The Shoes of Fortune

“For the sake of my old friend M. le Capitaine here I shall give you one word of advice,” said Bonnat, “and that is, to evacuate Dunkerque as sharply as you may. M. Albany may owe you some obligement, as I’ve heard him hint himself, but nevertheless your steps will be safer elsewhere than in the Rue de la Boucherie.”

“There is far too much of the Rue de la Boucherie about this,” I said, “and I hope no insult is intended to certain friends I have or had there.”

At this they looked at one another. The bravo (for so I think I may at this time call him) whistled curiously and winked at the other, and, in spite of himself, Captain Thurot was bound to laugh.

“And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?” said he. “That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. ‘Tis, ma foi! to expect too much of M. Albany’s complaisance. After that there is nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour.”

“You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine,” said Bonnat brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. “M. Blanc-bec there handles arme blanche rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the gallant commander of the Roi Rouge, but if he has a mother let me suggest the wisdom of his going back to her.” And with that and a congé he left us to enter the auberge.

Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, ruminating upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better than I could, yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I pled with him vainly for an explanation of the Prince’s objection to my person. “I thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the Hamilton affair,” I said.

“And so he had,” said Thurot. “I have his own assurances.”

“‘Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure me into a duel.”

“My dear boy,” said Thurot, “you owe him all – your escape from Bicêtre, which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of the lieutenancy in the Regiment d’Auvergne.”

“What! he has a hand in this?” I cried.

“Who else?” said he. “‘Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. It seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not uncommon with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one reason, and for the other he would cut your throat. M. Tête-de-fer is my eternal puzzle. And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, the same reason for favouring and hating you.”

“And what might that be?” said I.

“Who, rather?” said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la Boucherie. “Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under your very nose, ‘tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she were anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with Hamilton, and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and now – though she may not have attempted it – she has gained you the same person’s enmity.”

I stopped in the street and turned to him. “All this is confused enough to madden me,” I said, “and rather than be longer in the mist I shall brave her displeasure, compel an audience, and ask her for an explanation.”

“Please yourself,” said Thurot, and seeing I meant what I said he left me.

CHAPTER XXXIII

FAREWELL TO MISS WALKINSHAW

It was under the lash of a natural exasperation I went up Mademoiselle’s stairs determined on an interview. Bernard (of all men in the world!) responded to my knock. I could have thrashed him with a cane if the same had been handy, but was bound to content myself with the somewhat barren comfort of affecting that I had never set eyes on him before. He smiled at first, as if not unpleased to see me, but changed his aspect at the unresponse of mine.

“I desire to see Miss Walkinshaw,” said I.

The rogue blandly intimated that she was not at home. There is more truth in a menial eye than in most others, and this man’s fashionable falsehood extended no further than his lips. I saw quite plainly he was acting upon instructions, and, what made it the more uncomfortable for him, he saw that I saw.

“Very well, I shall have the pleasure of waiting in the neighbourhood till she returns,” I said, and leaned against the railing. This frightened him somewhat, and he hastened to inform me that he did not know when she might return.

“It does not matter,” I said coolly, inwardly pleased to find my courage much higher in the circumstances than I had expected. “If it’s midnight she shall find me here, for I have matters of the first importance upon which to consult her.”

He was more disturbed than ever, hummed and hawed and hung upon the door-handle, making it very plainly manifest that his instructions had not gone far enough, and that he was unable to make up his mind how he was further to comport himself to a visitor so persistent. Then, unable to get a glance of recognition from me, and resenting further the inconvenience to which I was subjecting him, he rose to an impertinence – the first (to do him justice) I had ever found in him.

“Will Monsieur,” said he, “tell me who I shall say called?”

The thrust was scarcely novel. I took it smiling, and “My good rogue,” said I, “if the circumstances were more favourable I should have the felicity of giving you an honest drubbing.” He got very red. “Come, Bernard,” I said, adopting another tone, “I think you owe me some consideration. And will you not, in exchange for my readiness to give you all the information you required some time ago for your employers, tell me the truth and admit that Mademoiselle is within?”

He was saved an answer by the lady herself.

