The Coquette's Victim Part 14

A beautiful light came into her eyes.

"I knew you would save me, Basil," she said, tenderly. "When will you do it?"

"I will make my first essay tonight. I shall not rest again until it is done."

"Go to his rooms," she said; "ask for him; if they tell you he is not in, say you will wait for him; then, while you are in the room, open the casket, take out the letters, destroy them at once, and send word to me when it is done. Do not stop to think whether I am right, whether it is the better plan, but do it at once, because I have said so."

"I will do it," he replied. Then she saw a shadow fall over his face.

"There is nothing really in them, I suppose, Lady Lisle?"

"Nothing," she said, "but the cry of a woman's breaking heart! Enough to ruin me, should my husband ever come to know it."

"That he never shall; they shall be destroyed. If I die for it, they shall be destroyed."

"Ah, me," she said; "had ever liege lady so true a knight? Basil, how shall I thank you?"

"The pleasure of serving you will be thanks enough," he replied.

"Ah, generous knight, n.o.ble knight, who shall say true chivalry is dead?" And she praised him, she flattered him, she thanked him until the slight doubt that had occurred to him died away and he was ashamed of it.

He thought of nothing but obeying her. It was sadly against his high English spirit to steal into a man's room and take from it; he would have preferred fighting until one or the other lay dead. But she had said nay, and it could not be. That very evening he called and was told the count was not in; the day following he repeated the call, and the servant, as he had said at the trial, was suspicious, not recognizing him as one of his master's friends.

He called another evening, and, owing to the fact of there being a new servant, he was admitted into the count's room. It was empty, although the gas was burning. He saw the little ivory casket, and with one stroke of his strong, young hand, opened it.

There lay the letters, underneath a watch and ring. He obeyed her; he did not lose one instant. He emptied the casket, carried the letters to the lighted gas, and burned them! Just as he had raised the watch and ring in his hand to replace them, the door opened and the count, with his servant, entered the room.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Trap Closed.

The count did not utter one word. He saw at one glance what had been done. He recognized the young gentleman whom he had sneered at as Lady Amelie's victim. He understood at once what had been done.

"She had asked him to destroy the letters, and he has done it," he said to himself. In one moment he had formed his scheme of revenge. He would give the young man in charge for stealing his watch and ring. If he cleared himself at all, he must tell the truth. He must tell that he had not come there to steal a watch, but to destroy Lady Lisle's letters.

"If he confesses that," said the quick-witted count to himself, "she will be doubly disgraced; if he declines to confess, I am at least revenged upon him." So, until the entrance of the policeman, the two men stood and glared at each other.

"You can save yourself," said the count, "if you will confess what you came for, and if you will write that confession down."

Basil smiled contemptuously. "Of what do you charge me?" he said.

"I shall charge you with stealing my watch and ring," was the reply.

"Knowing I am innocent?"

"The alternative lies before you. Confess, as I have said, and Lady Amelie suffers; deny, and you go to prison for stealing."

It seemed to him far easier. "I will go to prison," he thought, "I can give a false name; no one will know me. There will be no fuss, no stir, nothing known, and she, my queen, will be saved."

Of course there was no common sense in such a proceeding, nothing but enthusiasm and romance. He certainly had not calculated upon the fact being known. He had really believed the false name would s.h.i.+eld him. He found means through a heavy bribe to send one word to Lady Amelie; it was merely the word, "Destroyed.--B.C." But it gave the queen of coquettes a sense of security she had not enjoyed for long. While Basil still lay in prison, Count Jules sought her.

"You have baffled me, my lady," he said.

"Yes," was the calm reply, "I have checkmated you, count. You will extort no more money from me, nor will you threaten me again."

"Well," said the count, "I confess myself beaten, and I am not a good man, either, my Lady Amelie, but sooner than have blighted that young man's life, as you have done, I would have suffered anything."

"My dear count," said Lady Amelie, philosophically, "some men seem, by fate and by nature, destined to be used as a cat's-paw."

Count Jules was baffled; his only hold upon the rich and beautiful Lady Amelie was broken. What those letters contained was known only to the lady and himself. If simply the written expressions of her own unhappiness, he placed more value on them than they were worth. The chances are that they held more than that.

He was entirely defeated--they had been his last resources for long. He had never failed, by means of them, to extort money from Lady Lisle at pleasure. It was useless to threaten any more. She had but to dare him to bring forth his proofs, and he had not one word to say.

His only consolation was, that in revenge, he had completely blighted the young hero's life, for hero he was, although his heroism was of a mistaken kind.

And Lady Amelie--did she feel any regret for the young life tarnished?

She missed a very pleasant companion, an enthusiastic adorer, but as fortune would have it, there came to England a young Roman prince, who was both artist and poet, handsome as a Greek G.o.d, and wealthy beyond compare. His appearance created a perfect furore in fas.h.i.+onable society, and he, as a matter of course, fell in love with Lady Amelie, so that she soon forgot the young knight who languished in prison. When the season was over, she persuaded her husband to go to Rome, and never left even a line or a message for the mistaken young man who had done so much for her.

She only did what suited her; she was the queen of coquettes, and she made him useful to her; nothing else mattered.

The lonely months wore on very slowly for Basil. At first the notion of heroism and the conviction that he was performing a most n.o.ble and chivalrous deed sustained him; but there was a fund of common sense in his character, and this common sense suggested to him that instead of being a hero, he had been the dupe of a wily coquette. Not at first did this idea strike him; not until long, dreary weeks had pa.s.sed, and she had never sent him even one message of thanks or sympathy. He was very angry with the idea at first, thinking it quite a false one, but gradually he awakened to the conviction that it was true.

Then his fort.i.tude forsook him, and it was some consolation to hear from Mr. Forster that what the kind-hearted lawyer called his misrepresentations had been effectual. People had almost forgotten that little paragraph that had one morning taken London by storm.

"I have denied it so constantly and emphatically," he said, "that my words have been believed. As soon as you get out of here, make haste abroad, then all may be well."

Even he could not help seeing how entirely the light and brightness had faded from the young face.

"I have never said anything to you," said Mr. Forster, one morning, "but I have a certain conviction, Mr, Carruthers, that there is some woman in this; you are here for a woman's sake and to screen her from blame; if so, it is useless asking you to tell the truth, I know, but make the best of it; get out of this as soon as you can."

He did so. When the six months were over, "John Smith" was discharged and did not linger many hours in London; he went at once to Paris, and there made out where Lady Amelie was.

"In Rome," replied the gentleman of whom he asked the question. "Her last caprice was a young Roman prince, and they are settled there for the winter." To Rome he resolved to go. He would see for himself whether she was all that his dreaming fancy had painted her, or whether she was what men said--a heartless coquette.

He went to Rome, and found her, as usual, queen of all that was most brilliant and gay.

It was at a soiree given by the d.u.c.h.essa Sforza. He saw her again, beautiful, radiant and magnificent. By her side stood a young man, who was handsome as one of the grand old statutes that ornamented the galleries of Rome. He watched her, thinking bitterly of the time that had pa.s.sed since be looked his last on that radiant face, and all the bitter shame that had been his portion since then.

He crossed the room and went over to her. Whatever dismay she may have felt, she showed none. She looked up with a bright, cold smile, as though they had parted but yesterday.

"Mr. Carruthers!" she said. "I hope you are well. I really believe that half of England is coming to Rome."

"Can you wonder," said the prince, "when England's fairest queen is here?"

Lady Amelie introduced the two gentlemen, and after a time the prince went away. Then she turned her lovely face to the young man she had duped so cleverly.