If Sinners Entice Thee

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Mariette exclaimed in English, rising to allow her hand to linger for an instant in his, then sinking back with a slight yawn upon her silken couch. In the half-light, as she reclined in graceful abandon upon the divan, her head thrown back upon a great cushion of rose silk, she looked much younger than she really was. George had guessed her age at thirty-five when she had called at his hotel, but in that dimly-lit room, with her veil removed and attired in a thin light-coloured gown she looked quite ten years younger, and certainly her face was eminently handsome.

She stretched out her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe, with an air of coquetry, and in doing so displayed either by accident or design that soupçon of lingerie which is no indiscretion in a Frenchwoman.

He had taken a seat near her, and was apologising for calling during her siesta.

“No, no,” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “I am extremely glad you’ve come. I retire so late at night that I generally find an afternoon doze beneficial. We women suffer from nerves and other such things of which you men know nothing.”

“Fortunately for us,” he observed. “But then we are liable to a malady of the heart of far greater severity than that to which your sex is subject. Women’s hearts are seldom broken; men’s often are. A woman can forget as easily as a child forgets; but the remembrance of a face, of a voice, of a pair of eyes, to him brighter and clearer than all others, is impressed indelibly upon a man’s memory. Every woman from the moment she enters her teens is, I regret to say, a coquette at heart. In the game of love the chances are all against the man.”

“Why are you so pessimistic?” she asked, raising herself upon her elbow and looking at him amused. “All women are not heartless. Some there are who remember, and although evil and vicious themselves, are self-denying towards others.”

“Yes,” he answered. “A few – a very few.”

“Of course you must be forgiven for speaking thus,” she said, in a soft, pleasant tone. “Your choice of a woman has been an exceedingly unhappy one.”

“Why?” he exclaimed, with quick suspicion. “What allegation do you make against Liane?”

“I make no allegation, whatever, m’sieur,” she answered, with a smile. “It was not in that sense my words were intended. I meant to convey that your love has only brought unhappiness to you both.”

“Unfortunately it has,” he sighed. “In vain have I striven to seek some means in which to assist Liane to break asunder the tie which binds her to Prince Zertho, but she will not explain its nature, because she says she fears to do so.”

“I am scarcely surprised,” she answered. “Her terror lest the true facts should be disclosed is but natural.”

“Why?” he inquired, hastily.

But she shook her head, saying: “Am I not striving my utmost to assist her? Is it therefore to be supposed that I shall explain facts which she desires should remain secret? The object of your present visit is surely not to endeavour to entrap me into telling you facts which, for the present, will not bear the light? Rather let us come to some understanding whereby our interests may be mutual.”

“It was for that reason I have called,” he said, in a dry, serious tone. Her gaze met his, and he thought in that half-light he detected in her dark, brilliant eyes a keen look of suspicion.

“I am all attention,” she answered, pleasantly, moving slightly, so that she faced him.

“Well, mine is a curious errand,” he began, earnestly, bending towards her, his elbows on his knees. “There is no reason, as far as I’m aware, why, if you are really Liane’s friend, we should not be perfectly frank with one another. First, I must ask you one question – a strange one you will no doubt regard it. But it is necessary that I should receive an answer before I proceed. Did you ever live in Paris – and where?”

She knit her brows for an instant, as if questions regarding her past were entirely distasteful.

“Well, yes,” she answered, after some hesitation. “I once lived in Paris with my mother. We had rooms in the Rue Toullier.”

“Then there can be no mistake,” he exclaimed, quickly. “You are Mariette Lepage.”

“Of course I am,” she said, puzzled at the strangeness of his manner. “Why?”

“Because there is a curious circumstance which causes our interests to be mutual,” he answered, watching the flush of excitement upon her face as he spoke. “Briefly, my father, Sir John Stratfield, was somewhat eccentric, and because he knew I loved Liane, he left me penniless. He, however, added an extraordinary clause to his will, in which you are mentioned.” Then drawing from his breast-pocket a copy of the document, he glanced at it.

“I am mentioned?” she echoed, raising herself and regarding him open-mouthed.

“Yes,” he said. “By this will he has left me one hundred thousand pounds on condition that I become your husband within two years of his death.”

