Charlot shrugged his shoulders.
"Will you never be serious, M. Valgrand?"
"Heavens, I hope not!" exclaimed the actor. "I hope not, for if there is one thing of which one never tires here below, it is Woman, the peerless rainbow that illuminates this vale of tears!"
"You are very poetical to-night," the dresser remarked.
"I am a lover — in love with love! Oh, Love, Love! And in my time, you know —— " He made a sweeping, comprehensive gesture, and came back abruptly to mundane affairs. "Come, help me to dress."
Charlot offered him a bundle of letters, which Valgrand took with careless hand. He looked at the envelopes one after another, hugely amused.
"Violet ink, and monograms, and coronets, and — perfume. Say, Charlot, is this a proposal? What do you bet?"
"You never have anything else," the dresser grumbled " — except bills."
"Do you bet?"
"If you insist, I bet it is a bill; then you will win," said Charlot.
"Done!" cried Valgrand. "Listen," and he began to declaim the letter aloud: "'Oh, wondrous genius, a flower but now unclosing' —— Got it, Charlot? Another of them!" He tore open another envelope. "Ah-ha! Photograph enclosed, and will I send it back if the original is not to my fancy!" He flung himself back in his chair to laugh. "Where is my collar?" He picked up a third envelope. "What will you bet that this violet envelope does not contain another tribute to my fatal beauty?"
"I bet it is another bill," said the dresser; "but you are sure to win."
"I have," Valgrand replied, and again declaimed the written words: "'if you promise to be discreet, and true, you shall never regret it.' Does one ever regret it — even if one does not keep one's promises?"
"At lovers' perjuries —— " Charlot quoted.
"Drunken promises!" Valgrand retorted. "By the way, I am dying for a drink. Give me a whisky and soda." He got up and moved to the table on which Charlot had set decanters and glasses, and was about to take the glass the dresser offered him when a tap on the door brought the conversation to a sudden stop. The actor frowned: he did not want to be bothered by more visitors. But curiosity got the better of his annoyance and he told Charlot to see who it was.
Charlot went to the door and peered through a narrow opening at the thoughtless intruder.
"Fancy making all this bother over a letter!" he growled. "Urgent? Of course: they always are urgent," and he shut the door on the messenger and gave the letter to Valgrand. "A woman brought it," he said.
Valgrand looked at it.
"H'm! Mourning! Will you bet, Charlot?"
"Deep mourning," said Charlot: "then I bet it is a declaration. I expect you will win again, for very likely it is a begging letter. Black edges stir compassion."
Valgrand was reading the letter, carelessly to begin with, then with deep attention. He reached the signature at the end, and then read it through again, aloud this time, punctuating his reading with flippant comments: "'In creating the part of the criminal in the tragedy to-night, you made yourself up into a most marvellous likeness of Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Beltham. Come to-night, at two o'clock, in your costume, to 22 rue Messier. Take care not to be seen, but come. Someone who loves you is waiting for you there.'"
"And it is signed —— ?" said the dresser.
"That, my boy, I'm not going to tell you," said Valgrand, and he put the letter carefully into his pocket-book. "Why, man, what are you up to?" he added, as the dresser came up to him to take his clothes.
"Up to?" the servant exclaimed: "I am only helping you to get your things off."
"Idiot!" laughed Valgrand. "Didn't you understand? Give me my black tie and villain's coat again."
"What on earth is the matter with you?" Charlot asked with some uneasiness. "Surely you are not thinking of going?"
"Not going? Why, in the whole of my career as amorist, I have never had such an opportunity before!"
"It may be a hoax."
"Take my word for it, I know better. Things like this aren't hoaxes. Besides, I know the — the lady. She has often been pointed out to me: and at the trial —— By Jove, Charlot, she is the most enchanting woman in the world: strangely lovely, infinitely distinguished, absolutely fascinating!"
"You are raving like a schoolboy."
"So much the better for me! Why, I was half dead with fatigue, and now I am myself again. Be quick, booby! My hat! Time is getting on. Where is it?"
"Where is what?" the bewildered Charlot asked.
"Why, this place," Valgrand answered irritably: "this rue Messier. Look it up in the directory."
Valgrand stamped impatiently up and down the room while Charlot hurriedly turned over the pages of the directory, muttering the syllables at the top of each as he ran through them in alphabetical order.
"J ... K ... L ... M ... Ma ... Me ... — Why, M. Valgrand —— "
"What's the matter?"
"Why, it is the street where the prison is!"
"The Santé? Where Gurn is — in the condemned cell?" Valgrand cocked his hat rakishly on one side. "And I have an assignation at the prison?"
"Not exactly, but not far off: right opposite; yes, number 22 must be right opposite."
"Right opposite the prison!" Valgrand exclaimed gaily. "The choice of the spot, and the desire to see me in my costume as Gurn, are evidence of a positive refinement in sensation! See? The lady, and I — the counterpart of Gurn — and, right opposite, the real Gurn in his cell! Quick, man: my cloak! My cane!"
"Do think, sir," Charlot protested: "it is absolutely absurd! A man like you —— "
"A man like me," Valgrand roared, "would keep an appointment like this if he had to walk on his head to get there! Good-night!" and carolling gaily, Valgrand strode down the corridor.
Charlot was accustomed to these wild vagaries on his master's part, for Valgrand was the most daring and inveterate rake it is possible to imagine. But while he was tidying up the litter in the room, after Valgrand had left him, the dresser shook his head.
"What a pity it is! And he such a great artiste! These women will make an absolute fool of him! Why, he hasn't even taken his gloves or his scarf!" There was a tap at the door, and the door-keeper looked in.
"Can I turn out the lights?" he enquired. "Has M. Valgrand gone?"
"Yes," said the dresser absently, "he has gone."
"A great night," said the door-keeper. "Have you seen the last edition of the Capitale, the eleven o'clock edition? There's a notice of us already. The papers don't lose any time nowadays. They say it is a great success."
"Let's look at it," said the dresser, and, glancing through the notice, added, "yes, that's quite true: 'M. Valgrand has achieved his finest triumph in his last creation.'" He looked casually through the newspaper, and suddenly broke into a sharp exclamation. "Good heavens, it can't be possible!"
"What's the matter?" the door-keeper enquired.
Charlot pointed a shaking finger to another column.
"Read that, Jean, read that! Surely I am mistaken."
The door-keeper peered over Charlot's shoulder at the indicated passage.
"I don't see anything in that; it's that Gurn affair again. Yes, he is to be executed at daybreak on the eighteenth."
"But that is this morning — presently," Charlot exclaimed.
"May be," said the door-keeper indifferently; "yes, last night was the seventeenth, so