(1) If, owing to the slackness of the once fire-eating Grégoire and his superior, Roland’s apparition in the gardens of Mirabel had produced but little stir in official quarters, it was not so with the actual capture of a delinquent made within the chateau, and practically under the eyes of the Deputy himself. For two days Mirabel was turned inside out, and Camain, the outwardly easy-going, piqued by this daring intrusion, superintended much of the search in person. What the soldiers and police agents expected to find appeared doubtful; and indeed there was actually little for them to discover, since, already aware of the strangely open method of ingress selected by the invader, they paid no attention to the broken shutter at the back of Mirabel which had originally admitted him. The one genuine discovery which they made intrigued them a good deal—the lantern lying in the colonnade not far from the windows of the sallette—for why should a man want a lantern in the daytime?
It puzzled Valentine also when she came to hear of it; but, after thought, she came to the conclusion that the lantern was, for her at least, the key to the whole mystery of the Comte’s arrest—as indeed it was. She recalled that he had had a lantern when she found him in the sallette that evening; on searching her memory was fairly sure that he had not brought it with him to her room, and supposed that next morning, suddenly remembering having left it where its presence, if discovered, might prove very awkward for him—or for her—he had gone, at a most unfortunate moment, to retrieve it, had nearly been trapped in the sallette by the advent of Camain and his party, and in desperation had climbed with it through the window, trusting to the colonnading outside to hide him. But on returning, after an interval, by the same way, he had had the ill-luck to be seen. For all she knew, that had been the road by which he had originally entered Mirabel.
It was not until a day or two had elapsed that Valentine realised how fortunate for her was the fact that M. de Brencourt had been found breaking in, apparently for the first time, during the presence of visitors. It occurred to no one that it was not his first invasion, and had there been complicity on the part of the concierge it was plain that he would never have chosen such a time. That M. Camain himself entertained no suspicions of her was proved by the frankness with which, coming daily during this period of turmoil, he kept his subordinate posted up in the course of events.
“The authorities can make nothing of the man,” he admitted in her little room, on the third morning. “They cannot even discover his name. But, chiefly because he turned out to have too large a sum of money on him for a common malefactor, he has been clapped into the Temple, on the chance of his being a political offender.”
“Political!” ejaculated Valentine. “What political object could be served by breaking in here!”
“I confess I cannot imagine,” responded the administrator. “But the Royalists are up to all sorts of games. If he had been better-looking, now, one might have put forward a theory that he was the Duc de Trélan himself, come back to have a peep at the place . . . as you once suggested to me that he might, Madame Vidal!” He laughed, as at something equally preposterous and amusing, but all the colour went from Valentine’s face. That surmise, made in utter and desperate jest as it had been, could never know fulfilment now!
“But,” went on the Deputy, unobservant, “I am relieved to find that there is no question of the Minister of Police wanting to confront you with this man, as I was afraid, at one point, that there might be. It is possible, however, that he may require some sworn statement of conditions here, a deposition, in short, such as one makes before a notary. And I also should be glad of it for the sake of my reputation, for though this man was fortunately seen and captured at once, you will imagine, Madame, that I am not pleased to learn about that other marauder who escaped from the garden a while ago, though that has been kept very quiet—too quiet, in fact. Will you believe, Madame Vidal, that I was only a few days ago informed of that episode?”
Valentine stared at him, disconcerted. “But I thought you knew of that, Monsieur le Député!”
“Naturally. I ought to have known of it. Well, there is a more zealous sergeant at the poste de garde now, and there will henceforth be a sentry on duty here all night. So I hope that your peace will not be molested again. Now, Madame, if you will kindly give me writing materials. . . . Thank you. Be seated, pray. I shall ask you to give me an account of the early part of that day?”
“But there is nothing to give an account of,” said the Duchesse. If he had asked for the preceding evening!
“So much the better,” returned Camain, trying the nib of the quill on his finger-nail. “Still, you can tell me how the day was passed, from your rising in the morning; and what, if anything, you observed of unusual. I take it, of course, that you had not seen this man lurking about the place before?”
“No, of course not,” lied Valentine gallantly. After all, it was not for herself. But she was glad she had not to meet his eye, as he glanced up for a second.
“I was sure of that,” said he, beginning to write. “Now, although I am not a notary, we will observe the forms. . . . ‘Je soussignée. . . .’ What is your baptismal name, Madame Vidal?”
Hastily Mme de Trélan put forward the least aristocratic sounding of her names. “Marie,” she answered.
“?‘Marie,’?” repeated the scribe, in somewhat lingering tones. “?‘Marie.’ ‘I, the undersigned, Marie Vidal.’ Widow, of course?”
“Yes,” said Valentine rather faintly, for the question stabbed her. The Deputy looked up, and she had an impression that he was going to ask her how long she had been a widow, and that she would be mesmerised into answering that she did not know, that it was just what she was seeking to know. . . . But he did not; he settled to business instead—and was very business-like too. Valentine had to account for every hour of that morning, and as she really had no right in the Duc’s apartments she did not find it too easy. When it was finished, and she had signed, he thanked her, and looking at his watch left somewhat precipitately.
