William Le Queux - The Temptress

“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 stop your chatter, Valérie,” Victor said angrily, “I’m talking business.”

“Oh, pardon, m’sieur?” and she pouted like a spoiled child.

“It’s generally a safe trick. How much would it bring in?” asked the younger man of his companion.

“Two thousand sterling.”

“Just the sum,” interrupted mademoiselle, striking the table in her enthusiasm. “We’ll divide it. When can I have my half?”

“As soon as possible, but don’t be impatient, as hurried action means certain failure.”

“All right,” she replied boldly, removing the cigarette from her lips, and contemplating it. “You can keep your fatherly advice for somebody else,” she added, grinning across the table at Rouillier.

Tossing the cigarette into the grate, she rose.

“What, are you going so soon?” asked the younger homme de faciende .

“Yes, it’s late; and, besides, I can’t go straight home in such a get-up as this.”

Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and then struck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain from laughing. When they grew serious again, she said —

“Now, one word; shall I have the money? I think we understand one another sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don’t we?”

Victor Bérard nodded an affirmative. He had decided. “You will promise me?”

“Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks,” he replied. “Of course, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plans boldly, it will be all right.”

“ Bien ,” she said in a satisfied tone. “And now you can both come out with me, and have the pleasure of regaling me with a glass of wine; for,” she added, with a little mock curtsey, “I feel faint after all this exertion.”

“Very well,” said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.

“We’ll drink to another successful disappearance,” Valérie said, patting him playfully on the cheek. “The dear boy will prove our salvation from misery, provided he doesn’t blunder.”

“Not much fear of that,” answered the young man she caressed. “It isn’t the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my work too well to take an incautious step,” he remarked in a low whisper, as the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.

“That’s all very well,” muttered Bérard, “but we can’t afford to act rashly, for it’ll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at best.”

A month had elapsed.

In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valérie. Her attitude was one of repose – deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman’s cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.