One of the men bowed his head, and she knew the worst.
“Oh Pascal!” she cried, “how can you think of murder, of revenge, when Julien is dead?”
“Your tears are out of place. Why should you weep for one whom you have insulted by unjustly taunting him with cowardice and delay of duty? Have you not reproached him often for not killing the very man whom you now screen from justice?”
Vivienne, who had felt no sorrow at the death of Count Mont d’Oro, now wept unrestrainedly when she learned that her beloved brother Julien was no more.
“I have, I have! Heaven forgive me! I will go to him. I must look into his face again. I will beg him to forgive me. You say he is dead, but when I speak to him, he will come back to life and forgive me, for I loved him, and he loved me.”
Pascal smiled grimly, and touched his forehead significantly. To one of the men, he said in an undertone: “She has lost her reason.”
Vivienne was determined to see Julien. She started towards the door, but Pascal grasped her arm and drew her back:
“Stay! You shall not insult him with your presence.”
At that moment, Dr. Procida entered. He was a dapper little man, with small, beady eyes, and was clad in a suit of black. His voice was soft and apologetic, his manners suave; he approached Pascal, bowing low:
“How can I serve you?”
“My worst fears are realised, Doctor,” said Pascal. “My poor sister is mad.”
The doctor rubbed his hands together—professionally, it seemed to those who saw him; in reality, gleefully—for he was saying to himself: “A thousand francs in my pocket, at least.”
“I am not surprised,” said the doctor. “The events of the evening have been too much for her sensitive nature, but we will soon have her cured, Monsieur Batistelli. What she needs, and must have, is retirement—rest. Our private asylum at Salvanetra offers the first, and I will see that she gets the other.”
“Stop, sir!” cried Vivienne, addressing the doctor. Turning to her brother, she said:
“You cannot mean it! You cannot be so cruel, so utterly heartless, as to carry out such a farce as this! I must be dreaming!”
The doctor nodded his head. Pascal saw the movement and understood.
“I know, I know, my dear,” said the doctor. “Yes, it is a dream, but you will be much better when you awake to-morrow. You will get up looking as fresh as a rose, and you shall have a nice drive with my wife. Would you not like to go with me to Salvanetra and see the pretty house in which I live?”
Vivienne turned her face away. She could not answer, for she already loathed the man.
“Doctor,” said Pascal, “I wish her to have the best of care.”
“All my patients get that,” the doctor replied, blandly.
“She is in good bodily health,” Pascal continued. “Give her no nostrums. I do not believe in them.”
“Neither do I,” said the doctor. Until his patients were under his charge, he always agreed with the ideas of their relatives and friends. There is a saying that some persons are “All things to all men,” and there are none who so fully exemplify it as those who have charge of the insane.
“Pascal,” cried Vivienne, “you mistake me much if you think I will tamely submit to this terrible outrage. I will die first!”
“Ah, monsieur, do not answer her,” said the doctor. “She is becoming excited, a condition to be avoided if possible, at least until she is in more suitable quarters.”
“I will order the closed carriage, Doctor,” said Pascal, “and my servants, who will accompany you, can drive it back to-morrow morning. Come along!” he said to Vivienne, and he attempted to grasp her hand.
Vivienne recoiled: “Now? To-night? You cannot mean to-night, Pascal?”
“I mean now, at once,” he cried. “Come!”
“Better try gentleness before using force,” Dr. Procida suggested.
“Force? You would not force me from this room? Oh, Pascal, shut me in here, give me bread and water, and naught but the cold stones to lie upon, and I will bless you!”
Pascal turned to Dr. Procida: “Better take her at once.”
Then Vivienne appealed to the doctor. “No, no! For the love of Heaven, tell him to leave me here!I shall go mad, indeed, if you take me from the castle.”
She threw herself at her brother’s feet: “Here upon my knees, I beg that you will not send me away from the dear home I love, to live, and eat, and sleep with lunatics. Oh, God! Suffer not a thing so horrible! Torture me, Pascal. I will endure anything at your hands if you will but let me remain here!”
Dr. Procida placed his hand on Pascal’s arm: “Gently, monsieur.”
Pascal raised Vivienne, and adopted the doctor’s suggestion:
“It is for your good, sister. I will come to Salvanetra in two weeks. If your health is restored, you shall come back with me.”
“Two weeks! Two weeks!! Oh Heaven! Doctor, tell me, tell me, can one live two weeks without food or drink, without the light of the sun, or moon, or stars?”
“You shall have all you want,” the doctor replied, irrelevantly.
“Stop!” she cried; “your voice is like the doom of hell in my ears!”
Pascal and the Doctor each grasped a hand, Vivienne struggling violently to free herself, and they were obliged to let go their hold.
“Oh, Pascal, one word—one word more—one last appeal! Let me see Clarine for one minute, just one! Let me breathe but one word into her ear, and I will go with you quietly. Oh, you will not refuse this, my last request? Say I may, dear brother, oh, say I may!”
The thought had come to her that if she could see her old nurse, tell her where Vandemar was and give her the paper, he might yet escape. Clarine knew all the secret passages in the old castle. Hope still remained. Was the paper safe? Yes, it was there. Thepoor girl was nervous, excited, almost distracted. When she withdrew her hand from her bosom, she unknowingly brought the paper with it. It fluttered a moment on the air, and then fell to the floor.
Pascal had been watching her closely. Her action had disclosed the hiding-place of her secret. By this paper, she knew how to open the dungeon door—and now it was in his possession. A look of almost fiendish exultation came into his face. He tore the paper in pieces, threw the fragments upon the floor, and stepped upon them.
Vivienne had seen the paper in Pascal’s hands.
“Oh my God!” she had thought, “he will open the dungeon door and kill him!”
With a wild, despairing cry, she threw up her hands, and was falling, senseless, to the stone floor, when the doctor sprang forward and caught her in his arms.
Pascal signed to one of the men to assist the doctor. “Order the carriage,” he said to another; then he added: “Go, all of you! I will meet you soon in the reception room. I have something for you to do to-morrow. Manassa, put out the lights.”
As he descended the long, steep stairway, he soliloquised:
“It is just as well; it will be a slow and lingering death, while my sword or stiletto would have ended his pain at once. ’Tis better thus, for we shall not have to bury him.”
