The night grew darker, and the mist denser. At half past eleven, Volpetti, followed by Brosseur, took the road leading to the wharf, the latter carrying the traveling bags and other baggage. Volpetti had the box of documents and Brosseur grumbled at the heaviness of his own load, which prevented his keeping up with his master. Being scarcely able to see him, he followed by listening to the creaking of his boots. But he was obliged to walk so slowly that the creaking became fainter and fainter, seeming finally to die out altogether. Suddenly, he heard boots again and hurried on, succeeding at last in overtaking the owner of them; just then this owner turned and, with no warning, dealt Brosseur a blow on the head so effective that the valet rolled over into the mud, emitting only a smothered bellow. René leaned over his victim, turning on the light from his lantern. A stream of blood tricked down his face and he seemed insensible. Thrusting his hand into Brosseur's breast and pockets, he extracted a bunch of keys. With these he opened the wallets, but no box did he find. Then, shaking the fellow, to convince himself that he was still unconscious, René hurried after Volpetti. A moment later Giacinto stumbled upon the wounded man.
"The Marquis knows how to strike!" he exclaimed. "But he has yet to learn how to remove his victims." And the Sicilian flung the baggage out into the sea. Then, with the greatest difficulty, he pushed the half living body of his enemy over the embankment into the water.
"Santa Maria be praised! The danger is over," and, crossing himself, he hurried on.
When Volpetti heard, instead of Brosseur's heavy tread, light feet very near him, he instinctively clasped the box to his breast and clutched his dagger. Then he turned, calling out:
"Brosseur! Rascal! Where are you?"
For answer, a heavy blow descended on his head. Volpetti grasped his pistol and turned, but his adversary flung his strong arms around him, seized the pistol, which he pressed to the other's head, saying:
"Give me the box or I shall blow your brains out."
Volpetti struggled and tried to reach his dagger, but René twisted the refractory arm until it snapped in the socket, making its owner roar with pain. Louis Pierre had just leaped ashore, and, guided by the commotion of the struggle, he ran to the group, which he expected to consist of the two Italians.
Just then Giacinto ran up, crying gleefully:
"Aha! Do you recognize Giacinto Palli? Let us throw him into the sea."
"Not here," said Louis Pierre, binding his hands and feet. "He might save himself."
"We can hang weights to him."
"Where is the servant?"
"The fat fellow? He is saying his prayers with the fish."
"Are you two men the enemies of this spy?" asked René.
"To the death," replied Giacinto, gagging his enemy with a pocket handkerchief.
"Mine also. He has robbed me like a dog. I must leave Dover tonight for this deed."
"Do you promise to maintain absolute secrecy concerning what occurs aboard the Polipheme tonight?"
"I give you a gentleman's word," replied René.
The three men lifted the never so helpless, but still lucky, Volpetti down the stairway aboard the sloop in waiting.
Naundorff and Amélie, from the Polipheme's deck, watched the men carrying Volpetti to the sloop. They trembled and clasped hands. The vessel was anchored in deep water and the waves rocked her from side to side. The night was cold and damp. Amélie shivered, chilled by the spray. Just then the guard announced the arrival of the sloop and René's voice triumphantly called across the waters:
"Amélie! Amélie!"
She ran to the vessel's side as the rope ladder was thrown down and saw what seemed to be a dead body, borne by her lover and his companion. On reaching deck, René rapturously kissed Amélie's hand and then triumphantly handed Naundorff the box.
"Drop anchor!" called out the captain, and the Polipheme rode away from the English coast. Meanwhile Amélie, Naundorff, René, the captain, and the two Carbonari gathered in the cabin. Punch was ordered, for they were all soaking wet and had need of a stimulant. The liquor sparkled with the tossing of the vessel and a sense of good fellowship diffused itself among the ship's company, some of whom a few hours earlier were unknown to one, another. With her customary resolution, Amélie took the initiative:
"Gentlemen, we must understand each other. My father and I are not Irish travelers seeking employment in France. We are French outlaws, the police on our trail, and a mighty party seeking to exterminate us. The man lying bound on deck is a villain who robbed us of our certificates, the documents entitling us to our inheritance. The Marquis de Brezé, my affianced lover, has recovered these papers. Am I correct in inferring that you have aided him?"
"Mademoiselle," replied Giacinto, "the veriest coincidence has united our projects. The Marquis has a strong arm but lacks caution. I cast his first victim into the sea or we should not now be securely riding away from Dover. O royal punch!" he cried, draining his glass.
"The second victim," remarked Louis Pierre, "will also sleep in the water, but we are first to extract his secrets. What think you, Captain?"
"'Tis the only solution, my friend," replied Soliviac gravely.
"'Tis a lamentable necessity," added René.
"Say, rather, a mild retaliation," insisted Giacinto.
Amélie's glance was of an avenging archangel.
Naundorff rose to his feet and towered above them all. His voice rose in an appeal, a supplication: "No blood! No blood! Let us forgive!"
"Forgive that unscrupulous creature?—that instrument of tyrants?" exclaimed Louis Pierre.
"He has betrayed and tortured the innocent," said Soliviac solemnly.
"He brought my brother to the scaffold" cried Giacinto.
"He sought the death of my father," said Amélie.
Then, in chorus, they cried:
"He must die!"
Silence followed. The captain poured out another glass of punch. Amélie and René drew apart from the group and engaged in a lover's colloquy. The three Carbonari talked animatedly of the accomplishment of their plans. When, later, Amélie turned her eyes in search of her father and failed to find him, she concluded he had gone to rest or that he chose to protest by his absence against the general sentiment regarding Volpetti.
Meanwhile, Naundorff was staggering along the vessel's deck, as she tossed roughly, in the direction of the bound spy, who lay near a heap of cordage where he had been deposited by his captors. His handsome face was contracted with rage, which increased as he saw the watch-maker approach. He believed that his last hour had arrived. Naundorff bent over him, saying in a low voice:
"I have come to set you free."
Volpetti's eyes flashed amazement.
"Listen!" said his liberator, cutting the cords with his pen knife. "I forgive you that God may forgive me. Your life has been a series of iniquities. You have made me suffer so greatly that I have almost doubted the existence of God. When you are free, change your mode of life. Here you will surely be killed. Cast yourself overboard, for you may be rescued by some other vessel. Do not stir yet. Be very quiet."
He had already freed Volpetti's hands. He now cut the cords binding his legs and feet. The spy muttered:
"Harebrained imbecile!"
During this critical moment his past life rose before him.Hechange? Impossible! He was a spy by nature. When a school boy, he had spied upon and delivered up his playfellows. While a novice in the monastery, he had spied upon his brothers. Turned out of the monastery by the Revolution, he had spied upon the revolutionists. His education and inclinations fitted him for the life, and the present atmosphere was auspicious, or 'twas the golden age of the secret police. The true history of that epoch will never be written because certain knaves carried it with them to the grave. When Volpetti entered the ranks of the secret police, he displayed signal talent. According to a remark made at the time by a prominent official, he was not only the eyes and ears but also the arm of the government. The swift eye of Vidocq early discerned the wonderful gifts of this king among spies: his art in ingratiating himself into the good graces of his employers; his genius at disguises and every species of simulation; his alertness in forming intimacies with the familiars of those who were his predestined victims. In short, he was a born spy and his machinations were labors of love. He was furnished money, agents and whatever other auxiliaries he demanded. His astuteness had discovered countless plots, effected the capture of a multitude of conspirators, among these General Doyenne, who suicided in prison, rather than submit to the ignominy of picket torture.
