Marie Belloc Lowndes - The Chink in the Armour

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Soon the table was as much surrounded as before, for Anna was again
winning. She had won as banker, now she won as simple player, and all
those about her began to "follow her luck" with excellent results to
themselves.

The scene reminded Sylvia of that first evening at the Casino. It was
only three weeks ago, and yet how full, how crowded the time had been!

Somehow to-night she did not feel inclined to play. To her surprise and
amusement she saw Madame Wachner actually risk a twenty-franc piece. A
moment later the stake was doubled, and soon the good lady had won nine
gold pieces. Her face flushed with joy like a happy child's.

"Oh, why is not Fritz here?" she exclaimed. "How sorry I am I sent him
downstairs! But, never mind, his old wife is making some money for once!"

At last the Banker rose from the table. He was pretty well cleared out.
Smiling and bowing to Anna, he said, "Well, Madame, I congratulate you!
You must have a very powerful mascot."

Anna shook her head gaily.

"It is pleasant to win from a millionaire," she whispered to Sylvia, "for
one knows it does not hurt him! That young man has a share in the profit
on every piece of sugar sold in France, and you know how fond the French
are of sweet things!"

She turned from the table, followed by Sylvia and Madame Wachner.

"What will you do with all your money?" asked Madame Wachner anxiously.

"I told one of the ushers to have it all turned into notes for me," she
answered indifferently. "As to what I shall do with it!--well, I suppose
I shall have to go into Paris and bank some of it in a day or two. I
shan't play to-morrow. I shall take a rest--I deserve a rest!" She looked
extraordinarily excited and happy.

"Shall we drop you at the Pension Malfait?" said Madame Wachner amiably.
"It is right on our way home, you know. I, too, have made money--" she
chuckled joyously.

Madame Wachner left the two friends standing in the hall while she went
to look for her husband in the public gambling room, and as they stood
there Sylvia became conscious that they were being stared at with a great
deal of interest and curiosity. The news of Anna Wolsky's extraordinary
good luck had evidently spread.

"I wish I had come in a little earlier," said Sylvia presently. "I've
never seen you take the Bank before. Surely this is the first time you
have done so?"

"Yes, this is the first time I have ever been tempted to take the Bank at
Lacville. But somehow I suddenly felt as if I should be lucky to-night.
You see, I've made a good deal of money the last day or two, and Madame
Wachner persuaded me to try my luck."

"I wish you had told me you were thinking of taking the Bank."

"I would have told you," said Anna quietly, "if I had seen you to-day.
But I have been seeing very little of you lately, Sylvia. Why, you are
more with Madame Wachner than with me!"

She did not speak unkindly, but Sylvia felt a pang of remorse. She had
indeed seen very little of Anna Wolsky during the last few days, but that
was not because she had been with Madame Wachner.

"I will come and see you for a little while to-night," she said
impetuously, "for I am going to spend to-morrow in Paris--with a friend
who is there just now--"

She hurried out the half-truth with a curious feeling of guilt.

"Yes, do come!" cried Anna eagerly. "You can stay with me while the
carriage takes the Wachners on home, and then it can call for you on the
way back. I should not like you to walk to the Villa du Lac alone at this
time of night."

"Ah, but I'm not like you; I haven't won piles of money!" said Sylvia,
smiling.

"No, but that makes very little difference in a place like this--"

And then Monsieur and Madame Wachner joined them. L'Ami Fritz looked
quite moved out of himself. He seized Anna by the hand. "I congratulate
you!" he said heartily. "What a splendid thing to go on winning like
that. I wish I had been there, for I might have followed your luck!"

They all four walked out of the Casino. It was a very dark night.

"And what will you do with all that money?" Monsieur Wachner solicitously
inquired. "It is a great sum to carry about, is it not?"

"It is far better to carry about one's money than to trust it to anyone
but to a well-managed bank," exclaimed his wife, before Anna could answer
the question. "As for the hotel-keepers, I would not trust them with one
penny. What happened to a friend of ours, eh, Fritz, tell them that?"

They were now packed into an open carriage, and driving towards the
Pension Malfait.

"I don't know what you are talking about," said her husband, crossly.

"Yes, you do! That friend of ours who was boarding in one of those small
houses in the Condamine at Monte Carlo, and who one day won a lot of
money. He gave his winnings to his hotel-keeper to keep for the night.
Next day the man said his safe had been broken open by a foreign waiter
who had disappeared. Our friend had no redress--none at all! Malfait may
be a very good sort of man, but I would not give him your money--" she
turned to Anna.

