe I turned her
mind. I did my best, and except me, nobody was there."

"You admit it?"

"I admit the crime you charged me with. Nothing more."

"What have you done with her? Where is she now?"

"I don't know."

"Ah!" he cried, in angry incredulity. "You don't know, don't you?"

"And if I knew, I wouldn't tell you."

"I'm sure of that," he sneered. "It is knowledge a man keeps to himself,
isn't it? But, by Heaven, you shall tell me before you leave this place,
or--"

"We have already one good ground of quarrel," I interrupted. "What need is
there of another?"

"A good ground of quarrel?" he repeated, in a questioning tone.

Honestly I believe that he had for the moment forgotten. His passion for
Marie Delhasse and fury at the loss of her filled his whole mind.

"Oh, yes," he went on. "About the duchess? True, Mr. Aycon. That will
serve--as well as the truth."

"If that is not a real ground, I know none," said I.

"Haven't you told me that you kept her from me?"

"For no purposes of my own."

He drew back a step, smiling scornfully.

"A man is bound to protest that the lady is virtuous," said he; "but need
he insist so much on his own virtue?"

"As it so happens," I observed, "it's not a question of virtue."

I suppose there was something in my tone that caught his attention, for
his scornful air was superseded by an intent puzzled gaze, and his next
question was put in lower tones:

"What did you stay in Avranches for?"

"Because your wife asked me," said I. The answer was true enough, but, as
I wished to deal candidly with him, I added: "And, later on, Mlle.
Delhasse expressed a similar desire."

"My wife and Mlle. Delhasse! Truly you are a favorite!"

"Honest men happen to be scarce in this neighborhood," said I. I was
becoming rather angry.

"If you are one, I hope to be able to make them scarcer by one more," said
the duke.

"Well, we needn't wrangle over it any more," said I; and I sat down on the
lid of a chest that stood by the hearth. But the duke sprang forward and
seized me by the arm, crying again in ungovernable rage:

"Where is she?"

"She is safe from you, I hope."

"Aye--and you'll keep her safe!"

"As I say, I know nothing about her, except that she'd be an honest girl
if you'd let her alone."

He was still holding my arm, and I let him hold it: the man was hardly
himself under the slavery of his passion. But again, at my words, the
wonder which I had seen before stole into his eyes.

"You must know where she is," he said, with a straining look at my face,
"but--but--"

He broke off, leaving his sentence unfinished. Then he broke out again:

"Safe from me? I would make life a heaven for her!"

"That's the old plea," said I.

"Is a thing a lie because it's old? There's nothing in the world I would
not give her--nothing I have not offered her." Then he looked at me,
repeating again: "You must know where she is." And then he whispered: "Why
aren't you with her?"

"I have no wish to be with her," said I. Any other reason would not have
appealed to him.

He sank down on the stool again and sat in a heap, breathing heavily and
quickly. He was wonderfully transfigured, and I hardly knew in him the
cold harsh man who had been my temporary master and was the mocking
husband of the duchess. Say all that may be said about his passion, I
could not doubt that it was life and death to him. Justification he had
none; excuse I found in my heart for him, for it struck me--coming over
me in a strange sudden revelation as I sat and looked at him--that he had
given such love to the duchess, the gay little lady would have been
marvelously embarrassed. It was hers to dwell in a radiant mid-ether,
neither to mount to heaver nor descend to hell. And in one of theses two
must dwell such feelings as the dukes's.

He roused himself, and leaning forward spoke to me again:

"You've lived in the same house with her and talked to her. You swear you
don't love her? What? Has Elsa's little figure come between?"

His tone was full of scorn. He seemed angry with me, not for presuming to
love his wife (nay, he would not believe that), but for being so blind as
not to love Marie.

"I didn't love her!" I answered, with a frown on my face and slow words.

"You have never felt attracted to her?"

I did not answer that question. I sat frowning in silence till the duke
spoke again, in a low hoarse whisper:

"And she? What says she to you?"

I looked up with a start, and met his searching wrathful gaze. I shook my
head; his question was new to me--new and disturbing.

"I don't know," said I; and on that we sat in silence for many moments.

Then he rose abruptly and stood beside me.

"Mr. Aycon," he said, in the smoother tones in which he had begun our
curious interview, "I came near a little while ago to doing a ruffianly
thing, of a sort I am not wont to do. We must fight out our quarrel in the
proper way. Have you any friends in the neighborhood?"

"I am quite unknown," I answered.

He thought for an instant, and then continued:

"There is a regiment quartered at Pontorson, and I have acquaintances among
the officers. If agreeable to you, we will drive over there; we shall find
gentlemen ready to assist us."

"You are determined to fight?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, with a snap of his lips. "Have we not matters enough and
to spare to fight about?"

"I can't of course deny that you have a pretext."

"And I, Mr. Aycon, know that I have also a cause. Will this morning suit
you?"

"It is hard on two now."

"Precisely. We have time for a little rest; then I will order the carriage
and we will drive together to Pontorson."

"You mean that I should stay in your house?"

"If you will so far honor me. I wish to settle this affair at once, so as
to be moving."

"I can but accept."

"Indeed you could hardly get back to Avranches, if, as I presume, you came
on foot. Ah! you've never told me why you wished to see Jean;" and he
turned a questioning look on me again, as he walked toward the door of the
cottage.

"It was--" I began.

"Stay; you shall tell me in the house. Shall I lead the way? Ah, but you
know it!" and he smiled grimly.

With a bow, I preceded him along the little path where I had once waited
for the duchess, and where Pierre, the new servant, had found me. No words
passed between us as we went. The duke advanced to the door and unlocked
it. We went in, nobody was about, and we crossed the dimly lighted hall
into the small room where supper had been laid for three (three who should
have been four) on the night of my arrival. Meat, bread, and wine stood on
the table now, and with a polite gesture the duke invited me to a repast.
I was tired and hungry, and I took a hunch of bread and poured out some
wine.

"What keeps Jean, I wonder?" mused the duke, as he sat down. "Perhaps he
has found her!" and a gleam of eager hope flashed from his eyes.

I made no comment--where was the profit in more sparring of words? I
munched my bread and drank my wine, thinking, by a whimsical turn of
thought, of Gustave de Berensac and his horror at the table laid for
three. Soon I laid down my napkin, and the duke held out his cigarette
case toward me:

"And now, Mr. Aycon, if I'm not keeping you up--"

"I do not feel sleepy," said I.

"It is the same for both of us," he reminded me, shrugging his shoulders.
"Well, then, if you are willing--of course you can refuse if you choose--I
should like to hear what brought you to Jean's quarters on foot from
Avranches in the middle of the night."

"You shall hear. I did not desire to meet you, if I could avoid it, and
therefore I sought old Jean, with the intention of making him a messenger
to you."

"For what purpose?"

"To restore to you something which has been left on my hands and to which
you have a better right than I."

"Pray, what is that?" he asked, evidently puzzled. The truth never crossed
his mind.

"This," said I; and I took the red leathern box out of my pocket, and set
it down on the table in front of the duke. And I put my cigarette between
my lips and leaned back in my chair.

CHAPTER XIII.

A Timely Truce.

I think that at first the Duke of Saint-Maclou could not, as the old
saying goes, believe his eyes. He sat looking from me to the red box, and
from the red box back to my face. Then he stretched out a slow, wavering
hand and drew the box nearer to him till it rested in the circle of his
spread-out arm and directly under his poring gaze. He seemed to shrink
from opening it; but at last he pressed the spring with a covert timid
movement of his finger, and the lid, springing open, revealed the
Cardinal's Necklace.

It seemed to be more brilliant than I had ever seen it, in the light of
the lamp that stood on the table by us; and the duke looked at it as a
magician might at the amulet which had failed him, or a warrior at the
talisman that had proved impotent. And I, moved to a sudden anger with him
for tempting the girl with such a bribe, said bitterly and scornfully,
with fresh indignation rising in me:

"It was a high bid! Strange that you could not buy her with it!"

He paid no visible heed to my taunt; and his tone was dull, bewildered,
and heavy as, holding the box still in his curved arm, he asked slowly:

"Did she give it to you to give to me?"

"She gave it to me to give to your wife." He looked up with a start. "But
your wife would not take it of her. And when I returned from my errand she
was gone--where I know not. So I decided to send it back to you."

He did not follow, or took very little interest in my brief history. He
did not even reiterate his belief that I knew Marie's whereabouts. His
mind was fixed on another point.

"How did you know she had it?" he asked.

"I found her with it on the table before her--"

"You found her?"

"Yes; I went into her sitting room and found her as I say; and she was
sobbing; and I got from her the story of it."

"She told you that?"

"Yes; and she feared to send it back, lest you should come and overbear
her resistance. I supposed you had frightened her. But neither would she
keep it--"

"You bade her not," he put in, in a quick low tone.

"If you like, I prayed her not. Did it need much cleverness to see what
was meant by keeping it?"

His mouth twitched. I saw the tempest rising again in him. But for a
little longer he held it down.

"Do you take me for a fool?" he asked.

"Am I a boy--do I know nothing of women? And do I know nothing of men?"

And he ended in a miserable laugh, and then fell again to tugging his
mustache with his shaking hand.

"You know," said I, "what's bad in both; and no doubt that's a good deal."

In that very room the duchess had called Gustave de Berensac a preacher.
Her husband had much the same reproach for me.

"Sermons are fine from your mouth," he muttered.

And then his self-control gave way. With a sweep of his arm he drove the
necklace from him, so that the box whizzed across the table, balanced a
moment on the edge, and fell crashing on the ground, while the duke cried:

"God's curse on it and you! You've taken her from me!"

There was danger--there was something like madness--in his aspect as he
rose, and, facing me where I sat, went on in tones still low, but charged
with a rage that twisted his features and lined his white cheeks:

"Are you a liar or a fool? Have you taken the game for yourself, or are
you fool enough not to see that she has despised me--and that miserable
necklace--for you--because you've caught her fancy? My God! and I've given
my life to it for two years past! And you step in. Why didn't you keep to
my wife? You were welcome to her--though I'd have shot you all the same
for my name's sake. You must have Marie too, must you?"

He was mad, if ever man was mad, at that moment. But his words were strong
with the force and clear with the insight of his passion; and the rush of
them carried my mind along, and swept it with them to their own
conclusion. Nay, I will not say that--for I doubted still; but I doubted
as a man who would deny, not as one who laughs away, a thought. I sat
silent, looking, not at him, but at the Cardinal's Necklace on the floor.

Then, suddenly, while I was still busy with the thought and dazzled at the
revelation, while I sat bemused, before I could move, his fingers were on
my throat, and his face within a foot of mine, glaring and working as he
sent his strength into his arms to throttle me. For his wife--and his
name--he would fight a duel: for the sake of Marie Delhasse he would do
murder on an invited stranger in his house. I struggled to my feet, his
grip on my throat; and I stretched out my hands and caught him under the
shoulders in the armpits, and flung him back against the table, and thence
he reeled on to a large cabinet that was by the wall, and Stood leaning
against it.

"I knew you were a villain," I said, "but I thought you were a gentleman."
(I did not stop to consider the theory implied in that.)

He leaned against the cabinet, red with his exertion and panting; but he
did not come at me again. He dashed his hand across his forehead and then
he said in hoarse breathless tones:

"You shan't leave here alive!"

Then, with a start of recollection, he thrust his hand into his pocket and
brought out a key. He put it in the lock of a drawer of the cabinet,
fumbling after the aperture and missing it more than once. Then he opened
the drawer, took out a pair of dueling pistols, and laid them on the
table.

"They're loaded," he said. "Examine them for yourself."

I did not move; but I took my little friend out of my pocket.

"If I'm attacked," said I, "I shall defend myself; but I'm not going to
fight a duel here, without witnesses, at the dead of night, in your
house."

"Call it what you like then," said he; and he snatched up a pistol from
the table.

He was beyond remonstrance, influence, or control. I believe that in a
moment he would have fired; and I must have fired also, or gone to my
death as a sheep to the slaughter. But as he spoke there came a sound,
just audible, which made him pause, with his right hand that held the
pistol raised halfway to the level of his shoulder.

Faint as the sound was, slight as the interruption it would seem to offer
to the full career of a madman's fury, it was yet enough to check him, to
call him back to consciousness of something else in the world than his
balked passion and the man whom he deemed to have thwarted it.

"What's that?" he whispered.

