Rogues & Company/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV
Monsieur Bonnet sat by the kitchen table with his head between his hands and stared gloomily at a rough copy of the dinner menu. To welcome the new and celebrated arrival he had been told to put his best foot forward, which command Monsieur Bonnet had construed into a prodigious culinary effort. On another occasion the effort would have given him pleasure, but to-day his heart was heavy and he had every reason to fear that his hand would be heavier still. The reason was not far to seek. Susan was faithless. From where he sat he could hear her crooning to herself over the afternoon's washing up and since he had told her that his heart was broken her singing was nothing short of callous. He knew what it all meant. With visions of becoming the Countess de Bontemps Susan's previous ambition of one day assuming the name of Bonnet and the sway over a nice little hotel had dropped out of sight. As a direct consequence Monsieur Bonnet found himself unable to concentrate even on his favourite subject of entrées and when the singing suddenly ceased he rose up, smote himself on the breast, and determined on a last attack.
"The Old Guard dies but never surrenders!" he declared defiantly and quite indifferent to the fact that there was no one to appreciate this stalwart sentiment, unless the blinking of the pots and pans could be accepted as signs of intelligent understanding. As Monsieur Bonnet approached the scullery door he fancied he heard the sound of voices and, aroused by a sudden, hideous suspicion, he stopped short. Through the chink of the door he perceived that his worst fears were justified. Susan was perched on the inside window ledge, George, Count de Bontemps on the outside, and the proximity of their heads brought a torrent of remarkably expressive French epithets to Monsieur Bonnet's lips. Fortunately they were smothered. Paralysed with indignation, Monsieur Bonnet heard a rapid exchange of whispers of which George had the lion's share.
"You don't mean it?" Susan was exclaiming softly. "You're having me, aren't you?"
"Having you? Ah, Susan, to have you, to call you mine—that alone is indeed my ambition." George's voice, though subdued, rang with the tenderest enthusiasm. "Now that my position is acknowledged here you trust me, do you not, my sweet English rosebud?"
"Oh, I trust you all right," said Susan complacently. "I only wants to know wot you're after."
George passed his hand caressingly over her fair hair, whereupon the concealed Monsieur Bonnet made a gesture suggesting homicidal tendencies.
"I want you to marry me, Susan," George said. "Is that not clear to you, my fair English lily? But before I marry you I must have finally overcome the machinations of my enemies."
"Wot's machinations?" inquired Susan intelligently. "Anything to do with aeroplanes?"
"Nothing, bien aimée. I merely meant that my enemies who have stolen my rightful heritage must be routed finally before I dare ask you to share my life with me."
"Who's your enemies?"
George's voice dropped. Although Monsieur Bonnet glued his ear to the draughty aperture the rest of the conversation only came to him in maddeningly disconnected scraps.
"—you don't say—"
"—millionaire—stolen papers—my father's heritage—"
"I don't see—"
"You must help me—to-night—the key—"
"Ain't it wrong—?"
"Wrong to help—right the wrong—Susan, my English flower—"
The rest was smothered in a tender embrace. But Monsieur Bonnet had heard enough. He withdrew on tiptoe, removed his cap and apron, took his best coat out of the cupboard and proceeded upstairs with the air of sinister purpose worthy of a Machiavelli. Monsieur Bonnet was in point of fact a cook only by accident. Had the times or his country demanded it of him he would have made an equally famous diplomatist or general. And it was in these capacities that he waylaid the unsuspecting Dr. Frohlocken on the hotel terrace.
"Monsieur, a word wiz you!"
Dr. Frohlocken, immersed in a new theory of the subconscious, stopped resentfully.
"What is it? Who are you? What did you say you wanted?"
Monsieur Bonnet glanced cautiously round. No one was in sight except a small, eccentric looking visitor who sat in the shade, apparently lost in the contemplation of the heavens. Monsieur Bonnet laid a mysterious finger to his lips.
"I would ask you a question. You are a doctor—a famous doctor?"
"I believe so," returned Dr. Frohlocken more pleasantly.
"You are a man of honour?"
"As far as I know—"
"Then are you not aware zat you protect a scoundrel—a robber—un scélerat?"
Dr. Frohlocken contemplated his unknown companion in blank, rather offended surprise.
"I certainly am not aware of any such thing," he declared energetically. "I have had charge of certain so-called lunatics and some of them may have appeared to be, and were undoubtedly scoundrels, but—"
"Wait!" Monsieur Bonnet held up a commanding hand. "You are a man of honour—I appeal to you. Ze 'appiness of one dear to me depends on you. Answer me, Monsieur. Who is this Count de Bontemps?"
Dr. Frohlocken, from being offended, became vaguely uneasy.
"The Count de Bontemps—the Count de Bontemps is a friend—a cousin—of—of the Count de Beaulieu."
"And 'ow do you know zat?"
"Good heavens, man—" the doctor made a gesture of increasing irritability—"he—the Count de Beaulieu—said so."
"And who is this Count de Beaulieu?"
Dr. Frohlocken shrugged his shoulders. "As far as I am concerned he is No. 7; speaking with exactitude that is all I know of him. You might as well ask me who I am."
"I ask you 'ow you know?"
"How I know who I am?"
"I ask you 'ow you know 'e is 'e?"
Both parties were growing more heated. Dr. Frohlocken endeavoured with very little success to counterfeit an expression of judicial calm.
"Before I answer your questions I would be glad to know who you are," he said, "and why you ask them."
"I ask them because not five minutes ago I did 'ear ze so called Comte de Bontemps make ze plans wiz my scullery-maid to rob Monsieur Lancaster who arrive only this day. My scullery-maid—elle ne sait rien—she is innocent—she is deceived—'ypnotised by ze scoundrel, this rogue—"
Dr. Frohlocken waved his arms as though he were trying to swim through the torrent of words.
"It's intolerable—idiotic. Why don't they teach people to say what they mean? I don't understand a thing you're talking about. It's this damned unscientific thinking—"
"Excoose me, gentlemen!" Both combatants were arrested by the drawling accents. Unknown to them the stranger on the terrace had ceased contemplating the heavens and now stood negligently leaning against the balcony, a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, a peculiar smile on his wizened little face. "'Scoose me," he repeated. "Overhearing other people's talk is all part of my business, and I overheard yours. My name's Washington Jones. Here's my card. If you don't believe it ask Mr. Lancaster. I'm his charge d'affaires, as you might say."
"I really don't see—" Dr. Frohlocken began—
"—what business I've got in this galère?" Mr. Washington Jones interrupted. "It's just this—I know what you're talking about and you don't. Monsieur Bonnet—this gentlemen here—has got his nose somewhere near the scent, but you've made altogether an astonishing fool of yourself, Dr. Frohlocken."
Dr. Frohlocken drew himself up with dignity.
"I expect proof of that statement, sir."
"Waal, I guess that's what I'm going to give you. You think this young man of yours is the Count de Beaulieu, don't you?"
"I do not. I never said so. I always protested—"
"Well, he isn't!"
"Bah!" said Monsieur Bonnet, and snapped his fingers triumphantly. Dr. Frohlocken ran his fingers wildly through his hair.
"Is this man mad?" he demanded.
"Read that!" said Mr. Washington Jones placidly.
With impatient fingers the Doctor took the offered newspaper cutting and hurried over the first few lines. And very slowly a light of triumph spread over his sallow countenance.
"You mean—that's him—?" he said.
"That's him," said Mr., Washington Jones, with a corresponding lack of grammar.
"Bah!" said Monsieur Bonnet to no one in particular, but with the satisfaction of victory.