"You told me that you were not poor, but rich--that you had not become my father's secretary because such a situation was necessary, but--but for quite another reason."

"Yes."

"And I learn immediately afterwards from Mr. Gayerson that you are penniless, and must work for your living."

"Merely because Alfred Gayerson knew more than I did," I replied. "I did not know that my father in the heat of a pa.s.sing quarrel had made such a will--or, indeed, could make it if he so desired. I was not aware of this when I spoke to you--and, knowing it now, I must ask you to consider my words unsaid. You may be sure that I shall not refer to them again, even with the hope of making you merry."

She laughed suddenly.

"Oh," she said, "I find plenty to amuse me--thank you. You need not give yourself the trouble. _D'ailleurs_," she paused and looked at me with a quick and pa.s.sing gravity, "that has never been your role, Monsieur l'Anglais--you are not fitted for it."

She pulled a long face--such as mine, no doubt, appeared in her eyes--and left me.

I had business that took me across the Seine during the morning, and lunched at a club--so did not again see the ladies until later in the day. The desire of speech with Alphonse Giraud on a matter connected with his father's burial took me back to the Rue des Palmiers in the afternoon, when I learnt from the servant that the Baron's son had returned, and was, so far as he knew, still in the house. I went to the drawing-room and there found Madame alone.

"I am seeking Monsieur Alphonse Giraud," I said.

"Whose good genius you are."

"Not that I am aware of, Madame."

"No," she said, slowly, "that is just it. In a crowded street the strongest house does not know how many weaker buildings are leaning against it. Alphonse Giraud is not a strong house. He will lean against you if you permit it. So be warned."

"By my carelessness," I answered, "I have done Alphonse Giraud a great injury--I have practically ruined him. Surely the least I can do is to attempt to recover for him that which he has lost."

Madame de Clericy was of course engaged in needlework. I never saw her fingers idle. It appeared that at this moment she had a difficult st.i.tch to execute.

"One never knows," she said, without looking up, "what is the least or the most that men can do. We women look at things in a different light, and therefore cannot say what is right or what is wrong; it is better that men should judge for themselves."

"Yes," I said.

"Of course," said Madame de Clericy quietly, "if you recover Alphonse's fortune you will earn his grat.i.tude, for without it the Vicomte would never recognise his pretensions to Lucille's hand."

"Of course," I answered; and Madame's clever eyes were lifted to my face for a moment.

"You think it the least you can do?"

"I do," said I. "Can you tell me if Alphonse Giraud is in this house?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: MADAME LOOKED AT ME AGAIN. AND I MADE MY INQUIRIES ELSEWHERE.]

"No; I cannot."

"Perhaps Mademoiselle Lucille--"

"Perhaps. You can ask her--if you like."

Madame looked at me again. And I made my inquiries elsewhere.

Chapter XII

Ruin

"Il ne faut regarder dans ses amis que la seule vertu qui nous attache a eux."

If the Baron Giraud was unable in the nature of human affairs to take his wealth with him, it accompanied him, at all events, to the grave, where feathers made a fine show of grief, where priests growled consolatory words, and cherub-faced boys swung themselves and censers nonchalantly along. Some who owed their wealth to Giraud sent their empty carriages to mourn his decease; others, with a singular sense of fitness, despatched wreaths of tin flowers to be laid upon his grave.

The Vicomte had been early astir that morning; indeed, I heard him moving before daylight in the room where the coffin was. I was glad when that same morning dawned, for my kind old patron seemed unhinged by these events, and could not keep away from the apartment where the Baron lay.

There was, of course, no keeping him from the funeral, which ceremony I also attended, and if ever earth was laid to earth it was when we consigned the great financier to his last resting-place. Alphonse Giraud, in his absurd French way, embraced me when the last carriage drove away from the gates of Pere la Chaise.

"And now, mon ami," he said, with a sigh of relief, "let us go and lunch at the club."

He meant no disrespect towards his departed sire. It was merely that his elastic nature could not always be at a tension. His quick bright face was made for smiles, and naturally relaxed to that happy state.

He clapped me on the back.

"You are my best friend," he cried.

And I had, indeed, arranged the funeral for him. Those who had honoured the ceremony with their presence showed much sympathy for Alphonse. They pressed his hand; some of them embraced him. A few--elderly men with daughters--told him that they felt like fathers towards him. All this Alphonse received with a bland innocence which his Parisian education had no doubt taught him.

When they were gone, rattling away in their new carriages, he looked after them with a laugh.

"And now," he said, "for ruin. I wonder what it will be like--new at all events. And we all live for novelty nowadays. There is the price of a luncheon at the club, however. Come, my friend, let us go there."

"One change you must, at all events, be prepared for," I said, as we stepped into his carriage. "A change of friends."

Alphonse understood and laughed. Cynicism is an arid growth, found to perfection on the pavement, and this little Frenchman wore his boots out thereon.

During luncheon my host recovered his spirits; although, to do him justice, he was melancholy enough when he remembered his recent loss.

Once or twice he threw down his knife and fork, and for quite three minutes all food and drink were nauseous to him.

"Ah!" he cried, "that poor old man. It tears the heart to think of him."

He sat for a few moments with his chin in the palm of his hand, and then slowly took up again the things of this life, wielding them heartily enough.

"I wonder," he went on in a reflective voice, "if I did my duty towards him. It was not difficult, only to make a splash and spend money, and I did that--beautifully!"

"Coffee and chartreuse," he said to the waiter, when we had finished.

"And leave the bottle on the table. You know," he added, addressing me, his face beaming with conscious pride, his hand laid impressively on my arm--"you know this club drinks chartreuse in claret gla.s.ses.

It is our great distinguishing feature."

While religiously observing this law we fell to discussing the future.

"One cannot," observed my companion, philosophically, "bring on the thunder-storm, however heavy the air may be. One can only gasp and wait. I suppose the crash will come soon enough. But tell me how I stand; I have not had time to think the last few days."