It was the lowest, softest knock at the door--a knock that even in asking
attention almost shrank from being heard. It was repeated, louder, yet
hardly audibly. The duke, striding on the tip of his toes, transferred the
pistols from the table back to the drawer, and stood with his hand inside
the open drawer: I slid my weapon into my pocket; and then he trod softly
across the floor to the door.

"One moment!" I whispered.

And I stooped and picked up the Cardinal's Necklace and put it back where
it had lain before, pushing its box under the table by a hasty movement of
my foot--for the duke, after a nod of intelligence, was already opening
the door. I drew back in the shadow behind it and waited.

"What do you want?" asked the duke.

And then a girl stepped hastily into the room and closed the door quickly
and noiselessly behind her. I saw her face: she was my old friend Suzanne.
When her eyes fell on me, she started in surprise, as well she might; but
the caution and fear, which had made her knock almost noiseless, her tread
silent, and her face all astrain with alert alarm, held her back from any
cry.

"Never mind him," said the duke. "That's nothing to do with you. What do
you want?"

"Hush! Speak low. I thought you would still be up, as you told me to
refill the lamp and have it burning. There's--there's something going on."

She spoke in a quick, urgent whisper, and in her agitation remembered no
deference in her words of address. "Going on? Where? Do you mean here?"

"No, no! I heard nothing here. In the duchess's dressing-room: it is just
under the room where I sleep. I awoke about half an hour ago, and I heard
sounds from there. There was a sound as of muffled hammering, and then a
noise, like the rasping of a file; and I thought I heard people moving
about, but very cautiously."

The duke and I were both listening attentively.

"I was frightened, and lay still a little; but then I got up--for the
sounds went on--and put on some clothes, and came down--"

"Why didn't you rouse the men? It must be thieves."

"I did go to the men's room; but their door was locked, and I could not
make them hear. I did not dare to knock loud; but I saw a light in the
room, under the door; and if they'd been awake they would have heard."

"Perhaps they weren't there," I suggested.

Suzanne turned a sudden look on me. Then she said:

"The safe holding the jewels is fixed in the wall of the duchess' dressing
room. And--and Lafleur knows it."

The duke had heard the story with a frowning face; but now a smile
appeared on his lips, and he said:

"Ah, yes! The jewels are there!"

"The--the Cardinal's Necklace," whispered Suzanne.

"True," said the duke; and his eyes met mine, and we both smiled. A few
minutes ago it had not seemed likely that I should share a joke--even a
rather grim joke--with him.

"Mr. Aycon," said he, "are you inclined to help me to look into this
matter? It may be only the girl's fancy--"

"No, no; I heard plainly," Suzanne protested eagerly.

"But one can never trust these rascally men-servants."

"I am quite ready," said I.

"Our business," said he, "will wait."

"It will be the better for waiting."

He hesitated a moment; then he assented gravely:

"You're right--much better."

He took a pistol out of the drawer, and shut and locked the drawer. Then
he turned to Suzanne and said:

"You had better go back to bed."

"I daren't, I daren't!"

"Then stay here and keep quiet. Mind, not a sound!"

"Give me a pistol."

He unlocked the drawer again, and gave her what she asked. Then signing to
me to follow him, he opened the door, and we stepped together into the
dark hall, the duke laying his hand on my arm and whispering:

"They're after the necklace."

We groped slowly, with careful noiselessness, across the hall to the foot
of the great staircase. There we paused and listened. There was nothing to
be heard. We climbed the first flight of stairs, and the duke turned sharp
to the right. We were now in a short corridor which ran north and south;
three yards ahead of us was another turn, leading to the west wing of the
house. There was a window by us; the duke gently opened it; and over
against us, across the base of the triangle formed by the building, was
another window, four or five yards away. The window was heavily curtained;
no light could be seen through it. But as we stood listening, the sounds
began--first the gentle muffled hammering, then the sound of the file. The
duke still held my arm, and we stood motionless. The sounds went on for a
while. Then they ceased. There was a pause of complete stillness. Then a
sharp, though not loud, click! And, upon this, the duke whispered to me:

"They've got the safe open. Now they'll find the small portable safe which
holds the necklace."

And I could make out an amused smile on his pale face. Before I could
speak, he turned and began to crawl away. I followed. We descended the
stairs again to the hall. At the foot he turned sharply to the left, and
came to a standstill in a recess under the staircase.

"We'll wait here. Is your pistol all right?"

"Yes, all right," said I.

And, as I spoke, the faintest sound spread from the top of the stairs, and
a board creaked under the steps of a man. I was close against the duke,
and I felt him quiver with a stifled laugh. Meanwhile the Cardinal's
Necklace pressed hard against my ribs under my tightly buttoned coat.

CHAPTER XIV.

For an Empty Box.

When I look back on the series of events which I am narrating and try to
recover the feelings with which I was affected in its passage, I am almost
amazed and in some measure ashamed to find how faint is my abhorrence of
the Duke of Saint-Maclou. My indignation wants not the bridle but the
whip, and I have to spur myself on to a becoming vehemence of disapproval.
I attribute my sneaking kindness for him--for to that and not much less I
must plead guilty--partly indeed to the revelation of a passion in him
that seemed to leave him hardly responsible for the wrong he plotted, but
far more to the incidents of this night, in which I was in a manner his
comrade and the partner with him in an adventure. To have stood shoulder
to shoulder with a man blinds his faults--and the duke bore himself, not
merely with the coolness and courage which I made no doubt of his
displaying, but with a readiness and zest remarkable at any time, but more
striking when they followed on the paroxysm to which I had seen him
helplessly subject. These indications of good in the man mollified my
dislike and attached me to him by a bond which begot toleration and
resists even the clearer and more piercing analysis of memory. Therefore,
when those who speak to me of what he did and sought to do say what I
cannot help admitting to be true, I hold my peace, thinking that the duke
and I have played as partners as well as on hostile sides, and that I,
being no saint, may well hold my tongue about the faults of a
fellow-sinner. Moreover,--and this is the thing of all strongest to temper
or to twist my judgment of him,--I feel often as though it were he who
laid his finger on my blind eyes and bade me look up and see where lay my
happiness. For it is strange how long a man can go without discovering his
own undermost desire. Yet, when seen, how swift it grows!

Quiet and still we stood in the bay of the staircase, and the steps over
our heads creaked under the feet of the men who came down. The duke's hand
was on my arm, restraining me, and he held it there till the feet had
passed above us and the stealthy tread landed on the marble flagging of
the hall. We thrust our heads out and peered through the darkness. I saw
the figures of two men, one following the other toward the front door;
this the first and taller unfastened and noiselessly opened; and he and
his fellow, whom, by the added light which entered, I perceived to be
carrying a box or case of moderate size, waited for a moment on the
threshold. Then they passed out, drawing the door close after them.

Still the duke held me back, and we rested where we were three or four
minutes. Then he whispered, "Come," and we stole across the hall after
them and found ourselves outside. It must have been about half-past two
o'clock in the morning; there was no moon and it was rather dark. The duke
turned sharp to the left and led me to the bypath, and there, a couple of
hundred yards ahead of us, we saw a cube of light that came from a dark
lantern.

The duke's face was dimly visible, and an amused smile played on his lips
as he said softly:

"Lafleur and Pierre! They think they've got the necklace!"

Was this the meaning of Pierre's appearance in the role of my successor?
The idea suggested itself to me in a moment, and I strove to read my
companion's face for a confirmation.

"We'll see where they go," he whispered, and then laid his finger on his
lips. Amusement sounded in his voice; indeed it was impossible not to
perceive the humor of the position, when I felt the Cardinal's Necklace
against my own ribs.

We were walking now under cover of the trees which lined the sides of the
path, so that no backward glance could discover us to the thieves; and I
was wondering how long we were thus to dog their steps, when suddenly they
turned to the left about fifty yards short of the spot where old Jean's
cottage stood, and disappeared from our sight. We emerged into the path,
the duke taking the lead. He was walking more briskly now, and I saw him
examine his pistol. When we came where the fellows had turned, we followed
in their track.

The first distant hint of approaching morning caught the tops of the trees
above us, turning them from black to a deep chill gray, as we paused to
listen. Our pursuit had brought us directly behind the cottage, which now
stood about a hundred yards on the right; and then we came upon them--or
rather suddenly stopped and crouched down to avoid coming upon them--where
they were squatting on the ground with a black iron box between them, and
the lantern's light thrown on the keyhole of the box. Lafleur held the
lantern; Pierre's hand was near the lock, and I presumed--I could not
see--that he held some instrument with which he meant to open it. A ring
of trees framed the picture, and the men sat in a hollow, well hidden from
the path even had it been high day.

The Duke of Saint-Maclou touched my arm, and I leaned forward to look in
his face. He nodded, and, brushing aside the trees, we sprang out upon the
astonished fellows. Fora moment they did not move, struck motionless with
surprise, while we stood over them, pistols in hand. We had caught them
fair and square. Expecting no interruption, they had guarded against none.
Their weapons were in their pockets, their hands busy with their job. They
sprang up the next moment; but the duke's muzzle covered Lafleur, and mine
was leveled full at Pierre. A second later Lafleur fell on his knees with
a cry for mercy; the little man stood quite still, his arms by his side
and the iron box hard by his feet. Lafleur's protestations and
lamentations began to flow fast. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. The duke
advanced, and I kept pace with him.

"Keep your eye on that fellow, Mr. Aycon," said the duke; and then he put
his left hand in his pocket, took out a key and flung it in Lafleur's
face. It struck him sharply between the eyes, and he whined again.

"Open the box," said the duke. "Open it--do you hear? This instant!"

With shaking hands the fellow dragged the box from where it lay by
Pierre's feet, and dropping on his knees began to fumble with the lock. At
last he contrived to unlock it, and raised the lid. The duke sprang
forward and, catching him by the nape of the neck, crammed his head down
into the box, bidding him, "Look--look--look!" And while he said it he
laughed, and took advantage of Lafleur's posture to give him four or five
hearty kicks.

"It's empty!" cried Lafleur, surprise rescuing him for an instant from the
other emotions to which his position gave occasion. And, as he spoke, for
the first time Pierre started, turning an eager gaze toward the box.

"Yes, it's empty," said the duke. "The necklace isn't there, is it? Now,
tell me all about it, or I'll put a bullet through your head!"

Then the story came: disentangled from the excuses and prayers, it was
simply that Pierre was no footman but a noted thief--that he had long
meditated an attack on the Cardinal's Necklace; had made Lafleur's
acquaintance in Paris, corrupted his facile virtue, and, with the aid of
forged testimonials, presented himself in the character in which I had
first made his acquaintance. The rascals had counted on the duke's
preoccupation with Marie Delhasse for their opportunity. The duke smiled
to hear it. Pierre listened to the whole story without a word of protest
or denial; his accomplice's cowardly attempt to present him as the only
culprit gained no more notice than another shrug and a softly muttered
oath. "Destiny," the little man seemed to say in the eloquent movement of
his shoulders; while the growing light showed his beady eyes fixed, full
and unfaltering, on me.

Lafleur's prayers died away. The duke, still smiling, set his pistol
against the wretch's head.

"That's what you deserve," said he.

And Lafleur, groveling, caught him by the knees.

"Don't kill me! Don't kill me!" he implored.

"Why not?" asked the duke, in the tone of a man willing to hear the other
side, but certain that he would not be convinced by it. "Why not? We find
you stealing--and we shoot you as you try to escape. I see nothing
unnatural or illegal in it, Lafleur. Nor do I see anything in favor of
leaving you alive."

And the pistol pressed still on Lafleur's forehead. Whether his master
meant to shoot, I know not--although I believe he did. But Lafleur had
little doubt of his purpose; for he hastened to play his best card, and,
clinging still to the duke's knees, cried desperately:

"If you'll spare me, I'll tell you where she is!"

The duke's arm fell to his side; and in a changed voice, from which the
cruel bantering had fled, while eager excitement filled its place, he
cried:

"What? Where who is?"

"The lady--Mlle. Delhasse. A girl I know--there in Avranches--saw her go.
She is there now."

"Where, man, where?" roared the duke, stamping his foot, and menacing the
wretch again with his pistol.

I turned to listen, forgetful of quiet little Pierre and his alert beady
eyes; yet I kept the pistol on him.

And Lafleur cried:

"At the convent--at the convent, on the shores of the bay!"

