The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 20

“One moment, Monsieur le Vicomte, before I do myself the pleasure of pitching you out of window. You have detained me these five days in Paris, and have done so, you give me to understand, by the simple expedient of a lie. So far, so good; will you do me the favour to complete the interesting self-exposure, and inform me of your reasons?”

“With all the pleasure in life. My plans were not ready, a little detail wanting, that is all. It is now supplied.” He took a chair, seated himself at the table, and drew a folded paper from his breast-pocket. “It will be news to you perhaps, that our uncle – our lamented uncle, if you choose – is dead these three weeks.”

“Rest his soul!”

“Forgive me if I stop short of that pious hope.” Alain hesitated, let his venom get the better of him, and spat out on his uncle’s memory an obscene curse which only betrayed the essential weakness of the man. Recovering himself, he went on: “I need not recall to you a certain scene (I confess too theatrical for my taste), arranged by the lawyer at his bedside; nor need I help you to an inkling of the contents of his last will. But possibly it may have slipped your memory that I gave Romaine fair warning. I promised him that I would raise the question of undue influence, and that I had my witnesses ready. I have added to them since; but I own to you that my case will be the stronger when you have obligingly signed the paper which I have the honour to submit to you.” And he tossed it, unopened, across the table.

I picked it up and unfolded it: – “I, the Viscount Anne de Kéroual de Saint-Yves, formerly serving under the name of Champdivers in the Buonapartist army, and later under that name a prisoner of war in the Castle of Edinburgh, hereby state that I had neither knowledge of my uncle the Count de Kéroual de Saint-Yves, nor expectations from him, nor was owned by him, until sought out by Mr. Daniel Romaine, in the Castle of Edinburgh, by him supplied with money to expedite my escape, and by him clandestinely smuggled at nightfall into Amersham Place; Further, that until that evening I had never set eyes on my uncle, nor have set eyes on him since; that he was bedridden when I saw him, and apparently in the last stage of senile decay. And I have reason to believe that Mr. Romaine did not fully inform him of the circumstances of my escape, and particularly of my concern in the death of a fellow-prisoner named Goguelat, formerly a maréchal des logis in the 22nd Regiment of the Line…”

Of the contents of this precious document let a sample suffice. From end to end it was a tissue of distorted statements implicated with dishonouring suggestions. I read it through, and let it drop on the table.

“I beg your pardon,” said I, “but what do you wish me to do with it?”

“Sign it,” said he.

I laughed. “Once more I beg your pardon, but though you have apparently dressed for it, this is not comic opera.”

“Nevertheless you will sign.”

“O, you weary me.” I seated myself, and flung a leg over the arm of my chair. “Shall we come to the alternative For I assume you have one.”

“The alternative, to be sure,” he answered cheerfully. “I have a companion below, one Clausel, and at the ‘Tête d’Or,’ a little way up the street, an escort of police.”

Here was a pleasing predicament. But if Alain had started with a chance of daunting me (which I do not admit), he had spoilt it long since by working on the raw of my temper. I kept a steady eye on him, and considered: and the longer I considered the better assured was I that his game must have a disastrously weak point somewhere, which it was my business to find.

“You have reminded me of your warning to Mr. Romaine. The subject is an ugly one for two of our family to touch upon; but do you happen to recall Mr. Romaine’s counter-threat?”

“Bluff! my young sir. It served his purpose for the moment, I grant you. I was unhinged. The indignity, the very monstrosity of it, the baselessness, staggered reason.”

“It was baseless, then?”

“The best proof is that in spite of his threat, and my open contempt and disregard of it, Mr. Romaine has not stirred a hand.”

“You mean that my uncle destroyed the evidence?”

“I mean nothing of the kind,” he retorted hotly, “for I deny that any such evidence at any time existed.”

I kept my eye on him. “Alain,” I said quietly, “you are a liar.”

A flush darkened his face beneath its cosmetics, and with an oath he dipped finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a dog whistle. “No more of that,” said he, “or I whistle up the police this minute.”

“Well, well, let us resume the discussion. You say this man Clausel has denounced me?”

He nodded.

“Soldiers of the Empire are cheap in Paris just now.”

“So cheap that public opinion would be content if all the messieurs Champdivers were to kill all the messieurs Goguelat and be shot or guillotined for it. I forget which your case demands, and doubt if public opinion would inquire.”

“And yet,” I mused, “there must be preliminaries; some form of trial, for instance, with witnesses. It is even possible that I might be found innocent.”

“I have allowed for that unlikely chance, and I look beyond it. To be frank, it does not strike me as probable that a British jury will hand over the estates of the Comte de Kéroual de Saint-Yves to an escaped Buonapartist prisoner who has stood his trial for the murder of a comrade, and received the benefit of the doubt.”

“Allow me,” said I, “to open the window an inch or two. No; put back your whistle. I do not propose to fling you out, at least not just yet; nor will I try to escape. To tell you the truth, you suggest the need of a little fresh air. And now, Monsieur, you assure me you hold the knave in your hand. Well then, play him. Before I tear your foolish paper up, let me have a look at your confederate.” I stepped to the door and called down the stairs, “Madame Jupille, be so good as to ask my other visitor to ascend.”

