The Temptress

“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.”

“Why, of course we shall,” he declared, drawing her closer to him, and kissing her through her flimsy veil. “I’m growing impatient to return to Coombe and settle down comfortably. The hollowness of life in a place like this palls upon one.”

“Yes; I, too, am getting tired of it. I shall be pleased to go with you to your home. From the photographs it must be a lovely old place.”

“Its antiqueness is its greatest charm,” he replied. “But tell me why are you so unhappy?”

“Well, would you like to know the truth?” she asked, with a nervous little laugh.