“Set the birthday bells a-ringing;To our queen her friends are bringingFreshest flowers of every hue,Dripping with the evening dew.All advancing,We are dancing,Bringing flowers of every hue,Dripping with the evening dew.Hear the ringing and the chimingOf the merry, merry bells,Eighteen years their story tells.How within the heart it swells!All advancing,We are dancing,To the ringing of the bells,Merry, merry birthday bells.”
“Set the birthday bells a-ringing;To our queen her friends are bringingFreshest flowers of every hue,Dripping with the evening dew.All advancing,We are dancing,Bringing flowers of every hue,Dripping with the evening dew.Hear the ringing and the chimingOf the merry, merry bells,Eighteen years their story tells.How within the heart it swells!All advancing,We are dancing,To the ringing of the bells,Merry, merry birthday bells.”
“Set the birthday bells a-ringing;To our queen her friends are bringingFreshest flowers of every hue,Dripping with the evening dew.All advancing,We are dancing,Bringing flowers of every hue,Dripping with the evening dew.Hear the ringing and the chimingOf the merry, merry bells,Eighteen years their story tells.How within the heart it swells!All advancing,We are dancing,To the ringing of the bells,Merry, merry birthday bells.”
At the close of the song they let go of each other’s hands and formed in line, facing Vivienne. Seven young men, dressed in the costume of peasants of the better class, next entered, and took positions behind the row of maidens. Pascal and Julien then stepped forward and escorted Vivienne to a rustic chair, which was covered with a profusion of flowers and which had been reserved for her use.
Now the musicians played some weird, peculiar dance music and the fourteen youths and maidens took part in a wild, characteristic Corsican dance. The steps and gestures were full of abandon, and although the staid Miss Helen Enright was not absolutely shocked, when the dance was over she had the impression that the conventionalities of society were not kept within as strict lines in Corsica as they were in England.
All sailors love to dance and to see others dance,Admiral Enright was delighted. In the exuberance of his feelings, he grasped Pascal’s hand and ejaculated:
“Bless my soul! A most re-mark-a-ble performance!” He turned to his daughter—“Helen, would it not be a grand idea to introduce so pleasant a custom into English society?”
Miss Enright was an adept in concealing her real thoughts—the ability to do so is a defensive armour which education only can supply—and she responded:
“I fear we could never acquire the habit of doing it so gracefully, papa.”
Pascal bowed and replied: “I am pleased to know that you are not bored. We are not, as a general thing, fortunate in pleasing strangers with our manner of doing things.”
Helen profited once more by her ability to conceal her displeasure and express the contrary:
“I am sure we have visited no place since we have left home that has afforded us so much pleasure as Corsica.”
To this commendatory remark, the Admiral added: “We shall carry with us many happy recollections of this island, I assure you. That dance was really re-mark-a-ble; was it not, Helen?”
She whispered in her father’s ear: “Yes, papa, I really think it was.”
Adolphe, clothed in the livery of the Batistellis, announced that the birthday supper was served.
Events proved that in Corsica, as in other countries, this announcement was the signal for the gentleman guests to choose partners to accompany them to the supper room. Count Mont d’Oro offered his arm to Vivienne, who drew back with a marked gesture of refusal. Pascal saw it and, in a low voice, commanded her to accept the courtesy and not cause a scandal. They, accordingly, took their positions at the head of the line, being followed by Pascal and Miss Renville,Julien and Miss Enright, while the Admiral escorted the Countess Mont d’Oro. The musicians struck up a march and the procession made a tour of the great room. As it was about to enter the corridor, Lieutenant Duquesne suddenly made his appearance in the full dress uniform of a naval lieutenant in Her Britannic Majesty’s service.
Vivienne turned impulsively towards him, releasing her hold upon the Count’s arm, and the procession, necessarily, came to a standstill.
Lieutenant Duquesne apologised to Vivienne for his late arrival, explaining that he had been obliged to go to the ship to make his preparations.
“I am glad that you are in time for supper,” exclaimed Vivienne.
He bent low and said to her in an undertone: “I shall not enjoy it unless in your company.”
“But I am engaged,” and Vivienne looked towards the Count, who stood with face averted.
“You told me you were not.”
A hot flush mantled Vivienne’s cheek—she was not an adept in English humour or wit.
“You hesitate, but when we were in the forest that night you said that you would not forget me.”
“Neither will I,” she cried, with sudden determination. Before the Count could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to interpose, she had taken Victor’s arm and they proceeded to the supper room, closely followed by the company, that regarded further delay as unnecessary.
The Count was filled with rage at the insult which he had received, and was deeply mortified because his discomfiture had been witnessed by so many. He looked for some avenue of escape from further observation. Espying a door partly open, he quickly entered the room and found himself in the ante-chamber of the great drawing-room—from which the singers anddancers had emerged. Under the circumstances, he could not go to the supper room, nor would his pride allow him to leave the house until he had received an apology and reparation for the insult.
He finally decided to call a servant and have him summon Pascal and Julien. They soon appeared. The Count was resourceful and able to curb his passion when it was for his interest to do so. He began speaking in a severely dignified manner:
“Monsieur Pascal Batistelli, your sister has grossly insulted me in your presence and that of your guests. I demand an apology or reparation. I think I deserve both.”
“My dear Count,” said Pascal, “I deeply regret this unfortunate occurrence. My sister is self-willed, but she knows that she must ultimately do as I wish. I cannot humiliate her before her guests to-night. You must allow me to apologise for her rudeness, and I promise, as reparation, that she shall become your wife before a month has passed, and the same guests who are here to-night shall be bidden to witness the marriage ceremony.”
“I accept your pledge,” said the Count, “because I love your sister. Were it not so, I should demand satisfaction from you, her elder brother.”
“I acknowledge your right to do so,” said Pascal. “If I fulfil my pledge, will you be satisfied?”
“I will exact but one simple condition,” the Count answered.
“And that is?” Pascal queried, while Julien clutched nervously at his sword-hilt.
“A simple request and one easily granted,” said the Count. “It is that Lieutenant Duquesne shall leave this house at once.”
Julien looked at his watch. “It is beyond the hour, Pascal. If we do not go at once we shall be too late.”
“And you would postpone complying with my request until he has eaten his supper and can retire gracefully?” asked the Count, sarcastically.
“Let me explain,” cried Pascal. “You have, no doubt, heard the rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is in Corsica. You know what that means to us—and to him! Julien and I have an engagement to meet a man in the maple grove who has given us his word of honour that he can tell us where to find this man. Come with us, Count. We are well armed—we have our swords—and need fear no danger from a single man, who is, probably, unarmed.”