Manassa had heard the last words uttered by Vivienne. Before snuffing the candles, he picked up the pieces of paper and put them in his pocket. When he reached his room, he locked the door.
An hour later, he looked up with a satisfied smile.
“It is all here!” he exclaimed. “I have the secret of the dungeon door. Vandemar shall die by my hand. I will avenge the wrongs of the Batistellis!”
Nosooner did Vandemar hear the door of the dungeon chamber close behind him than there came a revulsion of feeling. The conviction forced itself strongly upon him that he was the victim of a plot which had been successful.
He looked about him, but could see nothing. Then he remembered that he had come quickly from a brightly lighted room into a dark one, and it was only natural that his vision should be affected. He must wait until his eyes accommodated themselves to the darkness. No, he would not wait. He would leave the place at once. He turned and retraced his steps, as he supposed, towards the door, but when he reached the wall he could not find it. He followed the seams between the stones with his fingers. The horizontal ones were much longer than those which ran perpendicularly, but they were all too short to indicate the presence of a door. Almost frenzied, he continued the search until his finger-nails were broken and torn by conflict with the rough stones. Still he kept on until the skin was torn from his finger-tips and they were covered with blood. Finally, his search was rewarded, for he came upon a seam which, beginning at the floor, extended higher than he could reach. To make sure, he sought for the hinges, but there were none. Then he remembered that he had read about dungeon doors which swung upon pivots. Perhaps, if he exerted all his strength, he might move it; but he soon desisted, nearly exhausted.
Perhaps she could hear his voice, so he called out:
“Vivienne! Vivienne!”
His voice echoed and re-echoed from the walls of the great room. Startled by the unaccustomed noise, several bats, as he supposed they were, flew back and forth, flapping their wings. The sound was not so unpleasant after all. It gave him satisfaction to know that in this dark and noisome dungeon even such unpleasant companions as bats could live. If they could survive, perhaps he could, until his friends rescued him. This thought went through his mind with the rapidity of lightning. He called the name Vivienne a dozen times, but there was no response. Then he beat upon the door with his clenched fists. The blows made no appreciable sound, but he experienced sharp thrills of pain from the concussion.
“Vivienne!” he cried, “give me my sword. If they come to kill me I am unarmed. Give me back my sword so that I may defend myself.”
He listened, but there was no sound excepting that produced by the flapping of the bats’ wings as they circled about the room. Then all his doubts came back.
“She is faithless! She would not kill me with my own sword when I offered it to her. No, that would have been too easy a death. Both she and her brother decided that my death by starvation would be more to their liking. It would be such a sweet revenge to know that I was dying by inches. Oh, Vivienne, why does God put such fiendish hearts into such angelic forms?”
Man, in his direst distress, always accommodates himself to circumstances and his environment. Thoroughly convinced that his duration of life depended wholly upon himself, and that he could hope for no outside assistance, Vandemar determined to make the best of his condition. Beginning at the door, he followed the wall until he came back to it. He learned that it was rectangular in shape, fully twice as long as it was wide. He proved this by pacing the two distances. Then he walked back and forth, covering the length of the room, groping with his hands in the hope of finding a chair or cot upon which he could rest, but there was no article of furniture in the room.
During his monotonous trips, he made an important discovery. In one corner of the dungeon, far above his reach, was a small window. He imagined that the moon must have been obscured when he entered the dungeon, for when its rays fell upon the window, he had discovered it—but, alas, there was no hope of escape, for it was closely barred. Even if he could wrench those bars from their fastenings, it would avail him nothing, for the dungeon was in the uppermost part of the tower, and he had no rope or other means of descending to the ground.
At last, faint with the loss of blood from his wounds, and overcome by exhaustion and despair, he threw himself upon the cold, damp stones, and was soon lost to consciousness.
Terence Devlin, who had charge of the Batistelli grounds, was an early riser, as all conscientious gardeners should be. Smoking his pipe, with his spade resting upon his shoulder, he stood regarding an old withered tree.
“Not wan drap av rain finds its way to the roots av this ould giant tree. I do believe it’s full nine hundred years ould.”
“Terence!”
The gardener turned when he heard his name called, and saw his wife, Snodine, running towards him; if the movement of a woman weighing nearly three hundred pounds could be called running.
“What the divil’s the matter?” was the husband-like salutation which greeted her when she met him.
As soon as she could speak, Snodine said: “I’ve been up to the castle, an’ sure it’s bad off they be up there. Young Master Julien is as dead as was Father Francis when they took him out of the river where he’d been slapin’ for a wake, and the Blessed Virgin prasarve us, it’s now goin’ on two days since the poor mad craythur was taken away. Pray Heaven the docthors may cure her, for a swater lady niver walked the earth.”
“Ah, Snodine, it’s a broken heart she has—and whin they tell her the Count is dead——”
“An’ do ye think they’ll tell her that same? Sure, they’d not be such a pack o’ fools.”
“’Twas hard enough to lose the brother, poor lad! But the swateheart, Snodine; and they to be marrit sosoon, too. Oh, Lord help the poor mad lady! She loved the Count dearly, they tell me. An’ whin is the wake to be for the poor lad, Snodine?”
“To-morrow night. He’ll have been dead two days thin.”
“It’s hard for the livin’ brother. An’ how does he bear it, Snodine?”
“As he does everything else. Divil a tear, Clarine tould me.”
“Well, it’s hard to understand the loikes of him.”
“It’s right ye are,” said Snodine. “Niver a tear for the poor mad sister, nor even a wan for the dead brother have he shed yet.”
“Just you wait, me darlint, ’til the kayner strikes up the mournin’. It’s many a dry eye I’ve seen over the dead ’til the kayners opened the heart, and thin, faith, the tears came fast enough.”
“It’s a hard world, indade—a botherin’ world,” said Snodine, wiping her eyes, sympathetically, with the back of her hand, although there were no tears in them.
“I’m thinkin’ that now,” said Terence. “Now yer go back, and mind the childer and don’t be afther botherin’ me whin it’s workin’ I am.”
With these lover-like words Terence again shouldered his spade and walked off towards the maple grove, while Snodine made her way homeward to extend her motherly care to her family of nine, which, when stood in a row according to age, made one think of a flight of stairs.
And what of the mad lady?
