In the morning the Viscount Massetti's arm was found to be so much swollen and his wound so painful that it was deemed advisable to send for a physician, who resided in a neighboring hamlet not more than a mile distant from the cabin of the Solaras. The man of medicine was soon at Giovanni's bedside. After examining and dressing his hurt, he declared that the patient ought not to be moved for at least a week, a piece of intelligence at which the young man inwardly rejoiced, notwithstanding all the torture he suffered, for his sojourn involved nursing at the hands of the beautiful Annunziata, who had already shown him that she possessed tenderness and a kind heart, as well as good looks.
Espérance held a conference with his friend after the physician's departure to decide upon what should be done. He proposed to go at once to Rome and acquaint the Viscount's family with what had happened and Giovanni's condition, but the young man firmly opposed this plan, declaring that he would be well in a few days at most and protesting that informing his relatives of his situation would involve explanations he had no desire to give. Giovanni also begged Espérance to remain with him and give nosign as to their place of retreat; so earnestly did he solicit these favors that the son of Monte-Cristo, much against his will and with many forebodings, finally consented to grant them.
Pasquale Solara returned home late on the day following the arrival of the strangers at his hut. He was an old, but sturdy shepherd, whose rough, sunburned visage spoke of exposure to the weather and hard toil. He frequently was absent for days and nights in succession, absences that he never explained and about which his son and daughter did not dare to question him, for Pasquale was a harsh man, who grew angry at the slightest pretext and was inclined to be severe with all who sought to pry into his affairs. He expressed great fear of the bandits who infested the vicinity of Rome and especially of Luigi Vampa's band, but those who knew him best shook their heads doubtingly, and, though they did not say so, it was plainly to be seen that they deemed this fear merely assumed for purposes of his own. At any rate, it was a significant fact that Pasquale was never disturbed in his wanderings, while the brigands always left his dwelling and its inmates unmolested.
The old shepherd frowned darkly when informed by his children that they had given shelter to a couple of travelers, one of whom had been wounded in a fight with a brigand, but he said nothing and appeared disposed to accept the situation without even a grumble. He did not, however, enter the chamber in which Giovanni lay and avoided coming in contact with Espérance, who caught but a passingglimpse of him ere he departed again on another expedition, which he did after a stay of only half an hour at his cabin.
The young peasant and Espérance soon became quite friendly, indulging in many a ramble in the forest and beside the gurgling brook. The peasant's name was Lorenzo, and he appeared to lead a free life, totally unencumbered with avocation of any kind, save occasionally looking after a few sheep that never strayed far from the banks of the little stream.
Annunziata for the time abandoned her visits to Rome, installing herself as Giovanni's nurse. She was almost constantly beside him, and her presence and care were more potent medicines than any the physician administered. Her smile seemed to exercise a bewitching effect upon the young Viscount, while her voice sounded in his ravished ear like the sweetest music. The handsome girl was the very picture of perfect health, and her well-developed form had all the charm of early maturity, added to youthful freshness and grace. She wore short skirts, and her shapely limbs were never encumbered with stockings, while her feet were invariably bare. A low, loose body with short sleeves displayed her robust neck and shoulders, and plump, dimpled arms that would have been the envy of a duchess. Her hands as well as her feet were not small and the sun had given them a liberal coat of brown, but they were neatly turned and attractive, while her short, taper fingers were tipped with pink, carefully trimmed nails. Altogether she looked like the spirit of the place, adelicious wood nymph as enchanting as any a poet's fancy ever created and yet a substantial, mortal reality well calculated to fire a man's blood and set his brain in a whirl. If she had appeared beautiful in Rome, amid the aristocratic fashion queens of the Piazza del Popolo, she seemed a thousand-fold more delightful and fascinating in her humble forest home, where she shook off all restraint and showed herself as she really was, a bright, innocent child of nature, as pure as the breath of heaven and as free from guile as the honey-fed butterfly of the summer sunshine.
The more Giovanni saw of her the more he came under the dominion of her irresistible charms, the empire of her physical attractiveness. Gradually he mended, and as his wound healed his strength returned. At length, towards the close of the week, he was able to quit his bed and sit in a large chair by the window of his room. It had been agreed upon between him and Espérance that, during their sojourn at the Solara cabin, they should be known respectively as Antonio Valpi and Guiseppe Sagasta, and already Annunziata had bestowed upon her patient the friendly and familiar diminutive of Tonio, a name to which he answered with wildly beating heart and eyes that spoke volumes.
By means of shrewdly managed questions the young Viscount had ascertained that the flower-girl had no lover, that her breast had never owned the tender passion, and this intelligence added fuel to the flame that was consuming him. It is not to be supposed that Annunziata was ignorant of the strong impressionshe had made upon her youthful and handsome patient. She was perfectly aware of it and secretly rejoiced at the manifest exhibition of the power of her charms. Perhaps she did not as yet love Giovanni, perhaps it was merely the general physical attraction of a woman towards a man, or it might have been that innate spice of coquetry common to every female, but the fact remained that she tacitly encouraged the young Viscount in his ardent attentions to her. She, moreover, lured and inflamed him in such a careless, innocent way that she acquired additional piquancy thereby. Had Annunziata been a designing woman of the world intent upon trapping a wealthy lover, instead of a pure and artless country maid totally unconscious of the harm she was working, she could not have played her game with more effect. Giovanni had become altogether her slave. He hung upon her smiles, drank her words and could hardly restrain himself in her presence. No shipwrecked mariner ever more greedily devoured with his dazzled eyes the fateful loreley of a rocky, deserted coast than he did her. Had she been his social equal, had her intelligence and education matched her personal beauty, he would have forgotten Zuleika, thrown himself impetuously at her feet and solicited her hand. As it was, while Monte-Cristo's daughter possessed his entire heart, Annunziata Solara enslaved his senses.
She received his approaches as a matter-of-course, without diffidence, without a blush. His gallant speeches pleased her, she did not know why. So thoroughly unsuspicious was she, that she failed tonotice his language was not that of the untutored peasant he claimed to be, that his bearing as well as his words indicated a degree of culture and refinement far above his assumed station. She was dazzled, charmed by him as the bird is by the glittering serpent with its wicked, fascinating eyes. She thought of nothing but the present and its novel joys. She had never heeded the future—she did not heed it now.
