Foreign Exchange (Tarkington and Wilson, Ainslee's)/Chapter 7

“Renée!”

It was the half hour just before dinner, and Victor De Savergne, entering the library of the château, found the Marquise De Montfort sitting alone in the glow of the burning logs before the fireplace. He gave a quick glance around to assure himself that no one else was in the room and then came rapidly toward her.

“Renée, Renée, you wonderful woman!” he said in a voice husky with genuine emotion. “You not only make men love you but women obey you.”

“After this,” she returned, smiling up at him as he bent over her, “I think you will have no trouble with your wife.”

“You have performed the last sacrifice for me. I shall not forget.”

“I hope not. It has not been easy.” She sighed, and in that sigh was something of remorse, for the marquise was not a wholly conscienceless woman.

De Savergne laid one hand lightly on her shoulder, with a caressing gesture, and spoke very low and tenderly.

“Since that day two years ago when you and I for the first time learned what happiness is, I thought everything was perfect between us. I was wrong. The gratitude I have now teaches me how I have been in fault to you. You have suffered.”

“Yes,” she breathed sadly.

“Because you thought my whole heart was not yours. Renée, from this moment have no doubt of my faithfulness.”

She glanced quickly at him, her eyes, blue as the cornflower, full of sudden hope. He was the one love of her life, wrong though she knew it to be, and she had been unhappy. “Ah, if that were possible!” she murmured.

“It is possible! To please my wife I had to pretend to send Diane Delage away from Fontenay. For you I shall not pretend. I will send her away. What I feel for Diane, it is nothing! I should be an ingrate to you if I did not send her away. I should despise myself!”

For the moment he was sincere, this butterfly of the high nobility of France. As much as he was capable of loving anybody outside of himself, he loved Renée De Montfort. And there was, moreover, a spice of danger in the affair which lent it piquancy. Careless and indifferent as Renée's husband was, he was a man who would brook no stain upon his honor, and Victor knew if the Marquis De Montfort's suspicions should ever be aroused, he himself was as good as a dead man, The marquis was an expert both with sword and pistol, and was absolutely without nerves.

The marquise felt the ring of sincerity in De Savergne's voice, and she said, with a little gasp:

“If you make that sacrifice, Victor, I think our happiness will have a new beginning.”

“It shall!” he whispered emphatically. And then he added, still almost under his breath: “You have smoothed away all this disturbance which might have grown serious for my family, and I want to show you what it means to me.”

He went to the side of the fireplace, where, back of an oak panel, was a little safe. Drawing a key from his pocket, he opened the safe and extracted a small red box. Returning to her side, he laid the box upon the library table, opened it, and took out a necklace of exquisite pearls.

“See,” he smiled, holding them out to her, “it is the necklace you have always admired. Will you take it just as a token of how I thank you?”

She sprang from her chair, a startled look on her handsome face.

“Victor!”

“It is yours,” he said firmly, pressing the necklace upon her.

But she shrank back, evidently thoroughly frightened.

“No! No! No!”

De Savergne picked up the empty case, returned it to the receptacle behind the panel, and closed the latter. Then he came back to her side.

“It is a token between us of the new beginning,” he said persuasively.

But she would not listen. “It is your wife's. It was given to her on her wedding day.”

“For three generations it has been given to the De Savergne bride. It is not hers, it is the family's.”

“But you are simple! Of all the jewels, the necklace!”

“Just because it is the finest, it is yours,” he said, with a proud, loving glance at her.

The look moved her even more than the words, but she still temporized.

“For that very reason she would miss it.”

He laughed easily. “She has not worn any of them since the first year of our marriage. Only yesterday she was here with my uncle. He begged her to wear this necklace; she threw it down into the box and cried out she would never look at it again.”

Renée hesitated—the gleam of the pearls attracted her—and in that moment of hesitation she was lost.

“But I could not wear it,” she objected weakly.

“Where she is you could not show it,” he acknowledged, “but you can wear it—for me.”

He threw the necklace about her neck, and before she could prevent it, fastened the clasp. She shivered a little, as with fright.

