The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes (books to read now .TXT) 📕

“I should like to be at the station a few minutes before the Hamworths’ train is due.”

Senator Burton was sorry, very, very sorry indeed, that there was still no news of the missing man, on this third morning of Dampier’s disappearance. But he could not help feeling glad that poor little Mrs. Dampier had stayed in bed; thanks to that fact he and his children were having breakfast together, in the old, comfortable way.

The Senator felt happier than he had felt for some time. What a comfort it would be, even to Gerald and to Daisy, to forget for a moment this strange, painful affair, and to spend three or four hours with old friends!

Gerald looked up. “I’m not coming, father. You will have to make my apologies to the Hamworths. Of course I should have liked to see them. But Mrs. Dampier has asked me to be present at the search. Someone ought, of course, to be there to represent her.” He jerked the words out with a touch of defiance in his voice.

“I’m sorry she did that,” said the Senator coldly. “And I think, Gerald, you should have consulted me before consenting to do so. You see, our position with regard to the Poulains is a delicate one—”

“Delicate?” repeated Gerald quickly. “How do you mean, father?”

“We have known these people a long while. It is fifteen years, Gerald, since I first came to this hotel with your dear mother. I have received nothing but kindness from Madame Poulain, and I am very, very sorry that she now associates us in her mind with this painful business.”

“All I can say is, sir, that I do not share your sorrow.”

The Senator looked up quickly. This was the first time—yes, the very first time that Gerald had ever spoken to him with that touch of sarcasm—some would have said impertinence—which sits so ill on the young, at any rate in the view of the old. Perhaps Gerald repented of his rude, hasty words, for it was in a very different tone that he went on:—

“You see, father, I believe the whole of Mrs. Dampier’s story, and you only believe a part. If I shared your view I should think very ill of her indeed. But you, father (I don’t quite know how you do it) manage to like and respect her, and to believe the Poulains as well!”

“Yes,” said the Senator slowly, “that is so, Gerald. I believe that the Poulains are telling the truth, and that this poor young woman thinks she is telling the truth—two very different things, my boy, as you will find out by the time you know as much of human nature as I now do. When you have lived as long as I have lived in the world, you will know that many people have an extraordinary power of persuading themselves of that which is not—”

“But why—” asked Gerald eagerly,—“why should Mrs. Dampier wish to prove that her husband accompanied her here if he did nothing of the kind?”

And then just as he asked the question which the Senator would not have found it very easy to answer, Daisy came into the room.

“I have persuaded Mrs. Dampier to stay in bed till the search is over. She’s just worn out, poor little dear: I shall be glad when this Mr. Stephens has arrived—she evidently has the greatest faith in him.”

“I shall be glad too,” said the Senator slowly: how glad he would be neither of his children knew or guessed. “And now, Daisy, I hope you won’t be long in getting ready to start for the station. I should be sorry indeed if the Hamworths’ train came in before we reached there.”

“Father! Surely you don’t want me to leave Nancy this morning of all mornings? She ought not to be alone while the search is going on. She wanted to be actually present at it, didn’t she, Gerald?”

The young man nodded. “Yes, but Daisy and I persuaded her that that was not necessary, that I would be there for her. It seems that Mr. Dampier had a very large portmanteau with him. She is sure that the Poulains have got it hidden away.”

“She has told Gerald exactly what it is like,” chimed in Daisy.

The Senator looked from one to the other: he felt both helpless and indignant. “The Hamworths are among the oldest friends we have in the world,” he exclaimed. “Surely one of you will come with me? I’m not asking you to leave Mrs. Dampier for long, Daisy.”

But Daisy shook her head decidedly. “I’d rather not, father—I don’t feel as if I wanted to see the Hamworths at all just now. I’m sure that when you explain everything to them, they will understand.”

Utterly discomfited and disappointed, and feeling for the first time really angry with poor Nancy Dampier, Senator Burton took his departure for the station, alone.

Perquisition?

To the French imagination there is something terrifying in the very word. And this justifiable terror is a national tradition. To thousands of honest folk a Perquisition was an ever present fear through the old Régime, and this fear became acute terror in the Revolution. Then a search warrant meant almost certainly subsequent arrest, imprisonment, and death.

Even nowadays every Frenchman is aware that at any moment, and sometimes on the most frivolous pretext, his house may be searched, his most private papers ransacked, and every member of his household submitted to a sharp, informal interrogation, while he stands helpless by, bearing the outrage with what grace he may.

Gerald Burton, much as he now disliked and suspected Monsieur and Madame Poulain, could not but feel sorry for them when he saw the manner in which those hitherto respectable and self-respecting folk were treated by the Police Agent who, with two subordinates, had been entrusted with the task of searching the Hôtel Saint Ange.

The American was also surprised to see the eagerness with which the Poulains had welcomed his presence at their unpleasant ordeal.

