Chapter XXVII
The Hand of God
"Chacun ne comprend que ce qu'il retrouve en soi."
Mr. Sander only made a mistake common to Englishmen when he underratedthe capacity of his neighbour. Hearing from his colleague in Nice thatMiste had left that city for St. Martin Lantosque, with us upon hisheels, Sander concluded that our quarry would escape us, and withgreat promptitude set forth to Cuneo to await his arrival there.
Before leaving Genoa, however, my agent took steps to ensure thetransmission of his correspondence, and a telegram despatched byGiraud from St. Martin, after my departure thence, duly reached theaddressee at Cuneo. On arriving, therefore, at Genoa, and going to theHotel de Genes there, I found, not Mr. Sander, but a telegraphicmessage from him bidding me await his return.
"At what time," I asked the waiter, "arrives the next train fromCuneo?"
"At eight o'clock, signor."
I looked at the clock. It was now seven.
"There is a steamer sailing this evening for South America," I said.
"Yes, signor; with many passengers from this hotel."
"At what time?"
"At seven o'clock--even now."
A minute later I was driving down to the docks--my swimming head fullof half-matured ideas of bribing some one to delay the steamer. Thencame the blessed reflection that, in the absence of Miste, hisconfederate would certainly not depart alone. I knew enough of theirtactics to feel sure that instead of taking passage in the steamerthis man (who could only be a subordinate to that master in cunningwho had shot me) must perforce await his chief's arrival.
Nevertheless, I bade the man drive as quickly as the vile pavementwould allow, thinking to board the steamer at all events andscrutinise the faces of her passengers. We rattled through the narrowand tortuous streets, reaching the port in time to see the last ropecast off from the great vessel as she swung round to seaward. Ihurried to the pierhead, and reached the extremity of the port beforethe _Principe Amadeo_, which had to move with circumspection amid theshipping.
The passengers were assembled on deck, taking what many of themdoubtless knew to be a last look at their native land. The loweringsun cast a glow over city and harbour, while a great silence hoveredover all. The steamer came quite close to the pierhead. I could havetossed a letter on her deck.
Suddenly my heart stood still as my gaze lighted on the form of an oldman who stood at the stern-rail a little apart from hisfellow-passengers. He stood with his back turned towards me looking upto the lighthouse. Every line of his form, his attitude, the verylocks of thin, white hair were familiar to me. This was the Vicomte deClericy, and no other--the man whose funeral I had attended atSenneville six months ago. I did not cry out, or rub my eyes, or feelunreal, as people do in books. I knew that I was my sober self, andyonder was the Vicomte de Clericy. But I thought that the pier wasmoving and not the steamer, and bumped awkwardly against my neighbour,who looked at me curiously and apologised.
The old man by the stern-rail slowly turned and showed me hisface--bland, benevolent, short-sighted. I can swear that it was theVicomte de Clericy, though the world has only my word for it; thatLucille's father--dead, buried and mourned--stood on the deck of thesteamer _Principe Amadeo_ as she steamed out into the Gulf of Genoa onthe evening of the 30th of May, 1871.
The precious moments slipped by, the great steamer glided past me. Iheard the engine-room gong. The screw stirred the clear water, and Iwas left gazing stupidly at the receding form of my old patron as hestood with his placid hands clasped behind him.
It was some time before I left the spot; for my wounds had left meweak, and I have never had that quickness of brain which enables mento see the right course, and take it in a flash of thought.
The steamer had gone--was, indeed, now growing smaller on thehorizon--and on board of her the Vicomte de Clericy. There was nogainsaying it. I had seen him with my own eyes, but why had he donethis thing?
My shoulder throbbed painfully. I was sick at heart, and could notbring my mind to bear upon any one subject. The cab-driver hadfollowed as far as he could, and now stood beckoning to me with hiswhip. I went back, and bade him drive me to the hotel; for I had notbeen in bed for three nights, and had a strong desire to get andremain there until this great fatigue should at length leave me.
