Rogues & Company/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
Monsieur François Bonnet divested himself of his apron and flung his white cap down on the table, like a knight weary of his armour.
"I go," he said solemnly. "I go—it is my duty, and a Frenchman never yet refused to perform his duty. Ze manager 'as said to me, 'François Bonnet—apologise! You 'ave thrown potato-skins at a guest, and for ze honour of ze hotel you must apologise like a gentleman.' Eh bien, I go. I will make my amends to this scelérat, but I will not forget. Ah, no, I'll not forget!"
Susan tossed her head.
"If you had listened to me, it would never have happened," she said condescendingly. "I knew at once he was a gentleman. But perhaps you don't know the sort. You will look silly."
Monsieur turned a melancholy brown eye upon her.
"Disloyal one!" he said bitterly. "What is it to thee what I look? Through thy faithlessness am I 'umbled in ze dust. Is that not enough?"
"Oh, go along!" said Susan cheerfully.
Monsieur Bonnet drew out an embroidered handkerchief and laid it ceremoniously on the table.
"Little did I think when thou gavest me this first gift that I should return it to thee thus," he said. "But indeed all is over. Go then to thy Count and forget one who loved thee wiz an 'onourable 'eart. Farewell."
"See you later!" said Susan with the haughty aloofness of a Countess in embryo.
As Monsieur Bonnet, heavy of step and heavier of heart, reached the ground floor he became aware of voices, raised in hot altercation, which came from the entrance hall. Monsieur Bonnet, who had been making for the back staircase, changed his course, and made for the front ones instead. Which proves that Monsieur Bonnet was not wholly free from the weakness of curiosity. Two new arrivals, barricaded in the midst of an astonishing quantity of foreign looking luggage, were engaged in a loud discussion with the perplexed and heated hotel manager. Monsieur perceived that the lady and gentleman were both young and of the type that is briefly classified as "newly married." Both were below the medium height; the gentleman was dark and excitable, with a fiercely waxed little moustache, the lady was fair and fluffy and placid, with a tendency to plumpness. Monsieur Bonnet had noticed these peculiarities and was on the point of resuming his penitential pilgrimage when the manager, perceiving him, signalled to him like a ship in distress.
"Monsieur Bonnet," he said in an excited undertone, "you are a man of tact, and perhaps you can manage your own countrymen better than I can. Go and ask the Count de Beaulieu if he would be so kind as to spare me a few minutes. It is a matter of importance.
"The Count is with guests," said Monsieur Bonnet, his eye on the strange couple, who had relapsed into a heated silence. "Can I not offer him some reason?"
"Say—that—well, you'd better tell him the truth. Say that a gentleman is here who says he is the Count de Beaulieu—"
"And that he is a fraud, a humbug," put in the new arrival fiercely, and with a wild and threatening wave of the arms.
Monsieur Bonnet drew a deep sigh of infinite satisfaction.
"I go," he said. "I go quicker than ze lightening and wiz ze greatest joy."
Thus it was that when Monsieur Bonnet was ushered into the presence of his enemy he came with the air of a conqueror. George, who was seated by the tea-table next to Mrs. Pagot-Chump, received him with a gracious and graceful movement of the hand.
"Ah, vous voilà, Monsieur le Chevalier de la Pomme de Terre," he said gaily.
Monsieur Bonnet returned the recognition with a stare and a chilly bow.
"I 'ave come to make the expression of my regrets," he said stiffly in English.
"Pray consider the matter forgotten," George assured him. "Your dinners should soften the heart of your deadliest enemy."
"—and I 'ave come also on ze part of ze Count de Beaulieu" Monsieur Bonnet persisted with dangerous calm. "Ze Count and Countess 'ave just arrived and 'e begs to inform Monsieur de Beaulieu that 'e is a fraud and a 'umbug and zat 'e would be glad of a moment's speak wiz 'im."
The Count rose slowly to his feet, impelled by George's determined eye.
"Absurd!" he heard himself say from a long way off.
"Impertinence!" said George, passing Mrs. Pagot-Chump the sugar. "Must be a fraud. Go and see that he is turned out, Louis. Did you ever hear of such a thing, Mrs. Pagot-Chump?"
Mrs. Pagot-Chump, with recollections of New York, showed a face of blank indignation.
"Never!" she said.
Louis meanwhile looked round the room like a man who is taking a last farewell of his surroundings. He encountered his wife's wondering gaze and Saunders' supercilious stare. The one filled him with a biting remorse for the wrong he had done, the other with an obstinate desire to go on doing it. He had cheated her but, scoundrel though he was, he felt that he was nothing like as big a scoundrel as this pale-eyed wastling. It was his duty to protect his wife against herself. He squared his shoulders.
"If Mrs. Pagot-Chump would excuse me for a moment" he began.
Mrs. Pagot-Chump bowed.
"And Mrs. Pagot-Chump will come down and legitimise you," said George jocosely, but with significance.
Mrs. Pagot-Chump smiled a smile that was not altogether happy. The possibility that this new arrival was the ingratiating foreigner who had beguiled many an unreturned dollar out of James Pagot-Chump's pocket had already presented itself to her astute mind. But she was a woman of courage.
"Of course," she said. "I guess I'll go bail for you, Count."
With this assurance the Rogue followed Monsieur Bonnet into the manager's private room. As William Brown, at any rate, he was beginning to believe in himself. The sword of Damocles was about to fall and he felt astonishingly self-possessed, not to say brazen-faced. Nevertheless, the first encounter with the man he was impersonating caused him a shock. He had expected to meet his double—instead he found himself confronted by a small, alert and very angry personage who bore him no resemblance whatever. Theodora's conduct, not to mention Mrs. Pagot-Chump's, was growing more and more inexplicable.
