CHAPTER XXFREEDOMMeanwhile, Destiny was at her loom, weaving with careless hand. The American and French armies were moving closer to the Rhine, but the Infantry regiment to which Harry Horton belonged lay at Château Dix awaiting orders. There Harry went upon the morning following the return of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland. Upon his breast he wore theCroix de Guerre, but in his soul was a deathly sickness, the inward reflection of the physical discomfort with which he had awakened. The prospect that lay before him was not to his liking. The period during which he had been out of uniform, the weeks of secrecy, of self-indulgence and abasement, had marked him for their own, and unfitted him for the rigorous routine of discipline that awaited him. And so he faced the ordeal with a positive distaste for his old associations, aware of a sinking feeling in his breast that was not entirely the result of his heavy potations while in Paris.He felt the burden of his failure and a terror that he would not be able to live up to the record Jim Horton had made for him. There would be no more fighting perhaps, but always beside him there would stalk the specter of his military sin, of which the medal at his breast was to be the perpetual reminder. On the train down from Paris, the medal and its colorful bit of green and red seemed to fill the whole range of his vision. D—— the thing! He tore it off and put it in his pocket, and then, somewhat relieved, sank back into his seat and tried to doze. But his nerves were most uncertain. Every sound, even the smallest, seemed to beat with an unpleasant staccato, upon his ear drums. And he started up and gazed out of the window, trying to soothe himself with tobacco. That helped. But he knew that what he wanted was stronger drugging—whisky or brandy—needed it indeed to exorcise the demons that inhabited him. And the thought of the difficulties that would lie in the way of getting what he craved, to-day, to-morrow, and the long days and nights that were to follow still further unmanned him.Before Moira had left for Nice, he had given her his promise to report for duty fit and sober, and he had put his will to the task, aware that the first impression he created with his Colonel was to be important. It was for this reason that he did not dare to open his valise and touch the bottles hidden there because he knew that one drink would not be enough to sooth either his nerves or the dull pangs of his weary conscience. That he had a conscience, he had discovered in the house in the Rue Charron when the desire of Monsieur Tricot andLe Singeto put Jim Horton out of the way for good had brought him face to face with the evil image of himself. He hated his brother Jim as much as ever, because he was all the things that Harry was not, but the plans of Quinlevin which seemed to stop at nothing, not even Moira herself, now filled him with dread and repugnance. His nerve was gone—that was it. His nerve—his nerve....But arrival at regimental headquarters restored him for awhile. His Colonel gave him a soldierly welcome, fingered with some envy theCroix de Guerre, which Harry had pinned on his breast again before leaving the railroad, and summoned Harry's Major, whose greeting left nothing to be desired. And for the moment it almost seemed to Harry as though he might be able to "put it over." But the next day was difficult. He managed a drink early and that kept him going for awhile; but they gave him his company in the morning, and from that moment the intimate contact with those who had known him began—a lieutenant he had never liked, a sergeant who was a psychologist, and a familiar face here and there associated unpleasantly with the long weary days of training and preparation until the regiment had been worked up into the advanced position. But his long sickness in the hospital and his unfamiliarity with recent orders served him well for excuse, and theCroix de Guerreupon his breast served him better. A corporal and a sergeant with whom in the old days he had had nothing in common, each of whom wore decorations, came up to him, saluting, and reported that it was they who had carried him back to the dressing station from the rocks at Boissière Wood. He shook them by the hands with a cordiality which did not disguise from himself the new terror, and when they attempted a recital of the events of the great fight in which they had shared, he blundered helplessly for a while and then cut the interview short, pleading urgent affairs.Then, too, there was the nasty business of the wounds. He hadn't any. He was scathless. He had tried the ruse of the adhesive tape on Moira with disastrous effect. Here the result of the discovery of his unblemished skin would prove still more disastrous. And so at once he discouraged familiarity, kept to his billet and attempted with all the courage left to him to put through his daily round with all credit to his new office. But it irked him horribly. His supply of strong drink did not last long, and the thin red wines, the only substitute procurable, were merely a source of irritation.And there were others in his company of whose approbation he was not at all certain. There was the sergeant, who had had the platoon that had been caught with his own in the wheat-field. There were four or five men of one of his own squads who had been close beside him in the same wheat-field when he had been taken ill and they had left him face to face with the grinning head of the hated Levinski. And there was the late Levinski's own "buddy," Weyl, who had sometimes shared in Harry's reprobation. Weyl annoyed him most perhaps, with his staring, fishy eye and his Hebraic nose, so similar to that of his lamented tent-mate. Weyl had been in the wheatfield and his heavy face seemed to conceal a malevolent omniscience. The large staring eyes followed the new Captain of infantry, inquisitive, accusing and contemptuous. Whenever Corporal Weyl came within the range of Harry's vision, their glances seemed at once to meet and hold each other and it was the Captain who always looked away. Weyl's fishy eye fascinated and haunted him. He saw it by day, dreamed of it by night, and he cursed the man in his heart with a fury that did nothing for his composure.One day as Harry was making his way to mess, he came upon Corporal Weyl standing at ease just outside his billet. The man's eye seemed more round, more fishy, and his demeanor more contemptuous than ever. The last of the whisky was gone. Harry Horton's heart was behaving queerly within him, and muscles with which he was unfamiliar announced their existence in strange twitchings. The breakfast coffee would help. In the meanwhile—he glared at Corporal Weyl, his fists clenched."What the H—— do you mean by staring at me all the time?" he asked.Weyl came to attention and saluted in excellent form."I beg pardon, sir. I don't understand," he said."Why the H—— do you stare at me?""I didn't know that I did stare, sir.""Yes, you did. Cut it out. It annoys me."But Corporal Weyl still stared as the regulations demand, looking his Captain squarely in the eye. And the Captain's gaze wavered and fell."When I'm about," he ordered, "you look some other way. Understand?""Yes sir. I understand," said Weyl, saluting again as Harry turned away, but still staring at him. And Harry felt the fishy stare, more than ever omniscient, more than ever contemptuous, in the middle of his back, all the way down the road to mess. But he had just enough of self control to refrain from looking around at the object of his fury.And at mess a disagreeable surprise awaited him, in the person of a medico who had just joined the outfit. The new Captain had barely finished his coffee when he found himself addressed by the officer, a Major, who sat just opposite him at table."How are you, Captain Horton?" asked the man cordially, extending a hand across. "Didn't recognize you at first. How's the head?"Harry stammered something."I'm Welby—looked after you down at Neuilly, you know.""Oh, yes," said Harry. "Of course. Glad to see you again, Major.""Things were a bit hazy down there, eh?""Yes, rather," said Harry."Delicate operation that. Touch and go for awhile. But you came through all O.K. Delusions. Thought you were another man—or something——""Oh yes," said Harry faintly, "but I'm all right.""Glad to hear it. How's the head?""Fine.""No more pains—no delusions?""No sir.""I'd like to have a squint at the wound presently, if you don't mind. Interesting case. Very."Harry rose suddenly, his face the color of ashes."Sorry, sir," he muttered, "I've got a lot to do now. Later perhaps," and then without a word took up his cap and fled incontinently from the room.There were but two other officers present, but they stared at him as he went out, for the conversation across the table had drawn attention."H-m," remarked the Major into his coffee-cup. "Surly chap that. Considering I saved his life—Croix de Guerre, I see?""Yes sir," said a Lieutenant. "Just joined up. Worried, maybe.""Not much worried about me, apparently," said the Major.Harry went straight out to his billet, locked the door of his soom and sank on