I was placed in the home of a lady, who was the widow of a Swiss officer who had been beheaded on the memorable tenth of August. In her country place I was screened from curious eyes. Being overcome by a languid illness, I remained indoors for eight months. My hostess dared not call in a physician, for strange children awakened suspicion, inasmuch as the lost Dauphin was being eagerly sought by spies. She fed me on milk and arranged that I should have unlimited repose and fresh air. These simple restoratives at length effected a cure. On leaving my bed, I was again overpowered by the consciousness of a dual personality. I at times felt convinced that I had always lived in that fair green villa and that my insistent past was a delusion. My guardian spoke French brokenly, and we, therefore, conversed in German, which had been my mother's native tongue. I had therefore become habituated to its use. Later in life I was obliged to employ it constantly.
During my convalescence, and while walking one morning in the fields, I was captured by the police and dragged back to prison. What prison? I know not. With equal swiftness was I snatched thither by deputies of my vigilant protectress, the gentle creole, and placed in the home of a noble family who received me with respect, almost reverence. The head of the family was the Marquis de Bray, a partisan of our House. There it was that I formed the first friendship of my life, that with the Count of Montmorin, a youth older than I and who, like myself, was in concealment, being disguised as a hunter. Montmorin's life had been miraculously saved during one of the ferocious tides that swept our country, and that life he generously consecrated to me. Subterfuges, manoeuvres, almost witch-craft did he employ for the deluding of my persecutors, and to that end valued not his own security and happiness.
Under the protection of de Bray and Montmorin, I lived tranquilly and the spectre of political ambition seemed no longer to haunt me. But my friends feared, owing to the waxing power of Napoleon, that France was no appropriate refuge for me and we removed for a season to Venice, thence to Trieste and finally to Rome, where I enjoyed the gentle protection of Pope Pius VI. My former hostess and nurse, the Swiss lady, had in the interval married a compatriot of her own, who was an expert watch-maker. It chanced that they became our neighbors and so gave me the opportunity to learn the craft of which my father was so fond. The minute and prolix labor enchanted me and, following the advice of Jean Jacques, I mastered it.
A friend of the Pontiff offered me for residence a villa near Rome. How beautiful were the lemon and fig groves! In the garden's centre was a marble pillar surmounted by a nymph which had stood there since the Roman Empire. Amid the fragrance of those flowers were passed the dearest days of my youth. Marie, daughter of Bray and fiancée of Montmorin, a gentle girl, five years my senior—a trifle it seemed to me—accompanied me often with affectionate solicitude.
Her white hands smoothed my golden curls, fastened my lace collar and rested on my shoulder, during our rambles. Montmorin, on seeing us together, would turn away and re-enter the house. My head, resting upon Marie's breast, seemed again to repose in the sweet nest from which the Revolution had torn me. Once when Marie flung a flower in my face, the image of my mother rose so vividly to my eyes, as she appeared when romping with us in the royal gardens, that my emotion overcame me and I threw myself into the arms of Montmorin's fiancée. I kissed her lips and asked: "Marie, what have they done to my mother?"—for since the terrible day when I was separated from her, I had never spoken her name, nor received intelligence of her fate. I pictured her still as a pale, worn prisoner and my duty seemed to be to deliver her. This sudden tempest of passion transformed me from boy to man. Marie wept softly in my arms.
"My mother,—where is she?" I insisted.
"She is dead," said Marie gently.
"O my mother!" I cried out, falling senseless to the ground.
On regaining consciousness, I saw Marie at my pillow.
"O die with me," I said. "Let us be with my mother."
When I was strong enough to leave my bed, I noticed that Marie, under numerous pretexts, absented herself from me. Our rambles ceased and she was often with Montmorin. This at first enraptured her lover but he soon discovered that she was preoccupied and sad, while I, jealous and melancholy, walked alone in the woods. I wandered near the margins of pestilential lakes, in the hope that, being overcome by malaria, Marie would again sit by my bed.
Montmorin's generous heart divined the cause of my sadness and of Marie's enforced fidelity to him. He said:
"Marie, our first duty is to make Augustus" (for so he called me) "happy. I shall go to France in his interests."
And he left us. Consider Montmorin's action, Thérèse, and realize to what a generous and absurd height a loyal soul is raised by the principle symbolized in royalty. Montmorin renounced his plighted wife as later on he renounced his life in devotion to the PRINCIPLE. And Marie, beholding in me not a hapless castaway but the incarnation of the PRINCIPLE, erected like a second Lavallière an altar whereon she radiantly idealized me, after having vainly sought to idealize her betrothed.
On the day after Montmorin's departure, we walked through the fields scarcely touching the ground. Reaching the border of the pestilential lake, we seated ourselves near the verdant fringe of delicate flowers. My head rested on her breast and our eyes promised what our lips could not utter, for very happiness.
On returning home, Marie complained of feeling cold. The next day she lay shivering in bed. The malaria was having its effect. Her clear eyes grew clouded and after some days her dear form became emaciated. Montmorin was summoned, but she could scarcely greet him. The bells from the Capuchin convent near by were pealing out into the air and we knelt by her bed as she said:
"Eugene, brother of my soul, forgive me."
For answer, Montmorin took my hand in his.
"Watch over him, Eugene."
Montmorin, shedding hot streaming tears, promised. Together we watched beside her until she died.
So far had René read. The revelations were so startling that he could but ask himself if he were the victim of a madman's delusion.
"Am I reading a romance or a sincere autobiography? Before going further, I should look at the documents within the box. I must not espouse this man's cause while a shadow of doubt disturbs me. And Amélie? If these pages speak the truth, who am I to look upon Amélie?"
The daylight was fading and a servant appeared bearing a candelabrum which he placed upon a stand, saying:
"Monsieur, a French gentleman asks to be admitted to you."
René placed the manuscript beneath the sofa pillow and said:
"How did the French gentleman learn that I am here? What is his name?"
The man handed him a card bearing these words: The Count de Keller.
"Who may this be?" murmured René to himself.
Then aloud:
"Bid him enter."
When alone, the Marquis concealed the manuscript in his traveling bag which also contained the casket or box. He awaited the visitor, remembering Naundorff's words: You have trusted men; in future beware of them. You have been frank; in future be astute and reticent.
Then an elegantly appareled gentleman entered in a coat of violet cloth ornamented with gold buttons and a close-fitting pair of grey cashmere breeches. The many folds in his white cravat made him hold his head high indeed. On his finely shaped thigh dangled resplendently the chain and ornaments of the Sullivan, the latest fad. His appearance was prepossessing and he recalled vividly the famous Chateaubriand type.