The Count’s first impulse was to speak and disclose what he had learned through the strategy of Villefort. Then he reflected that if the death of his enemy could be compassed without his complicity being apparent, his marriage to Vivienne might not, after all, be impossible.
On the way to the maple grove, Pascal told the Count how an old man had called upon him and had disclosed his identity, under a pledge of secrecy, and declared that he could point out Vandemar Della Coscia.
“I agreed to give him one hundred louis d’or,” said Pascal, “if his information proved to be correct. Some time passed, and I heard nothing from him. Then he sent a letter by a messenger, who, in turn, intrusted it to a shepherd boy to deliver to me. I saw the messenger and learned that the possessor of the secret wished to know if the money would surely be paid. I have it with me, and if the man puts me on the track of Vandemar, he shall have the promised reward.”
“I will pay half of it,” said the Count, generously, but unguardedly.
They were now nearing the maple grove. The Count’s offer had not been heard by Pascal, but it did not escape Julien’s quick ear. The three men, with swords drawn, entered the grove.
“I am here,” said Pascal, in a hoarse whisper.
The same old man who had visited him at the castle emerged from a clump of bushes. He carried a small lantern, which he held up so that its rays fell on Pascal’s face and those of his companions. The man started back with a cry of dismay.
“We are friends,” said Pascal. “Is that you, Paoli?”
“Hush!” growled the man. “Mention no names—the trees have ears. Have you brought the money?”
“I have it with me,” said Pascal.
“Shall I come to the house and point him out, or shall I tell you how to identify him?” asked the man.
“Give us the name he is known by—that will be sufficient,” said Pascal.
“He is called——” began the man.
Before he could speak the name there came a flash and a report from behind a clump of bushes not more than twenty feet away, and the man fell headlong to the ground, dead!
The three men advanced boldly towards the place from which the shot had come. They were met by a fusilade, the bullets, fortunately, perhaps intentionally, going over their heads.
“It is too hot for us here,” said Pascal. “Let us go back to the house at once, where your request, my dear Count, shall be complied with.”
Count Napier Mont d’Oro was the only one who knew that Victor Duquesne and Vandemar Della Coscia were one and the same person.
“My dear young lady,” said the Count to himself, “what a sweet revenge I shall have when I disclose my secret to your guests.”
Thomas Glynneand Jack De Vinne found life in the bandits’ camp very irksome. They were not exposed to physical danger, for they were not called upon to accompany any of the bands which left camp on what they supposed to be predatory excursions.
Neither had forgotten the object of his visit to Corsica. Each wished to continue the search for Bertha Renville and be the first one to meet her; but they knew they were closely watched, and that any attempt to leave camp without Cromillian’s consent would be resisted by force, and their careers cut short, perhaps, by rifle-bullets. So they were forced, against their wills, to remain “lookers-on in Vienna,” and bide their time. The life they led was as enervating as it would have been in prison. Each asked for something to do to pass away the time, and it was arranged that Jack should keep the camp supplied with fresh water, while Glynne felled trees and cut the firewood.
They were kept in a state of nervous excitement, for they expected any day that they might be called before Cromillian to learn the decision to which he had come after visiting Bertha. Each naturally felt that his claim was the stronger and would be respected. Glynne considered that his rights as guardian were paramount, while Jack thought, if Bertha acknowledged her love for him, as he felt sure she would, that the verdict would be in his favour.
After leaving Barbera’scabaret, Villefort had startedoff with the fixed intention of finding Cromillian and divulging Count Mont d’Oro’s plot against Vandemar Della Coscia, for he felt sure that his discovery of the dual identity of Victor Duquesne would be fully substantiated.
Villefort did not know where to find Cromillian. He had heard rumours of the location of the bandits’ camp—but camps can be easily changed from one place to another. They are like song-birds, or one’s good luck—here to-day and gone to-morrow.
He had heard that “All roads lead to Rome,” and it was equally true that all the roads in Corsica, within twenty miles, at least, led to Ajaccio. He knew that Cromillian’s emissaries came to town, usually disguised, and to do this they must follow the roads, or one of them.
By chance, for fortune favours wicked people as often as it does good ones, Villefort took the most direct road to Cromillian’s camp. After a long and weary tramp, he came to a small cottage, where he determined to ask for food and an opportunity to rest. As he neared the house, a girl about ten years of age opened the door and started to run down the path which led to the roadway, but, seeing Villefort, she stopped suddenly.
“Who lives here?” he asked.
“My mother,” said Lulie, for it was she.
“Yes, I suppose so,” remarked Villefort, “but what is your father’s name?”
“My father is dead: my mother is called the Widow Nafilet.”
Villefort started. He had heard that name before—but in what connection? He stood in deep thought, Lulie regarding him attentively, wondering, childlike, what the object of his visit could be, for few strangers were seen in that out-of-the-way locality. As the result of his deliberation, Villefort gave up for a time, at least, his intention of asking for food, and said:
“I want to find a man named Cromillian. Do you know him?”
“What—Uncle Cromillian?” asked the child. “He is the best friend we have—mother and I.”
“Where can I find him?” persisted Villefort.
“Are you alone?” queried Lulie.
Villefort nodded.
“I see you have no gun. Is there a pistol or a stiletto inside your jacket?”
Villefort threw it open. “I am unarmed,” he said. “Come and see if I do not speak the truth.”
Lulie approached, and her bright eyes searched him from head to foot.
“Clasp your hands behind you,” said she. “I will take your arm and lead you to him. But if you unclasp your hands, I shall give the danger signal and Uncle Cromillian will shoot you dead with his rifle.”
The fact was that Cromillian went often to the Widow Nafilet’s house. Although he usually lived upon it for weeks at a time, he did not relish the coarse food rudely prepared by his men, and for that reason had arranged with the Widow Nafilet to cook and send his meals to him when his camp was within a reasonable distance, Lulie being the messenger. Cromillian had accounts to keep and letters to write. In camp, the facilities for such work were very poor, and he found that a snug room and large table, a high-backed chair and a bright wood fire were much better suited to his wants and comfort than the arbour in the woods which he was obliged to use in an emergency.
Lulie led Villefort into the kitchen, where her mother was at work.
“Mother,” she cried, “keep your eye on this man! If he unclasps his hands, give the signal and Uncle Cromillian will come out with his rifle.”
Lulie entered an adjoining room, closing the door quickly. The widow Nafilet kept on with her work,but one eye or the other was fastened on Villefort who, apparently at his ease, was considering the best manner in which to open his conversation with the redoubtable bandit, at the mere mention of whose name citizens of Ajaccio and the surrounding country trembled with an inexplicable fear. He had not harmed them as yet, but they did not know what he might do if his demands were not promptly satisfied.