“La! Mr. Greig!” she cried, coming to the door and putting forth a welcoming hand. “My good Bernard has no discrimination, or he should except my dear countryman from my general orders against all visitors.” So much in French; and then, as she led the way to her parlour, “My dear man of Mearns, you are as dour as – as dour as – ”

“As a donkey,” I finished, seeing she hesitated for a likeness. “And I feel very much like that humble beast at this moment.”

“I do not wonder at it,” said she, throwing herself in a chair. “To thrust yourself upon a poor lonely woman in this fashion!”

“I am the ass – I have been the ass – it would appear, in other respects as well.”

She reddened, and tried to conceal her confusion by putting back her hair, that somehow escaped in a strand about her ears. I had caught her rather early in the morning; she had not even the preparation of a petit lever; and because of a certain chagrin at being discovered scarcely looking her best her first remarks were somewhat chilly.

“Well, at least you have persistency, I’ll say that of it,” she went on, with a light laugh, and apparently uncomfortable. “And for what am I indebted to so early a visit from my dear countryman?”

“It was partly that I might say a word of thanks personally to you for your offices in my poor behalf. The affair of the Regiment d’Auvergne is settled with a suddenness that should be very gratifying to myself, for it looks as if King Louis could not get on another day wanting my distinguished services. I am to join the corps at the end of the month, and must leave Dunkerque forthwith. That being so, it was only proper I should come in my own person to thank you for your good offices.”

“Do not mention it,” she said hurriedly. “I am only too glad that I could be of the smallest service to you.”

“I cannot think,” I went on, “what I can have done to warrant your displeasure with me.”

“Displeasure!” she replied. “Who said I was displeased?”

“What am I to think, then? I have been refused the honour of seeing you for this past week.”

“Well, not displeasure, Mr. Greig,” she said, trifling with her rings. “Let us be calling it prudence. I think that might have suggested itself as a reason to a gentleman of Mr. Greig’s ordinary intuitions.”

“It’s a virtue, this prudence, a Greig could never lay claim to,” I said. “And I must tell you that, where the special need for it arises now, and how it is to be made manifest, is altogether beyond me.”

“No matter,” said she, and paused. “And so you are going to the frontier, and are come to say good-bye to me?”

“Now that you remind me that is exactly my object,” I said, rising to go. She did not have the graciousness even to stay me, but rose too, as if she felt the interview could not be over a moment too soon. And yet I noticed a certain softening in her manner that her next words confirmed.

“And so you go, Mr. Greig?” she said. “There’s but the one thing I would like to say to my friend, and that’s that I should like him not to think unkindly of one that values his good opinion – if she were worthy to have it. The honest and unsuspecting come rarely my way nowadays, and now that I’m to lose them I feel like to greet.” She was indeed inclined to tears, and her lips were twitching, but I was not enough rid of my annoyance to be moved much by such a demonstration.

“I have profited much by your society, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “You found me a boy, and what way it happens I do not know, but it’s a man that’s leaving you. You made my stay here much more pleasant than it would otherwise have been, and this last kindness – that forces me away from you – is one more I have to thank you for.”

She was scarcely sure whether to take this as a compliment or the reverse, and, to tell the truth, I meant it half and half.

“I owed all the little I could do to my countryman,” said she.

“And I hope I have been useful,” I blurted out, determined to show her I was going with open eyes.

Somewhat stricken she put her hand upon my arm. “I hope you will forgive that, Mr. Greig,” she said, leaving no doubt that she had jumped to my meaning.

“There is nothing to forgive,” I said shortly. “I am proud that I was of service, not to you alone but to one in the interests of whose house some more romantical Greigs than I have suffered. My only complaint is that the person in question seems scarcely to be grateful for the little share I had unconsciously in preserving his life.”

“I am sure he is very grateful,” she cried hastily, and perplexed. “I may tell you that he was the means of getting you the post in the regiment.”

“So I have been told,” I said, and she looked a little startled. “So I have been told. It may be that I’ll be more grateful by-and-by, when I see what sort of a post it is. In the meantime, I have my gratitude greatly hampered by a kind of inconsistency in the – in the person’s actings towards myself!”