Splendid Outcast — 05 Piquette
*PIQUETTE*
She wore a black velvet toque which bore upon its front two large crimson wings, poised for flight, and they seemed to typify the girl herself--alert, on tip-toe, a bird of passage.
She had a nose very slightly _retrousse_, black eyes, rather small but expressive, with brows and lids skillfully tinted; her figure was graceful, _svelte_, and extraordinarily well groomed, from her white gloves to the tips of her slender shiny boots, and seemed out of place in the shadows of these murky surroundings.
For the rest, she was mischievous, tingling with vitality and joyous at this unexpected meeting.
Horton glanced past her and saw a figure in a slouch hat go out of the door, then from the darkness turn and beckon.
But Jim Horton was given no opportunity to escape and Harry's warning gesture, if anything, served to increase his curiosity as to this lovely apparition.
"Monsieur Valcourt--Monsieur 'Orton," she said, indicating her companion with a wave of the hand.
And then, as he shook hands with her companion, a handsome man with a well-trimmed grayish mustache, "Monsieur Valcourt is one day de greatest sculptor in de world--Monsieur 'Orton is de 'ero of Boissiere wood."
"You know of the fight in Boissiere----?"
put in Jim.
"And who does not?
It is all in _le Matin_ to-day--an' 'ere I find you trying to 'ide yourself in the obscure _cafe_ of Monsieur Javet."
She stopped suddenly and before he realized what she was about had thrown her arms over his shoulders and kissed him squarely upon the lips.
He felt a good deal of a fool with Monsieur Valcourt and the villainous-looking Javet grinning at them, but the experience was not unpleasant and he returned her greeting whole heartedly, wondering what was to come next.
And when laughing gayly she released him, he turned toward Monsieur Valcourt, who was regarding her with a dubious smile.
"For all her prosperity, Monsieur 'Orton," Valcourt was saying, in French, "she is still a _gamine_."
"And who would wonder, _mon vieux_!
To live expensively is very comfortable, but even comfort is tedious.
Does not one wish to laugh with a full throat, to kick one's toes or to put one's heels upon a table?
_La la_!
I do not intend to grow too respectable, I assure you."
Jim Horton laughed.
She had spoken partly in English, partly in French, translating for both, and then, "Let me assure you, Madame," said Valcourt with a stately bow, "that you are not in the slightest danger of that."
But she was already turning to Horton again.
"A 'ero.
The world is full of 'eros to-day, but not one like my 'Arry 'Orton.
_Allons_!
I mus' 'ave a talk with you alone.
Lucien," she said sharply, turning to Valcourt, "I will come to de studio to-morrow.
Monsieur le Duc t'inks I am gone away, but now I would be a poor creature not to give my brave soldier a welcome."
"If Monsieur will excuse me----" said Valcourt, offering his hand.
Jim Horton took it, wondering where the adventure was to lead.
She was a very remarkable person and her _elan_ had already carried him off his feet.
Taking his hand in hers, with a charming simplicity, she led him into the room at the rear, now occupied by a number of persons of both sexes, and bade Monsieur Javet himself serve them.
And when they were seated at a table, her hand still in his, she examined him with a new interest.
"It is indeed you," she said gayly, "and yet you seem different--more calm, more silent.
What is it?"
"I've had two months in the hospital."
"And you're quite strong again?"
"Oh yes.
And you have been well--Piquette?"
"Well--but _so_ ennuyee.
It is why I come back here to de _Quartier_ to get a breath of fresh air.
I've been posing for Monsieur Valcourt--_La Liberte_.
He says my figure is better than ever.
And Valcourt knows."
"I'm sure you are very lovely."
"_La, la, mon vieux_, but you are the _grand serieux_.
Of course I am lovely.
It is my business.
But you do not _show_ me 'ow lovely I am, for you are so quiet--so cool----" Jim Horton laughed and caught her fingers to his lips.
"You are--Piquette.
That is enough."
"_C'est mieux_.
But you are change'.
One does not look deat' in de eyes wit'out feeling its col' touch.