"My God!" cried the duke, and his eyes suddenly turned and flashed on
mine; and I saw that the necklace was forgotten, that our partnership was
ended, and that I again, and no longer the cowering creature before him,
was the enemy. And I also, hearing that Marie Delhasse was at the convent,
was telling myself that I was a fool not to have thought of it before, and
wondering what new impulse had seized the duke's wayward mind.

Thus neither the duke nor I was attending to the business of the moment.
But there was a man of busy brain, whose life taught him to profit by the
slips of other men and to let pass no opportunities. Our carelessness gave
one now--a chance of escape, and a chance of something else too. For,
while my negligent hand dropped to my side and my eyes were seeking to
read the duke's face, the figure opposite me must have been moving. Softly
must a deft hand have crept to a pocket; softly came forth the hidden
weapon. There was a report loud and sudden; and then another. And with the
first, Lafleur, who was kneeling at the duke's feet and looking up to see
how his shaft had sped, flung his arms wildly over his head, gave a
shriek, and fell dead--his head, half-shattered, striking the iron box as
he fell sideways in a heap on the ground.

The duke sprang back with an oath, whose sound was engulfed in the second
discharge of Pierre's pistol: and I felt myself struck in the right arm;
and my weapon fell to the ground, while I clutched the wounded limb with
my left hand.

The duke, after a moment's hesitation and bewilderment, raised his pistol
and fired; but the active little scoundrel was safe among the trees, and
we heard the twigs cracking and the leaves rustling as he pushed his way
through the wood. He was gone--scot free for us, but with his score to
Lafleur well paid. I swayed where I stood, to and fro: the pain was
considerable, and things seemed to go round before my eyes; yet I turned
to my companion, crying:

"After him! He'll get off! I'm hit; I can't run!"

The duke stood still, frowning; then he slowly dropped his smoking pistol
into his pocket. For a moment longer he stood, and a smile broadened on
his face as he raised his eyes to me.

"Let him," he said briefly; and his glance rested on me for a moment in
defiant significance. And then, without another word, he turned on his
heel. He took no heed of Lafleur's dead body, that seemed to fondle the
box, huddling it in a ghastly embrace, nor of me, who swayed and tottered
and sank on the ground by the corpse. With set lips and eager eyes he
passed me, taking the road by which we had come. And I, hugging my wounded
arm, with open eyes and parted lips, saw him dive in among the trees and
disappear toward the house. And I looked round on the iron box and the
dead body--two caskets robbed of all that made them more than empty
lumber.

Minute followed minute; and then I heard the hoofs of a horse galloping at
full speed along the road from the house toward Avranches. Lafleur was
dead and done with; Pierre might go his ways; I lay fainting in the wood;
the Cardinal's Necklace was still against my side. What recked the Duke of
Saint-Maclou of all that? I knew, as I heard the thud of the hoofs on the
road, that by the time the first reddening rays reached over the horizon
he would be at the convent, seeking the woman who was all the world to
him.

And I sat there helpless, fearful of what would befall her. For what could
a convent full of women avail against his mastering rage? And a sudden
sharp pang ran through me, startling even myself in its intensity; so that
I cried out aloud, raising my sound arm in the air toward Heaven, like a
man who swears a vow:

"By God, no! By God, no--no!"

CHAPTER XV.

I Choose my Way.

The dead man lay there, embracing the empty box that had brought him to
his death; and for many minutes I sat within a yard of him, detained by
the fascination and grim mockery of the picture no less than by physical
weakness and a numbness of my brain. My body refused to act, and my mind
hardly urged its indolent servant. I was in sore distress for Marie
Delhasse,--my vehement cry witnessed it,--yet I had not the will to move
to her aid; will and power both seemed to fail me. I could fear, I could
shrink with horror, but I could not act; nor did I move till the
increasing pain of my wound drove me, as it might any unintelligent
creature, to scramble to my feet and seek, half-blindly, for some place
that should afford shelter and succor.

Leaving Lafleur and the box where they lay, a pretty spectacle for a
moralist, I stumbled through the wood back to the path, and stood there in
helpless vacillation. At the house I should find better attendance, but
old Jean's cottage was nearer. The indolence of weakness gained the day,
and I directed my steps toward the cottage, thinking now, so far as I can
recollect, of none of the exciting events of the night nor even of what
the future still held, but purely and wholly of the fact that in the
cottage I should find a fire and a bed. The root-instincts of the natural
man--the primeval elementary wants--asserted their supremacy and claimed a
monopoly of my mind, driving out all rival emotions, and with a mighty
sigh of relief and content I pushed open the door of the cottage,
staggered across to the fire and sank down on the stool by it, thanking
Heaven for so much, and telling myself that soon, very soon, I should feel
strong enough to make my way into the inner room and haul out Jean's
pallet and set it by the fire and stretch my weary limbs, and, if the pain
of my wound allowed me, go to sleep. Beyond that my desires did not reach,
and I forgot all my fears save the one dread that I was too weak for the
desired effort. Certainly it is hard for a man to think himself a hero!

I took no note of time, but I must have sat where I was for many minutes,
before I heard someone moving in the inner room. I was very glad; of
course it was Jean, and Jean, I told myself with luxurious
self-congratulation, would bring the bed for me, and put something on my
wound, and maybe give me a chink of some fine hot cognac that would spread
life through my veins. Thus I should be comfortable and able to sleep, and
forget all the shadowy people--they seemed but shadows half-real--that I
had been troubling my brain about: the duke, and Marie, whose face danced
for a moment before my eyes, and that dead fellow who hugged the box so
ludicrously. So I tried to call to Jean, but the trouble was too great,
and, as he would be sure to come out soon, I waited; and I blinked at the
smoldering wood-ashes in the fire till my eyes closed and the sleep was
all but come, despite the smart of my arm and the ache in my unsupported
back.

But just before I had forgotten everything the door of the inner room
creaked and opened. My side was toward it and I did not look round. I
opened my eyes and feebly waved my left hand. Then a voice came, clear and
fresh:

"Jean, is it you? Well, is the duke at the house?"

I must be dreaming; that was my immediate conviction, for the voice that I
heard was a voice I knew well, but one not likely to be heard here, in
Jean's cottage, at four o'clock in the morning. Decidedly I was dreaming,
and as in order to dream a man must be asleep, I was pleased at the idea
and nodded happily, smiling and blinking in self-congratulation. But that
pleasant minute of illusion was my last; for the voice cried in tones too
full of animation, too void of dreamy vagueness, too real and actual to
let me longer set them down as made of my own brain:

"Heaven! Why, it's Mr. Aycon! How in the world do you come here?"

To feel surprise at the Duchess of Saint-Maclou doing anything which she
might please to do or being anywhere that the laws of Nature rendered it
possible she should be, was perhaps a disposition of mind of which I
should have been by this time cured; yet I was surprised to find her
standing in the doorway that led from Jean's little bedroom dressed in a
neat walking gown and a very smart hat, her hands clasped in the surprise
which she shared with me and her eyes gleaming with an amused delight
which found, I fear, no answer in my heavy bewildered gaze.

"I'm getting warm," said I at first, but then I made an effort to rouse
myself. "I was a bit hurt, you know," I went on; "that little villain
Pierre--"

"Hurt!" cried the duchess, springing forward. "How? Oh, my dear Mr. Aycon,
how pale you are!"

After that remark of the duchess', I remember nothing which occurred for a
long while. In fact, just as I had apprehended that I was awake, that the
duchess was real, and that it was most remarkable to find her in Jean's
cottage, I fainted, and the duchess, the cottage, and everything else
vanished from sight and mind.

When next I became part of the waking world I found myself on the sofa of
the little room in the duke's house which I was beginning to know so well.
I felt very comfortable: my arm was neatly bandaged, I wore a clean shirt.
Suzanne was spreading a meal on the table, and the duchess, in a charming
morning gown, was smiling at me and humming a tune. The clock on the
mantelpiece marked a quarter to eight.

"Now I know all about it," said the duchess, perceiving my revival. "I've
heard it all from Suzanne and Jean--or anyhow I can guess the rest. And
you mustn't tire yourself by talking. I had you brought here so that you
might be well looked after; because we're so much indebted to you, you
know."

"Is the duke here?" I asked.

"Oh, dear, no; it's all right," nodded the duchess. "I don't know--and I
do not care--where the duke is. Drink this milk, Mr. Aycon. Your arm's not
very bad, you know--Jean says it isn't, I mean--but you'd better have milk
first, and something to eat when you feel stronger."

The duchess appeared to be in excellent spirits. She caught up a bit of
toast from the table, poured out a cup of coffee, and, still moving about,
began a light breakfast, with every sign of appetite and enjoyment.

"You've come back?" said I, looking at her in persistent surprise.

Suzanne put the cushions behind my back in a more comfortable position,
smiled kindly on us, and left us.

"Yes," said the duchess, "I have for the present, Mr. Aycon."

"But--but the duke--" I stammered.

"I don't mind the duke," said she. "Besides, he may not come. It's rather
nice that you're just a little hurt. Don't you think so, Mr. Aycon? Just a
little, you know."

"Why?" was all I found to say. The reason was not clear to me.

"Why, in the first place, because you can't fight till your arm's
well--oh, yes, of course Armand was going to fight you--and, in the second
place, you can and must stay here. There's no harm in it, while you're
ill, you see; Armand can't say there is. It's rather funny, isn't it, Mr.
Aycon?" and she munched a morsel of toast, and leaned her elbows on the
table and sent a sparkling glance across at me, for all the world as she
had done on the first night I knew her. The cares of the world did not
gall the shoulders of Mme. de Saint-Maclou.

"But why are you here?" said I, sticking to my point.

The duchess set down the cup of coffee which she had been sipping.

"I am not particular," said she. "But I told the Mother Superior exactly
what I told the duke. She wouldn't listen any more than he would. However,
I was resolved; so I came here. I don't see where else I could go, do you,
Mr. Aycon?"

"What did you tell the Mother?"

The duchess stretched one hand across the table, clenching her small fist
and tapping gently with it on the cloth.

"There is one thing that I will not do, Mr. Aycon," said she, a touch of
red coming in her cheeks and her lips set in obstinate lines. "I don't
care whether the house is my house or anybody else's house, or an
inn--yes, or a convent either. But I will not be under the same roof with
Marie Delhasse."

And her declaration finished, the duchess nodded most emphatically, and
turned to her cup again.

The name of Marie Delhasse, shot forth from Mme. de Saint-Maclou's pouting
lips, pierced the cloud that had seemed to envelop my brain. I sat up on
the sofa and looked eagerly at the duchess.

"You saw her, then, at the convent?" I asked.

"Yes, I met her in the chapel. Really, I should have expected to be safe
from her there. And the Mother would not turn her out!" And then the
duchess, by a sudden transition, said to me, with a half-apologetic, half
challenging smile: "You got my note, I suppose, Mr. Aycon?"

For a minute I regarded the duchess. And I smiled, and my smile turned to
a laugh as I answered:

"Oh, yes! I got the note."

"I meant it," said she. "But I suppose I must forgive you now. You've been
so brave, and you're so much hurt." And the duchess' eyes expressed a
gratifying admiration of my powers.

I fingered my arm, which lay comfortably enough in the bandages and the
sling that Suzanne's care had provided for it. And I rose to my feet.

"Oh, you mustn't move!" cried the duchess, rising also and coming to where
I stood.

"By Jove, but I must!" said I, looking at the clock. "The duke's got four
hours' start of me."

"What do you want with my husband now?" she asked. "I don't see why you
should fight him; anyhow, you can't fight him till your arm is well."

The duchess' words struck on my ear and her dainty little figure was
before my eyes, but my thoughts were absent from her.

"Don't go, Mr. Aycon," said she.

"I must go," I said. "By this time he'll be at the convent."

A frown gathered on the duchess' face.

"What concern is it of yours?" she asked. "I--I mean, what good can you
do?"

"I can hardly talk to you about it--" I began awkwardly; but the duchess
saved me the trouble of finishing my sentence, for she broke in angrily:

"Oh, as if I believe that! Mr. Aycon, why are you going?"

"I'm going to see that the duke doesn't--"

"Oh, you are very anxious--and very good, aren't you? Yes, and very
chivalrous! Mr. Aycon, I don't care what he does;" and she looked at me
defiantly.

"But I do," said I, and seeing my hat on the cabinet by the wall, I walked
across the room and stretched out my hand for it. The duchess darted after
me and stood between my hat and me.

"Why do you care?" she asked, with a stamp of her small foot.

