*CHAPTER V*
*PIQUETTE*
She wore a black velvet toque which bore upon its front two largecrimson wings, poised for flight, and they seemed to typify the girlherself--alert, on tip-toe, a bird of passage. She had a nose veryslightly _retrousse_, black eyes, rather small but expressive, withbrows and lids skillfully tinted; her figure was graceful, _svelte_, andextraordinarily well groomed, from her white gloves to the tips of herslender shiny boots, and seemed out of place in the shadows of thesemurky surroundings. For the rest, she was mischievous, tingling withvitality and joyous at this unexpected meeting.
Horton glanced past her and saw a figure in a slouch hat go out of thedoor, then from the darkness turn and beckon. But Jim Horton was givenno opportunity to escape and Harry's warning gesture, if anything,served to increase his curiosity as to this lovely apparition.
"Monsieur Valcourt--Monsieur 'Orton," she said, indicating her companionwith a wave of the hand. And then, as he shook hands with hercompanion, a handsome man with a well-trimmed grayish mustache,"Monsieur Valcourt is one day de greatest sculptor in de world--Monsieur'Orton is de 'ero of Boissiere wood."
"You know of the fight in Boissiere----?" put in Jim.
"And who does not? It is all in _le Matin_ to-day--an' 'ere I find youtrying to 'ide yourself in the obscure _cafe_ of Monsieur Javet."
She stopped suddenly and before he realized what she was about hadthrown her arms over his shoulders and kissed him squarely upon thelips. He felt a good deal of a fool with Monsieur Valcourt and thevillainous-looking Javet grinning at them, but the experience was notunpleasant and he returned her greeting whole heartedly, wondering whatwas to come next.
And when laughing gayly she released him, he turned toward MonsieurValcourt, who was regarding her with a dubious smile.
"For all her prosperity, Monsieur 'Orton," Valcourt was saying, inFrench, "she is still a _gamine_."
"And who would wonder, _mon vieux_! To live expensively is verycomfortable, but even comfort is tedious. Does not one wish to laughwith a full throat, to kick one's toes or to put one's heels upon atable? _La la_! I do not intend to grow too respectable, I assureyou."
Jim Horton laughed. She had spoken partly in English, partly in French,translating for both, and then, "Let me assure you, Madame," saidValcourt with a stately bow, "that you are not in the slightest dangerof that."
But she was already turning to Horton again.
"A 'ero. The world is full of 'eros to-day, but not one like my 'Arry'Orton. _Allons_! I mus' 'ave a talk with you alone. Lucien," shesaid sharply, turning to Valcourt, "I will come to de studio to-morrow.Monsieur le Duc t'inks I am gone away, but now I would be a poorcreature not to give my brave soldier a welcome."
"If Monsieur will excuse me----" said Valcourt, offering his hand.
Jim Horton took it, wondering where the adventure was to lead. She wasa very remarkable person and her _elan_ had already carried him off hisfeet. Taking his hand in hers, with a charming simplicity, she led himinto the room at the rear, now occupied by a number of persons of bothsexes, and bade Monsieur Javet himself serve them. And when they wereseated at a table, her hand still in his, she examined him with a newinterest.
"It is indeed you," she said gayly, "and yet you seem different--morecalm, more silent. What is it?"
"I've had two months in the hospital."
"And you're quite strong again?"
"Oh yes. And you have been well--Piquette?"
"Well--but _so_ ennuyee. It is why I come back here to de _Quartier_ toget a breath of fresh air. I've been posing for Monsieur Valcourt--_LaLiberte_. He says my figure is better than ever. And Valcourt knows."
"I'm sure you are very lovely."
"_La, la, mon vieux_, but you are the _grand serieux_. Of course I amlovely. It is my business. But you do not _show_ me 'ow lovely I am,for you are so quiet--so cool----"
Jim Horton laughed and caught her fingers to his lips.
"You are--Piquette. That is enough."
"_C'est mieux_. But you are change'. One does not look deat' in deeyes wit'out feeling its col' touch. Oh, but I am glad that you arecome back to me. You s'all be 'ere long?"
"I don't know--when I shall get my orders."
"But until then--t'ings s'all be as dey were wit' us two, eh, my littleone? An' I s'all 'elp you now in de great affair? But Monsieur deVautrin becomes more onpleasant. He is a very tiresome ol' man...."
Jim Horton started unconsciously. Then remembered that it was inconnection with de Vautrin that Quinlevin had mentioned this very girlPiquette. He understood better now the reason for Harry's gesture fromthe outer darkness. The meeting had been a stroke of Fate. Perhaps sheheld the key to the riddle.
