"I must have her thoroughly searched in the first place," said Mr. Atkinson; "for she may have some more of the poison about her, and in her present state, after all she has confessed, she is just as likely to swallow it as not. However, Mr. Marlow, you had better, I think, ride on as fast as possible to see Sir Philip Hastings, and tell him what has occurred here. If I judge rightly, your presence will be very needful there."
"It will indeed," said Marlow, a sudden vague apprehension of he knew not what, seizing upon him; "God grant I have not tarried too long already;" and quitting the room, he sprang upon his horse's back again.
FOOTNOTES:[2]Continued from page 327.
[2]Continued from page 327.
[2]Continued from page 327.
For constant truth my aching spirit yearns,And finds no comfort in a glorious cheat;On the firm rock I wish to set my feet,And look upon the star that changeless burns;Yon gorgeous clouds that in the sunset glow,With fire-wrought domes for angel-palace meet,Beneath my gaze their surface beauties fleet;With parting light how dull their splendors grow.I cannot worship vapors, and the hueThat on the dove's neck flickers, as it veers,Bewilders, but not charms me; whilst the blueOf the clear sky gives comfort 'mid all fears,And but to think on that unshadowed white,The angels walk in, makes my dark path bright.
For constant truth my aching spirit yearns,And finds no comfort in a glorious cheat;On the firm rock I wish to set my feet,And look upon the star that changeless burns;Yon gorgeous clouds that in the sunset glow,With fire-wrought domes for angel-palace meet,Beneath my gaze their surface beauties fleet;With parting light how dull their splendors grow.I cannot worship vapors, and the hueThat on the dove's neck flickers, as it veers,Bewilders, but not charms me; whilst the blueOf the clear sky gives comfort 'mid all fears,And but to think on that unshadowed white,The angels walk in, makes my dark path bright.
Eternal sunshine withers; constant lightWould make the beauty of the world look wan;The storm that sleeps with dark'ning terror on,Leaves verdant freshness where it seemed to blight;Most dreary is the land where comes no night,For there the sun is chill, and slowly drawnRound the horizon, spreads a sickly dawn,No promise of a day more warm and bright.Bless then the clouds and darkness, for we canDiscern with awe through them what angel facesWatch and direct, and from their holy placesSmile with sublime benignity on man;And dearly cherish sickness, pain, and sorrow,As gloomy heralds of a bright to-morrow.V.
Eternal sunshine withers; constant lightWould make the beauty of the world look wan;The storm that sleeps with dark'ning terror on,Leaves verdant freshness where it seemed to blight;Most dreary is the land where comes no night,For there the sun is chill, and slowly drawnRound the horizon, spreads a sickly dawn,No promise of a day more warm and bright.Bless then the clouds and darkness, for we canDiscern with awe through them what angel facesWatch and direct, and from their holy placesSmile with sublime benignity on man;And dearly cherish sickness, pain, and sorrow,As gloomy heralds of a bright to-morrow.V.
Half demented, Monte-Leone left the Duke's Hotel. His existence had become a terrible dream, a hideous nightmare, every hour producing a new terror and surprise. D'Harcourt was gone. He went to find Von Apsberg. "He at least will speak. He will say something about this atrocious accusation. He will explain the meaning of the perfidious reply of the chief of police. If he repeated this atrocious calumny, if he persisted in thinking him guilty, his heart would be open to Monte-Leone's blows. He would at least crush and bury one of his enemies."
A new misfortune awaited him. The doctor was not to be found. The police had occupied the house at the time that the Vicomte was being arrested. The doctor had beyond a doubt been previously informed of their coming and escaped, but his papers were seized. All the archives and documents of Carbonarism fell into the hands of M. H——. One might have said some evil genius guided the police and led them in their various examinations into the invisible mines of their prey. Furniture, drawers, and all were examined. Count Monte-Leone, when he heard of the disappearance of the Doctor and of the seizure of his papers, felt an increase of rage. The discovery of the archives ruined for a long time, if not for ever, the prospects of the work to which Monte-Leone had consecrated his life. The flight of Matheus also deprived him of any means of extricating himself from the cloud of mystery which surrounded him, and made futile any hope of vengeance. Taddeo alone remained, and he was protected by the oath he had taken to the Marquise. One other deception yet awaited him. A devoted member of the Carbonari, on the next day, came to Monte-Leone's house and informed the Count that on the day after the Vicomte's arrest and the escape of Matheus, a similar course had been adopted against Rovero, who was indebted for his liberty only to information from Signor Pignana on the night before the coming of the police. A note from Aminta told Monte-Leone of the disappearance of Rovero. The Count was then completely at sea, and he was abandoned by all to a horrible imputation which he could neither avenge nor dispute. He could, therefore, only suffer and bide his time. Resignation, doubt, and delay, were terrible punishments to his energetic and imperative character. One hope remained, which, if realized, would enable him to contradict all the imputations on his honor. This was, that he would be able to share the fate of his comrades, not of Von Apsberg and Taddeo, who had escaped, but of those who languished in the cells ofla Forceand theConciergerie. The Count knew that the police, from the perusal of the archives, must be aware of his position, and awaited hourly and daily his arrest. This did not take place, though he perpetually received anonymous letters of the most perplexing and embarrassing character, charging him, in the grossest terms of the language, with being a spy and a traitor to the association to which he had pledged his life and his honor. He resolved at last to play a desperate game—to exhibit an unheard of energy and power. He repudiated the disdainful impunity which apparently was inflicted on him intentionally. He surrendered himself to the police....
While Count Monte-Leone acted thus courageously, the following scene took place in a hotel whither our readers have been previously taken.
A man apparently about thirty years old sat pale and downcast at a table, writing with extreme rapidity. Occasionally he rested his weary head on his hand, and his eyes wandered across the sky which he saw through a trap-window, so usual in that room of houses known as the garret.[4]He then glanced on the paper, and wrote down the inspirations he seemed to have evoked from the abode of angels. He was the occupant of a garret, which, though small, seemed so disguised by taste and luxury that the narrow abode appeared even luxurious. The table at which the writer sat was of Buhl, and was ornamented by vases of Sevres ware. The wooden bedstead was hidden by a silken coverlet, and a large arm-chair occupied a great portion of the room. On the small chimney-piece of varnished stone was a china vase filled with magnificent flowers from hot-houses, above which arose a superb camelia. A curtain of blue shut out the glare of the sun. It was easy to see that female taste had presided over the arrangements of this room. A beautiful woman really had done so. The inmate of the room was Doctor von Apsberg. The girl of whom we have spoken was Marie d'Harcourt.