There were, no doubt, many most sound and plausible reasons for
caring--reasons independent of any private feelings of my own in regard to
Marie Delhasse; but not one of them did I give to the duchess. I stood
before her, looking, I fear, very embarrassed, and avoiding her accusing
eyes.

Then the duchess flung her head back, and with passionate scorn said to
me:

"I believe you're in love with the woman yourself!"

And to this accusation also I made no reply.

"Are you really going?" she asked, her voice suddenly passing to a note of
entreaty.

"I must go," said I obstinately, callously, curtly.

"Then go!" cried the duchess. "And never let me see you again!"

She moved aside, and I sprang forward and seized my hat. I took no notice
of the duchess, and, turning, I walked straight toward the door. But
before I reached it the duchess flung herself on the sofa and buried her
face in the cushions. I would not leave her like that, so I stood and
waited; but my tongue still refused to find excuses, and still I was in a
fever to be off.

But the duchess rose again and stood upright. She was rather pale and her
lips quivered, but she held out her hand to me with a smile. And suddenly
I understood what I was doing, and that for the second time the proud
little lady before me saw herself left and neglected for the sake of that
woman whose presence made even a convent uninhabitable to her; and the
bitter wound that her pride suffered was declared in her bearing and in
the pathetic effort at dignity which she had summoned up to hide her pain.
Yet, although on this account I was sorry for her, I discerned nothing
beyond hurt pride, and was angry at the pride for the sake of Marie
Delhasse, and when I spoke it was in defense of Marie Delhasse, and not in
comfort to the duchess.

"She is not what you think," I said.

The duchess drew herself up to her full height, making the most of her
inches.

"Really, Mr. Aycon," said she, "you must forgive me if I do not discuss
that." And she paused, and then added, with a curl of her lip: "You and my
husband can settle that between you;" and with a motion of her hand she
signed to me to leave her.

Looking back on the matter, I do not know that I had any reason to be
ashamed or to feel myself in any sort a traitor to the duchess. Yet some
such feelings I had as I backed out of the room leaving her standing there
in unwonted immobility, her eyes haughty and cold, her lips set, her grace
congealed to stateliness, her gay agility frozen to proud stiffness.

And I left her thus standing in obedience to the potent yet still but
half-understood spell which drew me from her side and would not suffer me
to rest, while the Duke of Saint-Maclou was working his devices in the
valley beneath the town of Avranches.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Inn near Pontorson.

The moment I found myself outside the house--and I must confess that, for
reasons which I have indicated, it was a relief to me to find myself
there--I hastened to old Jean's cottage. The old man was eating his
breakfast; his stolidity was unshaken by the events of the night; he
manifested nothing beyond a mild satisfaction that the two rascals had
justified his opinion of them, and a resigned regret that Pierre had not
shared the fate of Lafleur. He told me that his inquiries after Marie
Delhasse had been fruitless, and added that he supposed there would be a
police inquiry into the attempted robbery and the consequent death of
Lafleur; indeed he was of opinion that the duke had gone to Avranches to
arrange for it as much as to prosecute his search for Marie. I seized the
opportunity to suggest that I should be a material witness, and urged him
to give me one of the duke's horses to carry me to Avranches. He grumbled
at my request, declaring that I should end by getting him into trouble;
but a few francs overcame his scruples, and he provided me with a sturdy
animal, which I promised to bring or send back in the course of the day.

Great as my impatience was, I was compelled to spend the first hour of my
arrival at Avranches under the doctor's hands. He discovered to my
satisfaction that the bullet had not lodged in my arm and that my hurt was
no more than a flesh-wound, which would, if all went well, heal in a few
days. He enjoined perfect rest and freedom from worry and excitement. I
thanked him, bowed myself out, mounted again, and rode to the hotel, where
I left my horse with instructions for its return to its owner. Then, at my
best speed, I hastened down the hill again, reached the grounds of the
convent, and approached the door. Perfect rest and freedom from excitement
were unattainable until I had learned whether Marie Delhasse was still
safe within the old white walls which I saw before me; for, though I could
not trace how the change in me had come, nor track its growth, I knew now
that if she were there the walls held what was of the greatest moment to
me in all the world, and that if she were not there the world was a hell
to me until I found her.

I was about to ring the bell, when from the gate of the burial-ground the
Mother Superior came at a slow pace. The old woman was frowning as she
walked, and her frown deepened at sight of me. But I, caring nothing for
what she thought, ran up to her, crying before I had well reached her:

"Is Marie Delhasse still here?"

The Mother stopped dead, and regarded me with disapprobation.

"What business is it of yours, sir, where the young woman is?" she asked.

"I mean her no harm," I urged eagerly. "If she is safe here, I ask to know
no more; I don't even ask to see her. Is she here? The Duchess of
Saint-Maclou told me that you refused to send her away."

"God forbid that I should send away any sinner who will find refuge here,"
she said solemnly. "You have seen the duchess?"

"Yes; she is at home. But Mlle. Delhasse?"

But the old woman would not be hurried. She asked again:

"What concern have you, sir, with Marie Delhasse?"

I looked her in the face as I answered plainly:

"To save her from the Duke of Saint-Maclou."

"And from her own mother, sir?"

"Yes, above all from her own mother."

The old woman started at my words; but there was no change in the level
calm of her voice as she asked:

"And why would you rescue her?"

"For the same reason that any gentleman would, if he could. If you want
more--"

She held up her hand to silence me; but her look was gentler and her voice
softer, as she said:

"You, sir, cannot save, and I cannot save, those who will not let God
himself save them."

"What do you mean?" I cried in a frenzy of fear and eagerness.

"I had prayed for her, and talked with her. I thought I had seen grace in
her. Well, I know not. It is true that she acted as her mother bade her.
But I fear all is not well."

"I pray you to speak plainly. Where is she?"

"I do not know where she is. What I know, sir, you shall know, for I
believe you come in honesty. This morning--some two hours ago--a carriage
drove from the town here. Mme. Delhasse was in it, and with her the Duke
of Saint-Maclou. I could not refuse to let the woman see her daughter.
They spoke together for a time; and then they called me, and Marie--yes,
Marie herself--begged me to let her see the duke. So they came here where
we stand, and I stood a few yards off. They talked earnestly in low tones.
And at last Marie came to me (the others remaining where they were), and
took my hand and kissed it, thanking me and bidding me adieu. I was
grieved, sir, for I trusted that the girl had found peace here; and she
was in the way to make us love her. 'Does your mother bid you go?' I
asked, 'And will she save you from all harm?' And she answered: 'I go of
my own will, Mother; but I go hoping to return.' 'You swear that you go of
your own will?' I asked. 'Yes, of my own will,' she said firmly; but she
was near to weeping as she spoke. Yet what could I do? I could but tell
her that our door--God's door--was never shut. That I told her; and with a
heavy heart, being able to do nothing else, I let her go. I pray God no
harm come of it. But I thought the man's face wore a look of triumph."

"By Heaven," I cried, "it shall not wear it for long! Which way did they
go?"

She pointed to the road by the side of the bay, leading away from
Avranches.

"That way. I watched the carriage and its dust till I saw it no more,
because of the wood that lies between here and the road. You pursue them,
sir?"

"To the world's end, madame, if I must."

She sighed and opened her lips to speak, but no words came; and without
more, I turned and left her, and set my face to follow the carriage. I
was, I think, half-mad with anger and bewilderment, for I did not think
that it would be time well spent to ascend to the town and obtain a
vehicle or a horse; but I pressed on afoot, weary and in pain as I was,
along the hot white road. For now indeed my heart was on fire, and I knew
that beside Marie Delhasse everything was nothing. So at first
imperceptibly, slowly, and unobserved, but at the last with a swift
resistless rush, the power of her beauty and of the soul that I had seemed
to see in her won upon me; and that moment, when I thought that she had
yielded to her enemy and mine, was the flowering and bloom of my love for
her.

Where had they gone? Not to the duke's house, or I should have met them as
I rode down earlier in the morning. Then where? France was wide, and the
world wider: my steps were slow. Where lay the use of the chase? In the
middle of the road, when I had gone perhaps a mile, I stopped dead. I was
beaten and sick at heart, and I searched for a nook of shade by the
wayside, and flung myself on the ground; and the ache of my arm was the
least of my pain.

As I lay there, my eye caught sight of a cloud of dust on the road. For a
moment I scanned it eagerly, and then fell back with a curse of
disappointment. It was caused by a man on a horse--and the man was not the
duke. But in an instant I was sitting up again--for as the rider drew
nearer, trotting briskly along, his form and air was familiar to me; and
when he came opposite to me, I sprang up and ran out to meet him, crying
out to him:

"Gustave! Gustave!"

It was Gustave de Berensac, my friend. He reined in his horse and greeted
me--and he greeted me without surprise, but not without apparent
displeasure.

"I thought I should find you here still," said he. "I rode over to seek
you. Surely you are not at the duchess'?"

His tone was eloquent of remonstrance.

"I've been staying at the inn."

"At the inn?" he repeated, looking at me curiously. "And is the duchess at
home?"

"She's at home now. How come you here?"

"Ah, my friend, and how comes your arm in a sling? Well, you shall have my
story first. I expect it will prove shorter. I am staying at Pontorson
with a friend who is quartered there."

"But you went to Paris."

Gustave leaned clown to me, and spoke in a low impressive tone:

"Gilbert," said he, "I've had a blow. The day after I got to Paris I heard
from Lady Cynthia. She's going to be married to a countryman of yours."

Gustave looked very doleful. I murmured condolence, though in truth I
cared, just then, not a straw about the matter.

"So," he continued, "I seized the first opportunity for a little change."

There was a pause. Gustave's mournful eye ranged over the landscape. Then
he said, in a patient, sorrowful voice:

"You said the duchess was at home?"

"Yes, she's at home now."

"Ah! I ask again, because as I passed the inn on the way between here and
Pontorson I saw in the courtyard--"

"Yes, yes, what?" cried I in sudden eagerness.

"What's the matter, man? I saw a carriage with some luggage on it, and it
looked like the duke's, and--Hallo! Gilbert, where are you going?"

"I can't wait, I can't wait!" I called, already three or four yards away.

"But I haven't heard how you got your arm--"

"I can't tell you now. I can't wait!"

My lethargy had vanished; I was hot to be on my way again.

"Is the man mad?" he cried; and he put his horse to a quick walk to keep
up with me.

I stopped short.

"It would take all day to tell you the story," I said impatiently.

"Still I should like to know--"

"I can't help it. Look here, Gustave, the duchess knows. Go and see her. I
must go on now."

Across the puzzled mournful eyes of the rejected lover and bewildered
friend I thought I saw a little gleam.

"The duchess?" said he.

"Yes, she's all alone. The duke's not there."

"Where is the duke?" he asked; but, as it struck me, now rather in
precaution than in curiosity.

"That's what I'm going to see," said I.

And with hope and resolution born again in my heart I broke into a fair
run, and, with a wave of my hand, left Gustave in the middle of the road,
staring after me and plainly convinced that I was mad. Perhaps I was not
far from that state. Mad or not, in any case after three minutes I thought
no more of my good friend Gustave de Berensac, nor of aught else, save the
inn outside Pontorson, just where the old road used to turn toward Mont
St. Michel. To that goal I pressed on, forgetting my weariness and my
pain. For it might be that the carriage would still stand in the yard, and
that in the house I should come upon the object of my search.

Half an hour's walk brought me to the inn, and there, to my joy, I saw the
carriage drawn up under a shed side by side with the inn-keeper's market
cart. The horses had been taken out; there was no servant in sight. I
walked up to the door of the inn and passed through it. And I called for
wine.

A big stout man, wearing a blouse, came out to meet me. The inn was a
large one, and the inn-keeper was evidently a man of some consideration,
although he wore a blouse. But I did not like the look of him, for he had
shifty eyes and a bloated face. Without a word he brought me what I
ordered and set it down in a little room facing the stable yard.

"Whose carriage is that under your shed?" I asked, sipping my wine.

"It is the carriage of the Duke of Saint-Maclou, sir," he answered readily
enough.

"The duke is here, then?"

"Have you business with him, sir?"

"I did but ask you a simple question," said I. "Ah! what's that? Who's
that?"

I had been looking out of the window, and my sudden exclamation was caused
by this--that the door of a stable which faced me had opened very gently,
and but just wide enough to allow a face to appear for an instant and then
disappear. And it seemed to me that I knew the face, although the sight of
it had been too short to make me sure.

