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Chapter Seventeen
The House of the Wicked

Next afternoon Liane and Zertho strolled up to Cimiez together to pay a call upon a Parisian family named Bertholet, who lived in one of those fine white houses high up on the Boulevard de Cimiez, and who had recently accepted the Prince’s hospitality.

As they turned from the dusty Boulevard Carabacel, and commenced the long ascent where the tree-lined road runs straight up to the glaring white façade of the Excelsior Regina Hotel, Zertho expressed a fear that she would be fatigued ere they reached their destination, and urged her to take a cab.

“I’m not at all tired,” she assured him, nevertheless halting a second, flushed and warm, to regain breath. “The day is so beautiful that a walk will do me no end of good.”

“It’s a dreadful bore to have to toil up and call on these people, but I suppose I must be polite to them. They are worth knowing. Bertholet is, I hear, a well-known banker in Paris.”

Liane smiled. The patronising air with which her companion spoke of his newly-found friends always amused her.

“Besides,” he added, “we must now make the best of the time we have in Nice. We leave to-morrow, or the day after.”

“So sudden!” she exclaimed, surprised. “I thought we should remain for another fortnight or three weeks. The weather is so delightful.”

“I have arranged it with the Captain,” he said briefly. “Do you regret leaving?”

“How can I regret?” she asked, glancing at him and raising her brows slightly. “How can I regret when the place, so fair in itself, is to me so hateful? No, I’m glad for several reasons that we are leaving.”

She recollected at that moment what George had told her. Mariette Lepage was near them. She remembered, too, the fierce expression of hatred in that pair of angry eyes shining through the mask.

“Yes,” he said at length, “one can have too much of a good thing, and sometimes it is even possible to have too much of the Riviera. I have the satisfaction at least of having succeeded in obtaining a footing in society.” And he laughed as he added, “A year ago I was a down-at-heel adventurer, almost too shabby to obtain admittance at Monte Carlo, while to-day I’m welcomed everywhere, even among the most exclusive set. And why? Merely because I have money and impudence.”

“Yes,” Liane admitted, with a touch of sorrow. “This is indeed a curious world. There is a good deal of truth in the saying that a man is too often judged by his coat.”

“And a woman by her dress,” he added quickly. “When you are Princess d’Auzac, you will find that other women will crowd around you and pet you, and declare you are the most beautiful girl of the year – as, of course, you are – all because you have wealth and a title. They like to speak to their friends of ‘My friend the Princess So-and-So.’”

“You are very complimentary,” she answered, coldly. “I have no desire to excite either the admiration or envy of other women.”

“Because you have never yet fully realised how beautiful you are,” he answered.

“Oh yes, I have. Every woman knows the exact worth of her good looks.”

“Some over-estimate them, no doubt,” he said, with a laugh. “But you have always under-estimated yours. If the Captain had chosen he could have already married you to a dozen different men, all wealthy and distinguished.”

“Dear old dad loved me too well to sacrifice my happiness for money,” she said, climbing slowly the steep hill.

“Yet you declare that you are doing so by marrying me,” he observed, his eyes fixed upon the ground.

“I am only marrying you because you compel me,” she answered, huskily. “You know that.”

“Why do you hate me?” he cried, dismayed. “I have surely done my best to render your life here happy? In the past I admired your grace and your beauty, but because of my poverty I dared not ask the Captain for you. Now that I have the means to give you the luxury which a woman like yourself must need, you spurn my love, and – ”

“Your love!” she cried, with a gesture of disgust, her eyes flashing angrily. “Do not speak to me of love. You may tell other women that you love them, but do not lie to me!”

“It is no lie,” he answered. She had never spoken so frankly before, and her manner showed a fierce determination which surprised him.

“You have a manner so plausible that you can utter falsehoods so that they appear as gospel truth,” she said. “Remember, however, that you and my father were once fellow-adventurers, and that years ago I thoroughly gauged your character and found it exactly as superficial and unprincipled as it is now.”

“The past is forgotten,” he snapped. “It is useless to throw into my face facts and prejudices which I am striving to live down.”

“No,” she cried. “The past is not forgotten, otherwise you would not compel me to become your wife. How can you say that the past is buried, when at this moment you hold me beneath your hateful thrall, merely because my face and my figure please you, merely because you desire that I should become your wife?”

“With you at my side I shall, I trust, lead a better life,” he said, calmed by her rebuff.

