"Then you think Pierre Labarre knows where the major part of my father's fortune is?" asked the marquis.
"Certainly. He and no one else has it in safe keeping, and if you do not hurry up, the old man might die, and we can look on."
The marquis sighed. This was not the first time Madeleine provoked him against Pierre Labarre, but the old man had disappeared since the death of his master, and it required a long time before Simon, the worthy assistant of the marquis, found out his residence.
In the meantime the position of the Fougereuses was getting worse and worse. At court murmurs were heard about swindling speculations with which the marquis's name was connected, and the vicomte did his best to drag the proud old name in the dust. A rescue was at hand, in a marriage of the vicomte with the young Countess of Salves, but this rescue rested on a weak footing, as a new escapade of "The Talizac Buckle," as the heir of the Fougereuse was mockingly called, might destroy the planned union.
Talizac was the hero of all the scandals of Paris; he sought and found his companions in very peculiar regions, and several duels he had fought had made his name, if not celebrated, at least disreputable.
This was the position of the marquis's affairs when Simon found Pierre Labarre; the marquis was determined not to return to Paris without first having settled the affair, and as Simon now returned to the room with the host, his master exclaimed:
"Are the horses ready?"
"No, my lord; the Cure has overflowed in consequenceof the heavy rains, and the road from here to Vagney is impassable."
"Can we not reach Vagney by any other way?"
"No, my lord."
"Bah! the peasants exaggerate the danger so as to get increased prices for their services. Have you tried to get horses?"
"Yes, my lord; but unfortunately no one in the village except the host owns any."
"Then buy the host's horses."
"He refuses to give me the animals. An acrobat who came here this morning, and who owns two horses, refused to sell them to me."
"That looks almost like a conspiracy!" exclaimed the marquis.
"I think so too, and if I am permitted an advice—"
"Speak freely; what do you mean?"
"That the best thing we can do is to start at once on foot. If we hurry, we can reach Vagney this evening, and the rest will take care of itself."
"You are right," replied the marquis; "let us go."
Schwan was frightened when he heard of their intention, but the marquis remained determined, and the two were soon on the road.
"If no accident happens," growled the host to himself, "the Cure is a treacherous sheet of water; I wish they were already back again."
While the marquis and Simon were starting on their journey, Robeckal and Rolla had met on the country road as appointed, and in a long whispered conversation had made their plans. They both hated Girdel, Caillette, Fanfaro and Bobichel, and their idea was to kill both Girdel and Fanfaro that very evening. Caillette could be attended to afterward, and Bobichel was of no importance. Rolla loved Robeckal, as far as it was possible for a person like her to love any one, and desired to possess him. Robeckal, on his side, thought it would not be a bad idea to possess Girdel's business along with its stock, with which he ungallantly reckoned Rolla and Caillette. Caillette especially he admired, but he was smart enough not to say a word to Rolla.
"Enter, ladies and gentlemen, enter," exclaimed Bobichel, as he stood at the box-office and cordially greeted the crowds of people.
"I wonder whether she will come?" muttered Caillette to herself.
"Everything is ready," whispered Robeckal to Rolla; the Cannon Queen nodded and threw dark scowls at Girdel and Fanfaro.
The quick gallop of a horse was now heard, and the next minute Irene de Salves stepped into the booth.
"Really, she has come," muttered Caillette in a daze, as she pressed her hand to her heart and looked searchingly at Fanfaro.
The latter looked neither to the right nor left. He was busy arranging Girdel's weights and iron poles, and Caillette, calmed by the sight, turned around.
When Irene took her seat a murmur ran through the crowded house. The Salves had always occupied an influential position in the country; the great estate of the family insured them power and influence at court, and they were closely attached to the monarchy.
Irene's grandfather, the old Count of Salves, had been guillotined in 1793; his son had served under Napoleon, and was killed in Russia when his daughter had hardly reached her third year. The count's loss struck the countess to the heart; she retired to her castle in the neighborhood of Remiremont and attended to the education of her child.
Irene grew up, and when she often showed an obstinacy and wildness strange in a girl, her mother would say, with tears in her eyes:
"Thank God, she is the picture of her father."
That nothing was done under the circumstances to curb Irene's impetuosity is easily understood. Every caprice of the young heiress was satisfied, and so it came about that the precocious child ruled the castle. She thought with money anything could be done, and more than once it happened that the young girl while hunting trod down the peasants' fields, consoling herself with the thought:
"Mamma gives these people money, and therefore it is all right."
When Irene was about fifteen years old her mother became dangerously ill, and remained several months in bed. She never recovered the use of her limbs, and day after day she remained in her arm-chair, only living in the sight of her daughter. When Irene entered the room the poor mother thought the sun was rising, and she never grew tired of looking in her daughter's clear eyes and listening to her silvery voice. The most singular contradictions reigned in Irene's soul; she could have cried bitterly one minute, and laughed aloud the next; for hours at a time she would sit dreaming at the window, and look out at the autumnal forest scenery, then spring up, hurry out, jump into the saddle and bound over hill and valley. Sometimes she would chase a beggar from the door, the next day overload him with presents; she spent nights at the bedside of a sick village child, and carried an old woman at the risk of her life, from a burning house; in short, she was an original.
A few months before, the lawyer who administered the countess's fortune had appeared at the castle and had locked himself up with her mother. When he left the castle the next day, the young lady was informed that she was to be married off, and received the news with the greatest unconcern. She did not know her future husband, the Vicomte de Talizac, but thought she would be able to get along with him. That she would have to leave her castle and her woods displeased her; she had never had the slightest longing for Paris, and the crowded streets of the capital were intolerable to her; but seeing that it must be she did not complain.
It was a wild caprice which had induced the young girlto attend Girdel's performance; Fanfaro's lecture had angered her at first, but later on, when she thought about it, she had to confess that he was right. She was now looking expectantly at the young man, who was engaged with Bobichel in lighting the few lamps, and when he drew near to her, she whispered to him:
"Monsieur Fanfaro, are you satisfied with me?"