"I arrived here but this morning, Marquis de Brezé, and permit me to confide to you that I find the hotel execrable," and the Count inclined his body gracefully before René. "I cannot forgive my friend, Captain MacGreagor for recommending such a hole to me. When my valet complained of the service, he was told that another French gentleman in the hotel was well satisfied with the accommodations. I asked your name and, as it is one so well known, I hastened to comply with the pleasing duty of compatriots when in foreign parts. I regret to learn that you have been wounded."
René, motioning his visitor to a seat, replied with reserve:
"A thousand thanks. I am almost entirely restored. Monsieur, permit me to observe that your title is unknown to me."
"Not all of us may proudly trace descent from Crusader knights, like the Marquis de Brezé. My father's brother, a resident of Munich, received his title from the King of Bavaria, to whom he rendered a service," obsequiously replied the Count de Keller.
"What is this fool trying to say?" René asked himself, mentally, while the other continued:
"What detestable lodgings have fallen to your lot, Marquis." And his keen eyes swept the chamber. "Why, they have given you no desk! not even a bureau or closet; only that miserable bed and this sofa—Confound their impertinence! Were you not ill—though you do not appear so—was it an attack, Marquis?"
"I scarcely know," replied René indifferently. "Some rogues sought to relieve me of my pocket-book and I played the fool in attempting to resist them. One of them scratched my shoulder; the police interfered and prevented further injury."
"London is a dangerous place, indeed!" ejaculated the Count. "One is at the mercy of pickpockets. I have been here before and should have known better than to be ensnared into putting up at the Hotel Douglas. But I rejoice that my presence here has enabled me to pay my compliments to your lordship. Do you contemplate changing your lodgings? If so, permit me to recommend The Crown, to which I am about to remove. That hotel is patronized by the aristocracy and we shall there be in our element."
"I have no plans," replied René indifferently. "I am here in the interest of my mother, the Duchess de Rousillon. It is possible I shall soon return to France. I thank you for the information. I crave your pardon for my seeming lack of courtesy in failing to return your visit, but I am pressed for time." And he bowed his visitor out of the door and again threw himself upon his couch.
Volpetti—for it was he—returned to Brosseur whom he found inspecting the fireplace, in which a bright coke fire was burning. The valet drew a paper from his pocket on which was a diagram in pencil, saying:
"This is the plan of the house. Here is No. 23, which is our bird's cage. Your apartments are 13 and 15, so that four rooms intervene between yours and his. I have engaged 21 for myself. I had hard work getting it, for these people have a mighty reverence for the aristocracy and were loathe to place me so near the Marquis. I therefore protested that my master the Count would be furious at my being placed at a great distance from him."
"Has your chamber a fireplace?' asked Volpetti.
"Do you think I should otherwise have taken it?" demanded Brosseur.
"Well, I am just from the Marquis's chamber and there is no object there beneath which he could conceal even a key. The box must be in either his traveling bags or underneath his mattress. If once you enter the room, 'twill be a moment's work to find it. If the bags are unlocked, take out the box; if locked, carry them off. And beware of blundering. I don't want the English police to mix up into what is none of their business. You must play the role of an ordinary thief who has stolen from even his master. If you are caught, I will rescue you, but beware how you implicate me. And now I leave under pretence of going to the Hotel Crown, while you remain behind apparently to arrange the baggage, but in reality to get the box. Use prudence and cunning. You will then come to me. We have already arranged our place of meeting."
Volpetti threw on an elegant grey traveling cloak which reached almost to his feet, drew on gloves and carefully placed a hat upon his handsome head. René, meanwhile, relieved of his unwelcome visitor, continued reading the manuscript, as reproduced in the following chapter.
Marie's death brought me such sorrow that another great misfortune was necessary to rouse me from my apathy and desolation. During Napoleon's invasion of Italy our villa was sacked and fired. Montmorin and I managed to escape, carrying with us a small quantity of money and certain documents which we deposited in a place of security. We reached Rome and passed on to Civita Vecchia, from which we embarked on a merchant brig for England. We boarded the vessel during threatening weather. Hardly had we put to sea when the waves and wind rose high, sweeping the deck and breaking one of the masts. Then we were driven pitilessly toward the French coast and seemed about to break upon the reefs. Montmorin and I were dismayed at the prospect of landing in France. The captain perceived our terror and observed that we must have an ugly secret. We disembarked at Dieppe and were examined by the Marine and Quarantine Commissions, to which the captain communicated his suspicions regarding us. We were, nevertheless, dismissed, and hastened to conceal ourselves in an obscure inn, with the intention of seizing the first opportunity of leaving for Spain or England. But the police followed us. I was alone when the officers entered. I hastily pressed some money into a servant-maid's hand, bidding her stand at the street corner and warn Montmorin of the danger on his return. I was conducted to what was known as the Delegation and subjected to a series of questions. Being inexperienced, I compromised myself. I was placed, during the night, on a coasting barge. We landed at a little port whose name I never learned, and entered a carriage there in waiting. We started on a journey which lasted four days, at the end of which I was placed in a Paris prison, where I remained six days. On the seventh a young man of affable manners, whom I later learned went by the name of Volpetti, entered my cell. He spoke German. I was almost too weak to reply.
"Friend," he said, "I know your history. You are playing a role which providence has not assigned you. Your friends have inoculated you with the virus of royal ambition. I come to offer you salvation from this induced mania. Swear to me by the memory of your mother that you will not seek to escape from the monastery to which I shall conduct you. In return, you will be promised that not a hand shall be raised against you. Buried beneath a religious name in Belgium or Italy, your life will pass serenely."
Thérèse, the blood that courses through your body and mine, the blood of the Hapsburgs and Bourbons, rose imperious against the indignity of the proposition.
"I fling your offer in your teeth, Monsieur!" I cried.
Volpetti looked disappointed. He disliked violent measures. In choicest German and softest voice he sought to persuade me. My head turned to the wall, I made no further answer. Then, slowly approaching the door, he gave an order, whereupon two muscular brutes entered. Supposing they were my murderers, I delivered my soul to God and spoke three names—my mother's, Marie's and—O Thérèse, yours!
The ruffians dragged me from my wretched bed, bound me with cords which cut into my flesh and tied me in a rough chair. I thought they were preparing to torture me and in terror I shrieked:
"Unbind me! I consent."
Volpetti approached, saying:
"Do you wish to be released?"
My pride flared up and I disdained to answer.
Then they gagged me and passed over my face an instrument which seemed to riddle the flesh with sharp needles. I tried to cry out and break the cords, whereupon one of the fellows thrust his iron fingers, like pincers, into my side. The violent pressure caused a swoon. When I recovered consciousness, a great heat overpowered me, for my torturers were moistening my face with a liquid which stung fiercely. I swooned again from the intense pain.