On the day of René's arrest, a fortnight before the one we write of, the Doctor was alone when the secret panel was opened. Pignana suddenly appeared before the Doctor and told him that his house as well as the Doctor's was surrounded by suspicious looking people. Pignana therefore advised him to go at once. Von Apsberg was about to go to his bureau and take possession of his papers. The police did not allow him time to do so; they knocked at that very moment at the door and entered the house before Von Apsberg had time to leave. It will be rememberedthat the studio of the Doctor in which the archives were kept, was in the third story of the house. Matheus was, therefore, forced to fly through the opening, into Pignana's house, and with his ear to the wall listened to the noise made by the police, with thankfulness for the secret passage. He heard a deep voice say, "If your Jacobin Doctor has escaped, you shall answer for it." This was said to Mlle. Crepineau. The good maiden swore the Doctor was absent, as she thought, or feigned to think. Another voice, with a deep southern accent, said the following words, which the young Doctor heard with surprise and fear:
"The one you seek is gone. If, though, you would find him, press that copper nail which you see on the third row of books. You will find the means of his escape into the next house."
A cry was heard from the interior of the room. A female voice thus spoke to the man who had just spoken: "Señor Muñez, it is abominable for you thus to betray the poor fellows. You are a bad and heartless man."
When the Doctor heard thus revealed the secret of his retreat, he had pushed through the inner door, and it was well he did, for it gave him time to leave the room. The door of the library offered but a feeble resistance, which was soon overcome, and Pignana's house was carefully entered and searched.
He at once conceived an idea of a plan of escape. He said to Pignana, "Not a word; but follow me." Von Apsberg, accompanied by Pignana, left the place where they were concealed, went into the yard, and proceeded to a shed which was separated from his house by a few badly joined planks. One of these he removed, passed through the opening, and stood in an outhouse where he remembered he had once made some anatomical inquiries.
"But you are going back," said Pignana, "you will again fall in the hands of the enemy."
"You would be a bad general, Pignana," said Von Apsberg; "this is a commonruse de guerre, and is known as a counter-march. These places have been explored by the enemy, and consequently they will return no more. While the agents are looking where we are not, we will return where they have been."
When night came, and at this time of the year it was at four o'clock, Pignana told his companion of his plan. He purposed to scale the wall of the yard by means of the trellices of the vines. When once on the other side they would be in the garden of the Duke d'Harcourt, from which the young physician expected to go to the hotel to obtain protection from the Vicomte. The execution of this plan was easy for one as thin as d'Harcourt, but was impracticable to a person with an abdomen like Pignana. As soon as night had come, the latter said to Von Apsberg, "Go through the air, Doctor, if you can. I intend to adopt a more earthly route—through the door of the house, even if, much to Mlle. Crepineau's terror, I have the audacity to assume the guise of the suicide, and terrify her into opening the door for me. Besides, I am but slightly compromised, and will extricate myself. Adieu, then, Doctor," said he, "and good luck to you amid the clouds!" Von Apsberg clasped his hand, hurried from his retreat, ascended the wall, passed it, and a few minutes after was in the Duke's garden. Taking advantage of the darkness he went to the hotel, every window of which, to his surprise, he found closed. He went without being seen to the door of the reception rooms on the ground floor. The window had not been shut since the arrest of the Vicomte. The Doctor entered it. At the back of this room was a boudoir à la Louis XIV., of rare elegance, and appropriated to Marie d'Harcourt. Amid the darkness he heard a strange sound of sighs and sobs. The Doctor drew near, expecting that there was some pain for him to soothe. "Who is there?" said the Duke d'Harcourt.
"It is I, my lord, Doctor Matheus."
"You here, sir!" said the Duke; "they told me that, like my unfortunate son, you were arrested; and for the same offence."
"What say you, sir?" said Von Apsberg, with deep distress; "René, dear René, arrested?"
"Yes, sir," said the old Duke; "arrested and torn from his father's arms. Yet the blow did not overwhelm me. This, though, will take place ere long, and the executioner's axe will strike father and son at once."
A footman appeared with lights, and the Doctor saw the whole family weeping. His head rested on Marie's shoulder, and the long white hair of the old man was mingled with the young girl's dark locks, and seemed like the silvery light of the moon resting on her brown hair. The Duke saw at a glance how the Doctor participated in all his sorrows, and how the fate of his son lacerated the heart of his visitor. He gave his hand to the Doctor.
"I forgive you," said he, "the part you have had in my son's error, when I remember how you love him, and the care you have taken of Marie."
"Alas! Monsieur," said Von Apsberg; "that duty I can discharge no longer. The fate of René must be mine, to-morrow, to-day, in a few moments—for I came to seek for concealment. If, though, he has lost his liberty; if all his plans are destroyed, why should I any longer contend against misfortune? Adieu, Duke! I will rejoin René, share his misfortune, and defend his life; if not against men, at least against the cruel disease which menaces his career."
As she heard these words, the cheeks of Marie d'Harcourt became pale as marble, and she said, in tones of deep distress, "Father, will you suffer him to go thus?"
Von Apsberg looked at her with trouble and surprise.
"No, my child," said the Duke, "the Doctor will not leave us; and we will protect him." Von Apsberg then told the bold means by which he had entered the house.
"No one saw," said the Duke, "howyou came hither?"
"No one."
"There is no suspicion?"
"None."
Assisted by Marie, the Duke contrived a plan for an impenetrable asylum for the Doctor. In the right wing of the hotel were many rooms intended for servants, and uninhabited; for, since the death of his other sons, the Duke had greatly reduced his household. In one of these rooms, carefully decked and furnished, by Marie's care, Doctor Matheus was fixed. The old secretary of the Duke d'Harcourt alone was in the secret, and this worthy man took charge of the food of the Doctor, who saw no one except Marie and her father. The young girl gradually became bolder, and touched with pity at the loneliness of the prisoner, obeyed the dictates of her own heart and went frequently to the young Doctor's room to be sure that he was in want of nothing. Like a consoling angel, she came with her celestial presence to adorn the captive's retreat, and restore something of happiness to his heart. Von Apsberg, who had been for some days left alone, had reflected deeply on his political opinions and on their consequences. The immense difference between all old principles and the innovating ideas of Carbonarism caused him to doubt the triumph of the latter; the great discouragement which Monte-Leone'sapparent treasonhad produced, and the fate of his associates, produced a deep impression on him. Amid all these gloomy thoughts, one fresh and prominent idea reinvigorated his mind, and gave him ineffable joy.
Without wishing to analyze his feelings towards Marie, the Doctor was under their influence. He did not dream of ever possessing that aristocratic heart from which he was separated by rank, birth, and fortune. The heart of man, nevertheless, is so constituted, that the most honest and loyal man is never exempt from a shadow of egotism. Perhaps, therefore, in the Doctor's mind there was a feeble hope of approaching that class whose position he so envied. Let this be as it may, abandoning himself to the luxury of seeing always by his side this beautiful creature, whose health his care had already revived, the Doctor blessed his captivity, and lived in anxious expectation of the hours when Marie used to visit him. Von Apsberg possessed that Platonic heart which enabled him to look on Marie as a creature of pure poetry. He entertained so respectful a tenderness for the young girl, that he distrusted her no more than she did him.
On the day we found the Doctor writing in his retreat with such ardor, he was writing out aregimefor his patient. He told her what to do, and, as if gifted with prescience, provided for her future life.