“You – my husband?” she cried. “Are you mad?”

“Not so mad as my father when he made this absurd will,” he answered, calmly. “You are, under its provisions, to be offered twenty thousand pounds in cash if you will consent to become my wife. This offer will be made to you formally by his solicitors in London as soon as I inform them that you are at last found. Read for yourself,” and he passed to her the copy of the will.

She took it mechanically, but for several moments sat agape and motionless. The extraordinary announcement held her bewildered. Quickly she glanced through the long lines of formal words, reassuring herself that he had spoken the truth. She was to receive twenty thousand pounds if she would marry the man before her, while he, on his part, would become possessed of a substantial sum sufficient to keep them comfortably for the remainder of their lives. At first she was inclined to doubt the genuineness of the document; but it bore the signature of the firm of solicitors, and was attested by them to be a true copy of the original will. It held her dumb in astonishment.

“Then we are to marry?” she observed amazedly, when at last she again found voice.

“The offer is to be made to you,” he answered, evasively. “As you have seen, if you refuse, or if you are already married, I am to receive half the amount.”

“I am not married,” she answered with a slightly coquettish smile, her chin resting upon her palm in a reflective attitude as she gazed at him. “Marriage with you will mean that we have together the substantial sum of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”

“That is so,” he said gravely. “If we married we certainly should have money.”

“But you love Liane,” she answered in a low tone. “You can never love me,” and she sighed.

He did not answer. The look upon his face told her the truth. He feared lest she should accept this curious offer, knowing that he would then be drawn into a marriage with her. She regarded him critically, and saw that he was tall, good-looking, muscular, and in every way a thorough type of the good-natured Englishman. Twenty thousand pounds was, she reflected, a sum that would prove very acceptable, for she lived extravagantly, and the Villa Fortunée itself was an expensive luxury.

“It is very dull living alone,” she exclaimed, with a little touch of melancholy in her voice. Then, with a laugh, she added, “To be perfectly frank, I should not object to you as my husband.”

“But is there not a barrier between us?” he exclaimed, quickly.

“Only Liane. And she can never marry you.”

“I love her. I cannot love you,” he answered. Her effort at coquetry sickened him.

“It is not a question of love,” she answered, coldly, toying with the fine marquise ring upon her white finger. “It is a question of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”

“Would either of us be one whit the better for it, even if we married?” he queried. “I think not. At present we are friends. If we married I should hate you.”

“Nevertheless I should obtain twenty thousand pounds,” she argued.

“Is it worth while to risk one’s future happiness for that?” he said.

“I have not yet sufficiently considered the matter,” she replied, with her eyes still fixed on him. “At present I’m inclined to think that it is. But I must have time to reflect. One cannot refuse such an offer without due consideration.”

“Then you are inclined to accept,” he observed, blankly.

She hesitated. Slowly she rose from the settee, crossed to the window and pushed open the sun-shutters, allowing the golden sunset to stream into the room from over the clear blue-green sea.

“Yes,” she answered, standing gazing out upon the far-off horizon where the white-sailed racing yachts, Ailsa and Britannia, were passing, “I am inclined to accept.”

“Very well,” he stammered, sitting rigid and immovable. “My future is entirely in your hands.”

She passed her hand wearily across her brow. With the sunset falling full upon her, he saw how heavy-eyed she was, and how artificial was the complexion that had looked so well in the dreamy half-light when the jalousies had been closed. Yes. She no doubt bore traces of a faded beauty, but she was old; there were lines in her brow, and crows’ feet showed at the corners of her eyes. She was passée, and all the vivacity and coquettishness she had shown had been carefully feigned to assume an appearance of youth. The thought of it nauseated him.

Again she turned towards him. Her momentary gravity had vanished, and she commenced a commonplace conversation. At last, however, he rose to go, but she would not hear of it.

“No; remain here and dine,” she said, in a low, persuasive tone. “Afterwards we can go over to Monte Carlo for an hour or so, and you can catch the yellow rapide back to Nice at eleven.”

“But you must really excuse me. I – ”

“I will take no excuse,” she said, laughing. “You must remain,” and she rang for the servant and told him that m’sieur would dine.