On awakening, I carried my hand to my eyes but failed to find them. I touched, instead, two lumps of swollen, throbbing flesh. I lay on a filthy bed, freed from the cords. Some one gave me a plate of broth which I managed to swallow. I asked my jailor if it was dawn.
"The noon sun shines brightly," he answered.
"I am blind!" I wailed. At that moment the concept of Expiation broke upon my mind,—the heinous sins which my suffering was effacing.
"Bring me some warm water," I entreated. The man brought it and, after applying it to my face, I fell asleep.
I lived in darkness for two weeks. Then the inflammation began to subside and a ray of light penetrated my eyes and heart and I wept in gratitude for the joy of looking upon the filthy walls of my dungeon. I started in horror upon beholding in one of the window panes the image of my distorted and swollen face. I realized that an attempt had been made to efface all vestige of lineage from my countenance. But with the passing of time much of the disfigurement disappeared.
One morning soldiers entered my cell and carried me into a close carriage, which, after several hours of travel, stopped before that grim fortress whose very name freezes the blood,—Vincennes.
It had been decreed by my captors that I should here end my days. But what of the creole, my protectress? She was living her days of brilliancy. The Empire—such an Empire!—was being hatched amid the folds of the Consulate. The creole was absorbed by one great fear,—the fear of failing to furnish an heir to that adumbrating Empire. Thérèse, let us smile together at the endurance of thrones. Why, a crown scarcely seems worth the commission of a crime. It cannot even bring sleep to eyes that stare widely during whole nights.
Europe resounded with the blare of trumpets and clarions, the reverberations of cannon and the clashing of swords, while skilful needle-women embroidered a purple mantle for the creole's graceful shoulders.
On descending the carriage opposite the embattled tower, I was conducted beneath an armored postern, through three gates, along a circuitous route which lay between damp gray walls, down two stairways, reaching at length an iron door through which I was pushed into a windowless dungeon, known as The Black Hole and destined as a vestibule to my grave.
I dared not move, fearing to fall into a pit. The only sound I heard was the loud beating of my heart. At last my jailer,—a man having but one eye,—entered the cell. A lantern hung about his neck beneath a sullen countenance. With his rough hand he thrust at me a plate of repulsive food. The light of his lantern illumined the floor. Speedily glancing around, I ascertained that it was free of pitfalls. My enclosure was a damp, moldy, black tomb. In one corner was some straw and a tattered blanket; in another a bench and jug.
The next day my keeper brought me a loaf of hard bread and a jug of water. I ate part of the bread and went to sleep. On awaking, I failed to find the remainder. I shuddered. Who was with me? Who had stolen my bread? I was wrought up to a state of frenzy which the entrance of my jailer subdued. I asked him who had taken my bread. He did not answer. Leaving more bread and water, he departed. I ate half my bread and went to sleep. I awoke hungry and sought the remainder. It was gone. The next day I put some bread underneath the straw and lay upon it pretending sleep. A light pattering of feet and shrill attenuated noises seemed to indicate a troop of tiny creatures in the darkness. A hairy coat swept my cheek and O the sickening horror of it!—the sharp teeth of a rat pierced my fingers. With staring sightless eyes, I understood. Rats raced over my body pushed beneath me in search for food, swept their cold tails over my sore face and grunted contentedly while eating the crumbs. I was often roused from the sleep of exhaustion by their shrill disputes or their nibbling my ears and fingers.
It has been said that our family were the martyrs of the Revolution. Our parents suffered but they had previously known happiness. But I? What earthly fruit of good had passed my lips? What wrong had I, an innocent boy, committed? As I daily sat in darkness awaiting my bread and water, what a world was revealed to me, Thérèse! Retributive justice demanding an eye for an eye stood in my dungeon. I was called upon to balance the accounts of my delinquent ancestry.
Man is a creature of habit. My senses daily grew more accustomed to the pestilential cavern. I began to distinguish the objects in my dungeon. Light seemed to gleam faintly through the joinings of the stones. My pupils dilated like those of nocturnal birds. My hearing grew more acute and recognized the jailer's footfall long before he reached my door. I could dimly hear the call of the sentinels and the tramping of the guard.
One night in spring I distinguished voices in the ditch outside my cell and the dull sound of spades. Some one said, "Make it deeper and wider that it may hold the body." A platoon of soldiers halted and struck the breeches of their guns upon the ground. They were arranging an execution!
Only the wall separated us as a voice which was harsh yet timid, almost apologetic, pronounced a death sentence. The name of the condemned made me start: Louis Antoine Henri de Bourbon, Conte. Our family blood was about to spatter those walls erected by our ancestors. A sweet sonorous voice penetrated the stones. The Count was asking an officer to be the bearer of a death memento.
"For the Princesse de Rohan," he said, placing in his hands a letter, a ring and a lock of hair.
"Hang a lantern around his neck," was the brutal order that interrupted the prisoner. "No aim can be taken in this darkness."
Then followed a cruel fateful moment; then the order; then the rebounding of the balls from the outer wall of my dungeon; then the thud of the falling body; then suppressed oaths and stern commands; then the noise of spades. As the platoon of soldiers marched away, I said to myself, "My cousin, the Duke d'Enghien has been keeping me company, and now he lies very close."
No clothes had been given me during my imprisonment and I was in tatters. I shivered, wrapped in my filthy blanket. My hair hung on my shoulders in long matted curls; my face—beardless on entering the tower—was half covered with a tangled crop, my nails so long that they tore off in great shreds unless I gnawed them close with my teeth. I could not calculate the duration of my captivity. I seemed losing the power of thought. I lived over and over my cousin's execution until it seemed to have been my own. I assured myself that I was awakening after death and I felt the bullet wounds in my head. I refused nourishment, saying feebly that dead men required no food. On the third day of my self-imposed starvation the hinges of my door creaked at an unaccustomed hour and my jailer was communicative for the first time.
"Get up and follow me," he said.
I remained motionless, for was I not a corpse? The man raised me roughly and placed an arm around my shoulders. Then I comprehended that I lived and concluded that execution was about to take place. A great peace followed this conviction. When we reached daylight, the air asphyxiated me like a powerful gas and when my guide opened a door, saying, "Here!" I fell on the floor in a swoon.
I regained consciousness upon a real bed. Some people were near me. My jailer, with a softened expression, was handing me a cup of soup. I closed my eyes and realized that some one raised the sheet covering me and searched over my almost nude body for a birthmark. A voice said, "Thank God, it is he!" and human lips pressed my cadaverous hands.
The tower's warden said affably as he took his leave:
"Assure the Empress that he shall be well cared for."