Of what followed I have but a dim recollection; indeed, rememberlittle from that time until I awoke in a bedroom at the Hotel de Genesand found a gentle pink and white face, surrounded by a snowy cap,bending over my bed.
"What time is it, and what day, my sister?" I asked, and was gentlycommanded to hold my tongue. She gave me a spoonful of something withno taste to it, without so much as asking me whether I wanted it.Indeed, this gentle person treated me as a child, as, moreover, Ithink women always treat such men as are wholly in their power.
"You must keep quiet," she said. "See, I will read to you!" and takinga book from her pocket read aloud the Psalms in a cunning sing-songvoice that sent me to sleep.
When I awoke again the nun was still in the room, and, with her,Sander, talking the most atrocious French. A queer contrast. One ofthe world worldly, a moth that battened on the seamy side; the otherfar above the wickedness of men.
"Hush!" I heard her say. "He is awake, and must not hear of youraffairs."
And she turned away from poor Sander, with his shrewd air, as from theworld and the iniquity thereof.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at her placid back, which,indeed, she gave him unceremoniously enough, with a hopeless contempt.Womanhood had earned, it appeared, his profoundest scorn asunbusinesslike and incompetent. Nunhood simply astounded him.
"Look here, my sister!" he said, plucking impatiently at her demuresleeve, and even in my semi-consciousness I smiled at the sound of thewords from his cockney lips.
"Well?" she answered, turning her unruffled glance upon him.
Sander lowered his voice and talked hurriedly in her ear. But she onlyshook her head. How small the things of this world are to those wholook with honest eyes beyond it!
"Well, I _must_ tell him--there!" exclaimed Sander, angrily, and hemade a step towards the bed. But she laid her hand on his arm and heldhim. It was a queer picture.
"Let me go," he said. "I know best."
Her face flushed suddenly, and the nun stood before the detective.
"No," she replied quietly, "you do not know best. I am mistress here.Will you kindly go?"
She went to the door and held it open for him, her actions and wordsbelying the meek demeanour which belongs to her calling, and which shenever laid aside for a moment.
So with a hopeless mien Sander left the room, and my nurse cametowards the bed.
"That," she said, softly, "is a very stupid man."
"He is not generally considered so, my sister."
She paid as little heed to my words as a nurse to the prattle of achild.
"You have moved," she said, "and this bandage is ruffled. You must tryto lie quieter, for you have a nasty wound in your shoulder. I know,for I have been through the war. How came you by such a hurt now thatpeace has been declared?"
"The other man came by a worse one, for he is dead."
"Then the good God forgive you. But you must keep quiet. See--I willread to you."
And out came the book again in its devotional black cover. She readfor a long while, but I paid no heed to her voice, nor fell under itssleepy spell. Presently she closed the pages with a pious look ofreproach.
"You are not attending," she said.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I was wondering what cause you had to fall out with my agent,Mr. Sander, who is not so stupid as you think."
"He is one of those," she answered primly, "who do not know how tobehave in a sick room. He foolishly wanted to talk to you ofaffairs--when you are not well enough. Affairs--to a sick man!"
"Who should be thinking of the affairs of another world, my sister."
"Those alway
s should come first," she answered, with downcast eyes.
"And of what did Mr. Sander want to speak?" I asked.
She looked up with a gleam of interest. Beneath the demure bib of herprofessional apron there beat still a woman's heart. Sister Reneewanted to tell me the news herself.
"Oh," she answered, "it is nothing that will interest you. You are noteven an Italian--only an Englishman."
"That is all, my sister."
"But all Genoa is on the housetops about it."
"Ah!"
"Yes. Never has there been so great a catastrophe; but you have nofriends here, so it will not affect you."
"Therefore, I may be the more safely told. I am not affected by greatcatastrophes from a humane point of view."