"If," said he, "I be discovered—if the future have in reserve for the heiress d'Harcourt"—and his heart felt as if a sharp iron had transfixed it—"if a noble marriage separate me from her; at least in this painful study of her health she will be able to contend against her family disease, and perhaps will be indebted to me for life, happy and unsuffering." The idea seemed too much for the strength of the young physician as he saw thus fade before him all hope of a union with Marie. Steps just then were heard outside his room just as he was concluding the sadmemoirewe have spoken of.
The Doctor, in obedience to the request of his host, answered no knock, and gave no evidence of life, except at a concerted signal known only to three persons—the Duke, his daughter, and D'Arbel. Therefore he listened. The person who advanced paused for a time before his door, and then left rapidly as it had come. Von Apsberg, however, by means of that lover's intuition, guessed who it was. The eyes of his heart pierced the opacity of the door, to enable him to admire the charming angel who had alighted at his door and flown away. Before this angel had disappeared from the long corridor which led to the Doctor's room, the door was opened, and he paused to glance at the young girl who was ready to escape. Marie returned to the Doctor, and advanced slowly towards him.
"Ah! Monsieur," said she to Matheus, "it is wrong in you not to keep your promise better. You promised my father never to open the door without a signal—"
"Why then, Mademoiselle, did you not give the signal?"
"I did not come to see you," said Marie; "but I brought you books and flowers. I am so afraid you will grow weary in this little room, where you are always alone and sad."
As she spoke, the angel girl went to the Doctor's room, as she would have done to her brother's, without any hesitation or trouble. She was robed in innocence; and if her heart beat a little louder than usual then, the child attributed it entirely to the rapidity with which she had ascended the stairs. The Doctor took the books and flowers which she had placed at his door, and put them in the vase on the mantle. He was glad to be able to look away from Marie's face, for he felt that his countenance told all he thought.
"I took the most amusing books from my little library," said she. "One learned as you are, always immersed in study, may not approve of my choice. Perhaps though, Monsieur, as you read them you will think of your patient—"
"Ah! I do so always," said Von Apsberg. "I was thinking of you when you came."
"You were writing," said Marie, as she looked at the sheet Von Apsberg pointed out to her.
"Ah! Mademoiselle, I wrote for you. You must follow one rule of conduct in relation to your health, when you are separated from your father—when you are married."
"Married!" said Mlle. d'Harcourt, and she grew pale. "I never thought of being married."
"But marry you must. You will marry rich; and, Mlle., a husband worthy of you. Ere long you will have many suitors."
"Monsieur," said the girl, "our house now is hung with mourning. The life of my brother is in danger, and my health, as you said, is frail and feeble. All this you know is altogether contradictory to what you say. As for myself," said she, with an emotion she experienced for the first time, "I am happy as I now am, and desire no other position, I must leave you, though," added she: "for now my father must have come from the prison where he obtained leave to visit my brother. I am anxious to hear from him. The Duke and myself will soon tell you about him."
Light as a vapor, rapid as a cloud, the young girl left the Doctor's room, to his eyes radiant with the lustre she left behind her.
Eight days after the conversation between Von Apsberg and Marie, the Doctor heard a knock at his door. The latter was reading over for the twentieth time one of the books which had been brought him. This book was Telemachus, the poetical romance one might have fancied Homer himself had dreamed of, and which Virgil and Ovid had written—the book in which morals are enwrapped in so dense a covering of flowers, that a reader often refuses to glance at the serious part of the work, and pays attention only to the graceful superficies. Von Apsberg, however, read the book, not for its own sake, but for the sake of her who had given it to him. Marie had read every page, and her hands had turned over every leaf. This fact gave the history of the son of Ulysses an immense value in the eyes of the young Doctor, and made Telemachus, not Fenelon's, but Marie d'Harcourt's book. The knock at the Doctor's door was followed by the concerted signal. He opened it, and saw the Duke's old secretary. "Monsieur," said he, "as the Duke is absent, I am come to say that Mlle. Marie is ill. I know your care will be useful. She does not, though, send for you, being too feeble to come up stairs, and afraid to ask you to come down."
"Monsieur d'Arbel, let no one into the hotel; and tell Mlle. I will visit her.
"She will see you, Monsieur, in the window next to the drawing-room. I will send the servants out of the way, so that you can see Mlle. Marie without fear of discovery."
All the Secretary's arrangements were carried out, and a few minutes after Matheus waited on his fair patient. She was ill. Since her conversation with the Doctor, her health had really changed. Something mental seemed to influence it. Her complexion, sullied by the tears she had shed since her brother's arrest, was faded, and a flush was visible on her cheeks alone. These symptoms made the Doctor unhappy. He, therefore, approached Marie with great uneasiness.
She said: "How kind you are, Doctor, to risk your liberty: I could not otherwise have seen you. I have not strength enough."
"I will try soon to confer it on you, if God grants me power to attend to you."
"I shall die," said she with an anxious voice, which penetrated the Doctor's very heart, "if you cannot."
"For your sake," said Matheus, "I will defend my liberty by every means in my power, for I wish to restore your health, and preserve an existence indispensable to your father's happiness."
"How I suffer," said Marie, placing her hand on her snowy brow. "I have an intense pain, which passes from temple to temple, and gives me much suffering."
"Do you sleep well?" asked Matheus.
"No, no, for many days I have not slept, or if I have, phantoms have flitted across my slumbers." She blushed as she spoke. This the Doctor did not see, for he was searching out a remedy.
"Well," said he, "I think we must use a remedy which has hitherto succeeded. Magnetism will enable you to sleep, and perhaps will soothe your sufferings." Rising, then, he placed his hand on the patient's brow, as he had done a few months before when the Marquise had experienced such good effects from it. He placed his hands on the young girl's temples, and then made passes across her face, the result of which was that she sank softly to sleep. The state of somnambulism ensued, and Marie unfolded the condition of her heart to the young physician. While he was thus engaged the Duke entered.
"You here, Doctor?" said he; "how imprudent!"
"Shewas suffering," said the physician; "now she sleeps." The Duke thanked Von Apsberg for his care, but seemed to centre all his hope in the young Doctor, as the sailor devotes himself to the lord of storms and waves. Now, though, every word the Duke said seemed a reproach. He shuddered as he thought of the confessions of Mlle. d'Harcourt, and asked himself if he participated in her sentiments or had suffered her to divine his. All his delicacy and loyalty revolted from the idea that this confession would cost the unfortunate father the life of his daughter.[5]Von Apsberg saw that henceforthit would be impossible for him to remain longer at the Duke's hotel, and that it would be criminal to remain with one the secret thoughts of whom he knew. He, therefore, made up his mind to speak to the Duke. Just then Marie, who had been for some time free from any magnetic influence, awoke calm and smiling. "How deliciously I have slept," said she; "how well I am!"
The Duke kissed her affectionately. He said, "All this you owe to the Doctor; and I thank heaven amid our misfortunes that he has been preserved to us. I am glad I have been able to rescue him from his persecutors, and preserve my daughter's health by means of his own watchful care."
Marie gave the Doctor her hand. The young girl did not remember what she had said while she slept. This slumber of the heart, however, could not last, and the young Doctor knew it. He resolved on the painful sacrifice which, but for the waking of his patient, he would at once have communicated to the Prince.
