# Rogues & Company/Chapter 12

pp. 167–181.

### CHAPTER XII

As George, heated and indignant, made his way up the front steps of the Bunmouth Spa Hotel, a young man with a fair moustache and a general appearance of extreme boredom came down. As a result of George's indignation and the stranger's indifference to all things earthly they collided.
"Can't you see where you're going?" George enquired with polite concern.
The stranger brushed off imaginary results of the encounter.
"My good fellow, I imagine it is your business to get out of my way," he observed.
"Oh, do you? And who do you think I am?"
"You have been pointed out to me as the Count de Beaulieu's valet."
"Oh, indeed. Well, perhaps you aren't quite as bright as you think you are." George made an attempt to pass, but the stranger stretched out two detaining fingers.
"Do you want to earn half a crown?" he asked.
George shuddered.
"Wot a nasty idea!" he said. "I'll think about it."
"Because if you do, take this letter and give it to the Countess of Beaulieu. Say that I'll wait for her in the garden."
"Aren't you afraid she'll die of joy?"
"You are an extremely impertinent fellow. I understand that the Count is giving a reception. Kindly deliver this letter at once."
"Permit me to lick your boots for you," George implored with mock humility. But the stranger had apparently no use for this offer and, after a moment's consideration, George pocketed the half-crown and the letter, and having performed a deep bow proceeded upstairs.
He found the Count de Beaulieu's suite evidently prepared to receive guests, but the Count and Countess themselves, who stood at either end of the room, watched the waiter's proceedings as though a funeral ceremony was in progress. Since the episode of the pearl-necklace a kind of armed neutrality had been established between them, but the compact, such as it was, was at the moment of George's entry undergoing a serious rupture. The skirmish had been opened by the Count, who had innocently remarked that Dr. Frohlocken's train must be overdue.
"I cannot think why you have invited him at all," the Countess had retorted.
"We owe Dr. Frohlocken a great deal."
"Do we?" with bitter significance.
"I do, at least."
"I suppose that is why you have invited this—this person—this Mrs. Bugot-Chump—"
"Pagot-Chump, Theodora."
"Her name is nothing to me. I consider it an—an insult to have asked her." Tears had been very manifest, and the Count had made a valiant attempt to avert the threatening storm.
"My dear Theo, I can't help myself. It seems I am under some obligation to her. My loss of memory does not do away with the fact that I have a past—"
"So it seems!"
"And I expect you to treat my friends as your friends," the Count had finished, goaded by the sneer.
"If—if I were in the least inclined to be interested I should suspect that there was more between you than you care to confess—"
"My dear girl—" But the unconscious truth of the suggestion cut short the Count's flood of eloquent protest and only George's entry prevented the victor from following up the pursuit.
"If you please," said George, still flushed with indignation, "there's a gentleman in the garden waiting to see your Ladyship, and he sent this letter." George's manner lacked its usual polish, but neither Theodora nor Louis were in a mood to notice the fact. Theodora had grown pale, and she tore open the envelope with trembling fingers.
"It's from Cecil Saunders," she said at last, meeting her husband's eye with defiance. "He's in Bunmouth."
"Indeed. And pray what does he want?"
"He wants to see me."
"Well, I object. We are waiting to receive our friends—"
"I shall bring him here, then."
Quite suddenly the Count lost his temper.
"I forbid you, Theodora."
"I expect you to treat my friends as yours," quoted the Countess mockingly.
"Theodora—if I were inclined to be jealous—"
"Do try to be more original!" said the Countess with annoyance.
The Count hesitated. Then his tone softened.
"Please—Theodora—consider my feelings. It's absurd to talk of jealousy, I know, but still you are my wife—and—and I don't know this Saunders—in fact none of our party know him. It will spoil everything. I don't want to seem unreasonable, but I have a feeling that I shall dislike the fellow—"
"Well, I dislike this Mrs. Bagot-Chump—"
"Theo, I have explained the circumstances almost as often as I have told you the unfortunate lady's name. I am under obligations to her—"
"And I am under obligations to my—my friend."
"That is another thing altogether."
"Anyhow I shall bring him up here."
"If you do—"
The end of the threat—if there was an end—was lost. The Countess swept out of the room amidst a frou-frou of silk and chiffon, and the Count, with a gesture of resignation, turned to find George seated in the armchair by the fire-place with his feet upon the fender.
"What on earth are you doing?" the Count demanded.
"Accustoming myself to my noo situation," George explained pleasantly.
"Get up at once. Supposing someone came in and found you—"
"—that's what they're going to do, dear bird. Now, don't you get rorty—there ain't nothing to excite yourself about."
"For pity's sake explain."
George waved his hand towards the door.
"That's my last job," he said cryptically.
"I don't see——"
"In plain English, brother, I've guv notice. I'm fed up, I am. I 'ave borne with a lot to please you and come up to my fraternal duties, but when it comes to a bloomin' French cook pourin' potato-skins over me—well, I strike, and I've struck. You'll 'ave to look for a new valet, dear one."