“It is adorable, but it is dangerous.”

“No, no!”

“I am afraid of it, but I love it!” And she tucked it quickly away under the neck of her dress.

“Ah, Renée, how happy I am!” he cried triumphantly. “You will wear it always?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I swear it.”

“Ah!” he breathed tenderly, and took her, unresisting, in his arms.

“Monsieur Edouard is there.”

It was Nancy's voice in the next room,

With a little gasp of horror, Renée wrenched herself from Victor's embrace.

“She saw us!”

“No, no, no!”

“Ah, we do not know what she saw,” panting with alarm.

“She saw nothing, I tell you. You must control yourself,” he said sharply. “The people for dinner will be here. You must be calm, I say.”

Again Nancy's voice was heard, close to the open portières which hung between the two rooms. “Don't keep him out too long, Menga.”

“Mon Dieu!” gasped the marquise, glancing about like a hunted creature at bay. “I know I have become pale. She must not see me. Wait!”

She turned noiselessly and fled in the other direction from which Nancy was approaching. Victor nonchalantly leaned against the side of the mantelpiece. In another moment his wife entered the room, closely followed by the prince, the duchesse, and Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, all in evening attire.

In spite of her more than usual pallor, Nancy was looking particularly lovely in a gown of yellow brocade and gold-embroidered laces, which was peculiarly becoming to her dark beauty. The prince bestowed upon her a look of approval as he advanced to her side.

“Ah, my niece,” he said, with a genial smile, “you are going to be our good little girl.” He glanced at Victor. “Both our children are going to be very good and live happily ever after.”

“I didn't want to hurt anybody,” said Nancy, with an uncertain quaver in her voice. “I couldn't do that.”

“Our dinner is a celebration of it,” proceeded the prince suavely. “The people will soon arrive, and you must come to receive them. But I will keep you here one moment first.” Still speaking, he advanced to the chimney-piece. “I have thought of something very beautiful you can do—it will be so easy.”

“What is it?” asked Nancy listlessly.

“Just be more beautiful. There are some pretty things here that will make you so.

He had unlocked the panel, and now came back with the red case in his hand. As Victor saw it, he caught his breath sharply. He started forward as if to check the prince, but stopped suddenly, seeing the danger of interference.

“I know your good heart will not let you refuse this favor to an old man,” said the prince persuasively.

“Please don't ask me that,” begged Nancy, forestalling the evident request. “It was only yesterday I told you I could never look at them again. Please don't ask me.”

“Not wear her own family jewels!” ejaculated Mrs. Baxter indignantly, under her breath.

“My dear, I am very much in earnest,” persisted the prince in level tones. “People may have noticed you do not wear them. Some rumors of difficulties here may have floated out like little black butterflies. They will disappear if you are seen to-night in these jewels so distinctly of our family.”

“I can't” began Nancy, troubled, but the prince interrupted in the same quiet, determined, but still entreating manner:

“Not all. I would not load you with such armor—just two or three; the little coronet, the ruby brooch, the necklace.”

Unable to himself longer, Victor came forward to the table.

“Do not insist,” he said, with a significant glance at the prince, which the latter, clever as he was, was far from understanding. “She does not even wish to see them. She has already shown us so much consideration. Let me put them away.”

He reached out his hand to take the box, but the prince drew it back. “You see,” he said to Nancy, “your husband would not even ask it. Now will you not make him glad from your own good heart?”

She bowed her head in gentle submission. After all, what was to be gained by further discussion?

“I will. But not the others, please, just one”

“Since it is to be only one,” interposed the prince, pleased at his victory, petty though it was, “let it be the finest, the necklace.”

“No,” exclaimed Victor huskily, the color fading from his cheeks, “the other—the brooch.”

But the prince waved him back.

“No, no, she is willing—the necklace.” He passed the case to Nancy. “Ah, that is good! Put it on, my dear child. Our friends are arriving. We must be quick.”

But there came a startled cry from Nancy.

“The necklace is gone!”

“What are you saying?” exclaimed the prince.

“The necklace is gone,” she repeated in a dazed tone.