Lulie opened the door and beckoned to Villefort. “Come in—he will see you,” she said.
Cromillian was seated at the table, which was covered with documents and letters, when Villefort entered.
“And what does Monsieur Villefort wish from me?” were Cromillian’s first words.
“You know me, then?” asked Villefort.
“Yes, and but little to your credit. You are the hired minion of young Count Mont d’Oro, who is a spendthrift and a profligate. I have an open account, which I shall settle with him soon.”
“Perhaps I can aid you to get what is due you,” said Villefort, for he thought that he must improve his standing with the bandit as soon as possible.
“Perhaps you can,” cried Cromillian, “but I shall pay you nothing if you do.”
“I do not ask for any reward.”
“I understand,” said Cromillian. “You two rascals have fallen out. He has wronged you, or you think he has, and you have come to me to betray him—in other words, you wish to get even with him through my kind offices.”
Villefort felt that the situation was critical. He must come at once to the point.
“You know, of course, that Vandemar Della Coscia is in Corsica.”
In spite of his great power of self-command, Cromillian gave an involuntary start. Villefort perceived his advantage and went on:
“You know, of course, that Count Mont d’Oro fought a duel with a Lieutenant Duquesne, who is attached to the British frigate now at Ajaccio.”
Cromillian nodded. Villefort nerved himself for the coming ordeal.
“Count Mont d’Oro put me on the track of the young Englishman and I have discovered that he is no Englishman at all, but that he is a Corsican, and his right name is Vandemar Della Coscia!”
Cromillian’s face was unmoved. “Does the Count know this?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Villefort; “he hired me to follow the man and, when he paid me, he cheated me out of a louis d’or which I had to give to Barbera for writing a letter.”
“But what matters all this to me?” asked Cromillian.
Villefort reflected before answering. Was Cromillian really ignorant, or was he only trying to draw him out before saying anything himself? Then Villefort, as many other rascals have done under similar circumstances, having told what he felt to be the truth, decided to rely in future upon invention. Cromillian had turned his face away and was gazing intently at the blazing wood fire in the fireplace.
“I suppose you know,” Villefort went on, and he watched Cromillian closely to see the effect of his words, “that Manuel Della Coscia is also in Corsica under an assumed name.”
Cromillian turned his head and looked Villefort squarely in the face.
“Under what name did you say?” he asked.
Villefort was dumfounded. This was asking too much—more than he had bargained for. He felt that he must fall back upon the truth, so he replied:
“I do not know.”
“Can you tell me anything more that you do know?”
“I can relate some suspicious circumstances,” said Villefort.
“Go on!”
“I am well acquainted with the Batistelli servants. Adolphe is easily bribed; Snodine is a woman to whom a secret is of no value unless she can tell it; while Manassa is a garrulous old fool who will tell all he knows for nothing.”
“What have you found out?” This question was uttered in a tone that was sharp and commanding.
“Just this,” said Villefort, and he adopted a confidential manner; “you see, I am well acquainted at the hotel, and hotel servants are very observing—and very communicative under certain circumstances. It seems that one day an old man—no one at the hotel knew who he was—brought a letter from somebody for Lieutenant Duquesne. After reading this letter, probably, he cut his initials—V. D. C.—into the table. Those initials gave me my first clue.”
“But what about the old man?” asked Cromillian, for the first time showing some interest in what was being told to him.
“All right, I’ll tell you all I know,” said Villefort, still more confidentially than before. “One of the hotel servants had occasion to walk up the road and saw the old man going into the Batistelli castle. I learned from Adolphe, for a consideration, that he listened and heard Pascal Batistelli tell the man that he would give him a hundred louis d’or for something, but Adolphe could not hear just what it was. Several days ago, a shepherd boy brought a letter to Pascal Batistelli. Adolphe followed the boy and saw him give something to a man who was in the maple grove—but Adolphe says he was not the old man who first came to see Pascal. Two things Adolphe noticed—that the man wore a red vest under his jacket, and that he had lost the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.”
Cromillian brought his hand down upon the table with such force that Villefort recoiled in astonishment. The bandit then set his teeth tightly together and his brows were knit. He was recalling some circumstances, and the memories were evidently unpleasant.
Paoli had wished to go and see his mother and had sent a man in his place to carry that letter to Lieutenant Duquesne. Paoli had asked to go again to see his mother, when he had wished him to go to Ajaccio. This time Paoli had supplied another substitute—a man wearing a red vest, who had lost the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Cromillian arose, went to a heavy oaken chest, unlocked it, and took out a bag in which the coins clinked as he dropped it upon the table. He counted out eleven louis d’or.
“Here,” he said, pushing it toward Villefort, “is the louis d’or which Count Mont d’Oro should have paid you; here are ten more for the information which you have given me, which may or may not prove valuable. Be discreet, learn all you can, and your reward will be doubled. Money comes easily to me and I consider it my duty to keep it moving. Go, now! I will attend to Count Mont d’Oro and those who are aiding him.”
The next morning, Cromillian returned early to his camp. Hardly had he reached it, when Paoli came to him and announced, with tears in his eyes, that his mother was dead and that he wished a furlough for several days in which to attend to her burial and to secure the little inheritance which was to come to him.
“I shall be busy for a while,” said Cromillian, “but I will soon send for you and hear your report on what has taken place during the three days I have been away. After that, you may go.”
As Paoli was walking away, Cromillian cried:
“Ah, Paoli, by mistake, I left something at the Widow Nafilet’s. Send Borteno here. Since he losthis thumb and forefinger in that last scrimmage with thegens d’armeshis fighting days are over, for he cannot pull a trigger; but he will make a good messenger, for his legs are sturdy and he can keep a secret.”
Borteno soon appeared.
“Tell Londora and Fabria that I wish to see them.”
In a short time Borteno returned, accompanied by the two men.
The arbour used by Cromillian for what might be called his private office, ended at the base of a high hill, being, in reality, acul-de-sac.
“Go to the farther end of the arbour,” said Cromillian to Borteno. “I wish to speak to you.”
After he had gone, Cromillian said in an undertone to the two men:
“If any one attempts to leave the arbour before I do, shoot him down.”
He turned and entered the grove, finding Borteno at the farthest extremity.
“Borteno,” said he, “I am going to ask you a question, and whether you live or die within the hour depends upon your answer.”
The man dropped his eyes and trembled visibly.
“My question,” said Cromillian, “has two parts to it, but it will take but few words to answer both.”
Borteno made a strenuous effort to regain his composure, and partly succeeded. “You are my chief, and your word is law,” he replied.
“Then listen,” said Cromillian. “On what night, and at what hour, will Pascal Batistelli be in the maple grove behind his castle, and who of my followers will meet him there to get a hundred louis d’or? Mind you, I do not ask for what, for I already know.”
