Rogues & Company/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
Count Louis de Beaulieu stood with his shaking hand upon the door handle. The last few minutes lay behind him like hours of nightmare of which this was the culminating agony. His utter consternation, mistaken by the Doctor for the bewilderment of an overpowering joy, the gradually dawning realisation of his position in its new and hopeless complications, had followed fast upon each other, and yet it seemed to him an eternity since he had smiled upon the Large Person and the dour-faced lawyer with all the insouciance of the budding fatalist. Then the whole thing had appeared more or less farcical—an incredible comedy in which his mental misfortune played the chief rôle. Then he had, in some measure, felt himself a person of distinction. Now he was nothing more than a common rogue about to face his judge. And his judge was a woman—that was the worst of it—an angry, unhappy, disappointed woman, and one thing was certain in his mind, namely, that in all his previous nefarious career he had never enjoyed "doing" a woman or taking the consequences. Moreover, his nerve was gone. It was in vain that he threw back his shoulders and tugged at his tie and told himself that whatever happened she couldn't kill him. He trembled visibly, and when he at length pushed open the fatal door he did so with much the same despairing courage as that which drives the suicide over the precipice.
He saw her before she saw him. She was standing by the window, her hands clasped together in an attitude of suppressed agitation, and before she moved he gathered that she was small, graceful and elegantly, if quietly, dressed. When she at length turned he saw that she suited the name Theodora even better than his picture of her. He had no memories to go by, but he could not believe that he had ever seen anything more lovely than her face, or anything more charming than its bewildering contrasts. The delicate features and grey eyes had certainly been made for happiness and their expression of trouble was as piquant as it was pathetic. Evidently she had been crying, and yet behind the tears there were untold possibilities of mirth and malicious humour; her fine lips trembled—he could so easily have imagined how they would twitch with suppressed laughter. She looked at him steadily and he braced his shoulders against the door and faced her with sullen defiance. But she neither screamed nor gave any sign of surprise. She came towards him, and his eyes dropped. His defiance was melting fast into a miserable regret.
"Please don't say anything!" he burst out at last. "You can't say more than I could say about myself. I'm an utter cad—I suppose I was born one—and I've played you all a mean trick. I know it and it's not much excuse to say I didn't mean it. It was that Inspector—"
"But you see I know already—I read about it in the papers," she interrupted gently. "You lost your memory." The tone of her voice gave him courage. He looked up at her again.
"Absolutely, I can't remember a thing. That's how it all started. It's my only excuse." He hesitated. "I'm most awfully sorry to have hurt you," he said huskily.
She smiled—a little woe-begone smile that was not without bitterness.
"You couldn't help it," she said. "Besides—it's all over now."
"Yes—of course, it's all over now—especially as far as I am concerned." He drew himself upright. "Anyhow—before you call the Inspector—"
"But I'm not going to call the Inspector. Why should I?—not yet at least."
He stared at her.
"You mean—good heavens, Mademoiselle—you don't mean that you are going to help me out of this mess?"
"For what else should I be here?" She came forward and laid a white hand on his arm. "Aren't you a little glad to see me—Louis?"
For a minute a haze floated before his eyes. When it cleared he saw a sweet face close to his own, a pair of lips which trembled and yet smiled at him. He pressed his hand to his head.
"Mademoiselle—I beg your pardon—I don't understand—"
"I asked if you were not a little glad to see me. Is that so very strange or difficult?"
"But—" He did not finish his sentence. Like so many flashes of light, a dozen half-formed possibilities passed before his mind. Was he in reality the Count? Did he, by some extraordinary coincidence, bear that nobleman such a strong resemblance that even his fiancée was deceived? Had the lucky pig miraculously changed him or blinded her? Each suggestion seemed equally unlikely and equally absurd. The one thing that was certain was Mademoiselle Theodora herself and the small white hand resting on his arm. The instinct of self-preservation, or possibly the latent spirit of Slippery Bill—or possibly something altogether different—urged him to take it and press it between both his own.
"Forgive me if I seem very stupid," he said. "Look upon me as a sort of invalid with whom one must have patience. You see, I can't remember anything—not a single detail."
"Not even the woman—you—you—"
"—loved?" He shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid not. Though, if it had the chance, I know it would all come back." As he looked down into her face he winced at the thought of what his real memories might consist. "It's infernally hard," he said with truth and considerable force.
"Yes," she agreed, sighing, "very hard." Her hand dropped from his arm, and she turned away from him. He felt that the tears were very near the surface. "It's like beginning life all over again," she went on, half to herself.
He nodded ruefully.
"For me, at least. To all intents and purposes I'm a new born babe. I don't even know my own name."
"Your name is Louis de Beaulieu."
"So I am told, Mademoiselle," but I don't know."
She looked at him keenly and since, for once in a way and quite against the principles of his criminal self, he was telling the truth, he bore her scrutiny without flinching.