"Thank Heaven," said the Count fervently. "You'd better be off at once, hadn't you?" he suggested.
"Me off? Oh, I ain't in no 'urry. I enjoys a little 'family party' like this."
"Look here, though, you must clear out before people come."
"Me—? Not a bit of it. You introduce me as your cousin, Count de Bontemps, who's been disguised as your valet for grave political reasons. They'll swallow me like butter."
"You—!" The unhappy young man folded his arms in an attitude of utter exasperation. "You a Count!!"
George leered.
"I'm just as good a count as you are any day," he observed. "'Ave you forgotten the tender bond of brotherhood?"
"Why, you can't even behave like a gentleman," burst in the Count, in a falsetto of indignation.
George got up; pulled down his waistcoat. It was as though a magician had waved a wand over him.
"My dear Beaulieu," he said, "in the matter of manners I believe I have nothing to learn from a person who screams like a madman and appears to forget that by the unwritten laws of hospitality—"
"For mercy's sake don't jump about from your vulgar cockney to that high-flown stuff," his brother pleaded. "It makes my head whirl."
"It's all part of the trade," George explained airily. "I can be anything at any minute. Mrs. Jubbers is like that too. You should see her as the Duchess of Kolderado—"
"I don't want to see Mrs. Jubbers as anything."
"That's a pity. I thought of trotting her down as a mutual aunt. Well, never mind, I daresay one new-found Count is enough for an afternoon. As I was saying, I am a man of many parts. In private life or during compulsory rest-cures I drop 'hs.' At other times I can talk any lingo you like. Would you like a sample of French—?"
"Good Heavens—no!"
Voices sounded outside. Monsieur de Beaulieu heard his wife's laugh a little—uneasy, he thought—and then a detestable masculine bass. George leant forward, his face had become diabolically threatening.
"If you don't give me out as your cousin, I'll give you away," he said in a sepulchral whisper. "I'll show you up—I'll tell 'em all you're a 'umbug, a common cheat wot's gone and swindled a poor trusting girl into a marriage under false pretences—"
"For Heaven's sake—"
"—I'll tell 'em that you've cheated your benefactor—that you stole his plate the very night he befriended you—"
"George—hold your tongue—"
George leered hideously.
"And I'll talk French to you!" he said, as a culminating blow.
The door opened. The Countess Theodora led the way, followed by Mrs. Pagot-Chump whose gorgeous afternoon "creation" in mauve crêpe de chine was finished off by the fatal pearl necklace. Behind appeared the gloomy face of Dr. Frohlocken and a tall fair-haired young man whom Monsieur de Beaulieu hated at sight.
"You see we've all come together," said the Countess Theodora cheerfully.
"So delightful!" murmured Mrs. Pagot-Chump, and pressed her host's hand with an arch smile. "I guess we don't need any introdoocing, do we Count?"
Dr. Frohlocken greeted his recent patient with a depressed friendliness.
"Didn't want to come," he declared, with scientific honesty. "Hate hotel life. But I felt responsible. One never knows how a case like yours may turn out, especially when treated in that criminal fashion. However, glad to see you happy, at any rate."
The Count was relieved to hear that he looked happy. He felt he must be making progress in the art of deception and wondered if Theodora shared his talent or whether her smile was genuine. It was certainly defiant, and her bright eyes and flaming cheeks seemed to challenge him to do his worst.
"Louis, this is my old friend, Mr. Saunders," she said. "Mr. Saunders—this is my husband." The two men bowed, and the Rogue successfully performed the feat of grinding his teeth and smiling at the same time. His hatred for this languid individual was increased by the growing conviction that he played a sinister part in his wife's life. What that part was he had no time to consider and his seething indignation was suddenly, brutally cooled.
"George—please order tea to be sent up—" the Countess Theodora was saying.
Involuntarily the husband clutched at the Lucky Pig concealed in his waistcoat pocket. Then he turned. George, modestly awaiting attention, stood on the hearthrug and smiled the kindly exasperating smile of the superior being.
"I think, my dear de Beaulieu," he said with a slight drawl, "I think it is time you offered the Countess an explanation for our little masquerade."
There was a blank silence. Monsieur de Beaulieu felt that the room had become full of eyes and that they were all staring at him. Either his neck had swollen or his collar had shrunk, causing him an unpleasant sensation, of suffocation, and his voice, when it was at last induced to produce itself, sounded high and unnatural.
"My dear Theo—" he jerked out, "I have a little explanation to make—in fact—a little surprise. This—er—this gentleman whom you have been accustomed to know so well, frankly as George—is in reality—"
"—Still your humble servant, de Bontemps, and otherwise Georges," put in George with a gay smile and a general bow which however seemed peculiarly addressed to Mrs. Pagot-Chump.
"Why, that's the fellow I tipped half-an-hour ago!" Mr. Cecil Saunders exclaimed, examining him intently.