"No, of course not," said Madame Wolsky. "I should never think of
entrusting a really large sum of money to a man of whom I know nothing.
It is, as you say, very much better to keep one's money on one's person.
It's the plan I've always followed. Then, if it is stolen, or if one
loses it, one has only oneself to blame."

"It is very exciting taking the Bank," she added, after a pause. "I think
I shall take the Bank again next time I play."

The short drive was soon over, and as Anna and Sylvia were going into the
Pension Malfait, Madame Wachner called out, "Will you both come to supper
to-morrow?"

Sylvia shook her head.

"I am going into Paris for the day," she said, "and I shall feel tired
when I get back. But many thanks, all the same."

"Then _you_ must come"--Madame Wachner addressed Anna Wolsky. "We also
will have a rest from the Casino."

"Very well! I accept gratefully your kind invitation."

"Come early. Come at six, and we can 'ave a cosy chat first."

"Yes, I will!"

After giving directions that they were to be told when the carriage had
come back from the Chalet des Muguets, the two friends went up to Anna
Wolsky's bed-room.

Sylvia sat down by the open window.

"You need not light a candle, Anna," she said. "It's so pleasant just
now, so quiet and cool, and the light would only attract those horrid
midges. They seem to me the only things I have to find fault with in
Lacville!"

Anna Wolsky came and sat down in the darkness close to the younger woman.

"Sylvia," she said, "dear little Sylvia! Sometimes I feel uneasy at
having brought you to Lacville." She spoke in a thoughtful and very
serious tone.

"Indeed, you need feel nothing of the kind."

Sylvia Bailey put out her hand and took the other woman's hand in her
own. She knew in her heart what Anna meant, but she wilfully pretended to
misunderstand her.

"You need never think that I run the slightest risk of becoming a
gambler," she went on, a little breathlessly. "I was looking at my
account-book to-day, and I find that since I have been here I have lost
seventy francs. Two days ago I had won a hundred and ten francs. So you
see it is not a very serious matter, is it? Just think of all the fun
I've had! It's well worth the money I've lost. Besides, I shall probably
win it all back--"

"I was not thinking of the money," said Anna Wolsky slowly.

Sylvia made a restless movement, and took her hand out of Anna's
affectionate clasp.

"I'm afraid that you are becoming very fond of the Comte de Virieu," went
on Anna, in a low voice but very deliberately. "You must forgive me,
Sylvia, but I am older than you are. Have you thought of the consequences
of this friendship of yours? I confess that at the beginning I credited
that man with the worst of motives, but now I feel afraid that he is in
love--in fact I feel sure that he is madly in love with you. Do you know
that he never takes his eyes off you in the Club? Often he forgets to
pick up his winnings...."

Sylvia's heart began to beat. She wondered if Anna was indeed telling
the truth. She almost bent forward and kissed her friend in her
gratitude--but all she said was, and that defiantly,

"You can believe me when I say that he has never said a word of love to
me. He has never even flirted with me. I give you my word that that is
so!"

"Ah, but it is just that fact that makes me believe that he cares.
Flirtation is an English art, not a French art, my dear Sylvia. A
Frenchman either loves--and when he loves he adores on his knees--or
else he has no use, no use at all, for what English people mean by
flirtation--the make-believe of love! I should feel much more at
ease if the Count had insulted you--"

"Anna!"

"Yes, indeed! I am quite serious. I fear he loves you."

And as Sylvia gave a long, involuntary, happy sigh, Anna went on: "Of
course, I do not regard him with trust or with liking. How could I? On
the other hand, I do not go as far as the Wachners; they, it is quite
clear, evidently know something very much to the Count's discredit."

"I don't believe they do!" cried Sylvia, hotly. "It is mere prejudice
on their part! He does not like them, and they know it. He thinks them
vulgar sort of people, and he suspects that Monsieur Wachner is
German--that is quite enough for him."

"But, after all, it does not really matter what the Wachners think of the
Comte de Virieu, or what he thinks of them," said Anna. "What matters is
what _you_ think of him, and what _he_ thinks of you."

Sylvia was glad that the darkness hid her deep, burning blushes from Anna
Wolsky.

"You do not realise," said the Polish lady, gravely, "what your life
would be if you were married to a man whose only interest in life is
play. Mind you, I do not say that a gambler does not make a kind husband.
We have an example"--she smiled a little--"in this Monsieur Wachner. He
is certainly very fond of his wife, and she is very fond of him. But
would you like your husband always to prefer his vice to you?"

