Union is strength, and if Dr Gollipeck had only met Slivers and revealed his true opinion of Vandeloup to him, no doubt that clever young man would have found himself somewhat embarrassed, as a great deal of a man’s past history can be found out by the simple plan of putting two and two together. Fortunately, however, for Gaston, these two gentlemen never met, and Gollipeck came to the conclusion that he could see nothing to blame in Vandeloup’s conduct, though he certainly mistrusted him, and determined mentally to keep an eye on his movements. What led him to be suspicious was the curious resemblance the appearance of this young man had to that of a criminal described in the ‘Les Empoisonneurs d’Aujourd’hui’ as having been transported to New Caledonia for the crime of poisoning his mistress. Everything, however, was vague and uncertain; so Dr Gollipeck, when he arrived home, came to the above-named conclusion that he would watch Vandeloup, and then, dismissing him from his mind, went to work on his favourite subject.
Meanwhile, M. Vandeloup slept the sleep of the just, and next morning, after making his inquiries after the health of Madame Midas—a thing he never neglected to do—he went into Ballarat in search of Pierre. On arriving at the Wattle Tree Hotel he was received by Miss Twexby in dignified silence, for that astute damsel was beginning to regard the fascinating Frenchman as a young man who talked a great deal and meant nothing.
He was audacious enough to win her virgin heart and then break it, so Miss Twexby thought the wisest thing would be to keep him at a distance. So Vandeloup’s bright smiles and merry jokes failed to call forth any response from the fair Martha, who sat silently in the bar, looking like a crabbed sphinx.
‘Is my friend Pierre in?’ asked Vandeloup, leaning across the counter, and looking lovingly at Miss Twexby.
That lady intimated coldly that he was in, and had been for the last two weeks; also that she was sick of him, and she’d thank M. Vandeloup to clear him out—all of which amused Vandeloup mightily, though he still continued to smile coolly on the sour-faced damsel before him.
‘Would you mind going and telling him I want to see him?’ he asked, lounging to the door.
‘Me!’ shrieked Martha, in a shrill voice, shooting up from behind the counter like an infuriated jack-in-the-box. ‘No, I shan’t. Why, the last time I saw him he nearly cut me like a ham sandwich with that knife of his. I am not,’ pursued Miss Twexby, furiously, ‘a loaf of bread to be cut, neither am I a pin-cushion to have things stuck into me; so if you want to be a corpse, you’d better go up yourself.’
‘I hardly think he’ll touch me,’ replied Vandeloup, coolly, going towards the door which led to Pierre’s bedroom. ‘You’ve had a lot of trouble with him, I’m afraid; but he’s going down to Melbourne tonight, so it will be all right.’
‘And the bill?’ queried Miss Twexby, anxiously.
‘I will pay it,’ said Vandeloup, at which she was going to say he was very generous, but suppressed the compliment when he added, ‘out of his own money.’
Gaston, however, failed to persuade Pierre to accompany him round to buy an outfit. For the dumb man lay on his bed, and obstinately refused to move out of the room. He, however, acquiesced sullenly when his friend told him he was going to Melbourne, so Vandeloup left the room, having first secured Pierre’s knife, and locked the door after him. He gave the knife to Miss Twexby, with injunctions to her to keep it safe, then sallied forth to buy his shipwrecked friend a box and some clothes.
He spent about ten pounds in buying an outfit for the dumb man, hired a cab to call at the ‘Wattle Tree’ Hotel at seven o’clock to take the box and its owner to the station. And then feeling he had done his duty and deserved some recompense, he had a nice little luncheon and a small bottle of wine for which he paid out of Pierre’s money. When he finished he bought a choice cigar, had a glass of Chartreuse, and after resting in the commercial room for a time he went out for a walk, intending to call on Slivers and Dr Gollipeck, and in fact do anything to kill time until it would be necessary for him to go to Pierre and take him to the railway station.
He walked slowly up Sturt Street, and as the afternoon was so warm, thought he would go up to Lake Wendouree, which is at the top of the town, and see if it was any cooler by the water. The day was oppressively hot, but not with the bright, cheery warmth of a summer’s day, for the sun was hidden behind great masses of angry-looking clouds, and it seemed as if a thunderstorm would soon break over the city. Even Vandeloup, full of life and animation as he was, felt weighed down by the heaviness of the atmosphere, and feeling quite exhausted when he arrived at the lake, he was glad enough to sit down on one of the seats for a rest.
The lake under the black sky was a dull leaden hue, and as there was no wind the water was perfectly still. Even the trees all round it were motionless, as there came no breeze to stir their leaves, and the only sounds that could be heard were the dull croaking of the frogs amid the water grasses, and the shrill cries of children playing on the green turf. Every now and then a steamer would skim across the surface of the water in an airy manner, looking more like a child’s clockwork toy than anything else, and Vandeloup, when he saw one of these arrive at the little pier, almost expected to see a man put in a huge key to the paddle wheels and wind it up again.
