Читать книгу Devil's Laughter: A Tale of Paris - John Hunter A.A. - Страница 9

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One day Gabrielle saw Baring. She had wandered aimlessly about the city and found herself emerging from a side street at the lower end of the Rue du Quatre Septembre. As she stepped into the big main thoroughfare Baring came from an office building on the other side of the road.

She stood, staring across at him. He looked about him, fiddling with a cigarette-case. Once she was sure he had seen her, for he seemed to look straight at her. She watched him light his cigarette and flick the match into the gutter, and she had an impulse to run across to him, an impulse which was so strong that she almost surrendered to it.

But she checked it as she moved towards the kerb. Baring and her memory of him belonged to the days that were dead. Where the daughter of Paul Laroche the financier might have encountered the Englishman and been glad of his company, the child of Le Cagnard must not intrude. Was it possible that she could be the child of Le Cagnard? The question gnawed at her once more.

Baring walked rapidly. She could not know that he was busy with thoughts of her—that he had longed for her, ached for her ever since the night of their first meeting. She could not know of his visit to the Avenue Malakoff, of the dread that had fallen upon him then, of the efforts he had since made to establish touch with her.

She felt, as she watched him, that vast opportunity was slipping past her, and that she was powerless to seize it. There was a surge of traffic along the roadway, hiding him from view, and when again she could see across the street he had gone. She turned away, dispiritedly.

She felt that she could not go back to her room. Her glimpse of Baring had bred a terrible unrest within her, and the unrest expressed itself in physical effort. She walked aimlessly on and on, drifting along the streets without noting her direction—tired, footsore, driven like some creature doing penance for an unforgivable sin.

With nightfall she was near to collapse, and she was forced by very weariness to return to her lodgings. The old house itself looked gloomy and despairful. The moonlight which filtered through the dirty window and mercifully failed to illuminate the bare landing with any thoroughness was itself wan and cheerless.

She reached the door of her room and fumbled for the key. The place was quiet and still. As she inserted the key in the lock she was conscious of a deeper shadow moving in the shadows against the wall, and heard a little low feminine cry. Turning swiftly she saw the woman Le Cagnard called Malou.

Malou stepped forward. She looked scared.

“Ma’m’selle!” Malou put out her hand.

“Yes?”

“Do you live here?”

“Certainly. But you are distressed. Is anything wrong?”

Malou did not instantly reply, but appeared to fight for her self-control. Then she said: “The streets outside are very dark and deserted. This is a part of Paris I do not know very well. A man troubled me—an atrociously dressed man who was hanging about.” She eyed Gabrielle covertly.

Gabrielle’s eyes lighted. “I’ve seen that man,” she agreed.

Malou nodded. “He must be dangerous. I ran from him. He hunted me. I screamed, but these streets appear dead. I saw the open doorway below and ran inside, crept up here, crouched breathless. I heard your footsteps. Mon Dieu! When I saw that it was a woman who came, my heart burst with thankfulness.”

Gabrielle was genuinely concerned. Malou was an actress of some ability, and she made her tale exceedingly convincing. It had been rehearsed over and over again, for that tale was a stone in the edifice of plot and treachery to be erected by Le Cagnard.

“If you will wait here,” said Gabrielle, “I will fetch an agent de police.”

“But no!” Malou’s voice lifted, entreating, sobbing, almost hysterical. “Do not leave me now you have come. See! His hand nearly caught me. He snatched at my scarf and tore it. It tightened about my throat.” She broke off and added weakly, “I want rest.”

Gabrielle unlocked the door and admitted her to her room. “I’ll warm some milk,” she said. “Will you sit down and take your hat off.”

Malou dropped into a chair and watched Gabrielle busy with her little gas-ring and a saucepan. With one swift scrutiny she took in the poverty of her surroundings, and felt a little steady exultation at her heart. She accepted the milk and drank it with an affectation of gratefulness.

