Jason: A Romance Read online

  XVI

  THE BLACK CAT

  That providential stone or tree-root, or whatever it may have been,proved a genuine blessing in disguise to Ste. Marie. It gave him asplitting headache for a few hours, but it saved him a good deal ofdiscomfort the while his bullet wound was being more or less probed andvery skilfully cleansed and dressed by O'Hara. For he did not regainconsciousness until this surgical work was almost at its end, and thenhe wanted to fight the Irishman for tying the bandages too tight.

  But when O'Hara had gone away and left him alone he lay still--or asstill as the smarting, burning pain in his leg and the ache in his headwould let him--and stared at the wall beyond his bed, and bit by bit theevents of the past hour came back to him, and he knew where he was. Hecursed himself very bitterly, as he well might do, for a bungling idiot.The whole thing had been in his hands, he said, with perfecttruth--Arthur Benham's whereabouts proved Stewart's responsibility or,at the very least, complicity and the sordid motive therefor.Remained--had Ste. Marie been a sane being instead of an impulsivefool--remained but to face Stewart down in the presence of witnesses,threaten him with exposure, and so, with perfect ease, bring back thelost boy in triumph to his family.

  It should all have been so simple, so easy, so effortless! Yet now itwas ruined by a moment's rash folly, and Heaven alone knew what wouldcome of it. He remembered that he had left behind him no indicationwhatever of where he meant to spend the afternoon. Hartley would comehurrying across town that evening to the rue d'Assas, and would find noone there to receive him. He would wait and wait, and at last go home.He would come again on the next morning, and then he would begin to bealarmed and would start a second search--but with what to reckon by?Nobody knew about the house on the road to Clamart but Mlle. OlgaNilssen, and she was far away.

  He thought of Captain Stewart, and he wondered if that gentleman was byany chance here in the house, or if he was still in bed in the rue duFaubourg St. Honore, recovering from his epileptic fit.

  After that he fell once more to cursing himself and his incrediblestupidity, and he could have wept for sheer bitterness of chagrin.

  He was still engaged in this unpleasant occupation when the door of theroom opened and the Irishman O'Hara entered, having finished hisinterview with Captain Stewart below. He came up beside the bed andlooked down not unkindly upon the man who lay there, but Ste. Mariescowled back at him, for he was in a good deal of pain and a vile humor.

  "How's the leg--_and_ the head?" asked the amateur surgeon. To do himjustice, he was very skilful, indeed, through much experience.

  "They hurt," said Ste. Marie, shortly. "My head aches like the devil,and my leg burns."

  O'Hara made a sound which was rather like a gruff laugh, and nodded.

  "Yes, and they'll go on doing it, too," said he. "At least the leg will.Your head will be all right again in a day or so. Do you want anythingto eat? It's near dinner-time. I suppose we can't let you starve--thoughyou deserve it."

  "Thanks; I want nothing," said Ste. Marie. "Pray don't trouble aboutme."

  The other man nodded again indifferently and turned to go out of theroom, but in the doorway he halted and looked back.

  "As we're to have the pleasure of your company for some time to come,"said he, "you might suggest a name to call you by. Of course I don'texpect you to tell your own name--though I can learn that easilyenough."

  "Easily enough, to be sure," said the man on the bed. "Ask Stewart. Heknows only too well."

  The Irishman scowled. And after a moment he said:

  "I don't know any Stewart."

  But at that Ste. Marie gave a laugh, and a tinge of red came over theIrishman's cheeks.

  "And so, to save Captain Stewart the trouble," continued the woundedman, "I'll tell you my name with pleasure. I don't know why I shouldn't.It's Ste. Marie."

  "What?" cried O'Hara, hoarsely. "What? Say that again!"

  He came forward a swift step or two into the room, and he stared at theman on the bed as if he were staring at a ghost.

  "Ste. Marie?" he cried, in a whisper. "It's impossible! What are you,"he demanded, "to Gilles, Comte de Ste. Marie de Mont-Perdu? What are youto him?"

  "He was my father," said the younger man; "but he is dead. He has beendead for ten years."

  He raised his head, with a little grimace of pain, to look curiouslyafter the Irishman, who had all at once turned away across the room andstood still beside a window with bent head.

