CHAPTER VIII.
The first act in the drama was about to be played—the puppets all arranged, all acting for themselves, never heeding the hand of fate in it. Hector le Gautier triumphant, but troubled occasionally by the loss of his device, yet trusting to his own good fortune and matchless audacity to pull him through.
The curious in such matters, the idle folks who dream and speculate, had food for reflection in their Times next morning, for on the front sheet on the second column appeared an announcement. It was vague; but one man understood it. It ran:
Moidore.—How reckless of you to throw away a life on the hazard of a die. They are all safe but yours. Where is that? In two months you will have to deliver, and then beware of the wrath of the Crimson Nine. It is not too late yet. Under the clock at C. × at nine—any night. Use the sign, and good will come of it.—Eastern Eagle.
The Times containing this announcement lay upon Isodore’s breakfast-table in Ventnor Street, Fitzroy Square. As it rested upon the table, the words were readable, and Isodore smiled when they caught her eye as she entered. She took up an album from a side-table and turned over the leaves till she came to the portrait of a pretty dark girl of about seventeen. At this she looked long and intently, and then turned to scrutinise her features in the glass. There was nothing coquettish about this—no suspicion of womanly vanity, but rather the air of one who strives to find some likeness. Apparently the examination pleased her, for she smiled again—not a pleasant smile, this time, but one of certainty, almost cruelty; and a vengeful look made the eyes hard for a moment.
She turned to the photograph again, and then once more back to the mirror, as if to be absolutely certain of her convictions, that there might be no mistake.
While absorbed thus, Valerie le Gautier entered the room and looked at Isodore in astonishment. ‘You have a grand excuse,’ she said archly, ‘though I did not know that vanity was one of your failings, Isodore.’
Isodore blushed never so faintly, not so much by being taken in the little act, as by the appearance of the thing. ‘It is not on any account of mine,’ she said; ‘rather, on yours.—Valerie, look here carefully and tell me if you know that face.’ She indicated the portrait in the album; and her friend looked at it earnestly.
After a few moments she looked up, shaking her head doubtfully. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It is a strange face entirely to me.’
‘Then I have altered since that was taken five years ago.’
‘Is it possible that innocent, childish-looking face could have once been you?’ Valerie asked in unfeigned astonishment.
‘Indeed, it is. There is nothing like sorrow and hardship to alter the expression of features, especially of women. Yes, Valerie, that is what I was when I met him. You would not have known me?’
‘No, indeed. They might be two different faces.’
‘So much the better for me—so much the worse for him,’ Isodore observed without the slightest tinge of passion in her tones.—‘Read that paragraph in the Times, and see if you can make anything of it.’
‘It is Greek to me,’ Valerie replied, when she had perused the advertisement with a puzzled air.—‘Has it any allusion to my—to Hector?’
‘To your husband? Yes. He will understand it in a moment, and only be too eager to regain his insignia. There will be a happy union of two loving hearts some night in Charing Cross Station. Little will the spectators know of the passions running riot there.’ She laughed bitterly as she said these words, and threw the paper upon the table again. She was in a strange mood this morning.
‘Then I suppose that C. × means Charing Cross?’ Valerie asked, ‘and you expect Hector to come there?—I do not quite comprehend your plan, Isodore. It will be dangerous to have another in the secret, and I suppose some one will have to meet him.’
‘Some one will,’ was the calm reply. ‘And who, do you think, is the proper one to do that? Who better than his old friend and once passionate admirer, Isodore?’
‘You meet him?’ Valerie cried. ‘How daring! Suppose he should recognise you, how then? All your schemes would be thrown to the winds, and we should be defeated. It is madness!’
‘You forget I have his badge of membership; besides, I have a duty to perform beyond my own feelings in the matter—my duty to the League. But he will not recognise me after the lapse of years, and I must get to the bottom of his traitorous designs.’
‘You are reckoning upon certainties, Isodore. Suppose you are wrong—suppose he is, after all, no traitor, and that your ideas are only fancies. How then?’
‘He is a traitor—instinct tells me that. Wait and see what Lucrece has to say, when she comes. She is sure to have gleaned some information by this time.’