“It is useless to cant in that manner,” she exclaimed, turning upon him fiercely. “In you, the man I have always mistrusted as knavish and unscrupulous, I can never place confidence. The mean, shabby, tricks you have served men who have been your friends are in themselves sufficient proof of your utter lack of good-will, and show me that you are dead to all honour. Without confidence there can be no love.”

“I have promised before Heaven to make you happy,” he answered.

“Ah, no,” she said, in a choking voice of bitter reproach. “Speak not of holy things, you, whose heart is so black. If you would make your peace with God give me back my liberty, my life, before it is too late.”

Her face was pale, her lips were dry, and she panted as she spoke.

But they had gained the gate of the villa where they were to call, and pushing it open he held it back with a low bow for her to pass. Her grey eyes, so full of grief and despair, met his for an instant, and she saw he was inexorable. Then she passed in up to the door, and a few minutes later found herself in the salon chatting with her voluble hostess, while Zertho sat with Madame’s two smart daughters, both true Parisiennes in manner, dress, and speech.

“We only heard to-day of your engagement to the Prince,” Madame Bertholet was saying in French. “We must congratulate you. I’m sure I wish you every happiness.”

“Thank you,” she said, with a forced smile. “It is extremely good of you.”

“And when and where do you marry?”

“In Brussels, in about three weeks,” Liane answered, striving to preserve an outward appearance of happiness. It was, however, but a sorry attempt. From the windows of their salon Madame Bertholet and her daughters had noticed the strange imploring look upon Liane’s face as they had approached the gate, and had wondered.

Yet when she had entered she had sparkled with fun and vivacity, and it was only the mention of marriage which had disarmed her.

“After Brussels you will, of course, go to your new home in Luxembourg,” said Madame. “Have you seen it?”

Liane replied in the negative.

“I happen to know Luxembourg very well. My brother, strangely enough, is one of the Prince’s tenants.”

“Oh, then, you of course know my future home,” exclaimed Liane, suddenly interested.

“Yes, very well. The château is a fine old place perched high up, overlooking a beautiful fertile valley,” her hostess replied. “I once went there a few years ago, when the old Prince was alive, and I well remember being charmed by the romantic quaintness of its interior. Inside, one is back three centuries; with oak panelling, old oak furniture, great old-fashioned fireplaces with cosy corners, and narrow windows, through which long ago archers shed their flights of arrows. There is a dungeon, too; and a dark gloomy prison-chamber in one of the round turrets. It is altogether a most delightful old place.”

“Gloomy, I suppose?” observed Liane thoughtfully.

“Well, life amid such old-world surroundings as those could scarcely be quite as bright or enjoyable as Nice or Paris, but it is nevertheless a magnificent and well-preserved relic of a bygone age. Without doubt it is one of the finest of feudal châteaux in Europe.”

“Are any of the rooms modern?”

“None,” Madame replied. “It seems to have been the hobby of the Princes d’Auzac to preserve intact its ancient character. You will be envied as the possessor of such a fine old place. I shall be delighted to come and see you when you are settled – if I may.”

“Certainly. I, too, shall be delighted,” Liane answered mechanically. “In a place like that one will require a constant supply of visitors to make life at all endurable. It is, I fear, one of those grey, forbidding-looking old places as full of rats as it is of traditions.”

“I don’t know about the rats,” her hostess answered, laughing heartily. “But there are, I know, many quaint and curious legends connected with the place. My brother told me some.”

“What were they about?”

“Oh, about the tyranny of the d’Auzacs who, in the middle ages, ravaged the Eiffel and the Moselle valley, and more than once attacked the town of Trêves itself. In those days the name of d’Auzac was synonymous of all that was cruel and brutal; but the family have become civilised since then, and,” she added, looking towards Zertho, who was laughing with her two daughters, “the Prince scarcely looks a person to be feared.”

“No,” observed Liane, with a forced smile. To her also the name of d’Auzac was synonymous of cunning, brutality, and unscrupulousness. She pictured to herself the great mountain stronghold, a grim, grey relic of an age of barbarism, the lonely dreary place peopled by ghosts of an historic past, that was to be her home, in which she was to live with this man who held her enthralled. Then she shuddered.

Her hostess noticed it, wondered, but attributed it to the draught from the open window. To her it was inconceivable that any girl could refuse Prince Zertho’s offer of marriage. He was one of the most eligible of men, his polished manner had made him a favourite everywhere, and one heard his wealth discussed wherever one visited. Either of her own daughters would, she knew, be only too pleased to become Princess.