On one of the seats Vandeloup espied a little figure in white, and seeing that it was Kitty, he strolled up to her in a leisurely manner. She was looking at the ground when he came up, and was prodding holes in the spongy turf with her umbrella, but glanced up carelessly as he came near. Then she sprang up with a cry of joy, and throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him twice.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Kitty, putting her arm in his as they sat down. ‘I just came up here for a week, and did not think I’d see you.’
‘The meeting was quite accidental, I know,’ replied Gaston, leaning back lazily; ‘but none the less pleasant on that account.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Kitty, gravely shaking her head; ‘unexpected meetings are always pleasanter than those arranged, for there’s never any disappointment about them.’
‘Oh, that’s your experience, is it?’ answered her lover, with an amused smile, pulling out his cigarette case. ‘Well, suppose you reward me for my accidental presence here, and light a cigarette for me.’
Kitty was of course delighted, and took the case while M. Vandeloup leaned back in the seat, his hands behind his head, and stared reflectively at the leaden-coloured sky. Kitty took out a cigarette from the case, placed it between her pretty lips, and having obtained a match from one of her lover’s pockets, proceeded to light it, which was not done without a great deal of choking and pretty confusion. At length she managed it, and bending over Gaston, placed it in his mouth, and gave him a kiss at the same time.
‘If pa knew I did this, he’d expire with horror,’ she said, sagely nodding her head.
‘Wouldn’t be much loss if he did,’ replied Vandeloup, lazily, glancing at her pretty face from under his eyelashes; ‘your father has a great many faults, dear.’
‘Oh, “The Elect” think him perfect,’ said Kitty, wisely.
‘From their point of view, perhaps he is,’ returned Gaston, with a faint sneer; ‘but he’s not a man given to exuberant mirth.’
‘Well, he is rather dismal,’ assented Kitty, doubtfully.
‘Wouldn’t you like to leave him and lead a jollier life?’ asked Vandeloup, artfully, ‘in Melbourne, for instance.’
Kitty looked at him half afraid.
‘I—I don’t know,’ she faltered, looking down.
‘But I do, Bebe,’ whispered Gaston, putting his arm round her waist; ‘you would like to come with me.’
‘Why? Are you going?’ cried Kitty, in dismay.
Vandeloup nodded.
‘I think I spoke about this before,’ he said, idly brushing some cigarette ash off his waistcoat.
‘Yes,’ returned Kitty, ‘but I thought you did not mean it.’
‘I never say anything I do not mean,’ answered Vandeloup, with the ready lie on his lips in a moment; ‘and I have got letters from France with money, so I am going to leave the Pactolus.’
‘And me?’ said Kitty, tearfully.
‘That depends upon yourself, Bebe,’ he said rapidly, pressing her burning cheek against his own; ‘your father would never consent to my marriage, and I can’t take you away from Ballarat without suspicions, so—’
‘Yes?’ said Kitty, eagerly, looking at him.
‘You must run away,’ he whispered, with a caressing smile.
‘Alone?’
‘For a time, yes,’ he answered, throwing away his cigarette; ‘listen—next week you must meet me here, and I will give you money to keep you in Melbourne for some time; then you must leave Ballarat at once and wait for me at the Buttercup Hotel in Gertrude Street, Carlton; you understand?’
‘Yes,’ faltered Kitty, nervously; ‘I—I understand.’
‘And you will come?’ he asked anxiously, looking keenly at her, and pressing the little hand he held in his own. Just as she was going to answer, as if warning her of the fatal step she was about to take, a low roll of thunder broke on their ears, and Kitty shrank back appalled from her lover’s embrace.
‘No! no! no!’ she almost shrieked, hysterically, trying to tear herself away from his arms, ‘I cannot; God is speaking.’
‘Bah!’ sneered Vandeloup, with an evil look on his handsome face, ‘he speaks too indistinctly for us to guess what he means; what are you afraid of? I will join you in Melbourne in two or three weeks, and then we will be married.’
‘But my father,’ she whispered, clasping her hot hands convulsively.
‘Well, what of him?’ asked Vandeloup, coolly; ‘he is so wrapped up in his religion that he will not miss you; he will never find out where you are in Melbourne, and by the time he does you will be my wife. Come,’ he said, ardently, whispering the temptation in her ear, as if he was afraid of being heard, ‘you must consent; say yes, Bebe; say yes.’
