The Temptress

An hour before midnight the four assembled in a private sitting-room at the Hôtel de l’Europe. Pierre Rouillier – or Adolphe Chavoix, as he was now called by his fellow-adventurers – had procured a piece of billiard chalk, and marked the table at which they were to play. The heavy curtains of the windows overlooking the street were drawn, and over the gas lamp was a lace shade which caused a soft, subdued light to fall upon the table, while opposite the windows was a large mirror reaching from the wainscot to the ceiling.

“Who’ll be banker?” asked Adolphe, as they seated themselves.

“Why, Hugh, of course,” replied the count. “He’s had all the luck to-night. Come, m’sieur, sit over there, and start the bank with your winnings,” he added, addressing Hugh.

“Ah, my dear Count, I expect my luck will change,” laughed Trethowen good-humouredly.

And, placing a chair for Valérie by his side, he took the seat indicated. He was not a practised card-player, neither did any apprehension of dishonest dealing cross his mind.

The game, he thought, was one of mere chance, and his opponents were just as liable to lose as himself. So he commenced by making a bank, and shuffling and dealing the cards.

The first few hands were uninteresting. Adolphe had arrived presumably from Paris only a few days previously, and had been introduced by Valérie as a friend of the family. As he entered heartily into every proposal for enjoyment, Hugh considered him a genial and pleasant companion. Overflowing with mirth and good spirits, he proved a much appreciated addition to the party.

At first the stakes were not high, and the fortune of the players were about equally divided. Hugh’s pile of coin increased now and then, only to diminish again, but never falling short of its original size.

After a time the count increased his stake, twenty louis being put upon the game. Neither player, however, could make the fatal abbattage, and Hugh continued to hold winning hands, and rake the coins into the bank.

The game was growing interesting, and so intensely were the thoughts of the players riveted upon it that time passed unheeded. Two o’clock had struck, still the dealing and hazarding went on, while Nanette stood by quietly watching, and now and then replenishing the glasses of the men.

At length Hugh’s good fortune forsook him, and a long run on the bank was made. For five hands his cards were useless, and each time he was compelled to pay, the result being that not a louis remained out of the pile of half an hour before.

Valérie expressed her regret at her lover’s misfortune, and after some discussion it was decided to make a fresh bank, Hugh, as before, to be banker.

In order to obtain the necessary money he left the room, Valérie uttering some words of encouragement as he did so.

A few minutes later he returned with several crisp English notes in his hand. Having converted two of them into louis, play was resumed. Again the fates were against him. He was flushed with excitement, and played carelessly. A number of successive rounds he lost to Adolphe, whose pile of coin as rapidly increased as his diminished, while much good-humoured chaff was levelled at him by his companions.

Then, for the first time, he recognised the amount of his loss, and determined, if possible, to recoup himself.

Flinging his two remaining notes – each of the value of one hundred pounds – upon the table, he remarked rather bitterly —

“It seems I’ve been overtaken by a run of infernal bad luck. Will any one ‘play’ me for the bank?”

“As you please,” assented the count.

“Ma foi! you’ve played pluckily, although it’s been a losing game.”

“It’s really too bad,” declared Valérie pouting. “But I expect when Hugh has his revenge he will ruin us all.”

“Scarcely,” replied Trethowen, raising his glass to his lips.

“How much is in the bank?” asked Adolphe unconcernedly, as the cards were being dealt.

“Five thousand francs,” replied Hugh, after a moment’s calculation.

“Very well, I’ll ‘play’ you,” the young man said calmly.

The announcement caused each of the quartette the most intense excitement, for it meant that Pierre had backed that amount against the banker’s stake upon the result of his tableau.

Every one was silent. Hugh scarcely breathed. He dealt the cards, and each snatched them up.

It was an exciting moment for all concerned, and there was a dead silence.

The adventuress exchanged glances with the count. Adolphe remained perfectly cool as he turned the faces of the cards upwards, a five and a four of diamonds, making a “natural” against which Hugh’s cards were useless.

With a grim smile Hugh pushed the two notes and some gold over to his adversary, and, rising from the table, exclaimed —

“I think, after all, I’d better have remained a punter than aspired to be a banker.”

“Never mind,” said Valérie encouragingly, as she gathered up her winnings, “your good luck will return to-morrow.”