Fanfaro looked at her in amazement, but a cordial smile flew over his lips, and Irene felt that she could stand many more insults if she could see him smile oftener.
Madame Ursula, who sat next to her pupil, moved up and down uneasily in her chair. Irene did not possess the leastsavoir vivre. How could she think of addressing the young acrobat? and now—no, it surpassed everything—he bent over her and whispered a few words in her ear. The governess saw Irene blush, then let her head fall and nod. What could he have said to her?
Caillette, too, had noticed the young lady address Fanfaro, and she became violently jealous.
What business had the rich heiress with the young man, whom she was accustomed to look upon as her own property?
For Caillette, as well as Madame Ursula, it was fortunate that they had not heard Fanfaro's words, and yet it was only good advice which the young man had given Irene.
"Mademoiselle, try to secure the love of those who surround you," he had earnestly said. And Irene had, at first impatiently and with astonishment, finally guiltily, listened to him. Really, when she thought with what indifference her coming and going in the village was looked upon, and with what hesitation she was greeted, she began to thinkFanfaro was right; the young man had been gone long, and yet his words still sounded in her ears. Yes, she would try to secure love.
In the meantime the performance had begun. Girdel played with his weights, Rolla swallowed stones and pigeons, Robeckal knives and swords, and Caillette danced charmingly on the tight-rope. During all these different productions, Fanfaro was continually assisting the performers; he handed Girdel the weights and took them from him; he accompanied Robeckal's sword exercise with hollow beats on a tambourine; he played the violin while Caillette danced on the rope, and acted as Bobichel's foil in his comic acts. Fanfaro himself was not to appear before the second part; for the conclusion of the first part a climax was to be given in which Girdel would perform a piece in which he had everywhere appeared with thunders of applause; the necessary apparatus was being prepared.
This apparatus consisted of a plank supported by two logs which stood upright in the centre of the circus. In the centre of the plank was a windlass, from which hung an iron chain with a large hook.
Fanfaro rolled an empty barrel under the plank and filled it with irons and stones weighing about three thousand pounds. Thereupon the barrel was nailed up and the chain wound about it; strong iron rings, through which the chain was pulled, prevented it from slipping off.
Girdel now walked up. He wore a costume made of black tights, and a chin-band from which an iron hook hung. He bowed to the spectators, seized the barrel with his chin hook and laid himself upon his back. Fanfaro stood next to his foster-father, and from time to timeblew a blast with his trumpet. At every tone the heavy cask rose a few inches in the air, and breathlessly the crowd looked at Girdel's performance. The cask had now reached a height on a level with Girdel; the spectators cheered, but suddenly an ominous breaking was heard, and while a cry of horror ran through the crowd, Fanfaro, quick as thought, sprung upon the cask and caught it in his arms.
What had happened? Girdel lay motionless on the ground. Fanfaro let the heavy cask glide gently to the floor and then stood pale as death near the athlete. The chain had broken, and had it not been for Fanfaro's timely assistance Girdel would have been crushed to pieces by the heavy barrel.
The violent shock had thrown Girdel some distance away. For a moment all were too frightened to stir, but soon spectators from all parts of the house came running up and loud cries were heard.
Caillette had thrown herself sobbing at her father's feet; Bobichel and Fanfaro busied themselves trying to raise the fallen man from the ground, and Rolla uttered loud, roaring cries which no doubt were intended to express her grief. Robeckal alone was not to be seen.
"Oh, Fanfaro, is he dead?" sobbed Caillette.
Fanfaro was silent and bent anxiously over Girdel; Rolla, on the other hand, looked angrily at the young man and hissed in his ear:
"Do not touch him. I will restore him myself."
Instead of giving the virago an answer, Fanfaro looked sharply at her. The wretched woman trembled and recoiled, while the young man, putting his ear to Girdel's breast, exclaimed:
"Thank God, he lives!"
Caillette uttered a low moan and became unconscious; two soft hands were laid tenderly on her shoulders, and when the tight-rope dancer opened her eyes, she looked in Irene's face, who was bending anxiously over her.
Girdel still remained motionless; the young countess handed Fanfaro an elegantly carved bottle filled with smelling-salts, but even this was of no avail.
"Wait, I know what will help him!" exclaimed Bobichel, suddenly, and hurrying out he returned with a bottle of strong brandy.
With the point of a knife Fanfaro opened Girdel's tightly compressed lips; the clown poured a few drops of the liquid down his throat, and in a few moments Girdel slowly opened his eyes and a deep sigh came from his breast. When Bobichel put the bottle to his mouth again, he drank a deep draught.
"Hurrah, he is rescued!" exclaimed the clown, as he wiped the tears from his eyes. He then walked to Rolla and mockingly whispered: "This time you reckoned without your host."
Rolla shuddered, and a look flew from Bobichel to Fanfaro.
Robeckal now thought it proper to appear and come from behind a post. He said in a whining voice:
"Thank God that our brave master lives. I dreaded the worst."
Schwan, who was crying like a child, threw a sharp look at Robeckal, and Fanfaro now said:
"Is there no physician in the neighborhood?"
"No, there is no physician in Sainte-Ame, and Vagney is several miles distant."
"No matter, I shall go to Vagney."
"Impossible, the floods have destroyed all the roads; you risk your life, Fanfaro," said Schwan.
"And if that is so, I am only doing my duty," replied the young man. "I owe it to my foster-father that I did not die of cold and starvation."
"You are an honest fellow. Take one of my horses and ride around the hill. It is certainly an out-of-the-way road, but it is safe. Do not spare the horse; it is old, but when driven hard it still does its duty."
"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Irene, advancing, "take my riding horse; it flies like the wind, and will carry you to Vagney in a short time."
