Drowned Gold/Chapter 15

HE mansion of Monsieur Périgord seemed to have partaken of its owner's misery, and was vastly different from the one I had left on that night when I bade him "Good-bye." Not a light shone from any window, nor from the two road-lamps at the entrance to the drive. As I came to the entrance I found the door closed, and from within came no sounds of occupance. I fumbled for the push-button of the bell, and at first pressed very lightly, fearing lest it might disturb the sick man by its clamor, and then, receiving no response, pressed it more firmly. Surmising at last that the bell had been disconnected, I rapped on the door, and again nothing responded save the hollow echoes created by my own thumping. Had I not been certain from what Farnes had told me that Monsieur Périgord was within, I should have concluded that the house was deserted and made my way back to the hotel. Finding that all my efforts to attract attention to the main entrance were useless, I returned to the graveled roadway and reconnoitred in the gloom for some means of reaching a back door. The night was dark but for the stars, which seemed to add to the gloom of the path and shrubbery surrounding the big mansion. I traversed many walks that led me astray, sometimes to a summer arbor, sometimes to a mere grassy plot with a rustic bench, and once I took the wrong turning in an exceptionally dark spot, and scratched my hands and face, and tore my clothes on a thorny bush before I succeeded in extricating myself. It took me a full half-hour of this nocturnal exploration to find the walk that eventually led me to what was apparently a servants' private entrance, and there a light shone through a transom. Again I rapped, perhaps with less caution, so intent was I on gaining admittance, and the door opened with an almost startling vehemence and a voice whispered, harshly, in Spanish:

"For the love of the Virgin! Can't you come in without making a noise like an earthquake? Do you want to kill the padrone?"

The gray-headed old footman whom I had seen on my previous visit stood bending fiercely toward me, and as I stepped to where the dim light fell upon my face, he drew back with a startled exclamation.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "I thought it was one of those careless servants. What do you wish?"

"I tried to gain entrance by the front door," I said, "because it is very necessary that I should see Monsieur Périgord."

The footman reached to the side of the door and switched on the electric light above the entrance, exposing me to its full glare. Again he peered forward, scowling at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. He threw up his hands.

"Ah, you are the American captain, the friend of Monsieur Périgord!" He bowed with the utmost respect, as if to make amends for his churlishness. "You are the only living man beside the doctor who I believe I am entitled to admit, and my instructions do not cover you. I shall take the responsibility upon myself, despite the doctor's orders. I do not believe in doctors. They can cure ills of the body, but not of the mind, and por Dios, señor, it is a doctor for the mind that my master needs. He dies for want of something which no one can understand. It is as if he willed it, and was intent upon rest. Ah! I have kept you waiting outside, and it is not fitting that you, the padrone's friend, should enter through the servants' entrance. If you will return to the front I will unbar the door."

But I had no desire to travel over those shrub-strewn paths again, and insisted that my dignity would not be offended by passing through the servants' entrance any more than it would be gratified by coming in through the main hallway, whereupon, with an air of reluctance, the old fellow closed and fastened the door behind me. Through many passages and many turnings he conducted me, as through a maze, until I found myself in the patio, which was now dark and still. It, also, was very unlike the place where I had been entertained on that night when Monsieur Périgord honored me with his confidence. It was quite like a place of death now that the subdued lights were all extinguished, and the huge fountain black and still. The old Spaniard paused irresolutely, as if thinking over something, and turned to me for advice, mumbling his perplexity in a low undertone:

"Monsieur Périgord refuses to go to bed. For two days he has rested on a couch in his library. He is sunken in some strange, brooding lethargy. He doesn't look up when I enter. Sometimes he doesn't hear me speak. Nothing interests him, not even his food. He does not read. Does nothing but think, think, think. You, señor, his friend, are a man of intelligence, and understand more of such matters than I, who am but a servant, a very old, ignorant man, who knows but little save a great love for one who has been not only master, but protector, for more than forty years. So I beg you to advise me. Is it better that I go in and announce you, or is it not possible that the surprise and shock of seeing you, his friend, would act as a medicine; better than that which comes from the chemist, and stir up the embers of a mind that threatens to die? Would it cure him, señor, or would it kill him?"

He had turned and clutched the lapel of my coat in his anxiety, and had bent forward again as if to discern my face in the darkness. It was rather a grave responsibility, it struck me, that was thus thrust upon me, and for once I was lacking in decision. I had heard of cases where a shock had been efficacious, and believed that I knew better than any other man living the cause of Monsieur Périgord's decline. Perhaps my impatience had something to do with my reply:

"It is certain he will die if he keeps on in this way, and I bring him good news. I believe there is an old saying that joy never kills, I will go with you to him."

