“America is the place,” he said to himself. “Some seacoast city in South America would suit me down to the ground. But that kind of life would only be comfortable with an assured income; and how am I to feel secure of my income if I leave Europe? As to Treverton being in trouble—I can afford to take that coolly. They can’t hang him. The evidence against him is not strong enough to hang a mongrel dog. No, unless other names are brought up, the thing must blow over. But if I put the high seas between Mr. and Mrs. Treverton and me, how can I be sure of my pension? They may snap their fingers at me when I am on the other side of the herring-pond.”
This was a serious consideration, yet Desrolles had a lurking conviction that it would be wise for him to get to America as soon as he could. Paris might suit him admirably, but Paris was unpleasantly near London. The police of the two cities were doubtless in frequent communication.
He went to a shipping office, and got the time bill of the American steamers that were to sail from Havre during the next six weeks. He carried this document about with him for two or three days, and studied it frequently in his quiet moments. He knew the names of the steamers and their tonnage by heart, but he had not yet made up his mind to which vessel he would entrust himself and his fortunes. There was La Reine Blanche, which sailed for Valparaiso in a week’s time. There was the Zenobie, which sailed for Rio Janeiro in a fortnight. He was divided between these two.
He told himself that he must have an outfit of some kind for his voyage. This and his passage would cost at least fifty pounds. Of the hundred which John Treverton had given him he had only sixty remaining.
“There will not be much left by the time I get to the south,” he said to himself. “But I don’t think Laura will throw me over. Besides, if the money is paid to my account in Shepherd’s Inn, the Trevertons need never know my whereabouts.”
He made up his mind at last that he would go by the Reine Blanche, the ship which sailed earliest. He went to the Belle Jardiniere, and laid out ten pounds upon clothing, and bought himself a portmanteau to hold his new garments, He called at the agents to take his passage and pay the necessary deposit, to secure his berth.
He had intended to go to the New World with a new name, but exhausted nature had required a good deal of stimulant after the purchase of the outfit, and by the time he reached the office Mr. Desrolles was, in his own phraseology, rather far gone. It was as much as he could do to reckon his money when he took a handful of loose gold and silver from his pocket. The clerk had to help him. When the clerk asked him his name, he answered without thinking—Desrolles; but in the next moment a ray of light flashed through the darkness of his clouded brain, and he corrected himself.
“Beg pardon,” he ejaculated, spasmodically. “Desrolles a friend’s name. My name’s Mowbray. Colonel Mowbray, citizen, United States. Just finished a grand tour of Europe. ’Mericans very fond of Paris. Charming city. Good deal altered since my last tour—twent’ years ago. Not altered for the better.”
“Oh, then your name is not Desrolles, but Mowbray,” said the clerk, scanning the American colonel somewhat suspiciously.
“Yes, Mowbray. M-o-w-b-r-a-y,” answered Desrolles, laboriously.
He left the office, and being too far gone to have any definite views as to his destination, drifted vaguely to the Palais Royal, where he came to anchor at the Café de la Rotonde, and there called for the usual dose of absinthe, into which he poured half a tumbler of water, with a tremulous hand.
He fell asleep in the snug corner by the stove, and slept off something of his intoxication; or at least he awoke so far refreshed as to remember an appointment he had made with one of his new friends of the Quartier Latin, to dine at a restaurant on the Quai des Grands Augustins.
He had plenty of time to spare, so he sauntered round the Palais Royal, and stared idly at the shop windows, till he came to one where there was a great display of diamonds, when he recoiled as if he had seen an adder, and turned quickly aside into the gravelly garden, where he flung himself upon a bench, trembling from head to foot. “Curse them,” he muttered, “curse those shining shams. They have ruined me body and soul. I never took to drinking—hard—until after that.”
Beads of sweat broke out upon his contacted brow as he sat there, staring straight before him, as if at some horrid vision. Then he pulled himself together with an effort, braced his shattered nerves, and left the Palais Royal with something of the old “long sword, saddle, bridle” swagger, which had been peculiar to him twenty years ago, when he called himself Captain Desmond, and had not yet forgotten his youthful days in a cavalry regiment.
He kept his appointment, treated his new friend like a prince, dined luxuriously, and drank deeply of the strongest Burgundy in the wine list, winding up with numerous glasses of Chartreuse. After dinner Mr. Desrolles and his guest repaired to a café on the Boulevard St. Michel, where there was a billiard-table; and the rest of the evening was devoted to billiards, Desrolles growing noisier, more quarrelsome, and less distinct of utterance as the night wore on.
There were two things which Mr. Desrolles did not know: first, that his new friend was a distinguished member of