“I shall ruin myself if I go on long at this rate,” he replied. “I shall have to send to London to-morrow for a fresh supply, otherwise I shall be hard up.”

“Not much fear of that,” she said chaffingly. “But it’s four o’clock, so we had better retire.”

He took her hand and wished her bon soir, she afterwards leaving with Nanette, while the men also sought their respective rooms.

It was already daylight, and Hugh did not attempt to sleep, but, flinging himself upon a couch, indulged in calm reflections. His loss did not trouble him, for he could afford it, but the subject of his contemplation was a conversation he intended having on the morrow with the woman who had fascinated him.

Had he witnessed the scene at that moment in Valérie’s sitting-room, the scales would have fallen from his eyes. On n’est jamais si heureux, ni si malheureux qu’on se l’imagine.

When the two men left him, they went straight to her.

“Well, how did I manage it?” asked Pierre, with a crafty twinkle in his eye, when the door had closed.

“Capitally!” she cried, with almost childish glee. “He doesn’t suspect in the least.”

Both men disgorged their winnings, and placed the money upon the table in the centre of the room.

It amounted to nearly eight thousand francs.

Selecting two four-hundred franc notes, she gave one to each of them as their share of the spoil, and, sweeping the remainder into a bag, locked it up.

“Pierre’s idea was excellent,” remarked Victor. “We wanted the money badly, and although the sum isn’t very large, the manoeuvre is one that might be worth repeating, eh?”

“That’s just it. The thing is so simple. I kept the winning hand concealed until the stake was large enough, then I played it.”

“You’re even smarter with the cards than I anticipated. Père Amiot didn’t teach you to manipulate for nothing; you’ve been our salvation,” observed Valérie.

“For your sake, mademoiselle, no task is too difficult,” he said, with mock gallantry, bowing.

“A little of that sort of talk is quite sufficient,” she answered, with a laugh.

The subject dropped, and for a few minutes they held a serious consultation, after which the two men wished her good-night, and departed stealthily along the corridor.

Nanette entered, and her mistress sank into a chair, reflecting silently, while she deftly arranged her hair for the night.

Chapter Nineteen

A Strange Compact

The morning was oppressive and sultry. Valérie, coming from her room, thrust open the window of the sitting-room, with an impatient exclamation, and sat with her elbows upon the window ledge inhaling what little air there was to be had. She lolled there, looking down upon the quaint street in an abstracted mood, for the men had gone for their matutinal walk after the glass or two of water at the Pouhon.

She was glad to be alone. To herself sometimes she appeared extraordinary and of an exceptional disposition, of the temperament of animals that are rendered faithful by brutal treatment. There were days on which she no longer knew herself, and on which she asked herself whether she were really the same woman. In reviewing all the baseness to which she had been bent, she could not believe that it was she who had undergone it all. She strove to imagine a degree of degradation to which her nature would refuse to descend.

As she sat, silent and thoughtful, the door opened softly, and a tall, dark, well-dressed man entered noiselessly. He was good-looking, with a carriage that was unmistakably military, and a carefully trained moustache. Glancing quickly round with eyes that had a rather fierce look in them, he walked over to where mademoiselle sat, and halted behind her chair.

“So I’ve found you at last, madame,” he exclaimed harshly in English, placing a heavy hand upon her shoulder.

The unexpected voice startled her.

“You!” she gasped, jumping to her feet and turning pale.

“Yes,” he replied, leaning against the edge of the table and thrusting his hands into his pockets with an easy, nonchalant air. “You scarcely expected this meeting, – did you, eh? Well, although it is a long time ago since you took it into your head to leave me, you see I haven’t quite lost sight of you. And, after all, it is but natural that I should be solicitous of your welfare since you are my wife,” he added grimly.

“Wretch! Why have you come here?” she asked in ill-concealed alarm.

“To see you, pretty one,” he answered. “Three years is rather a long period to be absent from one’s wife, you’ll admit.”

“Wife!” she cried in a tone of disgust. “Why not call me by my proper name? I was your slave, Captain Willoughby. You used me to decoy young men to your house so that you might fleece them at cards, and when I refused any longer to participate in your schemes you used brute force towards me. See!” she continued, unbuttoning the sleeve of her bodice, and exposing her bare arm – “see, I still bear a mark of your ill-treatment.”