"She is foolish," complained Madame Ursula, while Fanfaro accepted Irene's offer without hesitating; "the riding horse is an English thoroughbred and cost two thousand francs."
No one paid any attention to her. Fanfaro swung himself into the saddle, and, throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he cordially said:
"Mademoiselle, I thank you."
"Don't mention it; I am following your advice," laughed Irene.
The marquis and his steward had likewise hurried along the road to Vagney. They were often forced to halt to find the right direction, as the overflowing Cure had flooded the road at different points, but yet they reached the hill on which the city rests before night.
"The danger is behind us now," said Simon.
A quarter of an hour later they stopped before a small solitary house. Simon shook the knocker, and then they both waited impatiently to get in.
For a short time all was still, and Simon was about to strike again, when a window was opened and a voice asked:
"Who is there?"
The two men exchanged quick glances; Pierre Labarre was at home, and, as it seemed, alone.
"I am the Marquis of Fougereuse," said the marquis, finally.
No sooner had the words been spoken than the window was closed. The bolt of the house door was shoved back in a few moments and a lean old man appeared on the threshold.
Ten years had passed since Pierre Labarre rode alone through the Black Forest, and saved himself from the bullet of the then Vicomte de Talizac by his portfolio. Pierre's hair had grown gray now, but his eyes looked as fearlessly on the world as if he had been thirty.
"Come in, vicomte," said the old man, earnestly.
The marquis and Simon followed Pierre into a small, plainly furnished room; the only decoration was a black piece of mourning almost covering one of the walls. While the old man turned up the small lamp, Simon, without being noticed, closed the door. Pierre pointed to a straw chair and calmly said:
"Monsieur le Vicomte, will you please take a seat?"
The marquis angrily said:
"Pierre Labarre, it surprises me that in the nine years which have passed since the death of my father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, you should have forgotten what a servant's duties are! Since seven years I bear the title of my father; why do you persist in calling me Monsieur le Vicomte?"
Pierre Labarre stroked the white hair from his forehead with his long bony hand and slowly said:
"I know only one Marquis of Fougereuse."
"And who should bear this title if not I?" cried the marquis, angrily.
"The son of the man who was murdered at Leigoutte in the year 1805," replied Pierre.
"Murdered?" exclaimed the marquis, mockingly: "that man fell fighting against the legitimate masters of the country."
"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte, was the victimof a well-laid plan; those persons who were interested in his death made their preparations with wonderful foresight."
The marquis frothed with anger, and it did not require very much more until he would have had the old man by the throat. He restrained himself, though; what good would it do him if he strangled Pierre before he knew the secret?
"Let us not discuss that matter," he hastily said; "other matters have brought me here—"
As Pierre remained silent, the marquis continued:
"I know perfectly well that that affair disturbed you. As the old servitor of my father you naturally were attached to the dead man. Yet, who could avert the catastrophe? The father, the mother and the two children were all slain at the same hour by the Cossacks, and—"
"You are mistaken, vicomte," interrupted Pierre, sharply; "the father fell in a struggle with paid assassins, the mother was burned to death, but the children escaped."
"You are fooling, old man," exclaimed the marquis, growing pale; "Jules's two children are dead."
The old man crossed his arms over his breast, and, looking steadily at the marquis, he firmly said:
"Monsieur le Vicomte, the children live."
The marquis could no longer restrain himself.
"You know where they are?" he excitedly exclaimed.
"No, vicomte, but it cheers me to hear from your words that you yourself do not believe the children are dead."
The marquis bit his lips. He had betrayed himself. Simon shrugged his shoulders and thought in his heart that the marquis was not the proper person to intrust with diplomatic missions for the Society of Jesus.
"Monsieur le Marquis," he hurriedly said, "what is the use of these long discussions? Put the question which concerns you most to the obstinate old man, and if he does not answer, I will make him speak."
"You are right," nodded the marquis; and turning to Pierre again he threateningly said:
"Listen, Pierre Labarre; I will tell you the object of my visit. It is a question of the honor of the Fougereuse."
A sarcastic laugh played about the old man's lips, and half muttering to himself, he repeated:
"The honor of the Fougereuse—I am really curious to know what I shall hear."
The marquis trembled, and, casting a timid look at Simon, he said:
"Simon, leave us to ourselves."
"What, Monsieur le Marquis?" asked Simon in amazement.
"You should leave us alone," repeated the marquis, adding in a whisper: "Go, I have my reasons."
"But, Monsieur le Marquis!"
"Do not say anything; go!"
Simon went growlingly away, and opening the door he had so carefully locked, he strode into the hall; taking care, however, to overhear the conversation.
As soon as the nobleman was alone with Pierre, his demeanor changed. He approached close to the old man, took his hand and cordially shook it. Pierre looked atthe marquis in amazement, and quickly withdrawing his hand, he dryly said:
"To business, vicomte."
"Pierre," the marquis began, in a voice he tried to render as soft and moving as possible, "you were the confidant of my father; you knew all his secrets, and were aware that he did not love me. Do not interrupt me—I know my conduct was not such as he had a right to expect from a son. Pierre, I was not wicked, I was weak and could not withstand any temptation, and my father often had cause to be dissatisfied with me. Pierre, what I am telling you no human ear has ever heard; I look upon you as my father confessor and implore you not to judge too harshly."
Pierre held his eyes down, and even the marquis paused—he did not look up.
"Pierre, have you no mercy?" exclaimed the nobleman, in a trembling voice.
"Speak further, my lord," said Pierre; "I am listening."
The marquis felt like stamping with his foot. He saw, however, that he had to control himself.
"If you let me implore hopelessly to-day, Pierre," he whispered, gritting his teeth, "the name of Fougereuse will be eternally dishonored."
"The name of Fougereuse?" asked Pierre, with faint malice; "thank God, my lord, that it is not in your power to stain it; you are only the Vicomte de Talizac."