One morning as she sat at his side by the open window, through which stole the balmy air of the forest laden with the intoxicating perfume of a thousand wild, intensely sweet flowers, Giovanni suddenly took her brown hand, covering it with passionate kisses. The girl did not resist, did not withdraw her hand from his; she did not even tremble, though a slight glow came into her cheeks, making her look like a very Circe.
"Annunziata," said Giovanni, in a low voice scarcely above a whisper, "do you care for me?"
"Care for you, Tonio?" replied the girl, gazing sweetly into his glowing and agitated countenance. "Oh! yes! I care a great deal for you!"
He threw his arm about her neck, and, as his hand lay upon her shapely shoulder, a magnetic thrill shot through him like a sudden shock from a powerful electric battery. Annunziata did not seek to withdraw herself from his warm embrace, and he drew her to him with tightening clasp until her full, palpitating bosom rested against his breast. Her tempting red lips, slightly parted, were upturned; he placed hisupon them in a long, lingering, delirious kiss. Then the color deepened in her cheeks, and she gently disengaged herself. She did not, however, avert her eyes, but gazed into his with a look of mute inquiry. All this was new to her, and the more delicious because of its entire novelty.
"Neither my father, nor my brother, nor my dead mother ever kissed me like that!" she said, artlessly.
Giovanni was enraptured; the girl's innocence was absolutely marvelous; he had never dreamed that such innocence existed upon earth. Was she really what she appeared?
"Annunziata," he said, abruptly, his heart beating furiously and his breath coming thick and fast, "you have never experienced love, or you would know the meaning of that kiss!"
"Love?" answered the girl, opening her large, lustrous eyes widely. "Oh! yes, I have felt love. I love my father and Lorenzo, I love—everybody!"
"But not as you would love a young man, who would throw himself at your pretty feet and pour out the treasures of his heart to you!"
"No young man has ever done that," said Annunziata, smiling and nestling closer to him.
"But some one will before long, perhaps before many minutes! How would you like me to be that one!" cried the Viscount, in his headlong fashion.
"I cannot tell," answered the girl, "I do not know!"
"Then let me try the experiment!" said Giovanni, rising from his chair and sinking on his knees in front of her. "Annunziata, I love you!"
The girl stroked his hair and then passed her taper fingers through his flowing locks. She was silent and seemed to be thinking. Her bosom heaved just a little more than usual, and the glow on her cheeks became a trifle more intense. Giovanni, yet kneeling, seized her hand, holding it in a crushing clasp.
"Do you hear me?" he cried, impatiently. "Do you understand me? I love you!"
"You love me, Tonio?" replied the girl, slowly. "Well, it is only natural! Every young man must love some young girl some time or other, and I think—I think—I love you a little!"
"Think!" said Giovanni, amazed. "Do you not know it?"
"Perhaps!" answered Annunziata, still fondling his hair.
Giovanni threw his arms about her waist, an ample, healthful waist, free from the restraints of corsets and the cramping devices of fashion. As he did so the sound of footsteps was heard without, and he had scarcely time to leap to his feet when Espérance entered the room.
Massetti was confused and his friend noticed the fact. He also remarked that Annunziata was slightly flushed and seemed to have experienced some agreeable agitation. Espérance instantly leaped to a conclusion. Giovanni's flirtation with the fair flower-girl had gone a trifle too far, had assumed a serious aspect. He would interfere, he would remonstrate with him. It might not yet be too late after all.Annunziata was a pure and innocent creature, unused to the ways of the world and incapable of suspecting the wickedness of men. She was on the point of falling into a deadly snare, on the point of being wrecked upon the most dangerous shoal life presented. Her very purity and innocence would make her an easy victim. Giovanni was not wicked; he was merely young, the prey of the irresistible passion of youth. Annunziata's surpassing loveliness had fired his blood, had driven him to the verge of a reckless action, a crime against this beautiful girl that money could not repair. This crime should not be committed, if he could help it, and he would risk the Viscount's friendship to save him from himself. Giovanni could not marry the humble peasant girl; he should not mar her future.
When Espérance came into the chamber, his presence recalled Annunziata to herself and also dampened Massetti's ardor. The girl arose and, smiling at Espérance, tripped blushingly away. Giovanni was flushed and somewhat angry at the intrusion at the critical moment of his love making. Espérance's face was grave; he felt all the weight of the responsibility he was about to assume.
"Giovanni," said he, in a measured tone, "I do not blame you for being fascinated by a pretty, amiable girl like Annunziata Solara, far from it. She is certainly a paragon of beauty, a model of rustic grace, a very tempting morsel of rural virtue and innocence. She is well fitted to turn the head of almost any young man—I freely acknowledge that. It ispardonable to wish to enjoy her society—nay, a harmless flirtation with her is, perhaps, not censurable; but that is the utmost length to which a man of honor can go! Remember she has a reputation to lose, a heart to break!"
"What do you mean by that long sermon?" demanded the Viscount, setting his teeth and frowning savagely.
"I mean that you have been making love to this poor girl, that you have been seeking to requite her care of you in a manner but little to your credit!"
"I owe you my life, Espérance," replied Massetti, "but even my gratitude will not shield you from my fury, if you step between me and Annunziata Solara!"
"You mean to pursue her then, to soil her name, to blast her future, for surely you are not courting her with marriage as your object?"
Giovanni flushed scarlet at this open accusation.
"I mean to pursue her—yes! What my object in the matter is concerns only myself; you have nothing whatever to do with it!" he exclaimed, hotly.
"But I have a great deal to do with it!" replied Espérance, firmly. "You shall not pursue Annunziata Solara to her destruction! Between her good name and your reckless intentions I will oppose a barrier you cannot surmount—myself!"
"Do you mean to champion her to the extent of challenging me?" demanded Massetti, fairly foaming with ire.