"Tiresome, yes," he said slowly, "all old men are tiresome----"
"And _difficile_," she mused, sipping at her glass. "While I am prettyhe likes to have me nearby. But I know. He cares not'ing. He willleave me not'ing. I am not content. So I say I want to help in degreat affair. You have planned somet'ing in the hospital--you andMonsieur Quinlevin?"
"Er--nothing definite."
"Monsieur le Duc still pays?"
Horton meditated for a moment.
"No," he said, "he has stopped paying."
Piquette Morin leaned further over the table, frowning.
"Ah! Since when?"
"For--er--three months or more."
"Then you t'ink he suspects somet'ing?"
"I don't know. It looks so, doesn't it?"
"Yes, perhaps." She paused a moment and then, "I make him talk about depast, as you ask' me to. I am no saint and de _bon Dieu_ has taught meto look out for myself. I shall continue. If he tries to get rid of mede way he did wit' his wife, he will find me troublesome."
Horton laughed. "I don't doubt it." And then, carefully, "You heardhow he got rid of her?" he questioned.
"It was 'er riches, of course. 'E spent 'er '_dot_' in a few monthgambling at Monte Carlo, and den when 'e came to 'er for more 'e abuseand beat 'er." She paused and her dark eyes snapped viciously. "'Ewould not have beaten me," she finished.
"And then?" he asked, wondering whither the conversation was leading.
"And den, as you know, she ran away to Ireland----"
"To Ireland----" he muttered eagerly.
"Of course," she said with a glance at him. "And when 'e got enoughmoney 'e sail 'round de worl' enjoying himself. Even now sometimes 'eis a beast. It is den I come back to de _Quartier_ where I am born andbred--to be merry again." She sighed and then laughed gayly. "Butto-night we mus' not talk of dis tiresome matter. It is your night,_mon vieux_, and we s'all make it 'appy."
He kissed the rosy palm she thrust to his lips, with difficultyconcealing his curiosity.
"But the child of Monsieur the Duc----" he urged after the moment of_badinage_. "He said nothing----?"
He paused as though in doubt.
She shrugged carelessly and lighted a cigarette.
"Monsieur is cautious. 'E spoke not'ing of de child, except to say datit died wit' de mother. De money came to 'im. Dat was all 'e caredabout, _mon_ 'Arry."
To Jim Horton no light seemed to dawn. And how to question withoutarousing the girl's suspicions was more that he could plan. But heremembered Quinlevin's uncertainty in the hospital--his thought thatHarry might have talked to this girl. So he took a chance.
"You asked the Duc no questions that might have aroused his suspicions?"
"No. I t'ink not. And yet I remember once 'e ask' me if I knowMonsieur Quinlevin."
"And what did you reply?"
"Of course, dat I never heard of 'im."
He frowned at the cigarette in his fingers as Harry would have frownedand imitated as nearly as possible the sullen mood of his brother.
"The money has stopped coming to Quinlevin. We've got to do something."
"_Parfaitement_," said Piquette carel
essly. "De time 'as come toproduce de girl Moira and de papers."
Her glance was not upon his face or she would have seen the look ofbewilderment and surprise suddenly distend his eyes. But she heard himgasp and turned again toward him. But by this time the missing piecesof the puzzle were at his fingers' ends and he gathered them quickly.It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the deadchild who would have inherited. And Quinlevin had bled the Duc foryears with promises of silence. Harry had connived at the plot and nowthe coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures." AndPiquette knew all. Blackmail it was--of the blackest.
For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself.And then only assented safely to her suggestion.
"Yes; it is the only thing to be done."
"It mus' be manage' carefully. You are sure de papers are all correct?"
"It is as to that Monsieur Quinlevin has gone to Ireland."
"Ah, I see--we mus' wait until 'e comes back. But I s'all 'elp you,_mon ami_. You will rely upon me, _n'est ce pas_?"
"Yes, I will."
His mind was so full of this astonishing revelation that he sat silentand motionless while she changed the subject and chattered on. Thecharm of the chance encounter was gone. _Gamine_ she might be, andirresponsible like others of her kind in Paris or elsewhere, but she wasnot for him. He had a standard to measure her by.
"You are so _triste_, 'Arry," she broke in suddenly. "I do not t'ink Ilike you so _triste_. What s'all we care, you and I, for Monsieur leDuc an' 'is money? To be young an' in love----"
She caught both of his hands across the table and held them. "You arenot yet well, 'Arry. I can see. It is dat for so long you do not knowcomfort an' 'appiness. _Allons_! I s'all make you laugh again, until de_triste_ look come no more into your eyes."