The man’s eyes almost started from their sockets—but he could not speak.
“I do not blame you,” said Cromillian, “for you but obeyed orders, but you must answer my questions.”
With trembling voice Borteno said: “To-morrow night, at nine o’clock.”
Cromillian approached the man and they stood face to face, eye to eye.
“What more?”
Borteno uttered but one word—“Paoli!”
“It is well,” said Cromillian. “Come with me.”
When they reached the entrance to the grove, Londora and Fabria stood there, rifles in hand. Borteno was in the advance. Suddenly, Cromillian grasped him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him backward.
“I had almost forgotten,” he muttered. To the two sentinels, he said:
“Bind him and gag him, and let no one approach him until I give you orders.”
On the night of Vivienne’s birthday party, Cromillian, accompanied by Londora, Fabria, and six more of his trusted men, made their way to Alfieri and concealed themselves in the maple grove.
As Paoli opened his mouth to tell Pascal Batistelli that Lieutenant Victor Duquesne was in reality Vandemar Della Coscia, a leaden messenger from Cromillian’s rifle entered his brain.
After the fusilade, which caused the Batistelli brothers and Count Mont d’Oro to retreat to the Castle, Cromillian turned to his men and said:
“There is but one proper reward for treachery—and that is death! Reload and follow me! We shall have more and heavier work shortly.”
Count Mont d’Oro, Pascal, and Julien did not loiter on their return to the castle. An unseen enemy is always more terrible than one who stands out in plain view, and although the three men were not devoid of physical courage, and possessed the natural pride of their race, they felt greatly relieved and breathed much easier when they reached the reception room of the castle, which they had left such a short time before on what had proved to be a dangerous and fruitless errand.
They found the place empty, for the guests had not yet returned from the supper room. They could hear the hum of voices, and occasionally one broke into a song, the refrain of which was taken up by the company at the table, while at intervals the music of the orchestra could be heard.
“Who could have fired that shot?” asked Julien.
“It was Cromillian,” replied Pascal. “The man who was on the point of disclosing the identity of Vandemar Della Coscia was Paoli, Cromillian’s lieutenant. That moral bandit, as they call him, is a devil. I shall send to France for authority to hunt him down and kill him, as a foe to society. Vandemar has escaped us, but Cromillian shall not!”
“Vandemar has not escaped us,” said the Count. “It is unfortunate that Paoli was killed, but I possess the secret which he would have disclosed.”
“You!” cried Pascal and Julien, astonished. “Who is he? Where is he?”
“Let us seek some other room,” suggested the Count. “The guests will soon return.”
They passed into the adjoining ante-chamber. When there, Count Mont d’Oro told of the discovery made by Villefort, but took all the credit to himself.
“You have a double claim upon our gratitude,” said Pascal. “Your forbearance under the insult to which you were subjected this evening by our sister, and the great service which you say you can render our family in enabling us to remove the stain ofRimbeccofrom our name, will make us your friends for life. The boon you ask—the hand of our sister—is a compliment to us rather than a reward to you.
“Go, Julien,” he cried, “and acquaint Vivienne of our discovery. Then see that the ladies remain in the supper room, for this affair shall be settled within the walls of the castle. Vandemar shall not leave this house alive. The Count and I will send word to our retainers and friends, so that they may be witnesses of this act of justice.”
Julien sent Adolphe to summon Vivienne to the ante-chamber. She came immediately, for the disappearance of Count Mont d’Oro and her brothers, together with their long absence, filled her with indefinable fear.
“What is it, Julien?” she cried. “Why have you sent for me? What has happened?”
“We have made a most miraculous discovery,” he answered, and Vivienne judged from the expression on his face that whatever it might be, the knowledge gave him great pleasure.
“Tell me,” said Vivienne. “I hope it is something that I can enjoy as well as you. Now, Julien, was not that a selfish remark?” and she laughed at her own desire to be pleased.
“We have learned,” said Julien, and he lowered his voice, “that this so-called Englishman, this Lieutenant Duquesne, is the enemy of our family—Vandemar Della Coscia!”
For a second it seemed to Vivienne as though the blood ceased to move in her veins, and that her heart stood still, but she summoned courage.
“Who told you this?” she gasped.
“Count Mont d’Oro.”
“A miserable plot!” she exclaimed. “He looks upon Lieutenant Duquesne as a rival and has hatched up this story to compass his death. How can men be so base?”
“You have answered your own question,” said Julien. “For the love of a woman man can make himself either a hero or a villain. But think, Vivienne, when this man is dead, no one can point the finger of scorn at us, or couple the wordRimbeccowith our family name.”
“But it is a wicked plot,” cried Vivienne. “The Count has no proof. He could easily invent such a story as he told you. The night I followed you to the woods, Julien, I was robbed of my clothing and jewels and left to die in the storm. Lieutenant Duquesne saved my life. Then I saved his, for it was I who killed the two men who had been hired by Count Mont d’Oro to murder the man who, he now says, is Vandemar Della Coscia. How plain this all is! It is strange that you cannot see it, Julien. You and Pascal may do as you will, but I shall warn Lieutenant Duquesne so that he may escape. He is unarmed, and cannot defend himself against you all.”
Julien grasped his sister by the arm, but she broke away. Breathing heavily, and with wild, staring eyes, she rushed into the reception room, to the great astonishment of the assembled guests.
Before she could speak, other voices were heard. They were the voices of men, and they chanted the words which had so often preceded the death of some man or woman doomed by the vendetta:
“Place on the wall before my bedMy cross of honour well gained.To my sons, my sons, in a far country,Convey my cross and bloody vest.He, my first born, will see the rents.For each rent, a rent in another shirt,A wound in another heart. Vengeance!The hour for vengeance is nigh.Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls;He comes, the last of his race, but heComes to his couch with a stain on his shroud,Only to die; the vendetta, the spirit of the vendettaIs awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood!The noble house of Batistelli no longer shallBear the dread reproach ofRimbeccare; the stainShall now be washed away in blood.Vandemar must die!”
“Place on the wall before my bedMy cross of honour well gained.To my sons, my sons, in a far country,Convey my cross and bloody vest.He, my first born, will see the rents.For each rent, a rent in another shirt,A wound in another heart. Vengeance!The hour for vengeance is nigh.Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls;He comes, the last of his race, but heComes to his couch with a stain on his shroud,Only to die; the vendetta, the spirit of the vendettaIs awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood!The noble house of Batistelli no longer shallBear the dread reproach ofRimbeccare; the stainShall now be washed away in blood.Vandemar must die!”
