# Terence O'Rourke/Part 2/Chapter 16

CHAPTER XVI
THE TWO MESSAGES
(Copy of cablegram received by O'Rourke upon his arrival in Ireland.)
Madame has need of you. Come. Imperative.
A. Chambret.
It was a cold night and a wet one in Paris when O'Rourke arrived at the Gare du Nord; it was, in point of exactness, nearly two o'clock, on a moist and chilly December morning.
The Irishman, haggard and worn with the hardship of continuous traveling, by night and day, from County Galway to Paris posthaste, darted out of the railway terminal as impatiently as if he had just been fresh from a long night's sleep in his bed, with Danny tagging disconsolately in his master's wake, and, since he dared not swear at O'Rourke, melodiously cursing the luggage which had fallen to his care.
The two of them piled into a fiacre and were whirled rapidly across Paris to Chambret's residence in the Rue Royale; which turned out to be nothing more nor less than that happily married gentleman's one-time bachelor apartments.
Despite the lateness of the hour, O'Rourke's determined and thunderous assaults upon the door finally were rewarded by a vision of a red night-capped concierge, from whom the information was finally extracted, with much difficulty, that Monsieur Chambret was from home—that he had left two ​days since for the provinces, or for Italy, or for Germany, or perhaps for a trip around the world. The concierge did not know and doggedly asserted that he did not care—that is to say, his demeanor continued surly enough and altogether annoying until O'Rourke happened to mention his own name.
Thereupon a distinct change was noticeable in the demeanor of that concierge. He prefaced all things by demanding mysteriously the name of O'Rourke's valet, and the color of that person's hair, which having been pronounced respectively to be Danny and red, the concierge with alacrity invited O'Rourke to ascend to Monsieur Chambret's apartments, at the same time declaring himself to be possessed of a letter intrusted to him for delivery to O'Rourke upon his arrival in Paris.
Accordingly, O'Rourke and Danny mounted five flights of steps and were admitted to the apartments, and, the gas having been lighted by the concierge, O'Rourke was permitted to peruse the communication. Being translated, it ran somewhat to the following effect:
My Dear Colonel: Nothing could have been more opportune than the receipt of your note. Only the previous day I had received a call from a trusted servant of madame's, who gave me a message which madame had not deemed wise to trust to paper; together with the little packet, herewith inclosed, which I was requested to forward to you. I did not then know your whereabouts. To me there is something wonderful in the fact that I now do know.
This will be left with the concierge, who has instructions not to deliver it into any hands save those of Colonel Terence O'Rourke, whose valet is a red-headed Irishman named Danny. I take these precautions for reasons which you will readily understand, as you read on.
By the time this is handed you, I shall be at Montbar, whither I trust you will follow me at your earliest convenience. Nay, I ​know that you will arrive there without a minute's delay—else you are not the impetuous lover that once you were.
Madame is at Montbar—I believe. Three days ago she was in Paris. Since then—since communicating with me, that is—she has mysteriously disappeared. But I happen to be cognizant of the fact that, within the week, an announcement will be published in the Parisian newspapers of her contract to marry Duke Victor, of Grandlieu, brother of that Prince Felix whom I had the good fortune to exterminate during the Lemercier-Saharan affair, thus making madame a widow.
Duke Victor is a worthy brother to Felix. I scarce need elaborate. Probably you are aware of his reputation; since the death of Felix he has come to be regarded as the most notorious roué of all Europe, as well as the most conscienceless and skilful duelist.
Of course, you understand that nothing but the most persistent and the strongest pressure in addition to your continued silence could ever have induced madame to consent to marry this man. Victor himself is a man of undoubted charm; he has fascinations at his command which are not to be regarded lightly—even by The O'Rourke of Castle O'Rourke. His personality is at once magnetic and repellent. In other words, he is a man calculated to entrance a woman's fancy.
Moreover, I repeat, you were not upon the ground.