The reflections of the night confirmed the Doctor in the course he had resolved to adopt. On the next day he put on a long cloak, which disguised his stature, and went to the room of the Duke, after having also put on a wig which René often wore when he visited Matheus, and which the Duke had sent for to enable him in case of a surprise to leave unrecognized.
The distress of the Duke at the Vicomte's imprisonment increased every day. He had only once been able to reach his son, and had contrived to inspire the captive with hopes of liberty he was far from entertaining himself. The Vicomte was actively watched, and his most trifling actions were observed. Ever alone in the sad cell in which he had been confined, ennui and despair took possession of him, and his brilliant mind, to which mirth and activity had been indispensable, became downcast and miserable. Since the visit of his father, also, his delicate chest had begun to suffer. What the Doctor especially apprehended for his friend was the possibility of cold and dampness producing a dangerous irritation of the respiratory organs. This took place; for nothing could be more humid and icy than the cell of René. He had a dry and incessant cough. The keepers paid no attention to it, and the keeper of the Conciergerie treated it as a simple cold of no importance. The Vicomte was unwilling to inform his father of it lest he should be uneasy, and the mere indisposition rapidly became a serious and terrible disease. This was the state of things when Von Apsberg presented himself before the Duke. "What is the matter?" said the old man. "Are you discovered and forced to leave us?"
"Duke," said the Doctor, "let me first express my deepest thanks for your generous hospitality. Let me tell you how much your kindness has soothed the cruel suffering to which I have been subjected day and night for three weeks. I would, had it not been for your kindness, have weeks ago shared the captivity of René; and the hope I entertained of being of use to your daughter, alone prevented me from surrendering myself to despair at the prospect of a crushed and prospectless life, when I saw my brethren arrested in consequence of one whom I had always looked on as a devoted friend."
"Do not speak to me of that man," said the Duke in a terrible tone, "for my son, in my presence, charged him with having betrayed him."
"I have spoken to you of my gratitude," said the Doctor, "that you might not doubt it now at our separation."
"What danger now menaces you?" said the Duke, "why do you leave us?"
"To avoid being ungrateful," said Von Apsberg. "That you may never accuse your guest of selfishness, and that he may always deserve the esteem with which you honor him."
"What is the meaning of this mysterious language?"
"Grant me," said the young physician, with a trembling voice, "the boon of being permitted to keep the cause of my departure a secret. You would be as sorry to hear as I would be to tell you."
"No," said the old man, "I will not consent to this. You shall not quit the house which shelters you from your enemies: no, you shall not. Ah! sir," continued the Duke, "if you will not remain for your own sake do so for mine, for you alone have preserved the life of my daughter thus far." The Doctor said, as he gave a paper to the Duke: "Here is the result of my study, in which I have traced out all the means known to science calculated to strengthen the health of your daughter, and to parry the dangers which menace her."
"Doctor," said the Duke, "do not distress me by leaving the hotel. Do not make me perpetually miserable, Doctor, I am already unfortunate enough."
"Well," said the young man, unable to resist his prayers any longer, "you shall know what forces me to go, and shall yourself judge of my duty." He fell at the Duke's feet, and told him all he had learned during Marie's slumber, his combats with himself, and his resolution.
"You are an honest man," said the Duke, with an expression of poignant grief, and lifting him up: "but I am a most unfortunate father."
D'Asbel just then came in with a letter.
"From my son," said the Duke, and he opened it. The features of the old man assumed, as he read, such an expression of terror, that Von Apsberg and the Secretary advancedtowards him and sustained him, for he seemed ready to faint. "Read," said he, with a voice half indistinct, and he gave the Doctor the letter. It was as follows:
"My Dear Father:—I can conceal no longer that I am dying. One man alone, who has often soothed me by his care and advice, can now save me. This is Von Apsberg. I cannot, though, ask him to accompany you, for he would endanger his own liberty. Come, then, dear father, to see me for the last time."
"Let us go, sir," said the Doctor. "Let us not delay a minute, for in an hour—it may be too late."
"But you expose your life, Doctor, by going among your enemies," said the Duke.
"But I will save his," said Von Apsberg. The Duke rushed into his arms.
Half an hour afterwards two men entered the Conciergerie. They were the Vicomte's father and an English doctor whom the Duke brought to see his son. The Director of the prison did not dare to refuse a father and physician permission to see a sick son and patient. With the turnkeys they passed an iron grate, beyond which was seen a vaulted passage, which, in the darkness, seemed interminable. On the inner side of the grate sat a morose looking man, whom nature seemed to have created exclusively to live in one of these earthly hells. His only duty was to open and shut the grate, to which he seemed as firmly attached as one of its own bars. His duty was not without danger, for in case of a mutiny, the Cerberus had orders to throw on the outside the heavy key he was intrusted with, and thus expose himself, without means of escape, to the rage of the criminals. They showed this man their pass. The key turned in the lock, and the grate permitted them to enter. It then swung to, filling the vaulted passage with its clash. Near this was a dark room, in which were several dark-browed jailers and gend'armes.
The Duke and the Doctor were minutely examined. One of them, whose features hidden by a dirty cap might recall one of the persons of this history, left the group, opened the grate, and disappeared rapidly, just as a new jailer guided the visitors to a long corridor in one of the cells, on opening which was the Vicomte D'Harcourt. On a miserable pallet, in a kind of dark cellar, into which the day seemed to penetrate reluctantly, through a grated window, was René D'Harcourt, the last hope of an illustrious house, without air or any of the attentions his situation demanded. The Duke wept to see him. René, with hollow cheeks, and eyes sparkling with a burning fever, arose with pain and extended his arms to his father, who embraced him tenderly.
Fifteen days had expanded his disease, the germs of which had long slept in his system. The bad air and icy dew, amid which he lived, the absence of constant and vigilant care, in such cases so indispensable, had, as it were, conspired against him. A violent and dry cough every moment burst from his chest, and at every access his strength seemed more and more feeble. Had he sooner informed his father of his condition, beyond doubt, some active remedy would have been used, not for pity's sake, for at that time little was shown to conspirators, but from fear of the liberal press, whose censure the administration dreaded. René, however, was too disdainful of the persons he called his executioners to ask any favors. The physician of the prison, as we have said, was satisfied with ordering a few trifling palliatives. The Vicomte was dying without his even being aware of it. When the turnkey had introduced the Duke and the Englishman he left, telling them that in a few minutes he would return. Then the Vicomte saw that a stranger was with his father. The latter approached, and taking the young man's hand pressed it to his heart with an affection which told the prisoner who visited him.
"Von Apsberg! Ah! father, I knew he would come."
"Be silent, dear René; be silent," said the Doctor, "for your sake and mine. Forget that I am your friend, and remember me only as a doctor. Tell me how you suffer. Speak quick, for time is precious. Tell me nothing—and do not exhaust yourself in describing—what is plain enough, I am sorry to say. I see, I read in your eyes, what is your condition."