The marquis stamped his foot angrily when he heard the old man's cutting words; it almost surpassed his strength to continue the conversation to an end, and yet it must be if he wished to gain his point.
"I see, I must explain myself more clearly," he said after a pause. "Pierre, I am standing on the brink of a precipice. My fortune and my influence are gone; neither my wife nor my son imagines how I am situated, but if help does not come soon—"
"Well, what will happen?" asked Pierre, indifferently.
"Then I will not be able to keep my coat of arms, which dates from the Crusades, clean and spotless."
"I do not understand you, vicomte. Is it only a question of your fortune?"
"No, Pierre, it is a question of the honor of the Fougereuse. Oh, God! You do not desire to understand me; you want me to disclose my shame. Listen then," continued the marquis, placing his lips to the old man's ears: "to rescue myself from going under, I committed an act of despair, and if assistance does not come to me, the name of the Fougereuse will be exposed to the world, with the brand of the forger upon it."
The old man's face showed no traces of surprise. He kept silent for a moment, and then asked in cold tones:
"Monsieur le Vicomte, what do you wish of me?"
"I will tell you," said the marquis, hastily, while a gleam of hope strayed over his pale face; "I know that my father, to have the major part of his fortune go to his eldest son, made a will and gave it to you—"
"Go on," said Pierre, as the marquis paused.
"The will contains many clauses," continued the nobleman. "My father hid a portion of his wealth, and in his last will named the spot where it lies buried, providing that it should be given to his eldest son orhis descendants! Pierre, Jules is dead, his children have disappeared, and therefore nothing hinders you from giving up this wealth. It must be at least two millions. Can you hesitate to give me the money which will save the name of Fougereuse from shame and exposure?"
The marquis hesitated; Pierre rose slowly and, turning to a side wall, grasped the mourning cloth and shoved it aside.
The nobleman wonderingly observed the old man, who now took a lamp and solemnly said:
"Vicomte, look here!"
The marquis approached the wall, and in the dim light of the lamp he saw a tavern sign, upon which a few letters could be seen. The sign had evidently been burned.
"Monsieur le Vicomte, do you know what that is?" asked Pierre, threateningly.
"No," replied the marquis.
"Then I will tell you, vicomte," replied Pierre. "The inscription on this sign once read, 'To the Welfare of France.' Do you still wish me to give you the will and the fortune?"
"I do not understand you," stammered the nobleman, in a trembling voice.
"Really, vicomte, you have a short memory, but I, the old servant of your father, am able to refresh it! This sign hung over the door of the tavern at Leigoutte; your brother, the rightful heir of Fougereuse, was the landlord and the bravest man for miles around. In the year 1805 Jules Fougere, as he called himself, fell. The world said Cossacks had murdered him. I, though, vicomte, I cry it aloud in your ear—his murderer was—you!"
"Silence, miserable lackey!" exclaimed the marquis, enraged, "you lie!"
"No, Cain, the miserable lackey does not lie," replied Pierre, calmly; "he even knows more! In the year 1807 the old Marquis of Fougereuse died; in his last hours his son, the Vicomte of Talizac, sneaked into the chamber of death and, sinking on his knees beside the bedside of the dying man, implored his father to make him his sole heir. The marquis hardly had strength enough to breathe, but his eyes looked threateningly at the scoundrel who dared to imbitter his last hours, and with his last gasp he hurled at the kneeling man these words: 'May you be eternally damned, miserable fratricide!'
"The vicomte, as if pursued by the furies, escaped; the dying man gave one more gasp and then passed away, and I, who was behind the curtains, a witness of this terrible scene—I shall so far forget myself as to deliver to the man who did not spare his father the inheritance of his brother? No, vicomte, Pierre Labarre knows his duty, and if to-morrow the name of the Fougereuse should be trampled in the dust and the present bearer of the name be placed in the pillory as a forger and swindler, then I will stand up and say:
"'He is not a Fougereuse, he is only a Talizac. He murdered the heir, and let no honest man ever touch his blood-stained hand!' Get out of here, Vicomte Talizac, my house has no room for murderers!"
Pale as death, with quaking knees, the marquis leaned against the wall. When Pierre was silent he hissed in a low voice:
"Then you refuse to help me?"
"Yes, a thousand times, yes."
"You persist in keeping the fortune of the Fougereuse for Jules's son, who has been dead a long time?"
"I keep the fortune for the living."
"And if he were dead, nevertheless?"
Pierre suddenly looked up—suppose the murderer were to prove his assertion?
"Would you, if Jules's son were really dead, acknowledge me as the heir?"
"I cannot tell."
"For the last time, will you speak?"
"No; the will and fortune belong to the Marquis of Fougereuse, Jules's son."
"Enough; the will is here in your house; the rest will take care of itself."
Hereupon the marquis gave a penetrating whistle, and when Simon appeared his master said to him:
"Take hold of this scoundrel!"
"Bravo! force is the only thing," cried Simon, as he rushed upon the old man. But he had reckoned without his host; with a shove Pierre Labarre threw the audacious rascal to the ground, and the next minute the heavy old table lay between him and his enemies. Thereupon the old man took a pistol from the wall, and, cocking the trigger, cried:
"Vicomte Talizac, we still have an old score to settle! Years ago you attempted to kill me in the Black Forest; take care you do not arouse my anger again."
The vicomte, who had no weapon, recoiled: Simon, however, seized a pocket-pistol from his breast, and mockingly replied: "Oh, two can play at that game!"
He pressed his hand to the trigger, but Pierre Labarre put his pistol down, and contemptuously said:
"Bah! for the lackey the dog will do. Catch him, Sultan!"
As he said these words he opened a side door; a large Vosges dog, whose glowing eyes and crispy hair made him look like a wolf, sprang upon Simon, and, clutching him by the throat, threw him to the ground.
"Help, my lord marquis!" cried the steward.
