Foreign Exchange (Tarkington and Wilson, Ainslee's)/Chapter 9

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, both in traveling costume, were standing on the terrace, when Hardy hurriedly joined them.

“Mr. Baxter,” he said quickly, “tell your man to get out your automobile. You get whatever bags you've got packed into it without being seen. Have him run the machine behind the château, then take the turn and go straight out on the Fontenay road. Half a mile along he'll see another road intersecting. Tell him to take it, turning to the right. This crosses the railway tracks a quarter of a mile above, and, of course, out of sight of the station, and then runs down through a thick wood paralleling the tracks. There are two platforms at the station, you know, one on each side, each with its waiting room and booking office. If he follows these directions carefully, he can make the station on the opposite side from the platform where the Brussels express comes in without attracting any attention. Once there, the waiting room will hide him from sight, as everybody will be on the other platform waiting for the express. He ought to make it in twenty minutes, if he starts at once. I want him there before certain passengers arrive whose suspicions might be aroused if they heard an automobile, even if they couldn't see one. Is this clear?”

“It's clear enough; but what's it all for?” demanded Baxter in surprise.

“Well,” said Hardy succinctly, “there may be a sudden change in your daughter's plans.”

“It's too late to change them,” protested Baxter.

“Now, please don't argue, Mr. Baxter. Believe me, I know what I'm about. Leave it all to me, and you won't regret it, I promise you.”

Baxter gave the young man a searching look, and then, evidently satisfied, he nodded. “All right,” he acquiesced, starting off, “I'll tell the chauffeur.”

Hardy now felt that the success of his plan was assured. He had seen Menga after her interview with the prince, and she had told him, with many expressions of bewilderment, that the prince had instructed her to go ahead, and to say nothing to anybody about her having spoken to him; also, that he had ordered her to tell Monsieur Chabrol to come to him at once, and to send away the two menservants, as there was no longer any need to watch the child. “He seem so pleased,” she commented piteously. “He smile, he nod his head, he say: 'Good, good, good!' I do not comprehend. I hope I get forgifness if I done wrong.”

Hardy had reassured her as best he could, with the little time at his disposal, and had then given her further instructions. Now all was in readiness for the last coup.

Baxter was back in an incredibly short space of time. “The car'll be there,” he announced. “I suppose you know what you want it for.”

“Yes, I do,” Hardy assured him with cheerful confidence.

“Then we're only waiting for Nancy to give the word. Oh, here she is.”

Hardy's heart, a most unruly member these days, leaped at the sight of the gray-clad figure that emerged from the château, followed by Menga leading little Edouard by the hand.

“Ready, father?”

“Yes, but”—noticing that the guards were no longer with the nurse and boy—“where the de where's the undertaker? Where are those two generals?”

“The prince sent for Chabrol and the servants,” explained Hardy, his eyes fixed avidly upon Nancy. “The guard is withdrawn.”

“It's a providence,” cried Nancy excitedly, “clearing the coast himself just at this moment—just when we needed them out of the way! There's nothing to fear now. Our enemy himself has saved us. Go, Menga!”

The woman started to obey, but halted uncertainly at the unexpected appearance of the prince and Chabrol, both in hats and light overcoats.

“Ah, our little man goes for a stroll, does he?” In both the prince's manner and his voice was an undercurrent of triumphant excitement. “That is good. He should have exercise for his health.”

“Go! Go!” whispered Nancy to Menga hoarsely.

“Do not let me detain him,” said the prince easily, catching the injunction.

“We shall not!” retorted Nancy with spirit, her dark eyes flashing defiance. “Go, Menga, I tell you!”

Menga hesitated a moment, and then, leading the puzzled boy, hurriedly began to descend the steps.

The prince followed them to the edge of the parapet.

“That is good,” he said pleasantly, “Let him take his little walk. And you, my dear countess, are you not going with them? Do not let me keep you.”

Nancy did not comprehend his attitude in the least, but her blood was up, and she did not flinch. “You're not!” she flung at him; and then, beneath her breath: “And you won't!”