"If you persist in your nefarious designs, yes!" answered the son of Monte-Cristo, with equal warmth."You are my friend, my friend of friends, Giovanni Massetti, but the instant you menace that innocent girl's honor my friendship for you crumbles to dust and you become my deadly foe! Take your choice. Either leave this hospitable cabin with me as soon as the state of your wound will permit you to do so, meanwhile respecting Annunziata Solara as you would your own sister, or meet me pistol in hand on the field of honor! Take your choice, I say! What is your decision?"
"I will not give up Annunziata!"
"Then you must fight!"
"I shall not hesitate!"
"So be it! My life against yours! I will defend this poor girl's honor to the last drop of my blood!"
"When shall we fight?"
"To-morrow at dawn."
"Where?"
"In the clearing beyond the chestnut copse on the further side of the brook. There is no need of witnesses; this matter is between us and us alone!"
"So much the better, for it will be a duel to the death! I cannot as yet hold my right arm aloft long enough to fight with it, but I will make my left hand serve!" Then, as a sudden thought struck him, Massetti added: "Do you propose to betray me, to carry your story to Annunziata and her brother?"
Espérance surveyed his companion with intense scorn flashing from his eyes.
"I am no traitor!" he said, coldly, and, turning, quitted the apartment.
The remainder of that day Espérance and Giovanni did not meet again; they purposely avoided each other, the former because he did not wish to have a further quarrel with the Viscount, and the latter because he dreaded a repetition of the accusations of dishonorable conduct, which had stung him deeper than he would own even to himself.
Espérance disdained to play the spy upon Massetti, but, nevertheless, he determined not to quit the immediate vicinity of the cabin and to be as watchful as circumstances would permit. Nothing, however, occurred to arouse his suspicions as long as daylight lasted. Once or twice Giovanni quitted his chamber and walked back and forth excitedly on the sward in front of the hut, but his promenades were of very short duration, seeming to have no other object then to calm his seething brain. Annunziata did not go near him, though whether coquetry or fear caused her to pursue this course Espérance was unable to determine, but her action gratified him because it gave Giovanni no opportunity to follow up whatever advantage he might have gained with the flower-girl.
Lorenzo appeared to have no suspicion whatever that anything was amiss either with the young menor his sister. He was as light-hearted and cheerful as ever, going about his usual trifling occupations with gayety that was absolutely contagious, and displaying even more than his accustomed amiability. Espérance had grown to esteem this youthful peasant highly; he had found him manliness and generosity personified and had resolved, on his return to Rome, to interest the Count of Monte-Cristo in his welfare and advancement. With regard to Annunziata, Espérance was as yet altogether undecided; she was a problem he could not solve. Her innocence and virtue were apparent, but her childlike simplicity and utter lack of worldly experience, while so charming and delightful to behold, added to her wonderful beauty, exposed her to risks that were frightful to contemplate. Had she only possessed a lover in her own rank of life, all would have been well with her; but she possessed no lover, was absolutely alone; if she escaped Giovanni, and Espérance was determined she should escape him if he could effect it, the chances were that she would eventually fall into the clutches of some other admirer still more reckless and unscrupulous. The son of Monte-Cristo could not think of the lovely girl and her future without a pang that made his very heart ache. He, too, admired her beauty, her grace and her artlessness, but his admiration was confined within the proper bounds, and could he have seen her suitably and happily wedded, he would have rejoiced to the depths of his soul.
Late in the afternoon Pasquale Solara reappeared suddenly and without the least warning. The old manwas covered with dust, as if he had been journeying far on foot. He plainly showed that he was greatly fatigued, also that something had occurred to irritate him. He entered the cabin unobserved, and was there for some moments before his presence was discovered. Annunziata was the first to see him, sitting upon a rude wooden bench with his stout oaken staff in his hand on which he leaned heavily. She threw her arms about his neck with a cry of joy, endeavoring to snatch a kiss from his tightly-closed lips, but he sternly and silently repulsed her. Lorenzo, in his turn, met with no warmer reception at his father's hands. But his children were used to Pasquale's moods and were, therefore, altogether unaffected by his present morose deportment; they speedily left him to himself, giving themselves no further trouble concerning him. Once when Espérance came into the room the old man stared at him inquiringly, as if he had utterly forgotten the fact that strangers were enjoying the shelter of his roof; then he appeared to recollect and scowled so savagely that the young man beat a hasty retreat, going to seek Lorenzo, whose cheery voice was heard singing beyond the brook.
As Espérance came in sight of the little stream, he nearly stumbled over a peasant, lying at full length beneath the spreading branches of an aged willow. The stranger was reading a book, and Espérance was amazed to notice that it was "Cæsar's Commentaries." He uttered an apology for his awkwardness, but the peasant only smiled and, in a gentle voice, begged pardon for being in the way. That voice! Espérance was certain hehad heard it before, but where or when he could not recall, though it thrilled him to the very marrow of his bones, filling him with vague apprehensions. The man's face, too, was familiar, as also was his attire; but there was great similarity between the Italian peasants in the vicinity of Rome in general looks and dress; it was quite likely that he had not seen this man before, but some other resembling him; still, the voice and face troubled Espérance, and he decided to question the peasant; the rarity of strangers' visits to this sequestered locality would be a sufficient pretext for his curiosity.
"My friend," said he, addressing the recumbent reader, who had resumed his book, "are you a relative or acquaintance of the Solaras?"
"I am neither," replied the man, carelessly, glancing up from his volume and allowing his penetrating eyes to rest on his questioner, "I strolled here by chance, and this cosy nook was so inviting that I took possession of it without a thought as to the intrusion I was committing."
The peasant's language was refined; Espérance noted this fact and was not a little surprised thereby; in addition, he could not understand why the stranger should be reading "Cæsar's Commentaries," a work far beyond the range of the usual peasant intellect.
"You are committing no intrusion," said he. "Lorenzo and Annunziata, I am sure, would be glad to welcome you. Old Pasquale is somewhat of a savage, it is true, but luckily he does not bother himself much about anything or anybody."
"Pasquale has arrived then?" said the man, dropping his book and evincing a sudden interest.
