“Swept away by my passion for the cause of universal brotherhood,” said Buckhurst, in his low, caressing 97 voice, “I ventured to spend this generous lady’s money to carry the propaganda into the more violent centres of socialism—into the clubs in Montmartre and Belleville. There I urged non-resistance; I pleaded moderation and patience. What I said helped a little, I think—”
He hesitated, twisting his fly-box into a paper creature with four legs.
“I was eager; people listened. I thought that if I had a little more money I might carry on this work.... I could not come to you, madame—”
“Why not?” said the Countess, looking at him quickly. “I have never refused you money!”
“No,” he said, “you never refused me. But I knew that La Trappe was mortgaged, that even this house in Morsbronn was loaded with debt. I knew, madame, that in all the world you had left but one small roof to cover you—the house in Morbihan, on Point Paradise. I knew that if I asked for money you would sell Paradise,... and I could not ask so much,... I could not bring myself to ask that sacrifice.”
“And so you stole the crucifix of Louis XI.,” I suggested, pleasantly.
He did not look at me, but the Countess did.
“Bon,” I thought, watching Buckhurst’s deft fingers; “he means to be taken back into grace. I wonder exactly why? And ... is it worth this fortune in diamonds to him to be pardoned by a penniless girl whom he and his gang have already stripped?”
“Could you forgive me, madame?” murmured Buckhurst.
“Would you explain that stick of dynamite first?” I interposed.