The prince descended a step or two, and then turned back for a moment.

“For myself I must make excuses that a little absence shall keep me from you for a short time,” he said in that oily way which Nancy loathed. “My carriage is waiting in the courtyard; I need to take the air, I and my good Chabrol. It may be rather a long drive. I trust you will all excuse me, particularly my niece, Madame De Savergne. I shall hope to make a more ample excuse to her when I see her again in”—he paused and smiled inscrutably, as he bowed himself away—“in perhaps three hours! Au revoir.”

No one but Jack Hardy understood the veiled significance of the last words, and he smiled grimly at the thought of how the wily old man had been fooled and of the disappointment in store for him.

“Nothing, nothing between us and Brussels!” cried Nancy tensely. “Come, let us go.”

Hardy raised a restraining hand. “Don't move,” he commanded sharply. “Stay where you are! The carriage is driving out of the courtyard. Wait!”

“Wait!” Nancy exclaimed. “We can't. It's time to start for the station.”

“You can't go to Brussels,” he asserted peremptorily. “They'd take your boy away from you there just as they would here. There's only one country on earth where you're sure to keep him—and that's your own.”

“But I can't get there,” said Nancy anxiously. “Don't you understand, I must be on this train, Edouard will be”

“Yes, I understand,” Hardy interposed quietly. “And, for that matter, you must all be on the train; or rather, the prince must believe you are, must see you board it. Listen. He thinks I sympathize with his viewpoints, his ideas, and he was kind enough to make me his confidant. He believes you are going to take that train, and therefore intends to do so himself unknown to you; he and Chabrol, both of them. His drive is, of course, only a pretense, but since you are not supposed to know that, you assume, naturally, that the coast is quite clear. This is what he expects you to do, so we will act accordingly—it has the advantage of saving us the inconvenience of any attempt at stealth in going to the station. Menga will already be on the platform with Edouard by now, and”

“And so will the prince,” broke in Nancy, almost in tears as she saw her escape being cut off. “We are walking into his trap. Why didn't you tell us this before—before”

“Just a minute, please,” Hardy interrupted gently. “Yes, the prince and Chabrol will undoubtedly be there, though they will take good care not to be seen by you if they can prevent it. When the train comes in, you will all enter a compartment in one of the forward carriages. Your esteemed uncle, when he sees you do this, will imitate your example in one at the rear.”

“And then,” cried Nancy, “then”

“Then,” said Hardy grimly, “just as the train starts, Mr. Baxter will lower the window on the far side of your compartment, open the door, and you will all step out; while I remain on the footboard, completely blocking the view from the platform as I lean in to say my adieus—in case Chabrol, at the last instant, should be sent down the platform to make assurance doubly sure. You have only to cross the track and pass through the waiting room on the other platform to your automobile, which is standing there. The prince will be on the way to Brussels, on an express that makes no stops. He can't get back here for six hours, he can't even telegraph for three. Your road to Boulogne, to the New York boat, to America, is clear.”

Baxter's hand came down with a thump on Hardy's back. “Young man,” he cried hilariously, “you could beat Wall Street to a frazzle! By Jove, you're a corker!”

“Shall we go?” suggested Hardy quietly. “There is just about time.”

“Oh, but all my things!” protested Mrs. Baxter.

“All the things you'll take are in the car,” said her husband sturdily, grasping her arm.

Mrs. Baxter started forward reluctantly. “It—it seems as though the heavens would fall next,” she complained tearfully.

“Humph!” snorted Mr. Baxter. “It seems as if we were going to get little Eddie over to New York and teach him some darned good English!”

Nancy had not spoken. It had come upon her with sudden, subtle insistence, and she realized with all her soul that while this victory, now surely hers, might bring relief, it could never bring the happiness she had dreamed of, longed for. Victory, the victory that Hardy had made possible, meant, too, that she was passing out of his life—that between them henceforward was endless separation. She dared not even lift her eyes to his, as she followed a little behind her parents.