A man near me murmured "Courage, courage, your Majesty."
My eyes opened and I clasped Montmorin in my arms.
"Your Majesty,"—he began, and I interrupted:
"Do not address me so, Eugene. Do not apply titles to a wretched outcast. I wish to strip myself of the personality which has caused my martyrdom."
"Well, then, Charles," said Montmorin "I have sought you for four years."
"Four years!" I exclaimed. "Did I remain four years in the Black Hole?"
"I had no clue," said my friend. "I believed you dead, and through indifference concerning my own life, I enlisted in Napoleon's army. The execution of the Due d'Enghien and the conspiracy of Cadouval (of which I shall presently tell you) filled me with such indignation that I resolved to present my resignation. Just then the Empress sent for me. In a secret interview she informed me that you were in Vincennes dungeon and commissioned me to rescue you. Her hand pushed aside the obstacles between us."
"Blessed be the creole!" I cried.
"Not so fast, Charles. She seeks only her security. Her lord, who is also the lord of Europe, seems to be considering the advisability of relegating her to some corner of his Babylonic Empire, because of her barrenness. She looks upon you as a fine card to play at the opportune moment. Napoleon has forgotten your existence. He is too busy with his conquests to even think of you. Here in prison, your name is No. 86. Josephine pretends that you are the nephew of a Martinique woman with whom she has a friendship. She does not desire your liberty because it is preferable that you should be where she may at any time lay a hand upon you. But I shall free you, though that must be postponed, as you are now so weak."
I was bathed and cleanly clad. Nourishing and abundant food was given me daily and I was gently tended by Armande, the jailer's excellent daughter. Montmorin cut off my long hair and tangled beard, and, on viewing myself in the mirror, I realized that the cruel operation, whose object had been to disfigure me, had been frustrated by the darkness of the dungeon. I should, otherwise, have been marked as with the pits of that dreadful malady, the smallpox, and been changed past all recognition.
I was born again. The pure blood of Austria and Lorraine had successfully combated what appeared invincible obstacles. Montmorin, who through motives of caution, visited me only twice during my convalescence, was one day overjoyed on seeing my hard rounded flesh and observed that it was time to discuss our flight. I was on the second floor of one of the four towers which flank the historic castle. The windows facing toward the fort were not very high from the ground. If the grating were filed, 'twould be a simple matter to swing down to the bridge spanning the ditch over which the soldiers walked in leaving the fortress. This route of exit was chosen by the soldiers in order to avoid the trouble of raising the portcullis, and it existed through the culpable negligence of the chief; otherwise, I should never have been able to have accomplished my escape. The only necessary precaution was that of selecting an auspicious hour of the night in which to swing down to the ditch, cross the narrow plank and join Montmorin in the woods beyond, awaiting me with a pair of good horses. I had an English file for the severing of my iron bars, also a rope and a dagger. All these I kept upon my body during the day and in my bed at night. I anxiously counted the hours that must pass before my escape and constantly developed my muscles by gymnastic exercises. Each night I cut through one bar of the grating. I feared that Armande, who was as kind to me as her father was indifferent, might suspect my intention. I therefore adopted toward her the most affectionate demeanor. I praised her beauty and then I realized that she was indeed beautiful. The wine of youth rose in me like a splendid springtide and when Armande trembled in my arms I regretted that I must so soon leave her.
Thérèse, I know that your austere virtue makes no capitulation to what you would call the sentimental delinquencies of the heart. But to me a woman's breast is more necessary than bread or water. That simple girl loved me in the abandonment of her feminine pity, which is, my chaste sister, the holiest passion of humanity.
One day she responded to my caresses with the words:
"I know you are preparing to escape. I will help you, and if a cannon were to announce your flight, I should crawl into its mouth to retard the explosion."
When at last arrived the moment, preconcerted with Montmorin, she clung to me affectionately until the whistle of our accomplice sounded across the ditch. Then, securing the rope securely, she watched me descend, her low sweet voice bidding me Godspeed. I ran in a frenzy to Montmorin. We sprang into our saddles and sped away.
René was here seized with a fit of coughing.
He looked toward the windows; they were closed; at the fireplace; the coke burned brightly. Putting down the manuscript, he soliloquized:
"I ought to examine the documents in the box and find out whether Naundorff is a martyr or a visionary."
But the narrative fascinated him and he resumed:
The aggregate terms of my prison life amount to seventeen years.
I said to Montmorin, as we slackened our speed, in order to find a path which led to an obscure hut wherein we were to pass the night:
"O that I might live among men, daring to breathe! That I might no longer be hunted down as a criminal. Let me cast away the fatal name and obliterate the race forever. Montmorin, renounce political schemes and help me only in this,—to forget the dungeons that have been my dwelling places."
My friend put his arms around me and said: "I promise."
We slept soundly and started the next morning for Prussia, which we safely entered, under passports held by Montmorin. We put up at a small inn, exhausted from our rapid traveling. Just as we were dropping off to sleep, an officer entered, roughly ordering us from bed. He brought orders to arrest us as spies. He delivered us to a detachment of troops pertaining to the division under the command of the Duke of Brunswick.
When we had journeyed a short distance, we were surrounded by a body of French, treble our number, and I viewed a battle, for the first time in my life; by the irony of fate, I stood in ranks opposing my countrymen. Montmorin and I were ordered to fight and we had no choice but that of obeying. Our detachment was overpowered. The enemy cried, "No quarter!" Montmorin's horse was better than mine.
"Change with me!" he cried. I could not reply, for we all fell back together. My noble friend placed himself before me and sought to ward off the sabre-strokes. My horse fell pierced by a bullet and I could not extricate myself. Montmorin stooped to disentangle my foot and a French soldier with a tremendous blow cut his head in twain. Another sabre descended on my neck and I lost consciousness.
I awoke in a hospital, amid the fearful groans of the other wounded. Thérèse, does not my narrative seem destitute of those shades of gay and grave intermingled which constitute the charm of a personal history? Do you not long for a comic foil to this interminable tragedy? I shall abridge and hurry on.
I was carried in a straw-loaded wagon to the fortress Wessel and there placed with other prisoners destined to imprisonment in Toulon. I protested unavailingly, declaring that I was a Frenchman. I marched with bleeding feet into France. But falling on the ground in my inability to continue, I was abandoned by the guard and should have died but for the care of a peasant woman who carried me to a hospital. In a fellow patient, I recognized a former companion in arms, by name Fritz. Later on, we made our way back into Germany. To sustain life during our journey, we became common thieves and stole fruit, bread, chickens,—anything we could lay our hands on. Do you hear, Thérèse? Your brother has been a common thief. Fritz remarked: "We do on a small scale what kings do on a great one." One day, leaving me his coat as hostage, he started off on a foraging expedition. He was captured by the German league known as the Strickreiter. An old peasant with whom we had become associated, advised that I should go to Saxony where the Strickreiter were not powerful. He gave me what food and money he could spare, and, carrying Fritz's coat, in which I found six hundred francs, I resolved to join the Prussian army, it seeming my only choice. I started for Berlin. On the journey a fellow traveller evinced great cordiality, to the extent of lending me his passport, bearing the name "William Naundorff." He declared he did not require it, being well known. I looked at this new friend intently. I had seen his face before.
