The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

to gain time, and to give himself the opportunity of recovering, if the thing was possible, his pristine courage. That, for some cause wholly hidden from me, the mysterious utterance had shaken his nature to its deepest foundations, was made plainer by his endeavour to treat the whole business with a sort of cynical levity.

“To commence with, may I ask if you have come through London, or through any portion of it, in that costume⁠—or, rather, in that want of costume? It would seem out of place in a Cairene street⁠—would it not?⁠—even in the Rue de Rabagas⁠—was it not the Rue de Rabagas?”

He asked the question with an emphasis the meaning of which was wholly lost on me. What he referred to either then, or in what immediately followed, I, of course, knew no more than the man in the moon⁠—though I should probably have found great difficulty in convincing him of my ignorance.

“I take it that you are a reminiscence of the Rue de Rabagas⁠—that, of course;⁠—is it not of course? The little house with the blue-grey Venetians, and the piano with the F sharp missing? Is there still the piano? with the tinny treble⁠—indeed, the whole atmosphere, was it not tinny?⁠—You agree with me?⁠—I have not forgotten. I am not even afraid to remember⁠—you perceive it?”

A new idea seemed to strike him⁠—born, perhaps, of my continued silence.

“You look English⁠—is it possible that you are not English? What are you then⁠—French? We shall see!”

He addressed me in a tongue which I recognised as French, but with which I was not sufficiently acquainted to understand. Although, I flatter myself that⁠—as the present narrative should show⁠—I have not made an ill-use of the opportunities which I have had to improve my, originally, modest education, I regret that I have never had so much as a ghost of a chance to acquire an even rudimentary knowledge of any language except my own. Recognising, I suppose, from my looks, that he was addressing me in a tongue to which I was a stranger, after a time he stopped, added something with a smile, and then began to talk to me in a lingo to which, in a manner of speaking, I was even stranger, for this time I had not the faintest notion what it was⁠—it might have been gibberish for all that I could tell. Quickly perceiving that he had succeeded no better than before, he returned to English.

“You do not know French?⁠—nor the patois of the Rue de Rabagas? Very good⁠—then what is it that you do know? Are you under a vow of silence, or are you dumb⁠—except upon occasion? Your face is English⁠—what can be seen of it, and I will take it, therefore, that English spoken words convey some meaning to your brain. So listen, sir, to what I have to say⁠—do me the favour to listen carefully.”

He was becoming more and more his former self. In his clear, modulated tones there was a ring of something like a threat⁠—a something which went very far beyond his words.

“You know something of a period which I choose to have forgotten⁠—that is plain; you come from a person who, probably, knows still more. Go back to that person and say that what I have forgotten I have forgotten; nothing will be gained by anyone by an endeavour to induce me to remember⁠—be very sure upon that point, say that nothing will be gained by anyone. That time was one of mirage, of delusion, of disease. I was in a condition, mentally and bodily, in which pranks could have been played upon me by any trickster. Such pranks were played. I know that now quite well. I do not pretend to be proficient in the modus operandi of the hankey-pankey man, but I know that he has a method, all the same⁠—one susceptible, too, of facile explanation. Go back to your friend, and tell him that I am not again likely to be made the butt of his old method⁠—nor of his new one either.⁠—You hear me, sir?”

I remained motionless and silent⁠—an attitude which, plainly, he resented.

“Are you deaf and dumb? You certainly are not dumb, for you spoke to me just now. Be advised by me, and do not compel me to resort to measures which will be the cause to you of serious discomfort.⁠—You hear me, sir?”

Still, from me, not a sign of comprehension⁠—to his increased annoyance.

“So be it. Keep your own counsel, if you choose. Yours will be the bitterness, not mine. You may play the lunatic, and play it excellently well, but that you do understand what is said to you is clear.⁠—Come to business, sir. Give me that revolver, and the packet of letters which you have stolen from my desk.”

He had been speaking with the air of one who desired to convince himself as much as me⁠—and about his last words there was almost a flavour of braggadocio. I remained unheeding.

“Are you going to do as I require, or are you insane enough to refuse?⁠—in which case I shall summon assistance, and there will quickly be an end of it. Pray do not imagine that you can trick me into supposing that you do not grasp the situation. I know better.⁠—Once more, are you going to give me that revolver and those letters?”

Yet no reply. His anger was growing momentarily greater⁠—and his agitation too. On my first introduction to Paul Lessingham I was not destined to discover in him any one of those qualities of which the world held him to be the undisputed possessor. He showed himself to be as unlike the statesman I had conceived, and esteemed, as he easily could have done.

“Do you think I stand in awe of you?⁠—you!⁠—of such a thing as you! Do as I tell you, or I myself will make you⁠—and, at the same time, teach you a much-needed lesson.”

He raised his voice. In his bearing there was a would-be defiance. He might not have been