Chapter XVIII At Bay
Piquette sent one fleeting glance at her, then stepped out upon the sill of the French window which extended to the floor. When she turned toward Moira, a little pale and breathing rapidly, her hands were empty.
“What did you throw out of the window? What are you doing here?” Moira asked again, moving quickly to the push-button by the door. “Answer me or I’ll ring.”
Piquette by this time had recovered some of her composure. “Oh, Madame, it is not necessaire to ring,” she said easily. “I can explain myself if you will but listen.”
“You have no right in this room—unless you are a servant of the hotel. And that you are not——”
“No, Madame,” said Piquette coolly, “I am no servant of de hotel. But strange to say, even agains’ my will, I am your frien’.”
“My friend! Who are you?”
Piquette glanced toward the door into the hall rather anxiously.
“If you will permit me to come into your room I will answer you.”
Moira hesitated for a moment, and then indicated the door by which she had entered. Piquette preceded her into the room, as Moira stood by the door, still uncertain but curious as to this stranger who claimed friendship. Piquette indicated the door.
“You will please close it, Madame,” she urged with a smile. “I am quite ’armless.”
And Moira obeyed, catching the bolt into its place and turning with an air very little mollified.
“Who are you?” she demanded shortly. “Answer me.”
instead of replying at once Piquette sank into a chair, crossed one knee over the other and leaned forward, her chin on her fingers, staring frankly at her companion.
“You are ’andsome, Madame ‘Orton,” she murmured as though grudgingly. “Ver’ ’andsome.”
Moira flushed a little and returned the other woman’s look, a sudden suspicion flashing across her mind that this woman—this was——
“Who are you?” she stammered.
“I—I am Madame Morin—and I am called Piquette,” said the visitor clearly.
Moira recoiled a pace, her back as flat as the door behind her.
“You——! Piquette Morin! You’d dare!”
“Quietly, Madame ‘Orton,” said Piquette gently, “I ’ave tol’ you I am your frien’.”
“Go, Madame,” said Moira in a choking voice and pointing to the door. “Go.”
But Piquette did not move.
“Ah! You do not believe me. It is de trut’. I am your frien’. I am proving it by coming in here—by trying to ’elp you in dis——”
“I do not need your help, Madame. Will you go?”
“Yes, Madame ‘Orton. I will go in a minute—when I tell you de risk Jeem ‘Orton an’ I ’ave run to keep you from making of yourself a fool.”
Moira gasped at the impudence.
“What I am does not matter, but what you and Jim Horton are, does. I wish to hear no more——”
“Not even dat Monsieur Quinlevin has got de vilain Tricot, to shoot at us in de train——” Piquette shrugged. “Sapristi! Madame ‘Orton,—if we ’ad been kill’ you would perhaps t’ink it a proof of friendship.”
She had caught the girl’s attention, but Moira still demurred.
“I ask no favors of you, Madame Morin,” she said haltingly.
“No, Madame ‘Orton,” said Piquette quietly, “but I ’ave give’ dem freely, for you—for heem. Perhaps you t’ink dat is not’ing for me to do. La, la. I am only human after all.”
So was Moira. Piquette’s purposeful ambiguity aroused her curiosity and she turned toward the French girl, her glance passing over her with a new interest.
“I don’t understand you, Madame,” she said coldly.
“I did not ’ope dat you would. But it is not so difficile. I try to ‘elp Monsieur Jeem ‘Orton, because ’e ’as taught me what it means to be brave an’ fait’ful an’ honorable to de one ’e love’, an’ because you are blind, an’ will not see.”
“Not so blind that I have not seen what you would have hidden.”
“I ’ave not’ing to hide from you, Madame ‘Orton. I am proud of de frien’ship of Jeem ‘Orton. I would go to de en’ of de worl’ to make ’im ’appy.”
“Friendship!” gasped Moira.
“Or love, Madame,” said Piquette gently, “call it what you please.”
“And you dare to tell me this—you!”
Piquette only smiled faintly.
“Yes, I love ’im.” And then, with the simplicity of a child, “Don’t you, Madame?”
Moira stared at her for a second as though she hadn’t heard correctly.
“No. No. This is too much. You will oblige me——”
“You wish me to go?” said Piquette with a shrug. “In a moment. But firs’ let me tell you dat what Monsieur Quinlevin ’as tol’ you about us is a lie—all lies.”
“You forget, Madame,” said Moira, “that I have seen.”
Piquette smiled.
“Because I go to sleep wit’ my ’ead on ‘is shoulder. An’ what is dat? For shame, Madame. Jeem ‘Orton care’ not’ing for me. I bring ’im out of de ’ouse in de Rue Charron—I nurse ’im in my apartment. You t’ink ’e make love to me when ’e t’ink of you?”
