Part 12 (1/2)
At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was heard upon them.
”Hark!” exclaimed the younger man. ”She has arrived! She promised she would come to-night.”
The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Valerie Dedieu entered.
Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat, battered and faded.
Her disguise was complete.
”Well, you see I'm here as requested,” she exclaimed, as she burst into the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged old leather sofa.
”Ah, _ma pet.i.te lapin_, we're glad you've come,” Berard replied, with a smile. ”If Mahomet can't go to the mountain because he has no decent clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet.”
”That's so,” she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a chair at the table. ”I look nice in this get-up, don't I? Pierre, give me a cigarette. You've apparently forgotten your manners towards a lady,” she added reproachfully.
The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.
”Now, how have you been getting on?” she inquired.
”Deuced badly,” Berard replied. ”We're hard up and must have money.”
”Money! _C'est du rechauffe_! Valerie cried in dismay. _Mon Dieu_!
I've none. I'm almost penniless, and must have some from you.”
”What?” cried Rouillier. ”You can't give us any?”
”No, not a sou,” she replied. ”An appearance such as I'm bound to keep up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are something enormous.”
”Then how do you expect we can live?” asked Berard, with an injured expression and violent gesticulation.
”I'm sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor. You know better how to obtain funds than I. Live as you've lived for the past five years. You both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will continue to do so somehow or other.”
”This handsome _salon_ looks like luxury, doesn't it?” remarked Pierre, smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.
”Well, certainly there's nothing gorgeous about it,” she admitted, laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.
Berard shook his head impatiently. He did not care to be reminded of days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not at her visit.
”Look here,” he said, gazing up at her suddenly. ”It's no use chattering like an insane magpie. What's to be done?”
”I don't know, and I care very little,” she replied candidly. ”I want money, and if I don't get it the whole affair will collapse.”
And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent unconcern.
”But how are we to get it? No one will lend it to us.”
”Don't talk absurdly. I have no desire to be acquainted with the means by which you obtain it. I want a thousand pounds. And,” she added coolly, ”I tell you I _must_ have it.”
The two men were silent. They knew Valerie of old, and were fully convinced that argument was useless.