No need to say that in the heart of Volpetti there was no room for gratitude or remorse. He held goodness to be weakness, and forgiveness imbecility. That Naundorff should forgive the many years of persecution suffered at his hands, was to him incomprehensible. Why, the tracking of Naundorff had been his specialty for half a lifetime, his supreme title to glory. He viewed him now with Satanic disdain as he loosed his bonds.
Volpetti's only gods were Destiny and Fatality. Since leaving London, Fatality had seemed to be in the atmosphere. When earlier he was carried on deck, bound and gagged, he had in a rage called himself a fool for being trapped. But now Fatality seemed to be on the side of Naundorff and Volpetti reflected:
"This man has been overtaken a thousand times. He is a bright mark for the arrows of Fate."
Naundorff, meanwhile, repeated the regal formula of pardon;
"I forgive you that God, who is over you and me and all men, may extend to me his mercy,—God who sees us and to whom your evil deeds are known as well as the moment in which his hand will reduce you to naught. I forgive you because it is my destiny to forgive and to expiate, and I am ready to fulfil it; but I warn you to tempt Providence no longer."
Volpetti felt his limbs free and his blood resume its normal circulation. He commenced to remove his clothes, Naundorff, meanwhile, concealing him. Crawling to the edge of the vessel, he leaped into the water and the deck guard sang out, "Man overboard!"
This cry always throws crew and passengers into wild excitement, all of whom now appeared as if by magic on deck. The fog was beginning to break but the water still dashed madly against the sides of the vessel. In the general confusion no one asked how the accident had occurred, but the mate beckoned the captain aside and whispered:
"'Tis the prisoner who is overboard and that passenger," pointing toward Naundorff, "unloosed him. I did not interfere because I did not realize what he was about."
Muttering a curse, Soliviac approached Naundorff.
"What do you mean, Monsieur? In the devil's name, how have you dared to set the prisoner free? Pernies, are you sure that this gentleman—Well, however that be, bind him securely. Now, cock your guns, and if that scoundrel swims near us, send him to the bottom with a bullet through his head."
The sailors leaned over the edge, seeking to distinguish the floating body among the waves which rose more and more furiously. The wind, increasing with the fury of the waves, swept away the clouds and the surface of the sea gleamed almost white. One of the Breton sailors, a kind of wild-cat fellow, with green eyes which saw by night, cried out that a man was floating near the vessel, whereupon four bullets were sent in that direction. Two youths, by name Yvon and Hoel, lowered a canoe and were after the fugitive within ten minutes.
Naundorff, guarded, almost a prisoner, calmly awaited results. René and Amélie stood near him for the purpose of defending him, were it necessary, but they could not conceal their terror and anger at the spy's escape.
"You have undone us, father," said Amélie.
"We struggle vainly," said René. "If that man saves his life, may the sea swallow the rest of us, for we should have a fate more terrible than death. No country of earth could afford a refuge. To what end have I recovered the documents? I, a de Brezé, a Giac, performing the office of a common murderer!"
Naundorff remained silent. Just then there rang out from the watchman a cry: "Ship to the larboard."
The encounter with another vessel is always an important occurrence at sea. At that period the memory was fresh of combats with corsairs, English, French, and Spanish. But the proximity of this ship was a consideration of greater than ordinary gravity, for it signified the probable salvation of the fugitive, whose body now gleamed on the surface.
Soliviac growled:
"I wager that the rascal will be picked up."
Then the ship hove in sight like a black bird, now skimming, now flying, now keeling. She was a schooner somewhat larger than the Polipheme. She could be perfectly discerned, for the night had become clear. The floating man cried out and she slackened speed and flung out a cable. The sailors were about to fire. Soliviac restrained them saying, that they would surely miss their aim and alarm the other vessel. Impotent and raging, the Knights of Liberty beheld the spy's salvation as his nude body gleamed against the schooner's dark side.
"He is saved!" they almost wailed.
"He is receiving a welcome!" growled the sailors as they turned menacingly upon Naundorff, Soliviac the most infuriated of the group. Clutching the watch-maker by the collar, he roared:
"Who are you to liberate prisoners aboard my vessel? Are you that villain's accomplice? Well, by God, you shall suffer the fate reserved for him."
"He deserves it," cried Giacinto. "This man, a stranger to us has been entrusted with our secret. This serves us right for letting others meddle in our business."
Amélie flung herself before her father and de Brezé stood beside her. Soliviac motioned to certain sailors and they immediately overpowered René, tho he struggled hard to free himself.
Up to this time Naundorff had remained silent, but, fearing the consequences to his friend, he advanced, saying:
"Captain, release the Marquis. I shall explain my action. I beg to be heard in the cabin, with only these gentlemen as witnesses," motioning towards the Carbonari. The captain ordered René's release and the party descended the stairway, Soliviac following Naundorff. On reaching the cabin, Louis Pierre and Giacinto stood on each side of the captain, as tho forming a court.
"You are," said Soliviac, addressing Naundorff, "a culprit. On my vessel, I administer justice and hold myself accountable only to God. You have constituted yourself the accomplice of a man condemned to death. As you have set him free, 'tis only justice that you should take his place, for his freedom means the death of the rest of us. But before passing sentence, I shall listen to your defence."
"Permit me to say—" interposed René, but Soliviac interrupted with firmness:
"It is the prisoner who must answer."
Naundorff raised his head and replied: "I neither explain my conduct nor excuse myself, I liberated Volpetti because I had the right to do so."
"The right!" exclaimed the astounded Carbonari, thinking they heard a lunatic.
"Yes, the right," insisted Naundorff. "The right to forgive belongs to the most grievously offended and to none of you has that man brought such evil as to me. Were I to describe what he has made me suffer, you would comprehend the extent of human baseness. But there are no words in which to describe that suffering. He buried me in a dungeon during the best years of my youth; he took my name from me and almost my life; only a few days since he directed the arms of assassins upon me. 'Tis I have the right to forgive him,—I and none other. Be it known to you, Captain Soliviac, that were forgiveness banished from the earth, it should find asylum in my breast. My mission is to forgive; my duty, to prevent, even at the loss of my life, the spilling of a drop of blood. I have finished. Do with me as you will."
The Carbonari exchanged looks; in spite of their resentment, Naundorff awed them. At last, Soliviac, somewhat nonplussed exclaimed:
"The devil, Monsieur! That speech is very fine, but there are times when forgiveness of one man is condemnation to many others. That man's life costs our death."
"And mine also," said Naundorff, tears trickling down his face, "and that of my children."