Oh, but I am glad that you are come back to me.
You s'all be 'ere long?"
"I don't know--when I shall get my orders."
"But until then--t'ings s'all be as dey were wit' us two, eh, my little one?
An' I s'all 'elp you now in de great affair?
But Monsieur de Vautrin becomes more onpleasant.
He is a very tiresome ol' man...."
Jim Horton started unconsciously.
Then remembered that it was in connection with de Vautrin that Quinlevin had mentioned this very girl Piquette.
He understood better now the reason for Harry's gesture from the outer darkness.
The meeting had been a stroke of Fate.
Perhaps she held the key to the riddle.
"Tiresome, yes," he said slowly, "all old men are tiresome----" "And _difficile_," she mused, sipping at her glass.
"While I am pretty he likes to have me nearby.
But I know.
He cares not'ing.
He will leave me not'ing.
I am not content.
So I say I want to help in de great affair.
You have planned somet'ing in the hospital--you and Monsieur Quinlevin?"
"Er--nothing definite."
"Monsieur le Duc still pays?"
Horton meditated for a moment.
"No," he said, "he has stopped paying."
Piquette Morin leaned further over the table, frowning.
"Ah!
Since when?"
"For--er--three months or more."
"Then you t'ink he suspects somet'ing?"
"I don't know.
It looks so, doesn't it?"
"Yes, perhaps."
She paused a moment and then, "I make him talk about de past, as you ask' me to.
I am no saint and de _bon Dieu_ has taught me to look out for myself.
I shall continue.
If he tries to get rid of me de way he did wit' his wife, he will find me troublesome."
Horton laughed.
"I don't doubt it."
And then, carefully, "You heard how he got rid of her?"
he questioned.
"It was 'er riches, of course.
'E spent 'er '_dot_' in a few month gambling at Monte Carlo, and den when 'e came to 'er for more 'e abuse and beat 'er."
She paused and her dark eyes snapped viciously.
"'E would not have beaten me," she finished.
"And then?"
he asked, wondering whither the conversation was leading.
"And den, as you know, she ran away to Ireland----" "To Ireland----" he muttered eagerly.
"Of course," she said with a glance at him.
"And when 'e got enough money 'e sail 'round de worl' enjoying himself.
Even now sometimes 'e is a beast.
It is den I come back to de _Quartier_ where I am born and bred--to be merry again."
She sighed and then laughed gayly.
"But to-night we mus' not talk of dis tiresome matter.
It is your night, _mon vieux_, and we s'all make it 'appy."
He kissed the rosy palm she thrust to his lips, with difficulty concealing his curiosity.
"But the child of Monsieur the Duc----" he urged after the moment of _badinage_.
"He said nothing----?"
He paused as though in doubt.
She shrugged carelessly and lighted a cigarette.
"Monsieur is cautious.
'E spoke not'ing of de child, except to say dat it died wit' de mother.
De money came to 'im.
Dat was all 'e cared about, _mon_ 'Arry."
To Jim Horton no light seemed to dawn.
And how to question without arousing the girl's suspicions was more that he could plan.
But he remembered Quinlevin's uncertainty in the hospital--his thought that Harry might have talked to this girl.
So he took a chance.
"You asked the Duc no questions that might have aroused his suspicions?"
"No. I t'ink not.
And yet I remember once 'e ask' me if I know Monsieur Quinlevin."
"And what did you reply?"
"Of course, dat I never heard of 'im."
He frowned at the cigarette in his fingers as Harry would have frowned and imitated as nearly as possible the sullen mood of his brother.
"The money has stopped coming to Quinlevin.
We've got to do something."
"_Parfaitement_," said Piquette carelessly.
"De time 'as come to produce de girl Moira and de papers."
Her glance was not upon his face or she would have seen the look of bewilderment and surprise suddenly distend his eyes.
But she heard him gasp and turned again toward him.
But by this time the missing pieces of the puzzle were at his fingers' ends and he gathered them quickly.
It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the dead child who would have inherited.