Piquette laughed scornfully.
“What kind of woman are you to see de love in de eyes of an hones’ man an’ not remember it, for de greates’ t’ing dat come’ in a woman’s life? ‘Is eyes! Mon Dieu, Madame. I know de eyes of men. ’E on’y love once, Jeem ‘Orton—an’ you t’ink ’e make love to me. I would give myself to ’im, but what Jeem ‘Orton give’ to me is much more sweet, more beautiful. ’E kees me on de brow, Madame, like I was a chil’, when I would give ’im my body.” Piquette stopped, and then, gently, “A woman like me, Madame, can on’y worship a man like dat.”
Moira was leaning against the bed rail, her head bent, her eyes searching out Piquette’s very soul.
“And you, Madame,” said Piquette, her voice gathering scorn in its very suppression. “You, Madame, who love ’im too, you listen to everyt’ing ‘is enemies say agains’ ’im—you believe dese lies, you let dem try to keel ’im, you ’elp dem bring you to déshonneur. You try to keep ’im from saving you from disgrace! What kind of a woman are you, Madame, to ’ave a love like dat t’rown at your feet an’ walk away an’ leave it like a dead flower upon de groun’? Mus’ it take a woman like me to show you what is fine and noble in de worl’? You sen’ ’im away into de night. Juste ciel! Is dere no blood in your heart, Madame, no tenderness, no pity, for de love of a man like Jeem ‘Orton? Love! You do not know what love is, you——”
“Stop, Madame!” gasped Moira, her lips gray and trembling under the wrist that masked her eyes. “You dare not tell me what love is. You don’t know—everything.”
“Yes,” said Piquette quietly. “I know everyt’ing. But only God could keep me from de man I love.”
“Yes, God!” whispered Moira tensely. “Only God.”
The pallor of her face, the agonized clutch of her white fingers on the table and the tone of her voice silenced Piquette, and she glanced up at Moira partly in pity, partly in scorn. Piquette’s education had not fitted her to understand the motives of women different from herself, but she saw in Moira’s face the scars of a great passion and the marks of suffering not to be denied. And so after a painful moment for Moira, she turned her glance aside.
“I cannot speak of this to you, Madame,” she heard the girl stammer. “You have no right to judge me or to question my motives. And if I’ve misjudged you—or Jim Horton, God knows I’m sorry for it. But you—Madame—why should you come and tell me these things?”
Moira’s breath seemed suspended while she waited for the woman’s answer. Piquette traced for a moment with her finger on the arm of the chair.
“You may be’ sure it ‘as cos’ me somet’ing,” she said slowly.
“Does he know—does Jim Horton know?”
“No, Madame. He knows noding.”
“Then why——?”
“Because,” said Piquette, rising with some dignity, “because it pleases me, Madame. What Jeem ‘Orton wish’—is my wish too. ’E love you. Eh bien! What ’e is to me does not matter.”
Moira stared at her dully. She could not believe.
“If you do not on’erstan’ me, Madame,” Piquette continued, “it is because you do not wish to on’erstan’, because all de sacrifice ’e make for you is in vain. You listen to deir lies, become a partner in a crime to get money which does not belong to you——”
“How do you know this?”
“‘Arry ‘Orton—your ’usband—tol’ me de trut’.”
“Harry!”
“Yes, Madame. I was a frien’ to your ’usband.”
“You——?”
The glances of the two women met, held each other—read each other, omitting nothing. It was Piquette who looked away. If self-abasement was to be the measure of her sacrifice, she had neglected nothing.
“An’ now,” she said quietly, “if you please, I shall go away.”
“Not yet, Madame,” said Moira gently. “Not until I tell you that I know what you have done—that I believe what you have said.”
“Thank you.”
She caught Piquette by the hand and held her.
“I cannot be less noble than you, Madame. Forgive me.”
“It is Jeem ‘Orton who should forgive.”
“I have done him a great wrong—and you. And I must do him another great wrong. You have said that only God could keep you from the man you love. God has kept me from Jim Horton. I cannot see him again.”
“But you cannot stay here, Madame,” put in Piquette earnestly.
“No, perhaps not,” wearily, “but you have taught me something. If sacrifice is the test that love exacts, like you, I can bear it——”
“An’ make Jeem ‘Orton suffer too——!” cried Piquette wildly. “What for you t’ink I tell you dese t’ings, Madame? You mus’ go wit’ ’im to Paris.”
“No. I can’t.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet. I must think.”
“You will do what ’e ask of you.”
“No.”