With that I turned to the window again and stood there looking out upon the foul gutter along which the refuse of some dye-works at the head of the street found its way down to the Seine. And standing so, I heard the expected footsteps mounting the stairs.

“I must ask your pardon, Monsieur, for this intrusion – ”

“Hey!” If the words had been a charge of shot fired into my back, I could not have spun round on them more suddenly. “Mr. Romaine!”

For indeed it was he, and not Clausel, who stood in the doorway. And to this day I do not know if Alain or I stared at him with the blanker bewilderment; though I believe there was a significant difference in our complexions.

“M. le Vicomte,” said Romaine advancing, “recently effected an exchange. I have taken the liberty to effect another, and have left Mr. Clausel below listening to some arguments which are being addressed to him by Mr. Dudgeon, my confidential clerk. I think I may promise” – with a chuckle – “they will prove effectual. By your faces, gentlemen, I see that you regard my appearance as something in the nature of a miracle. Yet, M. le Vicomte at least should be guessing by this time that it is the simplest, most natural affair in the world. I engaged my word, sir, to have you watched. Will it be set down to more than ordinary astuteness that, finding you in negotiations for the exchange of the prisoner Clausel, we kept an eye upon him also? – that we followed him to Dover, and though unfortunate in missing the boat, reached Paris in time to watch the pair of you leave your lodgings this morning – nay, that knowing whither you were bound, we reached the Rue du Fouarre in time to watch you making your dispositions? But I run on too fast. Mr. Anne, I am entrusted with a letter for you. When, with Mr. Alain’s permission, you have read it, we will resume our little conversation.”

He handed me the letter and walked to the fireplace, where he took snuff copiously, while Alain eyed him like a mastiff about to spring. I broke open my letter and stooped to pick up a small enclosure which fell from it.

“My Dearest Anne, – When your letter came and put life into me again, I sat down in my happiness and wrote you one that I shall never allow you to see; for it makes me wonder at myself. But when I took it to Mr. Robbie, he asked to see your letter, and when I showed him the wrapper, declared that it had been tampered with, and if I wrote and told you what we were doing for you, it might only make your enemies the wiser. For we have done something, and this (which is purely a business letter) is to tell you that the credit does not all belong to Mr. Robbie, or to your Mr. Romaine (who by Mr. Robbie’s account must be quite a tiresome old gentleman, though well-meaning, no doubt). But on the Tuesday after you left us I had a talk with Major Chevenix, and when I really felt quite sorry for him (though it was no use and I told him so), he turned round in a way I could not but admire and said he wished me well and would prove it. He said the charge against you was really one for the military authorities alone; that he had reasons for feeling sure that you had been drawn into this affair on a point of honour, which was quite a different thing from what they said; and that he could not only make an affidavit or something of the kind on his own account, but knew enough of that man Clausel to make him confess the truth. Which he did the very next day, and made Clausel sign it, and Mr. Robbie has a copy of the man’s statement which he is sending with this to Mr. Romaine in London; and that is the reason why Rowley (who is a dear) has come over and is waiting in the kitchen while I write these hurried lines. He says, too, that Major Chevenix was only just in time, since Clausel’s friends are managing an exchange for him, and he is going back to France. And so in haste I write myself, – Your sincere friend,

    Flora.

“P.S.– My aunt is well; Ronald is expecting his commission.

“P.P.S.– You told me to write it, and so I must: ‘I love you, Anne.’”

The enclosure was a note in a large and unformed hand, and ran —

“Dear Mr. Anne, Respected Sir, – This comes hopeing to find you well as it leaves me at present, all is well as Miss Flora will tell you that double-died Clausel has contest. This is to tell you Mrs. Mac R. is going on nicely, bar the religion which is only put on to anoy people and being a widow who blames her, not me. Miss Flora says she will put this in with hers, and there is something else but it is a dead secret, so no more at present from, sir, – Yours Respectfully,

    “Jas. Rowley.”

Having read these letters through, I placed them in my breast-pocket, stepped to the table and handed Alain’s document gravely back to him; then turned to Mr. Romaine, who shut his snuff-box with a snap.

“It only remains, I think,” said the lawyer, “to discuss the terms which (merely as a matter of generosity, or say, for the credit of your house) can be granted to your – to Mr. Alain.”

“You forget Clausel, I think,” snarled my cousin.

“True, I had forgotten Clausel.” Mr. Romaine stepped to the head of the stairs and called down, “Dudgeon!”

Mr. Dudgeon appeared, and endeavoured to throw into the stiffness of his salutation a denial that he had ever waltzed with me in the moonlight.

“Where is the man Clausel?”

“I hardly know, sir, if you would place the wine-shop of the ‘Tête d’Or’ at the top or at the bottom of this street; I presume the top, since the sewer runs in the opposite direction. At all events Mr. Clausel disappeared about two minutes ago in the same direction as the sewer.”

Alain sprang up, whistle in hand.

“Put it down,” said Mr. Romaine. “The man was cheating you. I can only hope,” he added with a sour smile, “that you paid him on account with an I.O.U.”