Together they stood at the open window watching the succession of lights and shadows upon the purple mountains, how the rose of the afterglow grew deeper over the sea until it faded, and the streak of gold and orange died out behind the distant rocks of Cap d’Aggio. Then the mists rose, creeping slowly up the mountain sides, the dusk deepened, a chill wind blew in from the sea, and just as they closed the windows the door opened and the man announced dinner.

The table, set for two in a cosy little salle-à-manger, glittered with its cut-glass and shining plate, and was rendered bright by its shaded candles and small silver repoussé stands filled with choice flowers. Throughout the meal she was gay and vivacious, speaking but little of herself and carefully avoiding all references to Liane. He found her a pleasant hostess, unusually well-informed for a woman. They discussed art and literature, and in all her criticisms she exhibited a wide and intimate knowledge of men and things. Then, when they rose, she opened a door at the further end of the room and he found himself in a spacious conservatory, where she invited him to smoke while she dressed to go to the Casino.

Half an hour later she reappeared in a handsome gown of pale blue silk, the corsage trimmed with narrow braiding of silver; a costume which suited her admirably, yet so daring was it that he could not disguise from himself the suggestion that it was the dress of a demi-mondaine. Her hair had been redressed by her maid, and as he placed about her shoulders her small black cape of lace and feathers, he mumbled an apology that he was not able to dress.

“What does it matter? I invited you,” she said, with a gay laugh. “Come.”

Together they entered the open carriage awaiting them, and descending the long winding road to the shore, drove rapidly through La Condamine, and ascended the steep incline which brought them round to the main entrance to the Casino.

The night was brilliant, and the broad Place, with its palms and flowers, its gay, laughing crowd of promenaders, and its showy Café de Paris, where the band was playing Mattei’s “Non è ver,” lay bright as day beneath the moonbeams and electric rays. As they entered, Mariette handed him her cape, which he deposited for her in the cloakroom, then both passed through a crowd of habitués of the rooms. Several men around bowed to her, and she greeted them with a smile.

“You appear to be well-known here,” he laughed, as the well-guarded doors opened to them.

“I suppose I am,” she answered vaguely. “When I am lonely I come here and play. It is the only recreation I have.”

The rooms were hot and crowded. The monotonous cry of the croupiers, the incessant clicking of the roulette-ball, the jingle of coin, and the faint odour of perfume were in striking contrast to the quiet of the road along which they had just driven, but walking side by side they passed through one room after another until they reached that fine square salon, with its huge canvas representing a peaceful pastoral scene occupying the whole of the opposite wall, the “trente-et-quarante” room.

There was not quite so large a crowd here, but the stakes were higher, a louis being the minimum. Mariette saw a player rise from his chair at the end of the table and instantly secured the vacant seat, then turning to her companion with a gay laugh, said, —

“I am going to tempt Fortune for half an hour.”

She took from the large purse she carried a card on which to record the game, impaled it to the green cloth with a pin, in the manner of the professional gambler, and drew forth a small roll of notes.

The first time she played the “tailleur” dealt the cards quickly, one by one, then cried, “Six, quatre, rouge gagne et couleur perd.”

She had lost. But next time she tossed two notes upon the scarlet diamond before her and won. She doubled her stake, won again, and then allowed the cards to be dealt several times without risking anything. Presently, she hesitated, but suddenly counted out five one hundred-franc notes, folded them in half and carelessly tossed them upon the red. Again the cards were dealt one by one upon the leather-covered square; again the monotonous voice sounded, and again came her winnings towards her, five notes folded together on the end of the croupier’s rake.

So engrossed had George become in the game, that he noticed nothing of what was transpiring around him. Had he not been so deeply interested in the play of this woman whom his father had designated as his wife, his attention would probably have been attracted by a curious incident.

At the moment when the cards had been dealt, a man seated at the end of the opposite table, who, with his companion had won a considerable sum, raised his head, and, for the first time, noticed amid the excited expectant crowd, that it was a woman who had been successful at the other table.

The man was Zertho. Next instant, however, his face went white. In his eyes there was a look of abject terror when he identified the lucky player. With a sudden movement he put his hand to his head to avoid recognition, and bending quickly to his companion, gasped, —

“Look, Brooker! Can’t you see who’s in front? Good God! why there’s ‘The Golden Hand.’ Quick! We must fly!”