the edge of his bed. The situation was horrible. This man of all men who had seen Jim Horton through the hospital! Suppose out of professional curiosity the fool came nosing around! Was Welby now with the regiment? Harry cursed himself for the hurry of his departure. Would the man suspect anything? Hardly. But Harry couldn't take a chance like that again. A second refusal of the Major's request would surely make him an object of suspicion. And the wound in the shoulder—there was none! D—n them all! Why couldn't they leave him alone?He couldn't face the thing out. It was too dangerous. Already he had had enough of it. And yet what was he to do? Yesterday he had thought he read suspicion of him in other men's eyes. They seemed to strip him naked, those hundreds of eyes, to be gazing at the white uninjured flesh where his wounds should have been. All this in a week only—and what was to happen in the many weeks to follow? If this fool Welby had come why wouldn't there be other men of the regiment, of the battalion, who had been at the hospital at Neuilly also? They would catch him in a false statement, force him into a position from which he could not extricate himself, and then what? The Major,—the Colonel,—what answer could he give them if they asked to see his wounds?To Harry's overwrought imagination the whole army seemed joined in a conspiracy to bring about his ruin. To go about his work seemed impossible, but to feign illness meant the visit of a doctor, perhaps Welby himself. He would have to go on, at least for the day, and then perhaps he would think up something—resignation, a transfer to some other unit....He managed to put through the day, still wondering why men looked at him so strangely. Was there anything the matter with his appearance? In the afternoon, the youngest of his Lieutenants approached him kindly."Hadn't you better take a run down to the hospital, sir?" he asked. "You look all in."Harry stared at him stupidly for a moment."Oh, I'm all right—just—er—a little stomach upset——"The youngster saluted and disappeared and Harry went back to his quarters. There was no wonder that he looked "all in." He hadn't dared to go to the mess table since morning and he hadn't had a drink since yesterday. Tobacco had ceased to have the desired effect upon his nerves. He felt like jumping out of his skin. The thing couldn't go on. Hewas"all in." A short leave of absence which might give him time to pull himself together meant being gone over by a doctor—it meant showing his scarless shoulder—impossible! There was only one thing to do—to quit while there was time—before the truth came out. The more he thought of his situation, the more clearly this course seemed indicated. To disappear silently—in the night. It could be managed—and when he didn't come back, perhaps they would think that the wound in his head was troubling him again, and that he was not responsible for what he did. Or that he had met with foul play. They could think anything they chose so long as they didn't guess the truth. And they could never learn the truth, unless they examined his body for the wounds.But they would never find him to do that if he ever got safely back of the lines. He had managed it before. He could do it again now; because he wouldn't have to trust to blind luck as he had done back of Boissière Wood. The more he thought of his plan, the more he became obsessed with it. At any rate it was an obsession which would banish the other obsession of the watching eyes. It was the dark he craved, the security and blessed immunity of darkness—darkness and solitude. He wouldn't wait for the ordeal of the morrow ... to-night!And so, driven by all the enemies of his tortured mind, and planning with all the craft of a guilty conscience, he arranged all things to suit his purpose, passing beyond the village with the avowed purpose of visiting a friend in another unit and then losing himself in the thicket.He traveled afoot all night, using his map and making for the railroad at St. Couvreur, and in the early morning breakfasted at a farmhouse, telling a story of having lost his way and craving a bed for a few hours' sleep. He was well provided with money and his host was hospitable. He slept a while, awoke and no one being about, searched the house for what he sought. He found it in a wardrobe upstairs—a suit of clothing which would serve—and leaving some money on a table, made off without ceremony into the thicket, covering a mile or so in a hurry, across country, when he found a disused building in which he tore off his uniform and donned the borrowed clothing, leaving his own, including itsCroix de Guerre, under a truss of straw.It grew dark again. But he did not care. In a village he managed by paying well to find a bottle of cognac. His cares slipped from him. Nothing mattered—not even the rain. His soul was set free. He paid for a good lodging and slept, warm inside and out; purchased the next day a better suit of clothing and then boldly boarded a train for Paris.It was extraordinary how easily his liberty had been accomplished. They would look for him, of course. The M.P. would bustle about but he had given them the slip all right and they would never find him in Paris. Paris for awhile and then a new land where no questions would be asked. Curiously enough the only human being he seemed to think about, to regret, in what he had done, was Moira. His thoughts continually reverted to the expression on her face the night that Jim had surprised them in the studio. Its agony, its apprehension, so nearly depicted the very terrors that had been in his own soul. He remembered hazily too, that she had been kind to him when Quinlevin had left him there to watch her and he had finished the bottle of Irish whisky. Then, too, again in the morning she had awakened him and started him upon his way back to his post, while the expression of her face had shown that she was trying to do her duty to him even when her own heart was breaking. She had had a thought that even at this last moment he still had an opportunity to "make good." He felt that Moira, his wife in name only, would know the pain of his failure. Quinlevin would sneer, Jim would shrug, but Moira would weep and pray—in vain.He had cared for Moira in his strange selfish way, permitted Quinlevin to use him for his own purposes, hoping for the fortune that would bring ease and luxury for them all, and with it a glamour that he might turn to his own account and win the girl to a fulfillment of their marriage vows. But Jim had dashed the cup from his lips, Jim—his hero brother—now like himself an outcast! So there were to be two of them then after all. "It served him right—D—n him!" Harry Horton found a malicious pleasure in the situation. Ifhewasn't to have her, Jim shouldn't either. He wasn't going to give his brother the pleasure of readinghisdeath notice in the morning paper. He, Harry Horton, would just go on living whatever happened, and he knew that without the evidence of his death, Moira would never marry again.He had gathered in a cloudy way the general meaning of the visit to the Duc de Vautrin at Nice and had wondered at Moira's consent to go with Quinlevin on such a mission after what she must have heard that night. But he had been in no humor to ask questions the next morning, and knew nothing whatever as to the prospects of success for the undertaking. It looked very much as though with Jim Horton in on the game, the mission was dubious. And yet Quinlevin might succeed. If he did there would be enough money to stake Harry in a new life in some distant part of the world. This was the price that they would pay for immunity—and Harry would go. He knew now that Moira was not for him. She had settled that matter definitely the night when he had come in drunk from the Rue Charron.He reached Paris and lost himself in Montmartre, avoiding the old haunts. There he found new acquaintances and many bottles to soothe the awakening pangs. Many bottles ... moments of lucidity ... how long would it be before Moira and Quinlevin returned to the Rue de Tavennes? He would have to sober up. Things weren't bad at all now. What difference did it make to any one but himself what he did or what he became? It was his own life to do what he pleased with. And it pleased him to do what he was doing with it. He laughed at the amusing inversion. Good joke, that!But he would have to go down to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes and talk things over. No use quarreling with Quinlevin. Everything amiable and friendly. No. 7 Rue de Tavennes. If Moira wasn't there, he'd go in and wait. Her studio ... his too. Perhaps a little of the Irish whisky and a doze....CHAPTER XXITHE PETIT BLEUThe road to Paris was long by the way Jim Horton and Piquette had chosen, but without mishap they came through Geneva and Lyons, reaching their destination at the end of the second day. Of the further adventures of Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and his apostle Tricot they had learned nothing, though they had scanned all the newspapers upon their way for any echoes of the adventure at the Hôtel de Paris. Jim Horton had spoken