"Yes; he is in the cabin now," answered Espérance, his astonishment increasing. "Do you want to speak with him?"
"No," said the peasant, lightly springing to his feet. He hastily closed his book, thrust it into his belt, and, bowing to Espérance, disappeared in the forest.
The young man looked after him for an instant; then he joined Lorenzo and informed him of the meeting. At his first words Annunziata's brother ceased singing; a cloud overspread his brow, and he asked, in an eager tone, for a description of the curiously behaved stranger. Espérance gave it to him, remarking as he did so that his companion turned slightly pale and seemed frightened.
"Who is this man?" he asked, as he concluded. "Do you know him? He appeared strangely familiar to me."
"Do I know him?" repeated Lorenzo, with a shudder. "Yes—that is no!"
Espérance stared at his comrade in surprise and uneasiness; the youthful peasant evidently had more knowledge of the singular intruder than he was willing to admit. There was surely some mystery here. What was it? Did the presence of this stranger menace the peace, the tranquillity, the safety of the Solara family? Was he in some dark way associated with the movements and actions of old Pasquale? Espérance attempted to question Lorenzo further, but he only shook his head and declined to make anydisclosures. He, however, stipulated that his sister should not be informed of what had occurred, urging that there was no necessity of uselessly alarming her. Alarming her? What could he mean? Espérance grew more and more perplexed, and his conviction that he had met the stranger previously, increasing in strength, added to his anxiety and discomfort.
For some hours Giovanni had kept his room and given no sign. What was he meditating? Was it possible that he was concocting some cunning plan by which to circumvent intervention and gain undisturbed possession of the girl who had so powerfully influenced his passions? Could it be that he was in some mysterious way associated with the strange peasant, whose sudden advent seemed of such ill omen? Espérance thought of all these things and was infinitely tortured by them, but, one by one, he succeeded in dismissing them from his mind. Giovanni was certainly under a potent spell that might lead him to the commission of any indiscretion, but he was at bottom a man of honor, and there was some chance that his better feelings might obtain the mastery of his mere physical inclinations. At any rate, Espérance felt that he could trust him for one night more at least. Perhaps in the morning he would awaken to a true sense of his position and acknowledge his error; he might even implore his friend's pardon, admit that he was right and consent to return to Rome, leaving the bewitching Annunziata in all her innocence and purity. Upon reflection Espérance decided that the stranger could be in nowise the associate oraccomplice of the Viscount, for the latter had communicated with no one, had not even gone a dozen steps from the Solara cabin during his entire period of convalescence. The idea of collusion was untenable. Espérance resolved to watch and wait. There was no telling what a few hours might bring forth; but at the worst he would fight; if he fell he would not regret it, and, if Giovanni perished at his hands, his death would be due to his own headlong impulses and his blood, under the circumstances, could not be a disgraceful, dishonorable stain.
Towards nightfall old Pasquale Solara began to display unwonted activity, showing, at the same time, signs of considerable agitation. He was yet uncommunicative and morose, spoke only at rare intervals; often he did not reply at all to the questions addressed to him, and when he did answer it was only in gruff, snappish monosyllables. He went from place to place uneasily, frequently leaving the cabin and gazing peeringly and stealthily into the forest as if he expected some one or was looking for some secret signal known only to himself. He glanced at Lorenzo and Espérance suspiciously, seeking, as it were, to penetrate their very thoughts. When he encountered Annunziata, he examined her from head to foot with a strange mixture of satisfaction, anxiety and tremulousness. At such times there was a greedy, wolfish expression in his glittering eyes, and his hands worked nervously.
When twilight had given place to darkness, he suddenly left the hut and did not return. Hisunusual conduct had occasioned somewhat of a commotion in the little household, but quiet reigned after his departure and his singular behavior was speedily forgotten by his children. Not so, however, with Espérance. The young man, agitated as he was with the turmoil of his own feelings, could not get old Pasquale and his behavior out of his mind. It filled him with sinister forebodings and made him look forward to the night with an indefinable dread, not unmingled with absolute fear. It seemed to him that the old shepherd was meditating some dark and desperate deed that would be put into execution with disastrous results ere dawn.
The evening, nevertheless, passed without incident, and in due course sleep brooded over the Solara cabin, wrapping all its inmates in silence and repose. All its inmates? All save the son of Monte-Cristo, who tossed restlessly upon his couch and could not close his eyes. At length, however, he managed to calm himself somewhat and was just sinking into a sort of half slumber when he was suddenly roused by a wild, far echoing cry that caused him to leap instantly from his bed. The cry was a woman's, and he thought he recognized the voice, of Annunziata Solara. A second's thought seemed to satisfy him on this point, for the flower-girl was the only female in the vicinity and the voice was certainly hers; but it sounded from a distance, without the cabin, and this fact bewildered him. Promptly old Solara's conduct returned to his mind, and instinctively he connected the morose shepherd with the cry and whatever was happening. The youngman had not removed his garments; it was, therefore, only the work of an instant for him to grasp his pistol, which he kept loaded beneath his pillow, and rush from the hut in the direction of the cry, which had been repeated, but was growing fainter and fainter.
As he emerged from the cabin, he heard a shot echo through the forest, and almost immediately a man rushed into his arms, bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in the temple. The night was moonless and dark, but in the feeble and uncertain light Espérance recognized Lorenzo.
"My sister—my sister—poor Annunziata!" the young peasant gasped, painfully. "Your friend—abducted—gone! Oh! my God!" and he sank to the ground an unconscious mass, quivering in the final agonies of dissolution.
Espérance was horror-stricken. Annunziata abducted by Giovanni! He could draw no other conclusion from the young peasant's broken exclamations! Lorenzo slain, too, and doubtlessly also by the impetuous Viscount's hand! Oh! it was horrible!—it was almost beyond belief! He bent over Lorenzo's prostrate form, straightened it out and felt in the region of the heart; there was no beat; it was as he had divined—Annunziata's manly and generous brother was dead—the victim of a cowardly, treacherous assassin—and that assassin!—oh! he could not think of it and retain his faith in men!