  "Why?" he questioned. "What about my father? Why did you ask that?"

  O'Hara did not answer at once, and he did not stir from his place by thewindow, but after a while he said:

  "I knew him.... That's all."

  And after another space he came back beside the bed, and once morelooked down upon the young man who lay there. His face was veiled,inscrutable. It betrayed nothing.

  "You have a look of your father," said he. "That was what puzzled me alittle. I was just saying to--I was just thinking that there wassomething familiar about you.... Ah, well, we've all come down in theworld since then. The Ste. Marie blood, though. Who'd have thought it?"

  The man shook his head a little sorrowfully, but Ste. Marie stared up athim in frowning incomprehension. The pain had dulled him somewhat. Andpresently O'Hara again moved toward the door. On the way he said:

  "I'll bring or send you something to eat--not too much. And later onI'll give you a sleeping-powder. With that head of yours you may havetrouble in getting to sleep. Understand, I'm doing this for yourfather's son, and not because you've any right yourself toconsideration."

  Ste. Marie raised himself with difficulty on one elbow.

  "Wait!" said he. "Wait a moment!" and the other halted just inside thedoor. "You seem to have known my father," said Ste. Marie, "and to haverespected him. For my father's sake, will you listen to me for fiveminutes?"

  "No, I won't," said the Irishman, sharply. "So you may as well hold yourtongue. Nothing you can say to me or to any one in this house will havethe slightest effect. We know what you came spying here for. We know allabout it."

  "Yes," said Ste. Marie, with a little sigh, and he fell back upon thepillows. "Yes, I suppose you do. I was rather a fool to speak. Youwouldn't all be doing what you're doing if words could affect you. I wasa fool to speak."

  The Irishman stared at him for another moment, and went out of the room,closing the door behind him.

  So he was left once more alone to his pain and his bitterself-reproaches and his wild and futile plans for escape. But O'Harareturned in an hour or thereabout with food for him--a cup of broth anda slice of bread; and when Ste. Marie had eaten these the Irishmanlooked once more to his wounded leg, and gave him a sleeping-powderdissolved in water.

  He lay restless and wide-eyed for an hour, and then drifted away throughintermediate mists into a sleep full of horrible dreams, but it was atleast relief from bodily suffering, and when he awoke in the morning hisheadache was almost gone.

  He awoke to sunshine and fresh, sweet odors and the twittering of birds.By good chance O'Hara had been the last to enter the room on the eveningbefore, and so no one had come to close the shutters or draw the blinds.The windows were open wide, and the morning breeze, very soft andaromatic, blew in and out and filled the place with sweetness. The roomwas a corner room, with windows that looked south and east, and theearly sun slanted in and lay in golden squares across the floor.

  Ste. Marie opened his eyes with none of the dazed bewilderment that hemight have expected. The events of the preceding day came back to himinstantly and without shock. He put up an experimental hand, and foundthat his head was still very sore where he had struck it in falling, butthe ache was almost gone. He tried to stir his leg, and a protestingpain shot through it. It burned dully, even when it was quiet, but thepain was not at all severe. He realized that he was to get off ratherwell, considering what might have happened, and he was so grateful forthis that he almost forgot to be angry with himself over his monumentalfolly.

  A
small bird chased by another wheeled in through the southern windowand back again into free air. Finally, the two settled down upon theparapet of the little shallow balcony which was there to have theirdisagreement out, and they talked it over with a great deal of noise andmany threatening gestures and a complete loss of temper on both sides.Ste. Marie, from his bed, cheered them on, but there came a commotion inthe ivy which draped the wall below, and the two birds fled inignominious haste, and just in the nick of time, for when the cause ofthe commotion shot into view it was a large black cat, of great bodilyactivity and an ardent single-heartedness of aim.

  The black cat gazed for a moment resentfully after its vanished prey,and then composed its sleek body upon the iron rail, tail and pawstucked neatly under. Ste. Marie chirruped, and the cat turned yelloweyes upon him in mild astonishment, as one who should say, "Who thedeuce are you, and what the deuce are you doing here?" He chirrupedagain, and the cat, after an ostentatious yawn and stretch, came tohim--beating up to windward, as it were, and making the bed in threetacks. When O'Hara entered the room some time later he found his patientin a very cheerful frame of mind, and the black cat sitting on his chestpurring like a dynamo and kneading like an industrious baker.

