The Trap Closed.
The count did not utter one word. He saw at one glance what had been done. He recognized the young gentleman whom he had sneered at as Lady Amelie's victim. He understood at once what had been done.
"She had asked him to destroy the letters, and he has done it," he said to himself. In one moment he had formed his scheme of revenge. He would give the young man in charge for stealing his watch and ring. If he cleared himself at all, he must tell the truth. He must tell that he had not come there to steal a watch, but to destroy Lady Lisle's letters.
"If he confesses that," said the quick-witted count to himself, "she will be doubly disgraced; if he declines to confess, I am at least revenged upon him." So, until the entrance of the policeman, the two men stood and glared at each other.
"You can save yourself," said the count, "if you will confess what you came for, and if you will write that confession down."
Basil smiled contemptuously. "Of what do you charge me?" he said.
"I shall charge you with stealing my watch and ring," was the reply.
"Knowing I am innocent?"
"The alternative lies before you. Confess, as I have said, and Lady Amelie suffers; deny, and you go to prison for stealing."
It seemed to him far easier. "I will go to prison," he thought, "I can give a false name; no one will know me. There will be no fuss, no stir, nothing known, and she, my queen, will be saved."
Of course there was no common sense in such a proceeding, nothing but enthusiasm and romance. He certainly had not calculated upon the fact being known. He had really believed the false name would shield him. He found means through a heavy bribe to send one word to Lady Amelie; it was merely the word, "Destroyed.—B.C." But it gave the queen of coquettes a sense of security she had not enjoyed for long. While Basil still lay in prison, Count Jules sought her.
"You have baffled me, my lady," he said.
"Yes," was the calm reply, "I have checkmated you, count. You will extort no more money from me, nor will you threaten me again."
"Well," said the count, "I confess myself beaten, and I am not a good man, either, my Lady Amelie, but sooner than have blighted that young man's life, as you have done, I would have suffered anything."
"My dear count," said Lady Amelie, philosophically, "some men seem, by fate and by nature, destined to be used as a cat's-paw."
Count Jules was baffled; his only hold upon the rich and beautiful Lady Amelie was broken. What those letters contained was known only to the lady and himself. If simply the written expressions of her own unhappiness, he placed more value on them than they were worth. The chances are that they held more than that.
He was entirely defeated—they had been his last resources for long. He had never failed, by means of them, to extort money from Lady Lisle at pleasure. It was useless to threaten any more. She had but to dare him to bring forth his proofs, and he had not one word to say.
His only consolation was, that in revenge, he had completely blighted the young hero's life, for hero he was, although his heroism was of a mistaken kind.
And Lady Amelie—did she feel any regret for the young life tarnished? She missed a very pleasant companion, an enthusiastic adorer, but as fortune would have it, there came to England a young Roman prince, who was both artist and poet, handsome as a Greek god, and wealthy beyond compare. His appearance created a perfect furore in fashionable society, and he, as a matter of course, fell in love with Lady Amelie, so that she soon forgot the young knight who languished in prison. When the season was over, she persuaded her husband to go to Rome, and never left even a line or a message for the mistaken young man who had done so much for her.
She only did what suited her; she was the queen of coquettes, and she made him useful to her; nothing else mattered.
The lonely months wore on very slowly for Basil. At first the notion of heroism and the conviction that he was performing a most noble and chivalrous deed sustained him; but there was a fund of common sense in his character, and this common sense suggested to him that instead of being a hero, he had been the dupe of a wily coquette. Not at first did this idea strike him; not until long, dreary weeks had passed, and she had never sent him even one message of thanks or sympathy. He was very angry with the idea at first, thinking it quite a false one, but gradually he awakened to the conviction that it was true.
Then his fortitude forsook him, and it was some consolation to hear from Mr. Forster that what the kind-hearted lawyer called his misrepresentations had been effectual. People had almost forgotten that little paragraph that had one morning taken London by storm.
"I have denied it so constantly and emphatically," he said, "that my words have been believed. As soon as you get out of here, make haste abroad, then all may be well."
Even he could not help seeing how entirely the light and brightness had faded from the young face.
"I have never said anything to you," said Mr. Forster, one morning, "but I have a certain conviction, Mr, Carruthers, that there is some woman in this; you are here for a woman's sake and to screen her from blame; if so, it is useless asking you to tell the truth, I know, but make the best of it; get out of this as soon as you can."
He did so. When the six months were over, "John Smith" was discharged and did not linger many hours in London; he went at once to Paris, and there made out where Lady Amelie was.
"In Rome," replied the gentleman of whom he asked the question. "Her last caprice was a young Roman prince, and they are settled there for the winter." To Rome he resolved to go. He would see for himself whether she was all that his dreaming fancy had painted her, or whether she was what men said—a heartless coquette.
He went to Rome, and found her, as usual, queen of all that was most brilliant and gay.
It was at a soiree given by the Duchessa Sforza. He saw her again, beautiful, radiant and magnificent. By her side stood a young man, who was handsome as one of the grand old statutes that ornamented the galleries of Rome. He watched her, thinking bitterly of the time that had passed since be looked his last on that radiant face, and all the bitter shame that had been his portion since then.
He crossed the room and went over to her. Whatever dismay she may have felt, she showed none. She looked up with a bright, cold smile, as though they had parted but yesterday.
"Mr. Carruthers!" she said. "I hope you are well. I really believe that half of England is coming to Rome."
"Can you wonder," said the prince, "when England's fairest queen is here?"
Lady Amelie introduced the two gentlemen, and after a time the prince went away. Then she turned her lovely face to the young man she had duped so cleverly.
"How do you like Rome?" she asked,
"I cannot talk commonplace to you, Lady Lisle," he said; "I have come from England purposely to see you,"
She looked slightly impatient.
"Ah," she replied. "Of course I am very much obliged to you; but you must have been terribly imprudent. Could you not have managed without being discovered in that suspicious attitude? I was so grievously distressed. You are too quixotic—you seek needless dangers."
That was the extent of her gratitude to the man who had saved her reputation, character, and fair fame.
"I did not compromise you," he said. "I preferred imprisonment to that."
"Yes; but it was quixotic; there was no need for anything of the kind."
"I am very sorry to have erred from excess of zeal," he replied, sarcastically. "It is a comfort to me to think that I shall not so offend again."
"I hope," she said, more anxiously, "that it will not injure you—that no one will know about it. It was really too shocking. Prison for a young man of your position! It was absurd."
"I thought so myself, before I came out; it was absurd; but you will be comforted to know, Lady Amelie, that no one seems to have known of it but my mother, Lady Carruthers, and my lawyer, Mr. Forster. So far as the world is concerned, I am safe."
The prince returned, looking slightly jealous, and then Basil amused himself, after a bitter fashion. He watched Lady Amelie playing off all her airs, graces, and fascinations on the young prince, as she had played them upon him. He was cured. It was a bitter lesson, but it lasted him. He began to understand the difference between romance and reality—between dreaming and doing. It had been a hard, bitter, almost shameful, lesson, but he was thankful in after years that he had learned it.
He found, after a time, that the world was wiser than he thought.
"There is some story about Mr. Carruthers," people would say, but no one ever knew exactly what it was. He remained in Rome for a whole week. Before it was over he was quite cured of his liking for the queen of coquettes.