Espérance left Lorenzo's corpse lying upon the sward, and, pistol in hand, started forward to go to Annunziata's aid, to rescue her from her dastardlyabductor, if it lay within his power to do so. He reached the forest and plunged into its sombre depths. Scarcely had he gone twenty feet when a man carrying a flaming torch rushed wildly by him, in his shirt sleeves, hatless, his short, thick gray hair standing almost erect upon his head. In the sudden flash of light his haggard eyes blazed like those of a maniac. In his left hand he held a long, keen-bladed knife. He glanced neither to the right nor the left, but kept straight on, as if he were a ferocious bloodhound in pursuit of human prey. Espérance came to an abrupt pause, and stared with wide-open eyes at the startling apparition. It was old Pasquale Solara! The son of Monte-Cristo shuddered as he thought that the father, with all his Italian ferocity thoroughly aroused, was in pursuit of the man who had abducted his daughter and murdered his son. In that event the Viscount's death was sure, for he could not escape the vengeance of the distracted and remorseless shepherd! Should he raise his voice and warn him? No, a thousand times no! Giovanni deserved death, and did the furious old man inflict it, he would be only advancing the just punishment of the outraged law!
Quickly resolving to follow in the footsteps of Pasquale Solara, Espérance dashed on, utterly regardless of the bushes and briars that impeded his progress and tore great rents in his garments. Soon excited voices reached him, then the noise of a violent struggle. He pushed rapidly forward, intent upon reaching the scene of conflict, where he did not doubt the hapless Annunziata would be found. Soon heindistinctly saw two men engaged in a hand to hand strife. One was evidently Pasquale Solara, for a torch was smouldering on the ground half-extinguished by the damp moss, and the young man caught an occasional flash of a knife such as the shepherd had carried when he passed him, but beyond these circumstances all was supposition, for the identity of the contending men could not be made out in the obscurity.
Grasping his pistol tightly, Espérance was about declaring his presence when the figure of a man sprang up before him with the suddenness of a flash of lightning, seeming to emerge from the very ground at his feet. At that instant the torch gave a brilliant gleam and went out, but in that gleam Espérance recognized the man who opposed his progress as the strange peasant he had seen reading "Cæsar's Commentaries" the previous afternoon by the brook in the vicinity of the Solara cabin. Was he, too, mixed up in the abduction, and how? Again the suspicion returned to Espérance that he was the confederate, the accomplice of the Viscount Massetti.
"Remain where you are!" commanded the intruder, sternly. "If you advance another step, the consequences be upon your own head!"
"Stand aside and let me pass!" thundered the young man, presenting his pistol at his opponent's head. The other gave a low laugh, made a quick movement and Espérance's weapon went whirling swiftly through the air. Meanwhile the sounds of strife had ceased, and the almost impenetrable darkness of the foresteffectually prevented the young man from distinguishing anything a yard distant. As his pistol was hurled from his grasp he closed his fists tightly, set his teeth firmly together and made a frantic dash at the peasant. The latter leaped aside with surprising agility, vanishing instantaneously among the clustering trees. So sudden was his leap that Espérance, carried on by the strong impetus he had given himself, plunged wildly into a clump of bushes and fell headlong upon a thick growth of moss, the softness of which prevented him from sustaining even the slightest bruise. As he came in contact with the moss, his hand touched something cold that sent an icy shiver through him from head to foot. Instinctively he recognized the object as a human face, and passing his hand along he felt the body and limbs. Great heavens! who was this? Had another murder been done? Would there ever be an end to the horrors and mysteries of this dreadful night? The body was that of a man. Espérance arose to his knees and drawing a match-safe from his pocket struck a light. As the flame flashed upon the countenance of the unconscious man, the features of Giovanni Massetti appeared! Espérance was stunned. How was this? The Viscount there, beneath his hand, cold and motionless! Who then could have been the individual with whom old Pasquale Solara had been struggling but a moment since? Truly the mysteries of this night were becoming too complicated for solution! And where was the unfortunate Annunziata? Had she escaped from her captor or captors, had she been rescued, had sheperished like her ill-fated brother, or had the abduction been successfully accomplished? None of these questions could Espérance answer. One thing, however, was plain—there was no trace of her now; no clue that he could follow; therefore, further pursuit for the present was useless. Sadly he determined to wait for day and then resolve upon some plan to put into immediate execution to retrieve, as far as possible the great wrong that had been done.
But Giovanni must be attended to. Guilty or innocent, dead or alive, he could not be abandoned where he was. Humanity demanded that some effort be made in his behalf. Perhaps, too, if he were in a condition to speak, some key to the strange, bewildering and terrible transactions of the night might be obtained. Espérance raised him in his arms and carried him to the brook near the Solara cabin. By this time the moon had arisen and in its silvery rays he examined him thoroughly. There was no trace of blood, no wound; only a large bruise on his forehead, as if he had been struck with some heavy object and knocked down unconscious. He was alive, for his heart was beating, and once or twice he had moved on the sward where Espérance had placed him. The young man made a cup of his hands, and, dipping some cool water from the stream, dashed it in the Viscount's face. Instantly he opened his eyes, gazing about him in bewilderment. He sat up and stared wildly at Espérance.
"What is the matter? How came I here?" he asked, in astonishment. Then suddenly putting hishand to the bruise on his forehead, as if it pained him, he continued: "Ah! yes! I remember it all now! Luigi Vampa struck me!"
"Luigi Vampa struck you?" cried Espérance, more amazed than ever.
"Yes, after he had forced me to take a fearful oath to remain silent!"
"Silent about what? The abduction of Annunziata Solara?"
"Hush! hush! Do not mention that girl's name! Vampa or some of his men may be lurking in the vicinity and hear!"
"What has become of her? At least tell me that! You know!"
"As God is my judge, I do not!"
"Were you not with her to-night? Did you not forcibly take her from the cabin?"
"No! no!"
"Who did then?"
"Alas! my oath compels silence on that point!"
"Your oath! That is a very convenient excuse! Giovanni, Luigi Vampa was not here to-night."