To hide his tears Von Apsberg looked away. A father's heart though could not be deceived, and the Duke had seen the Doctor's tears. The old man said, "Save, Doctor, save my son."
Von Apsberg made an effort to surmount the grief which overcame him.
"We will save him," said he, calmly; "there is a remedy for such cases, which in a few hours will terminate the progress of the malady, and enable us to adopt other means. He took a card from his pocket and wrote a prescription, which he ordered to be sent immediately to the nearest apothecary. He yet had the card in his hand when the door of the cell was violently thrown open, and several men accompanied by gend'armes rushed in and seized the Doctor.
"Arrest him," said an officer. "It is he, the German physician whom we have so long sought for. He has been recognized." Nothing could equal the effect of this scene. The Vicomte made useless attempts to leave his bed and assist his friend. The Duke was pale and agitated; and Von Apsberg, calm and resigned, gave himself up to the men who surrounded him. In anxiety for René he had forgotten himself.
"Gentlemen," said he, "you may do as you please with me, but, for heaven's sake, let me remain a few moments with this young man, and one of you hurry for this prescription I have written."
"A paper," said the principal agent with joy, when he saw what Von Apsberg had in his hand. "It is, perhaps, a plan of escape. This must be taken to the Director for theProcureur du Roi. Another scheme, perhaps, of the Jacobin has come to light——" He put the paper in his huge pocket.
"Take this man away, said he to the gens d'armes, and do not let him speak a word to the prisoner." Rushing on Von Apsberg like famished wolves, they bore him away, and left the Duke alone with his son. The shock had done the prisoner much injury. He sunk back on his bed with a violent cough, and felt a mortal coldness glide over his frame and chill his blood.
"A doctor, a doctor," said the Duke, rushing towards the door. "A physician, for heaven's sake. My son is dying." The door did not close. The poor father leaning over his child pressed his lips to his burning brow, and then supported his head, from time to time attempting to warm his icy hands with his breath. He continued to call in heaven's name for a physician.
Half an hour after Von Apsberg's arrest, and while the Duke yet pressed his son's inanimate body, three men appeared in the room. They were the Director, Doctor, and Jailer of the prison.
"Monsieur," said the Duke to the Director, rising to his full stature, and with a tone of painful solemnity, "you are an accomplice in a great crime, and before the country and king, I, Duke d'Harcourt, peer of France, and grand cordon of the Saint Esprit, will accuse you."
"What mean you, sir?" said the Director, with a terror he could not conceal. "Of what do you complain?"
"That you have placed in a cell, without air and light, as if he were sentenced to death, a man against whom there is now a mere suspicion; for he has not been tried. I complain that you have wrested from me a physician I have brought hither to attend to my son—and that with horrible brutality you have taken possession of a prescription for a remedy which might have preserved him, and have by this means deprived him of life."
The Duke spoke but too truly, for a kind of suffocation took possession of the young man. His breast seemed oppressed, and every sign of death was visible.
The Director muttered some apology in defence of himself, but the Duke said, "Not another word here, sir; accomplish your task in peace; or at least, give me back the paper. It is the life of my son——"
As the Director was about to go in person for it, the Doctor called him back and pointed to the patient over whose countenance death began to steal. He said, "It is too late!"
The Vicomte arose with difficulty and said, "Father, forgive me the wrong I have done. Forgive me, as I forgive others. No, no, not so; for there is one person I cannot forgive!" He looked around with an expression of intense hatred and contempt. "He has ruined and destroyed me, and all of us; he has delivered us to our enemies,—thatman, hear all of you, is Count Monte-Leone!" His head sank on his breast, and his last breath mingled with the kisses of his father.
"I have no son!" said the old man in despair; and he sank by the side of the child God had taken away from him.
As we have seen in a previous chapter, Count Monte-Leone went to the Prefect of Police to surrender himself to his enemies. The Count did not hesitate, for he preferred a sudden and cruel death to the intolerable life he now led. The Prefect was as civil as possible, and altogether different from what he would have been three days before to a person pointed out as one of the agents. The reason was, that after the energetic protestation of the Count in the presence of M. H—— at the Duke d'Harcourt's, grave doubts had arisen in the mind of the chief of the political police in relation to the services said to have been rendered by the Neapolitan. Making use then of the police itself, and causing the man who said he was an agent of the Count's to be watched, his conviction of the non-participation of Monte-Leone in the treachery became almost certain, and he began to tremble at the idea that he had been made a dupe in this affair, and at the probable consequences. The first of these was the fear of ridicule, that powerful instrument against a police; next, the just recrimination to which the Count might subject them as having slandered him; and the capital error of having left at liberty the most powerful of the Carbonari in Europe, under the belief that he was an ally of the Government—to which he was a mortal foe. All this crowd of faults H—— had committed in his blind confidence, and had led astray the police and all the agents. Thus uneasy, the Chief of Police saw that but one course of safety was left him. This was both bold and adroit, for it foresaw danger and prepared a conductor to turn its thunders aside. H—— went to the Prefect and owned all. The first anger of the latter having passed away, the two chiefs saw with terror that they were equally compromised—the one for acting, and the other for suffering his subordinate to act. They, therefore, adopted the only course left them, Machiavelian it is true, but which extricated them from a great difficulty. This course was, to deny all participation in the malicious reports circulated in relation to the Count, but to suffer the public to imagine what it pleased, and attribute their inaction to carelessness for the result, or to the mystery necessary to be observed in police matters. Count Monte-Leone, too, since the arrest of his accomplices, and the discovery of his friends, was not greatly to be feared, especiallyas he was now repelled by society as a double traitor.
Two things alone disturbed H——. The first was the course of the strange man who had used the Count's name to unveil so completely the plans of the conspiracy. He, however, was soon restored to confidence by remembering that he was now strictly carrying out this man's plans. Besides, in case of need, there were a thousand methods of securing this man's eternal silence. As for the pass in Monte-Leone's name, which might be a terrible arm in the possession of the Count in case he attacked the Government, H——learned much to his satisfaction, from Salvatori himself, that it had been destroyed. The Prefect, therefore, did not hesitate to receive the Count. "Sir," said the latter, "a horrible slander is circulated against me. In disregard of my character and name I have been charged with being one of your agents, and beg you to contradict this."
"The Prefect says your honor is above any such suspicion, and I should fear I injured you even by referring to so idle a tale."
"But one of your principal officers has given credit to this rumor by the perfidious reply he made a few days since, when the Vicomte d'Harcourt was arrested."
The Prefect rang his bell and sent for M. H——. When the latter arrived, he asked him, sternly, if he had seemed to believe that Count Monte-Leone had any participation in the acts of the Police.
H—— said, "The Count is in error, if he understood me thus. I did not believe that his self-accusation was true, for I could not realize that one so exalted in rank as the Count, could be guilty of conspiracy. I had no idea of insulting him, as he thinks. Were it not likely to give the affair too much gravity, I would every where repel it."
This amazed the Count. His mind, which seemed to give way beneath so many blows, had looked on this man's reply as an answer. The object of this perfidy yet escaped him; and reason and good sense could form no idea of the motive.