"What did you see, sir?" asked the inn-keeper. (The name on his signboard
was Jacques Bontet.)

I turned and faced him full.

"I saw someone look out of the stable," said I.

"Doubtless the stable-boy," he answered; and his manner was so ordinary,
unembarrassed, and free from alarm, that I doubted whether my eyes had not
played me a trick, or my imagination played one upon my eyes.

Be that as it might, I had no time to press my host further at that
moment; for I heard a step behind me and a voice I knew saying:

"Bontet, who is this gentleman?"

I turned. In the doorway of the room stood the Duke of Saint-Maclou. He
was in the same dress as when he had parted from me; he was dusty, his
face was pale, and the skin had made bags under his eyes. But he stood
looking at me composedly, with a smile on his lips.

"Ah!" said he, "it is my friend Mr. Aycon. Bontet, bring me some wine,
too, that I may drink with my friend." And he added, addressing me: "You
will find our good Bontet most obliging. He is a tenant of mine, and he
will do anything to oblige me and my friends. Isn't it so, Bontet?"

The fellow grunted a surly and none too respectful assent, and left the
room to fetch the duke his wine. Silence followed on his departure for
some seconds. Then the duke came up to where I stood, folded his arms, and
looked me full in the face.

"It is difficult to lose the pleasure of your company, sir," he said.

"If you will depart from here alone," I retorted, "you shall find it the
easiest thing in the world. For, in truth, it is not desire for your
society that brings me here."

He lifted a hand and tugged at his mustache.

"You have, perhaps, been to the convent?" he hazarded.

"I have just come from there," I rejoined.

"I am not an Englishman," said he, curling the end of the mustache, "and I
do not know how plain an intimation need be to discourage one of your
resolute race. For my part, I should have thought that when a lady accepts
the escort of one gentleman, it means that she does not desire that of
another."

He said this with a great air and an assumption of dignity that contrasted
strongly with the unrestrained paroxysms of the night before. I take it
that success--or what seems such--may transform a man as though it changed
his very skin. But I was not skilled to cross swords with him in talk of
that kind, so I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against the shutter
and said bluntly:

"God knows what lies you told her, you see."

His white face suddenly flushed; but he held himself in and retorted with
a sneer:

"A disabled right arm gives a man fine courage."

"Nonsense!" said I. "I can aim as well with my left;" and that indeed was
not very far from the truth. And I went on: "Is she here?"

"Mme. and Mlle. Delhasse are both here, under my escort."

"I should like to see Mlle. Delhasse," I observed.

He answered me in low tones, but with the passion in him closer to the
surface now and near on boiling up through the thin film of his
self-restraint:

"So long as I live, you shall never see her."

But I cared not, for my heart leaped in joy at his words. They meant to me
that he dared not let me see her; that, be the meaning of her consent to
go with him what it might, yet he dared not match his power over her
against mine. And whence came the power he feared? It could be mine only
if I had touched her heart.

"I presume she may see whom she will," said I still carelessly.

"Her mother will protect her from you with my help."

There was silence for a minute. Then I said:

"I will not leave here without seeing her."

And a pause followed my words till the duke, fixing his eyes on mine,
answered significantly:

"If you leave here alive to-night, you are welcome to take her with you."

I understood, and I nodded my head.

"My left arm is as sound as yours," he added; "and, maybe, better
practiced."

Our eyes met again, and the agreement was sealed. The duke was about to
speak again, when a sudden thought struck me. I put my hand in my pocket
and drew out the Cardinal's Necklace. And I flung it on the table before
me, saying:

"Let me return that to you, sir."

The duke stood regarding the necklace for a moment, as it lay gleaming and
glittering on the wooden table in the bare inn parlor. Then he stepped up
to the table, but at the moment I cried:

"You won't steal her away before--before--"

"Before we fight? I will not, on my honor." He paused and added: "For
there is one thing I want more even than her."

I could guess what that was.

And then he put out his hand, took up the necklace, and thrust it
carelessly into the pocket of his coat. And looking across the room, I saw
the inn-keeper, Jacques Bontet, standing in the doorway and staring with
all his eyes at the spot on the table where the glittering thing had for a
moment lain; and as the fellow set down the wine he had brought for the
duke, I swear that he trembled as a man who has seen a ghost; for he
spilled some of the wine and chinked the bottle against the glass. But
while I stared at him, the duke lifted his glass and bowed to me, saying,
with a smile and as though he jested in some phrase of extravagant
friendship for me:

"May nothing less than death part you and me?"

And I drank the toast with him, saying "Amen."

CHAPTER XVII.

A Reluctant Intrusion.

As Bontet the inn-keeper set the wine on the table before the Duke of
Saint-Maclou, the big clock in the hall of the inn struck noon. It is
strange to me, even now when the story has grown old in my memory, to
recall all that happened before the hands of that clock pointed again to
twelve. And last year when I revisited the neighborhood and found a neat
new house standing on the site of the ramshackle inn, I could not pass by
without a queer feeling in my throat; for it was there that the results of
the duchess' indiscretion finally worked themselves out to their
unexpected, fatal, and momentous ending. Seldom, as I should suppose, has
such a mixed skein of good and evil, of fatality and happiness, been spun
from material no more substantial than a sportive lady's idle freak.

"By the way, Mr. Aycon," said the duke, after we had drunk our toast, "I
have had a message from the magistrate at Avranches requesting our
presence to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock. An inquiry has to be held
into the death of that rascal Lafleur, and our evidence must be taken. It
is a mere formality, the magistrate is good enough to assure me, and I
have assured him that we shall neither of us allow anything to interfere
with our waiting on him, if we can possibly do so."

"I could have sent no other message myself," said I.

"I will also," continued the duke, "send word by Bontet here to those two
friends of mine at Pontorson. It would be dull for you to dine alone with
me, and, as the evening promises to be fine, I will ask them to be here by
five o'clock, and we will have a stroll on the sands and a nearer look at
the Mount before our meal. They are officers who are quartered there."

"Their presence," said I, "will add greatly to the pleasure of the
evening."

"Meanwhile, if you will excuse me, I shall take an hour or two's rest. We
missed our sleep last night, and we should wish to be fresh when our
guests arrive. If I might advise you--"

"I am about to breakfast, after that I may follow your advice."

"Ah, you've not breakfasted? You can't do better, then. _Au revoir_;" and
with a bow he left me, calling to Bontet to follow him upstairs and wait
for the note which was to go to the officers at Pontorson. It must be
admitted that the duke conducted the necessary arrangements with much
tact.

In a quarter of an hour my breakfast was before me, and I seated myself
with my back to the door and my face to the window. I had plenty to think
about as I ate; but my chief anxiety was by some means to obtain an
interview with Marie Delhasse, not with a view to persuading her to
attempt escape with me before the evening--for I had made up my mind that
the issue with the duke must be faced now, once for all--but in the hope
of discovering why she had allowed herself to be persuaded into leaving
the convent. Until I knew that, I was a prey to wretched doubts and
despondency, which even my deep-seated confidence in her could not
overcome. Fortunately I had a small sum of money in my pocket, and I felt
sure that Bontet's devotion to the duke would not be proof against an
adequate bribe: perhaps he would be able to assist me in eluding the
vigilance of Madame Delhasse and obtaining speech with her daughter.

Bontet, detained as I supposed by the duke, had left a kitchen-girl to
attend on me; but I soon saw him come out into the yard, carrying a letter
in his hand. He walked slowly across to the stable door, at which the
face, suddenly presented and withdrawn, had caught my attention. He
stopped before the door a moment, then the door opened. I could not see
whether he opened it or whether it was unlocked from within, for his burly
frame obstructed my view; but the pause was long enough to show that more
than the lifting of a latch was necessary. And that I thought worth
notice. The door closed after Bontet. I rose, opened my window and
listened; but the yard was broad and no sound reached me from the stable.

I waited there five minutes perhaps. The inn-keeper did not reappear, so I
returned to my place. I had finished my meal before he came out. This time
I was tolerably sure that the door was closed behind him by another hand,
and I fancied that I heard the click of a lock. Also I noticed that the
letter was no longer visible--of course, he might have put it in his
pocket. Jumping up suddenly as though I had just chanced to notice him, I
asked him if he were off to Pontorson, or, if not, had he a moment for
conversation.

"I am going in a few minutes, sir," he answered; "but I am at your service
now."

The words were civil enough, but his manner was surly and suspicious.
Lighting a cigarette, I sat down on the window-sill, while he stood just
outside.

"I want a bedroom," said I. "Have you one for me?"

"I have given you the room on the first floor, immediately opposite that
of the duke."

"Good. And where are the ladies lodged?"

He made no difficulty about giving me an answer.

"They have a sitting room on the first floor," he answered, "but hitherto
they have not used it. They have two bedrooms, connected by an interior
door, on the second floor, and they have not left them since their
arrival."

"Has the duke visited them there?"

"I don't think he has seen them. They had a conversation on their
arrival;" and the fellow grinned.

Now was my time. I took a hundred-franc note out of my pocket and held it
in my hand so that he could see the figures on it. I hoped that he would
not be exorbitant, for I had but one more and some loose napoleons in my
pocket.

"What was the conversation about?" I asked.

He put out his hand for the note; but I kept my grasp on it. Honesty was
not written large--no, nor plain to read--on Bontet's fat face.

"I heard little of it; but the young lady said, as they hurried upstairs:
'Where is he? Where is he?'"

"Yes, yes!"

And I held out the note to him. He had earned it. And greedily he clutched
it, and stowed it in his breeches pocket under his blouse.

"I heard no more; they hurried her up; the old lady had her by one arm and
the duke by the other. She looked distressed--why, I know not; for I
suppose"--here a sly grin spread over the fellow's face--"that the pretty
present I saw is for her."

"It's the property of the duke," I said.

"But gentlemen sometimes make presents to ladies," he suggested.

"It may be his purpose to do so. Bontet, I want to see the young lady."

He laughed insolently, kicking his toe against the wall.

"What use, unless you have a better present, sir? But it's nothing to me.
If you can manage it, you're welcome."

"But how am I to manage it? Come, earn your money, and perhaps you'll earn
more."

"You're liberal, sir;" and he stared at me as though he were trying to
look into my pocket and see how much money was there. I was glad that his
glance was not so penetrating. "But I can't help you. Stay, though. The
old lady has ordered coffee for two in the sitting-room, and bids me rouse
the duke when it is ready: so perhaps the young lady will be left alone
for a time. If you could steal up--"

I was not in the mood to stand on a punctilio. My brain was kindled by
Marie's words, "Where is he?" Already I was searching for their meaning
and finding what I wished. If I could see her, and learn the longed-for
truth from her, I should go in good heart to my conflict with the duke.

"Go to your room," said Bontet, whom my prospective _largesse_ had
persuaded to civility and almost to eagerness, "and wait. If madame and
the duke go there, I'll let you know. But you must risk meeting them."

"I don't mind about that," said I; and, in truth, nothing could make my
relations with the pair more hostile than they were already.

My business with Bontet was finished; but I indulged my curiosity for a
moment.

"You have a good stable over there, I see," I remarked. "How many horses
have you there?"

The fellow turned very red: all signs of good humor vanished from his
face; my bribe evidently gave me no right to question him on that subject.

"There are no horses there," he grunted. "The horses are in the new stable
facing the road. This one is disused."

"Oh, I saw you come out from there, and I thought--"

"I keep some stores there," he said sullenly.

"And that's why it's kept locked?" I asked at a venture.

"Precisely, sir," he replied. But his uneasy air confirmed my suspicions
as to the stable. It hid some secret, I was sure. Nay, I began to be sure
that my eyes had not played me false, and that I had indeed seen the face
I seemed to see. If that were so, friend Bontet was playing a double game
and probably enjoying more than one paymaster.

However, I had no leisure to follow that track, nor was I much concerned
to attempt the task. The next day would be time--if I were alive the next
day: and I cared little if the secret were never revealed. It was nothing
to me--for it never crossed my mind that fresh designs might be hatched in
the stable. Dismissing the matter, I did as Bontet advised, and walked
upstairs to my room; and as luck would have it, I met Mme. Delhasse plump
on the landing, she being on her way to the sitting room. I bowed low.
Madame gave me a look of hatred and passed by me. As she displayed no
surprise, it was evident that the duke had carried or sent word of my
arrival. I was not minded to let her go without a word or two.

