- Chapter XVIII. Fair Exchange is No Robbery.
At eleven o’clock that night, the electric door-bell of Radwalader’s apartment gave two short staccato chirps and then a prolonged whir. At the sound he looked up sharply from his evening mail, and drew his eyebrows together in a puzzled frown.
‘“At this hour?” he said to himself, and then, closing the doors of La Boîte behind him, went out to answer the summons.
Mirabelle entered deliberately, passing before him into the salon, and shredding a little note in her slender fingers.
“There’s no need of this now,” she explained, scattering the pieces in the empty fireplace. “It was merely to ask you to call to-morrow. I’d have mailed it if I’d not found you at home.”
She flung back her light wrap as she spoke, disclosing a superb evening gown, and a profusion of diamonds slightly on the safe side of undue ostentation. Withal, she had a nice sense of fitness in the matter of dress. It was a safety-valve not possessed by many of her monde, and which, at all times, guaranteed her against exploding into vulgarity.
“I confess,” said Radwalader, “that I was surprised when I recognized your ring. Of late, your visits have been so infrequent that when I’m favoured with one at this — to say the least — unconventional hour, I’m sure that its object is of some importance.”
Mirabelle looked at him coolly, with a slightly contemptuous droop of her eyelids.
“I believe that it’s a characteristic of both the visits I make and those I receive,” she said lazily, “that they’re seldom without an object. As for the hour, I’m not to be judged by the conventionality for which you manifest so commendable — and so abrupt — a concern. We Parisians are like our allies, the Russians: we go by standards of time which differ from those of the rest of the world. May I sit down?”
“I beg your pardon!” said Radwalader. “Do — by all means.”
Mirabelle installed herself in an arm-chair, and her eyes were travelling to and fro about the room. Something in the curious confidence of her manner, a confidence that was almost insolence, turned Radwalader vaguely uneasy. He was standing with his back to her, lighting his inevitable cigarette. There was nothing in his expression to indicate enjoyment of that usually enjoyable operation.
“Any news?” he inquired, as the tobacco caught.
“Would you mind turning around?” asked Mirabelle sweetly. “I dislike talking to shoulders.”
Radwalader wheeled upon her with a bow.
“You are irresistible, ma chère,” said he. “After all, what use? I know you’re clever, and you know I am. It’s quite an imbecile proceeding for us to waste poses and by-plays upon each other. What is the news? Has the Great Inevitable happened?”
A tiny shadow crossed her eyes at the phrase, but she answered steadily.
“If by ‘the Great Inevitable’ you mean that the pleasure vehicle of Mr. Vane has no further accommodations for me as a passenger, then assuredly yes — the Great Inevitable has happened.”
“Ah!” said Radwalader reflectively.
“He came last night to bid me good-by. It’s the old story. There’s another girl — a girl he wants to marry — and one must clear the decks before going into action.”
Radwalader looked at her, in silence now, but with a question in his face.
“You want to hear about the financial side, I suppose,” she continued. “How pleasant they are, these little business conferences, how friendly, and yet — how dignified! It’s a pity that there must be losses as well as gains in such a business as yours, mon cher associè. It would be so much more agreeable if one could always declare a dividend, instead of making an occasional assignment. In the present instance, I’ve no further report to make. He’s tired of me, and he’s given me my congé, and that’s all there is to it.”
She looked down, fingering the lace on her gown, as if to dismiss the subject.
“You asked him?” began Radwalader.
“I asked him — nothing! And I shall ask him — nothing! That was what I came to tell you. I gather from your expression that it’s not pleasant news. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the truth is: I’m tired of this kind of thing. I’m going away for a little rest, and I don’t care to be troubled by money matters.”
Mirabelle was letting her contempt for the man before her grow dangerously apparent in her voice, and he winced under it, and then flushed darkly.
“What rubbish is this?” he demanded, almost roughly. “Is it a joke?”
“Oh, as far as possible from anything of the kind,” retorted Mirabelle. “I was never more in earnest. You wished me to engage with you in blackmailing Mr. Vane, and you’ll probably be kind enough to remind me that I’ve done this kind of thing before. I don’t deny it, but—”
For the first time her voice broke slightly.
