Thus it happened that Harry Horton found himself, to his surprise, on excellent terms with a friend of the Duc de Vautrin, about whom Barry Quinlevin had been writing him, the source of the Irishman's income. In a reckless moment he confided to Piquette Barry Quinlevin's secret. And as the Duc de Vautrin had provoked her that afternoon by refusing her the money for a hat that she particularly admired, she turned against her patron, entering with interest into a plan which eventually seemed to promise much. That she repented of her disloyalty the next day when Monsieur de Vautrin relented was a disappointment to Harry Horton, who saw a way in which she could be useful to him. Also, Harry Horton was sure that he had talked too much, for it was hardly safe to make a confidante of a weathervane.
When Harry Horton left Paris to join his regiment, Piquette shrugged her pretty shoulders and in a few days he was only a memory. He had been her bel ami, but ... enfin, even in the Quartier, one got drunk like a gentleman.
The meeting in the restaurant of Leon Javet came at an opportune moment. The Duc had again developed a habit of meticulous inquiry; also, for reasons of his own, had reduced her allowance. The familiar figure in brown was pleasing after the day of labor in the studio of Monsieur Valcourt. He represented a part of life that she could not taste—and this very morning she had read of him in the bulletins as the hero of Boissière wood. And so she had welcomed him in her joyous way, sure, in spite of his deficiencies, that their friendship had been no mistake. A hero. Saperlotte! Of course she was glad to see him.
But the reserve in his manner had mystified her. He was like another man. He was quieter, finer, gentler and yet very brave and strong. A little triste, perhaps, but more deep, more interesting, and touched with the dignity of one who faces death for a noble purpose. But Piquette had not lived in the streets of Paris all these years for nothing. A few months of warfare would not change a man's soul. What was this strangeness? What had come over him? He had packed her home in a fiacre, just when she was becoming most interested in this extraordinary transformation. She had never before suffered from pique, and it annoyed her that he shouldn't have been more eager to resume their ancient fellowship. Who was this unshaven fellow with the slouch hat and worn clothing who had so great a claim upon his attention? His figure too had a familiar look. His manner had been urgent—threatening even, and Harry had obeyed the summons, banishing her, Piquette, to the outer darkness of the Boulevard Clichy.
And he had not written her or telephoned. All day she waited in, expecting to hear from him, and expectation increased her interest and her disappointment. Also, meditation gave her a perspective. They were curious, these second thoughts, deepening the impression of a striking difference between this Harry Horton and the one who had gotten drunk in the Taverne du Pantheon. Idiosyncrasies that had escaped her during the few moments they had been together at Javet's, came to her now with startling clearness, the slow direct gaze, the deliberate motions of the hands, their touch on hers—and parbleu!
She started upright as a thought came to her like a coup de foudre. The twisted little finger he had broken that night at the Pantheon. It had bothered him only a few days and it had never been set. She remembered now the fingers of the right hand of the visitor on his wine glass at Javet's, remarking how strong they were. The little finger was straight!
It was curious that such a trifle should come to her with such significance. It was also curious that she hadn't noticed it at the time. Could she be mistaken? When night came and she had not heard from Harry she went out and made her way across the river, leaving word where she was to be found if the visitor called, and went straight to the café of Gabriel Pochard.
She and Gabriel were friends of long standing. Many years ago, when she was but a child-model for Fabien, Gabriel Pochard had posed around the studios with long hair, for prophets and saints. But he had married some money and opened the café which bore his name.
It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by persons not of the vrai type, the gamblers, the sharpers, the wealthy outcasts of all kinds, who knew a good omelette when they tasted one and relished a particular kind of seclusion. For here no questions were asked. It was at Gabriel Pochard's that Harry Horton spent much time, for he had come with a letter to Gabriel from Monsieur Quinlevin, who had known Pochard since the days of posing for the great Monsieur Gerôme. It was here that she would find Harry Horton or news of him, and information which would perhaps answer the strange sequence of questions that had come rising to her mind. She had the French passion for the mysterious, the unexplainable, and with her own pride as the stake, she meant to leave no stone unturned which would help her to a solution of the problem.
She found Gabriel, wearing a sober air, busy with his bottles and the café was blue with tobacco smoke.