Sylvia made no answer.

"But why am I talking like that?" Anna Wolsky started up suddenly. "It is
absurd of me to think it possible that you would dream of marrying the
Comte de Virieu! No, no, my dear child, this poor Frenchman is one of
those men who, even if personally charming, no wise woman would think of
marrying. He is absolutely ruined. I do not suppose he has a penny left
of his own in the world. He would not have the money to buy you a wedding
ring. You would have to provide even that! It would be madness--absolute
madness!"

"I do not think," said Sylvia, in a low tone, "that there is the
slightest likelihood of my ever marrying the Comte de Virieu. You forget
that I have known him only a short time, and that he has never said a
word of love to me. As you say, all he cares about is play."

"Surely you must be as well aware as I am that lately he has played a
great deal less," said Anna, "and the time that he would have spent at
the Club--well, you and I know very well where he has spent the time,
Sylvia. He has spent it with you."

"And isn't that a good thing?" asked Sylvia, eagerly. "Isn't it far
better that he should spend his time talking to me about ordinary things
than in the Casino? Let me assure you again, and most solemnly, Anna,
that he never makes love to me--"

"Of course it is a good thing for him that he plays less"--Anna spoke
impatiently--"but is it best for you? That is what I ask myself. You have
not looked well lately, Sylvia. You have looked very sad sometimes. Oh,
do not be afraid, you are quite as pretty as ever you were!"

The tears were running down Sylvia's face. She felt that she ought to be
very angry with her friend for speaking thus plainly to her, and yet she
could not be angry. Anna spoke so tenderly, so kindly, so delicately.

"Shall we go away from Lacville?" asked Madame Wolsky, suddenly. "There
are a hundred places where you and I could go together. Let us leave
Lacville! I am sure you feel just as I do--I am sure you realise that
the Comte de Virieu would never make you happy."

Sylvia shook her head.

"I do not want to go away," she whispered.

And then Madame Wolsky uttered a short exclamation.

"Ah!" she cried, "I understand. He is the friend you are to meet
to-morrow--that is why you are going into Paris!"

Sylvia remained silent.

"I understand it all now," went on Anna. "That is the reason why he was
not there to-night. He has gone into Paris so as not to compromise you at
Lacville. That is the sort of gallantry that means so little! As if
Lacville matters--but tell me this, Sylvia? Has he ever spoken to you
as if he desired to introduce his family to you? That is the test,
remember--that is the test of a Frenchman's regard for a woman."

There came a knock at the door. "The carriage for Madame has arrived."

They went downstairs, Sylvia having left her friend's last question
unanswered.

Madame Wolsky, though generally so undemonstrative, took Sylvia in her
arms and kissed her.

"God bless you, my dear little friend!" she whispered, "and forgive all
I have said to you to-night! Still, think the matter over. I have lived
a great deal of my life in this country. I am almost a Frenchwoman. It is
no use marrying a Frenchman unless his family marry you too--and I
understand that the Comte de Virieu's family have cast him off."

Sylvia got into the carriage and looked back, her eyes blinded with
tears.

Anna Wolsky stood in the doorway of the Pension, her tall, thin figure in
sharp silhouette against the lighted hall.

"We will meet the day after to-morrow, is that not so?" she cried out.

And Sylvia nodded. As she drove away, she told herself that whatever
happened she would always remain faithful to her affection for Anna
Wolsky.

CHAPTER XIII

The next morning found Paul de Virieu walking up and down platform No. 9
of the Gare du Nord, waiting for Mrs. Bailey's train, which was due to
arrive from Lacville at eleven o'clock.

Though he looked as if he hadn't a care in the world save the pleasant
care of enjoying the present and looking forward to the future, life was
very grey just now to the young Frenchman.

To a Parisian, Paris in hot weather is a depressing place, even under the
pleasantest of circumstances, and the Count felt an alien and an outcast
in the city where he had spent much of his careless and happy youth.

His sister, the Duchesse d'Eglemont, who had journeyed all the way from
Brittany to see him for two or three days, had received him with that
touch of painful affection which the kindly and the prosperous so often
bestow on those whom they feel to be at once beloved and prodigal.

When with his dear Marie-Anne, Paul de Virieu always felt as though he
had been condemned to be guillotined, and as if she were doing everything
to make his last days on earth as pleasant as possible.