“There are reasons,” she added, “why I cannot do it now.”
Radwalader bit his lip. For a moment his temper well-nigh claimed the upper hand, but he was shrewd enough to match this curious unconcern with something quite as non-committal.
“You mean that you love him, I suppose,” he observed.
“Love?” repeated Mirabelle. “Mon Dieu, monsieur! what right have I to love, or you to speak of it? Haven’t we grovelled enough in the mud outside of the cathedral? Must we further degrade it, as well as ourselves, by entering and laying hands upon the very shrine?”
“You love him,” said Radwalader, “and he’s tired of you. That’s regrettable. I can stand my share of the pecuniary loss, but I grieve to see you humiliated.”
He glanced at her, and was pleased to notice that her colour had deepened, and that her foot tapped the floor. He was at a disadvantage, he knew, until this curious, apathetic self-control should be broken down.
“I can spare your sympathy,” she answered. “No doubt I shall recover from my humiliation, all in good time. I’m going away, as I’ve said. There’s the little place my father left me, and that I’ve told you about, back of Boissy-St. Leger, at the edge of the forest, and it’s enough. I didn’t come here to reproach you, Radwalader, or to quarrel. I simply came to say what I’ve said, and go. I can’t pretend to be sorry that I’ve made it impossible for you to carry out your plans, but—”
“Oh, chère amie!” broke in Radwalader, with a little wave of his hand. “Give yourself no uneasiness on that head, I beg of you. I had a strong hand before you compelled me to discard, but who knows whether it won’t be improved by the draw? The game’s never lost till it’s played, you know.”
“Radwalader!”
Mirabelle leaned forward in her chair, knitting her fingers.
“Do you mean that you are — going on?”
“Why, assuredly, my friend! You can’t be so ingenuous as to suppose that my plans are necessarily changed by this change in yours. I’m sorry to lose your cooperation, of course. The thing had reached a point where it would have been easy to bring it to a prompt and successful conclusion; but, unfortunately, you’ve seen fit to back out at the critical moment. But, as you say, there can be no need of quarrels and reproaches on either side. You are perfectly free to do as seems best to you, but really you mustn’t expect that your action binds me. I’ve spent a deal of time and thought over this business, and now I shall have to spend more — but relinquish it? Why, never in the world, my friend! Beautiful, attractive, and accomplished as you are, you must realize that you are not the only woman in the world.”
“Do you mean,” demanded Mirabelle, “that you’re going on — with another woman — to play this whole miserable business over again, until you’ve had your will of him? Do you mean that what I’ve done doesn’t stand for anything?”
“I see no necessity for giving you an outline of my exact plans,” said Radwalader, “now that you’ve resigned from any share in them; but, if it will afford you any satisfaction, you have a tolerably accurate idea of my intentions.”
“Listen to me!” answered Mirabelle, with a last effort at calm. “I have done your bidding in the past, furthered your schemes, and taken my share of the gain. Bah! Why should I regret it? Regret mends no breakages. It’s to the future, not to the past, that I look. I’ve told you what I want. I want my freedom. I want to go away into the country, and to forget — everything! I don’t know how long it will last, and I don’t care. All I want now is peace of mind. I don’t say I’ll never come back to — to all this: for no doubt I shall; but for the moment, for a time, I want to be alone, and at ease. Will you make it possible, Radwalader?”
“I? But why is it necessary to ask me that? I’ve said I’m sorry to lose you. You’re the only woman I can absolutely trust, the only one who can hold her tongue and do as she’s told. I freely forgive you this single desertion. No doubt there are particular circumstances in the case which have forced you to the course you’ve taken. You don’t see fit to explain them, and I don’t care to ask. And then it’s not as if you were going away for ever. You’ll come back — and shortly. Paris, the Bois, your diamonds, your amusements, your little affaires — they’re as necessary to you as light or air. So, go by all means, and enjoy your vacation to your heart’s content. I’ll not disturb you. Au revoir, ma chère!”