What was this new mystery? Why should this man give me his name, for I was forced to retain it? When we reached Weimar, my benefactor disappeared. The freedom I breathed inebriated me and I ceased wondering. On reaching Berlin, I put up at an inn, where I was soon visited by the police who asked how long I intended to remain in the capital. I referred them to the passport which I had delivered to the city's authorities and thus did I imbue myself forever with the personality of my fellow passenger. On filing an application for admission into the army, I was coldly informed that His Majesty did not receive foreigners into the Prussian ranks.
Discouraged and almost destitute, I bethought me of my knowledge of watchmaking and so it came to pass that I established myself in this humble business. Thérèse, this is the sign I displayed outside my door: Schutzenstrasse, 52. I was well patronized and lived contentedly until an officer called to see my license. He asked me many questions, demanded to be shown my baptismal certificate and a testimonial of good conduct from the last parish in which I had lived. Having no such documents, I was in great perplexity. At this juncture, a woman who called herself Naundorff's sister, advised me to apply to Monsieur Le Coq, Superintendent of the Prussian Police and a Frenchman by birth. Before proceeding, I must explain that this woman, whose devotion to me was as genuine as it was unremitting, had some time previous come from some mysterious quarter to live in my house. Her industry made my slender income yield me some comfort. Following her advice, I wrote to Le Coq, revealing to him my entire history. He came to visit me and demanded to see the proofs of my identity. I showed him some of my documents,—those which had been sewed by Montmorin in the collar of the ragged coat which I had worn during my vagrancy. They included letters belonging to our mother and our father's seal. Le Coq was amazed and remarked that he could give me no advice until after consulting with the King. On the following day, he came to say that I must relinquish the documents. I was forced to obey, saving only a portion of the seal. From that moment, I was dogged by the police and finally driven out of Berlin.
"You are in danger here," said Le Coq. "The magistracy has not forgotten that no corroborating documents rendered your passport valid. Go to some little town and be there known by the name of Naundorff."
A guard was furnished for my protection. I was admonished to observe the strictest reserve, for the eye of Napoleon was keen. Prussia dared not incur his enmity.
"When you are asked for your papers," said Le Coq, as I was departing, "answer that they are with the Court."
I went to Spandau in the search of peace, there to live in a coffin more effectual than the one which had enclosed me as I left the Tower, that is to say, the name "Naundorff." This spurious term was entered on the village registers. There is not another instance in Prussian annals of the right of citizenship being conferred upon a man in consequence of the arbitrary adjustment of an official, in the absence of documentary evidence.
I put out my sign. The faithful woman—the so-called sister of Naundorff—was with me still. However the arrangement had originated, whether or not she acted as an instrument of my enemies, her devotion was genuine. To silence malicious tongues, I called her sister.
Europe was convulsed with war. "Is the Corsican's power to be broken?" I would ask myself. And then a wild hope of recovering my name and rank would take possession of me, in spite of the injunctions regarding caution from Le Coq, who visited me about this period. Then came the news of Napoleon's overthrow, followed by our uncle's ascending the throne and of your marriage, Thérèse, to our cousin, the Duke of Orleans. Thus did you become an accomplice in the usurpation. From many sources you and our uncle had tidings of my misfortunes, and these rumors were corroborated by documents found in the belongings of Josephine, Barras, Pichegru and even Napoleon. I at the time wrote letters to you both, letters which I know reached your hands. You, whose lips so often speak the name of God, dare not deny that you read my messages.
About this time my companion and reputed sister died. Poor woman! She was no grande dame, not even a spotless matron. In her past there had been hours of anguish, despair and shame. An unremitting train of misfortunes had dried the sources of her tears. It was misfortune which had united our lives and welded my youth to her maturity. Despised by the world, she found an asylum in me, and I, in my isolation, found pity and kindness only in her. And I solemnly declare that she was gold hidden beneath mire, for she gave me the shelter and warmth of a human heart, without which I cannot live.
When she died in my arms, blessing me for my ministrations, I regretted that I had written to you, for it seemed the most fitting consummation of my life to pass the remainder of it as a Spandau watch-maker. In my loneliness, I married a beautiful girl, daughter of a mechanic as obscure as I. Having failed to receive an answer from you, I thought to accomplish the extinction of a royal race by an alliance with this woman of the people. A frenzy of vengeance and shame mastered me as I cemented what I considered the pollution of your race and mine, by marrying this pure, gentle girl.
To-day I realize my sin in refusing to thank God for the finding in my path of the sweet blossom of love. Jeanne's affection should have been more grateful than Marie's for it came in consequence of the sublime law that merges one life into another and contained no element of reverence for royalty. But I trampled on the tender fragrance of her devotion during the beginning of our married life, in the arrogance of what I considered my fallen state in being her companion. For hours would I sit in gloomy silence. I could not smother the puerile vanity of earthly grandeur which even in the Black Hole inflated me. Between me and the gentle girl rose the high wall of ancestry, that destroyer of happiness, which seeks to make us unlike other men. I kept from her the gloomy secret of my origin and she shrank from me, almost seeking to ask my forgiveness for being my wife.
When I knew the joy which you will never experience, Thérèse—that of parenthood,—I called my daughter by the name which I had borne during that ill-fated journey which cost our parents their crown and life,—"Amélie." My mother seemed to live again in the child, and I assured myself that the blood of Austria and Lorraine rose, asserting its purity and protesting against admixture with a plebeian strain.
Here René raised his head and realized that his chamber was full of smoke. The atmosphere was growing dense, insufferable. The mirror over the mantel broke into pieces with a sharp explosion and great tongues of flame licked the sides of the chimney. A stout man with red whiskers put his head in the door, shouting "Fire!"
Thrusting the manuscript into his bosom, René ran out, amid the bewildered servants and guests. Pails of water were brought from the kitchen and uproar reigned.
"Keep your wits!" he shouted. "Shut the windows and wet the blankets from the beds."
He turned to some one near and asked how the fire had started. The man replied that Count Keller's valet was to blame. Brosseur standing in the passage way seemed inconsolable.
"I shall lose my place!" he almost sobbed. "My master will discharge me for this carelessness."