He smiled at her indignation.

“It’s very pleasant to talk in this strain, no doubt,” he observed, “but you have apparently overlooked one rather disagreeable fact – that when leaving Cannes, you took twenty thousand francs belonging to me.”

“And what if I did, pray? I left you because of your cruelty, and I’ve not since applied to you for maintenance, nor even sought a divorce.”

“That’s true. But now you’ve had your fling, perhaps you won’t object to return to your lawful husband.”

“You must be an imbecile to think that I would.”

“What! You will not?” he cried angrily.

“No, never. I hate and loathe you.”

“That makes but little difference,” said he coolly. “Nevertheless, as a wife would be of assistance to me just now, I mean that you shall return to me.”

“But I tell you I will never do so,” she declared emphatically.

“Then I shall simply compel you, that’s all.”

“You! Sapristi! Surely I’m my own mistress; therefore, do you think it probable that I should ever return to be the tool of a miserable cardsharper? No; I left you in the hope that I should never look upon your hateful face again, and if you think it possible that we could ever bury the past and become reconciled, I can at once disabuse your mind. If I were a sentimental schoolgirl it might be different, but I think you’ll find me too clever for you this time,” she said indignantly.

“Don’t anticipate that I desire a reconciliation,” he remarked in an indifferent tone. “Valérie Duvauchel – or whatever you now call yourself – is too well-known to be a desirable companion for long – ”

“You need say no more,” she cried in anger. “I understand. You want me again to entice men to their ruin. It is true that I am your wife. I curse the day when I took the idiotic step of marrying you, but I tell you once and for all that I’ll never return to you.”

“You shall,” he cried, grasping her roughly by the wrist. “You shall – I’ll compel you By heaven! I will!”

There was a look in his eyes that she did not like. She was cowed for a few moments, but her timidity was not of long duration.

“I defy you!” she screamed. “Do your worst. I’m perfectly able to defend myself.”

“Then perhaps you’ll defend yourself when you are arrested for the little affair at Carqueiranne. There’s a warrant still out, and a reward offered for your apprehension – remember that.”

In a moment she became confused, and her physiognomy, usually so lively, lost all its lightning glances. Her whole person seemed influenced by this unexpected and embarrassing announcement.

“Ah, I see!” she said in a husky voice. “Those are your tactics, are they? You would give me up to the police? Nevertheless, if you have no love for me, as you assert, why should you desire me to return to you?”

“I know my own business best,” was the abrupt reply.

“That I don’t doubt; yet you admit that it is best for us to be apart, although you are inclined to resort to the extremity of which you speak.”

“Who are the men staying here?” he asked sharply. “Friends.”

“Not very desirable ones, eh? I fancy I’ve met Victor Bérard somewhere before. If my memory doesn’t fail me it was in Paris only shortly before the affair of the Boulevard – ”

“Enough,” she said hoarsely, for she understood that he knew of her alliance with the pair. “What does it matter to you who my associates are? We both have to seek our fortunes.”

“True, but I like to look after my wife’s welfare,” declared he, with a sarcastic smile.

Captain Percy Willoughby was a jovial ne’er-do-weel who smiled at his lot, and gave himself up to it heedlessly. Weariness, anxiety, neediness took no hold upon him, and when a gloomy thought came to him, he would turn away his head, snap his fingers, and, raising his right arm towards heaven in caricature of a Spanish dancer, send his melancholy over his shoulder.

“I can do without your attentions, although I’m prepared to negotiate with you upon fair terms,” she exclaimed, for she saw that it was only by skilful diplomacy that she could extricate herself from the ugly situation.

“What do you mean?” asked he in surprise.

“Business purely,” she replied calmly. “It was unfortunate that I married you, still there is no reason why the world should know it; and, moreover, as there is no affection between us, I am willing to pay you to release me from my bond.”

Willoughby knit his brows thoughtfully. He was not prepared for such a bold proposal.

“You have some scheme of your own in hand, I suppose?”

“That’s my business.”

“Well, how much are you willing to pay?” he asked, smiling at her suggestion.

