The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 22

"Why don't I take the boy along," Mr. Aiken suggested, eyeing me a little furtively. "He'd be right useful where we're going, and the sea would do him good, so it would."

"I fancy you'll have enough bother without him," replied my father.

"Personally I have found him quite distracting during my short visit."

"h.e.l.l," said Mr. Aiken, "he wouldn't be no trouble, but he looks fair ugly here, so he does, and he knows too much. No offense, sir, but he's too up and coming to be left alone with an ignorant n.i.g.g.e.r."

My father shrugged his shoulders.

"Brutus is fond of the boy. He will not hurt him."

"But the boy might hurt the n.i.g.g.e.r," said Mr. Aiken.

My father nodded blandly toward the hall.

"And you might be seasick," he said.

"Har," roared Mr. Aiken, seemingly struck by the subtle humor of the remark. "d.a.m.ned if you wouldn't joke if the deck was blowing off under you. d.a.m.ned if I ever seen the likes of you now, captain."

Still under the spell of mirth he left us. The house door closed behind him, and Brutus glided into the room.

"Mademoiselle," said my father bowing, "I am sorry the cards have fallen so we must part. If you had as few pleasant things as I to remember, you also might understand how poignantly I regret it, even though I know it is for the best. It is time you were leaving such low company."

"I have found it pleasant sometimes," she replied a little wistfully. "It takes very little to please me, captain."

"Sometimes," he replied, smiling, "anything is pleasant, but only sometimes. Your brother has been notified, Mademoiselle. You should hear from him in a little while now, when this hurry and bustle is over, and when you see him, give him my regards and my regrets. And Mademoiselle"

--he hesitated an instant--"would you think it insolent if I said I sometimes wished--Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, do not take it so. It was entirely unpardonable of me."

Mademoiselle had hidden her face in her hands. My father, frowning slightly, rubbed his thumb along his sword blade.

"Forgive me, if you can," he said. "I have often feared my manners would fail me sometime."

She looked up at him then, and her eyes were very bright.

"Suppose," she said softly, "I told you there was nothing to forgive.

Suppose I said--"

My father, bowing his lowest, politely and rather hastily interrupted.

"Mademoiselle would be too kind. She would have forgotten that it is quite impossible."

"No," said Mademoiselle, shaking her head slowly, "it is not impossible.

You should have known better than to say that. Suppose--" her voice choked a little, as though the words hurt her--"suppose I bade you recall, captain, what you said on the stairs at Blanzy, when they were at the door and you were going to meet them. Do you remember?"

My father smiled, and made a polite little gesture of a.s.sumed despair. Then his voice, very slow and cool, broke in on her speech and stilled it.

"Good G.o.d, Mademoiselle, one cannot remember everything."

Playing with the hilt of his sword, he stepped nearer, still smiling, still watching her with a polished curiosity.

"I have said so many little things to women in my time, so many little nothings. It is hard to remember them all. They have become confused now, and blended into an interesting background, whose elements I can no longer separate. Your pardon, my lady, but I have forgotten, forgotten so completely that even the stairs seem merely a gentle blur."

And he pressed his hand over his brow and sighed, while he watched her face flush crimson.

"You lie!" she cried. "You have not forgotten!"

My father ceased to smile.

"And suppose I have not," he said. "What is it to Mademoiselle? What are the words of a ruined man, the idle speech of a fool who fancied he would sup that night in paradise, and what use is it to recall them now?

Is it possible you believe I am touched by such trivial matters? Because everyone had done what you wish, do you think I shall also? Do you think you can make me give up the paper, as though I were a simpering, romantic fool in Paris? Do you think I have gone this far to turn back?

Mademoiselle seems to forget that I have the game in my own hands. It would be a foolish thing to throw it all away, even--"

He paused, and bowed again.

"Even for you, Mademoiselle. I have arrived where I am today only for one reason. Can you not guess it? It was a pleasure to take you from Blanzy.

It is business now, and they cannot be combined.

"Listen, Mademoiselle," he continued. "Not three miles off the harbor mouth is a French ship tacking back and forth, and not entirely for pleasure. Around this house at present are enough men to run your estates at Blanzy. A sloop has come into the harbor this morning, and has landed its crew for my especial benefit. A dozen of Napoleon's agents are waiting to spring at my throat. I have succeeded so that there is not a man in town who would not be glad to see me on a yard arm. And yet they are waiting, Mademoiselle. Is it not amusing? Can you guess why they are waiting?"

He took a pinch of snuff and dusted his fingers.

"Because they fear that I may burn the paper if they disturb me.

They believe if they keep hidden, if I do not suspect, that I may venture forth. They hope to take me alive, or kill me, and still obtain the paper. Indeed, it is their one hope. It would be a pity to disappoint them."

His lips had parted, and his eyes were shining in the candle light.

"There are few things which move me now, my lady. All that I really enjoy is an amusing situation, and this one is very amusing. Do you think I have crossed the ocean to deliver this doc.u.ment, and then I shall stop?

No, Mademoiselle, you are mistaken."

He bowed again, and stepped backwards towards the door.

"Pray do likewise, Mademoiselle, and forget," he said. "There is nothing in this little episode fit for you to remember. It is not you they are after, and you will be quite safe here. I have made sure of that. My son will remain until your brother arrives, and will dispense what hospitality you require.

"I trust," he added, turning to me, "you still remember why you have been here?"

"Indeed, yes," I answered.

"Then it is good-bye, Henry. I shall not bother to offer you my hand.

Brutus, you will remain with my son until a quarter to seven."

Even now I cannot tell what made a mist come over my eyes and a lump in my throat any more than I can explain my subsequent actions on that evening. Was it possible I was sorry to see the last of him? Or was it simply self pity that shortened my breath and made my voice seem broken and discordant?

"And after that?" I asked.

He looked at me appraisingly, tapping his thin fingers on his sword hilt.

"After that--" He stared thoughtfully at the shadows of the darkened room. Was he thinking as I was, of the wasted years and what the end would be?

"After that," he repeated, half to himself, "come, I will make an appointment with you after that--on the other side of the Styx, my son.