She felt his hot breath on her cheek, and felt rather than saw the scintillations of his wonderful eyes, which sent a thrill through her; so, utterly exhausted and worn out by the overpowering nervous force possessed by this man, she surrendered.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, clinging to him with dry lips and a beating heart; ‘I will come!’ Then her overstrained nature gave way, and with a burst of tears she threw herself on his breast.
Gaston let her sob quietly for some time, satisfied with having gained his end, and knowing that she would soon recover. At last Kitty grew calmer, and drying her eyes, she rose to her feet wan and haggard, as if she was worn out for the want of sleep, and not by any manner of means looking like a girl who was in love. This appearance was caused by the revolt of her religious training against doing what she knew was wrong. In her breast a natural instinct had been fighting against an artificial one; and as Nature is always stronger than precept, Nature had conquered.
‘My dear Bebe,’ said Vandeloup, rising also, and kissing her white cheek, ‘you must go home now, and get a little sleep; it will do you good.’
‘But you?’ asked Kitty, in a low voice, as they walked slowly along.
‘Oh, I,’ said M. Vandeloup, airily; ‘I am going to the Wattle Tree Hotel to see my friend Pierre off to Melbourne.’
Then he exerted himself to amuse Kitty as they walked down to town, and succeeded so well that by the time they reached Lydiard Street, where Kitty left him to go up to Black Hill, she was laughing as merrily as possible. They parted at the railway crossing, and Kitty went gaily up the white dusty road, while M. Vandeloup strolled leisurely along the street on his way to the Wattle Tree Hotel.
When he arrived he found that Pierre’s box had come, and was placed outside his door, as no one had been brave enough to venture inside, although Miss Twexby assured them he was unarmed—showing the knife as a proof.
Gaston, however, dragged the box into the room, and having made Pierre dress himself in his new clothes, he packed all the rest in a box, corded it, and put a ticket on it with his name and destination, then gave the dumb man the balance of his wages. It was now about six o’clock, so Vandeloup went down to dinner; then putting Pierre and his box into the cab, stepped in himself and drove off.
The promise of rain in the afternoon was now fulfilled, and it was pouring in torrents. The gutters were rivers, and every now and then through the driving rain came the bluish dart of a lightning flash.
‘Bah!’ said Vandeloup, with a shiver, as they got out on the station platform, ‘what a devil of a night.’
He made the cab wait for him, and, having got Pierre’s ticket, put him in a second-class carriage and saw that his box was safely placed in the luggage-van. The station was crowded with people going and others coming to say goodbye; the rain was beating on the high-arched tin roof, and the engine at the end of the long train was fretting and fuming like a living thing impatient to be gone.
‘You are now on your own responsibility, my friend,’ said Vandeloup to Pierre, as he stood at the window of the carriage; ‘for we must part, though long together have we been. Perhaps I will see you in Melbourne; if I do you will find I have not forgotten the past,’ and, with a significant look at the dumb man, Vandeloup lounged slowly away.
The whistle blew shrilly, the last goodbyes were spoken, the guard shouted ‘All aboard for Melbourne,’ and shut all the doors, then, with another shriek and puff of white steam, the train, like a long, lithe serpent, glided into the rain and darkness with its human freight.
‘At last I have rid myself of this dead weight,’ said Vandeloup, as he drove along the wet streets to Craig’s Hotel, where he intended to stay for the night, ‘and can now shape my own fortune. Pierre is gone, Bebe will follow, and now I must look after myself.’
‘It never rains but it pours’ is an excellent proverb, and a very true one, for it is remarkable how events of a similar nature follow closely on one another’s heels when the first that happened has set the ball a-rolling. Madame Midas believed to a certain extent in this, and she half expected that when Pierre went he would be followed by M. Vandeloup, but she certainly did not think that the disappearance of her husband would be followed by that of Kitty Marchurst. Yet such was the case, for Mr Marchurst, not seeing Kitty at family prayers, had sent in the servant to seek for her, and the scared domestic had returned with a startled face and a letter for her master. Marchurst read the tear-blotted little note, in which Kitty said she was going down to Melbourne to appear on the stage. Crushing it up in his hand, he went on with family prayers in his usual manner, and after dismissing his servants for the night, he went up to his daughter’s room, and found that she had left nearly everything behind, only taking a few needful things with her. Seeing her portrait on the wall he took it down and placed it in his pocket. Then, searching through her room, he found some ribbons and lace, a yellow-backed novel, which he handled with the utmost loathing, and a pair of gloves. Regarding these things as the instruments of Satan, by which his daughter had been led to destruction, he carried them downstairs to his dismal study and piled them in the empty fireplace. Placing his daughter’s portrait on top he put a light to the little pile of frivolities, and saw them slowly burn away. The novel curled and cracked in the scorching flame, but the filmy lace vanished like cobwebs, and the gloves crackled and shrank into mere wisps of black leather. And over all, through the flames, her face, bright and charming, looked out with laughing lips and merry eyes—so like her mother’s, and yet so unlike in its piquant grace—until that too fell into the hollow heart of the flames, and burned slowly away into a small pile of white ashes.