"Madame--" I began; but she was too quick for me. She burst out in a
torrent of angry abuse. Her resentment, dammed so long for want of
opportunity, carried her away. To speak soberly and by the card, the woman
was a hideous thing to see and hear; for in her wrath at me, she spared
not to set forth in unshamed plainness her designs, nor to declare of what
rewards, promised by the duke, my interference had gone near to rob her
and still rendered uncertain. Her voice rose, for all her efforts to keep
it low, and she mingled foul words of the duchess and of me with scornful
curses on the virtue of her daughter. I could say nothing; I stood there
wondering that such creatures lived, amazed that Marie Delhasse must call
such an one her mother.

Then in the midst of her tirade, the duke, roused without Bontet's help,
came out of his room, and waited a moment listening to the flow of the
torrent. And, strange as it seemed, he smiled at me and shrugged his
shoulders, and I found myself smiling also; for disgusting as the woman
was, she was amusing, too. And the duke went and caught her by the
shoulder and said:

"Come, don't be silly, mother. We can settle our accounts with Mr. Aycon
in another way than this."

His touch and words seemed to sober her--or perhaps her passion had run
its course. She turned to him, and her lips parted with a smile, a cunning
and--if my opinion be asked--loathsome smile; and she caressed the lapel
of his coat with her hand. And the duke, who was smoking, smoked on, so
that the smoke blew in her face, and she coughed and choked: whereat the
duke also smiled. He set the right value on his instrument, and took
pleasure in showing how he despised her.

"My dear, dear duke, I have such news for you--such news?" she said,
ignoring, as perforce she must, his rudeness. "Come in here, and leave
that man."

At this the duke suddenly bent forward, his scornful, insolent toleration
giving place to interest.

"News?" he cried, and he drew her toward the door to which she had been
going, neither of them paying any more attention to me. And the door
closed upon them.

The duke had not needed Bontet's rousing. I did not need Bontet to tell me
that the coast was clear. With a last alert glance at the door, I trod
softly across the landing and reached the stairs by which Mlle. Delhasse
had descended. Gently I mounted, and on reaching the top of the flight
found a door directly facing me. I turned the handle, but the door was
locked. I rattled the handle cautiously--and then again, and again. And
presently I heard a light, timid, hesitating step inside; and through the
door came, in the voice of Marie Delhasse:

"Who's there?"

And I answered at once, boldly, but in a low voice:

"It is I. Open the door."

She, in her turn, knew my voice; for the door was opened, and Marie
Delhasse stood before me, her face pale with weariness and sorrow, and her
eyes wide with wonder. She drew back before me, and I stepped in and shut
the door, finding myself in a rather large, sparely furnished room. A door
opposite was half-open. On the bed lay a bonnet and a jacket which
certainly did not belong to Marie.

Most undoubtedly I had intruded into the bedchamber of that highly
respectable lady, Mme. Delhasse. I can only plead that the circumstances
were peculiar.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A Strange Good Humor.

For a moment Marie Delhasse stood looking at me; then she uttered a low
cry, full of relief, of security, of joy; and coming to me stretched out
her hands, saying:

"You are here then, after all!"

Charmed to see how she greeted me, I had not the heart to tell her that
her peril was not past; nor did she give me the opportunity, for went on
directly:

"And you are wounded? But not badly, not badly, Mr. Aycon?"

"Who told you I was wounded?"

"Why, the duke. He said that you had been shot by a thief, and were very
badly hurt; and--and--" She stopped, blushing.

("Where is he?" I remembered the words; my forecast of their meaning had
been true.)

"And did what he told you," I asked softly, "make you leave the convent
and come to find me?"

"Yes," she answered, taking courage and meeting my eyes. "And then you
were not here, and I thought it was a trap."

"You were right; it was a trap. I came to find you at the convent, but you
were gone: only by the chance of meeting with a friend who saw the duke's
carriage standing here have I found you."

"You were seeking for me?"

"Yes, I was seeking for you."

I spoke slowly, as though hours were open for our talk; but suddenly I
remembered that at any moment the old witch might return. And I had much
to say before she came.

"Marie--" I began eagerly, never thinking that the name she had come to
bear in my thoughts could be new and strange from my lips. But the moment
I had uttered it I perceived what I had done, for she drew back further,
gazing at me with inquiring eyes, and her breath seemed arrested. Then,
answering the question in her eyes, I said simply:

"For what else am I here, Marie?" and I caught her hand in my left hand.

She stood motionless, still silently asking what I would. And I kissed her
hand. And again the low cry, lower still--half a cry and half a sigh--came
from her, and she drew timidly nearer to me; and I drew her yet nearer,
whispering, in a broken word or two, that I loved her.

But she, still dazed, looked up at me, whispering, "When, when?"

And I could not tell her when I had come to love her, for I did not know
then--nor can I recollect now; nor have I any opinion about it, save that
it speaks ill for me that it was not when first I set my eyes upon her.
But she doubted, remembering that I had seemed fancy-struck with the
little duchess, and cold, maybe stern, to her; and because, I think, she
knew that I had seen her tempted. And to silence her doubts, I kissed her
lips. She did not return my kiss, but stood with wondering eyes. Then in
an instant a change came over her face. I felt her press my hand, and for
an instant or two her lips moved, but I heard no words, nor do I think
that the unheard words were for my ear; and I bowed my head.

Yet time pressed. Again I collected my thoughts from this sweet
reverie--wherein what gave me not least joy was the perfect trust she
showed in me, for that is perhaps the one thing in this world that a man
may be proud to win--and said to her:

"Marie, you must listen. I have something to tell you."

"Oh, you'll take me away from them?" she cried, clutching my hand in both
of hers.

"I can't now," I answered. "You must be brave. Listen: if I try to take
you away now, it may be that I should be killed and you left defenseless.
But this evening you can be safe, whatever befalls me."

"Why, what should befall you?" she asked, with a swift movement that
brought her closer to me.

I had to tell her the truth, or my plan for her salvation would not be
carried out.

"To-night I fight the duke. Hush! hush! Yes, I must fight with the
duke--yes, wounded arm, my darling, notwithstanding. We shall leave here
about five and go down to the bay toward the Mount, and there on the sands
we shall fight. And--listen now--you must follow us, about half an hour
after we have gone."

"But they will not let me go."

"Go you must. Marie, here is a pistol. Take it; and if anyone stops you,
use it. But I think none will; for the duke will be with me, and I do not
think Bontet will interfere."

"But my mother?"

"You are as strong as she."

"Yes, yes, I'll come. You'll be on the sands; I'll come!" The help she had
found in me made her brave now.

"You will get there as we are fighting or soon after. Do not look for me
or for the duke, but look for two gentlemen whom you do not know, they
will be there--French officers--and to their honor you must trust."

"But why not to you?"

"If I am alive and well, I shall not fail you; but if I come not, go to
them and demand their protection from the duke, telling them how he has
snared you here. And they will not suffer him to carry you off against
your will. Do you see? Do you understand?"

"Yes, I see. But must you fight?"

"Yes, dear, I must fight. The duke will not trouble you again, I think,
before the evening; and if you remember what I have told you, all will be
well."

So I tried to comfort her, believing as I did that no two French gentlemen
would desire or dare to refuse her their protection against the duke. But
she was clinging to me now, in great distress that I must fight--and
indeed I had rather have fought at another time myself--and in fresh
terror of her mother's anger, seeing that I should not be there to bear it
for her.

"For," she said, "we have had a terrible quarrel just before you came. I
told her that unless I saw you within an hour nothing but force should
keep me here, and that if they kept me here by force, I would find means
to kill myself; and that I would not see nor speak to the duke unless he
brought me to you, according to his promise; and that if he sent his
necklace again--for he sent it here half an hour ago--I would not send it
back as I did then, but would fling it out of the window yonder into the
cattle pond, where he could go and fetch it out himself."

And my dearest Marie, finding increased courage from reciting her
courageous speech, and from my friendly hearing of it, raised her voice,
and her eyes flashed, so that she looked yet more beautiful; and again did
I forget inexorable time. But it struck me that there was small wonder
that Mme. Delhasse's temper had not been of the best nor calculated to
endure patiently such a vexatious encounter as befell her when she ran
against me on the landing outside her door.

Yet Marie's courage failed again; and I told her that before we fought I
would tell my second of her state, so that if she came not and I were
wounded (of worse I did not speak), he would come to the inn and bring her
to me. And this comforted her more, so that she grew calmer, and, passing
from our present difficulties, she gave herself to persuading me (nor
would the poor girl believe that I needed no persuading) that in no case
would she have yielded to the duke, and that her mother had left her in
wrath born of an utter despair that Marie's will in the matter could ever
be broken down.

"For I told her," Marie repeated, "that I would sooner die!"

She paused, and raising her eyes to mine, said to me (and here I think
courage was not lacking in her):

"Yes, although once I had hesitated, now I had rather die. For when I
hesitated, God sent you to my door, that in love I might find salvation."

Well, I do not know that a man does well to describe all that passes at
times like this. There are things rather meet to be left dwelling in his
own heart, sweetening all his life, and causing him to marvel that sinners
have such joys conceded to them this side of Heaven; so that in their
recollection he may find, mingling with his delight, an occasion for
humility such as it little harms any of us to light on now and then.

Enough then--for the telling of it; but enough in the passing of it there
was not nor could be. Yet at last, because needs must when the devil--or a
son--aye, or an elderly daughter of his--drives, I found myself outside
the door of Mme. Delhasse's room. With the turning of the lock Marie
whispered a last word to me, and full of hope I turned to descend the
stairs. For I had upon me the feeling which, oftener perhaps than we
think, gave to the righteous cause a victory against odds when ordeal of
battle held sway. Now, such a feeling is, I take it, of small use in a
court of law.

But Fortune lost no time in checking my presumption by an accident which
at first gave me great concern. For, even as I turned away from the door
of the room, there was Mme. Delhasse coming up the stairs. I was fairly
caught, there was no doubt about it; and for Marie's sake I was deeply
grieved, for I feared that my discovery would mean another stormy scene
for her. Nevertheless, to make the best of it, I assumed a jaunty air as I
said to Mlle. Delhasse:

"The duke will be witness that you were not in your room, madame. You will
not be compromised."

I fully expected that an outburst of anger would follow on this pleasantry
of mine--which was, I confess, rather in the taste best suited to Mme.
Delhasse than in the best as judged by an abstract standard--but to my
surprise the old creature did nothing worse than bestow on me a sour grin.
Apparently, if I were well-pleased with the last half-hour, she had found
time pass no less pleasantly. All traces of her exasperation and ill humor
had gone, and she looked as pleased and contented as though she had been
an exemplary mother, rewarded (as such deserve to be) by complete love and
peace in her family circle.

"You've been slinking in behind my back, have you?" she asked, but still
with a grin.

"It would have been rude to force an entrance to your face," I observed.

"And I suppose you've been making love to the girl?"

"At the proper time, madame," said I, with much courtesy, "I shall no
doubt ask you for an interview with regard to that matter. I shall omit no
respect that you deserve."

As I spoke, I stood on one side to let her pass. I cannot make up my mind
whether her recent fury or her present good humor repelled me more.

"You'd have a fine fool for a wife," said she, with a jerk of her thumb
toward the room where the daughter was.

"I should be compensated by a very clever mother-in-law," said I.

The old woman paused for an instant at the top of the stairs, and looked
me up and down.

"Aye," said she, "you men think yourselves mighty clever, but a woman gets
the better of you all now and then."

I was utterly puzzled by her evident exultation. The duke could not have
consented to accept her society in place of her daughter's; but I risked
the impropriety and hazarded the suggestion to Mme. Delhasse. Her face
curled in cunning wrinkles. She seemed to be about to speak, but then she
shut her lips with a snap, and suspicion betrayed itself again in her
eyes. She had a secret--a fresh secret--I could have sworn, and in her
triumph she had come near to saying something that might have cast light
on it.

"By the way," I said, "your daughter did not expect my coming." It was
perhaps a vain hope, but I thought that I might save Marie from a tirade.

The old woman shrugged her shoulders, and observed carelessly:

"The fool may do what she likes;" and with this she knocked at the door.

