He now raised his head, and drinking off the fourth and last strong tumblerful of spirit, smiled vacantly in the other's face, and collapsed upon the table.
Ringfield, ashamed and bitter, stood and watched this sad scene with folded arms and tightly drawn mouth. Was it true? Was this his work? This dishevelled, staring-eyed, sodden, incoherent creature, shrewdly wise in his cups, had taken the place of the elegant and easy English gentleman, the educated Oxford man, dabbler in high-class verse and prospective happy bridegroom, and what woman would care to have his arm around her now? With the thought came a wave of self-righteous indignation; he had partially effected what he had hoped to bring about in some other way, the gradual but sure alienation of Crabbe from Pauline, and with a half-guilty satisfaction driving out remorse he descended and found M. Prefontaine, having first locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Explanations of his friend's seizure were made, apparently in good faith, and much solicitude expressed.
"However, I think you had better leave him entirely alone this evening, and I can look in later," concluded Ringfield, whose serious mien and clerical garb commended him; "I am familiar with his attacks and I will also see him in the morning before I leave, in case he requires anything, although by that time he will very probably have quite recovered."
This sounding perfectly frank and natural, M. Prefontaine took no more thought of the guest in No. 9, and gave Ringfield the room opposite, No. 8, from which he could listen for his friend's "attacks" and render assistance if required.
At half-past ten, therefore, he unlocked Crabbe's door, and found the guide almost as he had left him, his head on the table and his legs stretched out underneath, but Ringfield, scanning the room with a careful eye as he had done earlier in the day, on his arrival, at length perceived what he had expected and desired to see—a travelling-flask of wicker and silver-plate half hidden on the dressing table behind a tall collar-box. Turning the gas low, but not completely out, he went away quietly, again locking the door behind him. What Poussette had told him then was true, and it was this, that before his departure for Montreal the guide had purchased enough spirit to fill a large flask, and whether shallow subterfuge or not, Crabbe certainly had a standing temptation at his elbow which he must have forgotten when Ringfield entered, cold and shivering and plainly in need of a stimulant. Poussette's theory—that the Englishman had absented himself in order to enjoy a deliberate "spree" as it is called, was incorrect. Crabbe had simply brought the stuff with him from force of habit, the conventional notion of preparing for a journey, particularly in such a climate. Therefore the burden of his recent fall certainly must be laid to Ringfield, who had lifted neither voice nor hand to hinder; for while pursuing an evil course the latter seemed powerless to cast out the emotions of blinding hate and jealousy that tore at his vitals and rendered him a changed and miserable creature. The next morning he visited Crabbe again and found him, as he had hoped, absolutely sodden and useless; his elasticity and nerve, his good looks, his air of authority, having all disappeared, and a wretched physical sickness begun. He knew his plight, but did not recognize his tempter, did not mention Pauline's name and seemed to wish to be left alone. Ringfield candidly and sorrowfully made further explanations to M. Prefontaine, who promised to say nothing of the matter and to look after Crabbe as soon as he was able.
"Mlle. Clairville has written to us of the gentleman, and we regret this should have happened. You will carry her our best regards and good wishes for her wedding. These Englishmen are sometimes great drinkers, but they recover quickly."
Ringfield paid his bill and walked out as he had walked in, with the same constrained, unhappy expression, and the same cold hand grasping a florid carpet-bag. He had told M. Prefontaine that he was returning to St. Ignace, but he had no such intention; he went along Jacques Cartier Square a few yards, and then disappearing around a corner, found a quiet back street, where, over antiquated shop-fronts, he saw several cards of appartements à louer and one with a similar legend in English. Here he entered and secured a front room, so situated that its view commanded that side of the square on which stood the Hotel Champlain. He had made up his mind to remain there until he saw Crabbe emerge, when, if possible, he would again detain, hinder, or, in some unthought-out way, keep him from St. Ignace and Miss Clairville. Thus he passed the hours, patiently waiting at his narrow window in the Rue St. Dominique for a sight of his unfortunate rival.
Now M. Alphonse Prefontaine had a friend named Lalonde, a very clever man and a member of that useful profession which lives upon the lives and secrets and follies and crimes of others—in fine, a detective, and having quite recently lost his wife (a cousin of Mme. Prefontaine) he had given up his house and come to live at the Hotel Champlain. He had been present when Ringfield first appeared in the rotunda with his countrified carpet-bag, had heard him ask for his friend, had seen him again later in the afternoon, and also in the morning, and having naturally a highly-developed trait of curiosity, had sauntered out when Ringfield did, and discovered that, instead of returning to the country, the young man with the clergyman's tie and troubled face was lodging in the next street. To anyone else, even to the Prefontaines, this would have signified nothing, but Lalonde was good at his business, and the discovery at least interested him; he could say nothing more. He, too, knew Miss Clairville well, and was expecting to see her on her wedding-day, so that it was quite natural he should express a desire to meet Crabbe, even if the latter were scarcely in a condition to receive callers. M. Prefontaine accordingly took him up, but all they saw was an exceedingly stupid, fuddled, untidy wretch who was not yet conscious of the great mistake he had made in giving way to his deplorable appetite, and who did not realize the import of what was said to him. Lalonde was sufficiently curious to examine the flask and Crabbe's valise, but he retired satisfied that the guide had not been tampered with. Drunkenness and that alone had caused the present sad state of affairs.