“And she did not?”
“Would I be here worrying about her if she had? You can understand that I was terribly uneasy—” Marousse seemed to be playing with words, repeating himself in an attempt to reach what he had come to say: “When night came again and the street lamps were on I lost my head completely, or I did the right thing, I don’t know. I went to the police.”
“You did!” Guiret exclaimed.
“What else could I do? What would anyone have done in my place? A well-dressed woman, with valuable jewels—Chouchou always carries a large sum of money on her. I have known her to go out with four thousand francs to buy a postage stamp. I am sure something terrible has happened to her—or—” He broke off and perspiration beaded his pasty forehead.
Guiret tried to think of something to say to calm him, for his own forehead was damp at the thought of Marousse going again to the police.
“What I am about to say may seem brutal, Marousse, but is it not possible that Chouchou— Are you quite sure that—I mean, if she were deceiving you with someone else that would explain—”
Marousse tapped his shoe with the end of his cane. He showed no resentment or surprise at what Guiret had said. On the contrary, after one or two attempts to speak, he seemed to agree by nodding his head.
“Yes, I have asked myself that,” he said, after a while. “And since you are frank with me, I will be frank with you. I had the firm conviction that you know where she is.”
“Me!” Guiret exclaimed.
“You need not pretend with me. I am no longer a boy, I am past forty-five, neither handsome nor clever. I have nothing except money to offer a pretty young woman like Chouchou. I understand that and would excuse many things.”
“I don’t see what you’re trying to get at,” Guiret said.
“I am neither a fool nor blind. I tell you that I could not help noticing that Chouchou and Barthe—before he lost so heavily at cards that he was depressed—did you not notice? What I mean to say is, I would be the happiest man on earth to learn that she is alive and well. That’s how much I have suffered with worry. Even though she had come here to wait for Barthe after she left us—”
“What a mad idea!”
“But you would say just that even if she had. I tell you, I will not make a scene. All I want to know is that nothing terrible has happened to her, that she is here—”
“Here—” Guiret repeated, turning pale. “No, no—I swear it.”
“You give me your word?”
“Yes, my word—”
But Marousse continued to stare at the door leading to the bedrooms.
“If it is necessary for you to convince yourself, Marousse—” Guiret said presently.
“Oh, no,” Marousse protested, flushing. “I must believe you.”
“But I don’t want you leaving here unless you really believe me, and there is only one way to prove—” He opened the door and indicated that Marousse might search.
Deeply embarrassed but holding to his firm purpose to purchase peace of mind at all costs, Marousse stepped into the bedroom. Barthe, lying on the bed, his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the light, did not stir, and Marousse tiptoed by him to inspect Guiret’s room, which was beyond.
“I must ask your pardon,” Marousse said to Guiret when they were again in the sitting-room. He sat down weakly on the trunk. The conviction which had whipped his courage deserted him. Guiret held himself very erect, icy in his manner.
“I can only think the worst now,” Marousse said.
“Wait until late tonight,” Guiret suggested. “Why make a fool of yourself if she— Anyway, if harm has already come to her what good will it do?”
Marousse did not seem to hear him. He picked up his hat and stick and went out slowly, almost regretfully, as if he sensed that in this room there was something that should have held him back.
“My God—” whispered Guiret, when the door had closed after him. “That time I thought we were surely gone!”
“Yes,” Barthe said, for he had come to the doorway and was standing there weakly, as if the strength had left his limbs.
He seemed more composed, however, and Guiret calmed himself, spurred on by what he believed to be a necessity—to tell Barthe of his plans before he could sink again into the hopeless terror that seemed always ready to engulf him.
“If Legros is downstairs when we leave I shall direct the driver of the taxi to the East Station. I can change the order later. Whatever happens do not show surprise by a gesture or word at anything I do. There must be one head to this. Is that understood?”
“It is understood,” Barthe agreed, and he added, thinking for the first time of his physical misery, “God, but I’m tired! If I could only snatch a little sleep.”
“But you’ve been sleeping since daylight! We must hold ourselves in readiness. Later, perhaps, but first of all, be ready.”
It was not long after that he heard a clock strike ten. He wound and set the clock. The minutes seemed longer with the exact knowledge of their passing.
“I wonder why Legros does not show up?” he said after a while, and restlessly opened the door and went to the landing to look down and listen for voices. When he came back into the room he recoiled and paled, for it seemed to him that the air was already impregnated with a vague and terrible odor.
“What’s the matter?” Barthe asked, noticing his sudden pallor. “Is anything wrong?”
“I hope we can get away soon.”
He cried out with joy when a few minutes later he heard Legros’ steps on the stairs. Legros knocked at the door and showed a smiling face.
“Monsieur Guiret, here is the bill.”
“That’s fine!”
He went through the formality of verifying the addition, but the figures danced madly before his eyes.
“Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-two francs is correct, is it not?” Legros asked.
Guiret had opened his wallet. There were two one-thousand-franc bills but no change.
“What have you got, Barthe?”
Barthe had no change either.
“We’ll have to get this five hundred franc bill changed,” Guiret said, and handed it to the concierge.
“That may not be so easy around here. I may have to go to the Post Office.”
“Well, go then—”
“But I cannot go just now, Monsieur Guiret. You see I am alone downstairs. My wife has gone to market and I cannot leave the premises. The proprietor is very strict about that. Someone might come to look at the apartments.”
“But we can’t wait around here until your wife gets back!”
“You could go yourself, or Monsieur Barthe—”
“Monsieur Barthe has a headache and I am waiting here for someone.”
“My wife will not be gone long. Surely in half an hour—”
“But we’ll miss our train.”
“We could gain time this way,” the concierge suggested. “I could take your baggage down now and leave it in the corridor. And coming back from getting the change—that is, after my wife returns so that I can go—I could call a taxi.”
“Leave the trunk downstairs in the corridor?”
The thought of that seemed to lay an icy hand upon both of the men. Only when they watched it did they feel relatively secure. It seemed to them that peril commenced the moment they ceased to watch it. When that time arrived they must be speeding away in the opposite direction.
“Why not?” Legros asked, and it was then that Guiret realized that he had spoken aloud.
“Because even then there might not be time.”
Legros shrugged. Barthe started to pace the floor. Guiret tried to think of something to say to reassure him, although he himself felt that he was perilously near the breaking point. What if the nervous tension that held him together should suddenly desert him at the decisive moment! Already he could see that one could not definitely plan on anything. There were always unexpected delays.