CHAPTER XVII.
REVELATIONS OF GUILT.
Don Juan Moraquitos was one of the first to hear of the escape of Paul Lisimon. The reader must remember that the Spaniard knew nothing of the infamous plot devised by Silas Craig at the instigation of Augustus Horton. He believed his protege to be guilty of the crime imputed to him.
He had a secret reason for rejoicing in the disgrace of the young Mexican, and he had a still stronger motive in seeking the destruction of Paul, since he had begun to suspect the attachment between Lisimon and Camillia.
He hurried to his daughter's apartments, in order to inform her of Paul's escape from prison.
"Now, Camillia, what think you of this haughty youth who so proudly declared his innocence?" said Don Juan, after relating the account he had just heard of Lisimon's escape.
"I think as I have ever thought," answered Camillia.
"That he is innocent?"
"Yes!" replied the Spanish girl.
"Strange, then, that he should have fled," said Don Juan; "the innocent man generally awaits to meet the issue of his trial; it is only the guilty wretch who flies to hide himself from the avenging power of the law he has outraged."
Pauline Corsi had been present during this brief dialogue, but she had remained silent, with her fingers busy with the rainbow silks of her embroidery, and her eyes bent over her work. She raised them, however, as the Spaniard uttered those words and looked him full in the face.
"The guilty do not always fly, Don Juan Moraquitos," she said quietly.
The Spaniard started and looked at Mademoiselle Corsi with a rapid, but furtive glance.
"They sometimes remain for years upon the scene of their guilt. They defy the laws which they have outraged, and triumph in their undiscovered and successful villainy."
Don Juan laughed mockingly, but a close observer might have detected an uneasy quiver of his mustachio-shaded lip.
"Mademoiselle Corsi appears to speak from experience," he said. "She has perhaps known such people?"
"I have known such people," answered the Frenchwoman in the same quiet tone in which she had first addressed Don Juan.
"They could scarcely be desirable acquaintances for the instructress of—"
"The daughter of so honorable a man as yourself, Don Juan," said Pauline, as if interpreting the thoughts of her employer.
While this conversation was going forward between Mademoiselle Corsi and the Spaniard, Camillia Moraquitos had strolled out onto the balcony, to escape the watchful eyes of her father, and to conceal the relief she felt in her lover's escape. Pauline and Don Juan were, therefore, alone. Their eyes met. There was something in the glance of the Frenchwoman which told plainly that her words had no common meaning.
For some moments the gaze of Don Juan was rooted upon that fair face and those clear and radiant blue eyes—a face which was almost childlike in its delicacy and freshness, and which yet, to the experienced eye of the physiognomist, revealed a nature rarely matched for intelligence and cunning.
Don Juan crossed the apartment to the curtained recess in which Pauline Corsi was seated, and, placing himself in the chair opposite to her, grasped her slender wrist in his muscular hand.
"There is a hidden significance in your words," he said.
"Can you not read their meaning, Don Juan?"
"No."
"You cannot?"
"I cannot," he answered defiantly.
"Say rather that you will not," replied the Frenchwoman, scornfully. "You fear to commit yourself by an avowal which may seem like a confession of guilt. Shall I tell you the meaning of those words?"
"Yes."
"You are a brave man, Don Juan Moraquitos, you do not fear to hear the truth?"
"I do not."
"Then listen to me. Those words have relation to an event which occurred thirteen years ago!"
"My memory is no longer that of a young man," answered Don Juan; "I cannot remember all the events which happened at that date."
"Perhaps not; but you can remember the death of your kinsman, Don Tomaso Crivelli?"
This time the Spaniard started as if an adder had stung him. The cold perspiration broke out upon his bronzed forehead, and every vestige of color fled alike from cheek and lips.
"I see you do remember," said Pauline Corsi. "You remember that will which was made on that night. The will which was witnessed by two men; one of them a seafaring man whose name I know not as yet; the other, William Bowen, then captain of a slaver. You remember the sick man's confession. You remember his dying prayer, that those dear to him should be protected by you; and lastly, Don Juan Moraquitos, you remember the draught mixed by Silas Craig, and which your wife's brother, Tomaso Crivelli, took from your hand, two hours before his death!"
"How could you have learned all this?" gasped the Spaniard.
"I know more than this!" replied Pauline Corsi. "When the faint gray of the wintry dawn was stealing through the half-open shutters of the sick chamber, Tomaso Crivelli lifted himself from his pillow in the last agonies of death, and uttered an accusation—"
"Hold! hold, woman, I entreat!" cried the Spaniard, "you know all! How you have acquired that knowledge, save through some diabolical agency, I know not; for the door of the chamber was secured by a lock not easily tampered with, and those within were not the men to betray secrets. But, no matter, you know all! Why have you kept silence for thirteen years?"
"We women are tacticians, Don Juan. I had a motive for my silence!"
"And you speak now—?"
"Because I think it is time to speak."
Don Juan paced the apartment backward and forward with folded arms, and his head bent upon his breast. Presently pausing before Pauline Corsi's embroidery frame, he said in a hoarse whisper:
"Do you mean to betray me?"
"No!"
"Why, then, tell me all this?"
"Because I would ask the reward of thirteen years' silence."
"And that reward—?"
"Is easy for you to grant. I am tired of dependence, even on your goodness. Make me your wife, and let me share the wealth acquired by the guilt of whose secrets I know."