“No.”
“Very well, then. Do not let us have any further dispute about the matter. Do not abuse poor Mephistopheles because he has shown the desire to help you to gain your own ends, and has already, by decision and promptitude of action, achieved that which you would never have effected by yourself alone. Tell Mephistopheles to go about his business, and he will go. But he will not stay to be made a—what you call—an animal which is turned out into the wilderness with other people’s sins upon his shoulders?—a scapegoat; or a paws-cat, which pull hot chestnuts from the fire, and burn her fingers in the interests of her friend. The chestnuts, in this case, this, are very hot, my friend; but I risk to burn my fingers with the shells in the hope to partake the inside of the nut.”
“I never meant to make a scapegoat of you, nor a cat’s-paw,” said Launcelot Darrell, with some alarm in his tone. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Bourdon. You’re a very good fellow in your way, I know; and if your notions are a little loose upon some subjects, why, as you say, a man’s necessities are apt to get the upper hand of his principles. If Maurice de Crespigny has chosen to make an iniquitous will, for the mere gratification of an old madman’s whim, the consequences of his injustice must rest on his head, not on mine.”
“Most assuredly,” cried the Frenchman, “that argument is not to be answered. Be happy, my friend; we will bring about a posthumous adjustment of the old man’s errors. The wrong done by this deluded testator shall be repaired before his ashes are carried to their resting-place. Have no fear, my friend; all is prepared, as you know, and, let the time come when it may, we are ready to act.”
Launcelot Darrell gave a long sigh, a fretful, discontented inspiration, that was expressive of utter weariness. This young man had in the course of his life committed many questionable and dishonourable actions; but he had always done such wrong as it were under protest, and with the air of a victim, who is innocently disposed but too easily persuaded, and who reluctantly suffers himself to be led away by the counsels of evilminded wretches.
So now he had the air of yielding to the subtle arguments of his friend, the agent for patent mustard.
The two men walked on in silence for some little time. They had left the wood long ago, and were in a broad lane that led towards Hazlewood. Launcelot Darrell strolled silently along, with his head bent and his black eyebrows contracted. His companion’s manner had its usual dapper airiness; but every now and then the Frenchman’s sharp greenish-blue eyes glanced from the pathway before him to the gloomy face of the artist.
“There is one thing that I forgot in speaking of Mrs. Monckton,” Monsieur Bourdon said, presently; “and that is, that I fancy I have seen her somewhere before.”
“Oh, I can account for that,” Launcelot Darrell answered, carelessly. “I was inclined to think the same thing myself when I first saw her. She is like George Vane’s daughter.”
“George Vane’s daughter?”