“Place on the wall before my bedMy cross of honour well gained.To my sons, my sons, in a far country,Convey my cross and bloody vest.He, my first born, will see the rents.For each rent, a rent in another shirt,A wound in another heart. Vengeance!The hour for vengeance is nigh.Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls;He comes, the last of his race, but heComes to his couch with a stain on his shroud,Only to die; the vendetta, the spirit of the vendettaIs awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood!The noble house of Batistelli no longer shallBear the dread reproach ofRimbeccare; the stainShall now be washed away in blood.Vandemar must die!”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Admiral Enright. “A most re-mark-a-ble serenade. What does it mean?”
The question was answered by the Mayor of Ajaccio: “It is the chant of the Death Brothers.”
“The Death Brothers?” asked Helen. “But this is a birthday fête, not a funeral.”
“In Corsica,” said the Mayor, “one is often followed by the other.”
“But,” cried the Admiral, “cannot you as mayor, order them away?”
“I am unarmed,” was the reply, “and have nopossewith me.”
“But you represent the law,” cried Helen.
“I do,” said the Mayor, “but the vendetta is above the law. I can deal with the offenders afterwards, when known, but it is impossible to prevent the tragedy.”
So saying, he beckoned to one of the gentlemen present and they left the room together.
While this conversation was going on, Vivienne had eagerly scanned the faces of the guests, but Victor was not there. Where could he be? Had they already killed him? Were the Death Brothers chanting overhis dead body? Had Pascal and the Count met him in the garden and wreaked their double vengeance upon him?
At that moment Victor entered, escorting the Countess Mont d’Oro and Miss Renville. Conducting them to chairs, he made his way at once to Vivienne.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but after I was forsaken by you, I discovered that the Countess and her friend had been deserted by their cavaliers, and I proffered myself as escort.”
Vivienne moved to a part of the room where there were fewer listeners. Then she said in suppressed tones:
“You must leave the castle at once, Lieutenant Duquesne. You are in danger. The Count wishes your life. It is my fault, for I insulted him grievously, and now you must suffer. Oh, leave the castle before they come back. Go to your ship—that is your only place of safety. I will have a horse saddled and you can escape easily.”
Vivienne did not mention that he was suspected of being Vandemar Della Coscia. She did not believe the story, and why should she speak of it? If she did, he might think that she, too, believed it; so she simply warned him, in order to keep her word.
Victor stood irresolute. He was unarmed, and knew the Count to be a vindictive, revengeful enemy, but he certainly would not murder him in cold blood in the presence of so many witnesses. He turned to Vivienne:
“Let the Count do his worst! I shall remain!”
The chanting of theRimbeccarehad ceased, but it was followed by shouts and cries which portended death to the object of the Death Brothers’ vengeance. The sound of moving men was heard; then Count Mont d’Oro, followed by Pascal, Julien, and the Death Brothers, entered the room, the startled and affrightedguests making way for them. The Count advanced towards Victor, who stood beside Vivienne. He pointed his finger at Victor and cried:
“He is the man!”
Then, turning to the guests, he said, in his most polite manner:
“I beg the pardon of the ladies and gentlemen present for what is about to occur. I would advise the ladies to leave the room, for the scene which is to follow is not one they should look upon. It will be an act of justice long delayed.”
The Mayor of Ajaccio, who had returned and heard the Count’s words, stepped forward, and said, in firm tones:
“If it is an act of justice, I represent the law and will see that it is administered.”
“It is an act of justice,” cried Pascal; “but it is more. It is something that affects the honour and good name of the Batistellis, and that is beyond your jurisdiction. Speak up, Count Mont d’Oro, and let all listen.”
“Before you all,” cried the Count, “I declare that the man standing there,” and he again pointed his finger at Victor, “is masquerading under an assumed name. He is not the one he seems to be. He is not an Englishman, but a Corsican. His name is not Victor Duquesne, but Vandemar Della Coscia!”
“It is false, good friends,” cried Vivienne. “The Count does not contemplate an act of justice, but one of vengeance.”
“It is true,” cried Pascal. “He is a son of the man who murdered my father, and by our unwritten law, handed down to us for hundreds of years, his death is but a poor requital for his father’s crime.”
Count Mont d’Oro unsheathed his sword and addressed Pascal:
“It is my right to secure satisfaction for the insultgiven me before your guests to-night. If in doing this I avenge your wrongs, so much the better.”
As Count Mont d’Oro, with drawn sword, advanced towards Victor, who, unarmed, looked at him proudly and defiantly, loud cries burst from many of the ladies, who averted or covered their faces, while some of the gentlemen exclaimed:
“It is not the Count’s right. It belongs to Pascal and Julien.”
Vivienne turned an entreating face towards Admiral Enright. Would he do nothing to save his friend and brother officer? Then she noticed for the first time that the Admiral’s sword hung by his side. She leaped towards him, grasped the hilt, drew the weapon from its scabbard and, an instant later, placed it in Victor’s hand. Then she reeled, and would have fallen had not the Admiral and his daughter supported her.
Victor was an adroit swordsman. He was cool and collected, while his antagonist was angry and over-confident. Victor felt that the contest meant death to one of them. He loved, and he wished to live. The Count’s passion made him almost a madman, and the fight was of long duration.
“Bless my soul!” cried the Admiral. “That is the most re-mark-a-ble bit of fencing I ever saw.”
But the end came. For an instant the Count was off his guard. Victor saw his opportunity and sent his blade through the Count’s sword-arm.
Pascal, sword in hand, rushed forward and joined in the attack. At the same moment Julien signalled with his sword to the Death Brothers, who, with stilettos, gathered about the contestants.
“Bless my soul!” cried the Admiral. “This is murder.”
Pascal was not a good swordsman, and his advent disconcerted rather than aided the Count, who struck wildly, putting at defiance both science and skill. Victor did not wish to injure Pascal, but he had no compunctions as regarded the Count. Although opposed by two men, he changed his tactics from the defensive to the aggressive. Using a trick which he had learned from his French fencing-master, he disarmed Pascal, sending his sword flying into the air. As it fell the hilt struck the Count upon the head. Bewildered by the blow, he dropped his sword-point so low that it left the upper part of his body unguarded, and the next moment Victor ran him through.
The Count dropped his weapon and threw both hands into the air. The horrified spectators expected to see him reel and fall backwards, but, instead, he placed both hands upon his chest, as though striving to check the stream of blood which welled forth. His strength soon failed him; he sank upon his knees, then fell prone upon his face.
Pascal regained his sword and was joined by Julien. Victor was now confronted by the brothers of the woman whom he loved. The situation was a terrible one. His first thought was to throw down his sword and let them wreak their vengeance upon him. But life is sweet, and love is sweeter. Perhaps he could disarm them both, for even together they were not his equal in swordplay.
