“The plot!” she echoed, and fell staring at him; and then furiously from him to us.
“Go on,” she said. “I know very well who has instigated you to this.”
She checked herself, and, smiling, put out a hand towards her companion, as if to ask, or give, reassurance. But I noticed, already to my satisfaction, that the boy did not respond. As for us, we were in complete darkness.
“I obey, madame,” said Carabas. “This plot is told in a word. There was once in Paris a certain notorious courtisane et joueuse. Will madame desire her name?—à bon entendeur demi-mot. One night this lady’s husband, a Corsican, from whom she was separated on an honourable allowance, visited, purely by accident, her establishment. There was a fine scene, and he wounded her severely. She was forced by the police to prosecute him, and the jury, amidst the plaudits of the public, gave their verdict—against madame. But, triumphant there, the husband’s vengeance was whetted rather than assuaged. He would throw himself upon the suffrages of his countrymen in a more drastic vindication of his honour. She had disguised herself—her name—had fled. He devoted himself to the business of pursuit. At length he believed he had traced her to an hotel in Territet.”
Carabas shrugged his shoulders and his lips, stuck out his arms at right angles with his body, stiff from the elbow, and came to a significant stop. I declare I pitied the adventuress. Every expression but that of panic seemed eliminated from her face at a touch. She looked old and haggard; and then, as if conscious of her self-betrayal, collapsed in a moment, dropping her bag of cherries.
“I am not very well,” she stammered; “the night air tries me.” She turned lividly upon the portier: “Par pitié, monsieur! C’est pour me prevenir que vous etes venu, non pour me trahir?”
Without waiting for his answer, she gathered herself together, literally, folding her train about her arm; made a desperate effort at self-command; wrenched out a smile, and went off, quavering a little airy chansonnette. But, after a few steps, despite her royal amplitude she was running. Carabas, very pale but self-possessed, picked up the bag, found one cherry in it, put it in his mouth abstractedly, and—
“My God!” cried Miller hoarsely.
Carabas jumped, and gulped.
“A thousand devils!” he cried. “You made me swallow the stone, monsieur.”