XVIII.
She still stood looking at the pistols on the table. Was she thinking, as I was, of the irony, and the comedy and the tragedy that had been so strangely blended in the last hour? Slowly she turned and faced me, her slender fingers tugging aimlessly at her handerchief. For a moment her eyes met mine. Then she looked away, and the color had deepened in her cheeks.
"So," said Mademoiselle, "It is almost over. Are you not glad, Monsieur, that it is finished?"
The wick of a candle had dropped to the wax, and was spluttering fitfully. Mechanically I moved to fix it.
"No," I said, "I am not glad."
"Not glad? Surely you are glad it has ended so. Surely you are glad your father—"
"No," I said, and my voice was so much louder than I had intended that the sound of it in the quiet room made me stop abruptly. She looked up at me, a little startled.
"At least Monsieur is frank," she said. "Do you know—have you thought that you are the only one of us who has been wholly so, who has not had something to conceal? Pray go on, Monsieur, It is pleasant to hear someone who is frank again. Continue! You must be glad for something. Every cloud must have—do you not say—a silver lining? If it ts not you father—surely you are glad about me?"
She made a graceful little gesture of interrogation.
"Come, come," she went on, "You are not yourself tonight. Never have I seen you look so black. Think, Monsieur! The men are on deck and the wind is fair. Soon I shall be going. Soon you will forget."
"No," I said, "Mademoiselle is mistaken. I shall not forget."
"Nor I," she said gravely, "I wonder, Monsieur, if you understand—but you cannot understand what it has meant to me. I have tried to tell you once before, but you are cold, like your father. I have seen many men who have said gallant things, but only you two of all I know have done them."
"I have done nothing," I said. "You know I have done nothing."
"But it has not been your fault," she answered. "And was it nothing to protect a stranger from a strange land, when you had nothing to gain from it and everything to lose?"
"Mademoiselle forgets," I said, "that I had nothing to lose. It was lost already."
"Then surely," she replied lightly, "surely you must be glad I am going?"
"You know better than that," I answered. "Ah, Mademoiselle, do you not see? I hoped I might show you that I did not always blunder. I hoped I might show you"
The words seemed to choke me.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," I cried, "if I had only been on the stairs at Blanzy!"
"Blanzy!" she echoed, "Pray what has Blanzy to do with you and me?"
Even now I do not know what made me speak, save that she was going. The very ticking of the clock was bringing the moment nearer, and there she was, staring at me, wide-eyed, half puzzled and half frightened. It seemed already as though she were further away.
"Do you not see?" I said. "It is not like you not to understand. Nor is it very kind. How can I see you go and be glad? How can I be glad you love my father?"
"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed suddenly startled, "Your father! I care for your father!"
I bowed in quick contrition.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I fear I have been very rude, and, as usual, very gauche. I beg you to forgive me."
"But I tell you," she cried, "I do not love him!"
I bowed again in silence.
"You do not believe me?"
"Mademoiselle may rest assured," I replied gently, "that I understand—perfectly."
"You!" I started at her sudden vexation, started to find that her eyes were filled with tears.
"You understand quite nothing! Never have I seen anyone so cruel, so stupid!"
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I have been awkward, but forgive me—the cabin of the Sea Tern, where you asked him to sail on, and when you bade him recall what he said on the stairs at Blanzy. . . Your pardon! I have been very blunt."
And now she was regarding me with blank astonishment.
"Surely he told you," she murmured, "Surely he told you what the Marquis had intended."
Then she stopped, confused and silent.
"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed suddenly, "But he has told you nothing!"
"No," I said dully, "He has been most discreet. But does it make any real difference, Mademoiselle, except that I know now that the Marquis was a man of very keen discrimination?"
"Are you mad?" cried Mademoiselle, "I tell you it is not your father. I tell you I—"
Her face had grown scarlet. She bowed her head, and tugged more violently than ever at the corner of her handkerchief.
"*Mademoiselle," I said unsteadily, "Mademoiselle, what was it he told you at Blanzy?"
"I cannot tell you if you do not know," she answered, "Indeed I cannot."
"But you will!" I cried. "You will, Mademoiselle! You must! Mademoiselle"
Her eyes had met mine again.
"They were breaking in the door," she began, "and he was going down to meet them. I told him—I told him to go, to leave me, and take the paper. He said"
She paused again, watching me in vague embarrassment.
"He said he'd be damned if he would, Monsieur. He said he would do what the Marquis had directed, if he had to swing for it. That he would take the paper and me to America—that I . . . Mon Dieu! Do you not know what he said! Can you not guess? . . . He said that I was to marry his son."
A smile suddenly played about her lips.
"And I told him," she continued breathlessly, "I told him I'd be damned if I would, Monsieur. That neither he nor the Marquis would make me marry a man I did not know, much less a son of his!"
"And when you asked him to recall it—Mademoiselle, when you asked him to recall it, did you mean—tell me, Mademoiselle!"
"Ah," she whispered, "but it is too soon, and you are too rough, Monsieur! I beg of you—be careful! Besides—someone is coming."
And then I heard a soft footstep behind me.
"Huh!" said Brutus, "I go tell the captain. No. It is all right. I tell the captain He is happy. It will please him. Huh!"
His long speech seemed to have taken his breath, for he paused, grinning broadly.
"Huh!" he said finally. "Mr. Lawton shoot Mr. Jason. Shoot him with pistol off the table. The captain is happy."
But before Brutus could turn to go, my father was in the doorway, smoothing the bandage on his arm.
"Let us say relieved, Brutus," he answered smoothly. "It is dangerous ever to use superlatives."
Then he glanced from Mademoiselle to me, and his smile broadened.
"Very much relieved," he said, "and yet—and yet I still feel thirsty. The rum decanter, Brutus."