At that moment a loud report was heard outside, and a rifle bullet struck Victor’s wrist. It did not pass through it, but, momentarily, paralysed his sword-arm and the weapon fell from his nerveless grasp. Victor retreated several paces—he must gain time. He soon felt the strength returning to his arm, but how could he regain possession of his sword? Pascal and Julien were advancing towards him, when Vivienne threw herself upon her knees, and grasping her brothers, prevented their onward movement.
“Traitress!” cried Pascal. “Get out of the way. You are no longer a Batistelli.”
Releasing her hold, Vivienne accomplished her purpose. Reaching behind her brother Julien, she secured Victor’s sword. Then, leaping to her feet, she cried:
“You may kill him, but you shall not murder him.”
Armed again, Victor faced his opponents, but the apparently unequal hand-to-hand conflict was over. With howls like those of a pack of hungry wolves, Cromillian, followed by his moral bandits—who, in fact, looked more like a band of ragged rascals—burst into the room, and the tide of battle was turned. As Cromillian reached the body of the Count, he stooped and picked up the sword, at the same time dropping his rifle upon the floor. It was he who had fired the shot which had been intended for Pascal or Julien, not for Victor. The uncertain movements of the swordplayers had affected his usual unerring aim.
“Two against two is fair fighting,” he cried. “Come on, you noble sons of Batistelli, or I will cryRimbeccoso that all can hear it.”
Stung to the quick by this, to them, insulting bravado, they rushed forward. Despite the injury to his arm, Victor, encouraged by the presence of Cromillian, repeated the trick, and once more sent Pascal’s sword flying through the air. But Julien’s fate was more serious. He was a better swordsman than his brother, but he could not withstand the furious onslaught of Cromillian, who battered down his guard time after time, and finally gave him a mortal wound.
Vivienne had watched the fight in every detail. She saw her brother Pascal disarmed and at Victor’s mercy—but she had no feeling of sorrow at his impending fate. Then she saw her brother Julien fall and, still, there was no pang of regret. Her thoughts were of Victor, and of him alone.
The Death Brothers were cowed, for the muzzles of the bandits’ rifles covered them. Vivienne grasped Victor’s arm.
“Come with me,” she whispered, “and I will lead you to a place of safety.”
He obeyed without a word. She pulled aside some tapestry, opened a door which had been concealed by it, and a moment later he was following her down a long passageway, so dark that he was unable to discern the outlines of her form.
Cromillian’skeen eye had seen Vivienne approach Victor. She could not have said much to him, for, an instant later, she disappeared from the room. Cromillian looked at Pascal, but the latter did not seem inclined to measure swords with him, so he glanced once more at the spot where Vivienne had stood, and found that Victor, too, was gone.
The object of his visit to the Batistelli castle had been attained—in fact, he had done more than he had intended, for the killing of either Pascal or Julien had not been premeditated.
One of his objects had been to punish treachery—and Paoli was dead; another had been to protect Victor from the vendetta—and that, too, had doubtless been accomplished, and Victor was probably now on his way to his ship, beyond the reach of his enemies.
As active hostilities seemed to be at an end, Cromillian quickly came to the decision that he and his men would be more at home in themaquisthan in the Batistelli reception room.
When they reached the door, they found their way barred by a body ofgens d’armes. The Mayor of Ajaccio had dispatched a special messenger to summon them, and, as usual, they had arrived after the trouble was over. Neither Cromillian nor his men feared thegens d’armes. With loud yells, they rushed forward, scattering the police as though they had been puppets.
After Cromillian and his bandits had left the castle,thegens d’armesrecovered from their surprise and, with commendable courage, started in pursuit of the outlaws. Half an hour later they returned, and the leader reported to the Mayor that their search had been fruitless. That official provided them with a task much more to their liking—to act as his escort back to Ajaccio.
Dr. Procida came forward at once to see if he could be of assistance to the wounded men. After examining the Count’s body, he looked up and found Pascal regarding him attentively. The doctor shook his head, ruefully: “He is past human aid.” He then turned his attention to Julien, making his examination much more thorough. Again, he looked up—Pascal still stood regarding him fixedly.
“Nothing can be done,” he said; “he is dead.”
The evening which had opened so pleasantly had ended tragically. The guests expressed their sympathy to Pascal and to Countess Mont d’Oro, then departed quickly for their homes.
A messenger was sent to summon the servants of the Countess Mont d’Oro, and the body of the young Count was conveyed to his mother’s house.
During the evening, Miss Enright had become acquainted with the Countess and Bertha. At the latter’s suggestion, the Countess invited the Admiral and his daughter to return home with her, as it would be almost impossible to reach their vessel at that late hour, and the invitation was gladly accepted. After what had taken place, a longer residence at the Batistelli castle would have been intolerable to Helen. Her father, used to scenes of blood, would not have been so sensitive about the matter, although he warmly resented the treatment which his lieutenant had received.
“This is a most re-mark-a-ble country,” he said to his daughter, as they were on their way to the Countess Mont d’Oro’s. “I thought you said the Corsicans werenoted for their hospitality, and that the person of a guest was sacred.”
“So it is,” replied Helen, “until it comes in conflict with the vendetta, whose demands are superior to custom and to all law, whether human or divine.”
“Bless my soul! What a swordsman Victor is! I’ll have him made a captain as soon as I get back to England.”
Before retiring, Bertha went to the Countess’s boudoir to express her sympathy for her great affliction.
“It is a terrible blow to have lost your only son.”
The Countess’s eyes were tearless.
“He has lost more than I have,” she said. “He was never a good son to me. I would have been a good mother to him, but he spurned my advice and cursed me when I reproved him for his folly or his wickedness. His life has been cut short, and so have his sins.”
Manassa had been awakened by the shouts and the firing of the gun which had wounded Victor, and made his way to the reception room. He knelt beside the body of Julien, alternately weeping for the dead Batistelli and cursing the Della Coscias.
Pascal reasoned that Victor had not escaped from the castle, but had been taken by Vivienne to some hiding-place within. Bidding the Death Brothers follow him, he searched every nook and corner of room after room, without success, until only one remained—the Hall of Mirrors.
At the top of the large square tower of Batistelli Castle was the dungeon chamber mentioned in the letter left by Vivienne’s father. That letter, together with the instructions for opening the dungeon door, had been given to Vivienne that evening by Clarine. They were too precious to be trusted even to the guardianship of lock and key, and Vivienne had concealed them in the bosom of her dress.
