“Mon Dieu!” she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he continues, “if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the Ferry he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, ‘Heads and tails, who wins?’ Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he’s now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards—Jews’ eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these chevaliers d’industrie facetiously term their money. If we don’t bring all this to a termination, that will you have in your hand won’t be worth the price of the parchment it’s written upon. Comprenez-vous, chérie?”
“Parfaitement! But how is it to be brought to a termination. For myself I haven’t an idea. Has any occurred to you, Gregoire?”
As the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. He knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put—both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. Still he does not answer it directly. Even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other’s wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. For it is murder—the murder of Lewin Murdock!
“Le pauvre homme!” ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. “The cognac is killin’ him, not by inches, but ells; and I don’t believe he can last much longer. It seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. Thanks to the school in which I was trained, I have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that.”
A gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman—an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband!
“You think only days?” she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband’s health. But the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. Both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is.
“Only days!” he says, as if his voice were an echo. “Still days count in a thing of this kind—aye, even hours. Who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? Others have done the like before now—gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names—rich in one hour, beggars in the next. I can remember more than one.”
“Ah! so can I.”
“Englishmen, too; who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. True, Monsieur hasn’t any much to blow out; but that isn’t a question which affects us—myself as well as you. I’ve risked everything—reputation, which I care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then—I need not tell you. What we’ve done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an English gaol. Monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion must be restrained, or he’ll bring ruin to all of us. Therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly.”