"He was. He lurked around the cabin all day, that when darkness came he might commit the blackest deed that ever sullied the record of mankind!"
Instantly Espérance recollected the peasant he had met that afternoon beside the brook, the man who, but a short while before, had opposed his passage and disarmed him in the forest. His vague familiarity with his voice, face and dress was now accounted for. The man was Luigi Vampa. There could be no doubt ofit. But why had he abducted Annunziata Solara, as Giovanni's words would seem to infer? Why, save as the confederate and accomplice of the Viscount Massetti? But then how had Giovanni communicated with him, and in what manner had they contrived to arrange the details of their dishonorable plot? Was it possible that old Pasquale had been the medium of correspondence between the two men. Had he been base enough to sell his child? In that case, with whom had he fought so fiercely and desperately in the forest? Why also had the brigand chief sworn Giovanni to silence? Vain questions, admitting of no satisfactory replies. The Viscount's story was incredible; it was, without doubt, a mere fabrication intended to cover and conceal his own guilt in the premises. Still Espérance could not reconcile this theory with the fact of finding Giovanni senseless in the forest.
The young Italian had by this time fully recovered from the effects of the shock he had received. He arose to his feet, and, approaching Espérance, said, earnestly:
"My friend, let the past be forgotten. I was wrong and you were right. I ask your pardon. As to the abduction of this unfortunate girl, I assure you that I am entirely innocent of it!"
"But who fired the shot that killed Lorenzo?" asked Espérance, sternly.
"Killed Lorenzo!" cried Giovanni, with unmistakable horror. "Was Lorenzo killed?"
"He was shot to-night and died in my arms!"
"Oh! this is terrible!" exclaimed the Viscount,beads of cold perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. "I assure you, Espérance, I had no hand in this foul murder—I knew nothing of it! I did hear the report of a pistol, but who discharged the weapon or at whom it was fired I could not tell. Everything seemed like a disordered dream!"
As Espérance said not a word in reply, the Viscount continued:
"Again I assert my innocence of the dark crimes that have been committed to-night! Do you not believe my protestation?"
"I know not what to believe," answered the young man. "But I will not consider you guilty until you are proved so."
"Then," cried Giovanni, joyously, "I have a proposition to make to you. Swear that you will be silent about everything that has occurred since we met Annunziata Solara in the Piazza del Popolo, including the terrible events of to-night, and I will start with you for Rome this very instant!"
"And you will renounce your pursuit of the flower-girl?"
"I will renounce it!"
"Do you swear to do so?"
"I swear it!"
"Then, on my side, I here take the oath of silence you require!"
"You forgive me for having quarreled with you?"
"I forgive you!"
"Then let us leave this accursed spot without another moment's delay!"
"So be it!"
They hastily quitted the bank of the little stream and went to the cabin to prepare for their immediate departure. As they passed the spot where Lorenzo's body had lain, Espérance noticed with a start that it was no longer there. They entered the cabin. It was dark and deserted. Espérance lighted a candle and, as he did so, perceived a scrap of paper upon the floor. He stooped mechanically and picked it up. It was rumpled as if it had been crushed in the hand and cast away. The young man straightened it out. It was a brief letter. He held it to the candle and, with a sickening sensation at his heart, read as follows:
Dearest Annunziata: All is prepared. We will fly to-night. Be ready.Tonio.
Dearest Annunziata: All is prepared. We will fly to-night. Be ready.
Tonio.
The note was in Massetti's handwriting. Espérance silently passed it to him. The Viscount read it with eyes bulging from their sockets, his fingers trembling so he could scarcely hold the paper.
"The evidence is conclusive!" said Espérance, icily, as Massetti finished reading. "It is a confession! You abducted Annunziata Solara!"
"What can I say to justify myself?" cried Giovanni, bitterly. "Oh! that accursed oath!"
"And you have sworn me to silence, also, wretched man!" said Espérance. "Why was I so weak!"
He looked scornfully at the Viscount, who stood with bowed head. Then he added:
"I understand you now! You did not wish me to betray you, to set the hounds of Justice on your track, to cause you to be punished, branded and disgraced! You were shrewd and imposed upon me. But my oath is sacred—I will keep it! Let us return to Rome at once as we originally proposed. There I will challenge you in due form for an alleged insult, and we will settle this matter at the pistol's mouth!"
In a few moments more they were on their road to the Eternal City, leaving behind them the cabin into which they had brought ruin and death!
Rome was agitated by a vague scandal, so vague, in fact, that nobody seemed to know the precise details. It had arisen from a newspaper account, given in the indefinite, unsatisfactory way characteristic of Roman journalism. One of the city journals had published the statement that a young and very handsome peasant girl, living with her father in the country beyond the Trastavere, had recently been abducted, report said, by a youthful member of the Roman aristocracy; that the reckless scion of nobility had courted and won her in the guise of a peasant, had carried her off to a bandit fastness and there had eventually deserted her. No names were given. Inquiry at the office of the journal elicited the fact that the proprietors had undoubted authority for the publication of the statement, but no further information could be gained from them. A few days later, however, the same newspaper gave the further particulars that the nobleman had been assisted in effecting the abduction by a young foreigner residing in Rome, and that the brother of the unfortunate girl had been killed in attempting to rescue her. That completed all the intelligence ever vouchsafed to the public in regard to the mysterious affair, and thereafter the journal maintainedan unbroken silence respecting the matter. The rumor ran that its proprietors had been bribed by interested parties to say nothing further, but this rumor could not be traced to any reliable source and was, therefore, by many considered a fabrication. No steps were taken by the authorities in the premises, and it was evident that the affair was to be allowed to die out. Still Roman society was considerably excited, conjectures as to the identity of the guilty party and his accomplice being rife in all the fashionable and aristocratic quarters of the city. These conjectures, however, did not grow to positive statements, though insidious hints were thrown out that those who guessed the Viscount Giovanni Massetti to be the culprit were not far out of the way. Massetti, it was known, had been absent from Rome for several days about the period the abduction was supposed to have taken place, but he did not deign to notice the hints current in regard to himself and no one was hardy enough to question him. Nevertheless some color was given to the rumors concerning him by the fact that, immediately on his return to the city, after the absence above referred to, he became involved in a violent quarrel with a young Frenchman, generally supposed to be Espérance, the son of Monte-Cristo, who at once challenged him to a duel, but the duel was not fought for some reason not made public, the difference between the two fiery youths having been arranged through the mediation of mutual friends. It was observed, however, and widely commented upon that, although the twain had previously been almost inseparablecompanions, Espérance after this quarrel studiously avoided the Viscount Massetti, refraining from even mentioning his name.