Marchurst, leaving the dead ashes cold and grey in the dark fireplace, went to his writing table, and falling on his knees he passed the rest of the night in prayer.
Meanwhile, the man who was the primary cause of all this trouble was working in the office of the Pactolus claim with a light heart and cool head. Gaston had really managed to get Kitty away in a very clever manner, inasmuch as he never appeared publicly to be concerned in it, but directed the whole business secretly. He had given Kitty sufficient money to keep her for some months in Melbourne, as he was in doubt when he could leave the Pactolus without being suspected of being concerned in her disappearance. He also told her what day to leave, and all that day stayed at the mine working at his accounts, and afterwards spent the evening very pleasantly with Madame Midas. Next day McIntosh went into Ballarat on business, and on returning from the city, where he had heard all about it—rumour, of course, magnifying the whole affair greatly—he saw Vandeloup come out of the office, and drew up in the trap beside the young man.
‘Aha, Monsieur,’ said Vandeloup, gaily, rolling a cigarette in his slender fingers, and shooting a keen glance at Archie; ‘you have had a pleasant day.’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no,’ returned McIntosh, cautiously, fumbling in the bag; ‘there’s naething muckle in the toun, but—deil tack the bag,’ he continued, tetchily shaking it. ‘I’ve gotten a letter or so fra’ France.’
‘For me?’ cried Vandeloup, eagerly, holding out his hands.
‘An’ for who else would it be?’ grumbled Archie, giving the letter to him—a thin, foreign looking envelope with the Parisian post mark on it; ‘did ye think it was for that black-avised freend o’ yours?’
‘Hardly!’ returned Vandeloup, glancing at the letter with satisfaction, and putting it in his pocket. ‘Pierre couldn’t write himself, and I doubt very much if he had any friends who could—not that I knew his friends,’ he said, hastily catching sight of McIntosh’s severe face bent inquiringly on him, ‘but like always draws to like.’
Archie’s only answer to this was a grunt.
‘Are ye no gangin’ tae read yon?’ he asked sourly.
‘Not at present,’ replied Vandeloup, blowing a thin wreath of blue smoke, ‘by-and-bye will do. Scandal and oysters should both be fresh to be enjoyable, but letters—ah, bah,’ with a shrug, ‘they can wait. Come, tell me the news; anything going on?’
‘Weel,’ said McIntosh, with great gusto, deliberately flicking a fly off the horse’s back with a whip, ‘she’s ta’en the bit intil her mouth and gane wrang, as I said she would.’
‘To what special “she” are you alluding to?’ asked Vandeloup, lazily smoothing his moustache; ‘so many of them go wrong, you see, one likes to be particular. The lady’s name is—?’
‘Katherine Marchurst, no less,’ burst forth Archie, in triumph; ‘she’s rin awa’ to be a play-actor.’
‘What? that child?’ said Vandeloup, with an admirable expression of surprise; ‘nonsense! It cannot be true.’
‘D’ye think I would tell a lee?’ said Archie, wrathfully, glowering down on the tall figure pacing leisurely along. ‘God forbid that my lips should fa’ tae sic iniquity. It’s true, I tell ye; the lass has rin awa’ an’ left her faither—a godly mon, tho’ I’m no of his way of thinkin—to curse the day he had sic a bairn born until him. Ah, ‘tis sorrow and dule she hath brought tae his roof tree, an’ sorrow and dule wull be her portion at the hands o’ strangers,’ and with this scriptural ending Mr McIntosh sharply whipped up Rory, and went on towards the stable, leaving Vandeloup standing in the road.
‘I don’t think he suspects, at all events,’ thought that young man, complacently. ‘As to Madame Midas—pouf! I can settle her suspicions easily; a little virtuous indignation is most effective as a blind;’ and M. Vandeloup, with a gay laugh, strolled on towards the house in the gathering twilight.
Suddenly he recollected the letter, which had escaped his thoughts, in his desire to see how McIntosh would take the disappearance of Kitty, so as there was still light to see, he leaned up against a fence, and, having lighted another cigarette, read it through carefully. It appeared to afford him considerable satisfaction, and he smiled as he put it in his pocket again.
‘It seems pretty well forgotten, this trouble about Adele,’ he said, musingly, as he resumed his saunter; ‘I might be able to go back again in a few years, if not to Paris at least to Europe—one can be very happy in Monaco or Vienna, and run no risk of being found out; and, after all,’ he muttered, thoughtfully, fingering his moustache, ‘why not to Paris? The Republic has lasted too long already. Sooner or later there will be a change of Government, and then I can go back a free man, with a fortune of Australian gold. Emperor, King, or President, it’s all the same to me, as long as I am left alone.’