Chapter Seventeen

The House of the Wicked

Next afternoon Liane and Zertho strolled up to Cimiez together to pay a call upon a Parisian family named Bertholet, who lived in one of those fine white houses high up on the Boulevard de Cimiez, and who had recently accepted the Prince’s hospitality.

As they turned from the dusty Boulevard Carabacel, and commenced the long ascent where the tree-lined road runs straight up to the glaring white façade of the Excelsior Regina Hotel, Zertho expressed a fear that she would be fatigued ere they reached their destination, and urged her to take a cab.

“I’m not at all tired,” she assured him, nevertheless halting a second, flushed and warm, to regain breath. “The day is so beautiful that a walk will do me no end of good.”

“It’s a dreadful bore to have to toil up and call on these people, but I suppose I must be polite to them. They are worth knowing. Bertholet is, I hear, a well-known banker in Paris.”

Liane smiled. The patronising air with which her companion spoke of his newly-found friends always amused her.

“Besides,” he added, “we must now make the best of the time we have in Nice. We leave to-morrow, or the day after.”

“So sudden!” she exclaimed, surprised. “I thought we should remain for another fortnight or three weeks. The weather is so delightful.”

“I have arranged it with the Captain,” he said briefly. “Do you regret leaving?”

“How can I regret?” she asked, glancing at him and raising her brows slightly. “How can I regret when the place, so fair in itself, is to me so hateful? No, I’m glad for several reasons that we are leaving.”

She recollected at that moment what George had told her. Mariette Lepage was near them. She remembered, too, the fierce expression of hatred in that pair of angry eyes shining through the mask.

“Yes,” he said at length, “one can have too much of a good thing, and sometimes it is even possible to have too much of the Riviera. I have the satisfaction at least of having succeeded in obtaining a footing in society.” And he laughed as he added, “A year ago I was a down-at-heel adventurer, almost too shabby to obtain admittance at Monte Carlo, while to-day I’m welcomed everywhere, even among the most exclusive set. And why? Merely because I have money and impudence.”

“Yes,” Liane admitted, with a touch of sorrow. “This is indeed a curious world. There is a good deal of truth in the saying that a man is too often judged by his coat.”

“And a woman by her dress,” he added quickly. “When you are Princess d’Auzac, you will find that other women will crowd around you and pet you, and declare you are the most beautiful girl of the year – as, of course, you are – all because you have wealth and a title. They like to speak to their friends of ‘My friend the Princess So-and-So.’”

“You are very complimentary,” she answered, coldly. “I have no desire to excite either the admiration or envy of other women.”

“Because you have never yet fully realised how beautiful you are,” he answered.

“Oh yes, I have. Every woman knows the exact worth of her good looks.”

“Some over-estimate them, no doubt,” he said, with a laugh. “But you have always under-estimated yours. If the Captain had chosen he could have already married you to a dozen different men, all wealthy and distinguished.”

“Dear old dad loved me too well to sacrifice my happiness for money,” she said, climbing slowly the steep hill.

“Yet you declare that you are doing so by marrying me,” he observed, his eyes fixed upon the ground.

“I am only marrying you because you compel me,” she answered, huskily. “You know that.”

“Why do you hate me?” he cried, dismayed. “I have surely done my best to render your life here happy? In the past I admired your grace and your beauty, but because of my poverty I dared not ask the Captain for you. Now that I have the means to give you the luxury which a woman like yourself must need, you spurn my love, and – ”

“Your love!” she cried, with a gesture of disgust, her eyes flashing angrily. “Do not speak to me of love. You may tell other women that you love them, but do not lie to me!”

“It is no lie,” he answered. She had never spoken so frankly before, and her manner showed a fierce determination which surprised him.

“You have a manner so plausible that you can utter falsehoods so that they appear as gospel truth,” she said. “Remember, however, that you and my father were once fellow-adventurers, and that years ago I thoroughly gauged your character and found it exactly as superficial and unprincipled as it is now.”

“The past is forgotten,” he snapped. “It is useless to throw into my face facts and prejudices which I am striving to live down.”