"Let go, Sultan," commanded Pierre.
The dog shook his opponent once more and then let him loose.
"Get out of here, miscreants!" exclaimed Pierre now, with threatening voice, as he opened the door, "and never dare to come into my house again."
The wretches ran as if pursued by the Furies. Pierre caressed the dog and then laughed softly; he was rid of his guests.
Fanfaro had urged Irene's horse on at great speed, and while it flew along like a bird, the most stormy feelings raged in his heart.
The gaze of the pretty girl haunted him; he heard her gentle voice and tried in vain to shake off these thoughts. What was he, that he should indulge in such wild fancies? A foundling, the adopted son of an acrobat, who had picked him up upon the way, and yet—
Further and further horse and rider flew; before Fanfaro's eyes stood Girdel's pale, motionless face, and he thought he could hear Caillette's bitter sobs. No, he must bring help or else go under, and ceaselessly, like lightning, he pushed on toward the city.
The marquis and Simon ran breathlessly along. Their only thought was to get far from the neighborhood of the old man and his wolf-hound. Neither of the two spoke a word. The stormy, roaring Cure was forgotten, the danger to life was forgotten; on, on they went, like deer pursued by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds, and neither of them paid any attention to the ominous noise of the overflowing mountain streams.
Suddenly Simon paused and seized the marquis's arm.
"Listen," he whispered, tremblingly, "what is that?"
A thunderous noise, ceaseless, rolling, and crashing, reached their ears from all sides; from all sides frothy, bubbling masses of water dashed themselves against the rocks, and now—now an immense rock fell crashing in the flood, which overflowed into the wide plain like a storm-whipped sea.
Despair seized the men; before, behind, and around them roared and foamed the turbulent waters; they turned to the right, where a huge rock, which still projected above the waves, assured them safety, but just then the marquis struck his foot against a stone—he tumbled and fell with a half-smothered cry for help, "Help—I am sinking!" into the dark depths.
Simon did not think of lending his master a helping hand; he sprang from rock to rock, from stone to stone, and soon reached a high point which protected him from the oncoming waters.
The marquis had been borne a short distance along by the raging waters, until he succeeded in clambering upon a branch of an evergreen tree. The flood still rolled along above his body, but with superhuman strength he managed to keep his head above water and despairingly cry, "Help, Simon! Rescue me!"
Suddenly it seemed to the half-unconscious man as if he heard a human voice calling to him from above:
"Courage—keep up."
With the remainder of his strength the marquis gazed in the direction from which it came, and recognized a human form which seemed to be hanging in the air.
"Attention, I will soon be with you," cried the voice, now coming nearer.
The marquis saw the form spring, climb, and then the water spurted up and the marquis lost consciousness.
Fanfaro, for naturally he was the rescuer, who appeared at the hour of the greatest need, now stood up to his knees in water, and had just stretched his hand out toward the marquis, when the latter, with a groan, let go of the tree branch, and the next minute he was borne along by the turbulent waters.
Fanfaro uttered a slight cry, but he did not hesitate a moment. Plunging into the seething waves, he parted them with muscular strokes, and succeeded in grasping the drowning man. Throwing his left arm about him, he swam to the rocky projection upon which the evergreen tree stood. Inch by inch he climbed toward the pathway which was upon the top of the hill. Perspiration dripped from his forehead, and his wind threatened to give out, but Fanfaro went on, and finally stood on top. Putting the marquis softly on the ground, Fanfaro took out a small pocket-lantern which he always carried with him. With great trouble he lighted the wet wick, and then let the rays fall full on the pale face of the motionless man. Seized by an indescribable emotion, the young man leaned over the marquis. Did he suspect that the man whom he had rescued from the stormy waters, at the risk of his life, was the brother of the man who had taken mercy on the helpless orphan, and was at the same time his father? The marquis now opened his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, and looked wildly around him.
"Where am I?" he faintly stammered. "The water—ah!"
"You are saved," said Fanfaro, gently.
The sound of the voice caused all the blood to rush to the marquis's heart.
"Did you save me?"
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Fanfaro, and I am a member of Girdel's troupe, which is at present in Sainte-Ame. Can you raise yourself?"
With the young man's assistance, the marquis raised himself up, but uttered a cry of pain when he put his feet on the ground.
"Are you wounded?" asked Fanfaro, anxiously.
"No, I do not think so; the water knocked me against trees and stones, and my limbs hurt me from that."
"That will soon pass away. Now put your arm about my neck and trust yourself to me; I will bring you to a place of safety."
The marquis put his arms tightly about the young man's neck, and the latter strode along the narrow pathway which led to the heights.
Soon the road became broader, the neighing of a horse was heard, and drawing a deep breath the young man stood still.
"Now we are safe," he said, consolingly; "I will take you on the back of my horse, and in less than a quarter of an hour we will be in Sainte-Ame. I rode from there to Vagney, to get a physician for my foster-father, Girdel, who injured himself, but unfortunately he was not at home, and so I had to return alone. Get up, the road is straight ahead, and the mountains now lie between us and the water."
In the meantime Fanfaro had helped the marquis on the back of the horse, and now he raised his lantern to untie the knot of the rope with which he had bound theanimal to a tree. The light of the lamp fell full upon his face, and the marquis uttered a slight cry; his rescuer resembled in a startling way the old Marquis of Fougereuse.
Had he Jules's son before him?
A satanic idea flashed through the brain of the noble rogue, and when Fanfaro, after putting out his lantern, attempted to get on the horse's back, the marquis pressed heavily against the horse's flank and they were both off like the wind in the direction of the village.
Fanfaro, who only thought that the horse had run away with the marquis, cried in vain to the rider, and so he had to foot the distance, muttering as he went:
"If the poor fellow only doesn't get hurt; he is still feeble, and the horse needs a competent rider."
Fanfaro was hardly a hundred feet away from Sainte-Ame, when Girdel opened his eyes and looked about him.