"You see, Count," said the Prefect, "all think you so far above the calumny of which you complain, that we would not dare even to defend you; the character of the department makes it impossible for us to mix in discussions about reputations."
"I have already asked this gentleman," and the Count pointed to M. H——, "to furnish a striking proof that I am not the creature they say I am. I now ask you the same favor." The two officials were annoyed. "I am as guilty as those you have arrested," continued he, "and demand a fate like that of my associates."
The Prefect said, "I never act except from the orders of a higher authority, and have none in relation to you. I prefer to think that your devotion to those you call your associates has caused you to exaggerate your complicity, and when that is proven you will find us just and stern to yourself, as we have been to them." The Prefect bowed and returned to his private office, and the Count left in indescribable agitation. He was deprived of his last justification, of one he wished to buy at the price of his life. His rage and despair had no limits. He was to experience a new shock in the death of Vicomte d'Harcourt, which was circulated through all Paris. He also heard that the Duke charged him with being the cause of his death, and with having denounced him.
We will now leave our hero for a few moments, to refer to a terrible event which at this crisis overwhelmed the Royal family and France with grief. This circumstance, yet enwrapped in mystery, was the death of the Duke de Berry. This Prince, the hope of France, expiring in the spring time of life beneath the dagger of a vulgar assassin; the obscurity which covered the details of the murder distressed all Europe. There was a general outcry against secret societies. The one, the chief members of which were now in prison, was especially thought guilty of having instigated the murder. The chiefs of the Carbonariventassaw their chains grow heavier and their prisons become dungeons. Ober, the banker F——, General A——, and Von Apsberg, were not spared: their papers were examined, their past life scrutinized in search of some connection with this odious murder. The trial of the ruffian was anxiously waited for, in the hope that something would connect him with Carbonarism. Nothing, however, was found in the whole of the long and minute examination; and it soon became evident that the crime had been committed by a fanatic who was isolated, without adherents, instigators, or accomplices. Thus at least France thought of the result of the trial. This was the impression produced by the execution of Louvel.
The liberals, who had been for a time terrified by the reports circulated in relation to their partisans, began to regain their courage, and, fortified by their acquittal, complained of the calumnies circulated in relation to them. The first reproach cast on Government, and especially on the ministry of Decazes, was great injustice towards the Carbonari. The ministry was accused of having invented a conspiracy and conspirators—questions of political humanity were mooted—and true or imaginary tortures, to which the prisoners had been subject, were recounted. French generosity and pity became interested for the sake of victims who languished in chains. One voice, though, was heard above all others, and spoke so distinctly, that it touched every heart and mind. It reached the very throne, and aroused one of those powerful influences which truth alone can. This voice was that of the Duke d'Harcourt—a king in virtue and feeling. His word was a law people of every shade of opinion listened to, in consequenceof the admiration caused by his life and conduct. The Duke, who was entitled to sympathy from the successive death of his sons, accused those who had taken the last from him of barbarity. He told of the death of the Vicomte while suspected of a crime which perhaps was imaginary; and in the sublime tones of his despair uttered loud charges against the fallen administration. The new one trembled before a unanimous sentiment, and sought to win popularity from clemency. This sentiment, which in Louis XVIII. was innate, his ministers echoed. One by one the prisons were opened and their sad inmates restored to life and light. The chief Carbonari were less fortunate than their followers. Their trial progressed, and though many abortive schemes were discovered, no act was found. There were ideas, utopias, and social paradoxes, but nothing positive. F——, B——, Ober and their associates, whose friends acted busily, were subjected to some months' imprisonment, which, added to their previous incarceration, seemed to their judges a sufficient punishment for their hopes, which, though criminal, had never been realized. General A—— was exiled, and Von Apsberg was detained for a long time in the conciergerie. He was ultimately released. As for Taddeo, all the inquiries of Aminta and of the Prince de Maulear, who loved him as a son, were vain. Every day increased their uneasiness on this account, bringing to light the disappointment of some hope. Thus a year passed....
Early in April, 1821, a man of about forty sat on a bench in a little garden attached to a modest country abode near Neuilly. The garden was on the Seine, which was the limit of a kind of town. The man of whom we speak was almost bent beneath the double weight of grief and suffering. His features were sharp and thin, his eyes sunken, and his hair, almost white, gave him the appearance of one far more advanced in age. In this person prematurely old and wretched, none would have recognized the brilliant and elegant Count Monte-Leone, who once had been so deservedly admired. A deep sorrow had crushed his strong constitution—months to him had become years—and he had suffered all that a mind, richly endowed as his was, could. Pursued by the atrocious slanders we refer to, he had given way beneath the blow. In vain had he striven for some time after his useless visit to the Prefect against them. The hideous monster which pursued him redoubled its attacks, and cries of reprobation burst from every lip. The relations and friends of the prisoners reproached him, and adversity seemed to have seized him with its iron claw. In vain did he protest and call for proof. All appealed to the circumstances. His many duels made people say in his favor only this, "Brave as he is, he is a spy!" Despair, then, took possession of him, and he fled from the world which cursed him, and hid himself. One reason alone restrained him from suicide. This was, that he knew another life depended on his, and clung to it as the ivy does to the oak. The Count lived that another might not die. This person was an angel rather than a woman. It was Aminta. Watching the unfortunate man as a mother watches a child, braving the public opinion which dishonored him she adored, Aminta rarely left the Count, whose tears fell on her heart like burning lava.
The Marquise had purchased an establishment near the house of Monte-Leone, with whom she passed all her time; for her visits made his desolate heart more serene. On the day we speak of, the Count sat in the garden, and old Giacomo advanced towards him, taking care to announce himself with a slight cough. "Monseigneur," said he, "it is I, your intendant. I am come to speak to you."
"I have no intendant," said the Count, "a miserable outlaw like myself can indulge in no such luxury. Do not call me Monseigneur; the title now is become an ironical insult."
"It, however, is your excellency's name, andthatthe slanderous villains cannot deprive you of."
"They have done more than that," said the Count, with a bitter smile; "they have destroyed my honor. You shall not call me thus any longer."
"Very well," said the good man, whom the Marquise had told not to thwart his master; "I will call Monseigneur, Count only. You are Monseigneur, for all that."
"Enough," said the Count, "go away, you fatigue me, you injure me."
"I injure you," said Giacomo, "when you know I would die for you?"
The Count looked around on the companion of all his life; he saw the tears the old man shed, and threw himself into his arms. "Ah! you love me in spite of all—"
"And so doesshe," said Giacomo, whose features became kindled with pleasure at this sudden exhibition of his master's love; "yes, that noble, true woman loves you dearly."
"Aminta!" said the Count, "ah! but for her you would have no master."
"Monseigneur,—no—Count!" said the old valet; "Madame la Marquise has come hither."
"Let her come—let her come—when she is with me, I pass my only happy hours."
"True," said Giacomo, "but she is not alone—"
"Who accompanies her? Who has come to see the informer? Who dares to brave the leprosy?"
The old man said, "The Prince de Maulear."