“You mus’ see ’im.”
“No. Don’t ask me, Madame——”
There was a knock upon the door into the corridor—repeated quickly. The two women exchanged glances, Moira bewildered, Piquette dismayed. She had remained too long.
“Monsieur Quinlevin——!” she whispered.
Moira, a finger to her lips, beckoned her toward the door into Nora Burke’s room, when there was another quick knock and Quinlevin entered quickly, followed by another figure.
“Moira, why didn’t ye——” the Irishman began, and then his glance passed to Piquette. “Ah—you here, Madame,” he frowned with quick suspicion, glancing toward the door into his own room. And then suddenly beckoned his follower in. It was Monsieur Tricot, bent, hobbling, but full of every potentiality for evil.
Quinlevin closed and locked the door behind him, putting the key into his pocket, and then with a muttered injunction to his companion, unbolted and opened the door into his own room and disappeared. Moira had scarcely time to note the villainous look the apache cast in Piquette’s direction, when Quinlevin came striding in like a demon of vengeance.
“Ah, Madame Morin,” he snapped, “it seems as though I were just in time. What have ye done with the papers?”
The little patches of color upon Piquette’s lips and eyes seemed suddenly to grow darker in the pallor of her face; for Tricot’s evil face nearby was leering at her, Tricot whose secrets she knew and whose secrets she had betrayed. She was horribly frightened, but she managed to control her voice as she replied steadily.
“What papers, Monsieur? I know nothing of any papers.”
“The papers referring to the de Vautrin case. Your papers, Moira, yer birth certificate and the letters which went with it.”
Moira stood near the door into Nora’s room, pale but composed. And now she spoke bravely.
“Madame Morin has not left this room since she came into it. I know nothing of any papers.”
Piquette smiled inwardly. Her embassy had not been entirely without success. But Quinlevin glanced quickly at Moira, suspicion becoming a certainty.
“Oh, we’ll see about this.” And striding quickly to Nora Burke’s door locked it securely. And then to Piquette.
“Ye’ll please accompany me into my room, Madame Morin,” he said dryly. “Perhaps Monsieur Tricot and I can find a way to unlock yer lips.”
Piquette cast an appealing glance at Moira.
“You will let Madame Morin go,” pleaded the girl to the Irishman.
“No!” he thundered. “There will be no more trickery here. And ye’ll stay here too—under lock and key, until yer new friend speaks.”
The two women were helpless and they knew it. Already Tricot’s sharp talons had closed on Piquette’s shoulder, but with an effort at composure she shrugged him off and entered the door beside which Barry Quinlevin stood, bowing with ironical politeness. Piquette caught just one glimpse of Moira’s white face before the door closed between them. Then the key was turned in the lock, the other key also and she sank rather helplessly into a chair, a prisoner.
“This locking of doors is a game that two persons may play at, Madame,” said Quinlevin easily, in French. “Our friend, the deserter, locks me in with Monsieur de Vautrin while you rifle my papers, and now I keep you prisoner until they are found. Where are they, Madame?”
His voice was soft, but even in the dim light iridescent fires played forbiddingly in his little eyes.
Piquette was silent, her glance passing about the obscurity as though in search of a resting place. She feared Quinlevin, but more than him she feared the evil shape just beside her shoulder. She could not see Tricot, but she felt his presence, the evil leer at his lips, the bent shoulders, the vulture-like poise of his head and the vengeance lust burning in his little red eyes. For whatever Monsieur Quinlevin owed her, here she knew was her real enemy.
“The papers, Madame,” Quinlevin repeated more brusquely.
Still no reply.
“You took them from behind the bracket yonder. What did you do with them?”
“They are gone,” she said quickly.
“Where?”
“That I shall not tell you.”
She felt the claws of Tricot close upon her shoulder until she shrank with the pain, but she made no sound.
“One moment, Tricot,” said the Irishman, “there are first other ways of making Madame speak. Release her.”
Tricot obeyed.
“Of course Tricot and I can search you.”
Piquette laughed.
“Search me, Monsieur. It is your privilege. I am not squeamish.”
The Irishman frowned. There was no doubt that what he had proposed had no terrors for a life model. But there were other means at his disposal, to find out what he wished to know.
“I should have remembered your métier, Madame,” he sneered. And then, “Our friend Tricot has a long memory. He is not a man who forgets. If you will look at him you will see that this chance meeting is much to his liking.”
Piquette did not dare to look.
“It seems,” the Irishman went on, “that the betrayal of the secrets of the small society to which you belong is a grave offense.”