The old fellow, without a word, released his hold on my coat, led the way across the patio, through the hallway, and to a door, upon which he tapped. A tired voice bade us enter, and we stepped inside. Monsieur Périgord was no longer on his couch, but was settled into the depths of a huge leather chair with his hands folded in front of him, and his legs sprawled toward the fireplace, in which, despite the warmth of the night, a tiny blaze was burning. He did not lift his eyes as we entered, nor seemed aware that his servant had brought a visitor. The servant nudged me to speech.

"Monsieur Périgord," I said, almost recklessly, "I have returned,"—and stepped across the intervening space until I was close to his chair. He started like one aroused from sleep, lifted his eyes, and for a moment stared at me in bewilderment. I feared he had not recognized me, and then his eyes flashed with something of the old fire. He jerked his legs back, sat stiffly erect, and almost tottered to his feet, supporting himself with one hand on the arm of the chair, and for what seemed a long time stood with his lips parted as if to reassure himself that he was not dreaming.

"Hale! Captain Hale!" He almost fell forward as he attempted to take my hand in both of his, and his servant, alarmed, sprang forward and assisted his master to a seat, after which he nimbly got a large decanter from a cabinet, poured a tiny glass of some stimulant, and held it to Monsieur Périgord's lips. He hovered solicitously above the latter, watched him drink it, replaced the glass, and stood blinking as if anticipating either death or a cure by some marvel about to be performed. Then reading some new look of interest on his master's face, he smiled with quiet satisfaction and fell to rubbing his hands.

"Juan, damn you, stop kneading your fists! You are not a baker!" exclaimed Monsieur Périgord testily; and at this his footman was almost transported with delight, clucked his tongue dryly between his teeth, looked across at me, and shook his bald old head as if thoroughly satisfied with the results thus far attained by my unexpected visit.

"He is better, señor, already; better, I tell you. Out there in the patio you said you would come unannounced, and—doctors are no good—no good, I tell you, señor. I will—"

Monsieur Périgord had been staring at him with a look of amazement, as if suddenly convinced that his servitor of forty years had gone insane, and now interrupted with a "There! There! Juan. Pull a seat up for Captain Hale, and leave us."

The faithful Juan was still chuckling in self-approval when he passed out and left us alone.

Monsieur Périgord attempted, with a trembling hand, to reach the decanter of stimulant, which I was compelled to pour out for him, and seemed to have recovered himself somewhat as he leaned back in his chair and looked at me.

"Well," he said, "we failed, and it was very thoughtless of me not to have told you before this that I commiserate with you on the loss of your ship. You did your best. I am informed that you made a gallant effort and that you crowned it with the kindness of having me notified at the earliest possible moment of all that had happened. I have been childish and selfish, in brooding more over my own griefs than over your loss. For the sparing of your life I am most thankful. For my own failure, which is irrevocable and irredeemable, I am desolated. For you there is youth and hope, for me there is age, and—"

He threw up his hands with an eloquent gesture of despair, and threatened again to submerge himself in a sea of despondency. I took the papers from my inside pocket and held them toward him. "You have, there," I said, "a more complete report than has yet been given you."

He took them and held them listlessly, while I, eager to have him open them, waited to see what he would do.

They can wait," he said, holding them in his hands. "But it is important that you should read them," I declared. "Important that you should read them before we proceed."

He half opened them, and then, plainly disinclined for their perusal, refolded them with an excuse.

"The frailty of old age! I can't read them without my glasses. To-morrow—"

"Where are they?" I demanded. "I will get them for you."

Palpably annoyed, but willing to concede in the face of my obstinacy, he gestured toward the library table, from which I took the glasses and handed them to him. He fixed them on his high, fine nose, and with the attitude of one about to be hopelessly bored, but still yielding to my wish, unfolded and spread the French official documents upon his knees. I watched him expectantly. His eyes opened wide as they fell upon the heading of the first letter, his air of lassitude vanished, and with a nervous jerk he again drew himself from the depths of his chair and held the little file of papers higher. I felt it indelicate to witness his emotion, and so got to my feet, walked across the spacious library, took the liberty of opening the heavy shutter, threw the window up, and stood looking out into the night.