He was about to give some token of his appreciation that would satisfyher when he saw her glance past his shoulder toward the door which ledinto the bar.
"Your frien' who was wit' you--'e 'as come back again," she whispered.
"Ah----" he turned and saw Harry peering through the door.
"'E wants you to come? _C'est embetant_! Sen' 'im away."
"I'm afraid I----" He rose uncertainly and turned. "Wait," he said,"I'll see." And then walked out into the bar where Harry obstinatelyawaited him.
"I've had enough of this," growled his brother. "You come out of herewith me or I'll----"
"Don't be a fool. You could see that I couldn't help it."
"You can help it now----"
"All right. We'll have this thing out, you and I--to-night. You meetme at the corner toward the Boulevard in twenty minutes. I'll get ridof her."
And without waiting for a reply he returned to Piquette, his mind madeup.
"I'm sorry," he said to her, "but I've some urgent business with thisman. It can't be put off. But I must see you soon----"
She pouted and rose.
"I can't explain--not now. You won't be cross----"
"It is not--anodder woman----?" she asked shrewdly.
"Another----? How can you ask? No. There are no other women in Paris,Piquette."
"You are cruel," she muttered in a low tone, her dark eyes flashing.
"No. It is a matter of importance. Will you let me have youraddress----?"
"No 82 Boulevard Clichy--de same place."
"Good. To-morrow I will write you."
Without a word she gathered up her cloak and led the way out, lookingabout curiously for her enemy of the evening. But Harry haddisappeared. She said nothing and they went out into the street whereJim Horton found a cab and put her into it.
"Mechant!" she whispered softly.
"It is not my fault, Piquette. Soon----"
He gave the address to the _cocher_ and she was gone.
Jim Horton stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the retreating_fiacre_ as it rattled away over the cobblestones and then turned slowlyback, his anger at his discoveries, long repressed by the necessities ofhis masquerade, suddenly bursting the barriers of his self-control.Moira--innocent--the catspaw, the stool-pigeon for these two rascals!How much did she know? How could Quinlevin have carried the deceptionout all these years without de Vautrin suspecting something? And if, asit seemed, he was suspicious of them now, who had told? His own dutyseemed very clear. Every impulse of honor and decency urged that hefind this Duc de Vautrin and tell the whole truth. But there was Moira... his first duty was to her. But telling her meant revealing thesecret of Harry's disgrace and his own part in it. That would be adifficult thing to do, but he would have to do it. He would tell herto-morrow.
As for Harry--he would make short work of _him_. He went with longdetermined strides to the appointed spot and Harry met him with athreatening air.
"What the Hell has she been saying?" he muttered.
Jim Horton was angry, but he kept himself well in hand, aware of his ownphysical superiority to this blustering shell of intrigue, deceit andcowardice, built in his own image. If earlier in the evening he had hadhis moments of pity for his brother's misfortunes, if he had planned tomake restitution for the imprudence that had resulted in their undoing,he had no such gentle feeling or purpose now.
As he didn't reply, his brother continued angrily. "You've gone aboutyour limit, I tell you. What did she tell you?"
"Everything. I've got the whole story. And I'd like to tell you beforewe go any further that you're just about the crookedest----" He brokeoff with a shrug.
"What's the use? The worst thing I could say would be a compliment.But you've come to the end of your tether. I don't know why I hopedthere might be a chance of getting you to go straight--for her--but Idid. The interesting revelations of this charming lady have removed theimpression. The money you took from the estate, your questionable dealsin America, your habits, put you outside the pale of decency, but theblackmail of the Duc with your own wife as stool-pigeon----"
Harry in a sudden blind fury that took no thought of consequences struckviciously, but Jim, who had been watching for the blow, warded it,tripped his brother neatly and sent him spinning against the wall wherehe fell and lay motionless. But he was unhurt--only bewildered by theresult of his own incapacity.
"Get up!" Jim ordered. "Somebody will be coming along in a moment andwe'll both be going with the police."
Harry saw reason in that and slowly got to his feet, pale, stilltrembling with rage, rubbing his hip joint, but subdued. The place theyhad chosen was in the shadow and the hour was late, and no one wasabout, but Jim Horton took a glance up and down the deserted streetbefore he resumed his interrupted remarks.
"I don't want any man's uniform when it's been defiled. You ought tohave known that. I'm going to take it off and give it back to you."
He saw the eager surprised look that came into Harry's face and raisedhis hand in warning--"But not yet. First I'm going to tell your wifethe truth and then I'm going to warn the Duc de Vautrin."
Harry started back as though to dodge another blow, the reaction of hisventure setting in with the terror of this information.