“I’ve betrayed no secrets,” said Piquette, finding her voice. “No one knows of the affair of the Rue Charron——”
“Except Monsieur Horton, who will tell it when he is less busy——”
“No. He will tell nothing——”
“Tricot is not willing to take that chance. Eh, Tricot?”
“No,” snapped the vulture. “Piquette knows the penalty. She’ll pay it.”
“And if I pay it,” said Piquette bravely, “you’ll know no more about what has become of your papers than you do now.”
Quinlevin made a sign to Tricot.
“There’s something in that.—but I’m in no mood to be trifled with. That ought to be pretty clear.”
“It is. I’m not trifling.”
“Then speak. Or——” Quinlevin paused significantly.
Piquette continued to glance around the room as though in a hope that something might happen to release her from her predicament. It had now grown dark outside, but her captors showed no disposition to make a light. And yet it seemed impossible that they would dare...
She tried to gain time.
“And if I could tell you what has happened to the papers,” she asked uncertainly, “will you let me go?”
“Yes—speak.”
“And if I cannot tell you——”
“I will tell you, Madame. You will be left here alone in this room with the good Tricot.” And as Piquette shrank down into her chair, “He is a very ingenious rascal, Tricot. Never yet has he been caught by the police.” Quinlevin stopped suddenly, his gaze on the rectangle of the open window, as though listening. “An open window,” he mumbled. “I left it so—perhaps. But do you go, Tricot, and look out. Perhaps there is some one below.”
The man obeyed, without a sound, vanishing outside the window upon the small portico.
“No one can help you, Madame,” Quinlevin said in a threatening whisper, “for at my word Tricot shall be quick and silent.” He caught Piquette furiously by the wrist and twisted it. “What have you done with my property?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You are lying.”
Tricot’s silhouette appeared at the window.
“Monsieur,” he whispered tensely, “there’s a man—below.”
“Horton!” said Quinlevin. “What is he doing?”
“Crawling in the bushes, Monsieur.”
The clutch on Piquette’s arm grew tighter.
“What did you do with the papers?”
“I burned them in the fireplace,” she said desperately.
Quinlevin rushed to the hearth and struck a match, examining the ashes minutely. Then he straightened quickly.
“You lie, Madame. I burned some letters here this morning. The ashes are just as I left them.” In one stride he was at her side again, a pistol in his hand.
He caught her roughly by the arm and she bit her lip to keep from crying out with pain.
“He is down there. What did you do with the papers? Answer me.”
“Let me go.”
“No.”
“What will you do?”
“Unless you tell me the truth—shoot him from the window.”
“You would not dare——” she whispered, in spite of her pain, “the people of the hotel—will investigate. The police——”
“Bah! A burglar comes along the portico, I shoot him. He falls—will you tell the truth? Are the papers in this room?”
“I won’t tell.”
“Very well.” And then turning to his companion at the window, “What is he doing now, Tricot?”
“He does not move——”
The Irishman released Piquette suddenly.
“A better chance for a shot, then,” he snapped. “Here, Tricot.” And he moved toward the window, his weapon eloquent.
Piquette sprang up despairingly.
“Monsieur,” she cried, “for the love of God. Don’t shoot. I will tell.”
“I thought so. Where are they? Quick.”
“I—I——”
He had her by the wrists now, one on each side, and Tricot’s skinny hand threatened her throat.
“Speak——!”
“I—I threw them out of the window,” she gasped.
It was evident that at last in her terror she had spoken the truth. With an oath Quinlevin threw her aside and ran to the window while Tricot twisted her arm back of her, his other hand at her throat.
“Jeem!” she shrieked in a last despairing effort. “Go! Go!” And then the fingers of the apache closed and the sound was stifled as she fell back in a chair helpless.
“Shut up, damn you,” growled Quinlevin. “Keep her quiet, you. Not death, you understand. We may need her.”
Piquette heard these things dimly. A torrent was roaring at her ears and her eyeballs seemed to be starting from her head as she fought for her breath, but the relentless fingers pressed at her windpipe.
“And you, Monsieur?” she heard Tricot ask.
“I’m going down—into the garden. If she speaks the truth I’ll find it out.”
Dimly she heard the door open and shut and the key turned in the lock, while she fought Tricot. But strong as she was, she knew, that she was no match for him. His arms were like steel springs, his fingers like iron. But still she fought, trying to make a commotion that would arouse the hotel. But Tricot had pinioned her in her chair and even the dim light that came in at the open, window grew black before her eyes. She struggled again at the very verge of the gate of oblivion it seemed, choking—choking, when a pain sharper than that at her throat came at her side.
“Be quiet,” croaked Tricot’s voice at her ear—“or I’ll——”
And she obeyed. For death was in his voice and in his hand.