Valentine came back rather thoughtful from accompanying him to the door, which she always conceived it her duty to do. He was kind; she did not like deceiving him—though indeed she had no hand in this enterprise of the Comte de Brencourt’s any more than in Roland de Céligny’s. All she was doing was to hold her tongue about the Comte’s identity, and to wish him well out of the Temple. His sudden capture, however, had profoundly affected her own affairs, for he could not now be the bearer of her intended letter to the Marquis de Kersaint, nor—since he had left her that night without giving her his leader’s address—could she send it by any other means.
Unless, indeed, she thought, standing by the high barred window and looking out, she were to discover M. de Kersaint’s whereabouts by communication with Roland de Céligny, if he were still with his cousins. No, to approach Roland might be very inauspicious for him just at this juncture; moreover, she must hope, for his own sake, that he had left Paris by now. She must wait a little; and, after all, the initial shock was over. Gaston was dead, and details of the how and when of his death could not help him to life again. She hoped he had not died in poverty. She could not bear that thought. . . .
Nor could she bear, just now, the consciousness that M. Georges Camain was beginning to look upon her with an eye more beaming than that of an employer. Even his consideration, for which she had been grateful, was coming to displease her, for surely it exceeded what was due to a concierge. Not being born to that estate she could not feel certain about this, but she did know that a demeanour in the Deputy which even as Mme Vidal she disliked, as the Duc de Trélan’s widow she abhorred.
And she was troubled next day, when M. Camain appeared again, in a shirt of fine batiste fastened with a golden butterfly, bearing a bunch of roses in his hand. He laid them down on the table.
“I am happy to tell you, Madame Vidal, that the deposition was quite sufficient. You will not be molested in any way.”
“Really, Citizen Deputy, I am most grateful to you,” said the Duchesse—and meant it.
“You are more than welcome,” returned her benefactor with a bow. “It is a pleasure to serve you in anything. Besides, I look upon you as a colleague in the preservation of Mirabel.”
It was well said, if, again, an unusual sentiment. However, the look which followed its enunciation gave Valentine a sudden presentiment that his next words were going to be less well chosen, and she became acutely conscious of the red roses on the table. But at that very moment the door burst abruptly open, and Louise, with a bucket of water and a mop tied up in a cloth, clanged into the little room.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Madame Vidal, I thought you were upstairs, and I was going to wash the. . . . Oh, Monsieur le Député!” She was struck speechless.
“I will go,” said Georges Camain at once. “No, remain, my good woman, and do your work.” Her he did not address as colleague.
“Pray, Monsieur le Député——” began the Duchesse, for form’s sake, though in reality she could have embraced that bucket-bearing form.
“No, no,” said he quite good-humouredly. “I would not for the world interfere with your wise dispositions. Do not come to the door, I beg.”
He disappeared, only just avoiding a second bucket which Louise had left outside in the passage, and Valentine turned away to hide a smile, but not because of the bucket, for that anyone should fall over such an object was not a form of humorous incident that appealed to her. Her mirth, however, was of a very fleeting nature, since the situation had elements which did not amuse her at all.
“Look what beautiful flowers M. le Député has brought, Madame!” said Louise, suddenly seeing them. “He doubtless brought them for you. A very affable gentleman, M. Camain!”
Mme de Trélan glanced at the roses, still lying on the table. Impossible to tell, since the bearer had been so hastily routed, whether they were intended for her or no. On the whole she feared they were. Then the idea of another destination occurred to her. The affable gentleman was probably on his way to Mlle Dufour.
“You can take them away with you when you go, Louise,” she said, indifferently. “M. le Député must have forgotten them. But it is a pity that they should be wasted.”
“But surely Madame will keep them?”
“I dislike the scent of roses,” was Madame’s quite curt reply.
But Rose—the Rose—she had made up her mind about that ornament of the theatre. There could never have been anything between her and Gaston, fastidious as he had been to his finger-tips. Mlle Dufour had not enough mind even to have amused him. But there was such a thing as claiming for lover a man who had on one occasion, or perhaps two, paid a woman some slight, half careless attention, especially when that man’s admiration was in itself a distinction. The Duchesse de Trélan had known it done in far higher circles than those in which Mlle Dufour moved. Something told her that in 1790 the actress had employed that useful method of self-advertisement, and who was there then—or ever—to gainsay its truth? To-day that man’s wife, having seen the claimant, felt with every instinct that the claim was false. But she did not detest Rose much the less.
(2)
Camain did not come again for several days. The little sprite which dwelt in Mme de Trélan’s brain, even in the cloud of sorrow and remorse, suggested that he was trying to find out and avoid a day when minor “colleagues” might come charging into her room. And luck served him, for he arrived one beautiful afternoon when she was qu............