And Quinlevin had bled the Duc for years with promises of silence.
Harry had connived at the plot and now the coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures."
And Piquette knew all.
Blackmail it was--of the blackest.
For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself.
And then only assented safely to her suggestion.
"Yes; it is the only thing to be done."
"It mus' be manage' carefully.
You are sure de papers are all correct?"
"It is as to that Monsieur Quinlevin has gone to Ireland."
"Ah, I see--we mus' wait until 'e comes back.
But I s'all 'elp you, _mon ami_.
You will rely upon me, _n'est ce pas_?"
"Yes, I will."
His mind was so full of this astonishing revelation that he sat silent and motionless while she changed the subject and chattered on.
The charm of the chance encounter was gone.
_Gamine_ she might be, and irresponsible like others of her kind in Paris or elsewhere, but she was not for him.
He had a standard to measure her by.
"You are so _triste_, 'Arry," she broke in suddenly.
"I do not t'ink I like you so _triste_.
What s'all we care, you and I, for Monsieur le Duc an' 'is money?
To be young an' in love----" She caught both of his hands across the table and held them.
"You are not yet well, 'Arry.
I can see.
It is dat for so long you do not know comfort an' 'appiness.
_Allons_!
I s'all make you laugh again, until de _triste_ look come no more into your eyes."
He was about to give some token of his appreciation that would satisfy her when he saw her glance past his shoulder toward the door which led into the bar.
"Your frien' who was wit' you--'e 'as come back again," she whispered.
"Ah----" he turned and saw Harry peering through the door.
"'E wants you to come?
_C'est embetant_!
Sen' 'im away."
"I'm afraid I----" He rose uncertainly and turned.
"Wait," he said, "I'll see."
And then walked out into the bar where Harry obstinately awaited him.
"I've had enough of this," growled his brother.
"You come out of here with me or I'll----" "Don't be a fool.
You could see that I couldn't help it."
"You can help it now----" "All right.
We'll have this thing out, you and I--to-night.
You meet me at the corner toward the Boulevard in twenty minutes.
I'll get rid of her."
And without waiting for a reply he returned to Piquette, his mind made up.
"I'm sorry," he said to her, "but I've some urgent business with this man.
It can't be put off.
But I must see you soon----" She pouted and rose.
"I can't explain--not now.
You won't be cross----" "It is not--anodder woman----?"
she asked shrewdly.
"Another----?
How can you ask?
No. There are no other women in Paris, Piquette."
"You are cruel," she muttered in a low tone, her dark eyes flashing.
"No. It is a matter of importance.
Will you let me have your address----?"
"No 82 Boulevard Clichy--de same place."
"Good.
To-morrow I will write you."
Without a word she gathered up her cloak and led the way out, looking about curiously for her enemy of the evening.
But Harry had disappeared.
She said nothing and they went out into the street where Jim Horton found a cab and put her into it.
"Mechant!"
she whispered softly.
"It is not my fault, Piquette.
Soon----" He gave the address to the _cocher_ and she was gone.
Jim Horton stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the retreating _fiacre_ as it rattled away over the cobblestones and then turned slowly back, his anger at his discoveries, long repressed by the necessities of his masquerade, suddenly bursting the barriers of his self-control.
Moira--innocent--the catspaw, the stool-pigeon for these two rascals!
How much did she know?
How could Quinlevin have carried the deception out all these years without de Vautrin suspecting something?
And if, as it seemed, he was suspicious of them now, who had told?
His own duty seemed very clear.
Every impulse of honor and decency urged that he find this Duc de Vautrin and tell the whole truth.
But there was Moira his first duty was to her.
But telling her meant revealing the secret of Harry's disgrace and his own part in it.
That would be a difficult thing to do, but he would have to do it.
He would tell her to-morrow.
As for Harry--he would make short work of _him_.
He went with long determined strides to the appointed spot and Harry met him with a threatening air.
"What the Hell has she been saying?"
he muttered.
Jim Horton was angry, but he kept himself well in hand, aware of his own physical superiority to this blustering shell of intrigue, deceit and cowardice, built in his own image.
