MAXINE DE RENZIE’S PART

CHAPTER XVII

MAXINE MAKES A BARGAIN

We looked everywhere, in all possible places, for the diamond necklace, Raoul and I; and to him, poor fellow, its second loss seemed overwhelming.  He did not see in glaring scarlet letters always before his eyes these two words:  “The treaty,” as I did—­for my punishment.  He was in happy ignorance still of that other loss which I—­I, to whom his honour should have been sacred—­had inflicted upon him.  He was satisfied with my story; that through a person employed by me—­a person whose name could not yet be mentioned, even to him—­the necklace had been snatched from the thief who had stolen it.  He blamed himself mercilessly for thinking so little of the brocade bag which I had given him at parting, for letting all remembrance of my words concerning it be put out of his mind by his “wicked jealousy,” as he repentantly called it.  For me, he had nothing but praise and gratitude for what I had done for him.  He begged me to forgive him, and his remorse for such a small thing, comparatively—­wrung my heart.

We searched the garden and the whole street, then came back to search the little drawing-room for the second time, in vain.  It did seem that there was witchcraft in it, as I said to Raoul; but at last I persuaded him to go away, and follow his own track wherever he had been since I gave him the bag with the diamonds.  It was just possible, as it was so late, and his way had led him through quiet streets, that even after all this time the little brocade bag might be lying where he had left it—­or that some honest policeman on his beat might have picked it up.  Besides, there was the cab in which he had come part of the distance to my house.  The bag might have fallen on the floor while he drove:  and there were many honest cabmen in Paris, I reminded him, trying to be as cheerful as I could.

So he left me.  And I was deadly tired; but I had no thought of sleep—­no wish for it.  When I had unlocked the door of my boudoir and found Ivor Dundas gone, as I had hoped he would be, the next hope born in my heart was that he might by and by come back, or send—­with news.  Hour after hour of deadly suspense passed on, and he did not come or make any sign.  At five o’clock Marianne, who had flitted about all night like a restless ghost, made me drink a cup of hot chocolate, and actually put me to bed.  My last words to her were:  “What is the use?  I can’t sleep.  It will be worse to lie and toss in a fever, than sit up.”

Yet I did sleep, and heavily.  She will always deny it, I know, but I’m sure she must have slyly slipped a sleeping-powder into the chocolate.  I was far too much occupied with my own thoughts, as I drank to please her, to think whether or no there was anything at all peculiar in the taste.

Be that as it may, I slept; and when I waked suddenly, starting out of a hateful dream (yet scarcely worse than realities), to my horror it was nearly noon.