Paris and London a story neither is likely to forget.”
“They might have spared me, nevertheless,” said Adair, under his breath.
“What is that arrière pensée, if one might ask?”
“No matter. But you do not tell me that I am a prisoner.”
“My friend, your persistence in being a prisoner becomes monotonous. I repeat to you that you are as free as I am, so far as I know, and I add, that I have only a favour or so to ask, which you can refuse or not as you think proper.”
“I am in exactly the position to make terms?”
“And am I in the habit of offering such things idly? But I make allowance for your excitement. I remember that the first time I had unfortunately an opportunity of experiencing similar sensations I was a good deal haunted by the incessant presence of a red tint which insisted on settling upon everything. I was younger than you are, however,” added the Pole, “and imaginative, besides being slightly patriotic. You look really very much shaken—I have often dissuaded you from cognac, but try it now.”
“No. I am strong enough.”
“And wisely keep the brain unclouded, the better to judge of my offer. You are right. Now, attend. You had a great desire to visit England?”
“England! True,” said Ernest, after a pause. “It seems an age since I was thinking of that.”
“The age has passed, and brought the event nearer.”
“You would send me to England!”
“You will go of your own will and accord, if you go at all.”
“I am traced here, M. Wolowski, and I understand all the rest.”
“Then use your comprehension, and do not raise subjects which it is useless to discuss. Suppose yourself in London.”
“I tell you that I was robbed at a place where I lay down to sleep, and I am without a franc in the world.”
“Excitement has enfeebled your usually lively imagination. The streets of London are paved with gold, as English clowns believe. At least you can imagine yourself there, and beyond the reach of want. I am not very wise, perhaps, in exposing my pocket-book to you, but there it is,” and he laid it on the table near him.
“Ah! I am wanted for some desperate service. Is there another Silvestre in London?” said Adair, slightly shuddering.
“Not at present,” replied the Pole, coolly. “My friend, it would seem that you are somewhat tigerish, and having once tasted—”
“Let us speak of your plans,” said Adair, with much irritation.
“Decidedly tigerish,” said Wolowski, looking at him quietly. “Change of air becomes a necessity for you. Well, do you accept the idea of an English sojourn?”
“What am I to do in England?”
“I have no more idea than yourself. Certainly, I do not think that it would be advisable for you, at present, to urge Mr. Aventayle, the manager, to the fulfilment of the engagement he seems to have promised. Your countrymen are said to be ferocious, and they like to see ballet-girls torn to pieces by lions on the stage, and to behold other frightful exhibitions, but there is a limit to their gladiatorial propensities. I do not think that in your rôle of an escaped assassin you would be acceptable to the insular mind.”
Adair listened in silence.
“You agree with me? Well, but I can imagine that if it suited your arrangements to go to London, to find yourself a modest apartment in some quarter entirely removed from that in which wanderers from France and other happy lands chiefly congregate—for then, if there be another Silvestre, as you imagine, you will not encounter so unworthy an acquaintance—in this case English hospitality may not be disturbed by any interference of your colleagues.”
“I am still one of you, then?”
“Why not? No offence has been proved against you, and as you are English, we will give you the benefit of the charming Anglican doctrine, which, if it were really practised in England, or elsewhere, would make society impossible. Consider yourself what you please. You will not be troubled with many orders from head-quarters.”
“You said that the Englishmen had invoked the law.”
“Some invocations are not immediately answered, as you may possibly be aware. At all events, the law can answer at any time. Complete the picture I have suggested, and suppose yourself in some remote district in London, and passing, for the sake of decorum, under some other name than that which you have laboured, not in vain, to make famous. The name of your friend Silvain may serve as well as another.”
“No, I will not take that,” said Adair, quickly.
“It sounds pleasantly.”
“It sounds like—no matter, I will not take that. Anything else will do as well. I will call myself by an English name—call me Hyde.”
“I applaud the courage that can make a jest of one’s condition at such a time.”
“Jest—bah! It was the name of my mother. It is easily remembered.”
“I will think of the park, of which you will be an ornament—that will do. Then, Mr. Hyde will have the kindness to take this card, and as soon as he has an address, he will forward it, with all care that it reaches its destination—to the gentleman here named. And Mr. Hyde will take care that when any message is sent to him, in reply, he is at home to receive it, and that he complies, in letter and in spirit, with any demand that may be addressed to him.”
“Any demand?”
“Any,” replied the Pole, changing his manner. “Do you comprehend?”
“Yes.”
“There is money—there is the card—there is a passport”—replied Wolowski, abruptly, placing each in succession on the couch. “And one word more. Place your hands behind you,” he said in a tone of command. “Clasp them together, and turn your back to me.”