Vivienne was borne from the castle in a deep swoon. The events of the evening had been too much for her frail, nervous organisation, and she had succumbed. She was placed in a close carriage, and Dr. Procida took a seat beside her. They were driven rapidly to Salvanetra. The doctor wet Vivienne’s lips with brandy, which, together with the cool evening air, that blew in through the open carriage window, soon revived her; but she did not speak. When they reached the doctor’s house she was too much exhausted to walk. He called two of his attendants, and she was borne into the house and placed upon a bed in one of the rooms. A nurse was sent to attend her, but she refused her ministrations and was finally left alone. A single candle upon the table gave a flickering light, and filled the room with strange shadows. She heard the bolt slip into place and knew that she was not only a patient but a prisoner.
She passed the most terrible night in her young life. Picture after picture came before her eyes, though she shut them tightly, hoping to escape the phantoms. One by one they followed each other—her friends, with a wreath of roses emblematic of her age—then the music, and singing, and dancing—next, the arrival of Victor and the pleasant conversation they had had at the supper table. So far all was joy and gladness. Then came visions of gloom and misery; the attack upon Victor—his valiant defence—the death of the Count and her brother Julien—the discovery that Victor was Vandemar, the son of the man who had murdered her father—Vandemar in the dungeon chamber, where he must die from starvation unless she could escape and rescue him—her own terrible position, shut off from communication with her friends, on the supposition that she was mad. Could she live through it and not grow mad in reality?
She arose from her bed, took up the sputtering candle, which had burned low, and made a tour of the room—floor and walls of stone, impregnable to any strength which she could exert—windows small, high from ground, and guarded by heavy iron bars—the door of oaken timber, thickly studded with bosses of iron. From such a prison there could be no escape. Strong menmight attempt it, but there was no hope for one so physically weak as she. Vandemar in his dungeon chamber was not more completely isolated from the world. She threw herself upon the bed, and the nurse found her there the next morning, sleeping the sleep which kindly comes to save the worn-out mind and body when their limit of resistance has been reached.
The body of Count Mont d’Oro had been taken to his mother’s house and, on the second day after the double tragedy, the remains of Julien Batistelli were placed in the crypt beneath the castle, and those of Count Mont d’Oro, followed by his mother, Miss Renville, and a few friends, were deposited beside the body of his father in the little burying-ground used by the gentry of Alfieri and vicinity.
The night after the funeral, Bertha Renville wrote a long letter to Jennie Glynne. She recounted, in detail, the terrible scenes through which she had passed, and expressed the hope that something would occur to take her away from the terrible place.
“I know that my guardian and Jack,” she had written, “both came to Corsica, but I have not seen them. Perhaps they have met and, in the heat of passion, have fought. It may be that either Jack or Mr. Glynne is dead, and sometimes the horrible thought comes to me that their last meeting ended in the death of both. I am filled with a dread which I cannot express. The Countess is kind to me, but we two weak women are virtually defenceless. Oh, my dear, good friend, will this terrible uncertainty ever end? Has the future any happiness in store for me?”
Thenext morning Dr. Procida came to see Vivienne. On her bended knees she implored him to let her go home. She told him that Vandemar was in the dungeon chamber, and that he would die unless she opened the door. She felt in her bosom for the paper and, finding it was gone, burst into hysterical exclamations. The doctor, who was a friend of Pascal, said:
“My poor young lady, you are labouring under an hallucination. You must take a sedative, or you will break down entirely.” He placed a bottle upon the table, saying: “I will send the nurse to administer it.”
No sooner had he left the room than Vivienne threw the bottle upon the stone floor. “It is a drug,” she cried, “and I will not take it.”
Dr. Procida told Madeline Villefort, his head nurse, to give the medicine to Vivienne. “I am going away for the day,” he continued, “as I have to see a patient in Ajaccio. I shall not be back until late this afternoon.”
The nurse went to Vivienne’s room. The young girl was strangely calm.
“The doctor has been called away for the day,” said Madeline, “and left you in my charge. Where is the medicine?”
Vivienne pointed to the floor.
“You are a rash girl,” said the nurse. “When I tell the doctor what you have done, he will put you in a strait-jacket or tie you to your bed.”
Vivienne did not notice the woman’s words; in fact,she appeared unconscious of her presence, and seemed lost in thought. Finally, she said in an undertone:
“What a terrible thing is the vendetta!”
“Terrible,” cried Madeline, who had overheard her, “I think it is glorious.” She drew a stiletto from the bosom of her dress. “Do you see that? I mean it for the woman who stole my husband. Villefort was a fool—I can forgive that—most men are. But she hated me and I hate her. I will kill her if we ever meet.”
Vivienne appeared interested. The woman held up the stiletto, looking at the glistening blade and sharp point. Vivienne arose from her chair, walked slowly to the barred window, and looked out. The nurse was too busy with thoughts of prospective vengeance to notice her movements. Vivienne retraced her steps, noiselessly, until she stood behind the chair where Madeline sat. Reaching over suddenly, she grasped the hilt of the stiletto and, with the strength of desperation, tore it from the woman’s hand.
“Do not move!” cried Vivienne. “I am going to leave this room and this house.” Madeline attempted to rise from her chair. “If you move, I will kill you,” cried Vivienne. “His life is everything to me—yours is as nothing.”
The nurse had left the door ajar. With a bound, Vivienne reached it, threw it open, and closed it quickly behind her. Then she remembered that the bolt was on the outside, and she pushed it into place. She heard Madeline’s cries as she ran down the corridor, and sent back a mocking laugh in response. She saw a side door opening into the garden—perhaps the front door was guarded—she would run no risks. Keeping her hand upon the hilt of the stiletto, she made her way through the garden, for she saw themaquisbeyond. If she could reach that, she might rest until able to go on.
In the heart of the forest she sank down, exhausted;but the young recuperate quickly, and she was soon up and again on her way, towards Ajaccio she hoped. She had never studied astronomy, but from the position of the sun she reasoned that she must go in a certain direction, and events proved that her intuition was correct. She soon came to a narrow cross-road, which she followed, and in a short time found herself on what she thought must be the main street of Salvanetra.
Vivienne would have turned back from the travelled thoroughfare and tried to make her way through the paths in themaquis, but for two reasons: She was afraid she might be captured by a party of bandits who, knowing that her brother was wealthy, would hold her for a large ransom; again, she was faint and almost exhausted, for she had refused to eat anything while in Dr. Procida’s asylum. She stood irresolute for a while; then soliloquised:
“I must gain strength so that I may get back in time to save Vandemar; and to gain strength I must have food.”