In front of the dungeon chamber was the Hall of Mirrors, so called because the four sides were covered by large mirrors which extended from floor to ceiling. One unacquainted with the fact would never have imagined that the four mirrors, covering the walls in which was the door leading to the dungeon chamber, were hinged. When these four mirrors, which opened like doors, were thrown back, a new surprise greeted the eye. Upon the wall was painted a picture—the subject being the Garden of Eden. In the foreground stood Adam and Eve, while a short distance from them was a tree, among the leaves of which the body of a serpent could be seen.
On this fatal night, the mirrors concealing the dungeon door were closed, as they had been for a score of years, at least. How often Conrad Batistelli had visited it during his lifetime, no one knew. But, some twenty years before, Clarine had told Manassa that she had seen the master coming down the long flight of stone steps that led to the Hall of Mirrors. After making him promise not to reveal what she should say, she told him that the master’s face was white as a sheet; that he had sent her for some wine, and that when she went into his room an hour later, the bottle was empty.
“And you know, Manassa,” she had said, “he has never been a drinking man. Something must have frightened him. I wonder what there is in that old tower.”
And Manassa, who had a poor opinion of women, had replied, sneeringly:
“If there is anything mysterious up there, you will probably find out what it is before you are satisfied. In woman, curiosity takes the place of courage.”
On the evening of the birthday anniversary, Pascal had given orders that every candle in the castle should be lighted, and when Vivienne and Victor entered the Hall of Mirrors they found them burning brightly inthe sconces on the wall between the mirrors, and in the candelabra.
“You are safer here than outside,” said Vivienne. “I will let you know when the castle is clear, and then there will, no doubt, be a chance for you to escape, and if you will allow me to advise you, monsieur, I should say leave Corsica—for a season at least. No doubt, you and your friends will be glad to turn your backs upon a nation which you must henceforth consider as inhabited by barbarians.”
“Not at all, dear friend! There are some here, mademoiselle, whom I shall greatly esteem while life lasts.”
“Try to forgive my brothers, if you can; they have been fearfully misled.”
“I would forgive any whom you love, mademoiselle, even though they subjected me to the keenest torture, but never can I feel greater remorse than I do at this moment.”
“Remorse—and for what?” cried Vivienne.
Victor was obliged to strain a point in order to supply a suitable explanation of his feelings. He remembered that Vivienne had told him that she did not love Count Mont d’Oro, and would never marry him. Victor knew that Vivienne was his friend, or she would not have twice placed a weapon in his hand to enable him to defend himself. He had never declared his love for her, and he had no right to presume that she was in love with him. He felt that she would not have aided him had she known him to be a Della Coscia. Then Miss Enright had told him that Corsican women were passionate—adding that passionate women were usually fickle. Did Vivienne love him? He would test her.
“My remorse,” he said, “is due to the fact that I have caused the death of Count Mont d’Oro. Do you remember the flower you gave me the morning that we first met? Here it is. I have it with me always.” and he held up the white rose with blood-stained petals. “I had sworn by this little flower never to injure any whom you loved, even to save my own life. And now, God forgive me! I have killed one dearer to you than a brother. I dare not ask your pardon for the rash act—I can only plead with Heaven to soften your heart towards me.”
“I do not understand you,” said Vivienne. “The Count dearer to me than a brother? Did I not tell you——”
Victor persisted:
“How can I hope for pardon from you, his betrothed wife!” He looked at the flower: “On each tiny petal I read a lesson—peace and love. I have proved recreant to my vow, sweet emblem. I am unworthy of a gift so pure. Die, then, with the fondest hopes my heart ever cherished. I crush both beneath my feet!”
He threw the flower upon the floor and raised his foot——
“No, you shall not!” cried Vivienne. “Do not destroy it!” As she spoke, she knelt and picked up the flower. “There is a magic charm hidden within its petals. The assassin’s steel could not pierce the breast upon which it reposed. Would you, then, throw away so powerful a talisman?”
“Assassin? You do not mean——”
“Yes, Count Mont d’Oro was no better than an assassin. Three times he sought your life, not because you had injured him, but because you stood in his path.”
“Then you did not love him?”
“I hated—I abhorred him! I honour the hand that struck him down.” She took Victor’s right hand in hers: “This is the hand, and to its keeping I intrust, once more, this little, faded flower. Keep it as a memento of me, and when you are far away, look at itsometimes and remember that you left one true friend in Corsica.”
Victor took the flower and pressed it to his lips:
“It shall never leave me more! Vivienne, you have saved my life, not only once, but twice, at the risk of your own. I must—I will speak, now that we are about to part forever. I must tell you that the life you saved is henceforth worthless to me unless blest by your love. Oh, you could not have avoided seeing my struggle, even while it seemed most hopeless. My future happiness is in your keeping. A word from your lips will forever seal the fate of one who loves you with a devotion second only to that which we owe to God. Speak, Vivienne! But, remember, you hold my life and its dearest hopes in your keeping. One word will bid me live and hope, or blast forever the fondest dream of my life!”
Vivienne was unconventional. She lifted her luminous black eyes and looked straight into his. There was no time for idle sentiment. The happiness of two lives, the fate of one, hung upon her answer.
“If, indeed, it rests with me, then I bid you live and be happy, as I shall be.”
Vivienne extended her hand, which Victor took and held for one brief moment. It was with difficulty that he restrained the impulse to clasp her in his arms and kiss her sweet lips, which had so frankly confessed her love for him. But Victor had a chivalric nature and he knew that, considering the avowal that must be made, such an act would be ungenerous. Hard as it was to utter the words which would part them forever, he realised that they must be spoken. Victor flung her hand from him, and cried:
“You love me, rash girl! I see it in the soft tenderness of your eyes—I felt it in the fervent pressure of your hand. No, no, you must not! Speak but one kind word to me and you outrage every inherent principle of your race! Dare even to regard me with pity and you forfeit every right to your boasted name and lineage! Oh, I cannot—will not—deceive you, even to win your matchless heart. You shall know me as I am, and then I will die at your feet!”
He passed her the sword, the blade still reddened with the blood of Count Mont d’Oro. He sank upon his knees, threw his coat wide open, baring his chest for the expected blow, and cried:
“Strike, for I am Vandemar!”
Vivienne started back, gazing at him with horror-stricken eyes. She raised the sword as if to strike—then it fell from her hand, clanging loudly upon the stone. She staggered, and leaned for support against one of the mirrors, which reflected her shrinking form, her death-white face, and closed eyes. She had shut them tightly, for before her had risen the picture of Vandemar lying dead at her feet, she standing over him, the sword, dripping with his blood, in her hands.
Vandemar saw her distress and, arising, said:
“You are suffering. Let me assist you.”
“Stand back! Do not touch me!” and Vivienne retreated towards the door which led from the room.