Liane, although nothing of a coquette, was nevertheless well enough versed in the ways of the world to be tactful when occasion required, and at this moment strenuously strove not to betray her world-weariness. Although consumed by grief and despair she nevertheless smiled with feigned contentment, and a moment later with an air so gay and flippant that none would guess the terrible dread which was wearing out her young life, joined in the light amusing chatter with Madame’s daughters.

“We saw you at Monte Carlo last night,” one of the girls exclaimed, suddenly, addressing Zertho.

“Did you?” he answered, with a start. “I really saw nothing of you.”

“We were quite close to you,” observed her sister, “You were sitting with Captain Brooker, and were having quite a run of good fortune when, suddenly, you both jumped up and disappeared like magic. We tried to attract your attention, but you would not glance in our direction. Before we could get round to you you had gone. Why did you leave so quickly?”

“We wanted to catch our train,” Zertho answered, a lie ever ready upon his lips. “We had only three minutes, and just managed to scramble in.”

“Did you notice a fine, handsome-looking woman at the table, a woman in blue dress trimmed with silver?” asked Madame Bertholet.

Zertho again started. In a second, however, he recovered his self-possession.

“I am afraid I did not,” he replied with a smile.

“I was too intent upon the game. Besides,” and he paused, glancing at Liane, “female beauty ought not to attract me now.”

They all laughed in chorus.

“Of course not,” Madame agreed. “But the woman wore such a gay costume, and was altogether so reckless that I thought you might have noticed her. Everybody was looking at her. I was told that she is a well-known gambler who has won huge sums at various times, and is invariably so lucky that she is known to habitués of the table as ‘The Golden Hand.’”

“Everything her hand touches turns to gold – eh?” Zertho hazarded. “I only wish my fingers possessed the same potency. It must be delightful.”

“But she’s not at all a desirable acquaintance, if all I hear is true,” Madame observed. “Do you know nothing of her by repute?”

“I fancy I’ve heard the sobriquet before,” he replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice her. Did she win?”

Liane and the Prince exchanged significant glances. “Yes, while we watched she won, at a rough estimate, nearly twenty thousand francs,” one of the girls said.

“A friend who accompanied us told us all about her,” Madame observed. “Hers has been a most remarkable career. It appears that at one time she was well-known in Paris as a singer at La Scala, and the music halls in the Champs Elysées, but some mysterious circumstance caused her to leave Paris hurriedly. She was next heard of in New York, where she was singing at the music halls, and it was said that she returned to France at the country’s expense, but that, on being brought before the tribunal, the charge against her could not be substantiated, and she was therefore released. Subsequently, after a strange and chequered life, she turned up about four years ago at Monte Carlo, and became so successful that very soon she had amassed a considerable sum of money. To the attendants and those who frequent the Casino she is a mystery. For sheer recklessness no woman who comes to the tables has her equal; yet she is invariably alone, plays at her own discretion without consulting anyone, and with a thoroughly business-like air, speaks to scarcely anybody, and always rises from the table at eleven, whether winning or losing. Indeed, ‘The Golden Hand’ is altogether a most remarkable person.”

“Curious,” observed Zertho, reflectively. “I wish I had noticed her. You say she was sitting at our table?”

“Yes,” answered one of the girls. “She sat straight before you, and because you were winning she watched you closely several times.”

“Watched me!” he exclaimed, dismayed.

“Yes,” answered the girl, with a laugh. “Why, you speak as if she possessed the evil eye, or something! She’s smart and good-looking certainly, but I don’t think Liane need fear in her a rival.”

“Scarcely,” he answered, with a forced smile. But the alarming truth possessed him that Mariette had surreptitiously watched Brooker and himself before they had discovered her presence. He reproached himself bitterly for having gone to Monte Carlo that night, yet gambler that he was he had been unable to resist the temptation of the tables once again ere they left the Riviera.

But the woman known as “The Golden Hand” had watched them both, and by this time most probably knew where they were living. Neither he nor the Captain had any idea that Mariette Lepage still hovered about the tables, or they would certainly never have set foot inside the Principality.

Liane in her cool summer-like gown sat in a low wicker lounge-chair and listened to this description of the notorious woman without uttering a word. She dared not trust herself to speak lest she should divulge the secret within her breast. She had grown uncomfortable, and only breathed more freely when, ten minutes later, they made their adieux and began to descend the Boulevard back to Nice.

“So your old friend Mariette has seen you!” she exclaimed, as soon as they had walked twenty paces from the house.

