Through the Wall Part 79

"By all means," consented the judge.

Haltingly, on his cane, Coquenil made his way to an adjoining room where De Heidelmann-Bruck was waiting under guard.

As he glanced at the baron, M. Paul saw that once more the man had demonstrated his extraordinary self-control, he was cold and composed as usual.

"We take our medicine, eh?" said the detective admiringly.

"Yes," answered the prisoner, "we take our medicine."

"But there's a difference," reflected Coquenil. "The other day you said you were sorry when you left me in that hot cellar. Now you're in a fairly hot place yourself, baron, and--I'm _not_ sorry."

De Heidelmann-Bruck shrugged his shoulders.

"Any objection to my smoking a cigar?" he asked coolly and reached toward his coat pocket.

With a quick gesture Coquenil stopped the movement.

"_I don't like smoke_," he said with grim meaning. "If there is anything you want to say, sir, you had better say it."

"I have only this to say, Coquenil," proceeded the baron, absolutely unruffled; "we had had our little fight and--I have lost. We both did our best with the weapons we had for the ends we hoped to achieve. I stood for wickedness, you stood for virtue, and virtue has triumphed; but, between ourselves"--he smiled and shrugged his shoulders--"they're both only words and--it isn't important, anyhow."

He paused while a contemplative, elusive smile played about his mouth.

"The point is, I am going to pay the price that society exacts when this sort of thing is--found out. I am perfectly willing to pay it, not in the least afraid to pay it, and, above all, not in the least sorry for anything. I want you to remember that and repeat it. I have no patience with cowardly canting talk about remorse. I have never for one moment regretted anything I have done, and I regret nothing now. Nothing! I have had five years of the best this world can give--power, fortune, social position, pleasure, _everything_, and whatever I pay, I'm ahead of the game, way ahead. If I had it all to do over again and knew that this would be the end, _I would change nothing_."

"Except that secret door under the stone shelf--you might change that," put in Coquenil dryly.

"No wonder you feel bitter," mused the baron. "It was you or me, and--_I_ showed no pity. Why should you? I want you to believe, though, that I was genuine when I said I liked you. I was ready to destroy you, but I liked you. I like you now, Coquenil, and--this is perhaps our last talk, they will take me off presently, and--you collect odd souvenirs--here is one--a little good-by--from an adversary who was--game, anyway. You don't mind accepting it?"

There was something in the man's voice that Coquenil had never heard there.

Was it a faint touch of sentiment? He took the ring that the baron handed him, an uncut ruby, and looked at it thoughtfully, wondering if, after all, there was room in this cold, cruel soul for a tiny spot of tenderness.

"It's a beautiful stone, but--I cannot accept it; we never take gifts from prisoners and--thank you."

He handed back the ring.

The baron's face darkened; he made an angry gesture as if he would dash the trinket to the floor. Then he checked himself, and studying the ring sadly, twisted it about in his fingers.

"Ah, that pride of yours! You've been brilliant, you've been brave, but never unkind before. It's only a bauble, Coquenil, and----"

De Heidelmann-Bruck stopped suddenly and M. Paul caught a savage gleam in his eyes; then, swiftly, the baron put the ring to his mouth, and sucking in his breath, swallowed hard.

The detective sprang forward, but it was too late.

"A doctor--quick!" he called to the guard.

"No use!" murmured the rich man, sinking forward.

Coquenil tried to support him, but the body was too heavy for his bandaged hand, and the prisoner sank to the floor.

"I--I won the last trick, anyhow," the baron whispered as M. Paul bent over him.

Coquenil picked up the ring that had fallen from a nerveless hand. He put it to his nose and sniffed it.

"Prussic acid!" he muttered, and turned away from the last horrors.

Two minutes later, when Dr. Duprat rushed in, the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck, unafraid and unrepentant, had gone to his last long sleep. His face was calm, and even in death his lips seemed set in a mocking smile of triumph.

And so it all ended, as the baron remarked, with virtue rewarded and right triumphant over wrong. Only the doctors agreed that many a day must pa.s.s before Coquenil could get back to his work, if, indeed, he ever went back to it. There were reasons, independent of M. Paul's health, that made this doubtful, reasons connected with the happiness of the lovers, for, after all, it was to Coquenil that they owed everything; Kittredge owed him his liberty and established innocence, Alice (we should say Mary) owed him her memory, her lover, and her fortune; for, as the sole surviving heir of her mother, the whole vast inheritance came to her. And, when a sweet young girl finds herself in such serious debt to a man and at the same time one of the richest heiresses in the world, she naturally wishes to give some substantial form to her grat.i.tude, even to the extent of a few odd millions from her limitless store.

At any rate, Coquenil was henceforth far beyond any need of following his profession; whatever use he might in the future make of his brilliant talents would be for the sheer joy of conquest and strictly in the spirit of art for its own sake.

On the other hand, if at any time he wished to undertake a case, it was certain that the city of Paris or the government of France would tender him their commissions on a silver salver, for now, of course, his justification was complete and, by special arrangement, he was given a sort of roving commission from headquarters with indefinite leave of absence. Best of all, he was made chevalier of the Legion of Honor "_for conspicuous public service_." What a day it was, to be sure, when Madam Coquenil first caught sight of that precious red badge on her son's coat!

So we leave Paul Coquenil resting and recuperating in the Vosges Mountains, taking long drives with his mother and planning the rebuilding of their mountain home.

"You did your work, Paul, and I'm proud of you," the old lady said when she heard the tragic tale, "but don't forget, my boy, it was the hand of G.o.d that saved you."

"Yes, mother," he said fondly, and added with a mischievous smile, "don't forget that you had a little to do with it, too."

As for the lovers, there is only this to be said: that they were ridiculously, indescribably happy. The mystery of Alice's strange dreams and clairvoyant glimpses (it should be Mary) was in great part accounted for, so Dr. Duprat declared, by certain psychological abnormalities connected with her loss of memory; these would quickly disappear, he thought, with a little care and a certain electrical treatment that he recommended. Lloyd was positive kisses would do the thing just as well; at any rate, he proposed to give this theory a complete test.

The young American had one grievance.

"It's playing it low on a fellow," he said, "when he's just squared himself to hustle for a poor candle seller to change her into a howling millionaire. I'd like to know how the devil I'm going to be a hero now?"

"Silly boy," she laughed, her radiant eyes burning on him, at which he threatened to begin the treatment forthwith.

"You darling!" he cried. "My little Alice! Hanged if I can _ever_ call you anything but Alice!"

She looked up at him archly and nestled close.

"Lloyd, dear, I know a nicer name than Alice."

"Yes?"

"A nicer name than Mary."

"Yes?"

"A nicer name than _any_ name."

"What is it, you little beauty?" he murmured, drawing her closer still and pressing his lips to hers.

"How can I--tell you--unless you--let me--speak?" she panted.