He walked on slowly, thinking deeply all the time, and when he arrived at the door of Mrs Villiers’ house, this clever young man, with his accustomed promptitude and decision, had settled what he was going to do.
‘Up to a certain point, of course,’ he said aloud, following his thoughts, ‘after that, chance must decide.’
Madame Midas was very much grieved at the news of Kitty’s Escapade, particularly as she could not see what motive she had for running away, and, moreover, trembled to think of the temptations the innocent girl would be exposed to in the metropolis. After tea, when Archie had gone outside to smoke his pipe, and Selina was busy in the kitchen washing the dishes, she spoke to Vandeloup on the subject. The young Frenchman was seated at the piano in the darkness, striking a few random chords, while Madame was by the fire in the arm-chair. It was quite dark, with only the rosy glow of the fire shining through the room. Mrs Villiers felt uneasy; was it likely that Vandeloup could have any connection with Kitty’s disappearance? Impossible! he had given her his word of honour, and yet—it was very strange. Mrs Villiers was not, by any means, a timid woman, so she determined to ask Gaston right out, and get a decided answer from him, so as to set her mind at rest.
‘M. Vandeloup,’ she said, in her clear voice, ‘will you kindly come here a moment?
‘Certainly, Madame,’ said Gaston, rising with alacrity from the piano, and coming to the fireside; ‘is there anything I can do?’
‘You have heard of Miss Marchurst’s disappearance?’ she asked, looking up at him.
Vandeloup leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looked down into the fire, so that the full blaze of it could strike his face. He knew Madame Midas prided herself on being a reader of character, and knowing he could command his features admirably, he thought it would be politic to let her see his face, and satisfy herself as to his innocence.
‘Yes, Madame,’ he answered, in his calm, even tones, looking down inquiringly at the statuesque face of the woman addressing him; ‘Monsieur,’ nodding towards the door, ‘told me, but I did not think it true.’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ sighed Madame, shaking her head. ‘She is going on the stage, and her father will never forgive her.’
‘Surely, Madame—’ began Vandeloup, eagerly.
‘No,’ she replied, decisively, ‘he is not a hard man, but his way of looking at things through his peculiar religious ideas has warped his judgment—he will make no attempt to save her, and God knows what she will come to.’
‘There are good women on the stage,’ said Vandeloup, at a loss for a reply.
‘Certainly,’ returned Madame, calmly, ‘there are black and white sheep in every flock, but Kitty is so young and inexperienced, that she may become the prey of the first handsome scoundrel she meets.’
Madame had intuitively guessed the whole situation, and Vandeloup could not help admiring her cleverness. Still his face remained the same, and his voice was as steady as ever as he answered—
‘It is much to be regretted; but still we must hope for the best.’
Was he guilty? Madame could not make up her mind, so determined to speak boldly.
‘Do you remember that day I introduced her to you?’
Vandeloup bowed.
‘And you gave me your word of honour you would not try to turn her head,’ pursued Madame, looking at him; ‘have you kept your word?’
‘Madame,’ said Vandeloup, gravely, ‘I give you my word of honour that I have always treated Mlle Kitty as a child and your friend. I did not know that she had gone until I was told, and whatever happens to her, I can safely say that it was not Gaston Vandeloup’s fault.’
An admirable actor this man, not a feature of his face moved, not a single deviation from the calmness of his speech—not a quickening of the pulse, nor the rush of betraying blood to his fair face—no! Madame withdrew her eyes quite satisfied, M. Vandeloup was the soul of honour and was innocent of Kitty’s disgrace.
‘Thank God!’ she said, reverently, as she looked away, for she would have been bitterly disappointed to have found her kindness to this man repaid by base treachery towards her friend; ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I feel.’
M. Vandeloup withdrew his face into the darkness, and smiled in a devilish manner to himself. How these women believed—was there any lie too big for the sex to swallow? Evidently not—at least, so he thought. But now that Kitty was disposed of, he had to attend to his own private affairs, and put his hand in his pocket for the letter.
‘I wanted to speak to you on business, Madame,’ he said, taking out the letter; ‘the long-expected has come at last.’
‘You have heard from Paris?’ asked Madame, in an eager voice.
‘I have,’ answered the Frenchman, calmly; ‘I have now the letter in my hand, and as soon as Mlle Selina brings in the lights I will show it to you.’
At this moment, as if in answer to his request, Selina appeared with the lamp, which she had lighted in the kitchen and now brought in to place on the table. When she did so, and had retired again, Vandeloup placed his letter in Madame’s hand, and asked her to read it.