little of Moira, but as they neared their journey's end, the birth certificate and other papers still secure in Jim's inner pocket, he was sure that however difficult and painful his decision to desert Moira at the critical moment, Piquette's counsel had been wise. Moira had fled from him and he knew now that her convictions had laid a barrier between them which no further effort that he could make would ever pass. Pity he felt for her, deep and abiding, for she was so helpless and now more than ever alone. But he had done his duty as he had seen it, drawn Quinlevin's sting and opened Moira's eyes to his perfidy, throwing a light along the path into which that perfidy was leading her.He and Piquette had tried to picture events in the hotel at Monte Carlo after their flight: The helpless men lying in the dark, awaiting the morning, Moira's probable return with Nora Burke and their liberation. As to what Moira would do after that, they could not decide. Her flight to Paris without money seemed impossible, and yet for her to remain with her spurious father after this awakening seemed also impossible. Piquette had related to him parts of her conversation with the girl and Horton had listened, aware of Piquette's motives and the hopeless impediments to the success of her efforts.Piquette spoke no more of love, nor did Jim Horton revive the topic which had given him a more awkward half an hour than he had ever spent in his life, but he showed her by every act a consideration that touched her deeply and made the friendship that she asked of him a sacred thing to them both. What the future held for him was yet to be fully revealed, but as yet he could not see it clearly. With the collapse of Quinlevin's scheme it was probable that all the vials of his wrath would be turned upon Horton, who would be denounced to the military authorities, no matter what happened to his unfortunate brother Harry. It was necessary therefore, until the birth certificate and the evidence of Horton and Piquette was all placed with Monsieur de Vautrin's legal representative, that Horton remain hidden and that Piquette avoid all contact with her friends of theQuartier. It seemed also the part of prudence for Piquette to remain for awhile away from her apartment, keeping in touch with her maid who would bring her clothing and letters to a designated place."It would have been much more sensible to have killed Tricot," laughed Horton when they were established in rooms in his obscure lodging in the Rue Jean Paul. "He'll come poking about with a brand new knife and revolver, and then we'll have the devil to pay all over again.""I'm not sure," said Piquette."We'll take no chances. And when this business is finished, if Monsieur de Vautrin doesn't do his duty by you I'd like to take you away from Paris, Piquette.""Where,monJeem?"He shrugged. "To America. Where else?"But she shook her head like a solemn child."No,mon petit. You will not wish to be taking me to America. One cannot change one's destiny like dat. You s'all not 'ang me like a millstone aroun' your neck. My place is 'ere, in Paris, where I am born, an' if debon Dieuwill, where I s'all die. As for you,mon ami, all will be well. Devrai gamineis born wit' de what you call—secon' sight. It is I, Piquette, who say dis to you."He glanced at her curiously, aware of an air of fatalism in her words and manner."How, Piquette?" he laughed.She shrugged. "I doan know, but I believe you s'all be 'appy yet.""With her, you mean?" he asked. "Not a chance, Piquette. That's done. But if I can help her——""Yes. You s'all 'elp 'er,mon ami. I know."He smiled gently, and then thoughtfully lighted a pipe."You've got Cassandra beaten by a mile, my little Piquette.""Cassandra?""The greatest little guesser in all history. But she guessed right——""An' I guess right too,mon ami. You see."He smiled. "Then I wish you'd guess what's happened to your silly friend de Vautrin.""Silly!" she laughed. "Dat's a good word,mon ami" and then shrugged. "'E will come one day——""In a week—and here we sit cooling our heels with our evidence all O.K., burning in our fingers. If he doesn't arrive to-morrow I'm going to find hisavocat."They had examined the birth certificate with a magnifying glass and there was not a doubt that the final "a" of "Patricia" had been added to "Patrice," also that the word "male" had been changed to "female" by the addition of the prefix. With Nora Burke as Quinlevin's only witness and Horton and Piquette to oppose her, there would not be the slightest difficulty in disposing of Barry Quinlevin's pretensions. But Horton still worried much about the fate of Moira, for it was difficult for him to conceive of her resumption of the old relations with the Irishman. And yet it could not be long before Quinlevin returned to Paris, and what would be Moira's fate unless she accompanied him to the Rue de Tavennes? Perhaps she was there now. Already four days had elapsed since the flight from the Riviera and of course there had been ample time for Quinlevin and his illy-assorted company to return. Horton wanted to go to the Rue de Tavennes and try to learn what had happened, but Piquette advised against it. Until the responsibility for the papers was shifted to de Vautrin, she did not think it wise for him to take any risk of danger. Jim Horton demurred, but when he saw how much in earnest she was, he consented to remain in hiding a few days longer.And late the following afternoon, Monsieur de Vautrin not yet having returned, and while they still waited, an astonishing thing happened, for Piquette's maid, under cover of nightfall (as was the arrangement) brought the letters from the Boulevard Clichy, and among them was aPetit Bleuaddressed to Jim Horton. He picked it up gingerly in his fingers as though it had been dynamite and curiously scrutinized the envelope. It augured badly for his security in Paris if many people knew so readily where he was to be found. De Vautrin perhaps——? Or——He tore the envelope open quickly, Piquette looking over his shoulder. It was in French, of course, and he read,"Shall be alone Rue de Tavennes to-night eight. Forgive and don't fail. MOIRA."He read the lines over and over, Piquette helping him to translate, and stood a moment as though transfixed by its significance. "Forgive." That was the word that stood out in black letters. What had come over her? Did this mean that driven to desperation by the situation in which she had found herself she had been forced against her will to plead with him for sanctuary? Or was it help that she needed? Whatever the real meaning of the message, there was no doubt in Jim Horton's mind as to where his duty lay.But Piquette was already questioning Celeste rapidly."When did thisPetit Bleuarrive?""Not an hour ago, Madame.""You are sure?""Yes, Madame, positive. I myself received it from the messenger.""Very well, Celeste. You will return to the apartment and if any other message arrives, be sure to bring it at once.""Yes, Madame.""And be sure to take the roundabout way and be sure that you are not followed.""Yes, Madame."When the woman departed, Piquette took the blue slip from Jim Horton's fingers and sat by the gas-light, rereading it slowly and thoughtfully."I must go, of course, Piquette," said Jim quietly."Yes,mon ami, you mus' go. An' yet there are some t'ings I don' on'erstan'.""What, Piquette?""It is strange, dis sudden change of min' of Madame 'Orton," she replied."She wants me,—needs me," said Jim, unaware of the pain he caused.Piquette shrugged."I could 'ave tol' you dat at Monte Carlo," she said dryly, "but to ask you to come to 'er—it's different, dat.""And yet she has done it——""De character of Madame 'as change' a great deal in a few days,monJeem.""Something must have happened. Her position! Think of it, Piquette.""I do. It is mos' onpleasan'. But I t'ink you would be de very las' person she would sen' for.""Who then——? Piquette, I——"She rose, and handed him his message. "You mus' go," she said with a shrug, "an' dere is not much time. But wit' your permission,monJeem——" she added firmly, "I will go wit' you.""You, Piquette!" he stammered dubiously.But she smiled at him."Ah,mon vieux, I s'all not intrude. You know dat,n'est-ce pas? But Madame 'Orton and I, we on'erstan' each oder. Per'aps I can 'elp 'er too. An' where could she go onless to de Boulevard Clichy?"Jim Horton stood speechless for a moment and then, slowly, "I hadn't thought of that," he muttered.They dined and then Piquette went to her room to put on her hat, while Jim Horton sat watching the clock which ticked off the minutes before their departure. Of course Moira's appeal for forgiveness was only the weary cry of a heart sick with disappointment—a cry for sanctuary from the dreaded evils that encompassed her. But he would not permit himself to believe that it meant any new happiness for him, except the mere joy that he would find in doing her a service. What he hoped was that at last she had decided to permit him to take her away from Quinlevin. With that he would be content—must be content—for the thing that separated them was stronger than her will or his. "There's no divorce but death." Her words came to