She walked on, scanning carefully each house that she passed, yet undecided as to which she should apply for assistance. Espying in the road a small branch of a tree, which had probably been used by some carter as a whip, she picked it up, and using it as a staff, got on her way much faster.
She saw that she was nearing a line of houses and felt that she must put pride away and make her appeal. She tapped lightly upon a door with her staff. It was opened by a woman, whose face had a sharp, shrewish expression. Vivienne’s first impulse was to turn away, but summoning all her strength and courage, she said:
“Will you be so kind, madame, as to give me a piece of bread? I am so tired and faint, for I have eaten nothing since yesterday.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, do not ask me my name. I am not a beggar. Believe me, I am not what I seem. Only give me a crust and I will go.”
“Honest people are not afraid to tell their names,” said the woman, and her voice was harsh and repellent.
“It is because I am honest that I do not tell you my name. I might give you one easily, but it would not be my own.”
“Then go away!” cried the woman. “No doubt you have been turned away from some farmhouse for drunkenness, theft, or something of that sort. Be off with you!” and she slammed the door.
Vivienne had on the simplest and coarsest dress that belonged to her. Her brother Pascal had thoughtfully sent some of her clothing in the carriage, and although he had not made the selections his sister would have wished, yet he could not have done better, for Vivienne had determined, from the first, to escape from the asylum, and the unpretending costume which she wore served her purpose much better than the one in which she had looked so beautiful at her birthday party would have done.
Vivienne turned away from the door sick at heart. “Oh, Pascal, I could wish you no greater punishment for your sin against your wretched sister than for you to have heard those terrible words.”
Her head was aching and she pressed both hands upon her forehead:
“No, I must not sink down here in the street; they would shut me up in the jail. I will—I must obtain food. Even a morsel would give me strength to reach him. Why should I die with the cool fresh air about me, and the sun giving me light, while he is shrouded in darkness and dying from hunger and thirst in a living tomb? Oh, Vandemar, Vandemar, I will not die!There is a kind soul in this house, for I hear the laughter of children. A mother’s heart is always open to pity.”
A man servant appeared at the door. “What is your business here, my good woman?”
“Oh, sir, I am very hungry. Give me some food and Heaven will bless you!”
“My mistress is sick,” said the man, “but I will send the housekeeper to you.”
“Thank you; you are very kind.” Vivienne leaned against the door-post. “I—I cannot stand; my strength is deserting me.” As she sank on the doorstep, a woman appeared.
“Well, what is wanted?” was her query. “Begging, I suppose.”
“I wish only for a piece of bread, madame. You will surely not refuse me. I have walked so far and I am faint and tired—oh, so very tired. I pray that you will give me something, even the poorest crust from your table.”
“I understand it all—you have escaped from the asylum. Where are you going?”
“To my home at Ajaccio,” Vivienne answered. “Oh, madame, do not question me, but give me food. I—I feel strangely—I am——”
“She is fainting,” said the man; “I will bring her a glass of water.”
The woman looked at Vivienne closely and said:
“Your pretty face ought to win you bread, if not jewels. You are a fool to go begging, with such beauty as yours. If I had your face and form I would ride in my carriage. There would be no more house drudgery for me.”
Vivienne drank the water, which was cool and refreshing. A little girl, who had been regarding her from the opposite side of the road, came running across and said:
“Come with me, poor woman. My mamma is away, but cook will give you something to eat. She is good to everybody, and so is my mamma. Come!”
“Bless you, sweet child!” said Vivienne, rising.
The woman resented the child’s interference: “You are a forward little minx! As though I would refuse her food! Come in, and I will give you all you want.”
Vivienne looked at the woman, her great black eyes full of the loathing she felt.
“After what you have said? No, madame, food from your hands would choke me.”
Vivienne turned away, took the little girl’s hand, and they walked slowly towards the pretty little cottage to which the child pointed, saying over and over again: “That’s where mamma lives.”
Vivienne had no sooner reached the house where she had been promised food and rest than her head swam, she lost consciousness, and fell helpless upon the floor. When she revived she heard the sound of voices. She opened her eyes and saw that she was in a darkened room. An old gentleman sat beside her, while a lady, with a kind, motherly look upon her face, stood at the foot of the bed regarding her.
“You are better, my dear. The doctor, here, said that if you awoke in your right mind all would be well. You are better, are you not?”
Vivienne could not resist answering a question put so pleasantly.
“I am feeling quite well, madame,” she replied. Then in an instant all came back to her. She raised herself in bed and cried:
“Where am I? Have I been sick? For God’s sake, dear lady, tell me how long I have been here.”
“My little daughter brought you here three days ago,” was the answer.
“Three days! Three days!!” moaned Vivienne. “It is too late now. He is dead—dead!”
“But you are living,” said the doctor. “Who is dead? I do not understand you.”
“Oh,” cried Vivienne, “I must tell you all, for I know that I can trust you. If I do not, you will not know what I mean. I am Vivienne Batistelli, of Alfieri.”
“I thought so,” said the lady in an undertone.
“You know of the vendetta between the Batistellis and the Della Coscias?”
The doctor nodded.
“Vandemar Della Coscia came back to Corsica. His identity was discovered by my brother Pascal. Vandemar has been in the dungeon chamber for five days without food or drink. I am the only one who can open the dungeon door and release him. I must go to him at once. Help me! Help me!! He must not die!”
“What can we do, Doctor?” asked the lady.
“My horse and carriage are at the door. My dear young lady, get ready at once, and I will take you to Alfieri.”
When Vivienne reached the castle, she at once sought Clarine, who was overjoyed at seeing her again.
“Where have you been?” she asked, excitedly.
“I cannot stop to tell you now,” said Vivienne. “Where is my brother Pascal?”
“That I do not know,” was the reply. “He has gone away.”
“Oh, Clarine,” said Vivienne, “I must open the door of the dungeon chamber, but I have lost the paper that you gave me. Have you found it?”
“Why, no,” said Clarine, “but I surmise, from what he has let drop, that Manassa knows something about it.”
“Where can I find him?” asked Vivienne.