When he had proposed that his sister should ask his new friend, this
English widow he had met at Lacville, to luncheon--nay more, when he had
asked Marie-Anne to lend Mrs. Bailey a riding habit, and to arrange that
one of the Duc's horses should come over every morning in order that he
and Mrs. Bailey might ride together--the kind Duchesse had at once
assented, almost too eagerly, to his requests. And she had asked her
brother no tiresome, indiscreet questions as to his relations with the
young Englishwoman,--whether, for instance, he was really fond of Sylvia,
whether it was conceivably possible that he was thinking of marrying her?

And, truth to tell, Paul de Virieu would have found it very difficult to
give an honest answer to the question. He was in a strange, debatable
state of mind about Sylvia--beautiful, simple, unsophisticated Sylvia
Bailey.

He told himself, and that very often, that the young Englishwoman, with
her absurd, touching lack of worldly knowledge, had no business to be
living in such a place as Lacville, wasting her money at the Baccarat
tables, and knowing such queer people as were--well, yes, even Anna
Wolsky was queer--Madame Wolsky and the Wachners!

But if Sylvia Bailey had no business to be at Lacville, he, Paul de
Virieu, had no business to be flirting with her as he was doing--for
though Sylvia was honestly unaware of the fact, the Count was carrying
on what he well knew to be a very agreeable flirtation with the lady he
called in his own mind his "_petite amie Anglaise_," and very much he
was enjoying the experience--when his conscience allowed him to enjoy it.

Till the last few weeks Paul de Virieu had supposed himself to have come
to that time of life when a man can no longer feel the delicious tremors
of love. Now no man, least of all a Frenchman, likes to feel that this
time has come, and it was inexpressibly delightful to him to know that
he had been mistaken--that he could still enjoy the most absorbing and
enchanting sensation vouchsafed to poor humanity.

He was in love! In love for the first time for many years, and with a
sweet, happy-natured woman, who became more intimately dear to him every
moment that went by. Indeed, he knew that the real reason why he had felt
so depressed last night and even this morning was because he was parted
from Sylvia.

But where was it all to end? True, he had told Mrs. Bailey the truth
about himself very early in their acquaintance--in fact, amazingly soon,
and he had been prompted to do so by a feeling which defied analysis.

But still, did Sylvia, even now, realise what that truth was? Did she in
the least understand what it meant for a man to be bound and gagged, as
he was bound and gagged, lashed to the chariot of the Goddess of Chance?
No, of course she did not realise it--how could such a woman as was
Sylvia Bailey possibly do so?

Walking up and down the long platform, chewing the cud of bitter
reflection, Paul de Virieu told himself that the part of an honest man,
to say nothing of that of an honourable gentleman, would be to leave
Lacville before matters had gone any further between them. Yes, that
was what he was bound to do by every code of honour.

And then, just as he had taken the heroic resolution of going back to
Brittany with his sister, as Marie-Anne had begged him to do only that
morning, the Lacville train steamed into the station--and with the sight
of Sylvia's lovely face all his good resolutions flew to the winds.

She stepped down from the high railway carriage, and looked round her
with a rather bewildered air, for a crowd of people were surging round
her, and she had not yet caught sight of Count Paul.

Wearing a pinkish mauve cotton gown and a large black tulle hat, Sylvia
looked enchantingly pretty. And if the Count's critical French eyes
objected to the alliance of a cotton gown and tulle hat, and to the
wearing of a string of large pearls in the morning, he was in the state
of mind when a man of fastidious taste forgives even a lack of taste in
the woman to whom he is acting as guide, philosopher, and friend.

He told himself that Sylvia Bailey could not be left alone in a place
like Lacville, and that it was his positive duty to stay on there and
look after her....

Suddenly their eyes met. Sylvia blushed--Heavens! how adorable she looked
when there came that vivid rose-red blush over her rounded cheeks. And
she was adorable in a simple, unsophisticated way, which appealed to Paul
de Virieu as nothing in woman had ever appealed to him before.

He could not help enjoying the thought of how surprised his sister would
be. Marie-Anne had doubtless pictured Mrs. Bailey as belonging to the
rather hard, self-assertive type of young Englishwoman of whom Paris sees
a great deal. But Sylvia looked girlishly simple, timid, and confiding.

As he greeted her, Paul de Virieu's manner was serious, almost solemn.
But none the less, while they walked side by side in a quiet, leisurely
fashion through the great grey station, Sylvia felt as if she had indeed
passed through the shining portals of fairyland.