"He raves!" exclaimed Giacinto. "Have we not listened sufficiently long to the drivelings of a madman? I am sorry for this fine young lady, but our business must be dispatched."
Soliviac assented and then addressed Naundorff:
"We shall believe your story, Monsieur, through an excess of credulity, tho who will assure us that you are not a spy yourself, ingeniously disguised? The case is this: that scoundrel owes you his liberty. How are you to explain that?"
Naundorff moved back, and, with deliberate, majestic dignity, removed his hat, cast off his cloak and stepped into the full light of the cabin's lamp. The three Carbonari, completely taken back, uttered a cry of amazement and uncovered in deference to royalty.
An hour later Naundorff sat surrounded by the three Carbonari, to whom he had related his entire history. Pity and amazement were upon their faces; Louis Pierre seemed stirred out of his taciturnity. On the table lay the open box from which had been taken the documents corroborating the recital. But these papers had scarcely been necessary, for the Carbonari believed Naundorff blindly.
"What a blow is tyranny to receive!" exclaimed Louis Pierre. "'Tis the man who sits upon the throne today that invited foreign troops into our country. Now shall we brand his forehead with the blister of usurpation and fraud. When I longed to inflict upon the House a terrible punishment, I little dreamed that God reserved one so complete, and that I—weshould be the instruments."
Then Giacinto spoke:
"We, who are an invincible force, make the cause of Naundorff our own cause. We shall be its defenders even against himself, if he should again seek to overthrow it. What say you, Soliviac? I answer for it that our brothers shall as one stand by him. Ah, we carry on the Polipheme a revelation to our country. To the believing we carry faith; to the incredulous proofs," and he motioned toward the documents.
Amélie's clear voice interposed:
"Gentlemen, formulate no plans, foster no hopes. Are you counting on disembarking on French soil? That spy living and free, there is not a safe spot in Europe."
"Mademoiselle speaks the truth," assented Giacinto, who gazed fascinated upon her imperious beauty and splendid poise. "Our danger is great."
"Until now," she continued, "no one has suspected the existence of these papers, which are of a nature to turn the tide of history. My father had no intention of making use of them. He wished to owe his success to the generosity of his sister, and he still trusts to that generosity. But Volpetti knows our secret and he will set forces in motion to wrest this last guarantee from us. He will not scruple as to means, even though our lives be the price. Instead, therefore, of dreaming of splendid victories and dashing revenges, let us think of a refuge. Captain Soliviac, head the vessel toward Dunkirk, for any other spot of France would be our sepulchre. Not even in Holland should we be safe."
Naundorff buried his face in his hands. The reproach implied in Amélie's words cut him deeply. Tho his heart approved his extravagant magnanimity, he realized that in freeing Volpetti he shut in his own face the doors of France and lost the opportunity of an interview with the sister whom he was so anxious to convince.
"Our fate is in God's hands, Amélie," he said with an imposing gesture, "Volpetti is under superhuman control."
"That superhuman control," observed Giacinto sarcastically, "sent a vessel to rescue him. That vessel at this moment carries him to France. Heart of the Madonna! we require genius now to escape with our lives. Am I not right, brothers?" and he turned solemnly toward the other Carbonari.
"Gentlemen," said Amélie, "a secret merits a secret. Of what force do you speak?"
"Mademoiselle," replied the Italian, "we are not permitted to reveal the key of our society. But this much may I say: We are the mines which, in annihilating the present, shall become the basis of the future. Though having the appearance of pygmies, we are loosening the foundations of the columns which support giants. Our aim is to protect the weak."
René listened with knitted brow and uneasy expression.
Louis Pierre added:
"We are vital reaction manifesting itself through convulsions. We are creating by destroying. Our program is to undo the done."
"The program of Satan," murmured Naundorff involuntarily.
"No one can speak those words with so little reason as you, Monseigneur," replied the other. "Did you not say just now that justice is realized in violence? Did you not speak of expiation? and of the iniquities of the past?"
"Yes," answered Naundorff. "I am effacing the sins of a dynasty—its abuses, cruelties and indifference to human suffering."
"Father," said Amélie, "we are effacing also its frailties and apostasies. Therefore, we must not temporize nor vacillate in critical moments. O, can you not comprehend that justice would be on our side at this moment if we might deal the usurpation a deadly blow?" "We are ready to serve your cause," said Giacinto. "Naundorff and his daughter may count upon our loyalty and we are those who walk by night through the bowels of the earth. The soles of our shoes are cork that our footsteps may not reach men's ears. Captain Soliviac," he concluded, suddenly turning toward the seaman, "you are commanding aboard this vessel. What route are we to take?"
Soliviac's green Celtic eyes flashed. So far he had taken no part in the discussion, but now resolution stamped itself upon his face and his voice vibrated with authority, that authority of supreme moments when the ship ran great danger.
"We are to take the route which the other ship has taken; we are to overtake her before she reaches France and capture her. She shall not touch French soil while Camille Soliviac is Captain of the Polipheme."
The others were silent, comprehending the danger. No war raged on the seas; corsairs and pirates were restrained severely.
"What other suggestion can you offer?" asked Soliviac.
"None," replied Giacinto and Louis Pierre.
"Such being the case—," and he turned to descend the stairway.
"Captain," interrupted Louis Pierre, "the schooner is lighter and swifter than our brig. She has an enormous advantage."
"No," replied Soliviac. "She is going at ordinary speed and is unconscious of our intention. Besides, she seems to be traveling backward while we have increased speed since the lulling of the storm. As soon as she is within reach of our cannon, we will salute and watch the effect. Therefore, let us drink each other good luck in another punch, after which Mademoiselle may retire to her state-room and pray for us."
"I to my state-room?" demanded Amélie, her eyes flashing. "How little you know me, Captain."
Naundorff clutched Soliviac by the sleeve, and, almost kneeling, entreated:
"Renounce force, for in that renunciation is the secret of life. It has been written: I took your cause in my hands and your grievance have I avenged. O forbear to spill blood, forbear to destroy life."
The Captain, respectfully but with evident displeasure, moved away, saying:
"There is no alternative."
"But what right have you, Captain, to attack that vessel for performing a charitable deed?"
"What right?" retorted the Breton. "Tell me first by what right the innocent boy-king was tortured, imprisoned, buried? When that schooner and its crew sleep on the floor of ocean, no man will arise to speak to me about rights. Ho there! to business." And he ran down the stairs, followed by René and the Carbonari. Amélie flung her arms around her father's neck as he fell on his knees in prayer. The pale blue morning light filtered through the cabin windows and gleamed over the water.
The Polipheme with outstretched sails sped swiftly after the schooner. Soliviac turned the telescope upon her, remarking to the mate:
"She seems to be lying to."
The mate took the instrument and looked also.
"Not only lying to," he said, "but she is also drawing in sails."
"What can that mean?" mused the captain.
"It means good luck to us, for within another quarter of an hour she will be within our reach. Then we may send her a salute. There is no necessity of announcing our intentions to the high seas: therefore, lower the French flag and hoist the Dutch, in case there be witnesses to our fray."