him again, the weary tones with which she had uttered them, and he realized again that there was no hope for her or for him. Even if his will were stronger than hers, he must not use it to coerce her.When Piquette joined him they went forth by a circuitous way toward the Rue de Tavennes. To be certain that they were not recognized they avoided the populous streets and chose narrow by-ways, shadowed and unfamiliar, their coat collars turned up, their hats pulled well down over their eyes, while Horton strode beside her, saying nothing. To see Moira, to speak to her, to take her away from the rogue who had for so long held her in his thrall....As they turned into the Rue de Tavennes Horton glanced at his watch. It was some moments before the appointed hour. Under a gas lamp, he glanced at Piquette. He thought that she seemed pale, that her dark eyes burned with a deeper intensity, that she was compact of suppressed emotions, as though she were driven forward upon her feet by a power beyond her to control. And something of her tenseness seemed curiously communicated to him. Was it that Piquette knew that the spell that bound her to him was to be broken to-night, that the strange and wonderful friendship that she had found was to be dissipated by a new element. Why had she chosen to come with him—insisted on it even? And the rapt, eager, absorbed look he had seen upon her face made him almost ready to believe that she had in her something of the seer and prophetess at which he had been pleased to jest. He knew that she was "game," physically, spiritually, and that she could walk into the face of danger and suffering to do him a service. It almost seemed as though she had chosen to come with him to-night because it was her final act of self-abnegation, to bring Jim and Moira together—to help the woman he loved to security if not to happiness.As they neared the familiar gate of Madame Toupin, Horton was conscious of a sense of grave responsibility. It was the same feeling that had come to him there in the trench before the advance upon Boissière Wood, the imminence of great events, the splendid possibilities of success, the dire consequences of failure, a hazard of some kind, with happiness or misery for many as the stake.At the corner Piquette suddenly caught him by the elbow and held him."Wait,mon ami," she whispered. "Wait!"He looked down at her in surprise at the sudden pause in her eager footsteps."Why, Piquette?" he asked."I—I don' know,monJeem," she muttered breathlessly, one hand to her heart. "I don' know—somet'ing tell me to wait——""Do you want to go back?" he asked."No, no——""What then——?""I can't tell you. Jus' a feeling dat you should not go. I am not sure——""But I don't understand——""Nor I,monJeem," she laughed. "'Ave I not tol' you devrai gamine'ave secon' sight? Forgive me. You t'ink I am foolish. But it is 'ere in my 'eart——""You do not want me to go to her, Piquette?" he asked."Yes. To 'er,monJeem.C'est bien. Is it not for dat which I come?"She hesitated for another long moment, Jim watching her, and then raised her head like some wild creature sniffing at the breeze."Allons!" she said. "We shall go now."He smiled at her mood and they went on, Piquette making no further protest, and reached the gate of Madame Toupin, where they paused for a moment. Thelogewas dark and the gate was open. This was unusual, but Horton remembered that sometimes Madame Toupin and her pretty daughter went together for visits in the neighborhood. Two men were chatting under the lamp in the court-yard, but so absorbed in their own affair that they gave no attention to the visitors who entered the building and slowly climbed the stairs, so familiar to Jim, and so suggestive of the greatest joy and the greatest misfortune he had ever known. Piquette followed him one step behind, clinging to the tail of his overcoat. They met no one. A light showed beyond a transom on the second floor, the odor of a cigarette was wafted to them, and the sound of a voice softly singing. There was no other studio-apartment on the third floor but Moira's, and they mounted the steps softly on tiptoe, peering upward into the obscurity for signs of illumination that would proclaim occupancy. But they could see no light but the reflection of the cold starlit sky which came through a window on the stair and outlined the rail and baluster."Is dere no light?" asked Piquette in a voice which in spite of itself seemed no more than a whisper."I can't see any yet," muttered Jim. And then, as his head came in line with the floor, he pointed upward. Above the door the transom showed."Ah!Elle est là," she gasped, falling into her native tongue unconsciously.Silently they mounted and Jim knocked upon the door. There was no reply. He knocked more loudly. Silence again. Then he put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door yielded and they entered, Piquette peering curiously over his shoulder, and around the room. The gas-light, turned low, cast a dim light over the room. The corners ware bathed in shadow, and Horton's gaze swept them eagerly, while he moved here and there. The familiar chairs, the couch by the big window, the easel with its canvas, the draperies, the lay figure, seemed to be all as when he had seen them last, but there was no one there. The studio was empty. With Piquette close at his side he went to the door of the kitchenette. It was locked and the key was in the door. It had been fastened from the studio side."That's curious," muttered Jim. "She may have gone out for a moment.""Perhaps," said Piquette.Jim went around the studio, glancing at the windows, and then joined his companion by the door, scrutinizing his watch."We're a few moments early, Piquette," he muttered."I will go down,mon ami, and ask when she come back," she ventured.And they went out of the studio, closing the door behind them. But Jim Horton hesitated, glancing back at the door."I wonder if there could have been any mistake," he muttered. "Eight o'clock. I don't understand——""Jeem," said Piquette, "I do not like de look of dis. I am afraid——"She peered down into the obscurity suddenly and put her fingers to her lips."Some one is coming," she murmured. "It is——" she paused, listened, and then caught him by the arm. "It is not a woman,—it is a man. Listen."He obeyed, catching her meaning and its significance quickly. The footsteps were surely not those of a woman, and the stairs to the floor below creaked heavily."A man! Who?" he muttered."It is what I fear'. We mus' 'ide—somewhere—quick!"The door of the hall-room Jim had slept in was near them. Tiptoeing over to it quickly, the girl behind him, he tried the knob. It yielded and they entered its darkness, leaving the door wide enough open so that they could look out. The man was now climbing up the stair and reached the landing. If either of them had expected to see Barry Quinlevin they were disappointed, for the figure was heavier, strangely similar to Jim Horton's, and like him wore a dark overcoat and slouch hat. And while they peered out at him, the man hesitated, looked up at the transom and then turned the knob and entered the studio, closing the door carefully behind him. Jim Horton had felt Piquette's fingers clutch his arm and questioned in a whisper."What is it, Piquette?""Your broder—'Arry," she gasped."Impossible. He's at camp——""I would swear it——""In civilian clothes? He knows better than that." He laughed gently. "You're nervous, Piquette——""It's 'Arry, I tell you," she insisted. "I am not mistake'——""H-m. It did look like him—but what——?""I doan know. Its strange what I t'ink——""But why should Harry come here when Moira sent me——""An' what if she did not send you dePetit Bleu?""You mean——?""I doan know——""That Harry sent it? Why would he want to meet me?" he shrugged. "But it's queer, Piquette. If he's here to worry her again I'll break his head.""Sh——," whispered Piquette, calming him. "She mus' go wit' me,mon ami."He nodded."But she isn't there. I don't understand.""We mus' wait 'ere."And so they stood at the door, listening for sounds from below. Silence. And then a strange commotion close at hand.Suddenly Piquette clutched Jim's arm."Jeem!" he heard her whisper in sudden terror. "What is it?"He had heard the same thing too, a faint sound, like a cough, followed by a groan as though some one were struggling for breath. Another pause while they listened again. There was no mistaking it now. Jim Horton had heard the same sounds before from the throat of one of the Engineers who had been horribly gassed. Another groan, then the impact of a heavy body falling.Jim Horton sprang out into the hallway, drawing his automatic, and threw himself against the studio door. It was locked. He assaulted it again, again, and at last the door-jamb tore away and he was precipitated into the middle of the room, revolver in hand, glaring about him, Piquette close beside him, her eyes distended with horror.In the middle of the floor near the fireplace lay the figure of a man, quite motionless, a dark blotch growing on the rug beneath his body. And the distorted face turned toward the feeble light of the flickering gas-jet was that of his brother—Harry.
