# The Indiscretion of the Duchess/Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV.
For an empty Box
HEN I look back on the series of events which I am narrating and try to recover the feelings with which I was affected in its passage, I am almost amazed and in some measure ashamed to find how faint is my abhorrence of the Duke of Saint-Maclou. My indignation wants not the bridle but the whip, and I have to spur myself on to a becoming vehemence of disapproval. I attribute my sneaking kindness for him—for to that and not much less I must plead guilty—partly indeed to the revelation of a passion in him that seemed to leave him hardly responsible for the wrong he plotted, but far more to the incidents of this night, in which I was in a manner his comrade and the partner with him in an adventure. To have stood shoulder to shoulder with a man blinds his faults—and the duke bore himself, not merely with the coolness and courage which I made no doubt of his displaying, but with a readiness and zest remarkable at any time, but more striking when they followed on the paroxysm to which I had seen him helplessly subject. These indications of good in the man mollified my dislike and ​attached me to him by a bond which begot toleration and resists even the clearer and more piercing analysis of memory. Therefore, when those who speak to me of what he did and sought to do say what I cannot help admitting to be true, I hold my peace, thinking that the duke and I have played as partners as well as on hostile sides, and that I, being no saint, may well hold my tongue about the faults of a fellow-sinner. Moreover,—and this is the thing of all strongest to temper or to twist my judgment of him,—I feel often as though it were he who laid his finger on my blind eyes and bade me look up and see where lay my happiness. For it is strange how long a man can go without discovering his own undermost desire. Yet, when seen, how swift it grows!
Quiet and still we stood in the bay of the staircase, and the steps over our heads creaked under the feet of the men who came down. The duke’s hand was on my arm, restraining me, and he held it there till the feet had passed above us and the stealthy tread landed on the marble flagging of the hall. We thrust our heads out and peered through the darkness. I saw the figures of two men, one following the other toward the front door; this the first and taller unfastened and noiselessly opened; and he and his fellow, whom, by the added light which entered, I perceived to be carrying a box or case of moderate size, waited for a moment on the threshold. Then they passed out, drawing the door close after them.
Still the duke held me back, and we rested ​where we were three or four minutes. Then he whispered, “Come,” and we stole across the hall after them and found ourselves outside. It must have been about half-past two o’clock in the morning; there was no moon and it was rather dark. The duke turned sharp to the left and led me to the bypath, and there, a couple of hundred yards ahead of us, we saw a cube of light that came from a dark lantern.
The duke’s face was dimly visible, and an amused smile played on his lips as he said softly:
“Lafleur and Pierre! They think they’ve got the necklace!”
Was this the meaning of Pierre’s appearance in the rôle of my successor? The idea suggested itself to me in a moment, and I strove to read my companion’s face for a confirmation.
“We’ll see where they go,” he whispered, and then laid his finger on his lips. Amusement sounded in his voice; indeed it was impossible not to perceive the humor of the position, when I felt the Cardinal’s Necklace against my own ribs.
We were walking now under cover of the trees which lined the sides of the path, so that no backward glance could discover us to the thieves; and I was wondering how long we were thus to dog their steps, when suddenly they turned to the left about fifty yards short of the spot where old Jean’s cottage stood, and disappeared from our sight. We emerged into the path, the duke taking the lead. He was walking more briskly now, and I saw him ​examine his pistol. When we came where the fellows had turned, we followed in their track.
The first distant hint of approaching morning caught the tops of the trees above us, turning them from black to a deep chill gray, as we paused to listen. Our pursuit had brought us directly behind the cottage, which now stood about a hundred yards on the right; and then we came upon them—or rather suddenly stopped and crouched down to avoid coming upon them—where they were squatting on the ground with a black iron box between them, and the lantern’s light thrown on the keyhole of the box. Lafleur held the lantern; Pierre’s hand was near the lock, and I presumed—I could not see—that he held some instrument with which he meant to open it. A ring of trees framed the picture, and the men sat in a hollow, well hidden from the path even had it been high day.
The Duke of Saint-Maclou touched my arm, and I leaned forward to look in his face. He nodded, and, brushing aside the trees, we sprang out upon the astonished fellows. For a moment they did not move, struck motionless with surprise, while we stood over them, pistols in hand. We had caught them fair and square. Expecting no interruption, they had guarded against none. Their weapons were in their pockets, their hands busy with their job. They sprang up the next moment; but the duke’s muzzle covered Lafleur, and mine was leveled full at Pierre. A second later Lafleur fell on his knees with a cry for mercy; the little man stood quite still, his arms by his side and the iron box hard ​by his feet. Lafleur’s protestations and lamentations began to flow fast. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. The duke advanced, and I kept pace with him.
“Keep your eye on that fellow, Mr. Aycon,” said the duke; and then he put his left hand in his pocket, took out a key and flung it in Lafleur’s face. It struck him sharply between the eyes, and he whined again.
“Open the box,” said the duke. “Open it—do you hear? This instant!”
With shaking hands the fellow dragged the box from where it lay by Pierre’s feet, and dropping on his knees began to fumble with the lock. At last he contrived to unlock it, and raised the lid. The duke sprang forward and, catching him by the nape of the neck, crammed his head down into the box, bidding him, “Look—look—look!” And while he said it he laughed, and took advantage of Lafleur’s posture to give him four or five hearty kicks.
“It’s empty!” cried Lafleur, surprise rescuing him for an instant from the other emotions to which his position gave occasion. And, as he spoke, for the first time Pierre started, turning an eager gaze toward the box.