These orders were silently executed. The crew never commented upon the captain's acts. Besides, having been habituated by their long campaigns against England to piracy and lust for booty, they chafed at the restrictions of a normally organized commerce and enthusiastically welcomed the approaching struggle. The schooner's graceful form, floating the English flag, was easily discernible. Her crew appeared like ants, moving to and fro.
"Captain," exclaimed the pilot, "do you not see them signal? They have just fired off a sky rocket."
"Let us give them a sample ofourrockets!" answered Soliviac.
"Let us demand the spy," whispered Giacinto.
"Are you crazy?" asked Louis Pierre. "What if the fellow leave them a letter for the government? No. The vessel that has rescued Volpetti must perish. Are you trembling? Have you contracted the scruples of the man who is praying on his knees in the cabin? I also believe in divine justice. I believe that 'tis we who accomplish it."
"Captain," called out the mate, "do you see that thin column of smoke rising from her right side?"
Soliviac dropped the telescope, for his eyes served him better at that distance than the instrument. He saw that the vessel was burning.
"She is afire!" he called out.
"Fire!" shouted the three Carbonari.
"The divine justice of which Naundorff spoke," said René.
"Nevertheless, inasmuch as a few buckets of water may extinguish that justice, let us send a salute to the English flag, Captain," ironically remarked Louis Pierre.
Soliviac gave the order and four little cannon, with a simultaneous precision which revealed practice, sent their load into the schooner's side.
"Load again!" shouted Soliviac. "At the masts and spars!"
Aboard the schooner, the unexpected attack produced panic. The crew ran back and forth in consternation and the smoke grew denser.
"Louis Pierre!" called out Giacinto in ferocious joy, "I see Volpetti aboard."
The Polipheme's second discharge broke the mizzen mast, which, falling, caught beneath it two of the sailors. The smoke rose in great columns and 'twas impossible to see what further happened.
"Where are we?" asked Soliviac of the pilot.
"Opposite the isle of Jersey, but nearer the shore than they. Those who count on swimming ashore have slim chance."
"Keep an eye on the skiffs," called the captain. "Now they are trying to save themselves."
Red tongues of flame shot out amid the smoke. The captain commanded.
"Another salute! Let water in to quench their fire."
Again the cannons' load was poured into the schooner's side. She attempted no defence, for all her energy was directed to fighting the fire aboard. One of the Polipheme's balls went into her bow, and the water roared through the aperture.
"Now she goes to the bottom!" shouted Giacinto, wild with joy.
Just then the crew lowered a skiff. The tiny craft dropped to the water and floated like a shell, and several persons cast themselves therein. Two seized the oars and, to the astonishment of the spectators, started toward the Polipheme, whose sailors would gladly have fired upon them had not Louis Pierre interposed. The skiff came within hailing distance. Two men, a woman and a child of some five years were visible.
"Save us!" they entreated wildly. "We have not harmed you!"
Amélie shudderingly grasped the captain's arm.
"Have mercy on them!" she said.
"It cannot be," he answered.
"At least the child," she insisted.
"Hello there!" he called to a sailor. "Cast them a cable and hoist up the boy."
"And the others?"
A look and gesture from Soliviac answered the I question. The skiff drew nearer and some moments later the child, almost dead with fright, was drawn up to the deck. Amélie gathered him in her arms and covered his face with kisses.
"Mamma! mamma!" wailed the little fellow in English.
Notwithstanding her natural courage, Amélie took refuge in a heap of cables and clasped the child tightly to her breast. She did not wish to see or hear, but the shrieks of the skiff's inmates sounded on her ears even tho she covered them close.
She clasped the child tightly. Suddenly she I screamed aloud, for she felt the vessel beneath her tremble amid a deafening explosion. The child ceased sobbing through fright. The schooner's magazine had exploded, casting her into the air. The detonation was followed by a terrible silence while pieces of broken timber and mutilated bodies floated on the surface of the water.
Naundorff raised the almost inanimate form of his daughter from the deck, and then exclaimed in broken tones that seemed to presage naught but a hopeless future:
"Blood has been spilled for our cause; God is against us!"
At the foot of a mountain-chain which crosses Brittany, continues through Normandy and terminates in Cherbourg, stands the castle of Picmort. It pertains to the de Brezé patrimony, through the Guyornarch fief, which was the avenue through which the illustrious family claimed descent from the royal house of Brittany. Notwithstanding political vicissitudes and the invasion of new ideas, the de Brezés continued to exercise a veritable sovereignty in that corner of France. There lived not in the valley a shepherd nor a long-haired peasant who failed to acknowledge the dominion of the House de Brezé and render the tribute of a reverence approaching divine honors. René during his hunting journeys to Picmort received proofs of the extraordinary attachment which the Bretons evinced to their master.
One evening as the setting sun gilded the lichens on the rough Celtic rocks, there traveled toward the thicket a woman and a man,—the latter carrying a child in his arms. They journeyed laboriously, as tho greatly fatigued, especially the woman, who with the greatest difficulty lifted her small feet, clad in rude sabots, which were in keeping with her peasant's dress and the white coif covering her blond hair. At last, heaving a sigh, she sank upon the ground. The man came to her saying warningly and gently:
"Mademoiselle, it will soon be night and if we do not hurry, we shall have to sleep here with the child. Can you not make an effort?"
"The sabots have bruised my feet," she complained, her beautiful young face full of pain. "But no matter, I shall start again."
She tried to walk, but failed, saying:
"O I cannot, I cannot! What will become of us?"
Louis Pierre did not dare to insist further. He placed the sleeping child on the ground and wiped his wet forehead with a nervous hand. Suddenly, the barking of a dog came to them, followed by the appearance of a great mastiff, springing through the thicket. The child awoke and began to cry, and the woman,—girl, rather—half rose. Then the approaching tread of a horse was heard and a splendid voice called to the dog:
"Here Silvano!" and the horseman sprang lightly to earth. Turning to the travelers, he said:
"A good and holy evening to you."
He was a tall, young, finely proportioned peasant of beautiful beardless face and abundant hair.
"Are you the people we await at Picmort?"
"We are," answered Louis Pierre. "Are you Jean Vilon?"
"My name is Jean Vilon, servant of God and my master, the Marquis de Brezé. My letter of instruction reads that there will arrive a woman, a child and two men."
"Our companion remained on the coast," replied Louis Pierre evasively. "He will be here later."
"He shall be welcome when he arrives," replied Jean Vilon with grave courtesy. "In the meantime I shall carry out my master's orders. He wishes that no one in the village know of your presence. Prepare then to follow my instructions."
"We shall obey you, Jean Vilon. I know you are a valued and trusted servant of the Marquis."