"Jim!" he whispered, clutching at his arm. "You wouldn't do that, Jim.My God! It's ruin to me--and you too."
"I'm prepared for that----"
"Don't, for God's sake don't! Wait. I've met you half way, haven't I?I'll do anything you say. I'll steer Quinlevin off and drop the thing.It was his idea--not mine. And he wouldn't have thought of it if theold man hadn't shut off the allowance----"
"Tell me the truth," Jim broke in sternly. "How much money didQuinlevin owe you?"
"Twenty thousand dollars----"
"And that was Moira's price----" contemptuously.
"I wanted her. I loved her. I swear to God I did. I love her now.I'd give anything to be able to go to her to-night----"
"You----! You forget what I know."
"It's the truth."
"How much were you to get of this money of th
e Duc's?"
Harry halted, mumbling, "That wasn't settled."
"Well, it's settled now," said Jim, with an air of finality, turningaside.
"What are you going to do?"
"Tell her--in the morning."
"You can't, Jim. Why, she'd go right to Quinlevin."
"I expect her to--and the Duke."
Harry leaned back against the wall, his fingers working at his trouserlegs, but he was speechless.
"That's about all, I think," said Jim dryly. "Good-bye."
"Then you won't listen--not if I promise----"
"What----?"
"Anything. Why, you've got me, Jim. I can't do a thing with you readyto tell Moira--even if I wanted to. What's the use? It only means ruinfor you. Wait a few days and we'll have another talk; just wait untilto-morrow night. Give me a chance to think. I'll even--I'll even getout of France and go out West somewhere and make a fresh start. I will.I mean it. I did you a dirty trick once, but I'll try to square myself.Give me a chance. Think it over. Meet me to-morrow. I'm all into-night. Promise you won't speak."
"No," said Jim, after a moment of deliberation. "I'll promise nothing,but I'll meet you to-morrow night at Javet's--at twelve--with themoney."
Harry gasped a sigh of relief and straightened, offering his hand."Thanks, Jim. To-morrow. And you won't tell her, I know. Youcouldn't. It would be too cruel. She'll suffer--my God! You know her.Can't you see how she'd suffer?"
"I--I didn't start this thing----"
"But you'll finish it, Jim. She believes in _him_, even if she doesn'tbelieve in me. It will kill her."
He saw that he had made an impression on his brother. Jim stood silent,his head bowed.
"Don't tell her to-morrow, Jim," Harry pleaded. "Promise."
Jim shrugged and turned.
"All right," he said at last. "I'll sleep on it."
He turned away and walked slowly out into the dim light of the street,moving toward the Rue de Tavennes. He did not even turn his head to seewhat became of his brother. Already he had forgotten him. The heat ofhis passion had suffered a strange reaction. To resolve to tell Moirathe truth, even to threaten to tell her was one thing, but to tell wasanother. And curiously enough Harry's picture of the consequences,drawn even in the stress of fear, was true enough--Jim knew it--wastrue. He knew her pride, her spirit. The revelation would killthem--and destroy her.
She was so dependent on him. She didn't know how greatly. And he hadbeen until the present moment so dependent upon her. He realized whather visits had meant to him, how deep had been the joy of their eveningalone in the studio. He did not dare to think of her now as he had beenthinking of her then--for during the weeks of his convalescence and theculmination of their friendship to-night Harry had seemed far off, vagueand impalpable. But their meeting had changed all this and he wasthankful that he had had enough manhood to keep his wits when he hadbeen alone with her. Moira--the pity of it--had given him signs (thathe might read and run) that the mockery of the marriage was a mockery nolonger. And it was her very confession of indifference and pity forHarry as she had known him, that seemed to give Jim the right to carefor and protect her. He _did_ care for her, he was now willing toconfess in a way far from fraternal. He had always been too busy tothink about women, but Moira had crept into his life when he was ill andunnerved, needing the touch of a friendly hand, and their peculiarrelationship had given him no chance of escape--nor her. She hadcaptured his imagination and he had succeeded where Harry had not inwinning her affection.
It was a dangerous situation and yet it fascinated him. The knowledgethat he must cause her suffering had weakened his resolve for a moment,but as he walked into the Rue de Tavennes he saw it for the fool'sparadise that it was. He would spend to-morrow with her--justto-morrow--that could do no harm and then--she should know everything.
He found his way into the court and up the stairs. The studio door wasclosed, implacable as the destiny that barred him from her.
He went into his room, closed the door and slowly undressed. Then layon the bed, staring for a long while at the reflection of thestreet-lamp upon the ceiling: Moira ... happiness ... reputation--anddishonor. Or ... outcast ... but honorable.