Chapter XV

Maxwell had been gone a week now, and no tidings of him had reached England, save one letter to say he was in Rome. As Le Gautier turned away from Grosvenor Square, his heart one glow of triumph, he determined that, come what may, the artist should never see England again. When he returned from Warsaw, he calculated that, through Marie St Jean’s assistance, all information concerning the League would be in the hands of the police, freeing him from any further bondage, and throwing all the odium and danger on her. Full of these schemes, he arrived at his lodgings. A telegram was lying on the table. He took it up mechanically, and tore it open. The contents were terse: ‘Visci died this morning from heart disease.’ Le Gautier was wild with rage. Here was a pretty combination, he thought. Nothing now to detain Maxwell in Rome. The victim had fallen by a higher Hand than that of man, and Maxwell was free.

As a Head Centre of the Order, Le Gautier wielded much power, and even now he did not despair, with the command of nearly all the desperadoes in Rome at his command. He had only to get Maxwell arrested in Rome on some false charge and carried to the mountains; and there—after a little delay and a packed meeting of the League—shot. Desperate men such as Le Gautier, especially with such a prize in their grasp, do not long hesitate over such a trifling matter as a human life, and he trusted to his own good luck and native audacity to pull him through.

It was getting dark the same night as he despatched a telegram to Rome, and then turned in the direction of Fitzroy Square. He was as eager now to see Isodore as he had been to encounter Enid in the afternoon, and looked forward not only to a pleasant evening but a remunerative one.

She did not keep him long waiting in the drawing-room ere she sailed in all smiles and welcome. She was looking radiantly beautiful to-night; there was a deeper flush on her face, and a glitter in her glorious eyes not usually seen there—signs of a loving welcome, Le Gautier imagined in his egotistical way. There was, besides, a warmth in her manner and a gladness in the pressure of her hand which inspired him, and sent an electric thrill coursing through his veins.

‘You are looking more transcendently lovely than usual, Marie!’ he exclaimed with a fervour unusual even to him. ‘Every time I see you, there is some additional charm in you to note.’

‘It depends upon whether the observing eye is a prejudiced one,’ she replied with a caressing smile, which brought him at once to her side. ‘You say that now, Hector. How long will you continue to think so?’

‘As long as I have power to think at all—as long as memory serves me. I shall remember you to the last day of my life.’

‘I believe you will,’ Isodore smiled bewilderingly. ‘And yet, strange as it may seem, the time will perhaps come when you will wish you had never seen my face.’

‘You are more than usually enigmatical to-night, Marie. You are a puzzle to me. I do not even know who you are. Tell me something about yourself, and why you are living in this solitude here.’

‘No; not to-night; but, as I have often promised you, I will tell you some time. I will tell you who I am before you go away; and then, when your curiosity is satisfied, you will leave me.’

‘Never!’ Le Gautier exclaimed passionately. ‘Leave you!—the only woman I ever saw that I could really love. Leave you, Marie! How can you entertain the bare idea!’

He would have approached her nearer, but she waved him gently but firmly aside. The distance she kept him fanned his passion all the more. ‘Tell me something about yourself,’ she said. ‘That is a topic which never fails to interest me. How about the League, this Maxwell’s journey? Has he accomplished his mission yet?’

‘He is not likely to, now. Visci is dead!—Gracious powers, Marie! what ails you? Are you ill?’

Isodore uttered a sharp exclamation, and then reeled forward in her chair. Her face was white and drawn, her lips trembled. Gradually her bosom ceased to heave so painfully, and she turned to Le Gautier with a white wan smile, though he could see the fan still trembling in her hands. ‘It is nothing,’ she said with an effort. ‘I am subject to these attacks of the heart, and any news of sudden death always affects me so.—Do not look distressed; it is past now.’

‘There is nothing in the name to cause you any distress?’ Le Gautier asked suspiciously.

‘I have heard the name before, if that is what you mean. Tell me all you know of this Carlo Visci.’

‘I did not say his name was Carlo,’ Le Gautier observed, somewhat sharply. ‘I can tell you nothing more. When I reached home this afternoon, I had a telegram to say he was dead.’

‘And this Maxwell, what of him? I suppose he will return home now?’

‘He has been somewhat dilatory in obeying orders. No; he will not return. He will be detained at Rome for the present.’

‘Tell me why you hate this Englishman so.’

Le Gautier started. ‘How do you know I hate him?’ he asked. ‘I have never said so.’

‘Not in so many words; but in gesture and look, when you speak of him, your actions are eloquent, my friend. He has crossed your path. Ah, well, I like a good hater. Maxwell will suffer yet.’

‘Yes,’ Le Gautier exclaimed involuntarily, ‘he will.’