The Breton made no rejoinder to the praise. He stooped and raised the tired girl to the saddle, caressed the child and seated him on his shoulder. Then, taking the reins in his hands, he led the horse into the thicket. Night was almost upon them and the darkness was rapidly increasing. The horse, had he not been preceded by Silvano and led by Vilon, would have many times stumbled upon the stumps of trees hidden beneath the grass and leaves. The child clung confidingly to Vilon, asking incessantly, "Are we almost there?" After a three hours' journey, they halted in an open which led to a species of natural bower. Here Vilon aided Amélie to descend. He placed the child on the earth, tied the horse to a tree and took from his pocket a small lantern which he lighted from a flint. Then turning its beams full upon Louis Pierre's face, he asked in the cautious tone of a peasant-warrior:
"The watch-word?"
"Giac and Saint Ann," Amélie hastened to answer.
"Correct," answered the young Breton. "Henceforth we are friends. My master has written a letter of instructions, which he commands me to burn after reading. Bear witness that I comply," and he took from his belt a folded paper which he lighted with a flint. When it had crumbled to ashes, he followed the mastiff for some distance. On reaching a great stone, he halted, the removal of which disclosed an aperture which resembled the opening of a wild beast's cave. He signaled the others to follow, entering first himself, bearing the child in his arms. The little fellow commenced to cry, whereupon Amélie drew near, whispering:
"Baby Dick, do you want to live with me or away from me?"
"With you, with you!" he cried.
"Well then," and she smiled sweetly into Jean Vilon's face, "go with this good man, and he will take you where you will always be with me."
The peasant stared at her transported. Amélie took off her sabots and followed him into the tunnel, Louis Pierre accompanying them. At first they had almost to crawl, for the passage was so narrow, but soon they were able to walk upright. After a while they reached a circular apartment whose roof was sustained by granite pillars and whose floor was strewn with dry herbs. Here Jean Vilon presented his charges with a basket of provisions there awaiting them. Bread, wine, cheese and milk constituted the refreshment, and their hunger made these seem delicious. Their guide was silent during the meal, tho his eyes of changeful hue were fixed from time to time on Amélie, in wonder and admiration. The white Breton coif on her head intensified the girl's great beauty.
When the frugal repast was over, Jean Vilon cast the lantern's light upon the wall; a rusty grating appeared, which he unfastened with a rusty key. Back of the grating they beheld another passageway, narrower still, high, inclined upward, and winding to the right, after ascending which they passed through several galleries, reaching at last an oaken door barred with iron. Jean applied a key to this, and it swung upon its hinges. They entered an octagonal salon, through which they passed on to another apartment wherein began a stairway which seemed interminable. Amélie, notwithstanding her exhaustion, resolutely moved on; but there came a moment when she tottered, for the lack of fresh air almost asphyxiated her. Jean hastened to support her and with the gentlest reverence, completed the ascent, his arm around her shoulders.
At the landing a current of fresh air revived her. They stood on the floor of an empty cistern. Stars shone overhead. Amélie realized that the arrangement was a military precaution for enabling the besieged to escape. Jean explained that there existed a tunnel from the cistern to a mine. They walked for a while along a subterranean passage. Suddenly Jean seemed to pass through the wall. He had but leaned heavily against it and thus disclosed a lane, so narrow that they had to push themselves sidewise through it. At length they stood in a large yard, near the foot of several tall gray towers overgrown with ivy. Amélie and Louis Pierre looked back for a last sight of the passageway which had conducted them thither. It had disappeared. No exit was visible and Jean smiled demurely at their amazement.
Then he placed a finger on his lips and, bidding Louis Pierre go ahead with the lantern, he approached one of the towers and pushed against the postern, which yielded. Then, with the air of a host, he preceded them up a winding stairway, across an antechamber and into a sumptuously furnished salon, brilliantly lighted with wax tapers in porcelain candelabra of crystal pendants. The apartment was an example of highly refined Louis Quinze taste; the caprice of a Marquise de Brezé, removed by a wildly jealous husband from court and incarcerated in the gloomy towers of Picmort. This most capricious Marquise had adorned her prison walls with the refinements and exquisite fantasies of Versailles, until death came at last to her amid flowers, satins and laces. The boudoir remained ever after untenanted, with its mythological paintings, gilded screens, voluptuous couches, blue celadon jars, silver, ivory and enameled ornaments. Even the Marquise's lace handkerchief remained where the dying lady's feverish hand had crushed it.
"My master has written that this apartment is to be occupied by you, Mademoiselle," said Jean. "It is called the Boudoir of the Marquise and the windows are always closed. There is a belief among the peasants to the effect that death should visit the castle if the windows be opened. You had best, therefore, in order to avoid comment, remain during the daytime in the rooms above. If you are seen from below, 'twill be thought that you are a servant-maid or my sister from Saint Brieuc."
"You are a prudent man, Jean Vilon," said Louis Pierre.
"A prudent and faithful man," said Amélie, smiling sweetly upon the Breton, as with the gentle dignity that so well became her, she seated herself in an armchair.
"And now, Jean," she said, "provide my fellow-traveler with a bed and room. I see my own here. Have a little mattress brought for the boy, as he does not wish to leave me," and she caressed Baby Dick's blond head as she added an assurance that she would be very comfortable.
As the two men retired, the light of dawn silvered the stern turrets of Picmort.
On the following day, Amélie and Louis Pierre had a serious talk.
"I do not consider," remarked the girl, "that René has reason to complain of my compliance with his instructions. I have obeyed him blindly, and that is not so easy a thing for me to do. But now I demand to know why, instead of accompanying my father to Paris and of hearing our faithful adherents acclaim him King, I am banished as tho I were a prisoner and enjoined to remain in a peasant's dress behind closed windows. In order to breathe fresh air, I must ascend the dizzy heights of a tower."
Louis Pierre did not at once reply. He sat for a few moments in that gloomy attitude which he so often assumed.
"Mademoiselle," he said after a few moments, "courage!"
"Speak the truth," demanded Amélie imperiously. "I am no weakling."
And her face was so gloriously brave that the Knight of Liberty spoke with more than his accustomed frankness.
"Your father did not go immediately to Paris, for we are watched and caution is necessary. Our original plan has been abandoned, namely, that your father intercede with his sister and the Marquis reunite the families attached to the cause. Were that program in progress, your presence in Paris would be of inestimable value. The father and daughter together would present a picture calculated to quiet all lingering doubt. The impression you both produced upon Giacinto and me in the Red Fish would be repeated upon all beholders. But as matters stand today, your very faces would be your condemnation."
Amélie fixed her brave eyes on the knight's dark face.
"You mean," she said, "that Volpetti has been saved."
"He has, that is to say some of the sailors reached the shore. How they survived fire, explosion, cannon, bullets and shipwreck I cannot say—"
Amélie buried her face in her hands, but the springs of her wonderful iron will soon recovered their tension.
"And how has this been discovered?" she asked. "I mean that some have been saved?"
"You know, that on reaching French soil, we arranged to travel separately and by circuitous routes until we should reach some neighboring port, from which each on a different day should take the diligence. At Dinan, we spent our first night.
"Yes," said Amélie.
"At Dinan, Giacinto visited inns and taverns, conversed with sailors and fishermen and from them learned the story he too well knew, the tragedy in which he had played so prominent a part. He was told that two or three sailors had floated ashore at Pleneuf, been given shelter by fishermen and were now recovering."