Gabrielle felt a little awkward. The stranger had so impressed her with her assertions of terror that not for one moment did she doubt them; also, they had communicated themselves to her. It might be unwise to venture abroad in search of a policeman while still the night’s shadows hung black across the silent and deserted streets.

“I think,” said Gabrielle, “that you ought to stay here till daylight. I’m afraid the accommodation is very inadequate, but if you care to remain you may.”

Malou again found it easy to look grateful. She had practised the art against those times when men showered favours on her.

“If only you wouldn’t mind,” she said; and picked up a section of unfinished needlework. “Did you do this? Isn’t it perfectly charming? Is it a hobby?”

Gabrielle smiled wryly. Already she thought that Malou must be a woman of considerable means. Her clothes were costly enough to indicate that. It was, considered Gabrielle, natural that such a woman should regard needlework as a hobby. She herself had once done so.

“It’s my livelihood,” she replied, quietly; and added: “And a very poor one, indeed.”

“But this is beautiful!” Malou had not to act in saying this. She meant it. “And do you say it is so badly paid?”

Gabrielle, pausing before replying, found consciousness of utter loneliness strong within her. This was the first woman with whom she had talked at all intimately since she left the home of Paul Laroche. The temptation was irresistible.

“So badly,” she said, “that my work fails to keep me. You have been in trouble to-night, and you find me in trouble. Just as you were wondering what you were going to do when you met me, so I was wondering the same thing of myself.” She spoke quietly, and tried to smile as she concluded: “So we are more or less comrades in distress.”

Malou laid the needlework down. Her task was more easy than she had contemplated. There was now no need for subtle questioning, for a gradual working up to a discussion of Gabrielle’s circumstances. The girl had spoken of them herself.

“I’m very sorry,” Malou said, gently; and appeared to consider Gabrielle earnestly. When she spoke again it was in a tone of great friendliness. “You have been awfully good to me to-night—the good Samaritan. I don’t want you to be offended by what I am going to say, and if I phrase it so that it hurts, understand that no hurt was intended.”

While Gabrielle listened, Malou watched her.

“You are not the sort of girl to be working her fingers sore in an attic like this. I think I could help you, and I wish to emphasize that I am not offering charity, but just repaying one good turn by another. Now do let me be interested in you just so far. Will you do that?”

Malou had a way with her, as men had discovered to their cost. Her smile was sweet and kindly and Gabrielle found herself smiling in reply. “You’re very good,” she said at last. “It’s ever and ever so kind of you. I hardly know how to say thank you.”

“I don’t want you to”; Malou felt in her vanity bag and produced a card. “Here’s my address. Will you call to-morrow afternoon and take tea with me. I shall be alone. Half-past four. I have English friends who have taught me the habit. Now promise you will come.”

“Of course,” said Gabrielle. “How could I refuse?”

She glanced at the card. The address was in the Avenue Niel, and she guessed it to be a modish flat in that expensive quarter, just such a flat as this woman would occupy; and while she glanced at the card Malou leaned back triumphantly.

For she had accomplished the most difficult part of her task. She had sprung the snare.

Malou left quite early in the morning after a night spent in dozing and chatting. Before going she renewed her invitation and demanded from Gabrielle a confirmation of her promise to see her during the afternoon.

The day passed swiftly. Gabrielle did no needlework. Mainly she dreamed. This well-to-do woman, who reminded her so hurtfully of the life she had lost and of the awful circumstances attaching to that loss, would probably be of great assistance to her. She would probably be able to show her how to earn such sums of money from her work as would permit of her living in modest comfort, and on this basis she might build up a business connexion which would expand and expand.... Gabrielle made fortunes in an hour.

She decided that she might very well leave her affairs largely in Malou’s hands at first; the woman was so obviously personally interested in her and grateful for the small service she had rendered her the previous night. Already Gabrielle felt freed from bondage, from the servitude represented by her work for the small shopkeeper.

At the appointed time she presented herself at the flat in the Avenue Niel.