  "Ho," said the Irishman, "you seem to have found a friend!"

  "Well, I need one friend here," argued Ste. Marie. "I'm in the enemy'sstronghold. You needn't be alarmed; the cat can't tell me anything, andit can't help me to escape. It can only sit on me and purr. That'sharmless enough."

  O'Hara began one of his gruff laughs, but he seemed to remember himselfin the middle of it and assumed an intimidating scowl instead.

  "How's the leg?" he demanded, shortly. "Let me see it." He took off thebandages and cleansed and sprayed the wound with some antiseptic liquidthat he had brought in a bottle. "There's a little fever," said he, "butthat can't be avoided. You're going on very well--a good deal betterthan you'd any right to expect." He had to inflict not a little pain inhis examination and redressing of the wound. He knew that, and once ortwice he glanced up at Ste. Marie's face with a sort of reluctantadmiration for the man who could bear so much without any sign whatever.In the end he put together his things and nodded with professionalsatisfaction. "You'll do well enough now for the rest of the day," hesaid. "I'll send up old Michel to valet you. He's the gardener who shotyou yesterday, and he may take it into his head to finish the job thismorning. If he does I sha'n't try to stop him."

  "Nor I," said Ste. Marie. "Thanks very much for your trouble. Anexcellent surgeon was lost in you."

  O'Hara left the room, and presently the old caretaker, one-eyed,gnomelike, shambling like a bear, sidled in and proceeded to set thingsto rights. He looked, Ste. Marie said to himself, like something in anold German drawing, or in those imitations of old drawings that onesometimes sees nowadays in _Fliegende Blaetter_. He tried to make thestrange creature talk, but Michel went about his task with an airhalf-frightened, half-stolid, and refused to speak more than anoccasional "oui" or a "bien, Monsieur," in answer to orders. Ste. Marieasked if he might have some coffee and bread, and the old Michel noddedand slipped from the room as silently as he had entered it.

  Thereafter Ste. Marie trifled with the cat and got one hand wellscratched for his trouble, but in five minutes there came a knocking atthe door. He laughed a little. "Michel grows ceremonious when it's aquestion of food," he said. "Entrez, mon vieux!"

  The door opened, and Ste. Marie caught his breath.

  "Michel is busy," said Coira O'Hara, "so I have brought your coffee."

  She came into the sunlit room holding the steaming bowl of cafe au laitbefore her in her two hands. Over it her eyes went out to the man wholay in his bed, a long and steady and very grave look. "A goddess thatlady, a queen among goddesses--" Thus the little Jew of the Boulevard dela Madeleine. Ste. Marie gazed back at her, and his heart was sickwithin him to think of the contemptible role Fate had laid upon thisgirl to play: the candle to the moth, the bait to the eager, unskilledfish, the lure to charm a foolish boy.

  The girl's splendid beauty seemed to fill all that bright room with, asit were, a richer, subtler light. There could be no doubt of herpotency. Older and wiser heads than young Arthur Benham's might wellforget the world for her. Ste. Marie watched, and the heartsicknesswithin him was like a physical pain, keen and bitter. He thought of thatfirst and only previous meeting--the single minute in theChamps-Elysees, when her eyes had held him, had seemed to beseech himout of some deep agony. He thought of how they had haunted him afterwardboth by day and by night--calling eyes--and he gave a little groan ofsheer bitterness, for he realized that all this while she was laying hersnares about the feet of an inexperienced boy, decoying him to his ruin.There was a name for such women, an ugly name. They were calledadventuresses.

  The girl set the bowl which she carried down upon a table not far fromthe bed. "You will need a tray or something," said she. "I suppose youcan sit up against your pillows? I'll bring a tray and you can hold iton your knees and eat from it." She spoke in a tone of very deliberateindifference and detachment. There seemed even to be an edge of scorn init, but nothing could make that deep and golden voice harsh or unlovely.As the girl's extraordinary beauty had filled all the room with itslight, so the sound of her voice seemed to fill it with a sumptuous andhushed resonance like a temple bell muffled in velvet. "I must bringsomething to eat, too," she said. "Would you prefer croissants orbrioches or plain bread-and-butter? You might as well have what youlike."