"Well," she said, busying herself about the room with quick andnoiseless movements, "but it is always terrible to hear of such athing when one reflects that we are all so unprepared."
"For what, my sister?"
"For death," she answered, with a look of awe in the most innocenteyes in the world.
"But who is dead?"
"Three hundred people," she answered. "The passengers and crew of the_Principe Amadeo_--a large steamer that sailed last night from Genoa,with emigrants for South America."
"And all are drowned?" I asked, after a pause, thankful that my facewas in the shadow of the curtain.
"All, except two of the crew. The steamer had only left the harbour anhour before, and all the passengers were at dinner. There came, Ithink, a fog, and in the darkness a collision occurred. The _PrincipeAmadeo_ went down in five minutes."
She spoke quietly, and with that calm which religion, doubtless, gaveher. Indeed, her only thought seemed to be that these people hadpassed to their account without the ministrations of the church.
She soon left me, having my promise to sleep quietly and at once.Soeur Renee, despite her grey hairs and the wrinkles that the years(for her life seemed purged of other cause) had left, was an easyvictim to deception.
I did not sleep, but lay awake for many hours, turning over in my mindthe events that had followed each other so quickly. And one thoughtcame ever uppermost--namely, that in the smallest details of ourexistence a judgment far superior to ours must of necessity be atwork. This wiser judgment I detected in the chance, as some will callit, that sent Sister Renee to me with this news. For if Sander hadtold me of the sinking of the _Principe Amadeo_ I must assuredly, inthe heat of the moment, have disclosed to him, in return, my knowledgethat the Vicomte de Clericy was on board of her when she sailed fromGenoa. Whereas, now that I had time to reflect, I saw clearly thatthis news belonged to Madame de Clericy alone, and was in nowise thebusiness of Mr. Sander. That keen-witted man had faithfully performedthe duty on which he had been employed--namely, to enable me to lay myhands on Charles Miste. One half of the money--a fortune initself--had been recovered. There remained, therefore, nothing but topay Mr. Sander and bid him farewell.
I was, however, compelled to await the arrival of Alphonse Giraud, whotelegraphed to me that he was still in Nice. I did not know until longafter that he had been formally arrested there for his participationin the chase of Miste that ended in that ill-starred miscreant'sdeath. Nor did I learn, until months had elapsed, that my good friendJohn Turner had also hastened to Nice, taking thither with him a greatParisian lawyer to defend me in the trial that took place while I layill at Genoa. Sister Renee, moreover, had not laid aside her womanlyguile when she took the veil, for she concealed from me with perfectsuccess that I was under guard night and day in my bedroom at theHotel de Genes. What had I done to earn such true friends or deservesuch faithful care?
The trial passed happily enough, and Alphonse arrived at Genoa ere Ihad been there a week. He had delayed little in realising with aboyish delight one of his recovered drafts for five thousand pounds.He repaid such loans as I had been able to make him, settled accountswith Sander, and greatly relieved my mind by seeing him depart. For Ifelt in some sort a criminal myself, and the secret, which had by themerest accident been thrust upon me, discomfited me under the keen eyeof the expert.
The weather was exceedingly hot, and sickness raged unchecked in thecity. A fortnight elapsed, during which Giraud was my faithfulattendant. The doctor who had been called in, the first of his craftwith whom I had had business, a Frenchman and a clever surgeon,restored me to a certain stage of convalescence, but could not getbeyond it.
"Where do you live," he asked me one day, with a grave face, "when youare at home?"
"In Suffolk, on the east coast of England."
"Where the air is different from this."
"As different as sunrise from afternoon," I answered, with a suddenlonging for the bluff, keen air of Hopton.
"Are you a good sailor?" he asked.
"I spent half my boyhood on the North Sea."
He walked to the window and stood there in deep thought.
"Then," he said at length, "go home at once by steamer from here, andstay there. Your own country will do more for you than all the doctorsin Italy."