“I do not know,” said Clarine, “but if he has it he will not give it to you. He says you are no longer aBatistelli—that you love a Della Coscia and have disgraced your name.”
“Oh, Clarine, I shall pray to God to give me back my memory, so that I may open that door and save his life——” and she ran from the room.
Viviennewent from room to room, calling loudly for Manassa, but there was no answer. Espying Terence at work in the garden, she asked him if he had seen Manassa. He answered her politely in the negative, but said, in an undertone:
“No, the old omadhaun; an’ may the divil fly away wid him before I do.”
At last Vivienne reached the foot of the long flight of stone steps that led to the Hall of Mirrors. She sank down exhausted; she was unused to such great physical exertion, besides being almost mentally distracted when she thought how powerless she was to save Vandemar without the help of one who, she knew, hated him as intensely as did her own brother.
At length, she arose and, going to an open window, again called loudly for Manassa; but there was no response. Sick at heart, she turned away from the window and went slowly up the steps.
At sight of the closed door of the dungeon chamber, her forced composure gave way. She ran to it and beat wildly against it until the blood oozed through the tender skin; then she sank upon her knees. She raised her clasped hands to Heaven and cried:
“Oh,mon Dieu! Give me back my memory but for one moment. Pardon me,mon Dieu, not for what I say, but for the way I say it. I learned the instructions in the paper by heart, but they called me mad, and I have forgotten them. Then I fell sick, and all is ablank. Oh,mon Dieu, give me back my memory, that I may save a precious life. Oh, my dear father in heaven, entreat the good God, who is God of Love and Mercy, to help me!”
Full of her simple faith, she arose and stood before the door, as though expecting to see it open of its own accord; but there it stood, immovable, relentless, merciless. She regarded it for a time with a helpless, dazed look. Then there came a revulsion, and the weak woman, with a feeble voice, was transformed into a new creature; for the time being she was mad, and, with that madness came the fictitious physical and mental strength, the showing of which deceives all but those who are acquainted with such manifestations of mania.
“I must open it,” she cried; “I will! I will!! Oh, father! father!! Clarine! Clarine!! Where are you? Where is Manassa? He is lost—lost! Come listen, Clarine—come! Five days, Clarine, five long days and nights! Dear God, one long night—one hundred and twenty hours of darkness; no food, no drink, and naught but the cold stones to lie upon.
“I see him now, with his eyes turned towards that merciless door; watching, praying for the ray of light that never comes; waiting for the sound of the voice that promised to save him; listening for the step he can never hear.
“Oh, I shall go mad! Mad!! Vandemar! Vandemar!! It is I, Vivienne. I have come to save you, but the cruel walls will not let me in. Speak to me, Vandemar. Tell me that you live. I am coming—coming!”
Again she struck the wall, frantically, with her bleeding hands:
“He is dead! I see him—I see the black, crawling things—they are fighting over him—they are feeding upon his forehead—back, back, back! Back, I say!They are tearing his flesh—hark! They are feasting royally. No, no, no! Spare him—spare him! He is mine, mine!”
She stamped her feet upon the stone floor: “I will crush you, you ravenous reptiles, despoilers of the dead; cold, venomous worms! Brush them away, Vandemar! Keep them back, beloved, for I am coming—coming to save you.”
Again, as though under the influence of an ungovernable passion, she struck the wall until the sense of intense pain obliged her to desist. Then came another revulsion. From a state of exaltation, she fell into one approaching stupor, and for some time seemed unconscious of her surroundings, of time, and of the terrible errand which had brought her there. Was this condition of quietude to be followed by another outburst of passion, or was she so exhausted that further effort would be impossible?
Suddenly, she awoke from her lethargy and listened intently. No, yes it was—she could not be mistaken—the sound of footsteps upon the stone stairway. Hope revived. Clarine had found Manassa and had sent him to open the door for her. But would he? He hated Vandemar. Perhaps he was coming only for the purpose of finding out if his enemy were dead. Madness always engenders suspicion. She would be cautious. If he opened the door, she would force him to let her in. She would fly to Vandemar—nothing should prevent her.
Behind one of the mirrors which, when thrown back, exposed the door of the dungeon chamber, Vivienne hid herself.
Pascal Batistelli was a brave man. He preferred to carry out his purposes by diplomacy rather than warfare, but it was only natural, after the tragic events which had deprived him of both a friend and a brother,that his heart should be filled with thoughts of vengeance—and, to a Corsican, vengeance and death are closely related terms. Vandemar was in the dungeon chamber and his death from starvation was certain. Vivienne was securely locked up in a madhouse and could not interfere with his plans. But there was one man, still living, who must die before his vengeance would be complete, so he gathered a large body of his adherents and started out in quest of Cromillian.
Old Manassa was a curious individual. At times, he seemed to be in his dotage, his memory gone, while his words were often childish and, more often, foolish. At other times, he seemed to have recovered all his youthful shrewdness and sagacity. He constantly bewailed the passing of the “good old times,” and often declared himself more worthy to be the head of the Batistelli family than Pascal, whom he looked upon as the degenerate son of a noble sire.
Now that Pascal was away, Manassa assumed all the airs, and, also, the powers of the lord of the manor. He considered that the honour of the Batistelli family was in his keeping and gloried in the fact that his enemy was in the dungeon chamber, condemned to a slow and horrible death from starvation.
Manassa was not only revengeful, but vindictive. He was not satisfied to allow his enemy to die in peace, even by slow torture. No, he would tempt him, taunt him, and then revile him. These acts would make his vengeance more satisfactory. So, he filled a basket with the most enticing food that he could find, put in a bottle of choice wine, and then made his way to the Hall of Mirrors.
Vivienne could hardly refrain from uttering an exclamation of delight when she saw him bearing the basket of food. Manassa was a good man, he was merciful, he had relented, and Vandemar was saved! Shewould have sprung forward and embraced him, so great was her joy, but there was a look on his face which chilled her blood, and she stood as if frozen to the spot. His expression was demoniac—but for what purpose had he brought the food? With every sense alert, Vivienne watched and listened.
Manassa placed the basket upon the floor, then took a piece of paper from his pocket—the instructions for opening the door of the dungeon chamber! Should she rush from her hiding-place, tear it from him, and open the door herself? No, she would let him do that. She would save what strength she had for what might come afterward.
