Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/325

 312 “Orders, M. Adair?”

“Orders, sir! and once more be silent. It is now seven o’clock. You will go from here to the lodging which you have taken for the English lady, Mrs. Lygon,—now do not begin to lie, because I know the house, and could tell you at what time she took possession of her room, and what rent she is to pay.”

Silvain deemed it wisest to remain silent.

“I know all. You will go, I repeat, to that house, and, with as much or as little regard to the convenances as you like, you will obtain speech of Mrs. Lygon, and inform that lady, first that I am here, and secondly that I wish to see her here before nine o’clock. That is your message, and now call to the gendarmes to let you out.”

“Do I hear you aright?” said Silvain. “I am to intrude upon Madame Lygon, and ask her to come and visit you in a police cell?”

“That is what you are to do, and instantly,” replied Adair. “You are not mad enough to hesitate.”

“Why should I obey?”

“Ask Matilde? Are you not gone?”

“Before making the least approach to Madame Lygon, I will assuredly consult with Mademoiselle Matilde, and if her opinion be my own, your brutal errand will remain undone, M. Adair.”

“Go and ask Matilde, fool, I tell you, and don’t waste time, or you may be doing more mischief than you dream of. Mischief to Matilde, and the lady, and more people besides. Now, be off.”

“You will have to account to me for all this, Monsieur,” said Silvain, as he went to the door.

“Stop,” said Ernest Adair, in a furious voice. “Stop a second. I have humoured your folly and swagger long enough. Take warning now. If ever you provoke me again into inflicting personal chastisement on you, it is the last you will want, M. Silvain.”

“The tiger has tasted blood, and is ferocious,” said Silvain, contemptuously, as the door opened for him. He pointed to his arm, in illustration of his meaning, and departed.

How he sped on his mission need not be said, but considerably before the appointed time it was announced to Adair that a lady desired to see him.

Ernest Adair again seated himself on his bed, and cast a cynical glance around the disordered cell, intending to receive his guest without any effort to render the chamber more fit for a visitor. But the gendarme, without a word, took the matter into his own hands,—opened the windows, and with military rapidity, brought the room into something like a decorous condition. He could not, however, prevent Adair from taking a lounging attitude on the bed, though the look of the honest soldier expressed the displeasure he felt at such a demonstration.

A few moments later, and Ernest’s visitor was introduced.

He retained the position he had insolently taken up, until the lady (who was in the simplest morning costume, and veiled) advanced a step or two, and raised her veil.

“You!” said Ernest, springing to his feet. “I sent for your sister.”

“I—I wished to come,” said Bertha Urquhart.

“But your coming is useless,” he replied, without a word of courtesy, or the offer of the single chair which stood near him. “It is strange that I cannot be obeyed, when persons have such good reasons for obeying me.”

“Do not be angry with me,” said Bertha, “for I am very miserable.”

“And why does a lady who is miserable come to a place like this at such an hour, especially when no one has asked for her presence?”

“I thought it best to come,” pleaded Bertha.

“It is for me to think in the matter,” he replied. “Do I understand from your being here that the idiot Silvain has not delivered my message to Mrs. Lygon?”

“He will do as you ask, of course,” said Bertha, deprecatingly. “But I thought I would come and ask what you wish, and what can be done for you—Silvain has told me of the unfortunate affair last night.”

“Silvain has told you!” he began, in a high and angry voice, which dropped as he observed her terror. “No, no, I am wrong to speak so to you. I do not accuse you of trying to involve me in a quarrel with a ruffian who would probably have strangled me, but for my being armed. That stroke was not yours, my poor Bertha. Do not look so white. I would say take a chair, but time is precious. Will you leave me, find Mrs. Lygon, and deliver the message which Silvain has presumed to neglect?”

“He did not neglect it. I delayed him, in order to come and see whether we could serve you in any way. Pray let us do so, if we can.”

“Go, and send Mrs. Lygon to me.”

“But what will you say to her that you cannot say to me?”

Ernest Adair advanced, took the chair, and sat down before Bertha, so that his face was lower than hers, and his up-turned eyes met hers, with an expression which made her shudder.

“Are you afraid of my eyes?” he said, gently and slowly. “It was not always so.”

“Ernest!”

“The old voice too. He is in prison, and she comes unto him,” he added, mockingly. “But I have no time for recollections now. Bertha, go, and send your sister here.”

“Tell me, for mercy’s sake, what you are going to do.”

“She shall tell you when she leaves me.”

“I assure you, Ernest, on my life, that it is not our fault that we have not yet got the money for you, but we are doing our best, and you shall soon have it. Do not do anything hasty and cruel—think of the misery you will cause.”

“To whom? and why should I care?”

“Ernest, you ought not to speak thus.”

“To whom should I cause misery?”

“Oh, Ernest!” said Bertha, bursting into tears, and sinking on her knees before him. “Do not, do not be so cruel—we will do anything to satisfy you, but have some mercy.”

His back was towards the door as he sat, and