“No,” she cried. “The past is not forgotten, otherwise you would not compel me to become your wife. How can you say that the past is buried, when at this moment you hold me beneath your hateful thrall, merely because my face and my figure please you, merely because you desire that I should become your wife?”

“With you at my side I shall, I trust, lead a better life,” he said, calmed by her rebuff.

“It is useless to cant in that manner,” she exclaimed, turning upon him fiercely. “In you, the man I have always mistrusted as knavish and unscrupulous, I can never place confidence. The mean, shabby, tricks you have served men who have been your friends are in themselves sufficient proof of your utter lack of good-will, and show me that you are dead to all honour. Without confidence there can be no love.”

“I have promised before Heaven to make you happy,” he answered.

“Ah, no,” she said, in a choking voice of bitter reproach. “Speak not of holy things, you, whose heart is so black. If you would make your peace with God give me back my liberty, my life, before it is too late.”

Her face was pale, her lips were dry, and she panted as she spoke.

But they had gained the gate of the villa where they were to call, and pushing it open he held it back with a low bow for her to pass. Her grey eyes, so full of grief and despair, met his for an instant, and she saw he was inexorable. Then she passed in up to the door, and a few minutes later found herself in the salon chatting with her voluble hostess, while Zertho sat with Madame’s two smart daughters, both true Parisiennes in manner, dress, and speech.

“We only heard to-day of your engagement to the Prince,” Madame Bertholet was saying in French. “We must congratulate you. I’m sure I wish you every happiness.”

“Thank you,” she said, with a forced smile. “It is extremely good of you.”

“And when and where do you marry?”

“In Brussels, in about three weeks,” Liane answered, striving to preserve an outward appearance of happiness. It was, however, but a sorry attempt. From the windows of their salon Madame Bertholet and her daughters had noticed the strange imploring look upon Liane’s face as they had approached the gate, and had wondered.

Yet when she had entered she had sparkled with fun and vivacity, and it was only the mention of marriage which had disarmed her.

“After Brussels you will, of course, go to your new home in Luxembourg,” said Madame. “Have you seen it?”

Liane replied in the negative.

“I happen to know Luxembourg very well. My brother, strangely enough, is one of the Prince’s tenants.”

“Oh, then, you of course know my future home,” exclaimed Liane, suddenly interested.

“Yes, very well. The château is a fine old place perched high up, overlooking a beautiful fertile valley,” her hostess replied. “I once went there a few years ago, when the old Prince was alive, and I well remember being charmed by the romantic quaintness of its interior. Inside, one is back three centuries; with oak panelling, old oak furniture, great old-fashioned fireplaces with cosy corners, and narrow windows, through which long ago archers shed their flights of arrows. There is a dungeon, too; and a dark gloomy prison-chamber in one of the round turrets. It is altogether a most delightful old place.”

“Gloomy, I suppose?” observed Liane thoughtfully.

“Well, life amid such old-world surroundings as those could scarcely be quite as bright or enjoyable as Nice or Paris, but it is nevertheless a magnificent and well-preserved relic of a bygone age. Without doubt it is one of the finest of feudal châteaux in Europe.”

“Are any of the rooms modern?”

“None,” Madame replied. “It seems to have been the hobby of the Princes d’Auzac to preserve intact its ancient character. You will be envied as the possessor of such a fine old place. I shall be delighted to come and see you when you are settled – if I may.”

“Certainly. I, too, shall be delighted,” Liane answered mechanically. “In a place like that one will require a constant supply of visitors to make life at all endurable. It is, I fear, one of those grey, forbidding-looking old places as full of rats as it is of traditions.”

“I don’t know about the rats,” her hostess answered, laughing heartily. “But there are, I know, many quaint and curious legends connected with the place. My brother told me some.”

“What were they about?”

“Oh, about the tyranny of the d’Auzacs who, in the middle ages, ravaged the Eiffel and the Moselle valley, and more than once attacked the town of Trêves itself. In those days the name of d’Auzac was synonymous of all that was cruel and brutal; but the family have become civilised since then, and,” she added, looking towards Zertho, who was laughing with her two daughters, “the Prince scarcely looks a person to be feared.”