  "Thank you!" said Ste. Marie. "It doesn't matter. Anything. You are mostkind. You are Hebe, Mademoiselle, server of feasts." The girl turned herhead for a moment and looked at him with some surprise.

  "If I am not mistaken," she said, "Hebe served to gods." Then she wentout of the room, and Ste. Marie broke into a sudden delighted laughbehind her. She would seem to be a young woman with a tongue in herhead. She had seized the rash opening without an instant's hesitation.

  The black cat, which had been cruising, after the inquisitive fashion ofits kind, in far corners of the room, strolled back and looked up to thetable where the bowl of coffee steamed and waited.

  "Get out!" cried Ste. Marie. "Va t'en, sale petit animal! Go and eatbirds! That's _my_ coffee. Va! Sauve toi! He, voleur que tu es!" Hesought for something by way of missile, but there was nothing withinreach.

  The black cat turned its calm and yellow eyes toward him, looked back tothe aromatic feast, and leaped expertly to the top of the table. Ste.Marie shouted and made horrible threats. He waved an impotent pillow,not daring to hurl it for fear of smashing the table's entire contents,but the black cat did not even glance toward him. It smelled the coffee,sneezed over it because it was hot, and finally proceeded to lap verydaintily, pausing often to take breath or to shake its head, for catsdisapprove of hot dishes, though they will partake of them at a pinch.

  There came a step outside the door, and the thief leaped down with somehaste, yet not quite in time to escape observation. Mlle. O'Hara camein, breathing terrible threats.

  "Has that wretched animal touched your coffee?" she cried. "I hope not."But Ste. Marie laughed weakly from his bed, and the guilty beast stoodin mid-floor, brown drops beading its black chin and hanging upon itswhiskers.

  "I did what I could, Mademoiselle," said Ste. Marie, "but there wasnothing to throw. I am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble."

  "It is nothing," said she. "I will bring some more coffee, only it willtake ten minutes, because I shall have to make some fresh." She made asif she would smile a little in answer to him, but her face turned graveonce more and she went out of the room with averted eyes.

  Thereafter Ste. Marie occupied himself with watching idly the movementsof the black cat, and, as he watched, something icy cold began to growwithin him, a sensation more terrible than he had ever known before. Hefound himself shivering as if that summer day had all at once turned toJanuary, and he found that his face was wet with a chill perspiration.

  When the girl at length returned
she found him lying still, his face tothe wall. The black cat was in her path as she crossed the room, so thatshe had to thrust it out of the way with her foot, and she called itnames for moving with such lethargy.

  "Here is the coffee at last," she said. "I made it fresh. And I havebrought some brioches. Will you sit up and have the tray on your knees?"

  "Thank you," said Ste. Marie. "I do not wish anything."

  "You do not--" she repeated after him. "But I have made the coffeeespecially for you," she protested. "I thought you wanted it. I don'tunderstand."

  With a sudden movement the man turned toward her a white and drawn face.

  "Mademoiselle," he cried, "it would have been more merciful to let yourgardener shoot again yesterday. Much more merciful, Mademoiselle."

  She stared at him under her straight, black brows.

  "What do you mean?" she demanded. "More merciful? What do you mean bythat?"

  Ste. Marie stretched out a pointing finger, and the girl followed it.She gave, after a tense instant, a single, sharp scream. And upon that:

  "No, no! It's not true! It's not possible!"

  Moving stiffly, she set down the bowl she carried, and the hot liquidsplashed up round her wrists. For a moment she hung there, drooping,holding herself up by the strength of her hands upon the table. It wasas if she had been seized with faintness. Then she sprang to where thecat crouched beside a chair. She dropped upon her knees and tried toraise it in her arms, but the beast bit and scratched at her feebly, andcrept away to a little distance, where it lay struggling and veryunpleasant to see.

  "Poison!" she said, in a choked, gasping whisper. "Poison!" She lookedonce toward the man upon the bed, and she was white and shivering. "It'snot true!" she cried again. "I--won't believe it! It's because thecat--was not used to coffee. Because it was hot. I won't believe it! Iwon't believe it!" She began to sob, holding her hands over her whiteface.