With much difficulty, Manassa succeeded in opening the door:
“Vandemar! Vandemar Della Coscia! I have brought you some food and a nice bottle of wine. You must be hungry. Come and eat.” The words were spoken in a taunting tone, which belied their meaning. There was no response, and the old man laughed, mockingly.
“If I were not so old,” said he, “I would bring it to you; but, if you cannot come for it, you will have to go without it. I am so sorry, my good Vandemar, for I am sure you must be very hungry.”
After hearing these sarcastic words and, again, that horrible, mocking laugh, Vivienne could restrain herself no longer. With a cry like that of a tigress, she leaped upon old Manassa and hurled him to the floor. He was stunned by the fall and lay motionless. Vivienne took up the basket of food and tried to carry it, but her strength failed her and she was obliged to put it down upon the floor again. Then she grasped one side of it and was pulling it towards the dungeon door, when Manassa revived and saw who his assailant had been. He quickly divined her evident purpose to take the food to Vandemar. He did not try to regain his feet, butcrawled upon his hands and knees until he was able to grasp the other side of the basket.
It was literally a contest for life or death—to Vandemar. Manassa was the stronger, and Vivienne felt herself being drawn slowly away from the dungeon door. In her fury, she drew from her bosom the stiletto which she had taken from Madeline Villefort and, making a desperate lunge, stabbed Manassa in the arm. With a cry of pain, he released his hold upon the basket. Vivienne, full of exultation, dragged it along the stone floor and pulled it into the dungeon chamber.
Manassa scrambled to his feet and stood, for a moment, uncertain what course to pursue. Then that look of demoniac wickedness, which had so startled Vivienne, came into his face again. He chuckled—a savage, unearthly sound:
“She loves her enemy. She is no longer a Batistelli, but a Della Coscia—and she shall die with him!”
Summoning all his strength, he closed the great door, and then, with the blood streaming from his wound, shambled from the room. Again that mocking laugh and those revengeful words:
“She is no longer a Batistelli—she is a Della Coscia. She shall die with him!”
When Vivienne entered the dungeon chamber, her thoughts were of Vandemar, and of him alone. Was he alive or dead? The darkness was so intense that she could discern nothing. Where was he? She listened for some sound which might indicate in what part of the room he was. When the great door was closed behind her by Manassa, she had not heard. She stood irresolute, not knowing in which direction to proceed. Her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, she perceived a faint ray of light piercing the gloom.
“Vandemar,” she cried, “are you there, near the light?”
Although there was no response to her question, she made her way towards the beam of light, the only sign of hope in what she feared—and that fear made her hold her breath—was the chamber of death.
Suddenly, her foot struck against something. She reached down and placed her hand upon it. It was the body of a man—it must be that of Vandemar. She longed to give relief to her pent-up feelings—she could have screamed with delight at finding him—but no, that would do no good. If he were alive, he must have wine and food.
She placed her hand upon his heart; it was beating, though but faintly. She knelt—she could feel his breath upon her cheek—he was alive! With a loud cry of joy which she could not repress, she leaped to her feet. Wandering aimlessly for a while, she sought ineffectually for the basket of food. Again guided by the ray of light, she made her way back to where Vandemar lay. Following along by the wall, which she touched lightly with her hands, she came to the corner opposite the small window. Still keeping close to the wall, she reached the dungeon door. There she stopped to collect her thoughts; but, even then, it did not occur to her that the door was closed; and, if it had, her memory would not have told her that there was no way of opening it from the inside.
In her mind there was but one thought, one desire—to find the food and wine. Although Manassa had brought it only to tantalise the helpless prisoner, in her heart she almost forgave him, for it meant life—and with life would come safety—for Vandemar, her beloved.
Feeling that every moment was precious, she resumed her search and soon stumbled over the basket, which she had left not ten feet from the door. Keeping her eyes upon the ray of light, which was her guiding star, she pulled the basket across the stone floor until sheonce more came in contact with the almost lifeless form.
She remembered that she had read somewhere that but little food, at first, should be given to starving persons, but the wine—there was life in that! The bottle was tightly corked and she could not open it. She struck it against the stone wall and the neck fell to the floor. She dipped her fingers in the wine and wet Vandemar’s lips with it. There was bread in the basket. She moistened it with the wine and, raising his head from the floor, fed him as she would have a child.
Vivienne could not see his face, for the ray of light did not reach the dark corner beneath the window, but the bread and wine did their good work, and Vandemar, reviving, heard the soft tones of a woman’s voice—a voice which kept repeating:
“Vandemar, come back to me. Vandemar, you are saved. It is I, Vivienne.”
There was more inspiration, more strength, in that voice than bread or wine could give.
“Vivienne? Is it really you, Vivienne? Have the guests all left the castle? May I go now? The Admiral and his daughter and I are going back to the ship to-night. What time is it? I must have fallen asleep. I tried to keep awake because you said you would come for me.”
“I have come, as I promised I would,” she said. “I have brought you wine and food. You must drink some of the wine and, when you feel stronger, you may have something to eat; but not very much, for your fast has been a long one and it would not be safe to eat too heartily.”
The stimulant warmed him and sent the life-blood coursing through his veins. He sat upright, without support, and when he spoke, his voice was stronger and fuller. Then he seemed to remember what he had atfirst forgotten—that many days, and not one night, had elapsed since he had entered the dungeon.
“Oh,” he said, “I have had both food and drink. I have not suffered for want of either. My wound gave me a fever. That is what has made me so weak, but I shall soon be well, and we will leave this place.”
“Yes, Vandemar, we will go. But tell me, for I cannot understand, how did you get both food and drink?”
“I have not been alone,” said Vandemar. “I have had some good friends. They came at night—it has been all night here—and fetched me kernels of corn—and once they brought an egg. That saved my life. They were so tame, too. It was so dark they could not see me. Perhaps they thought I was one of them—so old and feeble that I could not go with them to the kitchen to get my own food.”
“But the drink?” cried Vivienne. “How did you get anything to drink? The rats could not bring water to you.”
“No,” said Vandemar, “I had to get that myself, and that was much harder. It rained one night and some drops were blown in at the window and fell upon me. I was feverish and knew that I must have water. I tore my sword scarf into strips and knotted them together. Then I tied one end to the sleeve of my coat and finally succeeded in throwing it so that it lodged between the window-bars. When it was saturated, I pulled it down, wrung it and drank my fill.”