“Thank you for coming, Monsieur Gerald; but where is Monsieur le Sénateur?” asked Madame Poulain feverishly. “He promised—he absolutely promised us that he would be here this morning!”

“My father has had to go out,” said Gerald courteously, “but I am here to represent both him and Mrs. Dampier.”

A heavy frown gathered over the landlady’s face. “Ah!” she muttered, “it was a dark day for us when we allowed that lady to enter our hotel!”

Gerald, putting a strong restraint on his tongue, remained silent, but a moment later, as if in answer to his feeling of exasperation and anger, he heard the Police Agent’s voice raised in sarcastic wrath. “I must ask you to produce the plan before I begin my Perquisition.”

“But, monsieur,” exclaimed the hotel-keeper piteously, “I cannot give you a plan of our hotel! How should we have such a thing? The house is said to be three hundred years old. We have even been told it should be classed as an Historical Monument!”

“Every hotel-keeper is bound to have a plan of his hotel,” said the Agent roughly. “And I shall report you for not complying with the law. If a plan of the Hôtel Saint Ange did not exist, it was your duty to have one made at your own expense.”

“Bien, bien, monsieur! It shall be done,” said Poulain resignedly.

“To have a Perquisition without a plan is a farce!” said the man, this time addressing Gerald Burton. “An absolute farce! In such an old house as this there may be many secret hiding-places.”

“There are no secret hiding-places in our hotel,” screamed Madame Poulain angrily. “We have no objection at all to being inspected in the greatest detail. But I must warn you, gentlemen, that your job will take some time to carry through.”

The Police Agent shrugged his shoulders disagreeably. “Come along,” he said sharply. “Let us begin at once! We would like to start by seeing your own rooms, madame.”

Gerald Burton began to feel very uncomfortable. Under pleasanter, more normal circumstances he would have thoroughly enjoyed a long exhaustive inspection of a house which had probably been remodelled, early in the eighteenth century, on the site of a mediaeval building.

For the first time since he had begun to study with a view to excelling in the profession he had himself chosen, he had forgotten his work—the work he so much enjoyed—for three whole days. This Perquisition brought some of the old interest back. As an architect he could not but be interested and stimulated by this intimate inspection of what had been a magnificent specimen of a French town mansion.

When the search party reached the bed-chamber of the hotel-keeper and his wife Gerald Burton drew back, but Madame Poulain gave him a smart tap on the arm. “Go in, go in!” she said tartly, but he saw there were tears in her eyes. “We have nothing to hide, Monsieur Gerald! This is my room of memories; the room where our beloved Virginie was born. Little did I think it would ever be dishonoured by the presence of the police!”

Gerald, thus objurgated, walked through into a large room, low-ceilinged as are all rooms situated on the entresol floor of a Paris house.

Over the bed hung Madame Poulain’s wedding wreath of artificial orange blossoms in a round glass case. Photographs of the beloved Virginie taken at various stages of her life, from infancy to girlhood, were the sole other adornment of the room, and formed an odd contrast to the delicately carved frames of the old dim mirrors let into grey panelled walls.

“What have we here?” cried the Police Agent tapping one of the panels which formed the wall opposite the door and the fireplace.

“It is a way through into our daughter’s room,” said Poulain sullenly, and opening what appeared to be a cupboard door.

The American took an eager step forward.

This must be the place in which, according to Nancy’s account, John Dampier had stood concealed during that eventful moment when he, Gerald, and his sister Daisy, had stood looking into the tiny room.

Yes, two or three people might well stand hidden in this deep recess, for the cupboard was almost as large as the smaller of the two apartments of which it formed the connecting link.

The Police Agent, following young Burton, stepped down into Virginie’s room:—his voice softened:—“A very charming room,” he said, “this little nest of mademoiselle your daughter!”

“We had to cut a window out of the wall,” observed Madame Poulain, “When we first came here this was a blind closet where the aristocrats, it seems, used to powder their hair—silly creatures that they were! As if anyone would like to be white before their time!”

“We had better go up this staircase,” said the Police Agent, passing out of Mademoiselle Poulain’s room.

And the six of them all filed up the narrow staircase, glancing into many a curious, strange little apartment on the way.

Every inch of space had been utilised in view of the business the Exhibition rush had brought the Poulains. Still, even on the upper floors, Gerald Burton noticed that there remained intact many beautiful suites of apartments now divided and let out as single rooms.

Not a word had been said of the coming Perquisition to those staying in the hotel. But Madame Poulain, by some means best known to herself, had managed to get rid of them all for the morning. And it was well that she had done so, for in more than one case the Police Agent and his men lifted the lid of travelling trunks, unhesitatingly pulled out drawers, and flung open the doors of hanging cupboards.

Gerald Burton was in turn amused, interested, and disgusted. The glimpses which this search revealed into other people’s lives seemed dishonourable,