  Ste. Marie watched her with puzzled eyes. If this was acting, it wasvery good acting. A little glimmer of hope began to burn in him--hopethat in this last shameful thing, at least, the girl had had no part.

  "It's impossible," she insisted, piteously. "I tell you it's impossible.I brought the coffee myself from the kitchen. I took it from the potthere--the same pot we had all had ours from. It was never out of mysight--or, that is--I mean--"

  She halted there, and Ste. Marie saw her eyes turn slowly toward thedoor, and he saw a crimson flush come up over her cheeks and die away,leaving her white again. He drew a little breath of relief and gladness,for he was sure of her now. She had had no part in it.

  "It is nothing, Mademoiselle," said he, cheerfully. "Think no more ofit. It is nothing."

  "Nothing?" she cried, in a loud voice. "Do you call poison nothing?" Shebegan to shiver again very violently. "You would have drunk it!" shesaid, staring at him in a white agony. "But for a miracle you would havedrunk it--and died!"

  Abruptly she came beside the bed and threw herself upon her knees there.In her excitement and horror she seemed to have forgotten what they twowere to each other. She caught him by the shoulders with her two hands,and the girl's violent trembling shook them both.

  "Will you believe," she cried, "that I had nothing to do with this? Willyou believe me? You must believe me!"

  There was no acting in that moment. She was wrung with a frank anguish,an utter horror, and between her words there were hard and terriblesobs.

  "I believe you, Mademoiselle," said the man, gently. "I believe you.Pray think no more about it."

  He smiled up into the girl's beautiful face, though within him he wasstill cold and a-shiver, as even the bravest man might well be at suchan escape, and after a moment she turned away again. With unsteady handsshe put the new-made bowl of coffee and the brioches and other thingstogether upon the tray and started to carry it across the room to thebed, but half-way she turned back again and set the tray down. Shelooked about and found an empty glass, and she poured a little of thecoffee into it. Ste. Marie, who was watching her, gave a sudden cry.

  "No, no, Mademoiselle, I beg you! You must not!"

  But the girl shook her head at him gravely over the glass.

  "There is no danger," she said, "but I must be sure."

  She drank what was in the glass, and afterward went across to one of thewindows and stood there with her back to the room for a little time.

  In the end she returned and once more brought the breakfast-tray to thebed. Ste. Marie raised himself to a sitting posture and took the thingupon his knees, but his hands were shaking.

  "If I were not as helpless as a dead man, Mademoiselle," said he, "youshould not have done that. If I could have stopped you, you should nothave done it, Mademoiselle."

  A wave of color spread up under the brown skin of the girl's face, butshe did not speak. She stood by for a moment to see if he was suppliedwith everything he needed, and when Ste. Marie expressed his gratitudefor her pains she only bowed her head. Then presently she turned awayand left the room.

  Outside the door she met some one who was approaching. Ste. Marie heardher break into rapid and excited speech, and he heard O'Hara's voice inanswer. The voice expressed astonishment and indignation and a sort ofgruff horror, but the man who listened could hear only the tones, notthe words that were spoken.

  The Irishman came quickly into the room. He glanced once toward the bedwhere Ste. Marie sat eating his breakfast with apparent unconcern--theremay have been a little bravado in this--and then bent over the thingwhich lay moving feebly beside a chair. When he rose again his face washard and tense and his blue eyes glittered in a fashion that bodedtrouble for somebody.

  "This looks very bad for us," he said, gruffly. "I should--I should liketo have you believe that neither my daughter nor I had any part in it.When I fight I fight openly, I don't use poison. Not even with spies."

  "Oh, that's all right," said Ste. Marie, taking an ostentatious sip ofcoffee. "That's understood. I know well enough who tried to poison me.If you'll just keep your friend Stewart out of the kitchen I sha'n'tworry about my food."

  The Irishman's cheeks reddened with a quick flush and he dropped hiseyes. But in an instant he raised them again and looked full into theeyes of the man who sat in bed.

  "You seem," said he, "to be laboring under a curious misapprehension.There is no Stewart here, and I don't know any man of that name."

  Ste. Marie laughed.

  "Oh, don't you?" he said. "That's my mistake then. Well, if you don'tknow him, you ought to. You have interests in common."

  O'Hara favored his patient with a long and frowning stare. But at theend he turned without a word and went out of the room.

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