René was everywhere at once, encouraging, urging, advising. Brosseur, meanwhile ran into the Marquis's room, returning with the bed blankets. At last the fire was extinguished and the proprietor grasped René's hand, thanking him for his services. The guests pressed near with praises for his conduct. Even the cook brandished his colossal fists in fury at the stupidity of the fellow who had caused the mischief.
"I shall find him and break that heavy head of his!" he roared, darting toward Brosseur's chamber. A moment later he returned in a rage, exclaiming: "The rascal has escaped, leaving his baggage behind."
René shuddered, scarcely knowing why. He ran to his room in search for his wallet. It was broken open and the box gone.
"The villain has robbed me," he muttered, as the plot became clear to him. "I felt that I had seen his face before. Ah, Count Keller,—better said, Count Scoundrel—I know now whence you came. Have I indeed undone Amélie's father? Naundorff, watch-maker, I am henceforth your staunch partisan! This piece of villainy confirms your claim."
He placed his hand in his breast in search for the manuscript and breathed more easily on feeling it.
Opposite the Dover wharf was an inn bearing the sign: The Red Fish. The frequenters of this inn were usually sailors, wharf-hands, etc.... Sometimes passengers from a recently arrived vessel stayed over a short while for the purpose of recovering from seasickness. At eleven in the forenoon of a day following soon after that described at the close of Book II, Kate, niece of the proprietor, displayed her rounded arms to the admiring eyes of the guests seated in the dingy dining hall, as she deposited on the tables bottles of beer and dishes of smoked salmon stewed with potatoes. One of the young men was so absorbed in gazing through a window out toward the wharf that he scarcely knew what he ate. He seemed waiting for some one and in so doing attracted the attention of two others seated in an obscure corner of the apartment, one of whom was apparently of some thirty years of age, of contracted lips, keen eyes and a nervous attitude. His general make-up was that of a man who vibrates to the suggestions of an idea. He scarcely ate and his glass of ale stood untasted. His companion had a very good appetite—a handsome young man somewhat coarse in type, of splendid proportions, ruddy cheeks, black whiskers, gleaming teeth and gay alert eyes full of directness and candor.
The two men conversed in low tones. The younger always interrupted the talk on the approach of Kate, for the purpose of making sweet speeches in her ear.
"Indeed I recognize him," declared the elder. "I have seen him in Paris and his title is Marquis de Brezé. His family is ultramonarchical and its loyalty has been paid in gold, for its confiscated property has been restored."
"I wonder why he is here."
"I cannot guess, Giacinto. Men in our position must always expect the worst. Many Frenchmen, await their vessels in this inn, but the Marquis's attitude arouses suspicion. He awaits some one. The fact that he comes fromThereshould put us on our guard."
"Bah!" exclaimed Giacinto, with a flash of his perfect teeth, "'tis some piece of gallantry—a question of petticoats."
"Or of politics. We must not lose sight of him, for holding on to the end of a thread sometimes leads to a bobbin. This inn, in whichourVolpetti is in the habit of stopping, is so suspicious a place that even the air is infected. If the Marquis awaits a lady, luck to him! But if not—"
"I swear 'tis love," asserted Giacinto, failing to comprehend the other's indifference to the romantic.
"Well, now let us get to business. If our brother knights have correctly informed us, Volpetti will reach the inn today. Are you sure you will recognize him? You know the fox is clever in disguises."
"Do you think he can escape me?" cried Giacinto, his face distorted with a spasm of hatred. "Not even if he comes as the devil, his brother. Why we are both Sicilians from Catania. I remember him when he walked barefoot recruiting victims for the gambling houses. Later on he entered the novitiate of a monastery. Then, I witnessed his initiation as spy—under the direction—well in reality, in the employ of Queen Caroline. O he is an adept, a born spy and happy only when exercising his profession. He was Fouché's most dangerous agent and now performs the same office to Lecazes. But to every man his hour! There are many accounts pending between Volpetti and me! First, my brother Raphael's long imprisonment; secondly, the ill treatment of Grazia, that unfortunate girl; thirdly, the splendid Romeldi's death on the gibbet; fourthly, the conspiracy of the 19th of August. Why has this mission been assigned me? Because the Knights know well that Volpetti will not escape me."
"Contain yourself" said the other. "To accomplish your purpose, calmness is essential."
"Fear nothing," answered Giacinto, "I shall seem ice."
"Does Volpetti know you by sight?"
"As well as he does his own shirt, and his claws must have fastened into me at Trieste, if the Knights had not protected me. Set a thief to catch a thief. But here in England he and I are man to man."
"Even in England spies are aided by other spies. Change your tactics, Giacinto. The devil! Lecazes snaps his fingers at scruples. The League must learn that the enemy is full of insidious perfidy. We no longer fight on the open as in the times of Napoleon. But the duel between Revolution and Reaction is raging none the less fiercely. The hour is ripe for blows and are we, the Knights of Liberty, to content ourselves with Platonic phrases? Are we not to wreak vengeance at last? We are so numerous as scarcely to know one another and yet so little is accomplished. 'Tis a competent leader that we need."
"Platonism is dead," cried Giacinto. "Our business is to grapple with the police. Volpetti's fate will soon be a warning to Lecazes and those who are his masters. Every English Carbonaro will soon see that events are at last shaping themselves—"
"What do you know?" eagerly demanded the other.
"I scent the critical moment approaching. I read men's thoughts upon their foreheads. My friend, societies do much, but at times one man arises who by a swift stroke accomplishes what societies are only meditating."
"You assume the air of a prophet."
"Well, time will tell. Now to our work. Volpetti will soon arrive, either alone or with a companion. He is to embark from Dover. When he reaches this inn, you and I shall enter his room and dispatch him before he has time to say 'Amen.' The Polipheme awaits us in the harbor. The captain is our brother and confederate. I trust Volpetti will come alone for so he will fall to me; but if he be accompanied, both of us shall be implicated."
"And why not both of us even if he come alone? Should one waste honor on dogs?"
Here Giacinto interrupted, saying:
"Did I not tell you it was a love affair? Behold the lady!"
The Marquis de Brezé had just hurried to meet two new comers, a man of middle age and a young girl. Both wore shabby traveling garments and had the appearance of Irish peasants. But in spite of her clothes, the beautiful imperious face of the girl immediately excited admiration while the man's grace and dignity revealed the aristocrat.
Giacinto grasped his friend's hand, and the other whispered:
"How remarkable!"
"What?" asked Giacinto.
"The resemblance."
"What resemblance?"
"Why the man and girl are reproductions of the guillotined king and queen."
"I have seen them only in pictures; but by the devil! they are indeed before us."