"The Prince! The Prince in my house! No, no! Tell him to go, that I see no one! I will see no one—"
"You will see me, Monsieur?" said the old nobleman, advancing with Aminta on his arm.
"What do you wish, sir?" said Monte-Leone;"if you insult me again, you are indeed cruel."
"Monte-Leone," said Aminta, "the Prince is your friend. His words will be of service; I brought him hither."
The Count sank on his seat and was silent.
"Count," said the Prince, "had I not been confined at one of my estates for eight months by an obstinategout, you would have seen me long since."
"Ah!" said the Count, with surprise.
"You would have seen me brought to you by repentance for the injury I did you. I gave way, Monte-Leone, to an indignant feeling I shall regret all my life. Reflection has enlightened me. The account I have heard from my daughter-in-law, the resources which you concealed, and especially your despair, the wasted condition of your health, the ravages of your misery, her love, her respect, have long told me how unjust I was to you."
The Count looked at the Prince with mingled astonishment and doubt. The Prince said, "As men of our rank are glad to confess their faults, and ask pardon for them, I beg you, sir, to forgive me." The Prince bowed to Monte-Leone, who seemed overcome by emotion.
Taking the Prince's hand he placed it on his heart and said, "Now, sir, feel this palpitation, and tell me whether the heart of a bad or guilty man ever beat thus with joy, at justice being done him."
From this day Monte-Leone enjoyed two of the greatest pleasures of life—a tender love, and a noble friendship....
A month after the first visit of the Prince de Maulear to the house at Neuilly, the following scene took place in a sad room of therue Casettein the Faubourg St. Germain.
A sick woman lay on a bed, and a stern dark man sat beside her. "I tell you," said she, "I want a priest, and it is cruel for you to refuse me one."
"Bah! Signora, you are not sick enough for that. Why have a confidant in our affairs? Confession is of no use except to the dying!"
"I am very sick," said she, "and my strength every day decreases!"
"Well, let us come to terms, then, Duchess. You shall have a priest—but you do not intend to make your confession only to him, I know."
"Your old ideas again, Stenio!" said La Felina.
"They are not my ideas. Did you not say once when you were very sick, 'No, I will not die until I am completely avenged. I wish to know whence came the shaft which crushed him. I wish him to curse me as I have cursed him!'"
"True!" said the Duchess, who, as she listened to the Italian, seemed lost in thought. "It is true, I said all that."
"Well, the time is come. You fear you are dying, and would not leave your work incomplete!"
"But if I tell all," said La Felina, "do you fear nothing for yourself?"
"That man is now but a shadow," said Salvatori, "and now in my strong hand I can grasp him, as he once grasped me, with his iron nerves, when he stabbed me. Besides, no one would believe him.Is he not a spy?"
The first words of the Italian, "That man is but a shadow," had arrested La Felina's attention. She said, "Is he much changed? is he very sick?" She could not restrain her accent.
"He? yes, indeed; he is dying. Public contempt has completely crushed the proud giant. We have effected that. Besides," continued he, "in order to make a suitable return for the touching interest you inspired me with just now, I must tell you I am going. You have made me rich, and if I were so unfortunate as to lose you—Ah, words never kill," added he, as he saw how terrified La Felina was—"I would not remain an hour in this accursed country."
"Very well," said she; "give me writing materials." She wrote a few lines with a trembling hand.
"To the Count," said she, giving them to Salvatori; "I expect him to-morrow."
"Very well," said the Italian, sternly. "This will kill him."
Scarcely had he left the room when La Felina rang her bell, and the servant who had always accompanied her entered. The Duchess drew her towards her, and placing her lips close to the ear of the woman, as if she was afraid some one would hear her, whispered a few words and sank back completely exhausted.
Such was the Duchess of Palma, the famous singer of San Carlo, whom we find dying in this unknown and obscure retreat. The hand of God, who does not always punish the soul of the criminal alone, but who sometimes strikes the living body, weighed heavily on her. The Duke, weary of the ties imposed by marriage on him, and becoming more and more infatuated with his thindanseuse, sought for an opportunity to throw off his chains. He soon found one. Feigning to be jealous, the Duke, in consequence of some vague rumors, obtained the key of the bureau in which the Duchess kept the "confessions of the heart," as she called the detail of her brief amour with Monte-Leone. Having gotten possession of this paper, the Duke made a great noise, threatened her with a suit, and easily obtained the separation he desired so much. There was a general burst of indignation. The nobles who had been furious at themesallianceof the Duke, were more so at the ingratitude of the guilty wife and low-born woman, who had usurped a rank and title of which she showed herself so unworthy. The Duchess disappeared suddenly from the world, which gladly rejected one it had so unwillingly received. La Felina took refuge in a small house in the retired quarter we have mentioned. For, likeVenus attached to her prey, she would not leave Paris, in which she could not divest herself of the idea that Monte-Leone, completely reinstated, would some day become Aminta's husband. Sickness had gradually enfeebled her, and Salvatori, who was master of her secrets, had established himself in her house. Taking advantage of her complicity, he had, by means of cunning and terror, became in a manner the master and tyrant, now that her health was gone, of one to whom he had been an abject slave. For this reason he had, as we have seen, treated her with such cruel disdain.
On the very day this scene took place, Monte-Leone received the following note: "A woman, whose handwriting you will recognize, has but a few hours to live. Come to see her for the sake of that pity she deserves. Do not resist the prayers of one who is on her death-bed." Below was the address of the Duchess.
The Count had long lost sight of La Felina; he knew she was separated from her husband, but was so indifferent that he had not even asked why. Always kind and generous, he thought duty required him to go, and on the next day at noon, rang at La Felina's door. Stenio had preceded him a few moments, and in the next room prepared to enjoy the scene. No sooner had the Count entered the bedroom than Salvatori thought he heard steps in a boudoir connected with it, and which opened on a back stairway. Uneasy at this noise, for which he could not account, he was yet unable to satisfy himself; for to do so, he would have been again obliged to cross the Duchess's room, and the Count was already with her.
When the Count and La Felina met, a cry of astonishment burst from the lips of each. They seemed to each other two spectres.
"Count," said the Duchess, in faint and broken voice, "the time is come when the truth must be told, ere the tongue on which it depends be cold in the grave. You are, therefore, about to hear the truth as the dying tell it who have lost all dread of men and their wrath."
"Speak out, Signora; my life has been so strange that nothing now can surprise me," said the Count.
"You will be astonished; for I am about to read the riddle, the mystery, which you have so long attempted to penetrate." The Count was attentive. "You have," said La Felina, "sought to know who was the secret enemy who deprived you of name and fame. I am about to tell you." The Count seemed surprised. "Do not interrupt me," said she. "This enemy has followed your steps and poisoned your life. Thus has it been effected: You were ruined, really ruined, but twice have fifty thousand francs been sent to you, and you have been made to believe that this was but a restoration of your fortune."
"Did it not come from Lamberti?" said the Count.
"No; bankrupts never pay. A forged letter from this banker insisted on silence in relation to this restoration, and thus the mysterious resources were created which awakened the suspicions of the world, and caused the report that you were an agent of the police to be believed."