‘Oh, no, Monsieur,’ said Mrs Villiers, offering it back, ‘I do not wish to read your private correspondence.’
Vandeloup had calculated on this, for, as a matter of fact, there was a good deal of private matter in the letter, particularly referring to his trip to New Caledonia, which he would not have allowed her to see. But he knew it would inspire her with confidence in him if he placed it wholly in her hands, and resolved to boldly venture to do so. The result was as he guessed; so, with a smile, he took it back again.
‘There is nothing private in it, Madame,’ he said, opening the letter; ‘I wanted you to see that I had not misrepresented myself—it is from my family lawyer, and he has sent me out a remittance of money, also some letters of introduction to my consul in Melbourne and others; in fact,’ said M. Vandeloup, with a charming smile, putting the letter in his pocket, ‘it places me in my rightful position, and I shall assume it as soon as I have your permission.’
‘But why my permission ?’ asked Madame, with a faint smile, already regretting bitterly that she was going to lose her pleasant companion.
‘Madame,’ said Vandeloup, impressively, bending forward, ‘in the words of the Bible—when I was hungry you gave me food; when I was naked you gave me raiment. You took me on, Madame, an unknown waif, without money, friends, or a character; you believed in me when no one else did; you have been my guardian angel: and do you think that I can forget your goodness to me for the last six months? No! Madame,’ rising, ‘I have a heart, and while I live that heart will ever remember you with gratitude and love;’ and bending forward he took her hand and kissed it gallantly.
‘You think too much of what I have done,’ said Madame, who was, nevertheless, pleased at this display of emotion, albeit, according to her English ideas, it seemed to savour too much of the footlights. ‘I only did to you what I would do to all men. I am glad, in this instance, to find my confidence has not been misplaced; when do you think of leaving us?’
‘In about two or three weeks,’ answered Vandeloup, carelessly, ‘but not till you find another clerk; besides, Madame, do not think you have lost sight of me for ever; I will go down to Melbourne, settle all my affairs, and come up and see you again.’
‘So you say,’ replied Mrs Villiers, sceptically smiling.
‘Well,’ replied M. Vandeloup, with a shrug, ‘we will see—at all events, gratitude is such a rare virtue that there is decided novelty in possessing it.’
‘M. Vandeloup,’ said Madame, suddenly, after they had been chatting for a few moments, ‘one thing you must do for me in Melbourne.’
‘I will do anything you wish,’ said Vandeloup, gravely.
‘Then,’ said Madame, earnestly, rising and looking him in the face, ‘you must find Kitty, and send her back to me.’
‘Madame,’ said Vandeloup, solemnly, ‘it will be the purpose of my life to restore her to your arms.’
There was great dismay at the Pactolus Mine when it became known that Vandeloup was going to leave. During his short stay he had made himself extremely popular with the men, as he always had a bright smile and a kind word for everyone, so they all felt like losing a personal friend. The only two who were unfeigningly glad at Vandeloup’s departure were Selina and McIntosh, for these two faithful hearts had seen with dismay the influence the Frenchman was gradually gaining over Madame Midas. As long as Villiers lived they felt safe, but now that he had so mysteriously disappeared, and was to all appearances dead, they dreaded lest their mistress, in a moment of infatuation, should marry her clerk. They need not, however, have been afraid, for much as Mrs Villiers liked the young Frenchman, such an idea had never entered her head, and she was far too clever a woman ever to tempt matrimony a second time, seeing how dearly it had cost her.
Madame Midas had made great efforts to find Kitty, but without success; and, in spite of all inquiries and advertisements in the papers, nothing could be discovered regarding the missing girl.
At last the time drew near for Vandeloup’s departure, when all the sensation of Kitty’s escapade and Villiers’ disappearance was swallowed up in a new event, which filled Ballarat with wonder. It began in a whisper, and grew into such a roar of astonishment that not only Ballarat, but all Victoria, knew that the far-famed Devil’s Lead had been discovered in the Pactolus claim. Yes, after years of weary waiting, after money had been swallowed up in apparently useless work, after sceptics had sneered and friends laughed, Madame Midas obtained her reward. The Devil’s Lead was discovered, and she was now a millionaire.
