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

Mr. Dallas jumps to his feet. He is one of those men who never like sitting still very long. “May I have another lump of sugar, Miss Burton? We were speaking of Paris,—talk of muzzling the press, they know how to muzzle their press in grim earnest in Paris! Talk of suppressing the truth, they don’t even begin to tell the truth there. The Tsar of Russia as an autocrat isn’t in it with the Paris Prefect of Police!”

And two of his listeners say drearily to themselves that Mr. Dallas is a very ignorant man after all. He is evidently one of the many foolish people who believe the French police omnipotent.

But the Englishman goes happily on, quite unconscious that he is treading on what has become forbidden ground in the Burton family circle. “The present man’s name is Beaucourt, a very pleasant fellow! He told me some astounding stories. I wonder if you’d like to hear the one which struck me most?”

He looks round, pleased at their attention, at the silence which has again fallen on them all, and which he naturally takes for consent.

Eagerly he begins: “It was two years ago, at the height of their Exhibition season, and of course Paris was crammed—every house full, from cellar to attic! Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that there were more than five hundred thousand strangers in the city for whose safety, and incidentally for whose health, he was responsible!”

He waits a moment, that thought naturally impresses him more than it does his audience.

“Well, into that gay maelstrom there suddenly arrived a couple of young foreigners. They were well-to-do, and what impressed the little story particularly on Monsieur Beaucourt’s mind was the fact that they were on their honeymoon—you know how sentimental the French are!”

Mr. Dallas looks around. They are all gazing at him with upturned faces—never had he a more polite, a more attentive circle of listeners. There is, however, one exception: his old friend, Mr. Arbuthnot, puts his hand up to conceal a yawn; he has heard the story before.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, these young people—Monsieur Beaucourt thinks they were Americans—had gone to Italy for their honeymoon, and they were ending up in Paris. They arrived late at night—I think form Marseilles—and most providentially they were put on different floors in the hotel they had chosen in the Latin Quarter. Well, that very night—”

Mr. Dallas looks round him triumphantly. He does not exactly smile, for what he is going to say is really rather dreadful, but he has the eager, pleased look which all good story-tellers have when they have come to the point of their story.

“I don’t believe that one man in a million would guess what happened!” He looks round him again, and has time to note complacently that the son of his host, who has risen, and whose hands grip the back of the chair from which he has risen, is staring, fascinated, across at him.

“A very, very strange and terrible thing befell this young couple. That first night of their stay in Paris, between two and three the bridegroom developed plague! Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that the poor fellow behaved with the greatest presence of mind; although he cannot of course have known what exactly was the matter with him, he gave orders that his wife was not to be disturbed, and that the hotel people were to send for a doctor at once. Luckily there was a medical man living in the same street; he leapt on the dreadful truth, sent for an ambulance, and within less than half an hour of the poor fellow’s seizure he was whisked away to the nearest public hospital, where he died five hours later.”

Mr. Dallas waits a moment, he is a little disappointed that no one speaks, and he hurries on:—

“And now comes the point of my story! Monsieur Beaucourt assures me that the fact was kept absolutely secret. He told me that had it leaked out it might have half emptied Paris. French people have a perfect terror of what they call ‘la Peste.’ But not a whisper of the truth got about, and that though a considerable number of people had to know, including many of the officials connected with the Prefecture of Police. The Prefect showed me the poor fellow’s watch and bunch of seals, the only things, of course, that they were able to keep; he really spoke very nicely, very movingly about it—”

And then, at last, the speaker stops abruptly. He has seen his host’s son reel a little, sway as does a man who is drunk, and then fall heavily to the ground.

It is hours later. The sun has long set. Gerald opens his eyes; and then he shuts them again, for he wants to go on dreaming. He is vaguely aware that he is lying in the magnificent Jacobean four-post bed which he had been far too miserable, too agitated to notice when his father had brought him up the night before. But now the restful beauty of the spacious room, the fantastic old coloured maps lining the walls, affect him agreeably, soothe his tired mind and brain.

During that dreamy moment of half-waking he has seen in the shadowed room, for the lights are heavily shaded, the figures of his father and of Daisy; he now hears his father’s whisper:—“The doctor says he is only suffering from shock, but that when he wakes he must be kept very quiet.”

And Daisy’s clear, low voice, “Oh, yes, father. When he opens his eyes perhaps we’d better leave him with Nancy.”

Nancy? Then Nancy really is here, close to him, sitting on a low chair by the side of the bed. And when he opened his eyes just now she really had bent her dear head forward and laid her soft lips on his hand. It was no dream—no dream—

And then there comes over him an overwhelming rush of mingled feelings and emotions. He tries to remember what it was that had happened this afternoon—he sees the active, restless figure of the Englishman dancing queerly up and down as it had seemed to dance just before he, Gerald, fell, and he feels again the horrible wish to laugh which had seized him when that dancing figure had said something about Beaucourt having spoken “very nicely—”

“Curse Beaucourt! Such a fiend is only fit for the lowest depths of Hell.”

Again he opens his eyes. Did he say the ugly words aloud? He thinks not, he hopes not, for Daisy only takes their father’s hand in hers and leads him from the room.

“Nancy?” he says, trying to turn towards her. “Do we know the truth now? Is my search at an end?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “We know the truth now—my dearest. Your search is at an end.”

And as she gets up and bends over him, he feels her tears dropping on his face.

THE END

BOOKS BY MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

THE LODGER net, $1.25 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON net, $1.25 STUDIES IN LOVE AND TERROR net, $1.30 MARY PECHELL net, $1.30 THE CHINK IN THE ARMOUR net, $1.30 JANE OGLANDER net, $1.30

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