“Do you feel stronger?” asked Vivienne.
“Why, yes. I am almost as good as ever. I must have been asleep when you came in. I had a bad dream. I thought your brother sent you away from the Castle so that you could not come and let me out.”
“He did,” cried Vivienne, “and for that I shall never forgive him. He told Doctor Procida that I was mad, and they took me to the lunatic asylum at Salvanetra, but I escaped the next day. Then I fell ill and, for three days, I knew nothing. To-day is the fifth day and I thought you must be dead, for I had not faith enough in God to believe that He would send His dumb creatures to feed you and rain from Heaven for you to drink. I have been so wicked—but now that God in His mercy has brought us together again, we will be good—will we not, Vandemar?”
“Give me more of that wine, Vivienne. It is very good, and you are the best woman I ever knew. With good wine and a good woman, no man should be bad.”
“Hush, Vandemar,” said Vivienne; “do not speak so. We should be good because we ought to be and not because we get what we wish for. Come, come, let us be going. My brother is away and you must get to a place of safety before he returns. Give me your hand. I will lead you, for I know how to find the door.”
When they reached it, the terrible truth dawned upon her. She stood rooted to the spot—she could not speak.
“Open the door quickly, Vivienne,” he said, and he had never spoken so gently before. “This has been a long night, Vivienne, and my couch was not a soft one. Open the door, for I yearn to see the blue sky, the trees, and the flowers, and hear the songs of birds. Then, too, I would look out upon the water and see my good ship riding at anchor. How glad the Admiral will be to see me, and how interested Helen will be to hear of my adventures—and how Heaven sent my good angel to rescue me and make me happy for life. I will take you to England, Vivienne, where there is no cruel vendetta—but why do you not open the door?”
“My God!” she cried, and her voice was tense with pain, “I cannot.”
“Let me try,” he said, “I am stronger than you are. Tell me how to open it.”
“We are lost!” she moaned. “I had forgotten—the door cannot be opened from the inside.”
“What? You forgot? We are lost?” There was passion, suspicion, despair, in the words.
“I left it open when I came in. Some one must have closed it.”
“Some one must have closed it?” His voice was harsh, and there was unbelief in the question. “Speak, Vivienne, who could have closed it? Who was with you? You said your brother had gone away, and even he would not close a dungeon door upon his only sister.”
“I will tell you all,” she said, piteously.
“I think the time has come,” was the stern reply.
“Pascal took the paper from me, which told how to open the door, and tore it in pieces. I had learned the instructions by heart before they took me to the asylum, but when I came back my memory was gone. I should have died outside the door, and you would have perished in here, had not Old Manassa brought a basket of food. He did not mean to give it to you, for he hates you because you are a Della Coscia. He came to taunt you, but I sprang upon him and stabbed him with my stiletto. I wrenched the basket from him. After I came in, he must have closed the door. Oh, Vandemar! After all our pain and suffering, to have it end thus!”
There was silence for a time, then Vandemar spoke, but there were no love tones in his voice:
“Does no one know that you are here? Did you not tell some one that you were coming to release me?”
“As I came through the garden, some one called my name, but I do not know who it was. I did not look. I thought only of you, I wished only to see you, for I would give my life to save you, Vandemar—but you do not believe me, you do not trust me, you do not love me——”
Vandemar put his arms about the weeping girl and drew her close to him.
“Forgive me, Vivienne; I am racked in mind and body, and am not myself. What I said just now was unjust and unkind to you. Believe me, dear one, the Vandemar that was, would never have harboured a thought or spoken a word to bring tears to those sweet eyes. I cannot see them, but I know they are filled with the love-light which neither time nor death can dim. Do you not believe, Vivienne, that, if God wishes us to live and be happy together in this world, He will send us help?”
“I do,” said Vivienne. “We will hope on, will we not, Vandemar? We have food and wine, your little friends will bring us corn and eggs, and the good God will send us rain that we may drink. I am with you, and you with me. We can love each other as well in this dark dungeon as we could if we sat beneath the trees, with the birds singing above us. That love will bless us, and if no one comes to save us, you will kiss me for the last time, tell me that you love me, and, clasped in each other’s arms, we will die together!”
Pascal Batistelliand his adherents were unsuccessful in their search for Cromillian and his moral bandits. If they had not been looking for each other, they might have met, for while Pascal sought for Cromillian in themaquis, the bandit chief, with a picked body of men, Jack De Vinne being one of the company, was on his way to Batistelli Castle with the fixed determination of finding Vandemar, or of exacting stern retribution if the young man had been foully dealt with.
Pascal dismissed his followers, telling them that they must go home and take needed rest, for he should soon call upon them again. He maintained his usual composure before them, but, after their departure, in the solitude of his library, he felt utterly disheartened. Then his thoughts turned to Manassa, and he sent Adolphe to summon his old retainer.
“What is the matter?” cried Pascal, as the old man entered. “What has happened to you? Why is your arm bound up? There is blood upon your clothing.” He paused. “Has Vandemar escaped? Sit down, Manassa, and tell me who did this.”
The old man seated himself.
“Vandemar has not escaped,” he began. “He is safe in the dungeon—” he gave a low chuckle—“but he is not alone.”
“Not alone?” cried Pascal. “Who is with him? Come, quick, tell me all,” and, unthinkingly, he grasped Manassa’s wounded arm, making him wince with pain.
“It is a long story,” said Manassa, “and I don’t know just how to put it together. I thought that Vandemar might be hungry, having had nothing to eat for five days, so I took him a basket of food and a bottle of good wine.”
“You fool!” cried Pascal. Then he remembered. “What was there in that? You could not open the dungeon door.”
“Oh, yes, I could.” The old man chuckled again. “I was in the Hall of Mirrors when you tore up that paper. After all of you were gone, before I put out the lights, I picked up the pieces and pasted them together. Nobody knows I have it but Vivienne.”
“Vivienne? How could she know anything about it, locked up at Salvanetra?”
“Yes, she was locked up,” mused the old man. “I don’t know how she got away, but she did.”
Pascal started to his feet. “Vivienne here? Where is she? Did you give her the food to take to Vandemar? I thought you were a friend to the Batistellis.”