“Yes, it’s empty,” said the duke. “The necklace isn’t there, is it? Now, tell me all about it, or I’ll put a bullet through your head!”
Then the story came: disentangled from the excuses and prayers, it was simply that Pierre was no footman but a noted thief—that he had long meditated an attack on the Cardinal’s ​Necklace; had made Lafleur’s acquaintance in Paris, corrupted his facile virtue, and, with the aid of forged testimonials, presented himself in the character in which I had first made his acquaintance. The rascals had counted on the duke’s preoccupation with Marie Delhasse for their opportunity. The duke smiled to hear it. Pierre listened to the whole story without a word of protest or denial; his accomplice’s cowardly attempt to present him as the only culprit gained no more notice than another shrug and a softly muttered oath. “Destiny,” the little man seemed to say in the eloquent movement of his shoulders; while the growing light showed his beady eyes fixed, full and unfaltering, on me.
Lafleur’s prayers died away. The duke, still smiling, set his pistol against the wretch’s head.
“That’s what you deserve,” said he.
And Lafleur, groveling, caught him by the knees.
“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” he implored.
“Why not?” asked the duke, in the tone of a man willing to hear the other side, but certain that he would not be convinced by it. “Why not? We find you stealing—and we shoot you as you try to escape. I see nothing unnatural or illegal in it, Lafleur. Nor do I see anything in favor of leaving you alive.”
And the pistol pressed still on Lafleur’s forehead. Whether his master meant to shoot, I know not—although I believe he did. But Lafleur had little doubt of his purpose; for he ​hastened to play his best card, and, clinging still to the duke’s knees, cried desperately:
“If you’ll spare me, I’ll tell you where she is!”
The duke’s arm fell to his side; and in a changed voice, from which the cruel bantering had fled, while eager excitement filled its place, he cried:
“What? Where who is?”
“The lady—Mlle. Delhasse. A girl I know—there in Avranches—saw her go. She is there now.”
“Where, man, where?” roared the duke, stamping his foot, and menacing the wretch again with his pistol.
I turned to listen, forgetful of quiet little Pierre and his alert beady eyes; yet I kept the pistol on him.
And Lafleur cried:
“At the convent—at the convent, on the shores of the bay!”
“My God!” cried the duke, and his eyes suddenly turned and flashed on mine; and I saw that the necklace was forgotten, that our partnership was ended, and that I again, and no longer the cowering creature before him, was the enemy. And I also, hearing that Marie Delhasse was at the convent, was telling myself that I was a fool not to have thought of it before, and wondering what new impulse had seized the duke’s wayward mind.
Thus neither the duke nor I was attending to the business of the moment. But there was a man of busy brain, whose life taught him to ​profit by the slips of other men and to let pass no opportunities. Our carelessness gave one now—a chance of escape, and a chance of something else too. For, while my negligent hand dropped to my side and my eyes were seeking to read the duke’s face, the figure opposite me must have been moving. Softly must a deft hand have crept to a pocket; softly came forth the hidden weapon. There was a report loud and sudden; and then another. And with the first, Lafleur, who was kneeling at the duke’s feet and looking up to see how his shaft had sped, flung his arms wildly over his head, gave a shriek, and fell dead—his head, half-shattered, striking the iron box as he fell sideways in a heap on the ground.
The duke sprang back with an oath, whose sound was engulfed in the second discharge of Pierre’s pistol: and I felt myself struck in the right arm; and my weapon fell to the ground, while I clutched the wounded limb with my left hand.
The duke, after a moment’s hesitation and bewilderment, raised his pistol and fired; but the active little scoundrel was safe among the trees, and we heard the twigs cracking and the leaves rustling as he pushed his way through the wood. He was gone—scot free for us, but with his score to Lafleur well paid. I swayed where I stood, to and fro: the pain was considerable, and things seemed to go round before my eyes; yet I turned to my companion, crying:
“After him! He’ll get off! I’m hit; I can’t run!”
​The duke stood still, frowning; then he slowly dropped his smoking pistol into his pocket. For a moment longer he stood, and a smile broadened on his face as he raised his eyes to me.
“Let him,” he said briefly; and his glance rested on me for a moment in defiant significance. And then, without another word, he turned on his heel. He took no heed of Lafleur’s dead body, that seemed to fondle the box, huddling it in a ghastly embrace, nor of me, who swayed and tottered and sank on the ground by the corpse. With set lips and eager eyes he passed me, taking the road by which we had come. And I, hugging my wounded arm, with open eyes and parted lips, saw him dive in among the trees and disappear toward the house. And I looked round on the iron box and the dead body—two caskets robbed of all that made them more than empty lumber.
Minute followed minute; and then I heard the hoofs of a horse galloping at full speed along the road from the house toward Avranches. Lafleur was dead and done with; Pierre might go his ways; I lay fainting in the wood; the Cardinal’s Necklace was still against my side. What recked the Duke of Saint-Maclou of all that? I knew, as I heard the thud of the hoofs on the road, that by the time the first reddening rays reached over the horizon he would be at the convent, seeking the woman who was all the world to him.
And I sat there helpless, fearful of what would befall her. For what could a convent full of ​women avail against his mastering rage? And a sudden sharp pang ran through me, startling even myself in its intensity; so that I cried out aloud, raising my sound arm in the air toward Heaven, like a man who swears a vow:
“By God, no! By God, no—no!”