possession, he will be about the most unwelcome guest that ever joined a party.”
“What do you mean, M. Wolowski?”
“As a theatrical artist, Mr. Aventayle, it may have fallen to your lot to play Don Giovanni, and to invite the statue to supper.”
“No, but I have often played Leporello. But what has that to do with it?”
“Leporello’s experiences will equally serve to explain my meaning. When the statue of the dead man comes into the room, what did you do as Leporello?”
“I got under the table, of course, enacting the awfullest funk in the world.”
“Well, I think,” said the Pole, with the most imperturbable calmness, “that to-morrow, in the event of M. Ernest Adair appearing at the meeting, your friends will have the opportunity of comparing the real and the artistic expression of terror.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“I think that M. Adair will be killed to-night.”
“Killed!”
“I think so. I have very good reason to think so. And in that case, I suppose that you will not be so happy to see him at one to-morrow.”
“Good God, man!” exclaimed Aventayle, “don’t talk of murder in that cold-blooded way!—bah!—you are playing a bit of farce, and, like an old actor, I am sure to be taken in. It is a bad compliment to you, though,” he added, “that I was serious for an instant, but I have heard such a quantity of extraordinary things, that I can’t feel quite regularly, and as one ought to do. Killed! Not bad.”
“At any risk of shocking or paining you,” said the Pole, with gravity, “I must prevent you from treating the subject in a way which you would regret. I spoke in all seriousness.”
“What are you telling me?”
“M. Adair has gone upon a mission, in connection with the appointment of to-morrow, and it is almost impossible that he should return alive.”
“But this is horrible,” said Aventayle, starting up. “Who sent him, where is he gone, why is he not protected?”
“He goes of his own free will.”
“But—but—what is the sort of danger?”
“You chose to give it a name just now, and, looking at it in an English point of view, I do not know that the name does not suit. We give it a milder name in France. You called it murder.”
“And you sit there, and say this as if you were speaking of a trifle!”
“No good purpose would be served by my exciting myself, Mr. Aventayle. I have nothing to do with the business, or the result. I have tried to serve M. Adair, at very considerable loss of reputation to myself, but he will not let himself be served on my terms. He has now chosen, with a kind of dogged impulsiveness, to execute an errand which might have been safely performed by any other person, but which was probable death to him. Circumstances now enable me to say that it is all but certain death to him. He has chosen to throw himself into the power of the deadliest enemy he has in the world, and it happens that the enemy knows the fact. I do not expect to see M. Adair again, unless, as very intimate with him, I should be judicially invited to identify his body.”
“I cannot talk to you, you make my blood run cold,” said Aventayle, looking very white, and glancing at the door. “Yet tell me. You mean that this poor wretch has gone to meet Mr. Urquhart?”
“His errand was to Mr. Urquhart’s house, and there Mr. Urquhart will find him. More probably has now found him. Do you know the man?”
“Scarcely.”
“He is a giant, in whose hands Adair will be like a child; and he is a giant maddened by a sense of the worst wrong.”
“And we have sent the unfortunate creature on this fearful errand,” said Aventayle.
“No,” said Wolowski; “I was prepared to hear you say that. If you consider it a crime to have placed a bad man in the way of punishment, you are acquitted. It was proposed to him that he should give up his secret, and trust to the honour of those who would have acted fairly by him. But he refused to do so, supposing that he should be able to make better terms with the Englishmen than with the bureau. It is his own avarice that has killed him.”
“Is it too late to stop him? Surely something can be done?” said the agitated manager. “It is downright wicked to sit here and speak of a poor wretch being killed. I will do something, at all events.”
“I assure you that it is too late,” said the Pole. “Whatever was to be done has been done long ere this. Go to Versailles as fast as steam can carry you, but it will be idle.”
“I will try, though,” said Aventayle, with an oath which it may be hoped is not set down against him. “I am in some sort a party to this wickedness, and it shall not be on my conscience.” And he dashed from the apartment.
“A theatrical manager with a conscience!” said the Pole, thoughtfully, as he rose to close the door which Aventayle had left open. “What new lusus naturæ may we look for? They will hurry off to Versailles,” he added, “he and the others, and they will be too late. There was no help for it. Adair had finally taken the bit between his teeth, and there was nothing to do but to let him dash himself against the next wall. As for his secret, doubtless M. has taken care of that, and will be some ten thousand francs the richer thereby. Poor Adair! It is a pity that he had not more self-command, and less greediness. I always cautioned him against gambling, at which he was ever being ruined, and I hoped that he was cured. Now he gambles again upon a frightful scale, and against players who are ten times stronger than he is, and he is utterly lost. I am sorry for him—really sorry. Chantal has far more steadiness, but not his genius. Ite, missa est.”
CHAPTER LXXVI.