Meanwhile at Civita Vecchia another act in the drama of Annunziata Solara's clouded life had been played. In that city was located a famous asylum for unfortunate women, founded and managed by a French lady of enormous wealth and corresponding benevolence, Madame Helena de Rancogne, the Countess of Monte-Cristo.[6]This lady was untiring in her efforts to reclaim and rehabilitate the fallen of her sex. She was the Superior of the Order of Sisters of Refuge, the members of which were scattered throughout Europe, but made their headquarters at the asylum in Civita Vecchia, where a sufficient number of them constantly aided Madame de Rancogne in carrying out her good and philanthropic work.
The Refuge, as the asylum was called, was a vast edifice of gray stone with a sombre and cloister-like look. Over the huge entrance door on a tablet of polished metal this sentence was incrusted in conspicuous letters of black: "Be Not Led to Consider Any Unworthy!" It was an utterance of the Countess of Monte-Cristo in the past and had been adopted as the guiding rule and maxim of the Order of Sisters of Refuge. The interior of the building in no way corresponded with its gloomy, forbidding outside. Tall, wide windows freely admitted the ardent rays of theglowing Italian sun, flooding the corridors and apartments with cheerful light and warmth. Crimson hangings and magnificently wrought tapestry of fabulous price adorned the walls, while costly and beautiful statues and paintings, the work of old masters and contemporaneous artists, added to the attractiveness of the numerous salons and drawing-rooms. The great refectory and the dormitories possessed charms of their own, bright colors everywhere greeting the eye and nothing being allowed that could inspire or promote melancholy moods or painful thoughts. There was an immense library, to which all the inmates of the Refuge had free access. It was sumptuously furnished, and the floor was covered with a gorgeous Turkey carpet, so thick and soft that footsteps made no sound upon it, while the brilliant figures of tropical flowers profusely studding it gave the impression of eternal summer. Desks abundantly supplied with writing materials, tables loaded with the latest newspapers and periodicals in all the languages of Europe, luxurious sofas and inviting fauteuils allured those succored by the Countess of Monte-Cristo and her vigilant aids. On every side the library was surrounded with book-cases, containing absorbing romances, volumes of travel, the productions of the celebrated poets, histories and essays, with a liberal sprinkling of religious works, mostly non-sectarian and invariably of a consolatory character. In addition elegantly and thoroughly equipped work-rooms were provided, in which those who were so inclined could practice embroidery, sew or manufacture the thousandand one little fancy knick-knacks at which female fingers are so skilful. Nothing, however, was compulsory, the main object being to afford the inmates of the Refuge agreeable occupation, to elevate them and to prevent them from looking back regretfully to the agitated lives they had led and the vices that had held empire over them in the past. Truly a more generous, unselfish lover of her sex than the noble Countess of Monte-Cristo did not exist.
The protégées of the Sisters of the Order of Refuge embraced women of all ages, all nationalities and all conditions in life. They included Parisian grisettes and lorettes, recruited by Nini Moustache in her coquettish apartment of the Chaussée d' Antin, for Nini had proved a most effective missionary; young girls, who had fallen a prey to designing roués and been abandoned to the whirl of that gulf of destruction, the streets of Paris; Spanish senoritas, who had listened too credulously to the false vows of faithless lovers; Italian peasant girls, whose pretty faces and charms of person had been their ruin; unfortunate German, English, Dutch and Scandinavian maidens; and even brands snatched from the burning in Russia, Turkey and Greece. This somewhat diverse community dwelt together in perfect sisterly accord, chastened by their individual misfortunes, encouraged and upheld in the path of reform by the Countess of Monte-Cristo, who was to all the unfortunates as a tender, thoughtful and considerate mother.
One quiet night, just as darkness had settled down over the streets of Civita Vecchia, a timid knock atthe entrance door of the Refuge aroused the portress on duty there. Such knocks were often heard and well understood. The portress arose from her bench, partly opened the door and admitted a trembling young girl, whose crouching and shrunken form was clad in a mass of tattered rags. A thin red cloak was thrown over her shoulders, and her pale, emaciated face spoke plainly of poverty, hardship and suffering. Even Giovanni Massetti would have with difficulty recognized in this wretched outcast the once shapely and beautiful flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo, for the applicant at the Refuge door was no other than the ill-fated Annunziata Solara. Her beauty had faded away like a summer dream, vanished as the perfume from a withered hyacinth. She stood before the portress silently, with clasped hands, the incarnation of misery, distress and desertion.
"What do you require, my poor child?" asked the portress, tenderly and sympathetically.
"Shelter, only shelter!" replied the girl, beseechingly, in a hollow, broken voice, the ghost of her former full and joyous tones.
"The Superior must decide upon your case," said the portress. "You shall go to her at once."
The woman touched a bell, directing the Sister of the Order of Refuge who answered it to conduct the applicant to the apartment of Madame de Rancogne. The trembling Annunziata was led through a long corridor and ushered into a small, but cosy office in which sat an elderly lady of commanding and aristocratic presence, whose head was covered with curls ofsilver hair, and whose still handsome countenance wore an expressive look in which compassion and benevolence predominated. This lady was the celebrated Madame Helena de Rancogne, whose adventures and exploits as the Countess of Monte-Cristo had in the past electrified every European nation. She arose as Annunziata entered, welcoming her with a cordial, comforting smile.
"Sit down, my child," she said, in a rich, melodious voice. "You are fatigued. Are you also hungry?"
Annunziata sank into the chair offered her, covering her face with her thin hands.