“I didn’t mean to give it to her,” and Manassa wrung his hands, apologetically; “I didn’t mean to give it to him. I had opened the door, was telling him what nice things I had for him,—just to make him feel hungrier than ever,—when Vivienne came from behind one of the mirrors and caught at the basket. Just as I was getting it away from her, she drew a stiletto and stabbed me here,” and he placed his hand upon his wounded arm. “I fell, and before I could get up again, she had dragged the basket of food into the dungeon chamber.”
“What did you do then?” asked Pascal, excitedly.
“I did as I thought you would have done—I shut the door and left them there together. She is no longer a Batistelli—she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together!”
“You were right, Manassa. I should have done as you did. But where is the paper?”
“Here it is,” and Manassa passed it to him.
“Come with me, Manassa,” said Pascal. “She ismy sister—a poor, weak, foolish woman. It is my duty to give her one more chance to repent of her folly, and I must have a witness.”
“Vivienne, are you there?”
There were tones in her brother’s voice which the young girl could not mistake. The prisoners had gone back to the corner beneath the window, for the friendly ray of light made the dungeon seem less like a tomb.
Vivienne sprang to her feet. “Yes, Pascal, I am here,” she cried, joyfully, “and Vandemar is so strong now that he can walk.”
“Come here to the door,” said Pascal.
“What is it?” she asked, when she reached it.
“Come with me,” said her brother.
“I will bring Vandemar.”
“No,” said Pascal, “if you come out you shall come alone. You must renounce that man.”
“Then I will not come,” said Vivienne, positively. “I love him. We will either live together or die together.”
“Is that your final answer?” questioned Pascal, angrily.
“It is,” she said.
He drew his stiletto.
“I do not fear that,” she cried. “You may kill me, but I will give you no other answer. I will not leave here without Vandemar.”
While they had been talking Pascal had stepped within the dungeon door, still holding the paper.
“So be it!” he cried.
An instant later the door was closed and Vivienne knew that she and Vandemar were doomed to a lingering death.
Manassa had been an interested observer: “I was right, was I not, master? She is no longer a Batistelli—she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together.”
“Let them die together,” echoed Pascal, but although he spoke the words, he knew that they did not come from his heart.
“Master, where is the paper?”
Pascal searched his garments; then they both looked in every direction, but it could not be found. A feeling of remorse seized Pascal. He had not meant to go so far. He knew that they had food and he would have come again. He wished for Vandemar’s death, but if he did not love her, he was proud of his sister. Now she must die, and by his hand.
“Have you found the paper?” the old man asked again.
“I must have dropped it as I came out of the dungeon, and the great door closed over it.”
“That is good,” said Manassa. “Then the vendetta is ended. A life for a life. Two Della Coscias for one Batistelli—for she is no longer a Batistelli.”
“Come, Manassa, you will bear witness that I gave her a chance for life.”
As Pascal turned to leave the Hall of Mirrors, to his surprise he was confronted by Cromillian. Pascal was filled with fury at the sight of him.
“What brings you here, robber, murderer?” he demanded.
Cromillian replied coolly: “Well, I don’t mind telling you I have come on a tour of investigation. You asked me a question and I have answered it. Now I will match yours with another. Where is Vandemar?”
Pascal dissembled: “I cannot be expected to know the whereabouts of all those who have been my guests.”
“Your guest!” said Cromillian, sneeringly. “I have my suspicions that he has been foully dealt with. He has not been seen since you and your host of ruffians that are called Death Brothers attacked him here in your own house. The world has been able to give us credit but for one thing—that is, the virtue of hospitality; that law has ever been held sacred by Corsicans, as you well know. You have basely violated it, and thereby brought dishonour and shame upon your countrymen. By all that is holy, when Cromillian brutalises his manhood to that extent, may the very heavens fall and crush him!”
Pascal drew his stiletto. “You murdered my brother, villain, and you dare preach to me!”
“You lie! I but defended an innocent life. Your brother fell by his own rashness. It is one thing to assassinate your enemy—that requires little bravery; it is another to face your foe like a man and give him a chance for his life. My sword is longer than your stiletto, and I could murder you easily.”
He unbuckled his sword belt and threw it with the sword and scabbard upon the stone floor. Then he drew his stiletto, and the two men stood facing each other, for each knew that but one of them could leave that room alive.
Cromillian was the stronger man, but much heavier and slower in his movements than Pascal, who was muscular and agile. For a time it was a drawn battle. Skill parried strength, and strength overcame skill. Then happened that which has happened so often before—it was a question of endurance, and the stronger man could endure the most. Pascal lost his head and struck wildly, aimlessly.
“I could kill you now,” said Cromillian, “but I will spare your life if you will tell me where I can find Vandemar.”
Pascal pointed to the dungeon door. “He is there with my sister Vivienne. She loves him, and I have given her to him.”
“She is no longer a Batistelli,” croaked Old Manassa; “she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together.”
“Open that door,” said Cromillian, with an air of command.
“You forget,” said Pascal, “that this is my castle. I am master here and take orders from no one.”
“I forget nothing,” replied Cromillian. “I know that you are a heartless, inhuman wretch, and the would-be murderer of two innocent hearts. I say to you again, open that door.”
“I would not if I could,” was Pascal’s defiant response; “but the instructions for opening the dungeon door have been lost—the door can never be opened.”
To Cromillian’s mighty strength was now added the fury of despair. “I do not believe you!” he cried. “You shall die with that lie upon your lips.”
There were a few hurried passes, an intertwining and glistening of the sharp blades, and that of Cromillian pierced Pascal’s heart. As Cromillian started to leave the room, his eyes fell upon Manassa.
“I ought to send you to join your master, for I believe you are as wicked at heart as he was, but you are an old man and powerless to defend yourself. It would be murder to kill you. But they shall be saved.” He pointed to the dungeon door. “I shall come back with my men. We will pull this castle down; I will not leave one stone standing upon another.”
After Cromillian bad gone, Manassa picked up the sword and buckled the belt about his waist. What he did next would have surprised Cromillian if he had seen it. The old man took up the dead body of his master, clasped it firmly in his arms, and carried it slowly, step by step, down the long stone stairway, then farther down until he reached the library. Placing the body upon a low couch, he fell upon his knees beside it. Raising his right hand, he cursed the Della Coscias, he cursed Cromillian, and swore vengeance against him who had caused his master’s death.
“The Della Coscias are dead—so are the Batistellis. I am master now!”