"Then—then I suppose I had better go," she said unsteadily. "I would never have come if I had realised that—that of course you would have forgotten me too." She moved towards the door. He followed her. Prudence flew to the winds. She was flushed with humiliation, and he had humiliated her. Here was a charming and lovely woman who came to him with her love and confidence, and he rebuffed her, insulted her by telling her that he did not even remember her existence. That was too much. Hardened criminal though he might be, Slippery Bill was evidently chivalrous to the bone. He interposed himself firmly between the lady and the door.
"Don't go!" he blurted out. "Please don't go—not like that at any rate. Sit down and tell me all about everything about yourself and myself. It's a wretched business, but perhaps we can help each other. At least we ought to try. Please don't punish me like this."
"I don't want to punish you," she said gently. "It's not your fault."
"Well, sit down then—there—by the fire. Let me take off your furs for you—so. Are you comfortable? Is it too warm for you?"
She smiled up into his eager face and the smile transfigured her. Monsieur de Beaulieu forgot to look away.
"At any rate you have remembered how to be nice," she said. "Thank you—I am very comfortable. Won't you sit down—over there?"
The gentle reminder recalled him to himself and he bowed stiffly.
"Thank you, Mademoiselle—"
"Don't be offended." There was now a suspicion of genuine laughter in her grey eyes. "You see, we are starting life all over again."
"Of course," he said decorously, from the other side of the fire-place. "All the same I should like to know something of my pre-existence, if I may so call it. Would you mind?"
She did not answer at once. She stared gravely into the fire and he felt with a sense of shame that the subject must necessarily be painful to her. He bent forward in an attitude of confidential friendliness.
"Let me help you," he said. "I'll begin by asking questions. Am I, for instance, really the Count Louis de Beaulieu?"
She looked at him in quick surprise.
"Of course," she said.
"And you are Mademoiselle Theodora de Melville?"
She nodded without speaking and he hesitated, knowing that he was near delicate ground, yet desperately anxious to know more.
"I know I sound like an inquisitor," he went on humbly, "but you must have patience with me. You can treat me as a sort of harmless lunatic if you like, but remember that you are the only person who can help me. Won't you tell me something more—tell me, for instance, where you live?"
"I lived in France," she said, with a faint emphasis on the past tense.
"Was it there that we—er—first met?"
"Yes," she said, and blushed. The blush was distracting. De Beaulieu fingered his eyeglass nervously.
"Was that very long ago?"
"Five years."
"And we saw each other very often, I sup- pose?"
"Oh, no." She looked at him with puzzled brows. "We only knew each other for a week. It was a case of love at first sight. Then you went away to make your fortune."
He nodded gravely. It occurred to him that here lay a possible clue to the mystery. A week is a short time to remember and five years a long time in which to forget. A faint resemblance might easily develop, backed by circumstance, into something more definite.
"I understood—er—that we were were—are—engaged?" he ventured cautiously.
Her eyes returned to the fire.
"But certainly." For the first time he detected a foreign nuance in her speech and manner. "We were engaged but my father objected. He turned you out of our house."
Monsieur de Beaulieu drew himself up. It annoyed him to find that he was still saddled with a doubtful character.
"Why? Did they object to me?"
"You had no money—in those days," she answered with a faint smile. "And they said that you were—well, just a little wild."
It was no use feeling aggrieved. A man with Slippery Bill's record might be thankful to come off so lightly. "Apparently you overcame their—prejudices, however?" he suggested.
She threw back her head with a fascinating movement of defiance.
"Indeed not!" she said.
"Then, Mademoiselle, I'm afraid I really don't understand how you came here."
"I ran away."
"From your parents?"
"I was very unhappy," she said, almost in a whisper.
"Yes—but surely—wasn't it very unwise?"
Her lips twitched.
"You were in New York," she said, "and you wrote to me."
"Well?"
"Well—then I ran away."
He rose slowly from his chair, as though impelled by an irresistible force.
"You ran away—where to?"
"To England."
"What—what for?"
Her eyes avoided his. Her blush deepened.
"I would rather not say."
"I insist. I must know. Why did you come to England?"
She looked at him again—this time with resolve and a faint flicker of laughter in her eyes.
"You insist?" she asked.
"I insist."
"Well then—I came to England to marry you."
Monsieur de Beaulieu sat down again. The movement had been a compulsory one. His knees had given way under him.
"And—and your parents?" he began feebly.
"By this time they have discarded me."
"Good heavens!" he said under his breath.
"I didn't mean to tell you," she went on, "but you made me, and perhaps it is just as well that you should know the truth. Of course, now the circumstances have altered everything, and you are quite, quite free. Here are your letters."
She opened a dainty reticule and produced a packet tied with blue ribbons which he accepted gingerly. He looked at the contents and his last hope faded. The writing was utterly unlike his own secret experiments in that direction. It was a very simple, clerk-like hand, easy to imitate, as his criminal self immediately noted, and though the Doctor, who had theories on the subject of mental troubles, would never have recognised the discrepancies as evidence, the Rogue himself felt that the testimony of the little gold pig in his waistcoat pocket had been amply confirmed. Had he not the right to ignore the pig and accept a situation into which he had been pitchforked by circumstances and a handful of determined lunatics? He glanced across at his companion. Her head was bowed. He fancied that there were tears on her cheeks.
"May I read these?" he asked uncertainly.