“What was that?” She bent low and listened. It was the sound of many feet on the stairway. They came nearer and nearer; then there were shouts and cries.
Summoning all her strength, she shot the rusty bolt into place. Some one tried to open the door, but it resisted his efforts. Then heavy blows rained upon it and a voice cried:
“Open the door! You cannot escape! We have you safely cornered.”
There was a lull for a moment, then Vivienne heard her brother’s voice:
“Vivienne, I command you to open the door. If you do not, it will be broken down.”
Vivienne heard the command, but she did not obey it; instead, she turned a pleading face to Vandemar.
“I will open it,” he said, and placed his hand upon the bolt.
She grasped his hand and pulled it away. “Come with me,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. He followed her, wondering what the meaning of this new move might be.
“You are mad!” she cried. “They would have pierced your defenceless breast with a dozen stilettos if you had opened that door.”
“As well now as later; it is only the difference of a few minutes.”
Vivienne paced back and forth, apparently in great distress of mind, as if hesitating between love and duty. Again, the cries were heard outside:
“Open the door, or we shall break it in! Vandemar must die! Blood for blood!”
The assailants had secured possession of a heavy piece of timber, for it was heard to crash against the stout oaken door.
Vivienne clasped her hands and stood as if praying:
“‘Never open that door except it be in case of great extremity, and never divulge the secret unless it be to save human life.’ Father, thou knowest that the hour of extremity has come, and that a life, dearest to me of all on earth, must be saved.”
Again the battering-ram struck against the door, and Vivienne felt that it would not long resist such terrific blows. She drew a paper from her bosom and rapidly scanned it, repeating the words to fix them in her memory. The hinged mirrors were thrown back and the wonderful picture of the Garden of Eden was revealed. Hidden springs were quickly touched, and soon the massive dungeon door creaked, and flew open without the aid of human hands. A noisome vapour came fromthe dungeon chamber and all looked black within. Vivienne pointed to the open door:
“It is your only chance for life. You must go in!”
Vandemar looked in, then turned away.
“It is a tomb!” he cried. “I would rather meet my fate here at once, than to suffer slow torture from starvation, and perish at last in a loathsome vault. I will not enter!”
“You do not value your life,” cried Vivienne. “If you will not save it for your own sake, I entreat you that you will do it for mine. If I live, I will release you.”
Vandemar gave her a questioning look—he did not dare to believe what he had heard.
“You hesitate! You do not believe me!” and there was a plaintive entreaty in her words. “Look in my face and see whether I could treacherously consign you to a death so terrible!”
Vandemar took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. “Vivienne,” he said, slowly, “I would trust you though all the demons of hell were combined to tempt you.”
He threw his arms about her—he might never see her again. Perhaps this was their last farewell. He drew her close to him and kissed her upon brow, cheek, and lips. With all the contrariness of woman, even at this crucial moment, she clung to him, for he was the first love of her young life—and this love was so sweet—how could she ever forget those kisses?
Again, with a terrible crash, the battering-ram was brought against the door, impelled by a dozen strong arms and hands. One more such blow and it must give way.
Vivienne threw her arms about Vandemar’s neck, but he gently freed himself from her loving embrace. He pulled the dungeon door to after him, but it was still ajar. Vivienne threw herself against it, and thehidden bolts sprang into their places. Vandemar was safe!
It was with difficulty that she reached the centre of the great room. She knew that she was alone, but, as she looked from side to side, it seemed as though the room was full of weeping women, unhappy as she was herself.
Once more the dull thud of the ram as it struck the oaken door! The iron bolt was torn from its fastenings and the door fell inward. Loud cries of exultation were heard as Pascal, followed by his retainers and the Death Brothers, burst into the room and rushed towards Vivienne.
Pascal grasped her arm roughly:
“You conspire against the honour of your family, faithless girl! Ingrate!! Tell me where you have hidden this villain—the son of him who killed our father.”
Vivienne released herself from her brother’s hold and looked at him defiantly:
“Pascal, remember that I am your sister. Our father was a gentleman. Do not forget that you are his son.”
“Stop!” shouted Pascal. “You are not worthy to speak his name. Tell me where you have hidden this sneaking lover of yours, for, by Heaven, you shall deliver him to us or it will be the worse for you. It was for him, the coward, coming here under a false name, that you trampled upon the love of an honest man and set my wishes at defiance. You false-hearted liar! You are no sister of mine! Hypocrite! Now speak!”
“You see he is not here.”
“But you know where he is!”
“I swear to you, Pascal, that I know not at this moment whether he be an inhabitant of earth or heaven. It does not require much time to waft a spirit to the skies.”
Her brother’s eye caught sight of the blood-stained sword upon the floor:
“Have you killed him? Where is he? I will not believe it until I see his dead body.”
“That time may come soon,” she replied. She was thinking of Vandemar in the dark dungeon behind her. Then she wondered if the mirrors had been closed. If not, Pascal would see the picture and discover her secret. She could not resist the impulse to turn and look at the dungeon door.
Pascal had waited for her to say more. When she did not, he cried:
“This is but a weak attempt at evasion. You have become an adept in trickery and deception. Now, hear me, Vivienne, and be warned in time. I shall ask you but once more—where is Vandemar?”
Vivienne realised that her entreaties, no matter how strong or how persistent they might be, would have no effect upon her brother, who was animated by the spirit of his race—the spirit of the vendetta—which demands a victim, a sacrifice, an atonement. In her veins flowed the blood of the Batistellis. Now that Vandemar was beyond their reach, she became strong, self-reliant, courageous.
“Find him, if you think I have hidden him! You have the keys of the castle, and see,” pointing to the men, sneeringly, “your friends are here to help you; and when you have found him, let your band of Death Brothers chant his dirge.”
Pascal advanced towards her, his sword raised in a threatening manner.
“I will have no more of this insolence,” he cried. “You shall answer, or I will strike you down!”
His anger was so intense that he might have carried his threat into execution if his followers had not interposed.
“No, no!” cried one, grasping his arm. “Bethinkyou, sir. Bethink you, sir, she is a defenceless woman. You must not strike.”
Then a chorus of voices arose: “She is your sister. You must not strike.”
Pascal let his sword-point fall, but there was no hope of mercy in his voice when he spoke. He evidently had a new project in mind, and was determined to carry it out.
“I will not kill you,” he exclaimed, “but he shall die!”
Then he beckoned to one of the men:
“Go tell Doctor Procida to come here at once.”
At the mention of the doctor’s name, Vivienne’s thoughts reverted to Julien:
“Pascal, tell me of Julien! Oh, tell me, is he dead?”
Pascal did not answer. Vivienne appealed to the men: “You will tell me. Is my brother——”