The Carbonari gazed at each other in amazement.
Naundorff and Amélie followed de Brezé toward the stairway and, in so doing, passed the two Carbonari, who, pretending absorption in their ale and salmon, did not raise their eyes.
René led his friends to the chambers he had engaged for them and when the doors were closed, he threw himself upon his knees before the father exclaiming:
"Forgive me!"
"What is it, René?"
"I have been robbed of your papers."
Naundorff turned pale and fell against the wall. But quickly recovering himself, he said:
"René, you have lost my name, but you first saved my life," and with simple dignity he drew the Marquis to his breast while Amélie trembled and dropped tears from her beautiful eyes.
"And the manuscript?"
"I have it with me."
"How were you robbed of the box?"
René explained.
"That Count de Keller is my evil genius. He is none other than the Volpetti who under the alias 'Naundorff' bestowed that name upon me in Prussia. He represents the police who like a web envelop me. 'Twas the police that directed the blows from which you rescued me in London. And that police will now pursue you, René. I regret that we have undertaken this voyage, for how are we to succeed in this difficult undertaking, having lost my certificates of identity? Let us renounce the project and return, I to exile and you to your country. I am not safe in England; therefore I shall remove to Holland. In that land of liberty and justice, I may find the happiness I seek, the simple happiness of family life. René, I seem to hear again the words spoken to me in my dungeon:Your friends shall perish."
René looked at Amélie. Her tears were dry and her lofty countenance expressed only resolution. His discouragement was swept away and he turned to the father, saying:
"I shall never give up the fight. And what of the knave who robbed me? Is he to laugh in my face? Listen. Volpetti will soon be here. I also have become a spy. I have tracked him by pouring out torrents of money."
"Bravo, my René!" said Amélie, giving him her hand.
"Girl," sighed Naundorff, "you have inherited the intrepidity of your grandmother, Marie Antoinette and great-grandmother, Marie Thérèse, combined; I, the stoicism and passivity of my father. While I am with you, my blood rises and I believe in the impossible; my fears vanish, my dual personality merges into one and I assure myself that I am not a self-duped fool—God bless you!"
"Father," she exclaimed, "you have not the right to surrender claims which your children inherit. Do you think that the iniquitous regime on the French throne will last indefinitely? Has not that wonderful colossus, Napoleon, rolled on the ground from his pedestal? Another usurper today rules our country. Is his hour never to come?"
She was a picture of splendid anger and sublime indignation.
"Amélie, you frighten me," said Naundorff.
"Cast away your fears," she cried. "René will save us. Defenders will spring out of the earth. Courage, my father; calmness, my husband," and she gave a hand to each of the men. "We are a council of war. Let us plan our course of action."
Naundorff kissed her forehead, saying: "I follow you," fascinated by her spirit.
"Our two aims," she proceeded, "are to recover the papers and enter France secretly."
"Regarding the first," said René, "trust to me. The spy shall not return to France enriched by his spoils."
"Beware of the spilling of blood!" said Naundorff. "Our cause is else lost."
René and Amélie made no rejoinder.
"Concerning the voyage to France," continued the Marquis, "we must first dispose of Volpetti. Were he to precede us, our fate should be imprisonment. In the meanwhile, Mr. and Miss O'Ranleigh," and he made his companions a mock bow, "must not forget their role of musicians journeying across the channel in search of employment. A happy circumstance favors our project. A French merchant vessel, the Polipheme, lies in the harbor. The captain is indebted to me for favors. I met him on the wharf this morning and observed that I might have need of him later. I can count upon his loyalty."
"Father, the sky grows clear!" cried Amélie.
"God grant it may!" said Naundorff.
"See!" exclaimed René. "There is the Polipheme."
He drew his companions toward the window, and as they looked out, his face grew dark and he stammered:
"There—he—comes!"
Volpetti, alias the Count de Keller, in elegant traveling dress which accentuated his aristocratic Chateaubriand air, approached the Red Fish, followed by Brosseur.
"They are coming here!" exclaimed René, and he dragged Amélie and Naundorff into concealment, returning himself to continue his scrutiny. "The devil turns him over to me at last."
The Marquis's elation was equalled by that of the Carbonari below on beholding the entry of Volpetti and his servant.
"We have him," whispered Giacinto.
"And his confederate, also," answered Louis Pierre, which was the name of the other.
"He seems quite a muscular fellow."
"Leave him to me."
Kate was selecting chambers for the newly arrived. Giacinto, continuing the rude gallantry he had begun at the table, followed her from room to room, whispering love speeches and pinching her round arms. Volpetti and Brosseur were drinking Malaga below.
"Leave me alone!" cried Kate, pretending anger.
"Darling, don't be so hard on me."
"But I have work to do. These rooms must be got ready, and I have not been able to find them yet for the house is as full as an egg."
"Let me walk with you until we find them, then."
She could not resist this gallant offer, and together they promenaded through corridors and apartments. At last she said:
"Well, I must give No. 10 to the master and 39 to the valet. They are not close together, but 'tis not my fault."
"Who is in No. 8?" asked Giacinto, idly.
"'Tis a double apartment, occupied by two Irish people who look like beggars. But a French Monsieur here has his eye on the girl. He spent a long time with them today."
"Let them love each other. So do you and I."
As the pair descended the stairway, Volpetti and his valet were coming up to their chambers. Giacinto kept well in the shade and hastened to join Louis Pierre beside whom a pleasant-faced man stood, dispatching a glass of rum.
This was the captain of the Polipheme.
"Do you wish to leave tonight?" asked the captain.
"Or at dawn," replied Louis Pierre. "Be prepared to draw in anchor and have the sloop in readiness guarded by but one sailor."
The captain hesitated. He drew his fingers through his hair as if about to object.
"Well—" he began.
"Captain Soliviac, do you realize that youcannotrefuse?"
"Refuse? Impossible! I was about to say that there are some people in this inn wishing also to go to France. Do you object to their presence?"
"Who are these people for whom you have so high a regard, Captain?"
"Well one of them is the Marquis de Brezé."
The Carbonari started.
"What bond unites you to that sympathizer of the government?"
"No political bond. My father was befriended by the elder Marquis and the young man has been my protector. Important matters urge his return to France."
"Indeed! Well, the son of the Duchess de Rousillon is a strange companion for you, Captain."
"Pshaw!" answered Soliviac. "He does not meddle with politics. His time is occupied in hunting and love making. He is doubtless hurrying to France to be reunited with some fair friend; or more likely still, the lady accompanies him now, for he said that two Irish travelers, an uncle and niece, were with him."
The Carbonari exchanged a look; then Giacinto said:
"Well, tell the Marquis he and his party may come."