The Count grew pale with horror.
"Wait," said La Felina. "A man, a devil, purchased by your enemy, in obedience to orders, went to the house of Matheus, your associate in Carbonarism. This devil opened the drawer in which the archives of the association were kept, and taking possession of the lists, substituted copies for the originals."
"Infamous," said Monte-Leone.
"This devil did more. He dared to procure you a pass as a 'Spy in Society.' This pass your friend Taddeo Rovero saw."
"My God, my God, can I hear aright?"
"This man did not think you were as yet sufficiently degraded in the eyes of the world and your brethren. Taking advantage of a visit you paid me, he went into your carriage with a cloak like yours over his shoulders, and was driven to the Prefecture of Police."
"This is hell itself," said the Count.
"Did I not say this man was a demon?" said La Felina, coldly. "All this evidence was accumulated against you. The French Government was deceived, and did not exert severity towards the powerful chief of the Carbonari, now become, as it believed, its agent. The world and public opinion did their work."
"Why was all this? what was the motive?"
"You had destroyed the happiness of your enemy, and in return the sacrifice of your honor was exacted; you had deserted one who adored you, and sought to marry another; to prevent this she disgraced you. Now, Count Monte-Leone," said La Felina, rising up, "is it necessary for me to name that woman? Do you know me?"
"Wretch!" said the Count, "are you not afraid that I will kill you?"
"Why?" said she, "am I not dying?"
"Well," said he, "you shall carry to the tomb one crime in addition to the offences you have revealed to me. With honor you destroyed my life." Taking a pistol from his bosom he placed it to his brow, and was about to fire—
At the last words of the Count a door was thrown open, and an arm seized Monte-Leone's hand. He looked around and saw the Duke D'Harcourt.
"Count," said he, "one person alone can restore you the honor of which you have been so rudely deprived. That person is the Duke D'Harcourt."
"The voice of the man, of the father," said he, and his eyes became suffused with tears, "who charged you publicly with having denounced his son, and surrendered him to the executioners, with having killed him.
"Ah! God himself sends you hither," saidthe Count, with an indescribable accent of hope. "Yes, yes; you have heard all, and will be believed. Monsieur," said he, with great animation, "have you not heard all? You know how I have been treated by those monsters. You will say so. Tell me that you will. I cast myself at your feet to implore you."
"Count," said the Duke, lifting up Monte-Leone and embracing him, "I am the guilty man, for louder than any one I have uttered an anathema on the innocent. I have appealed to man and God for vengeance."
"Yes," said the Count, "and touched by the immensity of my sufferings God has led you hither."
"Yes, God," said the Duke, "andshe;" pointing to La Felina, whose eyes brightened up with animation, strangely contrasted with the morbid palor of her face.
"She?" said the Count.
"Yes," said the Duke. "Stricken down by repentance, she besought me yesterday to come hither to hear her confession."
Scarcely had the Duke pronounced these words, than a cry of hatred, savage as that of the jackal, was heard in the next room.
"Save me, save me," said the Duchess, calling Monte-Leone to her, and sheltering herself behind his body, "Hewill murder me."
"He?" said the Duke and Count together.
"Whom do you refer to?" said Monte-Leone.
"To Stenio Salvatori, the accomplice in this tissue of crime."
The two noblemen rushed towards the room where the cry had been heard. A door leading to the stairway was open, and there was no one visible. When they returned, the invalid giving way to so severe a shock and exertion was dying. She had only strength to repeat the request she had urged on Stenio the day before. "A priest, for heaven's sake, a priest, that I may repeat to God what I have said to man."
The door opened and an ecclesiastic appeared.
"Quick, father, quick," said the Duchess. "Tell me that God, like man, will forgive me."
The priest stood for a few minutes in the middle of the room, apparently overpowered by emotion. He said, "One person must forgive you, Madame, and that person is the individual whose life you have made miserable, whom you have made use of to strike this innocent man;" and he pointed to the Count. "I, as well as the Duke, was in the adjoining room, and have heard all. That pardon I give you."
The Duchess said, "Then Rovero, too, forgives me;" before she had finished his name, Monte-Leone clasped Taddeo in his arms.
Two days after, a funeral portage proceeded to a place of eternal rest. Three men followed a body to the grave. They were Monte-Leone, the Duke d'Harcourt, and the Abbé Rovero. Love and friendship having been both betrayed, as he thought, Taddeo sought for consolation in religion. The Divinity, he knew, did not betray those who love him. A fugitive and an outlaw, he had sought refuge in a seminary, and subsequently had become a priest. Chance had assigned him to a church near La Felina's house, and he had been pointed out by the Duchess's confidential servant, as a priest worthy her mistress's confidence. Heaven had accomplished the rest.
All Paris, at that time, was filled with a strange report, and with amazement learned the truth in relation to Monte-Leone. A letter from the Duke d'Harcourt appeared in the journals of the day and unfolded this terrible drama. The Duke told Paris and all Europe, what he had overheard in the Duchess's boudoir.
It said, if any voice should do justice to this injured man, it is that of a father who wrongfully accused him of being the death of a son. The moral reaction in favor of the Count was as sudden as the censure the world had heaped on him had been. The person who, next to Monte-Leone, enjoyed this complete reparation, was the adorable woman who had never doubted the honor of the man she loved.
The King sent for the Duke d'Harcourt; he understood and participated in the grief of an unfortunate father, for he, also, had lost the heir of his throne. When the old noble left the King he bore with him the pardon of René's young friend, the generous Von Apsberg. The Duke went to the conciergerie, and on the Doctor, in his gratitude, asking after Marie, the former said, "She is a patient who will give you a great deal of trouble, both her health and her heart being seriously affected. You will have two grave diseases to attend to, and the husband must assist the physician."
A month after these events—on the first of May, that festival of sunlight, flowers, and universal rejoicings—two couples, followed by many friends and brilliant attendants, went from the small house on the banks of the Seine, to the village church of Neuilly. The Prince de Maulear, made young by happiness, had Marie d'Harcourt on his arm. The Duke escorted the Marquise, and the Count and Von Apsberg followed them. The priest stood at the foot of the altar. This priest, who made four persons happy, but who looked to heaven alone for his own happiness, was Taddeo Rovero.
The three fiery Carbonari gradually felt their revolutionary ardor grow dull. The reason is, these three men were now attached to the society they had sought to destroy, by strong ties. Two were bound to it by family bonds, and the other by religion.
Carbonarismwas not crushed in Europe, by the disasters of the French association. It slumbered for ten years, but awoke in 1830. The tree has grown, and the world now gathers its bitter fruits.
Stenio Salvatori received in Italy the punishment due his great crimes in France. His vile heart became the sheath of the stiletto of one of the brethren of theVentaofCastel la Marc.
Our old acquaintance, Mlle. Celestine Crepinean, touched by divine grace, repented of having made so bad a disposition of her pure and virgin love. Like Magdalen, she threw herself at the feet of her Savior, and lived to an advanced age, greatly to the edification of the faithful as dispenser of holy water at the church of SaintThomas Aquinas.