The prince hurriedly examined the case, and then, unable to conceal his agitation, stammered: “It was there yesterday.”

“Yes,” said Nancy, a sudden suspicion forming in her mind, “for you showed it to me then. It has been taken. Only you and Victor have keys.”

Victor was standing a little behind his wife, and, unseen by her, he made a sharp gesture of appeal to the prince. Like a flash, something, though not all, of the truth was revealed to the latter. A catastrophe was impending. He must avert it. Only he and Victor had keys. Ah!

“I—I had forgotten,” he said in a shamefaced manner. “I took it.”

“What for?” The question was addressed to the prince, but she had half turned and was looking with keen, inquisitorial gaze at her husband.

“I—the clasp was broken,” the prince tried to explain, for once his coolness partially forsaking him. “I wished to have it repaired.”

Nancy faced him with an expression that he did not like. “It wasn't broken yesterday.”

“You did not notice, perhaps.”

“Where did you take it?” in staccato-like tones.

“To the jeweler.”

“What jeweler?”

“At Fontenay.”

She made a quick gesture of scorn. You haven't been to Fontenay! You haven't been away.”

The prince's nervousness was increasing, but he strove to hide it. “Ah, must an old man's follies be exposed?” he said, with an attempt at plaintiveness. “I had hoped—but there—you force the confession—I have sent it away. Spare me, and do not ask to whom.”

“It isn't true!” Her voice cut like steel.

“I beg your mercy—spare an old man's infatuation.”

“Spare yourself!” contemptuously retorted Nancy, who was now thoroughly roused. “If you had sent it away, you would not have asked me to wear it just now. You are not a man who forgets. Victor took it away! He took it with him when he went to Fontenay yesterday—to Diane Delage!”

The prince raised his hand in expostulation,

“Ah, but that is a monstrous suspicion!” he cried in a shocked voice.

“Not suspicion! Certainty!”

“He would never”

“Then what has he done with it?” she interrupted curtly.

Victor, seeing that further denial was worse than useless, put in abruptly: “I shall not answer.”

“Isn't that an answer?” Nancy demanded triumphantly of the prince.

“He is too proud to”

But she would not hear him. She was weary of deceit.

“For the first time in your discipline of me you have blundered,” she said, with biting sarcasm. “You should have talked to Victor before you planned to crown your triumph by making me wear a necklace so strangely missing.”

Before he could answer, another voice broke into the discussion.

“Something is not right?”

It was the Marquise De Montfort, who had entered the room just in time to catch Nancy's last words, and who now came forward with evident apprehension,

“No,” answered Nancy—grimly, “something is wrong.”

“Renée,” said Victor hastily, “if you will withdraw for a moment”

“No, she must stay,” objected Nancy in a cold voice. Then, addressing the alarmed marquise, she continued with a bitter smile: “You are the emissary they sent to make an appeal to my heart.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Renée breathlessly. “They sent me.”

“When I gave up to you,” said Nancy in low, tense tones, “I didn't know all the shame. I've discovered it since. I know it now.”

The marquise shrank back, as if stricken by a blow, and gasped through pallid lips:

“She saw! She saw!”

“There was a necklace in that box,” proceeded Nancy, now in a clear, ringing voice, while the marquise involuntarily fumbled at her throat. “The Prince De Savergne says he sent it away; my husband refuses to answer.” She turned upon Victor. “Do you think you can deceive me now? Do you think I do not know where it is? That necklace,” with increasing vehemence, “which should have one day gone to his son, to his son's wife, is at this moment around the neck of his mistress!”

A queer little strangling sound came from the lips of the marquise.

“Ah!” she gasped. “You shall have it!” She tore open the neck of her dress and clutched the necklace.

“Renée!” exclaimed Victor, starting toward her.

“Have it?” murmured Nancy, dumfounded.

The marquise succeeded in detaching the necklace and held it out.

“Take it!” she said in a suffocating voice. “Take it back!”

For a long minute she and Nancy looked steadily at each other, a world of conflicting emotions in their breasts. Then, without another word, and amid the silence of the others, Renée crossed over to the table, and, dropping the necklace in the red case, sank down into a chair, and buried her white face in her hands.