Hot revenge is apt to burn itself out quickly, from its very fierceness; but such hate as this never dies. There was a cool deliberation in Isodore’s words which struck her hearer with great force; and much as she herself had suffered, she could not realise a passion such as this. It is probable that had she met her recalcitrant husband, a few words would have obtained for him forgiveness; but she was under the spell now, and her weaker will was swallowed up in a strong one.
‘Do you expect Lucrece this morning?’ Valerie asked.
‘I am expecting her every moment,’ Isodore replied. ‘She promised me to come to-day and let me have her report.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, when Lucrece entered. She was quietly, almost plainly dressed, and wore an air of extreme meekness.
‘You look the character,’ Isodore said approvingly. ‘You might have been a menial all your lifetime.—I am all impatience. Begin!’
‘In the first place,’ Lucrece began without further preamble, ‘I like my situation; and as to my new mistress, to know her is to love her. You have no idea how gentle and thoughtful she is. Now, to begin with her. The dear Hector has a rival, and a powerful one; his name is Frederick Maxwell, and he is an artist. From what I can see, they are engaged.—Isodore, this Maxwell has joined the League, and will be introduced by Salvarini.’
‘Frederick Maxwell! Carlo’s old friend! Poor fool! Le Gautier has tools enough.’
‘He is a fine handsome Englishman; honour and honesty stamped in every line of his face; just the sort of man to be made useful.—But to continue. Le Gautier is l’ami de la famille. He has a wonderful influence over Sir Geoffrey, and has succeeded in fascinating Enid—and she hates him notwithstanding. Isodore, Le Gautier is at his old spiritualistic tricks again.’
‘Ah!—Tell me something of Sir Geoffrey.’
‘I am coming to that. Last night, my mistress was out very late, not getting home till past one. It has been my habit to wait for her in the back dining-room, and last night I was sitting there in the dark, dozing. I was awakened by the entrance of Sir Geoffrey. I could see his face was ghastly pale, and he kept muttering to himself, and some words at intervals I caught. “I wonder if it was jugglery,” I heard him say—“if it was some trick of Le Gautier’s?—No; it could not be; and yet, if I am to have any peace, I must fulfil the compact—I must join this Brotherhood. And Enid, what will she say, when she knows? What will Maxwell think of me?—But perhaps Le Gautier is already married.” I could not catch any more. What do you think of it?’
Isodore was following the speaker so intently, and so engrossed in her thoughts, that she did not reply for a moment. ‘You can help us here, Valerie. Tell us what you think.’
‘Lucrece is perfectly right,’ Valerie replied. ‘I have hitherto told you that my husband used to dabble in such things; nay, more, as a conjurer he was probably without a rival. He made a great reputation at Rome before the thing exploded; and indeed, to a weak mind, some of the séances were awe-inspiring.’
‘It seems to me,’ Isodore put in reflectively, ‘that Le Gautier has worked upon Sir Geoffrey’s superstitious fears till he has him bound fast enough. And you say he is to join the Brotherhood. Really, I begin to feel an admiration for the man I am pledged to destroy. It is clear that he has promised his daughter to Le Gautier. Is she weak?’
‘On the contrary, though she is gentle and tractable, there is much determination of purpose underlying her gentleness.’
‘You have done wonders in this short time, my sister. But do not relax your vigilance now; let nothing escape you that may be of use to us.’
‘I must return,’ Lucrece explained, looking at her watch, ‘or I shall be missed. I will not fail to bring you such information as falls in my way from time to time.’
After she was gone, the women sat quietly for a time, each pondering over what they had heard. The information was not much; but it sufficed to show them in what way the influence over the weak baronet had been obtained, and every detail of Le Gautier’s movement might be of use. A wild plan formed itself in Isodore’s busy brain, as she sat thinking there. ‘Why should it not be?’ she thought.
‘Do you think it would be possible for any one to love me?’ she asked.
Valerie looked into the beautiful face and smiled. ‘How otherwise?’
‘Then it shall be so. Valerie, I am going to make Hector le Gautier love me as he never loved woman before!’