Part 47 (1/2)

”Sit down,” she said. ”Don't behave like a child.” She went to her desk, wrote a check and gave it to him. ”May I trouble you for a receipt?” He gave it, surprised and pleased. ”And now do hold your tongue if you can, or if Mr. Schmidt does not beat you when he comes home, I will. You have no more decency than you have hair.”

This set him off again. ”Ah you think it is only money, money. You, a woman, can say things. I am insult,” he cried. ”I will have revenge of Schmidt, if he do come. I will have blood.”

”Blood, I would,” she said. ”Get your lancet ready.” She broke into laughter at the idea of a contest with the German. ”I will hear no more.

These are my friends.” When in one of her fits of wrath, now rare, she was not choice of her words. Both were now standing. ”A flea and a bear, you and Schmidt! Lord, but he will be scared--poor man!”

He too was in a fine rage, such as he never allowed himself with men.

”Oh, I am paid, am I? That will not be all of it.” He rose on tiptoe, gesticulating wildly, and threw his hands out, shaking them. There was a sudden clatter of broken china.

”Great heavens!” cried Gainor. ”Two of my G.o.ds gone, and my blue mandarin!”

For a moment he stood appalled amid the wreck of precious porcelain, looking now at Miss Wynne and now at the broken deities.

The owner of the G.o.ds towered over the little doctor. Wrath and an overwhelming sense of the comic contended for expression. ”Two G.o.ds, man! Where now do you expect to go when you die--”

”Nowhere,” he said.

”I agree with you. Neither place would have you. You are not good enough for one and not bad enough for the other.” She began to enjoy the situation. ”I have half a mind to take away that check. It would not pay, but still--”

”I regret--I apologize.” He began to fear lest this terrible old woman might have a whole mind in regard to the check.

”Oh,” she laughed, ”keep it. But I swear to you by all my other G.o.ds that if you lie any more about my friends, I shall tell the story Dr.

Abernethy told me. In your greed and distrust of men whose simple word is as sure as their bond, you threaten to tell a tale. Well, I will exchange stories with you. I shall improve mine, too.”

”Ah,” he cried, ”you do promise, and keep no word. You have told already Schmidt of me.”

”I did--and one other; but now the whole town shall hear. You were ingenious, but the poor highwayman was too well hanged.”

Chovet grew pale. ”Oh, Madame, you would not. I should be ruined.”

”Then be careful and--go away. I sometimes lose my temper, but never my memory. Remember.”

He looked up at the big woman as she stood flushed with anger, and exclaiming under his breath, ”_Quelle diablesse!_” went out scared and uneasy.

Looking from the window, she saw him walk away. His hands hung limp at his sides, his head was dropped on his breast; not even ca Ira looked more dejected.

”Good heavens! the man ought to have a bearing-rein. I much fear the mischief is done. The little brute! He is both mean and treacherous.”

She turned to look down at the wreckage of her household Lares and rang the bell.

Caesar appeared. ”Sweep up my G.o.ds, and take them away. Good heavens! I ought to have flattered the man. I promised the blue mandarin to Darthea Wynne because he always nodded yes to her when she wanted advice to her liking. Well, well, I am a blundering old idiot.” She had indeed made mischief, and repentance, as usual with her, came late. She had, however, only added to the mischief. Chovet had already said enough, and the loss of the despatch and the attack on Carteaux by a clerk of the Department of State aroused anew the Democrats and fed the gossip of the card-tables, while Rene rode on his homeward way with a mind at ease.

Nothing had so disturbed the social life of the city for many a day.

Before long the matter came to the ear of the Secretary of State, who saw at once its bearing upon his department and the weapon it would be in the hands of party. It was, however, he said to Mr. Bingham, too wild a story for ready credence, and De Courval would soon be at home.

A day later, Fauchet presented to the amazed and angry Secretary of State Carteaux's formal statement, but made no explanation of its delay except the illness of his attache. The man was near to death. He himself believed his statement, the words of a man about to die. Randolph stood still in thought. ”Your charge, sir,” he said, and he spoke French well, ”is that my clerk, the Vicomte de Courval, has stolen your despatch and perhaps fatally wounded the gentleman commissioned to deliver it.”

”You state it correctly. I am not surprised.”