guests passed into the drawing-room, Clameran and Raoul managed to remain last in the dining-room.
When they were alone, they no longer attempted to conceal their anxiety.
“It is he!” said Raoul.
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Then all is lost; we had better make our escape.”
But a bold adventurer like Clameran had no idea of giving up the ship till forced to do so.
“Who knows what may happen?” he asked, thoughtfully. “There is hope yet. Why did not that muddle-headed banker tell us where this Clameran is to be found?”
Here he uttered a joyful exclamation. He saw M. Fauvel’s memorandum-book lying on the table.
“Watch!” he said to Raoul.
Seizing the note-book, he hurriedly turned over the leaves, and, in an undertone, read:
“Gaston, Marquis of Clameran, Oloron, Lower Pyrenees.”
“Well, does finding out his address assist us?” inquired Raoul, eagerly.
“It may save us: that is all. Let us return to the drawing-room; our absence might be observed. Exert yourself to appear unconcerned and gay. You almost betrayed us once by your agitation.”
“The two women suspect something.”
“Well, suppose they do?”
“The best thing that we can do is escape; the sooner we leave Paris, the better.”
“Do you think we should do any better in London? Don’t be so easily frightened. I am going to plant my batteries, and I warrant they will prove successful.”
They joined the other guests. But, if their conversation had not been overheard their movements had been watched.
Madeleine looked through the half-open door, and saw Clameran consulting her uncle’s note-book, and whispering to Raoul. But what benefit would she derive from this proof of the marquis’s villany? She knew now that he was plotting to obtain her fortune, and she would be forced to yield it to him; that he had squandered his brother’s fortune, and was now frightened at the prospect of having to account for it. Still this did not explain Raoul’s conduct. Why did he show such fear?
Two hours later, Clameran was on the road to Vesinet with Raoul, explaining to him his plans.
“It is my precious brother, and no mistake,” he said. “But that need not alarm you so easily, my lovely nephew.”
“Merciful powers! Doesn’t the banker expect to see him any day? Is he not liable to pounce down on me to-morrow?”
“Don’t be an idiot!” interrupted Clameran. “Does he know that Fauvel is Valentine’s husband? That is what we must find out. If he knows that little fact, we must take to our heels; if he is ignorant of it, our case is not desperate.”
“How will you find out?”
“By simply asking him.”
Raoul exclaimed at his ally’s cunning:
“That is a dangerous thing to do,” he said.
“‘Tis not as dangerous as sitting down with our hands folded. And, as to running away at the first suspicion of alarm, it would be imbecility.”
“Who is going to look for him?”
“I am.”
“Oh, oh, oh!” exclaimed Raoul in three different tones. Clameran’s audacity confounded him.
“But what am I going to do?” he inquired after a moment’s silence.
“You will oblige me by remaining here and keeping quiet. I will send you a despatch if there is danger; and then you can decamp.”
As they parted at Raoul’s door, Clameran said:
“Now, remember. Stay here, and during my absence be very intimate at your devoted mother’s. Be the most dutiful of sons. Abuse me as much as you please to her; and, above all, don’t indulge in any folly; make no demands for money; keep your eyes open. Good-by. To-morrow evening I will be at Oloron talking with this new Clameran.”
XVIII
After leaving Valentine de la Verberie, Gaston underwent great peril and difficulty in effecting his escape.
But for the experienced and faithful Menoul, he never would have succeeded in embarking.
Having left his mother’s jewels with Valentine, his sole fortune consisted of not quite a thousand francs; and with this paltry sum in his pocket, the murderer of two men, a fugitive from justice, and with no prospect of earning a livelihood, he took passage for Valparaiso.
But Menoul was a bold and experienced sailor.
While Gaston remained concealed in a farm-house at Camargue, Menoul went to Marseilles, and that very evening discovered, from some of his sailor friends, that a three-masted American vessel was in the roadstead, whose commander, Captain Warth, a not over-scrupulous Yankee, would be glad to welcome on board an able-bodied man who would be of assistance to him at sea.
After visiting the vessel, and finding, during a conversation over a glass of rum with the captain, that he was quite willing to take a sailor without disturbing himself about his antecedents, Menoul returned to Gaston.
“Left to my own choice, monsieur,” he said, “I should have settled this matter on the spot; but you might object to it.”
“What suits you, suits me,” interrupted Gaston.
“You see, the fact is, you will be obliged to work very hard. A sailor’s life is not boy’s play. You will not find much pleasure in it. And I must confess that the ship’s company is not the most moral one I ever saw. You never would imagine yourself in a Christian company. And the captain is a regular swaggering bully.”
“I have no choice,” said Gaston. “Let us go on board at once.”
Old Menoul’s suspicions were correct.
Before Gaston had been on board the Tom Jones forty-eight hours, he saw that chance had cast him among a collection of the most depraved bandits and cut-throats.
The vessel, which seemed to have recruited at all points of the compass, possessed a crew composed of every variety of thievish knaves; each country had contributed a specimen.
But Gaston’s mind was undisturbed as to the character of the people with whom his lot was cast for several months.
It was only his miserable wounded body, that the vessel was carrying to a new country. His heart and soul rested in the shady park of La Verberie, beside his
