The Last Hope Part 20

John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was quick in thought. He perceived at once that the death of Louis Philippe left the field open to the next adventurer; for he left behind him no son of his own mettle.

Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which he had signed a cheque for four hundred pounds, payable to the Reverend Septimus Marvin, was still wet; where, at the bottom of the largest safe, the portrait of an unknown lady of the period of Louis XVI lay concealed. He wrote out a telegram to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, addressed to her at her villa near Royan, and then proceeded to his dinner with the grave face of the careful critic.

The next morning he received the answer, at his breakfast-table, in the apartment he had long occupied in the Avenue d'Antin. But he did not open the envelope. He had telegraphed to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, asking if it would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And he suspected that it would not.

"When I am gone," he said to his well-trained servant, "put that into an envelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. Pack my portmanteau for a week."

Thus John Turner set out southward to join a party of those Royalists whom his father before him had learnt to despise. And in a manner he was pre-armed; for he knew that he would not be welcome. It was in those days a long journey, for the railway was laid no farther than Tours, from whence the traveller must needs post to La Roch.e.l.le, and there take a boat to Royan--that shallow harbour at the mouth of the Gironde.

"Must have a change--of cooking," he explained to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. "Doctor says I am getting too stout."

He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing to notice her blank looks.

"So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which they say is going to be fas.h.i.+onable. I hope it is not inconvenient for you to give me a bed--a solid one--for a night or two."

"Oh no!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had charming manners, and was one of those fortunate persons who are never at a loss. "Did you not receive my telegram?"

"Telling me you were counting the hours till my arrival?"

"Well," admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely reflecting that he would ultimately see the telegram, "hardly so fervent as that--"

"Good Lord!" interrupted Turner, looking behind her toward the veranda, which was cool and shady, where two men were seated near a table bearing coffee-cups. "Who is that?"

"Which?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without turning to follow the direction of his glance. "Oh! one is Dormer Colville, I see that. But the other--gad!"

"Why do you say gad?" asked the lady, with surprise.

"Where did he get that face from?" was the reply.

Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow; for it was very hot and the August sun was setting over a copper sea.

"Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the situation.

"The heavenly warehouse, one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is a friend of Dormer's."

"Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest."

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath the shade of her lace-trimmed parasol.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, in a voice suddenly hard and resentful.

"That he chooses his friends well," returned the banker, with his guileless smile. His face was bovine, and in the heat of summer apt to be s.h.i.+ny. No one would attribute an inner meaning to a stout person thus outwardly brilliant. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified, and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk with her.

"I will be frank with you," she said. "I telegraphed to tell you that the Villa Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled with guests."

"What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of my carriage to wait for further orders. I half feared that at this time of year, you know, house would be full. I'll just shake hands with Colville and then be off. You will let me come in after dinner, perhaps. You and I must have a talk about money, you will remember."

There was no time to answer; for Dormer Colville, perceiving their approach, was already hurrying down the steps of the veranda to meet them. He laughed as he came, for John Turner's bulk made him a laughing matter in the eyes of most men, and his good humour seemed to invite them to frank amus.e.m.e.nt.

The greeting was, therefore, jovial enough on both sides, and after being introduced to Loo Barebone, Mr. Turner took his leave without farther defining his intentions for the evening.

"I do not think it matters much," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence said to her two guests, when he had left. "And he may not come, after all."

Her self-confidence sufficiently convinced Loo, who was always ready to leave something to chance. But Colville shook his head.

It thus came about that sundry persons of t.i.tle and importance who had been invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a little music found the English banker complacently installed in the largest chair, with a s.h.i.+rt-front evading the constraint of an abnormal waistcoat, and a sleepy chin drooping surrept.i.tiously toward it.

"He is my banker from Paris," whispered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence to one and another. "He knows nothing, and so far as I am aware, is no politician--merely a banker, you understand. Leave him alone and he will go to sleep."

During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly at the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and light refreshment for her friends on several occasions. And each evening the drawing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled to overflowing.

Friends brought their friends and introduced them to the hostess, who in turn presented them to Barebone. Some came from a distance, driving from Saintes or La Roch.e.l.le or Pons. Others had taken houses for the bathing-season at Royan itself.

"He never makes a mistake," said the hostess to Dormer Colville, behind her fan, a hundred times, following with her shrewd eyes the gay and easy movements of Loo, who seemed to be taught by some instinct to suit his manner to his interlocutor.

To-night there was more music and less conversation.

"Play him to sleep," Dormer Colville had said to his cousin. And at length Turner succ.u.mbed to the soft effect of a sonata. He even snored in the shade of a palm, and the gaiety of the proceedings in no way suffered.

It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always urged any who were talking earnestly to keep out of earshot of the sleeping Englishman. Once or twice he took Barebone by the arm and led him to the other end of the room, for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and led the laughter there.

"Oh! but he is charming, my dear," more than one guest whispered to Mrs.

St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took their departure.

"He will do--he will do," the men said with a new light of hope in their grave faces.

Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colville threw a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep.

"I will come round to-morrow," he said, bidding his hostess good night.

"I have some papers for you to sign since you are determined to sell your _rentes_ and leave the money idle at your bank."

"Yes. I am quite determined," she answered, gaily, for she was before her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate speech as c.o.c.k-sure.

And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting alone in the veranda.

"Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have gone away," she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation.

"Suddenly?"

"Oh no," she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firm hand on the doc.u.ment before her. And John Turner looked dense.

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE BREACH

The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window of the little drawing-room in the only habitable part of the chateau. From his position he looked across the courtyard toward the garden where stiff cypress-trees stood sentry among the mignonette and the roses, now in the full glory of their autumn bloom.