"Alas! signora," she replied, faintly, "I have walked many weary miles and have not tasted a morsel of food since dawn!"
"Take the poor child to the refectory," said the Countess to the Sister, who had remained standing near the door. "After her hunger has been appeased, I will see her again and question her."
Half an hour later, Annunziata, refreshed and strengthened by her meal, once more sat in the office with the Countess of Monte-Cristo.
"My child," said the latter, "what is your name?"
"Annunziata Solara."
"You have applied for shelter here the portress informs me. Do you know that this is an asylum for the fallen of your sex?"
"I know it, signora; that is the reason I came."
"Have you repented of your sin and do you desire to lead a better life?"
"I have repented bitterly," answered the girl,bursting into a flood of tears, "oh! how bitterly God alone knows! I wish to hide myself from the world; I wish to atone for my shame by whatever good action my hands can find to do."
"It is well," said the Countess, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "The field is wide, and the Order of Sisters of Refuge, although large, is always open for new additions. Much good has already been done, but more remains to be accomplished, infinitely more. You shall be received and given an opportunity to share in the great work."
"From the depths of my soul I thank you!" sobbed the girl. "I will try earnestly to be worthy of your benevolence!"
"Tell me your story now," said the Superior. "I cannot believe that the guilt was altogether yours."
"I am grateful, signora, for those words. I was thoughtless and indiscreet, but not criminal. Happy and contented in my humble peasant home, I was pure and innocent. I knew nothing of the wickedness of men, of the snares set to entrap unwary young girls. I lived with my father and brother in the vicinity of Rome, selling flowers in that city from time to time. I had never had a suitor, never had a lover. My heart was free, filled with the joyousness of youth. I had been told that I possessed a fair share of beauty, but that neither made me vain nor inclined me to coquetry. Oh! signora, I shall never be so happy again!"
Emotion overcame her and her tears started afresh. The Countess soothed her and she continued:
"One fatal night, my brother brought two strange young men to our cabin. They appeared to be peasants like ourselves, and one of them had been wounded in a fight with a brigand. They remained with us for some days. I nursed the wounded man, who, when he grew convalescent, made love to me. I listened to his ardent declarations, submitted to his endearments. I grew to love him in my turn, and, oh! signora, I believed in him, trusted him. At that period I had nothing to reproach myself with, and Tonio, that was my admirer's name, seemed sincerity itself. One day he asked me to fly with him, but our conversation was interrupted and I gave him no answer. I was confused, I did not know what to do. That evening I received a letter from him—I found it on the table in the room I occupied, concealed beneath my work-box—telling me that everything was prepared for our flight that night, and asking me to be in readiness. I was terrified. I could not understand why he wished me to fly with him if everything was as it should be, as my father and brother would not have objected to any proper suitor for my hand on whom I had bestowed my heart. For the first time I was suspicious of Tonio, and I resolved to pay no attention to his letter. On the morrow I would see him and tell him to speak to my father and brother. Alas! that opportunity was not given me. Oh! that horrible, horrible night!"
She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. When she looked up she was ghastly pale, and her voice quivered as she resumed:
"That dreadful night, as I lay upon my bed, wrapped in slumber, I was suddenly aroused by hearing some one in my chamber. It was very dark and I could not see the intruder. I started up in terror, but a hand was placed firmly over my mouth. I was torn from my bed and borne in a man's arms from the cabin. I struggled to release myself, but in vain. My abductor appeared to possess the strength of a giant. There was no moon, but in the dim starlight I could see that the man was masked. He hastened with me into the neighboring forest. There he accidentally struck his right arm against the trunk of a tree and his hand dropped from my mouth. Instantly I uttered a loud, piercing cry, but the hand went back to its place again almost immediately, and I was unable to give vent to another sound. My cry, however, had been heard by my brother, who hastened to my assistance. He overtook my abductor in the forest, and, though unarmed, at once attacked him. The man dropped me and turned upon my brother. A fierce struggle ensued, during which the mask was struck from my abductor's face and, to my horror, I thought I recognized Tonio. Suddenly there was a report of a pistol. I had watched the conflict, unable to move. I saw my brother stagger; blood was gushing from him. I could endure no more; I fell to the ground in a swoon.
"When I recovered my senses, I was in a strange hut. Savage looking men, whom I took to be bandits, were guarding me. How long I remained in the hut I do not know, but it must have been severaldays. At times a masked man came to me, telling me that he was Tonio and pressing his suit upon me. I refused to listen to him, upbraiding him for tearing me from my home and wounding my brother. I told him his conduct was not that of a lover, but of a villain. I implored him, if he possessed a spark of manhood, to set me free, to send me to my father. He informed me that I was his captive and should so remain until I yielded to his wishes. I repulsed him with scorn, with the energy of desperation. Ultimately he overpowered me by sheer force, and compelled me to yield. Then I saw him no more. I wandered about the hut like one demented. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. I was in despair. Shame and degradation were henceforth my portion.
"After my abductor's departure, a new comer appeared among the brigands. He seemed to be their chief. He expressed pity for me, and told me that my abductor was not a peasant, but a young Roman nobleman, the Viscount Giovanni Massetti. I cared nothing for this revelation. I had no thought of vengeance; my sole desire was to hide myself from the gaze of the world, to avoid the pitiless finger of scorn. Eventually the bandit chief took me back to my home. There I found my father, learning from his lips that my brother was dead. This intelligence made my sorrow utterly unbearable. My father was moody and morose. For days at a time he did not speak to me. He appeared to have lost all paternal affection. Finally I left the cabin. I had heard of the Refuge and determined to seek its shelter. Iwalked to Civita Vecchia, and to-night found myself at your door. Such, signora, is my sad history. I have told you the whole truth. You see I am not altogether to blame."
As Annunziata concluded, the Countess of Monte-Cristo drew her upon her bosom.
"My poor girl," said she, in tender, pitying tones, "you have, indeed, tasted the bitterness of life and have been more sinned against than sinning. But you are my daughter now. The Sisterhood of the Order of Refuge has covered you with its protecting shield."