Below me, here and there, could be seen the arc-lights of the city and faintly came the sounds of the band in the Plaza. It played a noble air, quite a fitting accompaniment to a climax of a noble effort. The stars appeared to shine more brightly, and a tiny, joyous breeze stirred the polished fronds of the palms beneath the window, and rustled as if whispering of great things through the waiting shrubbery. The faint perfume of flowers crept upward from the night, almost as illusive as a memory of flowers that had not survived, and seemed to invade the room. A paper rustled behind me as Monsieur Périgord turned a page. I turned my head and looked at him, and saw that he was bent very far over. His whole attitude suggested a prodigious eagerness to race through the written words. It was still premature and impertinent for me to violate the sanctity of his release by either word or scrutiny. I rested my elbows far out on the stone ledge, and tried to absorb myself in what might be seen and heard without. A bell bird off in the jungle of his private domain gave that weird, ringing call, that somehow this night had less of its overpowering melancholy and had taken on a tone of benison. Quite like the tender note of a vesper bell it sounded, bringing rest and peace after the struggles and turmoils of a long, long day.

Something like a prodigious sigh aroused me, and alarmed, I swung on my heels and looked at the old exile. He had collapsed like a shut clasp-knife, and fallen forward. The papers had fluttered from his hand to the floor by his side, and the hand itself hung listless and drooped over the arm of his chair. I was frightened. I ran to him, seized him beneath his arms, and rested him back in the seat, then, distracted, took the decanter, held it to his lips, and trickled some of its contents down his throat. I picked his glasses from the floor, where they had fallen, and, I believe, clumsily attempted to replace them on his nose, when I saw that down his white cheeks were rivulets where tears had fallen. I could not bear that he should know how fully I had been aware of his emotion, and took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them away even while he was recovering.

Still distracted, I returned to the window, closed it, and then the heavy shutters, as if to shut out into the darkness everything that might intrude upon this fine old man in his great hour. It was as if I were jealous of the night, or abhorred it as one who had crept stealthily up to stare curiously upon the secrets of Monsieur Périgord, who had so long and so bravely maintained them alone. I felt that to me solely, through straits of circumstance, had been given the privilege of sharing with him a portion of the heart that had never been worn upon his sleeve, and it was a very sacred trust. The windows closed, I returned to my seat and dropped into it, fixing my eyes on the tiny fire that, although slightly uncomfortable, was still companionable, like a living, leaping, exultant sharer of our little scene. Glancing furtively at Monsieur Périgord I saw that he was mentally alert again, but that he was making a desperate fight to recover from his emotion.

The silence that followed was prolonged and awkward. I could say nothing lest to him in his stress it seem banal, and he, I think, dared not speak lest he betray sentiment. And of sentiment betrayed, most men of worth stand in dread. Finally he reached the arm nearest me across the chair, found my hand and clutched it.

"Hale! Hale!—" he began, and then choked and stopped, and struggled to compose himself. But it seemed as if what he had tried to say had broken the ice of that uncomfortable, tense pause, and I found my tongue.

"It's all right, Monsieur Périgord," I declared, with a nervous jubilation. "Everything is all right now. I didn't fail altogether. I didn't do much, but I did the best I could. You owe it all to a man in Martinique, and a very good man he is. You will find his name on those papers here and there. I did nothing. I lost your gold. It would have been indecent in me not to have tried to accomplish the rest; but it doesn't matter now, any of it. You are no longer an exile. You are a citizen of France, and an honored citizen. They want you back there. Gold would have been something; but—don't you see?—the President himself thinks that the other part of it is the biggest of all; that you want to come back; that you were ready to give your gold to France in her hour of need, but that, biggest of all, you gave your heart ! It is that that counts, Monsieur Périgord."

He could not respond, and I had to bridge the chasm of his speechlessness.

"They are very able calculators in France when it comes to balancing scales where one side is weighted with coin and the other with worth. The beam tipped your way. It was inevitable that it should be so. They will be glad to have you back in France, monsieur, where your estates will all be restored. You are going to pull through now. You have got to. You have got to begin over again. Why, good Lord, man! You will have twenty years there before you finish."

It seemed to arouse everything that had been pent within him for so long, and the gates of his restraint were thrown wide. I can't find the indelicacy to repeat what he said. There are speeches in this world that one must not repeat, and of these were the ones which Monsieur Périgord poured out to me that night. The extravagance of his declarations might seem absurd to one who felt less poignantly than I their meaning.

Promising to call upon him the next day I made my departure. Long before this the lights of the Plaza had been extinguished, and the streets were deserted; but the night itself was endowed and englamored with a mysterious sense of quietude and peace, quite like the feeling that a sailor has on reaching a perfect port after a violent storm.