“Ah!” said Mirabelle brokenly. “How little, with all your cleverness, you understand a woman! Where she can be happy in her lover’s happiness, no matter at what cost to her, she must be unhappy in his distress, no matter how free from personal suffering she herself may be! You asked me if I loved him. Well, then — yes! I don’t mind saying that, because you’ll never understand how or why. How should you? How should you know that, to a woman, a man is not so much a personality, as the author of all the new impulses and emotions which he brings into her life? You say he’s tired of me, and I answer you that I’m more than repaid by what he’s taught me of truth and manliness and gentleness and respect. That’s why I could give him up — because I knew that his best happiness lay apart from mine. That’s why I had to desert you — because I could not be party to any plot to shame or to degrade him. What I gave, I gave freely and fully. Ah, try — try to understand! I’ve been a faithful partner to you, haven’t I? You yourself say I’ve never broken my word or made a false move in the games we’ve played together. I’ve been loyal to you, no matter what degradation it cost me, because I knew you trusted me. At first, as you know, I didn’t see what I was helping you to do. I encouraged the boys you brought to me, and cast them off when you gave the word. And afterwards, when now and again you gave me something from Tiffany’s, did I think? — did I know? When I found out, it was too late. I was bound to you in a way, and — well, I’ll leave all that. My only point is this: I’ve served you faithfully, haven’t I — faithfully, unflinchingly, and loyally — from first to last?”
“From first to last,” echoed Radwalader, slowly nodding.
“Then,” said Mirabelle, with sudden passion, flinging back her head, “I ask for my reward — for my payment — for my wages. I ask of you the honour and integrity of Andrew Vane!”
“The—”
“Yes! — that — that — that! in payment for mine, which I’ve sold to you. Fair exchange is no robbery. I love him, do you hear? I’ve accepted my dismissal at his hands, but I do not choose that you should continue to plot against him, with another woman as bait, and with a spy in his rooms watching for every little slip and folly, and ready, when you say so, to post them all before the world — unless he pays! Dieu! I can imagine you, as you were with Chauvigny, with little De Vitzoff, with young Baxter, with Sir Henry Gore, and the rest of them! ‘Unfortunate, of course, but really, you see, you’ve been most imprudent, and every precaution must be taken to prevent the details of this affair leaking out.’ Et cetera! ‘The only safe way with these people is to buy them off.’ Et cetera! ‘If you will put yourself in my hands, I think I can manage it for ten — twenty — thirty thousand francs.’ Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera! Eh bien — non! I do not choose to have it so with the man I love. There are other fish for you to catch. Let me have this one’s life. That much you owe me. As you call yourself a man, pay me and let me go!”
She had risen with the intensity of her appeal, and now, white with passion, Radwalader flashed to his feet at her side.
“By Heaven, Mirabelle—!”
“And by Heaven, Monsieur Radwalader! What then? Are you going to threaten me? Do you take me for a Jules Vicot, at least? Do my hands tremble? Do I shrink before you? Ah, that might have been possible at first: for I don’t deny that I’ve feared you at times; but now — zut! It’s not the first time, my Radwalader, that the pupil has outstripped the master. You’ve taught me too much for your own good. Voyons! A secret is safe just so long as one person knows it, and only one. But no man is secure, from the moment when he confides to others that he’s not what he pretends to be. But you? — you are different. For two years past, to my knowledge, and probably for many more, you’ve been building up a house of cards. It’s growing very tall. Monsieur Radwalader, very dangerously tall. You think the foundations strong, but they weaken with every card you add. Allons! Enough of this brawling. You know what I demand.”
“And if I refuse?” suggested Radwalader.
“If you refuse? Ah, then your game is indeed ended and your house of cards blown down! For I’ll make your name notorious, not only in Paris, but in every capital of Europe. They shall have all the details — all that Vicot, as well as I, can give them. By the blood of Christ, monsieur, if you don’t promise what I ask, in three days the name of Thomas Radwalader, swindler, card-sharp, blackmailer, and blood-sucker, shall be the common property of the civilized world! What have I to lose, or fear, or even consider? Nothing! You know that, as well as I. And I’ll save the man I love from the trap you’re preparing for him, even if I send myself to St. Lazare!”