"If that be all," said the girl, with a look of relief, "why conjecture the worst? Volpetti was not in the best condition for swimming."
"God grant your wish."
"When René left me after our landing, he assured me that an inviolable asylum awaited me here and a faithful guardian in Jean Vilon. 'From father to son have the Vilons served the de Brazes,' he said. The present steward's father was executed for his adhesion to the throne and altar. The castle contains places of concealment known only to Jean and myself. If the attempt were made to seize you, 'twould be impossible while breath remains in Jean's body. He thinks that you are an unhappy girl, distantly related to me whom I have rescued from enforced entry into a convent."
"Louis Pierre, I know that you and Giacinto stand for ideas widely at variance with those of which my father is a symbol; nevertheless, my faith in you is absolute. You are now my guardian angel," and she extended her hand to him.
He did not dare touch, much less to kiss it. His face was transfigured, beautified, as he solemnly said:
"The daughter of France may trust the sons of the Revolution. She may place faith in the enemy of the institutions which the Bourbon symbolizes. No man more than I hates the dynasty which, in committing treason against the country, became the cause of that country's woes, the woes of a foreign invasion. Mortal, eternal, inextinguishable hatred has Louis Pierre sworn against the House. This hate has guided his feet and been the spring of his actions until a few days since. Now I give the Bourbons a chance to prove that they have profited by adversity, that they are capable of being animated by an impulse of justice, that they repent them of their iniquities. I give the usurper a chance to voluntarily abdicate the throne and acknowledge the union of royalty with the strong, pure blood of the people. If this miracle be performed, if the sister open her arms to the brother, Louis Pierre will retract his malediction and forgive the House of Bourbon."
These extravagant words caused Amélie's expression to become graver and loftier.
"Who doubts, Louis Pierre," she said in almost affectionate effusion, as from a queen to a subject, "that my father will accomplish his mission? The recital of his unparalleled suffering, his atrocious martyrdom, the refuge he sought and obtained among the people, his children born of a daughter of those people; all this will speak for him eloquently. Humanity has suffered too greatly to remain unmoved before such woes. To my father is reserved the sublime office of reconciling the people and royalty."
Her eyes and cheeks glowed and the Carbonaro ejaculated:
"Blessed be the day when that light shines in France."
"It will shine!" she cried. "Victory is almost ours. My father is secure beneath René's protection. He possesses proofs which, were it necessary to appeal to a tribunal, would win the cause instantly. O even tho Volpetti be risen from hell, what harm could he do?"
"What could he do?" repeated the Carbonaro. "He can do everything to accomplish our ruin. Do not deceive yourself, Mademoiselle. If that man lives, we are lost. He holds the strings of our enterprise, he knows the entire history of the mechanic Naundorff. 'Tis he enveloped him in that name as in a winding sheet. If Volpetti be living, woe to your father, woe to you, woe to us all and to Soliviac, who has been of so great service. 'Tis a question of life and death, and we are not sleeping upon the danger, Mademoiselle," he concluded sombrely.
"What do you mean?" she demanded almost sternly.
"I mean that Giacinto is with Soliviac, and that they are exploring every shoal, creek and cape, interviewing every fisherman. Their destination is Pleneuf. Their project may have a startling effect," and Louis Pierre's voice rang out almost stridently.
Amélie was forced to resign herself patiently to await the news. Life tends to normalize itself, whatever the given conditions, and she wisely accommodated herself to the inevitable. During the mornings she roamed over the great castle, in company with Vilon and Baby Dick. They would ascend towers and descend into subterranean passages, rearranging the salons and adorning the altars. The only inmates of the lofty feudal edifice, besides Vilon, Amélie, Louis Pierre and the child were two maid-servants, one of whom was in charge of the kitchen. At dawn both maids went into the fields for fruit and vegetables or to take the cows to pasture, so that Amélie, free from importunate eyes, walked about freely. They were curious to see the Marquis's relative, she who slept in the Marquise's boudoir, but they made no impertinent inquiries through fear of Jean Vilon, who alone waited upon the guest. During the afternoon, Louis Pierre would come up from his room and play dominoes or discuss the future with her. The Carbonaro had read many books. His brain had received certain ideas as though they had been graven thereon with a corrosive. He was visionary, mystical and a dreamer, and pertained to the sect known as Theophilanthropists; he believed himself destined by Providence to accomplish some high mission requiring great valor and abnegation. His chief characteristic was a contempt for life, and this secured him Amélie's esteem.
With Jean Vilon, Amélie conversed less than with Louis Pierre and her treatment always displayed an air of affectionate patronage. She was a woman, very much of a woman, and fully conscious of her effect upon men. She used no coquetry toward the fine peasant for in no particular did her feminine artifices approach familiarity. The homage she loved to receive was that of the soul, the adoration of chivalry; she longed for the devotion which illustrious unhappy queens had inspired, such as Mary Stuart, or Marie Antoinette. The attachment of Jean Vilon, each day more apparent, was such as a youth of medieval ages paid the holy relics. He divined and filled her every wish. On warm nights he escorted her through the woods that she might breathe the fresh, pure air. They took long walks which brought the roses back to her cheeks and the litheness to her limbs. These clandestine rambles, which seemed at first so risky, soon became a custom.
But her chief delight was the child, the unfortunate waif, torn from the arms of his drowning mother and cast into hers. When asked his name, he would answer "Baby, baby!"
"Only Baby?" Amélie would ask.
One day the little fellow fixed his blue eyes, full of candor, on her face, and added:
"Baby Dick."
"His name is Richard, then," said Amélie. "This is some information gained," and with that much she had to content herself. The child had either forgotten or did not know his family name. Of his father he remembered nothing; of his mother he knew that she lived in a cottage near the beach, amid many flowers and with a large dog, as large as Silvano. Amélie began to think that he was a child born out of wedlock and she felt for him a greater attachment than ever. From the first moment of being with her, he had called her "Mamma." Her eyes would fill with tears as she placed him at night in his little bed and clasped his tiny hands in prayer. "He has no mother but me," she would say with trembling lips.
One afternoon Louis Pierre read aloud to her from Rousseau's Emile while she held Baby Dick on her knees. Suddenly Jean Vilon appeared.
"A man has just arrived," he said "bringing my master's watch-word. He came by the road of Saint Brieuc. Shall I open to him?"
Louis exchanged a lightning glance with Amélie.
"Is he dark, handsome, with curly black hair and in sailor's clothes?" she asked.
"Yes, and he seems very tired."
"Bring him through the subterranean passage, no matter how great is his fatigue. The servants must not see a stranger enter."
Jean Vilon withdrew, and it was night when, almost fainting with exhaustion, and covered with dust, Giacinto appeared before them. Amélie ordered Vilon to retire. There was no need to ask questions. The Italian's face, with terrible eloquence, revealed the truth. Nevertheless Louis Pierre inquired:
"Bad news?"
"The worst."
"Volpetti is saved?"
"Saved and on the road to Paris."
Louis Pierre's voice uttered an inarticulate growl, but the girl recovered sufficient courage to say:
"Come, take heart! How did he save himself?"