“Twenty-five thousand francs – not a centime more. For that sum I require a written undertaking that you’ll commence a suit for divorce against me forthwith. You understand?”

She recognised that if she failed to conciliate her husband’s demands all her schemes would be irretrievably ruined, but her tact at such moments never deserted her, and she was determined that he should not levy blackmail upon her without strengthening her position thereby.

“You hesitate,” she continued. “Why, the whole thing is simple enough. I will supply you with evidence and witnesses, and upon the day the decree is pronounced the money shall be yours.”

“You must have some good fortune. Where will you get the money from?” asked he incredulously.

“What does that matter, as long as you have it? We shall then both be free.”

“What guarantee shall I have that you will pay me after I have obtained the divorce?”

“I will give you a written one if you desire it, so that if I depart from my word you will still possess power over me,” she explained, beating an impatient tattoo upon the carpet with her tiny slipper.

“Twenty-five thousand francs,” he repeated. “You want me to sell you your liberty for that, do you?”

“Yes, if it pleases you to put it in that way.” Then, with an air of unconcern, she added: “I merely suggest a bargain which you can either accept or reject. After all, it is, perhaps, immaterial.”

“Your freedom must be worth a good deal to you if you are prepared to pay that price for it,” her husband observed shrewdly.

“I desire to sever the tie, that’s all.”

“You enjoy perfect liberty,” remarked the captain. “What more can you desire?”

“I cannot marry.”

“Is that your intention?” he inquired, half convinced that this was the real cause of her conciliatory attitude.

“I really don’t know,” she answered unconcernedly. “Yet, even if I did, what would it matter if we were legally separated? You could marry also.”

The captain was a polished rogue, and fully alive to the fertility of his wife’s skilful devices. He knew she possessed an inexhaustible, imperturbable confidence, and was wondering what could be the character of the plan she was evidently bent upon carrying into effect. Twisting his moustache thoughtfully, he kept his keen eyes fixed upon her.

“I don’t feel inclined to accept your remarkable suggestion,” he observed at length. “You’re a clever woman, Valérie, and you never forget to act in your own interests.”

“Who but a fool does?” she laughed. His refusal was disappointing, nevertheless she preserved her calm demeanour, and, shrugging her shoulders indifferently, exclaimed: “Very well, I don’t wish to press the matter. I shall merely refuse to return to you, whether you obtain the divorce or not. Surely twenty-five thousand francs and your law expenses would serve as a panacea to heal your broken heart. However, if you won’t accept it, you’ll be that much the poorer.”

“Well, even supposing I desired to do it, I should be unable.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve no money with which to commence the suit.”

“Oh, that obstacle is easily removed,” she declared, diving into her pocket, and producing a well-filled purse, which bulged out with paper money she had won on the previous night.

Selecting three notes of 200 francs each she offered them to him, saying —

“These will be sufficient to start operations with. When that is exhausted telegraph for more, and you shall have it.”

The gamester’s impecuniosity caused him to regard the proffered notes with covetous eye. After all, he reflected, it would be an easy and profitable way of earning a good round sum. The prospect of being divorced from this beautiful yet heartless woman was not at all disagreeable. He might even make a rich marriage himself.

This latter reflection impressed itself upon his mind.

“Our marriage was a dismal failure – a miserable mistake. We hate one another heartily; therefore I’m willing to pay handsomely for the service you can render me. As we were married in London, you will have to return there and commence the suit,” she said.

Willoughby was still undecided, but at length the temptation proved too great.

“Well, I suppose I must,” he said, as he thrust the notes into his pocket after some further argument. “But won’t you give me more? To you a divorce is worth double.”

“No, not another sou. You can take it or leave it.”

He saw that to endeavour to obtain more would be futile.

“It’s agreed,” he said, at last. “I’ll sell you your liberty for twenty-five thousand francs.”

“Ah! I thought you wouldn’t refuse my munificent offer,” she observed, with a light laugh.

Rising and walking to a side-table whereon were writing materials, she penned the following lines in French, in a fine angular hand: —

“I, Valérie Willoughby, agree to pay Percy Willoughby the sum of 25,000 francs upon the day a decree of divorce is pronounced absolute against me.”

Blotting it hastily, she returned and handed it to him.

“That’ll do,” he said, folding it, and transferring it to his breast-pocket.