Radwalader sank back easily into his chair.
“My good Mirabelle,” he said, “all this is very admirable as sentiment and, I must say, extraordinarily well done. It’s a pity that it should be wasted upon an impossible situation. Be patient with me for a moment, and I’ll show you precisely why you’ll neither edify the capitals of Europe with an account of my private affairs nor compel me to do anything but what I choose to do in the case of Mr. Andrew Vane. We are three in number: I, a gentleman who chooses, for reasons of his own, to keep one side of his life from the view of the general public; you, a very charming girl, most cruelly, but nevertheless conspicuously, avoided by the members of your sex who pride themselves upon respectability; and Andrew Vane, a young person wounded perhaps, but as yet not mortally, by the shafts of scandal. Now, let us see. You desire to snatch him from the — what is it? — pit? — pitfall? — ah! trap — which I am preparing for him. How do you go about it? You first associate my name with several most unpleasant terms of reproach, and then proceed to drag the combination before the public, and say, ‘Here is the intimate companion of the man I love!’ What does that mean? The man you love — you! What a happy revelation for the friends and family of Andrew Vane, who has been dawdling in your arms, while another woman as much as held his plighted word! I won’t dwell on it. It’s a subject by reference to which I’ve never sought to humiliate you — but you’ve driven me to touch upon it. Believe me, my friend, if it’s indeed your wish to save Andrew Vane from disgrace, you should devise some project more promising than a public proclamation of the fact that you’ve been his mistress these few weeks past. You tell me you’ve nothing to fear and nothing to lose. You’ll add, perhaps, that the fact’s already public property, but it isn’t. It’s public gossip, which is a very different thing. The plain fact is this: from the instant when you associate your name with his, he’s ruined absolutely and irretrievably.”
Mirabelle bent forward to look at him, almost curiously.
“Are you a man or a devil?” she said.
“A man, ma chère, and, in my own way, not an unreasonable or ungrateful man. To prove that, you shall have what you ask. You can see what trumpery rant you’ve been talking, and you probably regret it already. Once for all — and as you should have known — if threats of exposure could have effected anything, I’d have been the talk of Europe long ago. Please don’t try it again. It’s a waste of time and a trial of temper, and, to me at least, such scenes are always disagreeable. Now to the main issue. I will do what you wish — on one condition.”
“I accept it,” said Mirabelle promptly.
“That’s rash, and I release you from the pledge. Wait till you know what the condition is. As you say, there are other fish to catch, and, quite frankly, I need your aid in catching them. So you will give up your dream of rustic retirement, and remain exactly as you are, and what you are, and where you are. Also, the business relations between us—”
“Ah, no— no!”
“The business relations between us are to continue in force, except that on the books of the firm we shall close the account with Mr. Andrew Vane.”
For an instant the little house back of Boissy-St. Leger hung on Mirabelle’s vision — the rose-garden, the wide outlook on the valley of the Marne, the poplars stirred by a west wind, sweet with the breath of Fontainebleau. Side by side with these rose the contrasted mirage of crowded cafés, race-courses, and theatres, the half-contemptuous court of women-weary men, the unspeakable slavery, heartache, and humiliation of the life she had lived and which she loathed. Then she looked straight into Radwalader’s eyes. She had no need to ask if this was final. They knew each other, these two.
“There shall be no other woman to come between him and the one he wants to marry?” she asked.
“No other woman.”
“Vicot shall have no share in his life at all?”
“No share.”
“And you will never mention what he has done — in Paris — with me?”
“Never.”
There was silence between them for a moment, a silence pricked only by the strokes of midnight.
“As you said, fair exchange is no robbery,” suggested Radwalader.
“If I agree?—”
“You have my word. Honour among thieves!”
“Soit!” said Mirabelle. “God help me— have your way!”
For an instant she stood motionless, and then, with an imperious gesture, commanded his service as if she had been the empress she appeared, and he the lackey.
“My cloak, monsieur!”