"He and three others swam ashore. The waves dashed them against the rocks, wounding and bruising them seriously. One of the men died from the effects; two others are lying on their backs in a fisherman's hut, and the only other of the party—was ever misfortune equal to this?—the only other,—he whose bruises amounted only to pinches and who speedily recovered sufficient strength to write a number of letters,—each of which is a dagger thrust in our sides—is that—cursed dog,—that—fiend—Volpetti!"
Giacinto clutched his fine black hair and tore a handful from his head.
"Fate is against us," said Louis Pierre gloomily. "And Soliviac?"
"Aboard the Polipheme, on the sea, coasting toward Cherbourg. He would gladly sail away to Hamburg, out of danger's way, were he not a knight. He stays because we may have need of him."
"So you have accomplished nothing?"
"Nothing. After Volpetti communicated with the prefect, a guard of soldiers surrounded the hut in which he was recovering. 'Tis a wonder that I was not captured for I have been chased like a wild beast. A bullet pierced my cap and I have reached you by miracle."
Louis Pierre interrupted:
"You and I must leave for Paris at once. If one of us be killed, the other may reach the city and warn Naundorff. We shall take separate routes."
"Very well, but we need horses and money."
"Mademoiselle," said Louis Pierre, "you will be safe, here. Danger cannot reach you with Vilon as a guard. Otherwise, I should not leave you. You know the secret passages and are safe from all the spies and European cabinets in existence. As for us, we are burning our last cartridge in going to Paris. Volpetti has unlimited resources: gendarmerie, regular troops, magistrates, spies and those fellows who go by the name of 'Partisans of the Order.' What a tremendous mistake it was to let Volpetti go. If we today considered our own safety, we should immediately board the Polipheme and depart forever from the coasts of France."
Amélie rose and stretched a hand to each Carbonaro:
"Defenders of a cause you espoused through generosity, friends, brothers, you shall live always in my heart. If my father's act in freeing Volpetti bring evil to you, O forgive him! I implore you on my knees." And the beautiful girl was sinking to the floor, when the Knights interposed and raised her. They pressed their lips upon her white hands, as though she were a queen. They left without a word, for their voices were full of tears. From a window, she watched them leave and her brave spirit sank within her.
After their departure, she seemed to fall into a lethargy. She missed the long colloquies with Louis Pierre. Alone in the sumptuous apartments whose dust-covered portraits of ladies and paladins seemed to look upon her with cold disdain, she suffered the inevitable effect of isolation. No letters reached her, for René trusted nothing to the mails. She tortured herself with surmises; she seemed to see her father in the hands of the police or in a dungeon; René the victim of some political snare, and the Carbonari prisoners on an indictment of piracy. And she told herself over and over that her father's absurd magnanimity had caused all the trouble.
Her only consolation was the companionship of Baby Dick, and the little fellow was never separated from her. Hours and hours they would sit together at the window which looked over the deep entrenchments, Amélie sewing, but with frequent interruptions, for she could not refrain from stroking Baby's soft curls or taking him on her knees. He, meanwhile, asked questions incessantly and, when she failed to reply promptly, covered her face with kisses. Silvano would lay his splendid head in her lap and look into her face with his great intelligent eyes.
In the midst of her anxiety, a new trouble broke upon her,—the transformation taking place in her guardian, Jean. Not that the Breton permitted himself liberties; the deference he paid her was daily more marked and his attitude—that of devoté before an image—was more intensified; but the devoté had eyes and the eyes would light up on beholding his mistress; he had hands and those hands would tremble in placing food on the table. She felt that he loved her with a wild, deep love which only his iron will controlled.
She instinctively accentuated the difference in their ranks; she no longer walked with him through the woods. Her fear of him increased daily until she entered none of the castle's apartments, remaining constantly in the boudoir or in Baby's little chamber which adjoined her own.
"This misfortune," she soliloquized, for as such she designated Vilon's passion, "has its cause in my disguise. Had I appeared to him in my proper character he would never have dared. My God, help me! At the mercy of a man whose eyes dart lightning, and from whom I must conceal my fears, I have need of all my self-possession. If I falter, this splendid animal will grip me."
One night she lay awake listening to Vilon's furtive footfalls in the antechamber where, in his impassioned fidelity, he kept guard. Such vigilance, far from tranquilizing the girl, filled her with ever increasing terror. She tossed upon the gilded Pompadour bed, whose woodwork was carved in capricious and elegant mythological designs. The Marquise's pale shade seemed to be near. The child's tranquil breathing came to her from his little low bed, back of the embroidered Chinese screen. A tiny lamp, whose light was softened by a green glass globe, projected unsteady rays, which magnified shadows and increased her terror. She was fast becoming a victim to insomnia. Her lids closed but the light shining through them wrought figures of fantastic dragons and pale oblique-eyed damsels and mandarins with drooping mustaches who first became animated and then disappeared. When these grotesque visions vanished, there glowed on the silken background goddesses and nymphs of Watteau pattern, who, descending from amid the bed carvings, danced gayly on with clattering satin shoes and gleaming bosoms. Their laughs rang shrill as they too vanished and there arose from the depths of the tangled forest the tanned countenance and blond hair of Jean Vilon. He seized one of the nymphs around the waist; the nymph was herself; she struggled vainly; he clasped his rude hands around her delicate neck and compressed it with gradually increasing force, almost extinguishing life. In order to assure herself that all was delusion she opened wide her eyes just as the brass enameled clock pealed forth midnight.
In an effort to sleep, she turned on her side and drew the pillow over her face, but she continued to hear inexplicable noises. People seemed to be walking through the castle. Suddenly a wild hope filled her. Perhaps her father, having triumphed, had summoned her to join him. Perhaps René was the bearer of the good tidings. She raised herself on her elbow. No longer was there any question. Footsteps sounded through the vestibules, the antechambers, the salons; light gleamed under the door. Suddenly the lock was noisily forced and a lady in traveling costume, followed by two servants wearing the de Brezé livery, walked swiftly toward the bed.
Amélie became speechless with amazement. Seated upright, she stared at the lady with wide eyes, who, in turn, fastened on the girl a hostile, terrible look. The two recognized each other. Amélie beheld again the arrogant faded beauty of the face so wonderfully like René's in feature and so different in expression. And the lady gazed again awestruck upon the facsimile of the countenance which in miniatures, pastels, oil-paintings, engravings, lithographs, snuff boxes, etc., was the object of compassionate adoration. The resemblance was at that moment so striking that the Duchess de Rousillon remained motionless, dominated by an involuntary reverence. Quickly recovering her sang froid, she said:
"Leave the bed!"
"Why are you here?" demanded Amélie. "Why have you forced an entrance into my room at such an hour?"
The girl's indignation momentarily disconcerted the lady, but very soon she laughed disdainfully:
"I might ask with what shadow of a right you have taken up quarters in my castle?"
"This castle, madam, appertains to René de Giac, Marquis de Brezé."
"I am his mother. I come in his name and with full authority from him. Rise at once if you have a sense of decency that we may talk in a suitable manner."