I did not wait to see it opened--to confess the truth, I felt not sure of
my temper were I forced to see her and Marie together--but went downstairs
and into my own room. There I sat down in a chair by the window close to a
small table, for I meant to write a letter or two to friends at home, in
case the duke's left hand should prove more skillful than mine when we met
that evening. But, finding that I could hardly write with my right hand
and couldn't write at all with the other, I contented myself with
scrawling laboriously a short note to Gustave de Berensac, which I put in
my pocket, having indorsed on it a direction for its delivery in case I
should meet with an accident. Then I lay back in my chair, regretting, I
recollect, that, as my luggage was left at Avranches, I had not a clean
shirt to fight in; and then, becoming drowsy, I began to stare idly along
the road in front of the window, rehearsing the events of the last few
days in my mind, but coming back to Marie Delhasse.

So an hour passed away. Then I rose and stretched myself, and gave a
glance out of the window to see if we were likely to have a fine evening
for our sport, for clouds had been gathering up all day. And when I had
made up my mind that the rain would hold off long enough for our purpose,
I looked down at the road again, and there I saw two figures which I knew.
From the direction of Pontorson came Jacques Bontet the inn-keeper,
slouching along and smoking a thin black cigar.

"Ah! he has been to deliver the note to our friends the officers," said I
to myself.

And then I looked at the other familiar figure, which was that of Mme.
Delhasse. She wore the bonnet and cloak which had been lying on the bed in
her room at the time of my intrusion. She was just leaving the premises of
the inn strolling, nay dawdling, along. She met Bontet and stopped for a
moment in conversation with him. Then she pursued her leisurely walk in
the direction of Pontorson, and I watched her till she was about three
hundred yards off. But her form had no charms, and, growing tired of the
prospect, I turned away remarking to myself:

"I suppose the old lady wants just a little stroll before dinner."

Nor did I see any reason to be dissatisfied with either of my
inferences--at the moment. So I disturbed myself no more, but rang the
bell and ordered some coffee and a little glass of the least bad brandy in
the inn. For it could not be long before I was presented with the Duke of
Saint-Maclou's compliments and an intimation that he would be glad to have
my company on a walk in the cool of the evening.

CHAPTER XIX.

Unsummoned Witnesses.

Slowly the afternoon wore away. My content had given place to urgent
impatience, and I longed every moment for the summons to action. None
came; and a quarter to five I went downstairs, hoping to find some means
of whiling away the interval of time. Pushing open the door of the little
_salle-à-manger_, I was presented with a back view of my host M. Bontet,
who was leaning out of the window. Just as I entered, he shouted "Ready at
six!" Then he turned swiftly round, having, I suppose, heard my entrance;
at the same moment, the sound of a door violently slammed struck on my ear
across the yard. I moved quickly up to the window. The stable door was
shut; and Bontet faced me with a surly frown on his brow.

"What is to be ready at six?" I asked.

"Some refreshments for Mme. Delhasse," he answered readily.

"You order refreshments from the stable?"

"I was shouting to the scullery: the door is, as you will perceive, sir,
there to the left."

Now I knew that this was a lie, and I might very likely have said as much,
had not the Duke of Saint-Maclou at this moment come into the room. He
bowed to me, but addressed himself to Bontet.

"Well, are the gentlemen to be here at five?" he asked.

Bontet, with an air of relief, began an explanation. One of the
gentlemen--M. de Vieuville, he believed--had read out the note in his
presence, and had desired him to tell the duke that he and the other
gentleman would meet the duke and his friend on the sands at a quarter to
six. They would be where the road ceased and the sand began at that hour.

"He seems to think," Bontet explained, "that less attention would thus be
directed to the affair."

The precaution seemed wise enough; but why had M. de Vieuville taken
Bontet so much into his confidence? The same thought struck the duke, for
he asked sharply:

"Why did he read the note to you?"

"Oh, he thought nothing of that," said Bontet easily. "The gentlemen at
Pontorson know me very well: several affairs have been arranged from this
house."

"You ought to keep a private cemetery," said the duke with a grim smile.

"The sands are there," laughed the fellow, with a wave of his hand.

Nobody appeared to desire to continue this cheerful conversation, and
silence fell upon us for some moments. Then the duke observed:

"Bontet, I want you for a few minutes. Mr. Aycon, shall you be ready to
start in half an hour? Our friends will probably bring pistols: failing
that, I can provide you, if you have no objection to using mine."

I bowed, and they left me alone. And then, having nothing better to do, I
lit a cigar, vaulted out of the window, and strolled toward the stable. My
curiosity about the stable had been growing rapidly. I cast a glance
round, and saw nobody in the yard. Then, with a careless air, I turned the
handle of the door. Nothing occurred. I turned it more violently; still
nothing happened. I bent down suddenly and looked through the keyhole. And
I saw--not a key, but--an eye! And for ten seconds I looked at the eye.
Then the eye disappeared; and I heard that little unmistakable "click."
The eye had a pistol--and had cocked it! Was that because it saw through
the keyhole strange garments, instead of the friendly bright blue of
Bontet's blouse? And why had the eye such a dislike to strangers? I
straightened myself again and took a walk along the length of the stable,
considering these questions and, incidentally, looking for a window; but
the only window was a clear four feet above my head.

I am puzzled even now to say whether I regret not having listened to the
suspicion that was strong in my breast. Had I forecast, in the least
degree, the result of my neglecting to pay heed to its warning, I should
not have hesitated for a moment. But in the absence of such a presage, I
felt rather indifferent about the matter. My predominant desire was to
avoid the necessity of postponing the settlement of the issue between the
duke and myself; and a delay to that must needs follow, if I took action
in regard to the stable. Moreover, why should I stir in the matter? I had
a right to waive any grievance of my own; for the rest, it seemed to me
that justice was not much concerned in the matter; the merits or demerits
of the parties were, in my view, pretty equal; and I questioned the
obligation to incur, not only the delay which I detested, but, in all
probability, a very risky adventure in a cause which I had very little at
heart.

If "the eye" could, by being "ready at six," get out of the stable while
the duke and I were engaged otherwise and elsewhere, why--"Let him," said
I, "and go to the devil his own way. He's sure to get there at last!" So I
reasoned--or perhaps, I should rather say, so I felt; and I must repeat
that I find it difficult now to be very sorry that my mood was what it
was.

My half hour was passing. I crossed back to the window and got in again.
The duke, whose impatience rivaled my own, was waiting for me. A case of
pistols lay on the table and, having held them up for me to see, he
slipped them inside his coat.

"Are you ready, sir?" he asked. "We may as well be starting."

I bowed and motioned him to precede me. He also, in spite of his
impatience, seemed to me to be in a better humor than earlier in the day.
The interview with Mme. Delhasse must have been satisfactory to both
parties. Had not his face showed me the improvement in his temper, his
first words after we left the premises of the inn (at a quarter past five
exactly) would have declared it; for he turned to me and said:

"Look here, Mr. Aycon. You're running a great risk for nothing. Be a
sensible man. Go back to Avranches, thence to Cherbourg, and thence to
where you live--and leave me to settle my own affairs."

"Before I accept that proposal," said I, "I must know what 'your own
affairs' include."

"You're making a fool of yourself--or being made a fool of--which you
please," he assured me; and his face wore for the moment an almost
friendly look. I saw clearly that he believed he had won the day. The old
lady had managed to make him think that--by what artifice I knew not. But
what I did know was that I believed not a jot of the insinuation he was
conveying to me, and had not a doubt of the truth, and sincerity of Marie
Delhasse.

"The best of us do that sometimes," I answered. "And when one has begun,
it is best to go through."

"As you please. Have you ever practiced with your left hand?"

"No," said I.

"Then," said he, "you've not long to live."

To do him justice, he said it in no boasting way, but like a man who would
warn me, and earnestly.

"I have never practiced with my right either," I remarked. "I think I get
rather a pull by the arrangement."

He walked on in silence for a few yards. Then he asked:

"You're resolved on it?"

"Absolutely," I returned. For I understood that he did but offer the same
terms as before--terms which included the abandonment of Marie Delhasse.

On we went, our faces set toward the great Mount, and with the sinking sun
on our left hands. We met few people, and as we reached the sands yet
fewer. When we came to a stand, just where the causeway now begins (it was
not built then), nobody was in sight. The duke took out his watch.

"We are punctual to the minute," said he. "I hope those fellows won't be
very late, or the best of the light will be gone."

There were some large flat blocks of stone lying by the roadside, and we
sat down on them and waited. We were both smoking, and we found little to
say to one another. For my part, I thought less of our coming encounter
than of the success of the scheme which I had laid for Marie's safety. And
I believe that the duke, on his part, gave equally small heed to the
fight; for the smile of triumph or satisfaction flitted now and again
across his face, called forth, I made no doubt, by the pleasant conviction
which Mlle. Delhasse had instilled into his mind, and which had caused him
to dub me a fool for risking my life in the service of a woman who had
promised all he asked of her.

But the sun sank; the best of the light went; and the officers from
Pontorson did not come. It was hard on six.

"If we fight to-night, we must fight now!" cried the duke suddenly. "What
the plague has become of the fellows?"

"It's not too dark for me," said I.

"But it soon will be for me," he answered. "Come, are we to wait till
to-morrow?"

"We'll wait till to-morrow," said I, "if you'll promise not to seek to see
or speak to Mlle. Delhasse till to-morrow. Otherwise we'll fight tonight,
seconds or no seconds, light or no light!"

I never understood perfectly the temper of the man, nor the sudden gusts
of passion to which, at a word that chanced to touch him, he was subject.
Such a storm caught him now, and he bounded up from where he sat, cursing
me for an insolent fellow who dared to put him under terms--for a fool who
flattered himself that all women loved him--and for many other things
which it is not well to repeat. So that at last I said:

"Lead the way, then: you know the best place, I suppose."

Still muttering in fury, cursing now me, now the neglectful seconds, he
strode rapidly on to the sands and led the way at a quick pace, walking
nearly toward the setting sun. The land trended the least bit outward
here, and the direction kept us well under the lee of a rough stone wall
that fringed the sands on the landward side. Stunted bushes raised their
heads above the wall, and the whole made a perfect screen. Thus we walked
for some ten minutes with the sun in our eyes and the murmur of the sea in
our ears. Then at a spot where the bushes rose highest the duke abruptly
stopped, saying, "Here," and took the case of pistols out of his pocket.
He examined the loading, handing each in turn to me. While this was being
done neither of us spoke. Then he held them both out, the stocks towards
me; and I took the one nearest to my hand. The duke laid the other down on
the sands and motioned me to follow his example; and he took his
handkerchief out of his pocket and wound it round his right hand,
confining the fingers closely.

"Tie the knot, if you can," said he, holding out his hand thus bound.

"So far I am willing to trust you," said I; but he bowed ironically as he
answered:

"It will be awkward enough anyhow for the one of us that chances to kill
the other, seeing that we have no seconds or witnesses; but it would look
too black against me, if my right hand were free while yours is in a
sling. So pray, Mr. Aycon, do not insist on trusting me too much, but tie
the knot if your wounded arm will let you."

Engrossed with my thoughts and my schemes, I had not dwelt on the danger
to which he called my attention, and I admit that I hesitated.

"I have no wish to be called a murderer," said I. "Shall we not wait again
for M. de Vieuville and his friend?"

"Curse them!" said he, fury in his eye again. "By Heavens, if I live, I'll
have a word with them for playing me such a trick! The light is all but
gone now. Come, take your place. There is little choice."

"You mean to fight, then?"

"Not if you will leave me in peace: but if not--"

"Let us go back to the inn and fight to-morrow: and meanwhile things shall
stand as they are," said I, repeating my offer, in the hope that he would
now be more reasonable.

He looked at me sullenly; then his rage came again upon him, and he cried:

"Take your place: stand where you like, and, in God's name, be quick!" And
he paused, and then added: "I cannot live another night--" And he broke
off again, and finished by crying: "Quick! Are you ready?"

Seeing there was no help for it, I took up a position. No more words
passed between us, but with a gesture he signed to me to move a little:
and thus he adjusted our places till we were opposite one another, about
two yards between us, and each presenting his side direct to the sun, so
that its slanting rays troubled each of us equally, and that but little.
Then he said:

"I will step back five paces, and do you do the like. When we are at the
distance, do you count slowly, 'One--two--three,' and at 'Three' we will
fire."

I did not like having to count, but it was necessary that one of us
should; and he, when I pressed him, would not. Therefore it was arranged
as he said. And I began to step back, but for an instant he stayed me. He
was calm now, and he spoke in quiet tones.

"Even now, if you will go!" said he. "For the girl is mine; and I think
that, and not my life or death, is what you care about."

