“You were the cause of what happened at Barbazon’s last night,”—he smiled evilly—“you are egging on the roughs to break up the Orange funeral to-day; and there is all the rest you know so well.”
“What is the rest I know so well?” He looked closely at her, his long, mongrel eyes half-closing with covert scrutiny.
“Whatever it is, it is all bad and it is all yours.”
“Not all,” he retorted coolly. “You forget your Gipsy friend. He did his part last night, and he’s still free.”
They had entered the last little stretch of wood in which her home lay, and she slackened her footsteps slightly. She felt that she had been unwise in challenging him; that she ought to try persistently to win him over. It was repugnant to her, still it must be done even yet. She mastered herself for Ingolby’s sake and changed her tactics.
“As you glory in what you have done, you won’t mind being responsible for all that’s happened,” she replied in a more friendly tone.
She made an impulsive gesture towards him.
“You have shown what power you have—isn’t that enough?” she asked. “You have made the crowd shout, ‘Vive Marchand!’ You can make everything as peaceful as it is now upset. If you don’t do so, there will be much misery. If peace must be got by force, then the force of government will get it in the end. You have the gift of getting hold of the worst men here, and you have done it; but won’t you now master them again in the other way? You have money and brains; why not use them to become a leader of those who will win at last, no matter what the game may be?”
He came close to her. She shrank inwardly, but she did not move. His greenish eyes were wide open in the fulness of eloquence and desire.
“You have a tongue like none I ever heard,” he said impulsively. “You’ve got a mind that thinks, you’ve got dash and can take risks. You took risks that day on the Carillon Rapids. It was only the day before that I’d met you by the old ford of the Sagalac, and made up to you. You choked me off as though I was a wolf or a devil on the loose. The next day when I saw Ingolby hand you out to the crowd from his arms, I got nasty—I have fits like that sometimes, when I’ve had a little too much liquor. I felt it more because you’re the only kind of woman that could ever get a real hold on me. It was you made me get the boys rampaging and set the toughs moving. As you say, I can get hold of a crowd. It’s not hard—with money and drink. You can buy human nature cheap. Every man has his price they say—and every woman too—bien sur! The thing is to find out what is the price, and then how to buy. You can’t buy everyone in the same way, even if you use a different price. You’ve got to find out how they want the price—whether it’s to be handed over the counter, so to speak, or to be kept on the window-sill, or left in a pocket, or dropped in a path, or dug up like a potato, with a funny make-believe that fools nobody, but just plays to the hypocrite in everyone everywhere. I’m saying this to you because you’ve seen more of the world, I bet, than one in a million, even though you’re so young. I don’t see why we can’t come together. I’m to be bought. I don’t say that my price isn’t high. You’ve got your price, too. You wouldn’t fuss yourself about things here in Manitou and Lebanon, if there wasn’t something you wanted to get. Tout ca! Well, isn’t it worth while making the bargain? You’ve got such gift of speech that I’m just as if I’d been drugged, and all round, face, figure, eyes, hair, foot, and girdle, you’re worth giving up a lot for. I’ve seen plenty of your sex, and I’ve heard crowds of them talk, but they never had anything for me beyond the minute. You’ve got the real thing. You’re my fancy. You’ve been thinking and dreaming of Ingolby. He’s done. He’s a back number. There’s nothing he’s done that isn’t on the tumble since last night. The financial gang that he downed are out already against him. They’ll have his economic blood. He made a splash while he was at it, but the alligator’s got him. It’s ‘Exit Ingolby,’ now.”