“About Chantal?”
“Yes, and another.”
“I do not know the other.”
“Yes, you do. It was always a weakness of yours to be sweet on the women. So it was mine, in a way, in days when I had the means of showing it,” and he laughed a laugh that perhaps meant a recollection of many a day of wickedness and cruelty. “You know the other.”
“A woman?”
“A girl, then, which is nearly as bad as a woman. To hear her say Papa Wolowski, so pleasantly, one would not think that she had false keys to all his drawers and boxes, or that she made a copy of his private cipher, and sold it to his master. I don’t blame her, mind you. She don’t know whether she is his daughter, or not; but she knows right well that the chief of the bureau is quite too much of a gentleman to give her false diamonds for real ones.”
Ernest Adair’s face lighted up with actual pleasure.
“What?” he said, with almost a scream in his voice. “What?”
It was not in the nature of the population of that district to hear a question without replying, and quick, if low, was the answer given, impromptu, by a passer-by, and loud was his laugh at his own ribaldry.
“Beast,” said Adair, but uttered in good temper. The fellow looked round, but the figure of Haureau did not exactly invite insult, so the other went on his way.
“Do you tell me,” said Adair, coming close up to Haureau, “that the demoiselle Madelon—”
“I thought you were such friends with M. , that he told you everything. But he keeps a woman’s secrets, I suppose.”
“She sells Wolowski!” said Adair, exultingly. “O yes, her father; he is her father, there is no doubt of that. Dieu! if the brute can feel, he will like that. Good little Madelon!—good little girl! I love you, Madelon!”
“Don’t say that. It may make M. jealous.”
“Ha! and Chantal, too, who is engaged to be married to her—he will be a happy man, the good Chantal!”
“I’ve told you pleasant news, then, Monsieur Adair.”
“Yes,” said Adair, fiercely, “you have told me pleasant news, and if you care to be thanked, I thank you. I had given up all hope that I should ever have a chance of stinging that cold-blooded villain, and here, in the middle of my ruin and helplessness, you come with news that he will be stung to the very quick by the only person he cares about in this world. That is good news, Haureau.”
“Go home,” said Haureau, with a kindly oath. “I don’t want to like you, I tell you, and you are making me do it. Now you speak like a man. Go home. I will see as little as I must of you, and whereas I was coming to breakfast to-morrow morning, I will be damned if I come near you. Can I speak more friendly than that?”
“Where are you going now?”
“I can show you, but I can’t tell you.”
“Show me then, for I won’t sleep till I have drunk to the health of Madelon Wolowski. I’ll go with you, Haureau, no matter whom we go to meet.”
“A gang of low ruffians,” quoted Haureau.
“Very likely, but they’ll not refuse my toast.”
“Not if you proposed the health of M. Satan.”
Haureau thrust his huge arm across the arm of Ernest Adair, and they plunged into an abyss of narrow and evil-smelling streets, and made their way towards the river.
CHAPTER XCIII.
So, for the first time during the period of our story, husband and wife were under the same roof.
At the sound of wheels, Mrs. Hawkesley had rushed to the door, had received the affectionate kiss of her husband, and had received Arthur with unusual warmth. Then she hurried the two men into the library.
“You know that Laura is here,” she said to Lygon.
“I expected to hear it,” was the calm reply.
Beatrice looked at him wistfully, and then said—
“Charles, I must tell all, though I had meant to tell you first. Charles dearest, and Arthur, I have such good news for you, for us all.”
And her eyes fairly ran over as she spoke.
“It has all been a wicked, base, conspiracy. All is confessed. The letters are forgeries, the horrible letters that imposed on poor Robert. Forgeries, by that wicked woman at Lipthwaite, helped by the villain Adair. She is on her death-bed, Charles, and she has confessed it all. I was there, and heard her. Arthur! do you hear me, forgeries? Charles, why is he not on his knees thanking God?”
“He will answer for himself, Beatrice,” said Charles Hawkesley, gravely.
“Arthur!” exclaimed Mrs. Hawkesley.
“This is Mrs. Berry’s confession, do I understand you aright?” said Lygon, in a low voice, but without agitation or excitement.
“Yes, yes. This very day. We have been at Lipthwaite together, Laura and myself, and it has all been told. Mr. Berry was present, and has made notes of what she said. Arthur! Why do you stand so coldly looking at me? Laura is in the room above.”
She spoke as if she expected him to make one rush from the room to the arms of his wife. But he did not move.
“Is he too much astounded to speak, Charles?” said the impetuous Beatrice, turning to her husband. “Is the happiness too much for him? Let him divide it with Laura.”
And she turned to the door, and then looked back at the faces of her companions.
“What does this mean?” she asked. “Is there any new sorrow come upon us? No! I have my husband, you and Laura are here, and all the children are well—what harm can the world do us? Charles, why are you silent?”
“I see all that your kind heart means, Beatrice,” said Lygon. “It is sad to have to answer you as I must do. You have believed that all was over, and that after my hearing what you had to tell