"The girl is not yours and never will be," said I. But then I remembered
that, the seconds not having come, my scheme had gone astray, and that if
he lived in strength, Marie would be well-nigh at his mercy. And on that I
grew stern, and the desire for his blood came on me; and he, I think, saw
it in my face, for he smiled, and without more turned and walked to his
place. And I did the like; and we turned round again and stood facing one
another.

All this time my pistol had hung in the fingers of my right hand. I took
it now in my left, and looked to it, and cried to the duke:

"Are you ready?"

And he answered easily:

"Yes, I'm ready."

Then I raised my arm and took my aim,--and if the aim were not true on his
heart, my hand and not my will deserves the praise of Mercy,--and I cried
aloud:

"One!" and paused; and cried "Two!"

And as the word left my lips--before the final fatal "Three!" was so much
as ready to my tongue--while I yet looked at the duke to see that I was
not taking him unawares--loud and sharp two shots rang out at the same
instant in the still air: I felt the whizz of a bullet, as it shaved my
ear; and the duke, without a sound, fell forward on the sands, his pistol
exploding as he fell.

After all we had our witnesses!

CHAPTER XX.

The Duke's Epitaph.

For a moment I stood in amazement, gazing at my opponent where he lay
prostrate on the sands. Then, guided by the smoke which issued from the
bushes, I darted across to the low stone wall and vaulted on to the top of
it. I dived into the bushes, parting them with head and hand: I was
conscious of a man's form rushing by me, but I could pay no heed to him,
for right in front of me, in the act of re-loading his pistol, I saw the
burly inn-keeper Jacques Bontet. When his eyes fell on me, as I leaped out
almost at his very feet, he swore an oath and turned to run. I raised my
hand and fired. Alas! the Duke of Saint-Maclou had been justified in his
confidence; for, to speak honestly, I do not believe my bullet went within
a yard of the fugitive. Hearing the shot and knowing himself unhurt, he
halted and faced me. There was no time for re-loading. I took my pistol by
the muzzle and ran at him. My right arm was nearly useless; but I took it
out of the sling and had it ready, for what it was worth. I saw that the
fellow's face was pale and that he displayed no pleasure in the game. But
he stood his ground; and I, made wary by the recollection of my maimed
state, would not rush on him, but came to a stand about a yard from him,
reconnoitering how I might best spring on him. Thus we rested for a moment
till remembering that the duke, if he were not already dead, lay at the
mercy of the other scoundrel, I gathered myself together and threw myself
at Jacques Bontet. He also had clubbed his weapon, and he struck wildly at
me as I came on. My head he missed, and the blow fell on my right
shoulder, settling once for all the question whether my right arm was to
be of any use or not. Yet its uselessness mattered not, for I countered
his blow with a better, and the butt of my pistol fell full and square on
his forehead. For a moment he stood looking at me, with hatred and fear in
his eyes: then, as it seemed to me, quite slowly his knees gave way under
him; his face dropped down from mine; he might have been sinking into the
ground, till at last, his knees being bent right under him, uttering a low
groan, he toppled over and lay on the ground.

Spending on him and his state no more thought that they deserved, I
snatched his pistol from him (for mine was broken at the junction of
barrel and stock), and, without waiting to load (and indeed with one hand
helpless and in the agitation which I was suffering it would have taken me
more than a moment), I hastened back to the wall, and, parting the bushes,
looked over. It was a strange sight that I saw. The duke was no longer
prone on his face, as he had fallen, but lay on his back, with his arms
stretched out, crosswise; and by his side knelt a small spare man, who
searched, hunted, and rummaged with hasty, yet cool and methodical, touch,
every inch of his clothing. Up and down, across and across, into every
pocket, along every lining, aye, down to the boots, ran the nimble
fingers; and in the still of the evening, which seemed not broken but
rather emphasized by the rumble of the tide that had begun to come in over
the sands from the Mount, his passionate curses struck my ears. I
recollect that I smiled--nay, I believe that I laughed--for the man was my
old acquaintance Pierre--and Pierre was still on the track of the
Cardinal's Necklace; and he had not doubted, any more than I had doubted,
that the duke carried it upon his person. Yet Pierre found it not, for he
was growing angry now; he seemed to worry the still body, pushing it and
tossing the arms of it to and fro as a puppy tosses a slipper or a
cushion. And all the while the unconscious face of the Duke of
Saint-Maclou was turned up to heaven, and a stiff smile seemed to mock the
baffled plunderer. And I also wondered where the necklace was.

Then I let myself down on to the noiseless sands and stole across to the
spot where the pair were. Pierre's hands were searching desperately and
wildly now; he no longer expected to find, but he could not yet believe
that the search was in very truth in vain. Absorbed in his task, he heard
me not; and coming up I set my foot on the pistol that lay by him, and
caught him, as the duke had caught Lafleur his comrade, by the nape of the
neck, and said to him, in a bantering tone:

"Well, is it not there, my friend?"

He wriggled; but the strength of the little man in a struggle at close
quarters was as nothing, and I held him easily with my one sound hand. And
I mocked him, exhorting him to look again, telling him that everything was
not to be seen from a stable, and bidding him call Lafleur from hell to
help him. And under my grip he grew quiet and ceased to search; and I
heard nothing but his quick breathing. And I laughed at him as I plucked
him off the duke and flung him on his back on the sands, and stood looking
down on him. But he asked no mercy of me; his small eyes answered defiance
back to me, and he glanced still wistfully at the quiet man beside us.

Yet he was to escape me--with small pain to me, I confess. For at the
moment a cry rang loud in my ear: I knew the voice; and though I kept my
foot on Pierre's pistol, yet I turned my head. And on the instant the
fellow sprang to his feet, and, with an agility that I could not have
matched, started running across the sands toward the Mount. Before I had
realized what he was about, he had thirty yards' start of me. I heard the
water rushing in now; he must wade deep, nay, he must swim to win the
Mount. But from me he was safe, for I was no such runner as he. Yet, had
he and I been alone, I would have pursued him. But the cry rang out again,
and, giving no more thought to him, I turned whither Marie Delhasse, come
in pursuance of my directions, stood with a hand pointed in questioning at
the duke, and the pistol that I had given her fallen from her fingers on
the sand. And she swayed to and fro, till I set my arm round her and
steadied her.

"Have you killed him?" she asked in a frightened whisper.

"I did not so much as fire at him," I answered. "We were attacked by
thieves."

"By thieves?"

"The inn-keeper and another. They thought that he carried the necklace,
and tracked us here."

"And did they take it?"

"It was not on him," I answered, looking into her eyes.

She raised them to mine and said simply:

"I have it not;" and with that, asking no more, she drew near to the duke,
and sat down by him on the sand, and lifted his head on to her lap, and
wiped his brow with her handkerchief, saying in a low voice, "Is he dead?"

Now, whether it be, as some say, that the voice a man loves will rouse him
when none else will, or that the duke's swoon had merely come to its
natural end, I know not; but, as she spoke, he, who had slept through
Pierre's rough handling, opened his eyes, and, seeing where he was, tried
to raise his hand, groping after hers: and he spoke, with difficulty
indeed, yet plainly enough, saying:

"The rascals thought I had the necklace. They did not know how kind you
had been, my darling."

I started where I stood. Marie grew red and then white, and looked down at
him no longer with pity, but with scorn and anger on her face.

"I have it not," she said again. "For all heaven, I would not touch it!"

And she looked up to me as she said it, praying me with her eyes to
believe.

But her words roused and stung the duke to an effort and an activity that
I thought impossible to him; for he rolled himself from her lap, and,
raising himself on his hand, with half his body lifted from the ground,
said in a loud voice:

"You have it not? You haven't the necklace? Why, your message told me that
you would never part from it again?"

"I sent no message," she answered in a hard voice, devoid of pity for him;
how should she pity him? "I sent no message, save that I would sooner die
than see you again."

Amazement spread over his face even in the hour of his agony.

"You sent," said he, "to say that you would await me to-night, and to ask
for the necklace to adorn yourself for my coming."

Though he was dying, I could hardly control myself to hear him speak such
words. But Marie, in the same calm scornful voice asked:

"By whom did the message come?"

"By your mother," said he, gazing at her eagerly. "And I sent mine--the
one I told you--by her. Marie, was it not true?" he cried, dragging
himself nearer to her.

"True!" she echoed--and no more.

But it was enough. For an instant he glared at her; then he cried:

"That old fiend has played a trick on me! She has got the necklace!"

And I began to understand the smile that I had seen on Mme. Delhasse's
face, and her marvelous good humor; and I began to have my opinion
concerning her evening stroll to Pontorson. Bontet and Pierre had been
matched against more than they thought.

The duke, painfully supported on his hand, drew nearer still to Marie; but
she rose to her feet and retreated a pace as he advanced. And he said:

"But you love me, Marie? You would have--"

She interrupted him.

"Above all men I loathe you!" she said, looking on him with shrinking and
horror in her face.

His wound was heavy on him--he was shot in the stomach and was bleeding
inwardly--and had drawn his features; his pain brought a sweat on his
brow, and his arm, trembling, scarce held him. Yet none of these things
made the anguish in his eyes as he looked at her.

"This is the man I love," said she in calm relentlessness.

And she put out her hand and took mine, and drew me to her, passing her
arm through mine. The Duke of Saint-Maclou looked up at us; then he
dropped his head, heavily and with a thud on the sand, and so lay till we
thought he was dead.

Yet it might be that his life could be saved, and I said to Marie:

"Stay by him, while I run for help."

"I will not stay by him," she said.

"Then do you go," said I. "Stop the first people you meet; or, if you see
none, go to the inn. And bid them bring help to carry a wounded man and
procure a doctor."

She nodded her head, and, without a glance at him, started running along
the sands toward the road. And I, left alone with him, sat down and raised
him, as well as I could, turning his face upward again and resting it on
my thigh. And I wiped his brow. And, after a time, he opened his eyes.

"Help will be here soon," I said. "She has gone to bring help."

Full ten minutes passed slowly; he lay breathing with difficulty, and from
time to time I wiped his brow. At last he spoke.

"There's some brandy in my pocket. Give it me," he said.

I found the flask and gave him some of its contents, which kept the life
in him for a little longer. And I was glad to feel that he settled
himself, as though more comfortably, against me.

"What happened?" he asked very faintly.

And I told him what had happened, as I conceived it--how that Bontet must
have given shelter to Pierre, till such time as escape might be possible;
but how that, when Bontet discovered that the necklace was in the inn, the
two scoundrels, thinking that they might as well be hanged for a sheep as
for a lamb, had determined to make another attempt to secure the coveted
spoil; how, in pursuance of this scheme, Bontet had, as I believed,
suppressed the duke's message to his friends at Pontorson, with the intent
to attack us, as they had done, on the sands; and I added that he himself
knew, better than I, what was likely to have become of the necklace in the
hands of Mme. Delhasse.

"For my part," I concluded, "I doubt if Madame will be at the inn to
welcome us on our return."

"She came to me and told me that Marie would give all I asked, and I gave
her the necklace to give to Marie; and believing what she told me, I was
anxious not to fight you, for I thought you had nothing to gain by
fighting. Yet you angered me, so I resolved to fight."

He seemed to have strength for nothing more; yet at the end, before life
left him, one strange last change came over him. Both his rough passion
and the terrible abasement of defeat seemed to leave him, and his face
became again the face of a well-bred, self-controlled man. There was a
helpless effort at a shrug of his shoulders, a scornful slight smile on
his lips, and a look of recognition, almost of friendliness, almost of
humor, in his eyes, as he said to me, who still held his head:

"_Mon Dieu_, but I've made a mess of it, Mr. Aycon!"

And I do not know that anyone could better this epitaph which the Duke of
Saint-Maclou composed for himself in the last words he spoke this side the
grave.

CHAPTER XXI.

A Passing Carriage.

When I saw that the Duke of Saint-Maclou was dead, I laid him down on the
sands, straightening him into a seemly posture; and I closed his eyes and
spread his handkerchief over his face. Then I began to walk up and down
with folded arms, pondering over the life and fate of the man and the
strange link between us which the influence of two women had forged. And I
recognized also that an hour ago the greater likelihood had been that I
should be where he lay, and he be looking down on me. _Dis aliter visum._
His own sin had stretched him there, and I lived to muse on the wreck--on
the "mess" as he said in self-mockery--that he had made of his life. Yet,
as I had felt when I talked to him before, so I felt now, that his had
been the hand to open my eyes, and from his mighty but base love I had