Notwithstanding all this, however—notwithstanding the fact that madame has agreed to put her name to the marriage contract, your influence is feared. To prevent her meeting you, madame has been spirited away to Montbar. Of this there can be little doubt; her servant confided to me madame's fear that something of the sort might take place, that she might be kept in seclusion until the marriage was an accomplished fact.
For all of which you are entitled to feel complimented.
I am going to Montbar—which, as you are doubtless aware; is the capital city of the principality of Grandlieu—at once, to be upon the ground, ready to render whatever service I may. I shall lodge at the Hôtel des Étrangers under my own name. I should advise you, however, to come to Grandlieu incognito—as an English milord. I should also counsel you to come at once, and shall look for you hourly. Possibly I may have good news for you, monsieur; for, if I can pick a quarrel with Duke Victor, he will be as good as a dead man from the moment.
I am, devotedly,
Adolph Chambret.
"Faith," he said aloud, "'tis something to have made a friend like Chambret—the saints presarve him!"
And eagerly he opened the little packet which Chambret had mentioned as an enclosure. All during his reading of the letter it had lain squeezed tight in the palm of O'Rourke's clenched fist. Now he regarded it tenderly ere breaking the seals—a round, small package, no broader than a silver dollar, though twice as thick, wrapped in heavy, opaque paper and protected by many seals of violet-hued wax, bearing above the arms of Grandlieu the initial "B." It was entirely unaddressed.
"Beatrix!" whispered O'Rourke softly. He glanced hastily around the apartment, discovering that Danny had fallen asleep in a chair; he was practically alone, and he raised the packet to his lips and kissed the seals. "Beatrix!" he breathed.
He opened the small blade of his penknife and ran it under the edge of the wrapper, so preserving the seals intact; for had she not impressed them with those hands for whose caress the heart of O'Rourke was fairly faint?
Something fell into his hand—the half of a golden coin—a broken English sovereign, in fact. O'Rourke's eyes glowed as he fitted it to the other half, which hung dependent from his watch guard.
"Sweetheart!" he said. "Ye promised me ye'd send it—when ye needed me sword! Please God, I'll not be too late to save ye from that black-hearted scoundrel, Victor!"
But there was something else, and it was with a rapidly beating heart that O'Rourke removed it from the wrapper ​and held it to the light. This was a tiny miniature, no larger than a man's thumb nail, wrought with marvelous skill by some painter who had seen beneath the face, deep into the soul, of his subject.
For the face that looked out from the dark background was very lovely—the features of a most wonderfully beautiful woman.
But it was her eyes which held him as one bewitched. Large eyes they were, and dark, and gently smiling beneath their deep fringe of dark lashes. And out of their depths the woman's soul flamed to greet O'Rourke; the love that she bore him gleamed and glowed therein,—even as he had seen it glow when he had loved her, long years past, undying and undoubting, faithful unto the end, whatever that might be when it should come.
"This," he said, awed, "is a miracle—a miracle, sweetheart—this portrait of ye. Faith, 'tis beyond belief, so real it makes your presence seem, dearest. And d'ye think—or does Chambret think—that I can look into those eyes and believe that ye are marrying this fellow, Duke Victor, of your own choosing? Faith, no! The sovereign—that is to tell me ye need me. But this—this is to tell me ye love me still, sweetheart! Sure, and wild horses wouldn't be keeping me from ye now!"
For a long time he stood, gazing upon the miniature with a kindling eye.
It was with a start that he was roused by the footsteps of the concierge on the stairway; and it was with smoldering resentment that he realized that unsentimental Danny was snoring peacefully in Chambret's armchair.
"Call another fiacre!" he instructed the concierge. "And then come back and lock up these rooms. 'Tis ourselves ​that won't be troubling ye ten minutes longer. Yes—run along.
"And, Danny!" He stepped across the room and stirred with the toe of his shoe his servant's recumbent form. "Danny, ye lazy gossoon, wake up, before I take strenuous means to wake ye. Come, ye scut, move!"
Already his plans were formulated and solidifying into determinations. He communicated them to Danny, as the fiacre conveyed them rapidly to the Gare de l'Est. And Danny, with an eye toward his personal comfort, was swift to subscribe unto them.