In the covered courtyard stood the Duchesse's carriage. Count Paul
motioned the footman aside and stood bareheaded while Sylvia took her
place in the victoria. As he sat down by her side he suddenly observed,
"My brother-in-law does not like motor-cars," and Sylvia felt secret,
shame-faced gratitude to the Duc d'Eglemont, for, thanks to this prejudice
of his, the moments now being spent by her alone with Count Paul were
trebled.

As the carriage drove with swift, gondola-like motion through the hot
streets, Sylvia felt more than ever as if she were in a new, enchanted
country--that dear country called Romance, and, as if to prolong the
illusion, the Count began to talk what seemed to her the language of
that country.

"Every Frenchman," he exclaimed, abruptly, "is in love with love, and
when you hear--as you may do sometimes, Madame--that a Frenchman is
rarely in love with his own wife, pray answer that this is quite untrue!
For it often happens that in his wife a Frenchman discovers the love he
has sought elsewhere in vain."

He looked straight before him as he added: "As for marriage--well,
marriage is in my country regarded as a very serious matter indeed! No
Frenchman goes into marriage as light-heartedly as does the average
Englishman, and as have done, for instance, so many of my own English
schoolfellows. No, to a Frenchman his marriage means everything or
nothing, and if he loved a woman it would appear to him a dastardly
action to ask her to share his life if he did not believe that life to be
what would be likely to satisfy her, to bring her honour and happiness."

Sylvia turned to him, and, rather marvelling at her own temerity, she
asked a fateful question:

"But would love ever make the kind of Frenchman you describe give up a
way of life that was likely to make his wife unhappy?"

Count Paul looked straight into the blue eyes which told him so much more
than their owner knew they told.

"Yes! He might easily give up that life for the sake of a beloved woman.
But would he remain always faithful in his renunciation? That is the
question which none, least of all himself, can answer!"

The victoria was now crossing one of the bridges which are, perhaps, the
noblest possession of outdoor Paris.

Count Paul changed the subject. He had seen with mingled pain and joy how
much his last honest words had troubled her.

"My brother-in-law has never cared to move west, as so many of his
friends have done," he observed. "He prefers to remain in the old family
house that was built by his great-grandfather before the French
Revolution."

Soon they were bowling along a quiet, sunny street, edged with high walls
overhung with trees. The street bore the name of Babylon.

And indeed there was something almost Babylonian, something very splendid
in the vast courtyard which formed the centre of what appeared, to
Sylvia's fascinated eyes, a grey stone palace. The long rows of high,
narrow windows which now encompassed her were all closed, but with the
clatter of the horses' hoofs on the huge paving-stones the great house
stirred into life.

The carriage drew up. Count Paul jumped out and gave Sylvia his hand.
Huge iron doors, that looked as if they could shut out an invading army,
were flung open, and after a moment's pause, Paul de Virieu led Sylvia
Bailey across the threshold of the historic Hotel d'Eglemont.

She had never seen, she had never imagined, such pomp, such solemn state,
as that which greeted her, and there came across her a childish wish that
Anna Wolsky and the Wachners could witness the scene--the hall hung with
tapestries given to an ancestor of the Duc d'Eglemont by Louis the
Fourteenth, the line of powdered footmen, and the solemn major-domo who
ushered them up the wide staircase, at the head of which there stood
a slender, white-clad young woman, with a sweet, eager face.

This was the first time Sylvia Bailey had met a duchess, and she was
perhaps a little surprised to see how very unpretentious a duchess could
be!

Marie-Anne d'Eglemont spoke in a low, almost timid voice, her English
being far less good than her brother's, and yet how truly kind and
highly-bred she at once showed herself, putting Sylvia at her ease, and
appearing to think there was nothing at all unusual in Mrs. Bailey's
friendship with Paul de Virieu!

And then, after they had lunched in an octagon room of which each panel
had been painted by Van Loo, and which opened on a garden where the green
glades and high trees looked as if they must be far from a great city,
there suddenly glided in a tiny old lady, dressed in a sweeping black
gown and little frilled lace cap.

Count Paul bowing low before her, kissed her waxen-looking right hand.

"My dear godmother, let me present to you Mrs. Bailey," and Sylvia felt
herself being closely, rather pitilessly, inspected by shrewd though not
unkindly eyes--eyes sunken, dimmed by age, yet seeing more, perhaps, than
younger eyes would have seen.

The old Marquise beckoned to Count Paul, and together they slowly walked
through into the garden and paced away down a shaded alley. For the first
time Sylvia and Marie-Anne d'Eglemont were alone together.

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