Hardy, gravely, and as silently, walked beside her. And he, too, dared not trust himself to speak.

It was not long, that little walk, but it had spanned a lifetime for them both before the whistle of the train sounded in the distance, just as they reached the station. Hardy roused himself into action. Catching sight of Menga with little Edouard, he beckoned her to join the others, and then led the way toward the upper end of the platform. He smiled grimly to himself as once, turning suddenly, he caught sight of Chabrol far down at the other end behind a group of travelers, and behind him again the figure of the prince.

The next minute, with the arrival of the train, all was bustle and excitement. Hardy ran alongside the forward coaches, and, tipping the guard handsomely, secured an empty compartment into which he hurried his little party. He closed the door, mounted the footboard, and leaned in through the open window. Again, over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Chabrol, who had presumably approached to watch them and was now hastening back toward the rear of the train. Hardy followed the secretary with his eyes until he saw him enter what was evidently the prince's compartment, and then he turned quickly to Mr. Baxter.

“Now's your time,” he cried, his voice sounding hoarse in his own ears. “Good-by—and God bless you all!”

Mr. Baxter reached out his hand for a last grasp, lowered the window on his side, opened the door, and stepped out. Mrs. Baxter followed, then Menga and the child.

A passion of tenderness leaped into flame in Hardy's heart. Nancy was facing him, her hands outstretched with a gesture that was full of unspoken tragedy. A swift, indescribable light flashed in her beautiful eyes, lingered a moment, and was gone.

“I understand—I know,” she was murmuring brokenly, catching her breath in little sobs. “And I—I am going to suffer, too!”

She whirled about, there was the guick frou-frou of silken skirts—and then the door closed softly upon an empty compartment.

Baxter's voice came guardedly from the other side. “Hardy! I say, Hardy! Why don't you come with us?”

“No,” Hardy answered, scarcely above a whisper—his mouth was dry and parched, he could barely speak. “No, I go the other way.”

The train was moving. He dropped to the platform. The carriages began to slip by him faster and faster. Some one leaned from a window and lifted his hat. It was the Prince De Savergne.

It was late that evening when Jack Hardy, smoking moodily in his studio and given up to gloomy contemplation, was roused from his reflections by the sudden flinging open of his door as Albert De Raimbault, wild-eyed, disheveled, and distraught, burst in upon him.

“The prince? The prince? Where is the prince?” gasped De Raimbault. “I could find no one at the château. Is he here?”

Hardy rose to his feet. “I believe the prince has gone to Brussels,” he said shortly.

“To Brussels! Mon Dieu! Oh, this is terrible,” De Raimbault cried, beginning to weep piteously. “Terrible!”

Hardy caught him rather roughly by the arm. Tears in a man were not to his liking.

“What is terrible? Pull yourself together, and tell me what has happened!”

“Victor!” moaned De Raimbault, wringing his hands. “Poor Victor!”

Hardy shook the other vigorously. “What's the matter with you, man?” he demanded sharply. “What about Victor?”

“Killed,” mumbled Raimbault De incoherently, “killed—in a duel with the—the Marquis De Montfort—he had discovered all—a jealous woman—Diane Delage. Oh, what the will the prince say!”

Hardy's hand fell from the viscount's arm. His face flushed crimson; and then the color ebbed away, leaving him as pale as ivory. What all this meant thrust itself into his inner consciousness. She was free! Free! Free! That was the one, the only thought! It was like a bolt from the blue—such poetic justice, such dramatic retribution, that he could scarcely believe it to be true. Suddenly he began to laugh, uproariously, uncontrollably, like a drunken man.

De Raimbault stared at him in dumb amazement. What a way to take the news of an appalling tragedy! Oh, these foreigners!

Then, as suddenly, Hardy ceased his laughter.

“The Amsterdam has sailed, but there are other boats!” he cried exultantly, on his face the light that never was on land or sea. “Tell the prince I give up my tenancy of this tower at once—at once! I am not going the other way! I am going back to America! Do you hear? To America!”