"I have received another application for passage," said the captain, "which I have refused."
"From whom?"
"From a gentleman bearing a marvelous resemblance to our countryman, the Viscount Chateaubriand. He has a stout fellow with him who must be his valet."
The Carbonari flashed a look at one another.
"How long since did he ask you?"
"Not five minutes ago; I was jumping from my sloop. He wears a long traveling cloak and a broad winged hat."
"Well, run up to number 10," said Giacinto. "He is there. Call out roughly, saying that two passengers have failed you at the eleventh hour and that you may now carry him and his servant. Demand a high price and simulate avarice. Be cautious. The man is a reader of faces."
"Suppose he asks which is to be the first landing place?"
"Say Dieppe, adding that he may be put off at Calais, Havre or Cherbourg if he prefer and pay well for the privilege. Act as tho your object were to exploit him." And Giacinto's face glowed with hatred. "And if he asks the hour of departure, say midnight and that he must be at the wharf by eleven, where the sloop will await him."
"I shall do as you say. Is that all?"
"I think not, indeed. Is your crew to be trusted?"
"In what sense?" asked the astonished captain.
"Will they keep mum about whatever takes place on board?"
"My men are absolutely to be trusted."
"Very well," said Louis Pierre, "I shall board the sloop at dusk and remain upon her until the gentleman and his servant arrive. You must have a sailor's dress ready for me, for I shall help run the sloop. You must be there also, Captain."
"Very well," said Soliviac.
"Are you ready to go all lengths?" asked Giacinto.
The captain's frank, genial countenance became clouded. Corsair as he was and accustomed to bloody adventures, he hesitated before the executive justice of the Knights of Liberty, for he knew their vengeance to be terrible. But raising his head, he said:
"All lengths."
"Captain," said Giacinto, "the man we track is worse than a wolf. He merits a thousand deaths and we shall give him only one. If you desert us, we shall consider that you cease to be a Knight. Nevertheless, we shall take the matter into our own hands and trust you not to betray us."
"Do you think I have joined the Knights to play the coward at the first test? I unconditionally agree to your proposition. And now, what of the other passengers?"
"Arrange that they board before or after Volpetti."
Soliviac bowed.
Meanwhile, the Marquis's eye was applied to the keyhole of Volpetti's chamber, and watched that gentleman arrange his belongings. His wallet and toilet case lay near. René reflected that his treasure might be in either. Soon he was undeceived for he heard Volpetti say to Brosseur:
"Where is it?"
"Around my neck," and the valet pointed to a cord just visible above his collar. René could scarcely contain himself as a prospect of swift vengeance seemed near and he clutched Amélie's hand as she stood back of him, erect and self-possessed.
A more circumspect man than René would have retired from the keyhole after ascertaining this information, but he was transported into remaining. Just then Soliviac entered by the main door offering to take the Count and his valet to France on the Polipheme. His intention was to land at Dieppe, he remarked, unless Monsieur preferred some other port, in which case—
He played his part well. Volpetti fell into the snare and requested to be put off at Havre, offering a good sum for the privilege.
"Providence has delivered this man into my hands," exclaimed René, overjoyed.
Volpetti agreed to be aboard by midnight, and on the departure of Soliviac, continued his preparations for the journey. He instructed Brosseur to have supper brought up to him, adding:
"Keep your ears open to what is said in the kitchen."
Soliviac was, meanwhile, being instructed by the Carbonari to take the Marquis and his friends aboard at an early hour. The captain accordingly sought René, informing him of what time he was expected. The Marquis answered:
"The Irish gentleman and lady will be at the ship by that hour, Soliviac. But I am not certain of going. If I do, I shall get to your vessel by means of a small skiff."
The Carbonari frowned when Soliviac repeated these words to them. Louis Pierre remarked:
"Deeper springs than love move the Marquis."
"I warned him," said Soliviac, "that he must be on time, else the Polipheme would sail without him, and he answered that he did not imagine that the vessel would leave before midnight."
The Carbonari exchanged a keen glance, and Giacinto said:
"Let him do as he is minded, but keep your eyes open. This is to be our program: I remain ashore to track Volpetti and his servant. You, Captain, and Louis Pierre will be aboard the sloop. If Brezé happens to see us and asks to be taken aboard, he must be refused, on pretext of lack of room. Now, each man to his business."
A half hour later, René descended the stairway accompanied by Miss O'Ranleigh, her face hidden by a large bonnet. Mr. O'Ranleigh followed, his hat pulled well over his forehead, and his coat collar high over his neck. But the keen eyes of Louis Pierre again perceived the resemblance and he muttered:
"Accursed race!—Race which has brought reproach and invasion to France!—But who is this pair? And why does that young aristocrat pay them court?"
As the two Carbonari walked down the wharf later in the evening, Louis Pierre said:
"I am more strongly convinced that this is no love adventure. Be cautious, Giacinto. You stay behind to strike the blow."
Following them came the Marquis and the two Irish passengers. René bade his friends farewell for a brief while, saying to the girl in a low voice:
"Fear nothing. I shall succeed."
"I wonder if this is a countermine, a cord set to entangle our own net," meditated Giacinto.
He followed the Marquis to the inn, which reached, the latter ran immediately to his own room. Giacinto concluded to await René's exit before carrying out his own plan, namely to hide in the apartment next to Volpetti's and which had been that of the Irish guests. Just as he was about to realize this scheme, the Marquis stepped in before him. For fifteen years he had awaited this moment of revenge. He had entered the ranks of the Knights of Liberty, the nucleus of the Carbonari, for the sole purpose of wreaking vengeance on his countryman. A formidable power was back of him, transforming him from an ordinary homicide into the avenger of a cause. And now he was being cheated out of his due by this unforeseen complication. He stood in the passage a half hour waiting for the Marquis to come forth. At last he went down to supper and Kate hurried to wait upon him. She marveled at his abstraction and tried coquettishly to rouse him.
"Have you seen a black cat's shadow?" she asked, alluding to a local superstition.
Giacinto abstractedly caressed her coarse hand.
"Tell me," he said, "does the French gentleman leave tonight? I mean the one who first arrived."
"What business is that of yours?" she asked, annoyed at her lover's coldness.
"Because," said the Sicilian in a passionate tone, "if he goes I must leave you, my darling, for we sail together."
"He leaves tonight and the other also, No. 10. But, if you prefer to stay, other vessels will leave tomorrow."
Giacinto gazed into her eyes with promise. Then, dashing off the Chianti, he ran to his room, smiling at the credulity of servant maids. He threw on his cloak, tied a sash around his waist, into which he thrust a pair of pistols, grasped a thick stick, glided out of the hotel and was soon lost in the mist.