CHAPTER XXIV

A GUARDIAN ANGEL

At the turning of Saint Jean bridge by which the headland leading to Cape Ferrat is entered, Hilaire pulled up the car and jumped out.

"Get out," he cried. "They're gaining on us. My engine is misfiring. They'll overtake us in a minute. But I'll go on and they'll follow me, thinking that you are still in the car. I'll manage to pull through all right, never fear."

"I shall stay with the Dodger. Let me go," exclaimed Chéri-Bibi.

But the Nut, assisted by the Dodger, took Chéri-Bibi again by his shoulders and darted behind a sloping bank by the roadside. Just then the police car came into view and the Dodger drove off again.

Nevertheless the police stopped their car at the turning to Saint Jean bridge. They held a consultation. Their suspicions must have been aroused, and they must have seen Hilaire's car pull up, for they split into two parties; one half of them continued their way in the car and the other crossed the bridge.

The Nut took advantage of their indecision to go forward a little way under cover of a wall. Chéri-Bibi begged him for the last time to leave him on the road.

"I have recovered my strength," the Nut returned. "It's all right. The headland is a veritable maze. They won't be able to find us in the darkness. In a quarter of an hour we shall reach the villa gardens. Then we shall be safe."

* * * * *

Françoise in the villa was in a state of the utmost moment when her mind, still obsessed by the fright-anxiety owing to Didier's protracted absence at a full vision which she had seen, could not recover its calm. She began to give way to a feeling of despair which might well overpower her, for she was unable to put it into words. Nevertheless, the fierce misgivings which clutched at her heart would have passed unperceived.

She had the strength to get up. She put on a dressing-gown and lay on a sofa in the little sitting-room which adjoined their rooms. She lit a lamp and took up a book, and dismissed her maid for the night. She requested to be left alone until Captain d'Haumont's return.

Outwardly she appeared quite self-possessed. What she had seen was so dreadful and so incapable of explanation that she felt above all that Didier must not suspect her of having seen the thing. And, in order that he might not suspect it, she strove to assume in front of her servants a listless and impassive look, and an appearance of purely physical weakness which would deceive Didier.

For she would have to deceive him in order to get at the truth; in order to try to understand him. To succeed in her purpose she must rely on herself alone. Her husband's secret was of such a nature and appeared to be wrapped in such appalling mystery that she realized that he would do his utmost to keep it from her rather than to confess the truth. And the truth must be all the more terrible since he was so jealously guarding it.

She refused to drive him to falsehood or subterfuge, or force him to resort to expedients. That would be unworthy of her, unworthy of her love. She meant to take her full share in the deception; that was essential to his happiness. And when, by virtue of wonderful patience and craft, she discovered the truth, she would act as if she did not know it, since it was necessary that she should not know anything. Had not Didier, who was devoted to her and would have died of grief if she had married another man--she was certain of that--had not Didier gone so far as to advise her to marry de Gorbio rather than share his secret with her?

Only by the force of extraordinary circumstances was Didier driven to tell her that he loved her. How could she fail to see that if he now became aware that she knew he might never again tell her that he loved her? Possibly he would leave her. Possibly he would shoot himself. Their marriage had occurred, she saw quite clearly, only because Didier had forgotten for the nonce, the thing that she must not know. Was she by some indiscreet question, some specific lack of intelligence, to recall to his mind this thing whose frightful face she had for a moment caught sight of?

Never! She would hold her peace, and though she might render his formidable task of dissimulation in her presence less difficult. For she now realized that this was no case of some former love affair, or some trivial adventure of which he was disposed to exaggerate the significance as far as she was concerned. No, it was something more than that. After what she had seen, she could not doubt that some horror lay behind the awful thing. . . . But, without allowing him to know anything, she would guard with zealous and unremitting care their love, and her faith in Didier should drive away the trouble.

For she did not doubt him, and perhaps she would love him all the more because he was thus struck down by fate. Her reflections inspired and uplifted her; filled her with a new life. Although Didier had held the monster in his arms, she had not lost her love for him.

Where was he at that moment? Why had he not returned home? She refused to believe his story that he had to report himself in the town. Suddenly she drew herself up. She heard the sound of voices. Someone was violently ringing the garden gate bell. She ran to the French window leading to the balcony which ran round the first floor. She looked out, concealed behind the curtains. The night was sufficiently bright to enable her to distinguish some four or five men. They were calling out. A manservant hastened up to them, opened the gate, and they scattered over the garden on the run. A few words reached her ears.

"The police!" she murmured, and sank back upon the sofa.

At that moment, although every window was closed, she distinctly caught her husband's voice on the balcony: "Everything is locked. . . . We're done for!" She stifled a cry and turned her head. Then, looking above the curtain over the lower part of the balcony window, she saw, behind a number of giant mimosa plants which hid this corner of the frontage, an astounding sight--her husband bending under the monster's weight.

She had the strength to stand up and quietly to open one of the windows at the far end of the balcony, and to fling herself into the darkness of her bedroom. From the back of the room she saw Didier steal into the sitting-room and close the window. As to the monster, he had rolled on to the landing. Didier had scarcely time to push him under the sofa and to take refuge behind a curtain when a knock came at the door.

Then Françoise returned to the sitting-room, lay down cm the sofa, took up her book again, and said, "Come in!"