CHAPTER XX
FREEDOM
Meanwhile, Destiny was at her loom, weaving with careless hand. The American and French armies were moving closer to the Rhine, but the Infantry regiment to which Harry Horton belonged lay at Château Dix awaiting orders. There Harry went upon the morning following the return of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland. Upon his breast he wore theCroix de Guerre, but in his soul was a deathly sickness, the inward reflection of the physical discomfort with which he had awakened. The prospect that lay before him was not to his liking. The period during which he had been out of uniform, the weeks of secrecy, of self-indulgence and abasement, had marked him for their own, and unfitted him for the rigorous routine of discipline that awaited him. And so he faced the ordeal with a positive distaste for his old associations, aware of a sinking feeling in his breast that was not entirely the result of his heavy potations while in Paris.
He felt the burden of his failure and a terror that he would not be able to live up to the record Jim Horton had made for him. There would be no more fighting perhaps, but always beside him there would stalk the specter of his military sin, of which the medal at his breast was to be the perpetual reminder. On the train down from Paris, the medal and its colorful bit of green and red seemed to fill the whole range of his vision. D—— the thing! He tore it off and put it in his pocket, and then, somewhat relieved, sank back into his seat and tried to doze. But his nerves were most uncertain. Every sound, even the smallest, seemed to beat with an unpleasant staccato, upon his ear drums. And he started up and gazed out of the window, trying to soothe himself with tobacco. That helped. But he knew that what he wanted was stronger drugging—whisky or brandy—needed it indeed to exorcise the demons that inhabited him. And the thought of the difficulties that would lie in the way of getting what he craved, to-day, to-morrow, and the long days and nights that were to follow still further unmanned him.
Before Moira had left for Nice, he had given her his promise to report for duty fit and sober, and he had put his will to the task, aware that the first impression he created with his Colonel was to be important. It was for this reason that he did not dare to open his valise and touch the bottles hidden there because he knew that one drink would not be enough to sooth either his nerves or the dull pangs of his weary conscience. That he had a conscience, he had discovered in the house in the Rue Charron when the desire of Monsieur Tricot andLe Singeto put Jim Horton out of the way for good had brought him face to face with the evil image of himself. He hated his brother Jim as much as ever, because he was all the things that Harry was not, but the plans of Quinlevin which seemed to stop at nothing, not even Moira herself, now filled him with dread and repugnance. His nerve was gone—that was it. His nerve—his nerve....
But arrival at regimental headquarters restored him for awhile. His Colonel gave him a soldierly welcome, fingered with some envy theCroix de Guerre, which Harry had pinned on his breast again before leaving the railroad, and summoned Harry's Major, whose greeting left nothing to be desired. And for the moment it almost seemed to Harry as though he might be able to "put it over." But the next day was difficult. He managed a drink early and that kept him going for awhile; but they gave him his company in the morning, and from that moment the intimate contact with those who had known him began—a lieutenant he had never liked, a sergeant who was a psychologist, and a familiar face here and there associated unpleasantly with the long weary days of training and preparation until the regiment had been worked up into the advanced position. But his long sickness in the hospital and his unfamiliarity with recent orders served him well for excuse, and theCroix de Guerreupon his breast served him better. A corporal and a sergeant with whom in the old days he had had nothing in common, each of whom wore decorations, came up to him, saluting, and reported that it was they who had carried him back to the dressing station from the rocks at Boissière Wood. He shook them by the hands with a cordiality which did not disguise from himself the new terror, and when they attempted a recital of the events of the great fight in which they had shared, he blundered helplessly for a while and then cut the interview short, pleading urgent affairs.
Then, too, there was the nasty business of the wounds. He hadn't any. He was scathless. He had tried the ruse of the adhesive tape on Moira with disastrous effect. Here the result of the discovery of his unblemished skin would prove still more disastrous. And so at once he discouraged familiarity, kept to his billet and attempted with all the courage left to him to put through his daily round with all credit to his new office. But it irked him horribly. His supply of strong drink did not last long, and the thin red wines, the only substitute procurable, were merely a source of irritation.
And there were others in his company of whose approbation he was not at all certain. There was the sergeant, who had had the platoon that had been caught with his own in the wheat-field. There were four or five men of one of his own squads who had been close beside him in the same wheat-field when he had been taken ill and they had left him face to face with the grinning head of the hated Levinski. And there was the late Levinski's own "buddy," Weyl, who had sometimes shared in Harry's reprobation. Weyl annoyed him most perhaps, with his staring, fishy eye and his Hebraic nose, so similar to that of his lamented tent-mate. Weyl had been in the wheatfield and his heavy face seemed to conceal a malevolent omniscience. The large staring eyes followed the new Captain of infantry, inquisitive, accusing and contemptuous. Whenever Corporal Weyl came within the range of Harry's vision, their glances seemed at once to meet and hold each other and it was the Captain who always looked away. Weyl's fishy eye fascinated and haunted him. He saw it by day, dreamed of it by night, and he cursed the man in his heart with a fury that did nothing for his composure.
One day as Harry was making his way to mess, he came upon Corporal Weyl standing at ease just outside his billet. The man's eye seemed more round, more fishy, and his demeanor more contemptuous than ever. The last of the whisky was gone. Harry Horton's heart was behaving queerly within him, and muscles with which he was unfamiliar announced their existence in strange twitchings. The breakfast coffee would help. In the meanwhile—he glared at Corporal Weyl, his fists clenched.
"What the H—— do you mean by staring at me all the time?" he asked.
Weyl came to attention and saluted in excellent form.
"I beg pardon, sir. I don't understand," he said.
"Why the H—— do you stare at me?"
"I didn't know that I did stare, sir."
"Yes, you did. Cut it out. It annoys me."
But Corporal Weyl still stared as the regulations demand, looking his Captain squarely in the eye. And the Captain's gaze wavered and fell.
"When I'm about," he ordered, "you look some other way. Understand?"
"Yes sir. I understand," said Weyl, saluting again as Harry turned away, but still staring at him. And Harry felt the fishy stare, more than ever omniscient, more than ever contemptuous, in the middle of his back, all the way down the road to mess. But he had just enough of self control to refrain from looking around at the object of his fury.
And at mess a disagreeable surprise awaited him, in the person of a medico who had just joined the outfit. The new Captain had barely finished his coffee when he found himself addressed by the officer, a Major, who sat just opposite him at table.
"How are you, Captain Horton?" asked the man cordially, extending a hand across. "Didn't recognize you at first. How's the head?"
Harry stammered something.
"I'm Welby—looked after you down at Neuilly, you know."
"Oh, yes," said Harry. "Of course. Glad to see you again, Major."
"Things were a bit hazy down there, eh?"
"Yes, rather," said Harry.
"Delicate operation that. Touch and go for awhile. But you came through all O.K. Delusions. Thought you were another man—or something——"
"Oh yes," said Harry faintly, "but I'm all right."
"Glad to hear it. How's the head?"
"Fine."
"No more pains—no delusions?"
"No sir."
"I'd like to have a squint at the wound presently, if you don't mind. Interesting case. Very."
Harry rose suddenly, his face the color of ashes.
"Sorry, sir," he muttered, "I've got a lot to do now. Later perhaps," and then without a word took up his cap and fled incontinently from the room.
There were but two other officers present, but they stared at him as he went out, for the conversation across the table had drawn attention.
"H-m," remarked the Major into his coffee-cup. "Surly chap that. Considering I saved his life—Croix de Guerre, I see?"
"Yes sir," said a Lieutenant. "Just joined up. Worried, maybe."
"Not much worried about me, apparently," said the Major.
Harry went straight out to his billet, locked the door of his soom and sank on the edge of his bed. The situation was horrible. This man of all men who had seen Jim Horton through the hospital! Suppose out of professional curiosity the fool came nosing around! Was Welby now with the regiment? Harry cursed himself for the hurry of his departure. Would the man suspect anything? Hardly. But Harry couldn't take a chance like that again. A second refusal of the Major's request would surely make him an object of suspicion. And the wound in the shoulder—there was none! D—n them all! Why couldn't they leave him alone?
