“I am not thinking of myself,” said Angus Stuart in an angry tone, “and I am trying not to think of her! If Miss Fairfield is in danger, it is her own fault. How can she allow that fellow to make love to her in that open, impudent way?”
“She is a child, and, though intelligent, has no knowledge of life at all,” said M. Popeau slowly. “Let me remind you of the truest of our French proverbs: ‘To know all is to forgive all.’ I lay claim to know, I will not say everything, but a good deal that I do not feel I can say to you. I regard her as being in real danger of having her life wrecked by a number of cruel, selfish, and unscrupulous people, who care for her as much as I do for that piece of paper on the floor! I refer, of course, to the Count and Countess Polda; also, incidentally, to the Marchesa Pescobaldi, who, in this affair, is proving once again that even a heartless woman may be a sublimely unselfish lover. I did my best the other day to warn Miss Fairfield. I was, as they say in England, snubbed for my pains!” He laughed a little ruefully.
“Seriously, Stuart, I have learnt something to-day which makes it quite clear to me that the Countess Polda—there is something sinister about that woman, I wish I could find out what it is—will make a tremendous effort to attach this English girl to her son. Should she succeed—I say it in all solemnity—that sweet child will soon be changed from a happy, joyous young thing into a grief-worn miserable woman! I speak of what I know. I am an old man, and I have become attached to you.”
He paused, and Angus Stuart muttered something under his breath. Was it, “You’re a good chap, Popeau”?
The Frenchman went on, speaking much more slowly than was his wont. “You have your chance to-day. Remember what Shakespeare says, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men.’ That tide has come to you now. Take her back to La Solitude, my friend, and speak to her on the way. It is a fine night. Why should you two not walk up there, through the scented orange groves? I always look at a woman’s feet, and to-night I noticed that Miss Lily was shod in good strong shoes. I was surprised, but glad,” he concluded quaintly.
“But what shall I say to her?” asked the other.
M. Popeau looked at him shrewdly.
“I do not press you to speak to her of your own feelings. That is a matter that every man must settle for himself. But I want you to put her on her guard. Beppo Polda is a charmer of women.” He saw that his words made the young Scotsman wince.
“It is a great mistake when one is thinking of things as serious as is this thing, to avoid looking at the truth. Beppo Polda, I repeat, is a charmer. And, unfortunately, he likes and admires Miss Lily. I go farther, I say that she is Beppo Polda’s ideal of what a man’s wife should be. But does that mean that he would be kind or faithful to her after the first few weeks of married life if temptation came his way?”
He paused—then answered his own question. “No, of course he would not be! He would always respect her, no doubt, but respect does not satisfy an Englishwoman, as it so often does a Frenchwoman or an Italian. Married to Beppo Polda,” concluded M. Popeau very solemnly, “our little Lily would wither like a flower put into a hot gas-oven.”