Isodore rose and walked to the piano, where she sat for a moment striking the chords idly. ‘When do you go to Warsaw?’ she asked.

‘I have six days remaining to me.—Marie, the time has come when we must no longer delay. The pear is ripe now; all my plans are matured. I have only to hold up my hand and the League will vanish.’

All this time, Isodore played on softly, musingly, the music serving like the accompaniment of a song to force the speaker’s voice. As he stood there, and she answered him, she never ceased to play the soft chords.

‘Then you have everything prepared?’

‘Yes, everything is ready.’ He drew a low seat to her side, and seated himself there. ‘All the names are made out, the whole plot prepared.’

‘And you propose to hand them over to me. It is a great compliment; and I suppose I must take them. I would run greater risks than this for your sake and—my own.’

She took one hand from the ivory keys and held it out to him. Drawing a packet from his pocket, he gave it to her. She thrust it in her bosom, and ran her fingers over the keys again.

‘All is there, I suppose,’ she asked, ‘down to the minutest detail, everything necessary to betray the League and pull it up root and branch? You have taken good care to shield yourself, I presume?’

‘Of course.—And now, to talk of more pleasant things. You know I am going away in a few days; and when I return, I shall expect to find myself perfectly free.’

‘You may depend upon me. I will do all I can for you.’

Le Gautier looked up sharply—the words were coldly, sternly uttered, but the quiet placid smile never left her face.

‘How strangely you speak! But oh, Marie—my Marie, the only woman I ever loved, you will stand by me now, and help me, for both our sakes! Look at me, and say you will do what I ask!’

Isodore looked down, smiling brightly. ‘Yes, I will do what you ask,’ she said. ‘And so you really love me?’

‘Passionately and sincerely, such as I never expected to love woman yet.’

‘I am glad to hear you say that,’ Isodore replied with a thrill of exultation in her voice. ‘I have waited and hoped for the time to come; but never in my wildest dreams did I look for this.’

‘With your nobleness and beauty, how could it be otherwise? I should be more than a man—or less—if I looked upon you unmoved.’

‘Then, for the first time for years, I am happy.’

Le Gautier started to his feet rapturously. He did not understand her yet; he thought the soft earnest words all for him. He would have caught her there and then in his eager arms, but again she repulsed him. ‘No, no!’ she cried; ‘I have not proved you yet. Let things remain as they are till you return again to England.’

How strange, Le Gautier thought vaguely, that she should use words so similar to those of Enid to a precisely similar plea. Despite his passion, he had not thrown all prudence to the winds.

‘You had better leave me now,’ Isodore continued—‘leave me to think and dwell over this thing.’

‘But what about my badge of membership? I dare not leave England without that.’

‘I had almost forgotten it in this interesting conversation. It is not in my possession; it is in Paris. You have a meeting of the League before you go for final instructions. Come to me after that, and you shall have it. I am going to Paris to-morrow, and will bring it with me.’

‘You are a witch!’ Le Gautier exclaimed with admiration. ‘You seem to know as much as the mysterious Isodore, that princess who never shows herself unless danger besets the League. If she is the wonder men who have seen her say she is, they stand in dire need of her now.’

‘Beware how you talk so lightly of her—she has the gift of fernseed. At this very moment she may know of your perfidy.’

‘Perfidy is a hard word, my queen, and sounds not prettily.—And now, good-night. And you will not fail me?’

‘I will not fail you,’ Isodore replied with the stern inflection Le Gautier had noticed before, and marvelled over. ‘I never fail.’

‘A woman, and never fail!’

‘Not in my promises. If I make a vow or pledge my word, I can wait five years or ten to fulfil it.—Good-night. And when we meet again, you will not say I have belied my contract.’

When Valerie entered some minutes later, she found Isodore with firm-set face and gleaming eyes. ‘My brother is dead,’ she said quietly. ‘Poor Carlo! And he loved me so at one time. Now, he can never know.’

‘Dead!’ Valerie exclaimed. ‘You do not mean to say’——

‘That Maxwell killed him?—No. His heart has been failing for years, long before I left Rome; his life was not worth an hour’s purchase. But I have no time to mourn over him now.—Let me see if I can do a little good with my useless occupation. I start for Rome to-morrow.’

Valerie looked at her friend in stupid astonishment.

‘I cannot explain to you now. Maxwell is free to return home. As you know, it means destruction to Le Gautier’s plans, if he does. I dared not press him too closely to-night; but Maxwell will be detained in Rome, in all probability by Paulo Lucci, till some charge can be trumped up for his destruction. But Lucci and his band dare not cross me; my power is too great for that. To-morrow, I leave for Rome, and pray heaven that I may not be too late!’