‘Madame De Vigne is an Englishwoman, and as such is entitled to the protection of the laws of her country. The first point I wish you clearly to understand is, that her income is settled strictly upon herself, and that you are not entitled to claim so much as a single franc of her money. This time, at least, you will not be allowed to rob her, as you did once before. The second point I wish you clearly to understand is, that if you in any way harm, molest, or annoy Madame De Vigne or her sister, you will very quickly find yourself within the walls of an English prison, where you will be able to meditate on your folly at your leisure. This is a matter which Madame De Vigne’s friends will look to particularly, consequently I warn you in time. And now, having proved all this to you, I am induced, by certain considerations which in nowise affect you, to make you an offer which you will probably see the wisdom of accepting. The conditions of my offer are these: You shall at once quit England and never set foot in it again; you shall neither write to Madame De Vigne nor seek to hold any communication of any kind whatever with her or any one connected with her. In return for your faithful obedience to these instructions, you shall be paid an annuity of three thousand francs a year. The sum shall be paid you in quarterly instalments by my Paris agent, to whom you will present yourself in person once every three months. When you cease to present yourself, it shall be considered either that you no longer care to claim the annuity or that you are dead. Such is the offer I have to make you, Monsieur Laroche; you can either accept it or decline it at your own good pleasure; for my own part I care not which you do.’
Three thousand francs a year! was Laroche’s first thought. Why, scarcely half an hour ago, his wife had offered him just double the amount on precisely the same terms, and he had laughed in her face. Imbecile that he had been!
Coward though he was at heart, as nearly all braggarts are, if Laroche just then had happened to possess a revolver, he would have felt strongly tempted to make use of it and risk the consequences. How he hated those two men!—one white-haired, smiling, benevolent-looking, as he had seen him walking about the grounds, but with such a hand of iron hidden in his velvet glove; the other stern, impassive, coldly contemptuous, who had taken no more notice of him during the interview than if he were a dog. Yes, he hated them both with the ferocious hatred of a tiger balked of the prey in which its claws are already fixed.
This other man he felt nearly sure was in love with his wife; and he was just as certain that Mora De Vigne was in love with him. Even at a time like that, it thrilled him with a malicious joy to think that so long as he, Laroche, was alive they could never be more to each other than they were now. Perhaps if he had not appeared on the scene till a month or two later, they might have been married by that time. If he had only known—if he had only had the slightest suspicion that such was the state of affairs, he would have kept carefully in the background till the newly wedded couple should have returned from their honeymoon, and then have made himself known. That would have been a revenge worthy of the name. But now——
Sir William’s voice recalled him to realities. ‘Perhaps you wish for a little time before you make up your mind?’ he said.
Laroche shook his head. His nimble brain had already taken in the altered state of affairs; he saw that the day had gone hopelessly against him, that the battle was lost, and that the only thing left him to do was to accept from the conquerors the best terms that he could induce them to offer. If only he had not refused that six thousand francs! But to a man in his position even three thousand francs a year was better, infinitely better, than nothing. It would at least suffice to find him in absinth and cigarettes, and would serve to blunt the keen edge of chronic impecuniosity.
‘Three thousand francs a year, Sir William! It is a bagatelle—a mere bagatelle.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
The Frenchman spread out his hands and drew his shoulders up nearly to his ears. ‘Ma foi! I have no choice. I must accept.’
‘In that case, nothing more need be said, except that you will leave here by the first train to-morrow morning. Here is a bank-note with which to defray the expenses of your journey; and here is the address of my agent, on whom you will please call on Wednesday morning next, by which time he will be in receipt of my instructions.’ Sir William pushed the note and the address across the table in the direction of Laroche as though the latter were some plague-stricken creature with whom he was fearful of coming into closer contact.