Petticoat Rule Part 48

That these orders to _Le Monarque_ had been forestalled by milor Eglinton could not exonerate Madame la Marquise from having been at one with Gaston de Stainville and Madame de Pompadour, and others who might remain nameless, in the blackest treachery ever planned against a trusting friend.

No wonder Gaston de Stainville forgot physical suffering when he toyed lovingly with this packet of papers in his hand, the consummation of his revenge.

At last 'twas done. A subtle, indefinable change had come over the calm face of Lord Eglinton, an ashen grey hue which had chased the former pallor of the cheeks, and the slender hand, which held the pistol, trembled almost imperceptibly.

Serenity had given way at sight of that packet of papers.

"Friend de Mortemar," said Gaston lightly, but with glowing eyes still fixed on his opponent, "the chances of my demise being at least equal to those of milor's--seeing that I know not, on my honour, which is the loaded pistol, and that methinks at this moment I can read murder in his eye--I pray you to take charge of this packet. It is a sacred trust. In case of my death promise me that you will deliver it into the hands of my wife, and into no other. Madame la Comtesse de Stainville will know how to deal with it."

The young Comte de Mortemar took the packet from Gaston.

"I will do as you desire," he said coldly.

"You promise that no one shall touch these papers except my wife, Irene Comtesse de Stainville," reiterated Gaston solemnly.

"On my word of honour," rejoined the young man.

The request was perfectly proper and natural, very usual in such cases; de Mortemar could not help but comply. He could not know that the fulfilment of this promise would mean public dishonour to an innocent and n.o.ble woman, and the supreme revenge of a baffled traitor.

If Gaston expected protest, rage, or excitement from his foe he was certainly disappointed. Eglinton had all the characteristics of his race, perfect sang-froid in the face of the inevitable, and an almost morbid consciousness of pride and dignity. He could not filch those papers from Gaston nor prevent de Mortemar from accepting and fulfilling a trust, which had all the appearance of being sacred.

He knew that by this act he had wrested a fortune from a man whose fetish was money, and the power which money gives: true that being an honest man himself, he had never thought of such an infamous revenge.

If he died now Heaven help his proud Lydie! but if he lived then Heaven help them both!

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

THE LETTER

De Mortemar had stowed the packet carefully away inside his coat, Gaston keenly watching his antagonist the while.

"Are you ready, milor?" he asked now with marked insolence of manner.

"At your service," replied the other quietly. "M. de Mortemar, will you give the word?"

The two men stood opposite to one another, a table not four feet wide between them. Each held a pistol in his left hand. Of these one was loaded, the other not. De Mortemar had cleared the table, pushing aside the decanter of wine, the tureen of soup, the gla.s.ses. The window was still open, and from that outside world which to these men here present seemed so far away, there came the sound of the old church belfry tolling the hour of eight, and still from afar that melancholy tune, the Norman ditty sung by young throats:

"C'est les Normands, qu'a dit ma mere, "C'est les Normands qu'ont conquis l'Angleterre!"

"Fire!" said de Mortemar.

Two arms were raised. Eye was fixed to eye for one brief second, then lowered for the aim. There was a slight dull sound, then a terrible curse muttered below the breath, as the pistol which Gaston de Stainville had vainly tried to fire dropped from his hand.

Had his excitement blinded him when he chose his weapon, or was it just fate, ruthless, inscrutable, that had placed the loaded pistol in Lord Eglinton's hand?

"A blank!" he shouted with a blasphemous oath. "_a vous_, milor! Curse you, why don't you fire?"

"Fire, milor, in Heaven's name," said Mortemar, who was as pale as death. "'Tis cruelty to prolong."

But Eglinton too had dropped his arm.

"M. le Comte de Stainville," he said calmly, "before I use this weapon against you, as I would against a mad dog, I'll propose a bargain for your acceptance."

"You'd buy that packet of precious doc.u.ments from me, eh?" sneered Gaston savagely, "nay, milor, 'tis no use offering millions to a dying man. . . . Shoot, shoot, milor! the widowed Comtesse de Stainville will deal with those doc.u.ments and no one else. . . . They are not for sale, I tell you, not for all your millions now!"

"Not even for this pistol, M. le Comte?"

And calm, serene with that whimsical smile again playing round the corners of his expressive mouth, Lord Eglinton offered the loaded pistol to his enemy.

"My life? . . ." stammered Gaston, "you would? . . ."

"Nay, mine, M. le Comte," rejoined milor. "I'll not stir from this spot. I offer you this pistol and you shall use it at your pleasure, after you have handed me that packet of letters."

Instinctively Gaston had drawn back, lost in a maze of surprise.

"An you'll not take the weapon, M. le Comte," said Eglinton decisively, "I shoot."

There was a moment's silence, whilst Gaston's pride fought a grim battle with that awful instinct of self-preservation, that strange love of fleeting life to which poor mortals cling.

Men were not cowards in those days; life was cheap and oft sold for the gratification of petty vanity, yet who shall blame Gaston if, with certain death before him, he chose to forego his revenge?

"Give me that pistol, milor," he said dully, "de Mortemar, hand over that packet to Lord Eglinton."

He took the pistol from milor, and it was his own hand that trembled.

Silently de Mortemar obeyed. Milor took the packet of papers from him, then held them one by one to the flame of the candle: first the map, then the letter which bore Lydie's name writ so boldly across it. The black ash curled and fell from his hand on to the table, he gripped the paper until his seared fingers could hold it no longer.

Then he once more stood up, turning straight toward Gaston.

"I am ready, M. le Comte," he said simply.

Gaston raised his left arm and fired. There was a wild, an agonized shriek which came from a woman's throat, coupled with one of horror from de Mortemar's lips, as _le pet.i.t Anglais_ stood for the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds, quite still, firm and upright, with scarce a change upon his calm face, then sank forward without a groan.

"Madame, you are hurt!" shouted de Mortemar, who was almost dazed with surprise at the sight of a woman at this awful and supreme moment. He had just seen her, in the vivid flash when Gaston raised his arm and fired: she had rushed forward then, with the obvious intention of throwing herself before the murderous weapon, and now was making pathetic and vain efforts to raise her husband's inanimate body from the table against which he had fallen.

"Coward! coward!" she sobbed in anguish, "you have stilled the bravest heart in France!"

"Pray G.o.d that I have not," murmured Gaston fervently, as, impelled by some invisible force, he threw the pistol from him, then sank on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

But Mortemar had soon recovered his presence of mind, and had already reached his wounded friend, calling quickly to Jean Marie who apparently had followed in the wake of Madame la Marquise in her wild rush from her coach to the inner room.

Together the two men succeeded in lifting Lord Eglinton and in gently insinuating his body backward into a rec.u.mbent position. Thus Lydie--still on her knees--received her lord in her arms. Her eyes were fixed upon his pallid face with pa.s.sionate intensity. It seemed as if she would wrest from those closed lids the secret of life or death.

"He'll not die? . . ." she whispered wildly; "tell me that he'll not die!"