There was a moment's sultry silence. The manager stood midway between them, rubbing his hands and endeavouring to pacify the infuriated little man in the heavy travelling coat who, at the Count's entrance, made what in police terms is called an "ugly rush."
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" The manager pleaded soothingly.
Monsieur de Beaulieu smiled.
"I believe you wished to speak to me," he said. "Who is this person?"
The manager had no opportunity to explain. The "person" turned from red to purple and uttered a sound that was like a throttled scream.
"I demand that the police be sent for," he stuttered. "I demand that this man be arrested. He is a fraud, a humbug. There is but one Count de Beaulieu and I am he. This here is the Countess de Beaulieu—" He broke off, choking with temper, and the late William Brown glanced involuntarily in the direction indicated. For the first time he became aware that a lady was seated by the fireside. She looked up and smiled placidly. The Rogue clenched his fists. This then was the woman for whom Theodora had been so basely deserted. The last spark of remorse died out.
"You say you are Count de Beaulieu," he said with the severity of innocence. "Have you any proof to offer?"
"Proof? Proof? I have papers—hundreds of papers—" the infuriated Frenchman dragged out his pocket, but his impersonator waved the offer on one side.
"Papers can be forged," he said. "You are aware, perhaps that the Count de Beaulieu inherits a considerable fortune from his English Grandfather?"
"Aware? Of course I am aware. It is for that that I have come to this wretched country."
"Then no doubt your bankers and the executors will legitimise you?"
The Frenchman snorted.
"I have arrived yesterday from America," he retorted. "I have had no time—"
William Brown smiled affably.
"That is a pity," he commented, "because the executors of the late Lord Sudleigh have acknowledged me."
"Comment!!"
The manager smiled with a dawning relief. After all, the first week's bill had been paid, and people who pay their bills inspire confidence.
"I might perhaps telephone to your bankers, Monsieur le Comte?" he suggested apologetically.
"By all means," William Brown asserted.
At this the Frenchman, who had been reeling round the room in a transport of impotent fury, came to a standstill. By a supreme effort he attained that state which in French passes for calm.
"Wait!" he said. "I have thought. There is a friend of mine here—a Madame Pagot-Chump. It is for her I have come. I knew her in New York. She will recognise me. Send for her."
"Mrs. Pagot-Chump's evidence will no doubt be helpful," remarked the manager tentatively.
"By all means," Brown agreed.
The manager made for the door.
"With your permission, gentlemen, I will go myself and explain to Mrs. Pagot-Chump and ask her to spare us a few moments."
"You will find her in my wife's apartments," Brown added.
The Count started and William Brown smiled. He had taken out his Lucky Pig and was surreptitiously caressing it with his forefinger. The good luck which had made Theodora and Mrs. Pagot-Chump mistake him for this man was utterly incomprehensible, but he had begun to believe in it. Meanwhile the manager had closed the door softly behind him and the Frenchman advanced threateningly.
"You are a swindler, sir, and you know it," he said.
William Brown confronted him. At that moment the thought of Theodora and her betrayal at the hands of this man made him dangerous.
"I dare say I do," he said slowly and distinctly "but I'd rather be a swindler than a scoundrel."
"Sir—you insinuate—?"
"I insinuate nothing. I affirm. Do you deny that you wrote to the Countess Theodora de Melville asking her to come to England to marry you in defiance of her parents wishes?"
"I do not deny it."
"And you married this lady?"
"Of course—"
"Then I say you are a scoundrel and I regret nothing that I have done."
The Frenchman recoiled. His expression changed from rage to alarm.
"C'est un fou!" he murmured distractedly. "Un fou!"
But at that moment the door opened and, catching sight of Mrs. Pagot-Chump's gaily adorned person, he advanced with outstretched hands. "Ah, Madame, you are come like an angel to deliver me and my poor wife from a most absurd position—"
Mrs. Pagot-Chump waved him severely on one side.
"I do not know this person," she said.
"Ah!" said the manager from the rear. William Brown pressed his Lucky Pig in silent gratitude.
"You do not know me—!" gasped the Frenchman. "Why in New York—"
"I remember that in New York a person—this person—presented himself to Mr. Pagot-Chump and myself as the Count de Beaulieu," Mrs. Pagot-Chump went on with freezing deliberation. "I remember that he borrowed $1,000 from my husband, but I do not remember that he ever paid them back. We discovered afterwards that he was a common swindler." She inspected the feebly gesticulating Frenchman through her lorgnettes. "Under the circumstances I guess our acquaintance is at an end," she added.
"Naturally," murmured the manager. "I am deeply grateful to you, Madam, for clearing up this difficulty." He rang the bell. "John, see that this—this gentleman's boxes are put back and bring the omnibus round to the door—"
"I protest—I remonstrate—I shall send for the police—"
"You can be thankful that I have not sent for the police," the manager retorted sharply. "I suppose, Monsieur le Comte, you do not wish to prosecute?"
"Oh, dear no," Wiliam Brown assured him. "It really isn't worth while." He offered Mrs. Pagot-Chump his arm. "I think after this little intermezzo we can rejoin our friends," he said gaily.
Ten minutes later the Hotel omnibus containing the still furiously tirading Frenchman and a French lady who had by this time relapsed into a placid shower of tears, rolled out of the Hotel grounds. From the scullery window Susan watched the departure in triumph.
"You see—I told you so!" she said to Monsieur Bonnet who scowled in the background.
"The end is not yet," returned Monsieur Bonnet, gloomily prophetic. "Misguided woman!"
And upstairs Monsieur de Beaulieu listened to the dying rumble of the wheels with the relief of a man who has successfully dodged the sword of Damocles for the fourth time.