But Lucretia walked and chatted on as unconcernedly as
if she had always been in the habit of traversing that lonely
tunnel-like bridge with a total stranger every evening of her life. I
confess I was surprised. I fancied a prim English girl in a similar
situation, and I began to wonder whether all this artlessness was really
as genuine as it looked. At the opposite end of the bridge we emerged upon a street of wooden
frame houses. In one of them only was there a light. "That's the hotel!" said Lucretia, nodding towards it, and again I suffered a thrill of
disappointment. I had pictured to myself a great solid building like the
St. Lawrence Hall at Montreal, forgetting that Richmond was a mere
country village; and here I found a bit of a frame cottage as the whole
domain of Lucretia's supposed father. It was too awful! We reached the door and entered. Fresh surprises were in store for me. The passage led into a bar, where half-a-dozen French Canadians were
sitting with bottles and glasses, playing some game of cards. One rather
rough-looking young man jumped up in astonishment as we entered, and
exclaimed, "Why, Lucretia, we didn't expect you for another hour. I
meant to take the sleigh for you." I could have knocked him down for
calling her by her Christian name, but the conviction flashed upon me
that this was Lucretia's brother. He glanced up at the big Yankee clock
on the mantelpiece, which pointed to a quarter past twelve, then pulled
out his watch and whistled. "Stopped three quarters of an hour ago, by
Jingo," was his comment. "Why, I forgot to wind it up. Upon my word,
Lucretia, I'm awfully sorry. But who is the gentleman?" "A friend of the Pritchards, Tom dear, who wants a bed here to-night. I
couldn't imagine why the sleigh didn't come for me. It's so unlike you
not to remember it." And she gave him a look to melt adamant. Tom was profuse in his apologies, and made it quite clear that his
intentions at least had been most excellent; besides, he kissed Lucretia
with so much brotherly tenderness that I relented of my desire to knock
him down. Then brother and sister retired for a while, apparently to see
after my bedroom, and I was left alone in the bar. I cannot say I liked the look of it. The men were drinking whiskey and
playing _écarté_--two bad things, I thought in my twenty-year-old
propriety. My dear mother hated gambling, which hatred she had instilled
into my youthful mind, and this was evidently a backwoods
gambling-house. Moreover, I carried a bag of silver coin, quite large
enough to make it well worth while, to rob me. The appearances were
clearly against Lucretia's home; but surely Lucretia herself was a
guarantee for anything. Presently Tom returned, and told me my room was ready. I followed him up
the stairs with a beating heart and a heavy reticule. At the top of the
landing Lucretia stood smiling, my candle in her hand, and showed me
into the room. Tom and she looked around to see that all was
comfortable, and then they both shook hands with me, which certainly
seemed a curious thing for an inn-keeper and his sister. As soon as they
were gone, I began to look about me and consider the situation. The room
had two doors, but the key was gone from both. I opened one towards the
passage, but found no key outside; the other, which probably
communicated with a neighbouring bedroom, was locked from the opposite
side. Moreover, there had once been a common bolt on this second door,
but it had been removed. I looked close at the screw-holes, and was sure
they were quite fresh. Could the bolt have been taken off while I was
waiting in the bar? All at once it flashed upon my mind that I had been
imprudently confiding in my disclosures to Lucretia. I had told her that
I carried a hundred and fifty pounds in coin, an easy thing to rob and a
difficult thing to identify. She had heard that nobody was aware of my
presence in Richmond, except herself and her brother. I had not written
to tell the Pritchards I was coming, and she knew that I had not told
any one of my whereabouts, because I did not decide where I should go
until I talked with her about the matter. No one in Canada would miss
me. If these people chose to murder me for my money (and inn-keepers
often murder their guests, I thought), nobody would think of inquiring
or know where to inquire for me. Weeks would elapse before my mother
wrote from England to ask my whereabouts, and by that time all traces
might well be lost. I left Quebec only telling the people at my hotel
that I was going to Montreal. Then I thought of Lucretia's eagerness to
get into conversation, her observation about my money, her suggestion
that I should come to the Richmond Hotel. And how could she, a small
inn-keeper's daughter, afford to get all those fine furs and lockets by
fair means? Did she really know the Pritchards, or was it likely,
considering her position? All these things came across me in a moment. What a fool I had been ever to think of trusting such a girl! I got up and walked about the room. It was evidently Lucretia's own
bedroom; "part of the decoy," said I to myself sapiently. But could so
beautiful a girl really hurt one? A piece of music was lying on the
dressing-table. I took it up and looked at it casually. Gracious
heavens! it was a song from "Lucrezia Borgia!" Her very name betrayed
her! She too was a Lucretia. I walked over to the mantelpiece. A little
ivory miniature hung above the centre: I gave it a glance as I passed. Incredible! It was the Beatrice Cenci! Talk of beautiful women! Why,
they poison one, they stab one, they burn one alive, with a smile on
their lips. Lucretia must have a taste for murderesses. Evidently she is
a connoisseur. At least, thought I, I shall sell my life dearly. I could not go to bed;
but I pulled the bedstead over against one of the doors--the locked
one--and I laid the mattress down in front of the other. Then I lay down
on the mattress, my money-bag under my head, and put the poker
conveniently by my side. If they came to rob and murder me, they should
at least have a broken head to account for next day. But I soon got
tired of this defensive attitude, and reflected that, if I must lie
awake all night, I might as well have something to read. So I went over
to the little book-case and took down the first book which came to hand. It bore on the outside the title "OEuvres de Victor Hugo. Tome I'er. Théâtre." "This, at any rate," said I to myself, "will be light and
interesting." I returned to my mattress, opened the volume, and began to
read _Le Roi s'amuse_. I had never before dipped into that terrible drama, and I devoured it
with a horrid avidity. I read how Triboulet bribed the gipsy to murder
the king; how the gipsy's sister beguiled him into the hut; how the plot
was matured; and how the sack containing the corpse was delivered over
to Triboulet.