"What, my little Caillette is weeping!" he muttered, half-laughing. "Child, you probably thought I was dead?"
"Oh, God be praised and thanked!" cried Caillette, springing up and falling upon her father's neck.
Bobichel almost sprung to the ceiling, and Schwan, between laughing and crying, exclaimed:
"What a fright you gave us, old boy. The poor fellow rode away in the night to get a physician, and—"
"A physician? For me?" laughed Girdel. "Thank God, we are not so far gone."
"But you were unconscious more than half an hour; we became frightened, and Fanfaro rode to Vagney."
"He rode? On our old mare, perhaps? If he only returns," said Girdel, anxiously. "The water must be dangerous about Vagney."
"He has a good horse; the Countess of Salves gave Fanfaro her thoroughbred," said Bobichel.
"Ah! that is different. Now, children, let me alone. Cousin Schwan, send me the two men whom I am to bring to Remiremont to-morrow; I must speak to them."
Caillette, Bobichel, Schwan and Rolla went away. In the dark corridor a figure passed by Rolla, and a hoarse voice said:
"Well?"
"All for nothing," growled Rolla; "he lives, and is as healthy as a fish in the water."
"You don't say so," hissed Robeckal.
"It was your own fault," continued the virago. "A good stab in the right place, and all is over; but you have no courage."
"Silence, woman!" growled Robeckal. "I have attended to that in another way; he shall not trouble us long. Tell me, does he ever receive any letters?"
"A great pile," said Rolla.
"And you cannot tell me their contents?"
"No; I never read them."
This discretion had good grounds. Rolla could not read, but she did not wish to admit it to him. Whether Robeckal suspected how things were, we do not know; anyhow, he did not pursue the subject any further, but said:
"Schwan brought two men to Girdel a little while ago; come with me to the upper story; we can listen at the door there and find out what they say."
When Robeckal and Rolla, after listening nearly two hours, slipped downstairs they had heard all that Girdel and the two gentlemen had said. They knew Fanfaro had been deputed to take important papers to Paris and give them to a certain person who had been designated;Girdel had guaranteed that Fanfaro would fill the mission promptly.
When Robeckal returned to the inn, Simon rushed in pale and trembling. He could hardly reply to the landlord's hurried questions; the words, "In the water—the flood—dead—my poor master!" came from his trembling lips, and immediately afterward he sank to the floor unconscious.
While Schwan was busy with him, the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard.
"Thank God, here comes Fanfaro!" exclaimed Bobichel and Caillette, simultaneously, and they both rushed to the door.
Who can describe their astonishment when they saw the marquis, dripping with water and half frozen, get down from the horse and enter the room?
"Where is Fanfaro?" asked Bobichel, anxiously.
"He will soon be here," replied the marquis; "the horse ran away with me, and I could not hold him."
"Then the brave fellow is not injured?" asked Schwan, vivaciously.
"God forbid; quick, give me a glass of brandy and lead me to Girdel; I must speak to him at once."
While the host went to get the brandy, Simon and the marquis exchanged looks; the next minute Schwan returned and the nobleman drank a large glass of brandy at a gulp.
"Ah, that warms," he said, smacking his lips, "and now let us look for Girdel."
As soon as the marquis left the room, Robeckal drew near to the steward and whispered:
"Follow me, I must speak to you."
They both went into the hall and held a conversation in low tones.
Suddenly a cry of joy reached their ears, and the next minute they saw Bobichel, who, in his anxiety about Fanfaro, had hurried along the road, enter the house with the young man.
"There he is," whispered Robeckal, "God knows how it is, but neither fire nor water seems to have the slightest effect on him."
"We will get rid of him, never fear," said Simon, wickedly.
From the upper story loud cries were heard. Rolla danced with a brandy bottle in her hand, and Girdel was asking himself how he ever could have made such a low woman his wife.
A knock was now heard on his door; Girdel cried, "Come in," in powerful tones, and a man, a stranger to him, crossed the threshold.
"Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Girdel?" the stranger politely asked.
"At your service; that is my name."
"I am the Marquis of Fougereuse, and would like to have an interview with you."
"Take a seat, my lord marquis, and speak," said Girdel, looking expectantly at his visitor.
"I will not delay you long, Monsieur Girdel," the marquis began; "I know you have met with a misfortune—"
"Oh, it was not serious," said the athlete.
"Monsieur Girdel," continued the nobleman, "about one hour ago I was in peril of my life, and one of your men rescued me at the risk of his."
"You don't say so? How did it happen?" cried Girdel.
"I was in danger of drowning in the Cure; a young man seized me from out of the turbulent waters and carried me in his arms to a place of safety."
"Ah, I understand, the young man of whom you spoke—"
"Was your son, Fanfaro!"
"I thought so," said the athlete; "if Fanfaro is alone only one second, he generally finds time to save somebody. Where is the boy now?"
"He will be here soon. He asked me to get on the back of the horse with him. I got up first, and hardly had the fiery steed felt some one on his back than he flew away like an arrow. I was too feeble to check the horse, and so my rescuer was forced to follow on foot."
"Fanfaro doesn't care for that; he walks miles at a time without getting tired, and in less than fifteen minutes he will be here."
"Then it is the right time for me to ask you a few questions which I do not wish him to hear. You are probably aware what my position at court is?"
"Candidly, no; the atmosphere of the court has never agreed with me."
"Then let me tell you that my position is a very influential one, and consequently it would be easy for me to do something for you and your—son."
The marquis pronounced the word "son" in a peculiar way, but Girdel shook his head.
"I wish Fanfaro was my son," he sighed; "I know of no better luck."
"If the young man is not your son," said the marquis,"then he would need my assistance the more. His parents are, perhaps, poor people, and my fortune—"
"Fanfaro has no parents any more, my lord marquis."