No one moved or spoke. It seemed as if, for the moment, all life was suspended in the room, Then the tension was broken by the entrance of Menga, leading little Edouard by the hand.

“Monsieur Edouard comes to say good night,” announced Menga.

Nancy turned and looked at them. Then she spoke imperiously, in a high, strained voice: “Bring his hat and cloak! Get him ready as quickly as you can!”

But the prince, who by this time had entirely recovered his usual coolness of demeanor, strode a step or two toward the nurse.

“Take the boy to bed,” he commanded her.

“He's going with me!” declared Nancy, turning violently upon him.

“He's going to bed,” was the imperturbable rejoinder.

“Do you think I'll leave without him?”

“As you like. He stays with us.”

“Do you think I want him to grow up among you?” she cried passionately. “Do you think I'd let him? I'm not afraid of you any more. I'm not afraid of anything except staying in this house. And what do you think can stop me now from leaving it—and my boy with me?”

A derisive smile played about the prince's thin lips. “The wise and beneficent laws of this country which make a man the master of his children,” he answered smoothly, “You may go where you please—appeal to the law and be taught. That child cannot take one step without his father's consent. Why, even this woman,” indicating Menga, “knows that much. Take him to bed!” he ended sharply.

As Menga submissively took the little boy's hand and led him away, Nancy, with her eyes fixed on the prince's saturnine face, said between her teeth: “You think I'm alone. You think I have no one to help me. All right, but you won't beat me.”

Up to this point the Baxters had taken no part in the discussion, but had listened to every word; Mrs. Baxter, with dismay; Mr. Baxter, with ever-increasing anger. But now Mrs. Baxter started up and rushed toward her daughter imploringly.

“Nancy, don't you realize that there are people waiting for dinner—guests in your house? Ira Baxter, will you assert yourself?”

“Yes, I will!” was the emphatic, if enigmatical, answer.

Nancy paid no attention to them. All fear had left her. She was a woman, roused by her wrongs, stung by insults—a woman resolute and determined. Facing the prince with raised head and erect form, her blazing eyes fixed steadfastly upon his, she poured forth a cascade of words, but each one clear-cut and distinct.

“This is the end of my senseless alliance! Oh, but the snobs are right to call these things alliances—not marriages! Do you think a girl with American blood could ever be happy with a man she knows would not have married her if she hadn't paid him to do it? It's your title for our money! We throw in the girl—and her romance, and her right to a true husband and a happy motherhood. That's the exchange we pay. Why, I had a great-grandfather of my own, by chance.” She turned rapidly to her mother. “Your father's father he was, though you've forgotten him. He was killed at Yorktown trying to drive snobbishness out of our country. Oh, I think if he could have known what such people as you and I were going to do with the heritage he left us, he'd have cursed us with his dying breath!”

Greatly agitated, Mrs. Baxter clutched her husband violently by the arm. “You must command her!”

Then, to the amazement of everybody, Baxter rebelled. “I'll be damned if I do!” he shouted.

“What!” Mrs. Baxter staggered back, as dumfounded, perhaps, as she had ever been in her life.

Baxter strode forward to Nancy's side. There was an air of determination in his bearing that sat earnestly, if somewhat awkwardly, upon him.

“I'll be damned if I do!” he reiterated in thunderous tones. “Why, the kind of double cross  I've seen here wouldn't even go on Wall Street. You've made a mess of the whole thing. You took the girl's life in your hands and you've botched the job. You're not going to spoil it any more. Nancy, you're not alone! I'm with you—I'll do anything on earth you tell me to!”

“Oh, papa!”

“Ira Baxter,” shrieked Mrs. Baxter, almost delirious, “do you know”

But Baxter raised his hand with a gesture of command. “Don't you see what you've got her into?” he vociferated, with tremendous emphasis. “Why, it's nothing but a slum!”

With a cry of rapture, the tears now streaming down her cheeks, but radiant in spite of them, Nancy flung herself into her father's arms.