CHAPTER XV.
When Hector Laroche was ushered into Sir William Ridsdale’s room, his eyes blinked involuntarily. The change from the dusky twilight outside to the brilliantly lighted apartment in which he now found himself fairly dazzled him for the first few seconds.
There were but two people in the room. At a large square table, covered with papers and documents written and printed, sat the baronet. At a smaller table, a little distance away, and busily writing, sat Colonel Woodruffe—‘the man of the portrait,’ as Laroche muttered to himself the moment his eyes lighted on him. Was it possible that this other man, this white-haired gentleman, whose gaze was bent so keenly on him from under his bushy brows, was the great Sir William himself? He remembered to have seen this person on more than one occasion walking about the grounds in the company of Miss Loraine, but he had never troubled himself to inquire whom he might be. If he were really Sir William, then had he been at the hotel for two or three days, and he, Laroche, had never discovered that fact. What a blunder!
The Frenchman placed his right hand over his heart and bowed obsequiously; then he advanced with slow, cat-like movements towards the table, but came to a stand while he was yet some three or four paces away. The keen eyes of the white-haired gentleman, fixed so persistently on him, made him feel dreadfully uncomfortable. He had a great dislike to being stared at in that way.
‘You are Hector Laroche, ex-déporté No. 897; and I am Sir William Ridsdale.’
For once his start of surprise was thoroughly genuine. ‘How! Monsieur knows’——
‘Everything. Madame De Vigne has disclosed to me the whole dreadful story of her married life. Her I pity from the bottom of my heart; but for you, scoundrel, I have no feeling save one of utter loathing and contempt!’
‘Monsieur’—— whined Laroche with an indescribable writhing of his long lean body.
‘Silence, fellow!’ said Sir William sternly. ‘It is for you to listen, and not to speak.’ He rose and crossed to Colonel Woodruffe and spoke to him in a low voice.
The baronet returned to his seat. ‘It is not my intention to say a great deal to you, Monsieur Laroche,’ resumed Sir William; ‘I wish to rid myself of your presence as soon as may be; and what I have to say will be very much to the purpose.’
Laroche writhed again, but did not speak. Events had taken a turn so utterly unexpected by him, the ground had been so completely cut from under his feet, that he seemed to have nothing left to say.
‘Madame De Vigne is an Englishwoman, and as such is entitled to the protection of the laws of her country. The first point I wish you clearly to understand is, that her income is settled strictly upon herself, and that you are not entitled to claim so much as a single franc of her money. This time, at least, you will not be allowed to rob her, as you did once before. The second point I wish you clearly to understand is, that if you in any way harm, molest, or annoy Madame De Vigne or her sister, you will very quickly find yourself within the walls of an English prison, where you will be able to meditate on your folly at your leisure. This is a matter which Madame De Vigne’s friends will look to particularly, consequently I warn you in time. And now, having proved all this to you, I am induced, by certain considerations which in nowise affect you, to make you an offer which you will probably see the wisdom of accepting. The conditions of my offer are these: You shall at once quit England and never set foot in it again; you shall neither write to Madame De Vigne nor seek to hold any communication of any kind whatever with her or any one connected with her. In return for your faithful obedience to these instructions, you shall be paid an annuity of three thousand francs a year. The sum shall be paid you in quarterly instalments by my Paris agent, to whom you will present yourself in person once every three months. When you cease to present yourself, it shall be considered either that you no longer care to claim the annuity or that you are dead. Such is the offer I have to make you, Monsieur Laroche; you can either accept it or decline it at your own good pleasure; for my own part I care not which you do.’
Three thousand francs a year! was Laroche’s first thought. Why, scarcely half an hour ago, his wife had offered him just double the amount on precisely the same terms, and he had laughed in her face. Imbecile that he had been!
Coward though he was at heart, as nearly all braggarts are, if Laroche just then had happened to possess a revolver, he would have felt strongly tempted to make use of it and risk the consequences. How he hated those two men!—one white-haired, smiling, benevolent-looking, as he had seen him walking about the grounds, but with such a hand of iron hidden in his velvet glove; the other stern, impassive, coldly contemptuous, who had taken no more notice of him during the interview than if he were a dog. Yes, he hated them both with the ferocious hatred of a tiger balked of the prey in which its claws are already fixed.
This other man he felt nearly sure was in love with his wife; and he was just as certain that Mora De Vigne was in love with him. Even at a time like that, it thrilled him with a malicious joy to think that so long as he, Laroche, was alive they could never be more to each other than they were now. Perhaps if he had not appeared on the scene till a month or two later, they might have been married by that time. If he had only known—if he had only had the slightest suspicion that such was the state of affairs, he would have kept carefully in the background till the newly wedded couple should have returned from their honeymoon, and then have made himself known. That would have been a revenge worthy of the name. But now——
Sir William’s voice recalled him to realities. ‘Perhaps you wish for a little time before you make up your mind?’ he said.
Laroche shook his head. His nimble brain had already taken in the altered state of affairs; he saw that the day had gone hopelessly against him, that the battle was lost, and that the only thing left him to do was to accept from the conquerors the best terms that he could induce them to offer. If only he had not refused that six thousand francs! But to a man in his position even three thousand francs a year was better, infinitely better, than nothing. It would at least suffice to find him in absinth and cigarettes, and would serve to blunt the keen edge of chronic impecuniosity.
‘Three thousand francs a year, Sir William! It is a bagatelle—a mere bagatelle.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
The Frenchman spread out his hands and drew his shoulders up nearly to his ears. ‘Ma foi! I have no choice. I must accept.’
‘In that case, nothing more need be said, except that you will leave here by the first train to-morrow morning. Here is a bank-note with which to defray the expenses of your journey; and here is the address of my agent, on whom you will please call on Wednesday morning next, by which time he will be in receipt of my instructions.’ Sir William pushed the note and the address across the table in the direction of Laroche as though the latter were some plague-stricken creature with whom he was fearful of coming into closer contact.
The Frenchman advanced a step or two, picked up the papers, and put them away slowly and carefully inside his pocket-book, looking the baronet full in the eyes as he did so. His teeth were hard set, and his breath came and went with a fuller rise and fall than usual, but otherwise there was nothing to betray the tempest of passion at work within him. When he had put his pocket-book away again, and still with his eyes bent full on the baronet, he said in a low, deep voice: ‘It is possible, Sir William, that we may some day meet again.’ Then with a nod, that might mean much or that might have no meaning at all, he turned and walked slowly out of the room.
The Frenchman found Nanette waiting for him in the corridor. ‘If you please, monsieur, my mistress desires to see you in her room immediately on a matter of much importance.’
‘Can it be that she is going to renew the offer of the six thousand francs?’ was the first question that Laroche asked himself. Checkmated at every turn though he had been, and though all his fine castles in the air had come tumbling about his ears, he began to hope that more might be saved from the wreck than had seemed probable only a few minutes ago, and it was not without a certain revival of spirits and a certain return to his old braggadocio manner that he followed Nanette to Madame De Vigne’s room. Just as he was passing the staircase window, the lightning’s lurid scroll unrolled itself for an instant against the walls of blackness outside. Laroche shuddered, he knew not why. A moment or two later he found himself once more in the presence of his wife. In the interim, the lamp had been lighted and the curtains drawn.