"Poor young man!" said the nobleman, pityingly; "but what am I saying?" he interrupted himself with well-played anger. "Fanfaro has no doubt found a second father in you; I would like to wager that you were a friend of his parents, and have bestowed your friendship upon the son."
"You are mistaken, my lord; I found Fanfaro on the road."
"Impossible! What singular things one hears! Where did you find the boy?"
"Ah! that is an old story, but if it interests you I will relate it to you: One cold winter day, I rode with my wagon—in which was, besides my stock, my family and some members of my troupe—over a snow-covered plain in the Vosges, when I suddenly heard loud trumpet tones. At first I did not pay any attention to them. It was in the year 1814, and such things were not uncommon then. However, the tones were repeated, and I hurried in the direction from whence they proceeded. I shall never forget the sight which met me. A boy about ten years of age lay unconscious over a dead trumpeter, and his small hands were nervously clutched about the trumpet. It was plain that he had blown the notes I had heard and then fallen to the ground in a faint. I took the poor little fellow in my arms; all around lay the bodies of many French soldiers, and the terrors of the neighborhood had no doubt been too much for the little rogue. We covered him in the wagon with warm cloaks,and because the poor fellow had blown such fanfares upon the trumpet, we had called him Fanfaro."
"Didn't he have any name?" asked the marquis, nervously.
"That, my dear sir, wasn't so easy to find out. Hardly had we taken the boy to us than he got the brain-fever, and for weeks lay on the brink of the grave. When he at length recovered, he had lost his memory entirely, and only after months did he regain it. At last he could remember the name of the village where he had formerly lived—"
"What was the name of this village?" interrupted the marquis, hurriedly.
"Leigoutte, my lord."
The nobleman had almost uttered a cry, but he restrained himself in time, and Girdel did not notice his guest's terrible excitement.
"His name, too, and those of his parents and sister, we found out after a time," continued Girdel; "his father's name was Jules, his mother's Louise, his sister's Louison, and his own Jacques. On the strength of his information I went to Leigoutte, but found out very little. The village had been set on fire by the Cossacks and destroyed. Of the inhabitants only a few women and children had been rescued, and the only positive thing I heard was that Jacques's mother had been burned to death in a neighboring farmhouse. The men of Leigoutte had made a stand against the Cossacks, but had been fairly blown into the air by them. I returned home dissatisfied. Fanfaro remained with us; he learned our tricks, and we love him very much. Where he managed to procure the knowledge he has is a riddle to me; he never wentto a regular school, and yet he knows a great deal. He is a genius, my lord marquis, and a treasure for our troupe."
Cold drops of perspiration stood on the nobleman's forehead. No, there was no longer any doubt: Fanfaro was his brother's son!
"Have you never been able to find out his family name?" he asked, after a pause.
"No; the Cossacks set fire to the City Hall at Weissenbach and all the records there were destroyed. An old shepherd said he had once been told that Jules was the scion of an old noble family. Anything positive on this point, I could not find out—I—"
At this point the door was hastily opened and Fanfaro entered. He rushed upon Girdel and enthusiastically cried:
"Thank God, Papa Girdel, that you are well again."
"You rascal, you," laughed Girdel, looking proudly at the young man. "You have found time again to rescue some one."
"Monsieur Fanfaro," said the marquis now, "permit me once more to thank you for what you have done for me. I can never repay you."
"Don't mention it, sir," replied Fanfaro, modestly, "I have only done my duty."
"Well I hope if you should ever need me you will let me know. The Marquis of Fougereuse is grateful."
When the marquis went downstairs shortly afterward, he found Simon awaiting him.
"Simon," he said, hurriedly, "do you know who Fanfaro is?"
"No, my lord."
"He is the son of my brother, Jules de Fougereuse."
"Really?" exclaimed Simon, joyfully, "that would be splendid."
"Listen to my plan; the young man must die, but under such circumstances as to have his identity proved, so that Pierre Labarre can be forced to break his silence. You understand me, Simon?"
"Perfectly so, my lord; and I can tell you now that I already know the means and way to do the job. A little while ago a man, whom I can trust, informed me that Fanfaro is going to play a part in the conspiracy against the government which I have already spoken to you about."
"So much the better; but can he be captured in such a way that there will be no outlet for him?"
"I hope so."
"Who gave you this information?" asked the marquis, after Simon had told him all that Robeckal had overheard.
"A man called Robeckal; he is a member of Girdel's troupe."
"Good."
The marquis took out a note-book, wrote a few lines, and then said:
"Here, take this note, Simon, and accompany Robeckal at once to Remiremont. There you will go to the Count of Vernac, the police superintendent, and give him the note. The count is a faithful supporter of the monarchy, and will no doubt accede to my request to send some policemen here this very night to arrest Girdel and Fanfaro. The rest I shall see to."
"My lord, I congratulate you," said Simon, respectfully.
Before Robeckal had gone with Simon, he had hurried to Rolla and told her that he was going to Remiremont now to get some policemen.
"Our score will be settled now on one board," he said, with a wink.
The fat woman had looked at him with swimming eyes, and in a maudlin voice replied:
"That—is—right—all—must—suffer—Caillette—also!"
"Certainly, Caillette, too," replied Robeckal, inwardly vowing to follow his own ideas with respect to this last, and then he hurried after the steward.
Caillette and Rolla slept in the same room; when the young girl entered it she saw the Cannon Queen sitting in an intoxicated condition at the table surrounded by empty bottles. The horrible woman greeted the young girl with a coarse laugh, and as Caillette paid no attention to her, Rolla placed her arms upon the table, and threateningly exclaimed:
"Don't put on such airs, you tight-rope princess; what will you do when they take your Fanfaro away?"
"Take Fanfaro away? What do you mean?" asked Caillette, frightened, overcoming her repulsion, and looking at Rolla.
"Ha! ha! ha! Now the pigeon thaws—yes, there is nothing like love," mocked the drunken woman. "Ah, the policemen won't let themselves be waited for; Robeckal and the others will look out for that."