He couldn't face the thing out. It was too dangerous. Already he had had enough of it. And yet what was he to do? Yesterday he had thought he read suspicion of him in other men's eyes. They seemed to strip him naked, those hundreds of eyes, to be gazing at the white uninjured flesh where his wounds should have been. All this in a week only—and what was to happen in the many weeks to follow? If this fool Welby had come why wouldn't there be other men of the regiment, of the battalion, who had been at the hospital at Neuilly also? They would catch him in a false statement, force him into a position from which he could not extricate himself, and then what? The Major,—the Colonel,—what answer could he give them if they asked to see his wounds?
To Harry's overwrought imagination the whole army seemed joined in a conspiracy to bring about his ruin. To go about his work seemed impossible, but to feign illness meant the visit of a doctor, perhaps Welby himself. He would have to go on, at least for the day, and then perhaps he would think up something—resignation, a transfer to some other unit....
He managed to put through the day, still wondering why men looked at him so strangely. Was there anything the matter with his appearance? In the afternoon, the youngest of his Lieutenants approached him kindly.
"Hadn't you better take a run down to the hospital, sir?" he asked. "You look all in."
Harry stared at him stupidly for a moment.
"Oh, I'm all right—just—er—a little stomach upset——"
The youngster saluted and disappeared and Harry went back to his quarters. There was no wonder that he looked "all in." He hadn't dared to go to the mess table since morning and he hadn't had a drink since yesterday. Tobacco had ceased to have the desired effect upon his nerves. He felt like jumping out of his skin. The thing couldn't go on. Hewas"all in." A short leave of absence which might give him time to pull himself together meant being gone over by a doctor—it meant showing his scarless shoulder—impossible! There was only one thing to do—to quit while there was time—before the truth came out. The more he thought of his situation, the more clearly this course seemed indicated. To disappear silently—in the night. It could be managed—and when he didn't come back, perhaps they would think that the wound in his head was troubling him again, and that he was not responsible for what he did. Or that he had met with foul play. They could think anything they chose so long as they didn't guess the truth. And they could never learn the truth, unless they examined his body for the wounds.
But they would never find him to do that if he ever got safely back of the lines. He had managed it before. He could do it again now; because he wouldn't have to trust to blind luck as he had done back of Boissière Wood. The more he thought of his plan, the more he became obsessed with it. At any rate it was an obsession which would banish the other obsession of the watching eyes. It was the dark he craved, the security and blessed immunity of darkness—darkness and solitude. He wouldn't wait for the ordeal of the morrow ... to-night!
And so, driven by all the enemies of his tortured mind, and planning with all the craft of a guilty conscience, he arranged all things to suit his purpose, passing beyond the village with the avowed purpose of visiting a friend in another unit and then losing himself in the thicket.
He traveled afoot all night, using his map and making for the railroad at St. Couvreur, and in the early morning breakfasted at a farmhouse, telling a story of having lost his way and craving a bed for a few hours' sleep. He was well provided with money and his host was hospitable. He slept a while, awoke and no one being about, searched the house for what he sought. He found it in a wardrobe upstairs—a suit of clothing which would serve—and leaving some money on a table, made off without ceremony into the thicket, covering a mile or so in a hurry, across country, when he found a disused building in which he tore off his uniform and donned the borrowed clothing, leaving his own, including itsCroix de Guerre, under a truss of straw.
It grew dark again. But he did not care. In a village he managed by paying well to find a bottle of cognac. His cares slipped from him. Nothing mattered—not even the rain. His soul was set free. He paid for a good lodging and slept, warm inside and out; purchased the next day a better suit of clothing and then boldly boarded a train for Paris.
It was extraordinary how easily his liberty had been accomplished. They would look for him, of course. The M.P. would bustle about but he had given them the slip all right and they would never find him in Paris. Paris for awhile and then a new land where no questions would be asked. Curiously enough the only human being he seemed to think about, to regret, in what he had done, was Moira. His thoughts continually reverted to the expression on her face the night that Jim had surprised them in the studio. Its agony, its apprehension, so nearly depicted the very terrors that had been in his own soul. He remembered hazily too, that she had been kind to him when Quinlevin had left him there to watch her and he had finished the bottle of Irish whisky. Then, too, again in the morning she had awakened him and started him upon his way back to his post, while the expression of her face had shown that she was trying to do her duty to him even when her own heart was breaking. She had had a thought that even at this last moment he still had an opportunity to "make good." He felt that Moira, his wife in name only, would know the pain of his failure. Quinlevin would sneer, Jim would shrug, but Moira would weep and pray—in vain.
He had cared for Moira in his strange selfish way, permitted Quinlevin to use him for his own purposes, hoping for the fortune that would bring ease and luxury for them all, and with it a glamour that he might turn to his own account and win the girl to a fulfillment of their marriage vows. But Jim had dashed the cup from his lips, Jim—his hero brother—now like himself an outcast! So there were to be two of them then after all. "It served him right—D—n him!" Harry Horton found a malicious pleasure in the situation. Ifhewasn't to have her, Jim shouldn't either. He wasn't going to give his brother the pleasure of readinghisdeath notice in the morning paper. He, Harry Horton, would just go on living whatever happened, and he knew that without the evidence of his death, Moira would never marry again.
He had gathered in a cloudy way the general meaning of the visit to the Duc de Vautrin at Nice and had wondered at Moira's consent to go with Quinlevin on such a mission after what she must have heard that night. But he had been in no humor to ask questions the next morning, and knew nothing whatever as to the prospects of success for the undertaking. It looked very much as though with Jim Horton in on the game, the mission was dubious. And yet Quinlevin might succeed. If he did there would be enough money to stake Harry in a new life in some distant part of the world. This was the price that they would pay for immunity—and Harry would go. He knew now that Moira was not for him. She had settled that matter definitely the night when he had come in drunk from the Rue Charron.
He reached Paris and lost himself in Montmartre, avoiding the old haunts. There he found new acquaintances and many bottles to soothe the awakening pangs. Many bottles ... moments of lucidity ... how long would it be before Moira and Quinlevin returned to the Rue de Tavennes? He would have to sober up. Things weren't bad at all now. What difference did it make to any one but himself what he did or what he became? It was his own life to do what he pleased with. And it pleased him to do what he was doing with it. He laughed at the amusing inversion. Good joke, that!
But he would have to go down to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes and talk things over. No use quarreling with Quinlevin. Everything amiable and friendly. No. 7 Rue de Tavennes. If Moira wasn't there, he'd go in and wait. Her studio ... his too. Perhaps a little of the Irish whisky and a doze....
CHAPTER XXI
THE PETIT BLEU
The road to Paris was long by the way Jim Horton and Piquette had chosen, but without mishap they came through Geneva and Lyons, reaching their destination at the end of the second day. Of the further adventures of Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and his apostle Tricot they had learned nothing, though they had scanned all the newspapers upon their way for any echoes of the adventure at the Hôtel de Paris. Jim Horton had spoken little of Moira, but as they neared their journey's end, the birth certificate and other papers still secure in Jim's inner pocket, he was sure that however difficult and painful his decision to desert Moira at the critical moment, Piquette's counsel had been wise. Moira had fled from him and he knew now that her convictions had laid a barrier between them which no further effort that he could make would ever pass. Pity he felt for her, deep and abiding, for she was so helpless and now more than ever alone. But he had done his duty as he had seen it, drawn Quinlevin's sting and opened Moira's eyes to his perfidy, throwing a light along the path into which that perfidy was leading her.