If earlier in the evening he had had his moments of pity for his brother's misfortunes, if he had planned to make restitution for the imprudence that had resulted in their undoing, he had no such gentle feeling or purpose now.
As he didn't reply, his brother continued angrily.
"You've gone about your limit, I tell you.
What did she tell you?"
"Everything.
I've got the whole story.
And I'd like to tell you before we go any further that you're just about the crookedest----" He broke off with a shrug.
"What's the use?
The worst thing I could say would be a compliment.
But you've come to the end of your tether.
I don't know why I hoped there might be a chance of getting you to go straight--for her--but I did.
The interesting revelations of this charming lady have removed the impression.
The money you took from the estate, your questionable deals in America, your habits, put you outside the pale of decency, but the blackmail of the Duc with your own wife as stool-pigeon----" Harry in a sudden blind fury that took no thought of consequences struck viciously, but Jim, who had been watching for the blow, warded it, tripped his brother neatly and sent him spinning against the wall where he fell and lay motionless.
But he was unhurt--only bewildered by the result of his own incapacity.
"Get up!"
Jim ordered.
"Somebody will be coming along in a moment and we'll both be going with the police."
Harry saw reason in that and slowly got to his feet, pale, still trembling with rage, rubbing his hip joint, but subdued.
The place they had chosen was in the shadow and the hour was late, and no one was about, but Jim Horton took a glance up and down the deserted street before he resumed his interrupted remarks.
"I don't want any man's uniform when it's been defiled.
You ought to have known that.
I'm going to take it off and give it back to you."
He saw the eager surprised look that came into Harry's face and raised his hand in warning--"But not yet.
First I'm going to tell your wife the truth and then I'm going to warn the Duc de Vautrin."
Harry started back as though to dodge another blow, the reaction of his venture setting in with the terror of this information.
"Jim!"
he whispered, clutching at his arm.
"You wouldn't do that, Jim.
My God!
It's ruin to me--and you too."
"I'm prepared for that----" "Don't, for God's sake don't!
Wait.
I've met you half way, haven't I?
I'll do anything you say.
I'll steer Quinlevin off and drop the thing.
It was his idea--not mine.
And he wouldn't have thought of it if the old man hadn't shut off the allowance----" "Tell me the truth," Jim broke in sternly.
"How much money did Quinlevin owe you?"
"Twenty thousand dollars----" "And that was Moira's price----" contemptuously.
"I wanted her.
I loved her.
I swear to God I did.
I love her now.
I'd give anything to be able to go to her to-night----" "You----!
You forget what I know."
"It's the truth."
"How much were you to get of this money of the Duc's?"
Harry halted, mumbling, "That wasn't settled."
"Well, it's settled now," said Jim, with an air of finality, turning aside.
"What are you going to do?"
"Tell her--in the morning."
"You can't, Jim.
Why, she'd go right to Quinlevin."
"I expect her to--and the Duke."
Harry leaned back against the wall, his fingers working at his trouser legs, but he was speechless.
"That's about all, I think," said Jim dryly.
"Good-bye."
"Then you won't listen--not if I promise----" "What----?"
"Anything.
Why, you've got me, Jim.
I can't do a thing with you ready to tell Moira--even if I wanted to.
What's the use?
It only means ruin for you.
Wait a few days and we'll have another talk; just wait until to-morrow night.
Give me a chance to think.
I'll even--I'll even get out of France and go out West somewhere and make a fresh start.
I will.
I mean it.
I did you a dirty trick once, but I'll try to square myself.
Give me a chance.
Think it over.
Meet me to-morrow.
I'm all in to-night.
Promise you won't speak."
"No," said Jim, after a moment of deliberation.
"I'll promise nothing, but I'll meet you to-morrow night at Javet's--at twelve--with the money."
Harry gasped a sigh of relief and straightened, offering his hand.
"Thanks, Jim.
To-morrow.
And you won't tell her, I know.
You couldn't. It would be too cruel.