For some time past McIntosh had not been satisfied with the character of the ground in which he had been working, so abandoning the shaft he was then in, he had opened up another gallery to the west, at right angles from the place where the famous nugget had been found. The wash was poor at first, but McIntosh persevered, having an instinct that he was on the right track. A few weeks’ work proved that he was right, for the wash soon became richer; and as they went farther on towards the west, following the gutter, there was no doubt that the long-lost Devil’s Lead had been struck. The regular return had formerly been five ounces to the machine, but now the washing up invariably gave twenty ounces, and small nuggets of water-worn gold were continually found in the three machines. The main drive following the lead still continued dipping westward, and McIntosh now commenced blocking and putting in side galleries, expecting when this was done he would thoroughly prove the Devil’s Lead, for he was quite satisfied he was on it. Even now the yield was three hundred and sixty ounces a week, and after deducting working expenses, this gave Madame Midas a weekly income of one thousand one hundred pounds, so she now began to see what a wealthy woman she was likely to be. Everyone unfeigningly rejoiced at her good fortune, and said that she deserved it. Many thought that now she was so rich Villiers would come back again, but he did not put in an appearance, and it was generally concluded he had left the colony.
Vandeloup congratulated Madame Midas on her luck when he was going away, and privately determined that he would not lose sight of her, as, being a wealthy woman, and having a liking for him, she would be of great use. He took his farewell gracefully, and went away, carrying the good wishes of all the miners; but McIntosh and Selina, still holding to their former opinion, were secretly pleased at his departure. Madame Midas made him a present of a hundred pounds, and, though he refused it, saying that he had money from France, she asked him as a personal favour to take it; so M. Vandeloup, always gallant to ladies, could not refuse. He went in to Ballarat, and put up at the Wattle Tree Hotel, intending to start for the metropolis next morning; but on his way, in order to prepare Kitty for his coming, sent a telegram for her, telling her the train he would arrive by, in order that she might be at the station to meet him.
After his dinner he suddenly recollected that he still had the volume which Dr Gollipeck had lent him, so, calling a cab, he drove to the residence of that eccentric individual to return it.
When the servant announced M. Vandeloup, she pushed him in and suddenly closed the door after her, as though she was afraid of some of the doctor’s ideas getting away.
‘Good evening, doctor,’ said Vandeloup, laying the book down on the table at which Gollipeck was seated; ‘I’ve come to return you this and say good-bye.’
‘Aha, going away?’ asked Gollipeck, leaning back in his chair, and looked sharply at the young man through his spectacles, ‘right—see the world—you’re clever—won’t go far wrong—no!’
‘It doesn’t matter much if I do,’ replied Vandeloup, shrugging his shoulders, and taking a chair, ‘nobody will bother much about me.’
‘Eh!’ queried the doctor, sharply, sitting up. ‘Paris—friends—relations.’
‘My only relation is an aunt with a large family; she’s got quite enough to do looking after them, without bothering about me,’ retorted M. Vandeloup; ‘as to friends—I haven’t got one.’
‘Oh!’ from Gollipeck, with a cynical smile, ‘I see; let us say—acquaintances.’
‘Won’t make any difference,’ replied Vandeloup, airily; ‘I turned my acquaintances into friends long ago, and then borrowed money off them; result: my social circle is nil. Friends,’ went on M. Vandeloup, reflectively, ‘are excellent as friends, but damnable as bankers.’
Gollipeck chuckled, and rubbed his hands, for this cynicism pleased him. Suddenly his eye caught the book which the young man had returned.
‘You read this?’ he said, laying his hand on it; ‘good, eh?’
‘Very good, indeed,’ returned M. Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘so kind of you to have lent it to me—all those cases quoted were known to me.’
‘The case of Adele Blondet, for instance, eh?’ asked the old man sharply.
‘Yes, I was present at the trial,’ replied Vandeloup, quietly; ‘the prisoner Octave Braulard was convicted, condemned to death, reprieved, and sent to New Caledonia.’
‘Where he now is,’ said Gollipeck, quickly, looking at him.
‘I presume so,’ replied Vandeloup, lazily. ‘After the trial I never bothered my head about him.’
‘He poisoned his mistress, Adele Blondet,’ said the doctor.
‘Yes,’ answered Vandeloup, leaning forward and looking at Gollipeck, ‘he found she was in love with an Englishman, and poisoned her—you will find it all in the book.’
‘It does not mention the Englishman,’ said the doctor, thoughtfully tapping the table with his hand.
‘Nevertheless he was implicated in it, but went away from Paris the day Braulard was arrested,’ answered Vandeloup. ‘The police tried to find him, but could not; if they had, it might have made some difference to the prisoner.’
‘And the name of this Englishman?’
‘Let me see,’ said Vandeloup, looking up reflectively; ‘I almost forget it—Kestroke or Kestrike, some name like that. He must have been a very clever man to have escaped the French police.’
‘Ah, hum!’ said the doctor, rubbing his nose, ‘very interesting indeed; strange case!’
‘Very,’ assented M. Vandeloup, as he arose to go, ‘I must say good-bye now, doctor; but I am coming up to Ballarat on a visit shortly.’
‘Ah, hum! of course,’ replied Gollipeck, also rising, ‘and we can have another talk over this book.’
