exclaimed the younger man. “She has arrived! She promised she would come to-night.”
The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Valérie Dedieu entered.
Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat, battered and faded.
Her disguise was complete.
“Well, you see I’m here as requested,” she exclaimed, as she burst into the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged old leather sofa.
“Ah, ma petite lapin, we’re glad you’ve come,” Bérard replied, with a smile. “If Mahomet can’t go to the mountain because he has no decent clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet.”
“That’s so,” she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a chair at the table. “I look nice in this get-up, don’t I? Pierre, give me a cigarette. You’ve apparently forgotten your manners towards a lady,” she added reproachfully.
The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.
“Now, how have you been getting on?” she inquired.
“Deuced badly,” Bérard replied. “We’re hard up and must have money.”
“Money! C’est du réchauffé! Valérie cried in dismay. Mon Dieu! I’ve none. I’m almost penniless, and must have some from you.”
“What?” cried Rouillier. “You can’t give us any?”
“No, not a sou,” she replied. “An appearance such as I’m bound to keep up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are something enormous.”
“Then how do you expect we can live?” asked Bérard, with an injured expression and violent gesticulation.
“I’m sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor. You know better how to obtain funds than I. Live as you’ve lived for the past five years. You both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will continue to do so somehow or other.”
“This handsome salon looks like luxury, doesn’t it?” remarked Pierre, smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.
“Well, certainly there’s nothing gorgeous about it,” she admitted, laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.
Bérard shook his head impatiently. He did not care to be reminded of days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not at her visit.
“Look here,” he said, gazing up at her suddenly. “It’s no use chattering like an insane magpie. What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know, and I care very little,” she replied candidly. “I want money, and if I don’t get it the whole affair will collapse.”
And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent unconcern.
“But how are we to get it? No one will lend it to us.”
“Don’t talk absurdly. I have no desire to be acquainted with the means by which you obtain it. I want a thousand pounds. And,” she added coolly, “I tell you I must have it.”
The two men were silent. They knew Valérie of old, and were fully convinced that argument was useless.
Leaning her elbows upon the table, she puffed at her rank cigarette with all the gusto of an inveterate smoker, and watched their puzzled, thoughtful faces.
“Would that sum suffice until – ?” Bérard asked mysteriously, giving her a keen glance, and not completing the sentence.
Although her face was naturally pallid, it was easy to discern that the agitation of the last few moments had rendered it even more pale than usual, and her hand was twitching impatiently.
“Yes,” she answered abruptly.
“Couldn’t you make shift with five hundred?” he suggested hesitatingly.
“No,” she said decisively; “it would be absolutely useless. I must have a thousand to settle my present debts; then I can go on for six, perhaps twelve months, longer.”
“And after that?” inquired Pierre.
She arched her eyebrows, and, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug, replied —
“Well – I suppose I shall have the misfortune to marry some day or another.”
All three smiled grimly.
“How are matters progressing in that direction?” Victor asked, with a curious expression.
“As favourably as can be expected,” replied Valérie in an indifferent tone. “If a woman is chic and decorous at the same time, and manages to get in with a good set, she need not go far for suitors.”
“Have you seen the Sky Pilot?” inquired Victor, with a thoughtful frown.
“Yes, I met Hubert Holt a few days ago at Eastbourne. He asked after you.”
“Shall I find him at the usual place?”
“Yes; but it would not be safe to go there.”
“Then I’ll write. I must see him to-morrow.”
“Why?”
“You want le pognon?” he asked snappishly.
“I do.”
“Then, if we are to get it, he must give us his aid,” he said ominously.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, evidently comprehending his meaning. “But you are not very hospitable,” she added. “Have you got anything to drink?”
“Not a drop.”
“Malheureux! you’ve fallen on evil times, my dears,” she said, laughing uneasily.
Taking out her small, silver-mounted purse, she emptied its contents upon the table. This consisted of two sovereigns and some silver. The former she handed to Victor, saying, —
“That’s all I can give you just now.”
He put them into his pocket without a word of thanks, while she sat back in her chair whistling a few bars of a popular chansonette eccentrique.
“Pierre,” Bérard said sullenly, at the same time vigorously apostrophising the “diable,” “we’re in a difficulty, and the only way we can obtain the money is by another – er – disappearance.”
“What, again?” cried Valérie. “Why, poor Pierre is vanishing fast enough already. He’s almost a skeleton now,” and she pointed at his lean figure derisively.
“I don’t get enough to eat nowadays,” declared he, pulling a wry face.
“Do