"It is not the first time that a French nobleman has been grateful for a borrowed half-crown," retorted the newly created Count de Bontemps, with a whimsical and continental movement of the shoulders. "All the same I confess to being a base deceiver," he went on lightly. "My dear Countess, against whom I have chiefly sinned, accept my apologies and explanations. Political troubles forced me to fly my own country and disguise myself under the name by which you have hitherto known me. My dear cousin, your husband, offered me the protection of which I stood in need, and now that the clouds are passed and I may once more assume my rightful position, I hope that we may both receive absolution."
Monsieur de Beaulieu suppressed a gasp. It was relatively plausible—and beautifully expressed. The vulgar denizen of No. 10, 'Urbert Street had disappeared behind an impenetrable coating of polish and refinement. Nevertheless, his wife's face expressed frozen incredulity, and it was Mrs. Pagot-Chump who took the lead.
"Well, if this isn't like a scene in the French Revolution," she said cheerily. "I guess I'll turn out a Countess myself if you give me time. But I'm real glad to make your acquaintance, Monsieur de Bonton, and if you're in need of another situation just you come along to James Pagot-Chump, U. S. A., and we'll see you get more than half-a-crown."
"Vive l'Amérique," said George and kissed the cordially outstretched hand with the gallantry of a 17th century courtier.
"And now come along and give me a cup of tea and the whole romance," went on Mrs. Pagot- Chump pleasantly elated. "I'm thirsting for both."
Before the eyes of his horrified relative, George, late of No. 10 'Urbert Street, offered his arm and the two led the way into the adjoining room. Mr. Saunders with Dr. Frohlocken, both obeying an imperative gesture from their hostess, brought up the rear, and for a moment husband and wife were left alone.
"You have indeed astonishing friends," the Countess Theodora observed sarcastically.
"I thought—" began her husband with desperate self-possession.
"I know just what you are going to say: 'Live and let live.' But you will admit that I have stranger things to accept from you than you from me."
"Theo—you said once you would trust me."
Her eyes softened a little and he saw a new expression creep into her face—part timid, part appealing and part defiant.
"Louis—how can I trust you after all that has happened?"
Instinctively he felt that she was offering him a loophole of escape, and he seized it eagerly.
"I'd do anything—" he began. "Anything, Theodora."
"Will you give me £300?"
He looked at her in amazement. It was crude—brutal, almost vulgar.
"Why, only the other day it was fifty—"
"I know, I know." She held out her hands pleadingly. "Surely it is a little thing to ask, and I want it so badly."
"You want it?" She saw the surprise flash up and every trace of colour faded from her cheeks—"or—or is it for him?" he asked hoarsely.
Her eyes met his without flinching.
"It is for him."
"Is that the nature of your obligation?"
"Partly."
He began to pace about the room in a fever of unrest.
"Theodora—won't you trust me? If this man is using any undue influence over you—"
"Oh, no, it isn't that—my obligation—is one of feeling."
"You mean—you—care for him?"
She bowed her head. He drew himself up with a hard effort. In the next room he heard George relating his recent adventure with the Bunmouth Hotel's chef and Mrs. Pagot-Chump's high-pitched laughter. But for the first time he did not care. Everything had become indifferent—worthless to him.
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "It would have been better if you had told me before. As it is—you shall have the money."
"Louis—" He heard the sob in her voice, but he did not see her face. He turned away with compressed lips, and before she could speak again a waiter entered with the letter tray.
"A telegram for you, your Lordship."
Monsieur de Beaulieu took the envelope and tore it open. There was a moment's silence. Then he laughed a curious mirthless little laugh.
"Louis—what is it—have you bad news?"
"Nothing—unexpected." He passed his hand over his forehead. "Theo—please ask George—I mean Bontemps to speak to me."
"Yes, Louis," she said with a new meekness.
He heard the laughing voices in the next room drop to an abrupt silence and the next minute George, flushed and elated, stood in the doorway.
"Wot's the matter?" he asked boisterously and with painful relapse into his native dialect. "Why don't you come along in, you weeping willow, you? I've just been telling Mrs. Chump about Monsieur Bonnet and we've sent for 'im just for the fun of seein' 'is face when 'e finds who 'e threw his potato at. Why, Bill—"
"Read that!" said the. Rogue.
George, Count de Bontemps, took the crumpled piece of pink paper and spreading it out read aloud:
       "Count de Beaulieu and wife travelling to Bunmouth by the afternoon express. Arrive 5:30. Look out.
"Washington Jones."
Instinctively both men glanced at the clock. The hands marked 5:45. The Count de Bontemps whistled softly.
"There's a Count too many in this game—and that's me," he said. "I'm off, brother, dear, and if you take my advice—" Then suddenly he smiled—a beautiful smile—worthy of a better cause. "No, Bill—no, we'll face it out—we'll face it out, old bird."
And, slipping his arm through that of his fellow-conspirator, he dragged him, feebly resisting, into the next room.