He and Piquette had tried to picture events in the hotel at Monte Carlo after their flight: The helpless men lying in the dark, awaiting the morning, Moira's probable return with Nora Burke and their liberation. As to what Moira would do after that, they could not decide. Her flight to Paris without money seemed impossible, and yet for her to remain with her spurious father after this awakening seemed also impossible. Piquette had related to him parts of her conversation with the girl and Horton had listened, aware of Piquette's motives and the hopeless impediments to the success of her efforts.
Piquette spoke no more of love, nor did Jim Horton revive the topic which had given him a more awkward half an hour than he had ever spent in his life, but he showed her by every act a consideration that touched her deeply and made the friendship that she asked of him a sacred thing to them both. What the future held for him was yet to be fully revealed, but as yet he could not see it clearly. With the collapse of Quinlevin's scheme it was probable that all the vials of his wrath would be turned upon Horton, who would be denounced to the military authorities, no matter what happened to his unfortunate brother Harry. It was necessary therefore, until the birth certificate and the evidence of Horton and Piquette was all placed with Monsieur de Vautrin's legal representative, that Horton remain hidden and that Piquette avoid all contact with her friends of theQuartier. It seemed also the part of prudence for Piquette to remain for awhile away from her apartment, keeping in touch with her maid who would bring her clothing and letters to a designated place.
"It would have been much more sensible to have killed Tricot," laughed Horton when they were established in rooms in his obscure lodging in the Rue Jean Paul. "He'll come poking about with a brand new knife and revolver, and then we'll have the devil to pay all over again."
"I'm not sure," said Piquette.
"We'll take no chances. And when this business is finished, if Monsieur de Vautrin doesn't do his duty by you I'd like to take you away from Paris, Piquette."
"Where,monJeem?"
He shrugged. "To America. Where else?"
But she shook her head like a solemn child.
"No,mon petit. You will not wish to be taking me to America. One cannot change one's destiny like dat. You s'all not 'ang me like a millstone aroun' your neck. My place is 'ere, in Paris, where I am born, an' if debon Dieuwill, where I s'all die. As for you,mon ami, all will be well. Devrai gamineis born wit' de what you call—secon' sight. It is I, Piquette, who say dis to you."
He glanced at her curiously, aware of an air of fatalism in her words and manner.
"How, Piquette?" he laughed.
She shrugged. "I doan know, but I believe you s'all be 'appy yet."
"With her, you mean?" he asked. "Not a chance, Piquette. That's done. But if I can help her——"
"Yes. You s'all 'elp 'er,mon ami. I know."
He smiled gently, and then thoughtfully lighted a pipe.
"You've got Cassandra beaten by a mile, my little Piquette."
"Cassandra?"
"The greatest little guesser in all history. But she guessed right——"
"An' I guess right too,mon ami. You see."
He smiled. "Then I wish you'd guess what's happened to your silly friend de Vautrin."
"Silly!" she laughed. "Dat's a good word,mon ami" and then shrugged. "'E will come one day——"
"In a week—and here we sit cooling our heels with our evidence all O.K., burning in our fingers. If he doesn't arrive to-morrow I'm going to find hisavocat."
They had examined the birth certificate with a magnifying glass and there was not a doubt that the final "a" of "Patricia" had been added to "Patrice," also that the word "male" had been changed to "female" by the addition of the prefix. With Nora Burke as Quinlevin's only witness and Horton and Piquette to oppose her, there would not be the slightest difficulty in disposing of Barry Quinlevin's pretensions. But Horton still worried much about the fate of Moira, for it was difficult for him to conceive of her resumption of the old relations with the Irishman. And yet it could not be long before Quinlevin returned to Paris, and what would be Moira's fate unless she accompanied him to the Rue de Tavennes? Perhaps she was there now. Already four days had elapsed since the flight from the Riviera and of course there had been ample time for Quinlevin and his illy-assorted company to return. Horton wanted to go to the Rue de Tavennes and try to learn what had happened, but Piquette advised against it. Until the responsibility for the papers was shifted to de Vautrin, she did not think it wise for him to take any risk of danger. Jim Horton demurred, but when he saw how much in earnest she was, he consented to remain in hiding a few days longer.
And late the following afternoon, Monsieur de Vautrin not yet having returned, and while they still waited, an astonishing thing happened, for Piquette's maid, under cover of nightfall (as was the arrangement) brought the letters from the Boulevard Clichy, and among them was aPetit Bleuaddressed to Jim Horton. He picked it up gingerly in his fingers as though it had been dynamite and curiously scrutinized the envelope. It augured badly for his security in Paris if many people knew so readily where he was to be found. De Vautrin perhaps——? Or——
He tore the envelope open quickly, Piquette looking over his shoulder. It was in French, of course, and he read,
"Shall be alone Rue de Tavennes to-night eight. Forgive and don't fail. MOIRA."
He read the lines over and over, Piquette helping him to translate, and stood a moment as though transfixed by its significance. "Forgive." That was the word that stood out in black letters. What had come over her? Did this mean that driven to desperation by the situation in which she had found herself she had been forced against her will to plead with him for sanctuary? Or was it help that she needed? Whatever the real meaning of the message, there was no doubt in Jim Horton's mind as to where his duty lay.
But Piquette was already questioning Celeste rapidly.
"When did thisPetit Bleuarrive?"
"Not an hour ago, Madame."
"You are sure?"
"Yes, Madame, positive. I myself received it from the messenger."
"Very well, Celeste. You will return to the apartment and if any other message arrives, be sure to bring it at once."
"Yes, Madame."
"And be sure to take the roundabout way and be sure that you are not followed."
"Yes, Madame."
When the woman departed, Piquette took the blue slip from Jim Horton's fingers and sat by the gas-light, rereading it slowly and thoughtfully.
"I must go, of course, Piquette," said Jim quietly.
"Yes,mon ami, you mus' go. An' yet there are some t'ings I don' on'erstan'."
"What, Piquette?"
"It is strange, dis sudden change of min' of Madame 'Orton," she replied.
"She wants me,—needs me," said Jim, unaware of the pain he caused.
Piquette shrugged.
"I could 'ave tol' you dat at Monte Carlo," she said dryly, "but to ask you to come to 'er—it's different, dat."
"And yet she has done it——"
"De character of Madame 'as change' a great deal in a few days,monJeem."
"Something must have happened. Her position! Think of it, Piquette."
"I do. It is mos' onpleasan'. But I t'ink you would be de very las' person she would sen' for."
"Who then——? Piquette, I——"
She rose, and handed him his message. "You mus' go," she said with a shrug, "an' dere is not much time. But wit' your permission,monJeem——" she added firmly, "I will go wit' you."
"You, Piquette!" he stammered dubiously.
But she smiled at him.
"Ah,mon vieux, I s'all not intrude. You know dat,n'est-ce pas? But Madame 'Orton and I, we on'erstan' each oder. Per'aps I can 'elp 'er too. An' where could she go onless to de Boulevard Clichy?"
Jim Horton stood speechless for a moment and then, slowly, "I hadn't thought of that," he muttered.
They dined and then Piquette went to her room to put on her hat, while Jim Horton sat watching the clock which ticked off the minutes before their departure. Of course Moira's appeal for forgiveness was only the weary cry of a heart sick with disappointment—a cry for sanctuary from the dreaded evils that encompassed her. But he would not permit himself to believe that it meant any new happiness for him, except the mere joy that he would find in doing her a service. What he hoped was that at last she had decided to permit him to take her away from Quinlevin. With that he would be content—must be content—for the thing that separated them was stronger than her will or his. "There's no divorce but death." Her words came to him again, the weary tones with which she had uttered them, and he realized again that there was no hope for her or for him. Even if his will were stronger than hers, he must not use it to coerce her.
