He was returning—after an ardent promise to overtake the thief and to force him to give up the money—without apparently having made any effort in that direction—or having made the effort, failing signally and ignominiously—a foolish and unheroic position in either case.
To tell the whole unvarnished truth, his interview with Clyffurde and his thoughtlessness in wandering along the road all alone, laden with twenty-five million francs, not waiting for the arrival of M. le Comte d'Artois' patrol, was unthinkable.
Then what? St. Genis, determined not to tell the truth, found it a difficult task to concoct a story that would be plausible and at the same time redound to his credit. His disappointment was so bitter now, his hopes of winning Crystal and glory had been so bright, that he found it quite impossible to go back to the hard facts of life—to his own poverty and the unattainableness of Crystal de Cambray—without making a great effort to win back what Victor de Marmont had just wrested from him.
Through the whirl of his thoughts, too, there was a vague sense of resentment against Clyffurde—coupled with an equally vague sense of fear. He, Maurice, might easily keep silent over the transaction of last night, but Clyffurde might not feel inclined to do so. He would want to know sooner or later what had become of the money . . . had he not uttered a threat which made Maurice's cheeks even now flush with wrath and shame?
Certain words and gestures of the Englishman had stood out before Maurice's mind in a way that had stirred up those latent jealousies which always lurk in the heart of an unsuccessful wooer. Clyffurde had been generous—blind to his own interests—ready to sacrifice what recognition he had earned: he had spared his assailant and agreed to an unworthy subterfuge, and St. Genis' tormented brain began to wonder why he had done all this.
Was it for love of Crystal de Cambray?
St. Genis would not allow himself to answer that question, for he felt that if he did he would hate that hard-fisted Englishman more thoroughly than he had ever hated any man before—not excepting de Marmont. De Marmont was an evil and vile traitor who never could cross Crystal's path of life again. . . . But not so the Englishman, who had planned to serve her and who would have succeeded so magnificently but for his—Maurice's—interference!
If this explanation of Clyffurde's strangely magnanimous conduct was the true one, then indeed St. Genis felt that he would have everything to fear from him. For indeed was it so very unlikely that the Englishman was throughout acting in collusion with Victor de Marmont, who was known to be his friend?
Was it so very unlikely that—seeing himself unmasked—he had found a sure and rapid way of allowing the money to pass through St. Genis' hands into those of de Marmont, and at the same time hopelessly humiliating and discrediting his rival in the affections of Mlle. de Cambray?
That the suggestion of handing the money over to him had come originally from Maurice de St. Genis himself, the young man did not trouble himself to remember. The more he thought this new explanation of past events over, the more plausible did it seem and the more likely of acceptance by M. le Comte de Cambray and by Crystal, and St. Genis at last saw his way to appearing before them not only zealous but heroic—even if unfortunate—and it was with a much lightened heart that he finally drew rein outside the Hotel Bourbon.