“Yes,” he snapped. “Another illustration of my accursed luck. The sooner we leave Nice the better.”

“Very well,” she answered, with a weary sigh. She did not tell him that she had already ascertained from George Stratfield that “The Golden Hand” had been to Nice.

“We must leave for Paris,” he said briefly. “It will not be wise to run too great a risk. If she chooses she can make things extremely unpleasant.”

“For you?”

“No,” he answered, turning quickly towards her. “For you.”

She held her breath; the colour fled from her cheeks. He lost no opportunity of reminding her of the terrible past, and as he glanced at her and watched the effect of his words he saw with satisfaction that he still held her in a thraldom of fear.

“I thought she had left France,” he continued, as if to himself. “I had no idea that she was still here. Fortune must have been kind to her of late.”

Liane said nothing. She had not failed to notice his anxiety when Mademoiselle Bertholet had explained how Mariette had watched him, and she wondered whether, after all, he feared this remarkable woman who had played such a prominent part in their past lives; this notorious gambler who was her bitterest foe.

She was already tired of Nice, and recognised that to remain longer was only to endanger herself. The Nemesis she had so long dreaded seemed to be closing upon her.

In the Boulevard Carabacel they took an open cab to drive home, but while crossing the Place opposite the Post Office they encountered George Stratfield walking. As he passed he raised his hat to Liane, and she greeted him with a smile of sadness.

Zertho noticed the young Englishman, and his bearded face grew dark.

“What! So your lover is also here!” he exclaimed in surprise, turning to catch another glance of the well set-up figure in light grey tweed. She had carefully concealed from him and from her father the fact that George had come to Nice.

“Yes,” she answered simply, looking straight before her.

“Why did you hide the truth from me?” he demanded angrily.

“Because the knowledge that he was here could not have benefited you,” she answered.

“You have met him, of course, clandestinely,” he said, regarding her with knit brows.

“I do not deny it.”

“And you have told him, I hope, that you are to be my wife?”

“I have,” she sighed.

“Then you must not meet again. You understand,” he exclaimed fiercely. “Send the fellow back to London.”

She bit her lip, but made no answer. Her eyes were filled with tears. Without any further words they drove rapidly along the Promenade, at that hour chill after the fading of the sun, until the cab with its jingling bells pulled up before the Pension, and Liane alighted. For an instant she turned to him, bowing, then entered the villa.

Her father was out, and on going into her own room she locked the door, cast down her sunshade, tossed her hat carelessly aside, and pushing her hair from her fevered brow with both hands, stood at the open window gazing aimlessly out upon the sea. A sense of utter loneliness crept over her forlorn heart. She was, she told herself, entirely friendless, now that her father desired her to marry Zertho. Hers had been at best a cheerless, melancholy life, yet it was now without either hope, happiness, or love. The sea stretching before her was like her own future, impenetrable, a great grey expanse, dismal and limitless, without a single gleam of brightness, growing every instant darker, more obscure, more mysterious.

Thoughts of the man she loved so fondly surged through her troubled mind. She remembered how sad and melancholy he had looked when she had passed him by; how bitterly he had smiled when she bowed to him. The memory of his dear face brought back to her all the terrible past, all the hopelessness of the future, all the hideousness of the truth.

She sank beside her bed, and burying her face in the white coverlet gave way to her emotion, shedding a torrent of tears.

The dusk deepened, the twilight faded and darkness fell, still she sobbed on, murmuring constantly the name of the one man on earth she loved.

A low tapping at the door aroused her, and thinking it was her father she hastily dried her eyes and stumbled blindly across the dark room to admit him. It was, however, the Provençal femme de chambre, who handed her a note, saying in her quaint patois —

“A letter for Mademoiselle. It was brought a minute or two ago by a man who gave it to me, with strict injunctions to give it only into Mademoiselle’s own hands.”

“Thank you, Justine,” she answered, in a low hoarse voice, then, closing the door again, she lit a candle, and mechanically tearing open the note found that it was dated from the Villa Fortunée, Monaco, and signed by Mariette. In it the woman who was her enemy made a strange request. She first asked that she should say no word to her father or to Zertho regarding the receipt of the note or inform them of her address, and then, continuing, she wrote: “To-morrow, at two o’clock, call upon George Stratfield, who is, as you know, staying at the Grand Hotel, and he will bring you over here to my house. It is imperative that I should see you. Fear nothing, but come. George is my friend, and he will be awaiting you.”