When Piquette joined him they went forth by a circuitous way toward the Rue de Tavennes. To be certain that they were not recognized they avoided the populous streets and chose narrow by-ways, shadowed and unfamiliar, their coat collars turned up, their hats pulled well down over their eyes, while Horton strode beside her, saying nothing. To see Moira, to speak to her, to take her away from the rogue who had for so long held her in his thrall....
As they turned into the Rue de Tavennes Horton glanced at his watch. It was some moments before the appointed hour. Under a gas lamp, he glanced at Piquette. He thought that she seemed pale, that her dark eyes burned with a deeper intensity, that she was compact of suppressed emotions, as though she were driven forward upon her feet by a power beyond her to control. And something of her tenseness seemed curiously communicated to him. Was it that Piquette knew that the spell that bound her to him was to be broken to-night, that the strange and wonderful friendship that she had found was to be dissipated by a new element. Why had she chosen to come with him—insisted on it even? And the rapt, eager, absorbed look he had seen upon her face made him almost ready to believe that she had in her something of the seer and prophetess at which he had been pleased to jest. He knew that she was "game," physically, spiritually, and that she could walk into the face of danger and suffering to do him a service. It almost seemed as though she had chosen to come with him to-night because it was her final act of self-abnegation, to bring Jim and Moira together—to help the woman he loved to security if not to happiness.
As they neared the familiar gate of Madame Toupin, Horton was conscious of a sense of grave responsibility. It was the same feeling that had come to him there in the trench before the advance upon Boissière Wood, the imminence of great events, the splendid possibilities of success, the dire consequences of failure, a hazard of some kind, with happiness or misery for many as the stake.
At the corner Piquette suddenly caught him by the elbow and held him.
"Wait,mon ami," she whispered. "Wait!"
He looked down at her in surprise at the sudden pause in her eager footsteps.
"Why, Piquette?" he asked.
"I—I don' know,monJeem," she muttered breathlessly, one hand to her heart. "I don' know—somet'ing tell me to wait——"
"Do you want to go back?" he asked.
"No, no——"
"What then——?"
"I can't tell you. Jus' a feeling dat you should not go. I am not sure——"
"But I don't understand——"
"Nor I,monJeem," she laughed. "'Ave I not tol' you devrai gamine'ave secon' sight? Forgive me. You t'ink I am foolish. But it is 'ere in my 'eart——"
"You do not want me to go to her, Piquette?" he asked.
"Yes. To 'er,monJeem.C'est bien. Is it not for dat which I come?"
She hesitated for another long moment, Jim watching her, and then raised her head like some wild creature sniffing at the breeze.
"Allons!" she said. "We shall go now."
He smiled at her mood and they went on, Piquette making no further protest, and reached the gate of Madame Toupin, where they paused for a moment. Thelogewas dark and the gate was open. This was unusual, but Horton remembered that sometimes Madame Toupin and her pretty daughter went together for visits in the neighborhood. Two men were chatting under the lamp in the court-yard, but so absorbed in their own affair that they gave no attention to the visitors who entered the building and slowly climbed the stairs, so familiar to Jim, and so suggestive of the greatest joy and the greatest misfortune he had ever known. Piquette followed him one step behind, clinging to the tail of his overcoat. They met no one. A light showed beyond a transom on the second floor, the odor of a cigarette was wafted to them, and the sound of a voice softly singing. There was no other studio-apartment on the third floor but Moira's, and they mounted the steps softly on tiptoe, peering upward into the obscurity for signs of illumination that would proclaim occupancy. But they could see no light but the reflection of the cold starlit sky which came through a window on the stair and outlined the rail and baluster.
"Is dere no light?" asked Piquette in a voice which in spite of itself seemed no more than a whisper.
"I can't see any yet," muttered Jim. And then, as his head came in line with the floor, he pointed upward. Above the door the transom showed.
"Ah!Elle est là," she gasped, falling into her native tongue unconsciously.
Silently they mounted and Jim knocked upon the door. There was no reply. He knocked more loudly. Silence again. Then he put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door yielded and they entered, Piquette peering curiously over his shoulder, and around the room. The gas-light, turned low, cast a dim light over the room. The corners ware bathed in shadow, and Horton's gaze swept them eagerly, while he moved here and there. The familiar chairs, the couch by the big window, the easel with its canvas, the draperies, the lay figure, seemed to be all as when he had seen them last, but there was no one there. The studio was empty. With Piquette close at his side he went to the door of the kitchenette. It was locked and the key was in the door. It had been fastened from the studio side.
"That's curious," muttered Jim. "She may have gone out for a moment."
"Perhaps," said Piquette.
Jim went around the studio, glancing at the windows, and then joined his companion by the door, scrutinizing his watch.
"We're a few moments early, Piquette," he muttered.
"I will go down,mon ami, and ask when she come back," she ventured.
And they went out of the studio, closing the door behind them. But Jim Horton hesitated, glancing back at the door.
"I wonder if there could have been any mistake," he muttered. "Eight o'clock. I don't understand——"
"Jeem," said Piquette, "I do not like de look of dis. I am afraid——"
She peered down into the obscurity suddenly and put her fingers to her lips.
"Some one is coming," she murmured. "It is——" she paused, listened, and then caught him by the arm. "It is not a woman,—it is a man. Listen."
He obeyed, catching her meaning and its significance quickly. The footsteps were surely not those of a woman, and the stairs to the floor below creaked heavily.
"A man! Who?" he muttered.
"It is what I fear'. We mus' 'ide—somewhere—quick!"
The door of the hall-room Jim had slept in was near them. Tiptoeing over to it quickly, the girl behind him, he tried the knob. It yielded and they entered its darkness, leaving the door wide enough open so that they could look out. The man was now climbing up the stair and reached the landing. If either of them had expected to see Barry Quinlevin they were disappointed, for the figure was heavier, strangely similar to Jim Horton's, and like him wore a dark overcoat and slouch hat. And while they peered out at him, the man hesitated, looked up at the transom and then turned the knob and entered the studio, closing the door carefully behind him. Jim Horton had felt Piquette's fingers clutch his arm and questioned in a whisper.
"What is it, Piquette?"
"Your broder—'Arry," she gasped.
"Impossible. He's at camp——"
"I would swear it——"
"In civilian clothes? He knows better than that." He laughed gently. "You're nervous, Piquette——"
"It's 'Arry, I tell you," she insisted. "I am not mistake'——"
"H-m. It did look like him—but what——?"
"I doan know. Its strange what I t'ink——"
"But why should Harry come here when Moira sent me——"
"An' what if she did not send you dePetit Bleu?"
"You mean——?"
"I doan know——"
"That Harry sent it? Why would he want to meet me?" he shrugged. "But it's queer, Piquette. If he's here to worry her again I'll break his head."
"Sh——," whispered Piquette, calming him. "She mus' go wit' me,mon ami."
He nodded.
"But she isn't there. I don't understand."
"We mus' wait 'ere."
And so they stood at the door, listening for sounds from below. Silence. And then a strange commotion close at hand.
Suddenly Piquette clutched Jim's arm.
"Jeem!" he heard her whisper in sudden terror. "What is it?"
He had heard the same thing too, a faint sound, like a cough, followed by a groan as though some one were struggling for breath. Another pause while they listened again. There was no mistaking it now. Jim Horton had heard the same sounds before from the throat of one of the Engineers who had been horribly gassed. Another groan, then the impact of a heavy body falling.
Jim Horton sprang out into the hallway, drawing his automatic, and threw himself against the studio door. It was locked. He assaulted it again, again, and at last the door-jamb tore away and he was precipitated into the middle of the room, revolver in hand, glaring about him, Piquette close beside him, her eyes distended with horror.
In the middle of the floor near the fireplace lay the figure of a man, quite motionless, a dark blotch growing on the rug beneath his body. And the distorted face turned toward the feeble light of the flickering gas-jet was that of his brother—Harry.