‘That or any book you like,’ said Vandeloup, with a glance of surprise; ‘but I don’t see why you are so much taken up with that volume; it is not a work of genius.’
‘Well, no,’ answered Gollipeck, looking at him; ‘still, it contains some excellent cases of modern poisoning.’
‘So I saw when I read it,’ returned Vandeloup, indifferently. ‘Good-bye,’ holding out his hand, ‘or rather I should say au revoir.’
‘Wine?’ queried the Doctor, hospitably.
Vandeloup shook his head, and walked out of the room with a gay smile, humming a tune. He strolled slowly down Lydiard Street, turning over in his mind what the doctor had said to him.
‘He is suspicious,’ muttered the young man to himself, thoughtfully, ‘although he has nothing to go on in connecting me with the case. Should I use the poison here I must be careful, for that man will be my worst enemy.’
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning round saw Barty Jarper before him. That fashionable young man was in evening dress, and represented such an extent of shirt front and white waistcoat,—not to mention a tall collar, on the top of which his little head was perched like a cocoanut on a stick,—that he was positively resplendent.
‘Where are you going to?’ asked the gorgeous Barty, smoothing his incipient moustache.
‘Well, I really don’t know,’ answered Vandeloup, lighting a cigarette. ‘I am leaving for Melbourne to-morrow morning, but to-night I have nothing to do. You, I see, are engaged,’ with a glance at the evening dress.
‘Yes,’ returned Barty, in a bored voice; ‘musical party on,—they want me to sing.’
Vandeloup had heard Barty’s vocal performance, and could not forbear a smile as he thought of the young man’s three songs with the same accompaniment to each. Suppressing, however, his inclination to laugh, he asked Barty to have a drink, which invitation was promptly accepted, and they walked in search of a hotel. On the way, they passed Slivers’ house, and here Vandeloup paused.
‘This was the first house I entered here,’ he said to Barty, ‘and I must go in and say good-bye to my one-armed friend with the cockatoo.’
Mr Jarper, however, drew back.
‘I don’t like him,’ he said bluntly, ‘he’s an old devil.’
‘Oh, it’s always as well to accustom oneself to the society of devils,’ retorted Vandeloup, coolly, ‘we may have to live with them constantly some day.’
Barty laughed at this, and putting his arm in that of Vandeloup’s, they went in.
Slivers’ door stood ajar in its usual hospitable manner, but all within was dark.
‘He must be out,’ said Barty, as they stood in the dark passage.
‘No,’ replied Vandeloup, feeling for a match, ‘someone is talking in the office.’
‘It’s that parrot,’ said Barty, with a laugh, as they heard Billy rapidly running over his vocabulary; ‘let’s go in.’
He pushed open the door, and was about to step into the room, when catching sight of something on the floor, he recoiled with a cry, and caught Vandeloup by the arm.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the Frenchman, hastily.
‘He’s dead,’ returned Barty, with a sort of gasp; ‘see, he’s lying on the floor dead!’
And so he was! The oldest inhabitant of Ballarat had joined the great majority, and, as it was afterwards discovered, his death was caused by the breaking of a blood-vessel. The cause of it was not clear, but the fact was, that hearing of the discovery of the Devil’s Lead, and knowing that it was lost to him for ever, Slivers had fallen into such a fit of rage, that he burst a blood-vessel and died in his office with no one by him.
The light of the street lamp shone through the dusty windows into the dark room, and in the centre of the yellow splash lay the dead man, with his one eye wide open, staring at the ceiling, while perched on his wooden leg, which was sticking straight out, sat the parrot, swearing. It was a most repulsive sight, and Barty, with a shudder of disgust, tried to drag his companion away, but M. Vandeloup refused to go, and searched his pockets for a match to see more clearly what the body was like.
‘Pickles,’ cried Billy, from his perch on the dead man’s wooden leg; ‘oh, my precious mother,—devil take him.’
‘My faith,’ said M. Vandeloup, striking a match, ‘the devil has taken him,’ and leaving Barty shivering and trembling at the door, he advanced into the room and stood looking at the body. Billy at his approach hopped off the leg and waddled up to the dead man’s shoulder, where he sat cursing volubly, and every now and then going into shrieks of demoniacal laughter. Barty closed his ears to the devilish mirth, and saw M. Vandeloup standing over the corpse, with the faint light of the match flickering in his hand.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, turning to Barty.
The other looked at him inquiringly.
‘It is the comedy of death,’ said the Frenchman, throwing down the match and going to the door.
They both went out to seek assistance, and left the dark room with the dead man lying in the pool of yellow light, and the parrot perched on the body, muttering to itself. It was a strange mingling of the horrible and grotesque, and the whole scene was hit off in the phrase applied to it by Vandeloup. It was, indeed, ‘The Comedy of Death’!