“But you will also give me an undertaking,” she suggested, for she was astute, and determined that he should not have absolute power over her in the event of the collusion being discovered.

“As you please,” replied her husband, after a moment’s hesitation, and seating himself, he wrote an agreement promising to obtain the decree in consideration of the sum stated.

Once more Valérie had triumphed.

She had thought, on her husband’s sudden appearance, that she had encountered that grain of sand which had before brought her to the ground, yet her audacity had conquered.

“Fool!” thought she, as his pen travelled over the paper. “He will be glad afterwards to buy back each drop of ink with his own blood. How dear a pen-stroke may cost one!”

Captain Willoughby, late of Her Majesty’s 10th Hussars, had given way before a flood of adverse circumstances. Voluntarily, insolently, he flung away his pride and his past. He abandoned himself to that infernal thing, temptation; yet, after all, he had long ago sacrificed all that was sincere and grand in his nature. He cared nothing to what depth of dishonour he descended, as long as he obtained money.

“You will depart at once,” she said imperatively, “and leave me to my own devices. You can write to me at Brussels, and I will see that witnesses are in attendance when the case is heard. Don’t remain here any longer, for my friends may return at any moment, and must not discover you. Listen! There’s some one coming along the corridor now. Quick! – go!” Snatching a card from a dainty mother-of-pearl case, she gave it to him, adding: “You’ll find my address on this. Write to me. Next time we meet we shall not be man and wife.”

“Good-bye, Valérie. May the future be more lucky than the past. Depend upon it, I shall call upon you for payment at a date not far distant,” said the captain; and, taking up his hat and stick, hurriedly left the room, closing the door behind him.

His rapid exit was needless, as Hugh Trethowen and his companions had not yet returned.

When he had gone, Valérie’s beautiful but pale face was illuminated by a smile of joy. She had proved the victor; she had, by sheer force of will, decreed and, as it were, realised the impossible. Was she not right to believe in audacity, in the absolute disdain of all law, since success was hers in this conflict in which the odds had been so terribly against her? She felt absolutely gay.

Leaning out of the window watching the passers-by, and gazing away over the superb valley – a peaceful sunlit, rejuvenescent prospect – she said aloud to herself —

“Who, I wonder, invented remorse? What is folly, remorse – the bugbear of man? It scares, but it doesn’t bite. What foolery – conscience! I’ve my conscience and my heart like everybody else, but why should I reflect over what I’ve just done? After all, it is nothing – a mere commonplace transaction which will add considerably to my safety and well-being. Percy renders me a service, and I pay him dearly for it. Hurrah for life! What a magnificent morning!”

Chapter Twenty

Winged Hours

Sheltered from the blazing afternoon sun, Trethowen and Valérie were seated together under one of the ancient elms in the picturesque Promenade de Sept Heures. It was the hour when visitors lounge in the glade listening to the band and sip absinthe, while their children amuse themselves on the asphalte of the great covered promenade. The end of the long, shady avenue is quiet and secluded at this time of the day, as the exit is only a footpath ascending the steep hillside, and few persons come that way, the majority being attracted towards the music pavilion.

Valérie, always daintily attired, looked charming in a cool light dress of some soft material, which clung in graceful folds about her, and a large drooping hat composed entirely of flowers. She was serious, hesitating, and scraped the gravel aimlessly with the ferrule of her sunshade.

“Ah, you don’t know, Hugh,” she exclaimed, with a sigh, in reply to a question. “I – I’ve been horribly unhappy.”

“Unhappy,” he repeated in astonishment. “Why, what’s the cause? You have life, gaiety, freedom – everything conducive to contentment.”

“That’s true,” she answered. “But the past – I must strive to forget it. My whole life has been a series of dire misfortunes – an existence wasted because, until the present, I have never found one whom I could love.”

“You really care for me, then?” he asked, looking earnestly into her fine eyes. “You will marry me at once, as you promised a moment ago?”

“Yes, dear,” she said, her face relaxing into a glad smile. “I feel that, however unpropitious the past may have been, this is the turning-point in my life. Men I have hitherto known have all been hard-hearted and ready to hear me maligned, but you have sympathised with me in my unloved and defenceless position, and I cannot doubt that we shall be happy together.”