The Man with the Double Heart Part 22

It bred in him a profound distrust. It set him apart from other men.

It seemed to give him a moral excuse for an irresolute habit of thought.

He had kept the secret to himself, fearing ridicule from his kind and with a shrewd appreciation of its doubtful value in feminine circles.

Once he had nearly confided in Jill, realizing that with the girl s.e.x still lay in abeyance, almost ignored by her clean young soul.

But something had checked him; a feeling perhaps that it led into a further field, impossible to discuss with her, this child who claimed his loyal respect.

And meanwhile Fantine lured him on with the skill of her vast experience.

The drop scene fell amid loud applause, and lights flashed up about the house.

McTaggart felt a sudden thirst, but dare not leave the sheltering box unaware whether Mr. Cadell would take advantage of the entr'acte.

Fantine turned and smiled at him, tears not far from the topaz eyes, a faint colour in her face, soft with the pleasure of the music.

"Like it?" He knew as he said the words that the question was superfluous, and went on a little quickly, full of his own immediate cares.

"We'll have supper at the Savoy--it's sure to be packed to-night." He drew out his watch as he spoke, and glanced at it with a slight frown.

"Jove! it's getting pretty late..."

Fantine smiled, resigning herself. She knew exactly what he wanted, guessing him bored by the music.

"Would you like to go before the end? After all"--she checked a sigh--"one knows by heart the tragic story. We could slip out before the finale."

The man brightened visibly.

"Well, you see--it's like this--I haven't reserved a table to-night.

We shall have to take our chance, so we'd better be there before the rush."

He still avoided the front of the box, conscious of his neighbour's eyes, but, now that the danger seemed averted, he felt a mischievous delight. He could picture Cydonia, very correct, in her white frock and string of pearls, with her inevitable "Isn't it nice?" addressed to the somewhat bored parent.

And at the thought a slight shame ran through him; the knowledge, too, of all the young girl represented in his somewhat aimless life.

But Fantine was addressing him.

"Say now, Pierrot, would you mind--instead of going to the Savoy--a picnic supper at my flat?"

His face fell, and immediately she added quickly: "We'd leave early--but ... the fact is I can't bear to think of that aggressive band. It seems almost profane to me--after the feast of music here.

But of course--if you're hungry?" Her voice pleaded. "I think I've got some foie gras--and a cold tongue--won't that do? And we'd have ... a cosy evening together."

"Do?" McTaggart laughed softly, relieved by the saving clause, "Why, I'd infinitely prefer it. One gets so tired of the Savoy."

"Good." She slipped her hand sideways and laid it a moment on his knee.

"Rather fun, eh, Pierrot?--to play at being Darby and Joan."

McTaggart nodded, without speaking. He felt a sudden tinge of excitement, the forerunner of adventure. "We're hardly old enough for that"--mischief was in his laughing eyes--"Why not 'Paul et Virginie?'--brought a little up-to-date."

The lights went down. Behind the curtain a bell tolled as if for Ma.s.s, cutting through the buzz of chatter, a summons from another world.

Then, like a clear call to love, came the sweet sound of Santuzza's voice.

Fantine caught a quick breath. The scene to come was significant. For she knew that this night spelled the last of many a happy one with McTaggart. And she wondered ... Would she miss the man?

For a second her whole soul recoiled from the task she had set herself: the crisis of the long-drawn-out and carefully prepared betrayal. She saw in a flash the years ahead on that stony downward path of intrigue, a tool herself in another man's hands, to be cast aside when Time should blunt it ...

The mood lasted until they reached the flat. McTaggart believed her still to be under the spell of the music. He respected her silence and enjoyed his cigarette as they sat side by side in the speeding taxi.

She opened the door with her latch-key, and switched on the hall light, leading the way into the drawing-room, where before a bright fire a table was spread with a dainty supper laid for one.

"I'm all alone to-night--it will be a real picnic." She took off her opera cloak and threw it on the sofa. "My cook sleeps out--she's a married woman--and Melanie has gone home for a short holiday."

She told the lie coolly, knowing that near at hand the maid, well coached, was waiting for her cue; an important witness if subsequent events should necessitate her reappearance.

"You aren't nervous?" McTaggart looked surprised--"I mean, of staying here alone all night."

"Oh, dear no." She shrugged her shoulders. "I could ring up the porter in case of need."

She studied her face a moment in the gla.s.s, fingering the tulle that covered her shoulders. "I think perhaps... Yes!--I'll get out of this and slip into a comfortable tea-gown. You don't mind waiting, do you, Pierrot? I shan't be long." She turned to the door, then came back again with a forced smile.

"I wonder--could you undo these hooks." She turned her back to him as she spoke. "I can manage all the rest ... but just those between the shoulders?"

Gallantly McTaggart stooped to the task.

As the tulle fell away, leaving her neck bare, a sudden temptation seized the man. He lowered his head and kissed the warm flesh, honey-tinted, and soft to his lips.

But she swung round quickly with an incoherent cry. "Non, non, Pierrot--je ne veux pas!" Her face looked frightened. She thrust him back, a sudden remorse awake in her heart.

McTaggart laughed. She read in his eyes amus.e.m.e.nt at her show of resistance.

And the knowledge of this and his lack of respect swept aside her lingering scruples. Her mood veered round. A feverish exultation spurred her now down the path of revenge.

"Naughty boy!" She shook her head and was gone, with a laughing backward glance.

Left to himself, McTaggart strolled about, stretching his long legs, cramped in the box.

A memory brought him back to the mantelpiece, and he sought for and found the faded photograph.

Once more he gazed at the sinister face, with its black beard and evil eyes. It held a curious fascination for him, repulsive and mesmeric at the same time. He saw that a name was written beneath, indistinct in violet ink, and holding it nearer to the light he deciphered "Gustave,"

with a slight start. Below it was a blotted date and then "Alger"

clear and bright, where a frame had once protected the edge.

He put it back behind the mirror, a frown on his face, his mouth tight.

So that was the husband. What a brute! ...

His pity stirred beneath his disgust. He thought of Fantine, dainty and sweet, at the mercy of such a type. Thank G.o.d the man was dead!

He recalled her remark in the restaurant, the night they had dined at the "Bon Bourgeois."