"Why not—since they are yours?"
He untied the bundle. Some of the letters were in French, some in an English freely besprinkled with Americanisms, all of them were tender. Monsieur de Beaulieu's knowledge of French proved to be limited but he guessed successfully at "ma bien-aimée"; "mon ange"; "je t'adore," and the signature, "Louis de Beaulieu," was unmistakable. He ground his teeth.
"What an utter scoundrel!" he said aloud.
Mademoiselle Theodora opened her eyes wide.
"Who?" she asked.
"The Count—I mean—of course—I mean what an utter scoundrel I should be if I were—no, that's not what I meant either. In plain language it was a scoundrelly thing to have written to you like that and then have left you—well, like this."
"But you couldn't help it," she protested. "You lost your memory."
"Exactly. But if I hadn't lost my memory I should be a scoundrel, shouldn't I?"
She nodded in puzzled assent.
"I should deserve anything—I should deserve to lose you and—er—anything else that happened to belong to me, shouldn't I?"
"You would certainly lose me," she said with conviction.
Monsieur de Beaulieu adjusted his eyeglass with the air of a man who sees his way clear.
"Then it seems to me that we can go ahead without compunction," he remarked. "Theodora—"
She rose.
"I have the honour to wish you good-morning, Count."
"Where are you going?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"That, my friend, is no longer your affair."
"Excuse me!" He rose and faced her. "I have been thinking it over," he said slowly and distinctly. "It's too long a business to start life all over again. If you have no objection we will begin where we left off, Theodora."
She drew back. The colour faded from her cheeks.
"I am afraid I am rather stupid," she said.
"I mean—I may be forgetful but I am very impressionable."
She smiled ironically.
"You are very chivalrous," she retorted.
"Then you don't believe in love at first sight after all?" he asked.
"I believe that you are trying to be generous. Good-morning, Count!"
She tried to pass him but he caught her hands and held them.
"You are not going till you have heard me out. You say I am the Count de Beaulieu. Well, I take your word for it. You say you are Mademoiselle de Melville, my fiancée. Well, I take your word for that too. So we're quits. As you are engaged to me I presume you must love me. Will you marry me?"
"Marry you?" she echoed.
"This very day!" he said recklessly.
She turned her back to him as though to hide her face.
"I repeat—you are generous, Count."
"And I swear to you that I have never loved another woman—at least if I have I can't remember it—and I promise you that I will never love another. I can't say more."
She frowned.
"You would have been wiser if you had said less, Count," she said. "Shall I tell you the truth? You are impelled by two motives—firstly by your sense of duty and secondly by your susceptibility to a pretty face. For the first I admire you, for the second I despise you, and for your offer I thank you. And so—good morning."
Monsieur de Beaulieu held his ground, though he flushed.
"We will leave love and duty out of the matter," he said. "Let us call it a 'mariage de convenance.'"
She seemed to take no exception to his French. She stopped short and looked at him with a sudden attention.
"Explain!" she commanded.
"I mean just this—if you won't have me I doubt if anyone ever will. I don't seem to have a friend or a relation in the world. From my point of view it would be a charitable act to marry me. As for you—well, you admit yourself that he—I—we have put you into a decidedly awkward position."
"Do you think I would marry you out of fear for myself?" she asked, white with anger.
"Surely my forgetfulness has not cost me all your affection?" he pleaded pathetically.
"We will leave affection out of the matter," she mimicked.
"Very well—as a matter of convenience then."
She stood silent, evidently at war with conflicting emotions, and he waited patiently. He had surreptitiously taken the Lucky Pig from his pocket and was squeezing it with a new fervour of belief in its miraculous powers. For once in a way his conscience was mute. If he was the Count than he was doing the right thing; and if he was, as he had every reason to suspect, no other than William Brown, commonly known as Slippery Bill, then he was acting like a rogue, which was all that could be expected of him. As for Theodora—it was her fault if she could not tell her lover from his double, and anyhow, in his opinion, she had made a profitable exchange.
So he waited, and presently she looked at him with a softened rather tremulous smile.
"Perhaps, Count—" she began.
"My name is Louis," he interrupted. "You told me so yourself."
"Perhaps then, Louis " She hesitated.
"You consent?" he asked.
"We are rather like two lost children," she said sadly. "Perhaps, as you say, we had better join forces—if it is possible."
"Instinct tells me that there are such things as special licenses," he answered joyfully.
"And you understand—it is and remains a matter of convenience?"
"Until further orders, Theodora."
She smiled faintly.
"My name, at least, seems to be becoming familiar to you," she said.
"I think," he returned, "that there are some things which will come back to me very quickly."
"It's a bargain then?"
"A solemn league and covenant."
She gave him her hand. He kissed it and she drew back with a proud offended gesture.
"That is not necessary, Monsieur."
"After all, you did love me," he returned reproachfully. "You have not forgotten."
"Such things must be mutual."
"Tell me. Didn't I fall in love with you the first hour I saw you?"
She flushed deeply.
"You said so. Pray let us rejoin your friends, Monsieur."
He held open the door for her.
"It seems I have not changed at all," he said.