Caillette, horror-stricken, listened to the virago's words. Was she right, and were her father and Fanfaro in danger?
"I am going to sleep now," said Rolla, "and when I wake up Fanfaro and Girdel will have been taken care of."
Leaning back heavily in the chair, the woman closed her eyes. Caillette waited until loud snoring told her Rolla was fast asleep, and then she silently slipped out of the room, locked it from the outside, and tremblingly hurried to wake her father.
As she reached Girdel's door, a dark form, which had been crouching near the threshold, arose.
"Who's there?" asked Caillette softly.
"I, little Caillette," replied Bobichel's voice. "I am watching, because I do not trust Robeckal."
"Oh, Bobichel, there is danger. I must waken father at once."
"What is the matter?"
"Go, wake father and tell him I must speak to him; do not lose a minute," urged Caillette.
The clown did not ask any more questions. He hurried to wake Girdel and Fanfaro, and then called Caillette. The young girl hastily told what she had heard. At first Girdel shook his head doubtingly, but he soon became pensive, and when Caillette finally said Rolla even muttered in her sleep about an important conspiracy and papers, he could no longer doubt.
"What shall we do?" he asked, turning to Fanfaro.
"Fly," said the young man quickly. "We owe our lives and our strength to the fatherland and the good cause; to stay here would be to put them both rashly at stake. Let us pray to God that it even now may not be too late."
"So be it, let us fly. We can leave the wagon go, and take only the horses. Is Robeckal at home?" asked Girdel, suddenly turning to Bobichel.
"No, master, he has gone."
"Then forward," said the athlete firmly. "I will take Caillette on my horse and you two, Fanfaro and Bobichel, mount the second animal."
"No, master, that won't do," remarked the clown, "you alone are almost too heavy for a horse; Fanfaro must take Caillette upon his and I shall go on foot. Do not say otherwise. My limbs can stand a great deal, and I won't lose sight of you. Where are we going?"
"We must reach Paris as soon as possible," said Fanfaro. "Shall we wake the landlord?"
"Not for any money," said Girdel; "we would only bring him into trouble."
"You are right," replied Fanfaro; "we must not open the house door either, we must go by way of the window."
"That won't be very difficult for such veterans as we are," laughed Girdel. "Bobichel, get down at once and saddle the horses. You will find the saddles in the large box in the wagon. But one minute—what will become of my wife?"
The others remained silent, only Fanfaro said:
"Her present condition is such that we cannot takeher along; and, besides, there is no danger in store for her."
Girdel scratched his head in embarrassment.
"I will look after her," he finally said, and hurried out.
In about two minutes he returned.
"She is sleeping like a log," he said; "we must leave her here. Schwan will take care of her."
In the meantime Bobichel had tied the bedclothes, opened the window, and fastened the clothes to the window hinges. He then whispered jovially: "Good-evening, ladies and gentlemen," and let himself slide down the improvised rope. Caillette followed the clown, then came Girdel, and finally Fanfaro.
"Let the clothes hang," ordered Girdel.
They all crept softly to the stable and in about five minutes were on the street.
Bobichel ran alongside Girdel. Suddenly he stopped and hurriedly said:
"I hear the sound of horses' hoofs; we escaped just in time."
The noise Bobichel heard really came from the policemen, who had hurried from Remiremont to Sainte-Ame and were now surrounding the Golden Sun. Robeckal and Simon were smart enough to keep in the background. The brigadier, a veteran soldier, knocked loudly at the house-door, and soon the host appeared and asked what was the matter.
"Open in the name of the king," cried the brigadier impatiently.
"Policemen, oh my God!" groaned Schwan, more dead than alive. "There must be a mistake here."
"Haven't arrested any one yet who didn't say the same thing," growled the brigadier. "Quick, open the door and deliver up the malefactors."
"Whom shall I deliver?" asked Schwan, terror-stricken.
"Two acrobats, named Girdel and Fanfaro," was the answer.
"Girdel and Fanfaro? Oh, Mr. Brigadier, you are mistaken. What are they accused of?"
"Treason! They are members of a secret organization, which is directed against the monarchy."
"Impossible; it cannot be!" groaned Schwan.
"I will conduct the gentlemen," said Robeckal, coming forward.
"Scoundrel!" muttered the host, while Robeckal preceded the policemen up the stairs, and pointed to Girdel's room.
"Open!" cried the brigadier, knocking at the door with the hilt of his sword.
As no answer came, he burst open the door, and then uttered an oath.
"Confound them—they have fled!" exclaimed Robeckal.
"Yes, the nest is empty," said the brigadier; "look, there at the window, the bed-sheets are still hanging with which they made their escape."
"You are right," growled Robeckal; "but they cannot be very far off yet."
"No; quick—to horse!" cried the brigadier to his men; and while they got into the saddle, Robeckal looked in the stables and discovered the loss of the two horses. The tracks were soon found, and the pursuers, with Robeckal at the head, quickly gained the forest. Buthere something singular happened. The brigadier's horse stumbled and fell, the horse of the second policeman met with the same accident, and before the end of two seconds two more horses, together with their riders, lay on the ground. All four raged and cried in a horrible manner; one of them had broken a leg, the brigadier's sword had run into his left side, and two horses were so badly hurt that they had to be killed on the spot.
"The devil take them!" cried Robeckal, who was looking about with his lantern to discover the cause of these accidents, "the scoundrels have drawn a net of thin cords from one tree to the other."
"Yes, the scoundrels happened to be smarter than other people," came a mocking voice from the branch of an oak-tree, and looking up, Robeckal saw the clown, who, with the quickness of an ape, had now slid down the tree and disappeared in the bush.
"Villain!" exclaimed Robeckal, angrily, and taking a gun from one of the policemen he fired a shot at Bobichel.
Did the shot take effect?