"René has given you no authority," protested the girl.
"My authority will soon be manifest," replied the Duchess.
"Jean Vilon! Jean Vilon!" called Amélie.
"Jean Vilon will not come. He is my slave. Do not become hysterical. And rise, I repeat. 'Twill be a pleasanter method than having my servants pull you out of bed."
"In order that I should rise, madam, these servants must retire. I am not accustomed to dressing in the presence of men."
The Duchess was constrained into making a signal. The liveried attendants placed the wax tapers on the mantel and left the apartment and Amélie deftly and modestly made a hasty toilet. Then she turned to the Duchess, saying:
"Will you now be good enough to explain your conduct?"
The Duchess advanced upon her in fury.
"I dare say," she hissed, "that you can guess I have come to break the cords by which you hold my son,—you and that imposter, your father. The scales have at last dropped from René's eyes; he is disillusioned and repentant. He revealed to me your hiding place. In his name I come."
"You lie, madam. May my soul be banished forever from God if René knows you are here. Did he know it, he would stand before me now and shield me from you."
"Impertinent, intriguing adventuress! I tear away your mask. Believe what you choose regarding my son, but prepare to obey my orders."
"And I remind you that I am your son's betrothed wife."
"That pretence is the most amusing proof of your ingenuity. The wife of my son! So great an honor, Mademoiselle Naundorff, would overwhelm our family. The de Brezé contract an alliance with the daughter of the convict Prussian watch-maker!—Let us talk rationally; you are the sweetheart of a good man who loves you devotedly. My steward, Jean Vilon, is ready to marry you at this moment."
"What!" shrieked Amélie. "What do you say of Jean Vilon?"
"That he is to be your excellent husband. The dear fellow is wild with joy in knowing that I have brought the chaplain in my chaise to bless the couple. You have made him lose his head about you. Ah, do not play the innocent. You have understood each other very well for some time. I shall stand sponsor and bestow a dot upon you. As for Jean? I shall give him the Plouret farm. In short you shall be consoled for not being the Marquise de Brezé. The wife of an honest man is a more suitable position for your station—"
"Is this a nightmare?" cried Amélie. Then with supreme disdain, she added, "Not even René, himself, could obtain from me what you propose. My life is in your hands, the life of the woman whom your son loves. But my will you cannot conquer. Drag me to the altar I will say no with my last breath."
The Duchess seemed taken aback at the emphasis with which the refusal was spoken. She revealed her true character, that of a pompous impertinent woman, performing awkwardly an assigned role. With an angry gesture, she passed into the adjoining apartment, and held for ten minutes or more a whispered conference with others. She' returned accompanied by her two attendants, one of whom looked at Amélie in a peculiar manner. Both approached the bed whereon Baby was lying and lifted him up. The frightened child commenced to cry and Amélie ran to him, but they snatched him from her arms and disappeared.
"If you love the child so greatly," observed the Duchess, "you may have the happiness of his company by consenting to marry Jean Vilon. He is pretty badly spoilt, owing to the manner in which you have brought him up. Jean is willing to adopt him. Is he really your own? Well, we shall soon be able to judge of that."
The Duchess retired and the doors were barred and bolted after her. Amélie realized that she was indeed a prisoner.
Imprisonment could not subdue her. She would have died rather than yield. Her father's fate, her lover's fate and the fate of dear little Dick, weighed each moment more heavily on her heart. The Duchess's visit to Picmort signified much; it indicated that the police had discovered their plans.
"If my father," she thought during the long sleepless hours, "had been received by his sister, if his rights had been recognized, the Duchess would not have dared to outrage me with this proposition. Can René be imprisoned? He must be living, or his mother would not seek to marry me to Jean Vilon. In this plot, I see the hand of Volpetti. I wonder if the spy was not one of the servants. I think I recognized him. O they would be rid of me, and, not daring to kill me, they think to marry me basely. For so could the Duchess free her son and they have one more pretext for disclaiming my father's pretensions—But Baby Dick? What is to become of him?"
Terror stricken she walked the floor. She began to comprehend how great was the love which bound her to the frail being to whom she had been playing the role of mother. She reproached herself cruelly for having contributed to orphan the little fellow. His beauty, his grief at being separated from her, his caresses, his cunning little ways, all these surged to her mind and seemed to obliterate her other griefs.
"What does this mean? I know not my father's whereabouts; René is likely in grave danger; but my thoughts are absorbed with this child who is joined to me by no tie, whom chance placed in my arms and violence removed."
Morning dawned and she had not closed her eyes. The birth of day brought calmness as it does to all human souls. She had no longer need of concealment, so, running to the windows, she flung them wide open, heedless of the warning that death would ensue, which Vilon had given her when she arrived in the Castle. The light streamed into the Marquise's boudoir. The capricious antiquated draperies became illuminated like a stage setting, contrasting with the desolate magnificence of the exterior and the sombre massiveness of the towers which the sun began to brighten. Amélie looked out through those windows for the first time.
"What will they do to Baby?" she asked herself. "What can they do? Nothing more than separate him from me I suppose. But he has become so dear to me—Still that shall not break my will.Ithe wife of Jean Vilon?—What is the meaning of this? How has he dared lend himself to the scheme? Why has he let the Duchess in? O his passion explains it all. How repellent!—Better death a thousand times."
She gazed vacantly upon the faded silken hangings, the sumptuous furniture and elegant old laces; she caught her image in the mirrors of magnificent frames wherein the Marquise had so often beheld her pallid wasted features. Suddenly, she started, listening affrightedly to Baby Dick's cry in the next room.
"Mamma 'Mélie! Mamma 'Mélie!" he called. "Come! Give me breakfast. It is very late."
With passion of which she had not deemed herself capable, she ran to the door and shook it violently, crying:
"My little heart, I can't come to you. Wait. Be very patient."
"My pretty mamma, I am alone. That bad lady shut me in. O break the door, mamma."
"I can't Baby," she answered, pushing with all her strength against the panels. And giving way to her grief, she dropped into a chair and sobbed. For the first time, despair seized her. Woman's tenderest attribute—the maternal instinct—vanquished her strong heart, even tho her attachment was for another woman's child. Perhaps, on that very account, 'twas more highly idealized.
Baby Dick continued to call to her in his sweet, pleading tones and she hid her face in the satin cushions, in a longing to drown his voice. But though she heard his wails more faintly, they seemed on that account more plaintive. She jumped into bed, drew the clothes over her head and sobbed in time to his moaning.
"O if I might break down that door and clasp his little body in my arms, I should fling away every ambitious project, even happiness with René. My love and pity outweigh every other consideration."
At eight o'clock breakfast was brought her by the two men who had come with the Duchess during the night. She asked several questions, to which no answer whatever was given. The morning seemed interminable. At noon the same attendants brought a lunch which, like the others, passed in silence. Amélie could not eat more than a morsel of bread, for the child's cries were incessant. She refrained from talking to him, for doing so seemed to increase his suffering; but at length she could contain herself no longer, and tapping on the panels, she called affectionately: