"Then she is in Paris, too?"
"Certainly. We lived up till now in the Golden Calf. However, we must look for other rooms now. We can speak about that to-morrow. Let us go to sleep now, it must be very late," said Girdel; and looking at his watch, he added: "Really it is two o'clock."
"Bobichel's eyes knew that long ago," laughed Fanfaro. "Go to bed, old friend, you are tired."
"Oh, I am not tired," said the clown, yawning in spite of himself. "I will not go to bed after I have found you again."
"You must do so, Bobichel," said Fanfaro, earnestly. "You are still weak and must husband your strength. Go calmly to bed. Girdel and I have still a great deal to consider, and we are both glad that we need not camp in the street."
Bobichel hesitated no longer; he threw himself on his hard couch and in less than five minutes he was fast asleep.
As soon as Girdel found himself alone with Fanfaro, he said, in an anxious voice:
"Fanfaro, tell me what ails you. I know you too well not to be aware that something extraordinary has happened. Place confidence in me; perhaps I can help you."
"If you only could," sighed Fanfaro; "but you areright, I will tell you all. First, Papa Girdel, I must ask you a few questions about my past—"
"Speak; what do you wish to know?"
"What did you find out about my mother?"
"That she was the victim of a conflagration. She was in a farmhouse which had been set fire to by Cossacks."
"And my father?"
"He died the death of a hero, fighting for his country."
"As far as my memory goes," said Fanfaro, pensively, "I was in a large, dark room. It must have been a subterranean chamber. My parents had intrusted my little sister to my care. I held her by the hand, but suddenly I lost her and could never find her again."
"I know, I know," said Girdel, sorrowfully.
"Since this evening," continued the young man, "I have been thinking of my poor little Louison. I have not been able to tell you yet that a respectable young girl, who earns her living by singing, was forcibly abducted from the Golden Calf this evening."
"Impossible! Monsieur Aube is a brave man," exclaimed Girdel, impatiently.
"Ah! Aube knows nothing of the matter. He is innocent. The villain who did it is a bad man, who has already crossed our path."
"And his name?"
"Vicomte de Talizac."
"Talizac? Has this family got a thousand devils in its service? It was the vicomte's father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, who wished to kill us at Sainte-Ame; his steward ran to Remiremont to get the police."
"Like father like son. The proverb says that theapple doesn't fall far from the tree. The young girl whom Talizac abducted is named Louison, and I—"
"My poor boy, you do not really think—"
"That this Louison is my poor lost sister? Yes, I fear so, Papa Girdel. When I heard the name, I trembled in every limb, and since then the thought haunts me. If I knew that Louison were dead I would thank God on my knees, but it is terrible to think that she is in the power of that scoundrel. The fact that Robeckal has a hand in the affair stamps it at once as a piece of villany."
"Robeckal is the vicomte's accomplice?" cried Girdel, springing up. "Oh, Fanfaro, why did you not say so at once? We must not lose a minute! Ah, now I understand all! Robeckal abducted the poor child and brought it to Rolla. I know they are both in Paris, and I will move heaven and earth to find them!"
"May God reward you, Papa Girdel," said Fanfaro, with deep emotion. "I will in the meantime try to find the invalid with whom the street-singer lives, and—"
"Is there nothing for Bobichel to do?" asked the clown, sitting up in his bed.
"Oh, Bobichel!" exclaimed Fanfaro, gratefully, "if you want to help us?"
"Of course I do. I will accompany master to Robeckal, for I also have a bone to pick with the scoundrel."
Louison's crazy mother had passed a miserable night. Accustomed to see Louison before going to sleep and hear her gentle voice, and not having her cries answered on this particular evening, the poor woman, who had not been able to move a step for years, dragged herself on her hands and feet into the next room and shoved the white curtains aside.
The painful cry of the invalid as she saw the bed empty, drowned a loud knock at the door, and only when the knocking was repeated and a voice imploringly cried: "Open, for God's sake, open quick!" did the burned woman listen. Where had she heard the voice?
"Quick, open—it is on account of Louison," came again from the outside. It was Fanfaro who demanded entrance.
A cry which was no longer human came from the breast of the burned woman, and, collecting all her strength, she crawled to the door and tore so long at the curtains which covered the pane of glass that they came down and Fanfaro could see into the room. As soon as he saw the position of the poor woman, he understood at once that she could not open the door, and making uphis mind quickly, he pressed in the window, and the next minute he was in the room.
"Where is Louison, madame?" he exclaimed.
The woman did not answer; she looked steadily at him and plunged her fingers in her gray hair.
"Madame, listen to me. Louison has been abducted. Don't you know anything?"
The poor thing still remained silent, even though her lips trembled convulsively, and the deep-set eyes gazed steadily at the young man.
"Madame," began Fanfaro, desperately, "listen to my words. Can you not remember where Louison told you she was going? You know who Louison is; she nurses and cares for you. Can you not tell me anything?"
At length a word came from the burned woman's breast.
"Jacques, Jacques!" she stammered, clutching the young man's knees and looking at him.
Fanfaro trembled. Who was this horrible woman who called him by the name of his childhood?
"Louison! Jacques!" uttered the toothless lips, and hot, scalding tears rolled over the scarred cheeks.
A flood of never-before-felt emotions rushed over Fanfaro; he tenderly bent over the poor woman, and gently said:
"You called me Jacques. I was called that once. What do you know of me?"
The burned woman looked hopelessly at him; she tried hard to understand him, but her clouded mind could not at first grasp what he meant.
"I will tell you what I know of the past," continued Fanfaro, slowly. "I formerly lived at Leigouttein the Vosges. My father's name was Jules, my mother's Louise, and my little sister Louison—where is Louison?"
At last a ray of reason broke from the disfigured eyes, and she whispered:
"Jacques, my dear Jacques! I am Louise, your mother, and the wife of Jules Fougeres!"
"My mother!" stammered Fanfaro with emotion, and taking the broken woman in his arms, he fervently kissed her disfigured face. The poor woman clung to him. The veil of madness was torn aside and stroking the handsome face of the young man with her broken fingers, she softly murmured:
"I have you again. God be thanked!"
"But where is Louison?" broke in Fanfaro, anxiously.
Still the brain of the sick woman could not grasp all the new impressions she had received, and although she looked again and again at Fanfaro, she left the question unanswered.
At any other time Fanfaro would have left the sick woman alone, but his anxiety about Louison gave him no peace. He did not doubt a minute but that his mother had recognized Louison long ago as her daughter, and so he asked more urgently:
"Mother, where is Louison? Your little Louison, my sister?"
"Louison?" repeated the sick woman, with flaming eyes. "Oh, she is good; she brings me fruit and flowers."
"But where is she now?"
"Gone," moaned the invalid.
"Gone? Where to?"
"I do not know. Her bed is empty."
"Then I was not deceived. She has been abducted by that scoundrel, Talizac!"
"Talizac?" repeated the maniac, with a foolish laugh. "Oh, I know him, do not let him in; he brings unhappiness—unhappiness!"
"Then he has been here?" cried Fanfaro, terror-stricken.
"No, not here—in—Sachemont—I—oh! my poor head."
With a heart-rending cry the poor woman sank to the ground unconscious. The excitement of the last hour had been too much for her. Fanfaro looked at the fainting woman, not knowing what to do. He took her in his arms and was about to place her on the bed when the door was softly opened and three forms glided in.
"Girdel, thank Heaven!" cried Fanfaro, recognizing the athlete, "have you found Robeckal?"
"No, the wretches moved out of their former residence in the Rue Vinaigrier, yesterday, and no one could tell us where they went."
"I thought so," groaned Fanfaro, and then he hastily added: "Girdel, the unhappy woman I hold in my arms is my mother. No, do not think I am crazy, it is the truth; and the girl who was abducted is my sister Louison."
"Impossible!" stammered Girdel.
"His mother!" came a whisper behind Fanfaro, and turning hastily round he saw Caillette—who stood at the door with tears in her eyes—with Bobichel, who said:
"Caillette will take care of the invalid until we have found Louison; I say that we move heaven and earth so that we find her."
"You are right, Bobichel," said Fanfaro, and, pressing a kiss upon his mother's forehead, he ran off with Girdel and the clown.
While Montferrand and Talizac were struggling, Robeckal slipped up to the door and winked to Louison. She hurried out and implored Robeckal to bring her out of this miserable house. This was just what the wretch had been waiting for, and hardly five minutes later he was in a small street with the betrayed girl. In this street a carriage stood. Robeckal seized the unsuspecting girl by the waist, lifted her into the carriage, and sprang in himself. The driver whipped up the horses and away they went at a rapid gait.
"Where are you bringing me to?" cried Louison in terror, as she saw the carriage take a wrong direction.
"Keep still, my little pigeon," laughed Robeckal, "I am bringing you to a place where it will please you."
Louison for a moment was speechless; she soon recovered herself, however, comprehended her position at a glance, hastily pulled down the carriage window, and cried aloud for help.
"Silence, minx!" exclaimed Robeckal roughly, and pulling a cloth out of his pocket he held it in front of Louison's face.
"Ah, now you are getting tame," he mockinglylaughed, as the young girl, moaning softly, fell back in the cushions. The carriage hurried along and finally stopped in an obscure street of the Belleville Quarter.
Robeckal sprang out, and taking the unconscious Louison in his arms, he carried her up the stairs of a small house, and pulled the bell, while the carriage rolled on.
"Ah, here you are; let me see the chicken!"
With these words Rolla received her comrade.
She put the lamp close to Louison's face, and then said:
"Your Talizac hasn't got bad taste; the little one is handsome."
"Is everything in order?" asked Robeckal, going up the stairs after the "Cannon Queen."
"Certainly, look for yourself."
Robeckal entered an elegantly furnished room, and, placing Louison on a sofa, he said in a commendatory tone:
"It's pretty fair."
"Don't you think so? Leave the rest to me; I have a grand idea."
"An idea?" repeated Robeckal, doubtingly.
"Yes, an idea that will bring us in a nice sum of money."
"Then I am satisfied. If the little one only does not cause us any embarrassment."
"No fear of that. In the first place she should sleep."
The virago poured a few drops of a watery liquid in a spoon and approached Louison. The latter had her lips parted, but her teeth were tightly drawn together. Robeckal carefully put the blade of his knife betweenthem, and Rolla poured the liquid down Louison's throat.
"Now come downstairs with me," she said, turning to Robeckal, "and if your vicomte comes you will praise me."
The worthy pair now left Louison, who was sleeping; and after Rolla had tightly locked the door and put the key in her pocket, they both strode to the basement. Here they entered a small, dirty room, and Rolla had just filled two glasses with rum when a carriage stopped in front of the door.
"Here they are," said Robeckal, hastily emptying his glass and going to the street door, from whence came the sound of loud knocks.
Shortly afterward he returned in company with Talizac and Velletri. The vicomte's face was flushed with the wine he had been drinking; spots of blood were on his clothes, and his walk was uneven and unsteady. Velletri, on the other hand, showed not a trace of excitement, and his dress was neat and select.
"A glass of water!" commanded the vicomte, in a rough voice, turning to Rolla.
The fat woman looked angrily at him, and while she brought the water she muttered to herself:
"Wait now. You shall pay dearly for your coarseness."
Talizac drank, and then said:
"Is the little one here?"
"Yes."
"You haven't done anything to her, have you?"
"What do you take me for?" growled Rolla.
"Bring me some wash water," said the vicomte,without noticing Rolla's sensitiveness, and turning to Velletri, he added: "Montferrand handled me roughly; I look as if I had been torn from the gallows."
"As if you won't get there one of these days," growled Rolla; and, lighting a candle, she said aloud, "If the gentlemen wish I will conduct them to the 'Marquise.'"
"Go on; where is she?"
"In the upper story—she is sleeping."
"So much the better. I will lavish my affection on her, and see if she is still as prudish."
Rolla preceded the vicomte up the stairs. As she went past she exchanged a quick glance with Robeckal, and the latter growled to himself:
"There is something up with her; I will watch and help her should it be necessary."
Rolla and Talizac were now in front of the door which led to Louison's room. The vicomte looked inquiringly at his companion and said:
"Open it."
"One moment, we are not as far as that yet. Just look at the little one first."
With these words Rolla opened a sliding window in the door and stepped back, while the vicomte bent down and looked into the partly lighted room.
Louison lay fast asleep on the sofa. The pretty head rested on the left arm, while the right hung carelessly down, and the long eyelashes lay tightly on the slightly flushed cheeks. The small, delicate mouth was slightly compressed, and the mass of silky hair fell in natural curls about the white forehead.
"Isn't she charming?" giggled Rolla.
Talizac was a libertine, a dissipated man, and yet when he saw the sleeping girl, a feeling he could not account for overcame him. He forgot where he was, that the miserable woman at his side had helped to carry out his dastardly plans, and all his longing now was to throw himself at Louison's feet, and say to her:
"I love you dearly!"
"Open," he hastily ordered.
Rolla let the window fall again and looked impertinently at him.
"My lord," she said, with a courtesy, "before I open this door you will pay me twenty thousand francs."
"Woman, are you mad?"
"Bah! you would shout so! I said twenty thousand francs, and I mean it. Here is my hand. Count in the money and I will get the key."
"Enough of this foolish talk," cried the vicomte, in a rage. "I paid your comrade the sum he demanded, and that settles it."
"You are more stupid than I thought," laughed Rolla. "If you do not pay, nothing will come of the affair."
"But this is a swindle," said the vicomte.
"Do not shout such language through the whole house," growled Rolla. "Do you think it is a pleasure to abduct girls? Robeckal had enough trouble with the little one and—"
What Rolla said further was drowned by the noise Talizac made as he threw himself against the door. It did not move an inch though; and before the vicomte could try again, Robeckal hurried up with a long knife in his hand.
"What is the matter?" he angrily cried.
"Your friend the vicomte forgot his purse and thinks he can get the girl on credit," mockingly replied Rolla.
The noise brought Velletri up too; but as soon as he saw Robeckal's long knife, he turned about again. The vicomte too became pacified.
"I will give you all the money I have with me," he said, as he turned the contents of his purse into Rolla's big hand. "Count and see how much it is."
"Ten, twenty, eight hundred francs," counted the Cannon Queen; "we shall keep the money on account, and when you bring the rest, you can get the key."
"This is miserable," hissed Talizac, as he turned to go; "who will vouch to me that you won't ask me again for the money?"
"Our honor, vicomte," replied Rolla, grinning. "We think as much of our reputation as high-toned people."
"Scoundrels," muttered Talizac, as he went away with Velletri. "If we could only do without them!"
The Marquis of Fougereuse was sitting in his study, and Simon stood beside him.
"So he has escaped from us again?" remarked the marquis frowning.
"God knows how it happened, my lord; my plans were all so well laid that I cannot understand how the affair fell through?"
"Postponed is not given up," observed the nobleman; "and as Fanfaro does not yet suspect who he really is, he can go on compromising himself. Have you any further details with regard to the conspiracy?"
"Yes, my lord, we have trustworthy witnesses, who can swear, in case of need, that Fanfaro planned an attempt upon the sacred person of the king."
"Very good; but still the attempt must be really made, so that Fanfaro could be convicted."
"I have attended to that. One of our agents will set the harmless attempt in motion, and the individual selected—who, by the way, has escaped the gallows more than once—will swear in court that Fanfaro is the intellectual head of the assassination and chief conspirator."
Before the marquis could express his satisfaction, the Marquis of Montferrand was announced.
"A visit at this hour!" cried Fougereuse, in amazement; "it is hardly seven o'clock."
"The gentleman comes on important business, as he informed me," said the servant.
"Bring the marquis in," ordered the nobleman; and as the servant went away he hastily said to Simon: "Hide behind the curtain, and remain there until the interview is over; perhaps you might hear something that will further our plans." Simon nodded and disappeared, while the marquis was led in.
Arthur's father was a man of imposing presence. He looked down upon the beggar nobility which fawned about the court, to receive money or favors.
The old man looked pale. He hastily approached the marquis and said:
"Marquis, you imagine you are a faithful adherent of the monarchy, but scandals such as take place to-day are not calculated to raise the Fougereuse and Talizacs in the estimation of the court."
"You are speaking in riddles, marquis!" exclaimed Fougereuse, in amazement.
"So much the worse for you, if your son's conduct must be told you by another party," said the old man, sternly.
"What is the matter with my son?"
"The Vicomte de Talizac has dishonored himself and the cause you serve."
"My son is young and wild. Has he again committed one of his stupid follies?" asked the marquis, uneasily.
"If it only were a stupid folly! The vicomte had a quarrel last night with my son, because my son wished to hinder him from committing a dastardly act. My son boxed the vicomte's ears, upon which the latter tried to stab him with a knife."
"Impossible!" cried Fougereuse, in a rage.
"I am speaking the truth," declared the old gentleman, calmly.
"What was the nature of this dastardly act?"
"The vicomte was drunk and employed people to abduct a respectable young girl, a street-singer. My son was in the society of yours, in a restaurant of a low order. When he heard what the affair was, he energetically protested and tried to hinder the vicomte and his friend Velletri from carrying out their plot. They quarrelled, the vicomte was boxed on the ears and my son was stabbed. They both received what they deserved. What brought me here is another matter. You are aware that I consented to speak to my cousin the Comtesse of Salves in relation to the marriage of her daughter with your son. From what happened last night, I should regard it as a misfortune for Irene if she becomes the vicomte's wife. I came here to tell you this."
Fougereuse became pale and clutched the back of a chair to keep from falling. At this moment the rustle of a silk dress was heard, and Madeleine, the marquis's wife, entered the room.
The marquis excitedly approached her.
"The vicomte is a scoundrel!" he cried, in a rage; "he has dragged the old noble name in the mud, thanks to his mother's bringing up. You have never refused him a wish."
Madeleine's blue eyes shot gleams of fire; she looked above her husband as if he had been empty air, and turned to the Marquis of Montferrand.
"Monsieur le Marquis," she politely said, "my son desired me to offer you his apologies."
"Apology?" repeated Montferrand, coldly, "for the box on the ear he got?"
"No, my lord, but because he was so intoxicated as to raise the ire of your son. He would not have gone so far if he had been sober. As to the affair with the street-singer, it is not so serious as you imagine. My son regrets very much that such a trivial affair has been the means of causing a rupture between him and your son. He has already taken steps to indemnify the girl for the wrong he did her, and I am positive the little one will have her liberty restored to her before many hours have passed. Is the word of the Marquise de Fougereuse sufficient for you, my lord?"
"Perfectly sufficient," said Montferrand, gallantly kissing the marquise's hand.
"Then we can count on seeing you to-night at our house?" asked Madeleine. "I have a surprise in store for my friends."
"Can one find out in advance the nature of it?" asked Montferrand, while Fougereuse looked anxiously at Madeleine.
"Oh, yes; his majesty has condescended to appoint the vicomte a captain in the Life Guards with the decoration of St. Louis," said the marquise proudly.
"Oh, I call that a surprise," cried Fougereuse, more freely, and Montferrand hastened to extend his congratulations.
"The Countess of Salves and her daughter have signified their intention of being present," continued Madeleine, "and as soon as my son receives his commission, the engagement of the young couple will be announced."
"It is only what one might expect from the Marquise of Fougereuse," said Montferrand politely, as he rose. "Good-by then, until this evening."
The marquis accompanied the old man to the door, then returned to his wife and excitedly asked:
"Madeleine, is all this true?"
Instead of answering, the marquise contemptuously shrugged her shoulders and left the room to hunt up her son.
"It is all settled," she said; "here are the twenty thousand francs you need to silence the girl; and now try to bring honor to your new position."
Madeleine placed a pocket-book on the table and went away. Talizac laughed in his sleeve. He did not think he could obtain the money so easily.
Toward noon Louison awoke from the lethargic sleep in which Rolla's liquid had thrown her, and her first look fell upon the virago, who was sitting in a half-drunken condition near the window. The young girl unconsciously uttered a cry when she saw the repulsive woman, and this cry aroused Rolla from out of her dreams about well-filled brandy bottles into reality.
"Well, my pigeon, how goes it?" she asked, grinning.
"My head hurts," replied Louison faintly, and throwing an anxious look about the strange apartment, she timidly added: "Where am I?"
"Where are you? Among good people certainly, who have become interested in you and will do what's right."
Louison was silent and tried to collect her thoughts. But it was no use, she had to close her eyes again from exhaustion.
"Ah, you are sensible I see; that pleases me," said Rolla, giggling. "Robeckal thought you would stamp and cry, but I said right away: 'The little one is smart, she will not throw her fortune away.' What is the use of virtue, anyway? It hardly brings one dry bread, sothe sooner you throw it overboard the better it is. Oh, you will make your way, never fear. Your face is handsome, and who knows but that you will have your own elegant house and carriage one of these days? The little vicomte is certainly no Adonis, with his high shoulder, but one cannot have everything and—"
Louison had listened to Rolla's words with increasing loathing, and when she heard the name of the vicomte pronounced, her memory returned to her. Hastily springing up, she uttered a loud cry, and clutching Rolla tightly about the shoulder she exclaimed:
"Let me go or you shall be sorry for it!"
Rolla looked at the street-singer with a foolish laugh, and, shaking her thick head, she laconically said:
"Stay here."
"But I will not stay here," declared Louison firmly. "I will go away! Either you let me go or I shall cry for help. I am a respectable girl, and you ought to be ashamed to treat me in this way."
"So you—are a respectable girl," said the woman, in a maudlin voice. "What conceit—you have! You might have been so yesterday, but to-day—try it—tell the people that you spent a few hours in the Cannon Queen's house in Belleville and are still a respectable girl. Ha! ha! They will laugh at you, or spit in your face. No, no, my pretty dear, no one will believe that fairy story, and if an angel from heaven came down and took rooms in my house, it would be ruined. Give in, my chicken, and don't show the white feather! No one will believe that you are respectable and virtuous, and I think you ought to save yourself the trouble. It is too late now."
"You lie!" cried Louison, in desperation.
"So—I lie—it is about time that I shut your bold mouth," growled the virago, and raising her voice, she cried: "Robeckal, bring me the bottle."
The next minute hurried steps were heard coming up the stairs, and Rolla hastened to open the locked door. It was Robeckal, who entered with a small bottle in his hand. When Louison saw him she turned deathly pale, and running to the window she burst the panes with her clinched fist and called loudly for help.
"Minx!" hissed Robeckal, forcibly holding her back and throwing her to the ground.
With Rolla's assistance he now poured the contents of the bottle down her throat. When he tried to open the tightly compressed lips, Louison bit him in the finger. He uttered an oath, put a piece of wood between her teeth, and triumphantly exclaimed:
"For the next few hours you are done for, you little hussy."
"If it were only not too much," said Rolla, as Louison, groaning loudly, sank backward and closed her eyes.
"Have no fear; I know my methods," laughed Robeckal. "I am not so foolish as to kill the little one before we have the vicomte's money in our hands. She will sleep a few hours, and wake up tamed. Come, let us put her on the sofa and leave her alone."
The worthy pair laid the unconscious girl on the sofa and went away. Rolla, on closing the door, put the key in her pocket. They began to play cards in the basement, a pursuit which agreed with them, and at the same time swallowed deep draughts of brandy.
Toward six o'clock the vicomte entered. He threwa well-filled pocket-book on the table, and in a tone of command said: "The key!"
"First we will count," growled Rolla; and opening the pocket-book with her fat hands she passed the contents in review.
"It is correct," she finally said; and taking the key out of her pocket she handed it to the vicomte.
As soon as the latter had left the room, Rolla shoved the pocket-book in her dirty dress, and hastily said:
"Come, Robeckal, the little one might make a noise. Let him see how he will get through with her."
Robeckal acquiesced, and they both quickly left the house, leaving all the doors open behind them.
They had hardly been gone, when a cry of rage rang through the house, and immediately afterward the vicomte burst into the room.
"You have deceived me," he cried, in a rage; "the window is open and the girl is gone!"
By what miracle had Louison escaped? In his anxiety to make the young girl harmless, Robeckal had given her such a strong dose that the narcotic had just the opposite effect, and before an hour had passed, a hammering and beating of her temples awakened her again. The excited state in which she was made her unable to grasp a clear thought; but one thing stood plainly before her—she must leave this horrible house at any price.
Slowly rising, she felt for the door; it was locked. She then walked softly to the window and looked at the street. It was deserted and empty of pedestrians, a fog hung over it, and if Louison could only reach the street she would be safe.
Through the broken pane the fresh air entered, and she tried then to collect her thoughts. The horrible woman had spoken about Belleville; if she were only in the street she would soon reach the Boulevard du Temple, and then—further than this she did not get with her plans. Away, only away, the rest would take care of itself.
What had the virago said? "Too late, too late, toolate!" The horrible words rang in her ears like a death-knell; every pulse-beat repeated, "Too late!"
Pressing her hand to her temples, Louison began to sob. Just then the coarse laughter of her torturers sounded from the basement and her tears immediately dried.
Softly, very softly, she opened the window, stood on the sill and swung herself to the outer sill. A pole which served to support a grapevine gave her a hold. She carefully climbed down its side, reached the street and ran as if pursued by the Furies.
The fog grew denser, and more than once Louison knocked against a wall or ran against passers-by, but these obstacles did not hinder her from running on.
How long she had been going in this way she did not know, but suddenly a blast of cold air grazed her burning face, and looking up she perceived that she had reached the Canal St. Martin. She had only to cross the bridge to reach those quarters of the great city which were known to her, but still she did not do it. A short while she stood there not knowing what to do. Then she strode on, timidly looking around her and walked down the damp stone steps leading to the water.
For a long time she stood on the last step. All around everything was still, and only the monotonous ripple of the waves reached the deserted girl's ears. With her arms folded across her bosom, she gazed at the black waters; the murmuring waves played about her feet and then she paused so long—long—
Robeckal and Rolla hurried through the streets with feverish haste. The ground burned under their feet, andthey did not dare to breathe before they had turned their back upon the capital. They were just turning into the Rue St. Denis, when an iron fist was laid upon Robeckal's shoulder, and forced the frightened man to stand still.
"What does this mean?" he angrily cried, as he turned around, "a—"
He paused, for he had recognized Fanfaro. Bobichel had clutched Rolla at the same time, and shaking her roughly, he cried:
"Monster, where is the street-singer?"
"What do I know of a street-singer?" cried Rolla, boldly. "Let me go or I shall cry out."
"Cry away," replied Bobichel. "You must know best yourself whether you desire the interference of the police or not."
Rolla thought of the well-filled pocket-book and kept silent. Robeckal, in the meantime, had almost died of strangulation, for Fanfaro's fingers pressed his throat together; and when he was asked if he intended to answer, he could only nod with his head.
"Where is Louison?" asked Fanfaro, in a voice of thunder.
"No. 16 Rue de Belleville."
"Alone?"
"I do not know."
"Scoundrels, God help you, if all is not right," hissed Fanfaro, "bring us quickly to the house named."
"Oh, it is very easy to find," began Rolla, but Bobichel threatened her with his fist and cried:
"So much the better for you, forward march!"
Robeckal and the Cannon Queen, held in the grips of Fanfaro and the clown, proceeded on the way toBelleville. They stopped in front of No. 16, and it required the application of force to get them to enter.
Rolla, in advance of the others, went to the top story. The door was wide open and the room empty.
"Really, he has taken her along?" she exclaimed in amazement.
"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Fanfaro, trembling with fear.
"Of whom else but the little vicomte."
"His name?"
"Talizac."
"The villain!" muttered Fanfaro to himself.
Bobichel was still holding Rolla by the arm. His gaze, roving about the room, had espied a note on the table. Rolla saw it, too, but before she could take it the clown had called Fanfaro's attention to it.
"You have swindled me," the young man read; "you have helped her to escape, confound you!"
"Thank God all is not lost yet," whispered Fanfaro, handing Bobichel the paper.
"One moment," said the clown; "I have an idea which I would like to carry out."
With a quick movement Bobichel threw Robeckal to the ground, bound him with a thick rope and threw him into a closet. He locked it and putting the key in his pocket, he turned to Rolla.
"March, away with you," he said, roughly, "and do not attempt to free him; he can ponder over his sins."
Rolla hurried to leave the house. If Robeckal died she would be the sole possessor of the twenty thousand francs. Bobichel and Fanfaro left the house likewise, and Robeckal remained crying behind.
The Fougereuse mansion was resplendent with light. Madeleine intended to celebrate the vicomte's appointment to a captaincy in a fitting way, and hundreds of invitations had been issued and accepted.
One fine carriage after another rolled up; the marquise, dressed in princely style, received her guests in the fairy-like parlors, and soon a brilliant assembly crowded the rooms.
The marquis and his wife looked proudly at the vicomte, who, however, could hardly restrain his disappointment. He did not know what hurt him most, the loss of Louison or the twenty thousand francs, and he railed against himself for being so foolish as to imagine that Robeckal and Rolla would keep their word.
"Do not frown so," whispered Madeleine to her son, "here comes Irene."
The vicomte bit his lips until they bled, and then approached Irene de Salves, who had just entered, accompanied by her mother and the Marquis de Montferrand.
Irene was dazzlingly beautiful, and her rich dress enhanced her charming appearance. There was, however,a melancholy look in her dark eyes, but her voice sounded clear and strong as she replied to the vicomte's greeting.
Brought up in the traditions of the nobility, Irene did not think of resisting her mother when the latter told her that her engagement with the Vicomte de Talizac would be announced that evening. Irene loved Fanfaro with all the fervor of her soul, but she would never have dared to tell her mother of her attachment for the acrobat.
When the vicomte pressed her hand upon his arm, she trembled violently, and a gleam of rage shot out of the dark eyes, while Talizac thought to himself that the young girl had every reason to be proud of him. Captain in the Life Guards and Knight of St. Louis. The more he considered it the more he came to the conclusion that he could demand more, and only the circumstance that the young countess possessed several millions caused him to submit to the match.
The first notes of a polonaise were heard now, and the guests, grouping themselves in pairs, strode through the wide halls. A quadrille followed the polonaise, and it was a charming sight to see all these graceful women and young girls dance. Irene kept up a cross-fire of words with the vicomte and Velletri. Talizac had just whispered some gallant sentence to her, when a high officer of the Royal Life Guards appeared and handed the vicomte his commission.
Great enthusiasm arose. The vicomte and his parents were congratulated from all sides, and the young girls envied Irene, for it was an open secret that she would be the future Vicomtesse de Talizac.
Arthur de Montferrand was the only one who could not force himself to congratulate the vicomte. It was only on his father's account that he came at all, and while Talizac was being surrounded on all sides, Arthur's thoughts went back to the scene of the previous evening. He saw Louison's pleading looks, he heard her contemptuous words, and could never forgive himself for having given her good reason to believe that he was one of Talizac's accomplices.
The vicomte's voice aroused him from his dreams.
"Well, Arthur," said Talizac laughing, "have you no congratulation for me?"
Arthur looked penetratingly at the vicomte, and in a low voice replied:
"Vicomte, if I cannot discover any traces of the punishment you received yesterday on your cheeks, I hope to be able to pay up for what I have lost. For to-day you must excuse me."
Deathly pale, Talizac looked at Montferrand, but before he had a chance to reply, a commotion was heard in the corridor, followed by a war of words.
The marquis looked uneasily at the door, and was about to give an order to a servant to inquire after the cause of the disturbance, when the folding doors were thrown open and a man who carried the lifeless, dripping form of a young girl in his arms rushed into the ballroom.
"Fanfaro!" cried Montferrand in amazement.
Fanfaro, for it was really he, laid the young girl's body tenderly upon the ground, and, turning to the assembled guests, cried with threatening voice:
"Ladies and gentlemen, here is the corpse of a young girl whom the Vicomte de Talizac murdered."
The women uttered cries of terror and the men looked threateningly at Talizac, who was trembling and trying hard to appear indifferent.
The Marquis of Fougereuse was as white as a spectre. Was this Fanfaro going to pursue him forever?
"Who is the bold fellow?" he audaciously said. "Throw him out."
"Don't be so quick, marquis," said Fanfaro earnestly; "it is a question of a terrible crime, and your son the Vicomte de Talizac is the criminal! Oh, the shame of it! Does he think that because he is a nobleman he can do what he pleases? This young girl lived modestly and plainly; she was pure and innocent. The Vicomte de Talizac regarded her as his prey. He bribed a couple of scoundrels and had the poor child abducted.
"Half crazed with horror and despairing of humanity, the victim sought peace and forgetfulness in suicide. Marquis, do you know of any infamy equal to this?"
Proud, with head erect like an avenger of innocence, Fanfaro stood in the centre of the room and his eyes shot forth rays of contempt.
Montferrand hurried toward him and cordially shook him by the hand.
"Is she dead—is she really dead?" he asked.
"I fear so," replied the young man, slowly, "yet I do not like to give up all hope. Is there no lady here who will take care of the poor child and try to soften the vicomte's crime?" continued Fanfaro, raising his voice. "Does not a heart beat under these silks and satins?"
From the group of timid ladies came a tall figure clad in a white silk dress, and kneeling next to Louison she softly said:
"Here I am."
"The farce is becoming uproarious," cried the Marquis of Fougereuse, nervously laughing.
"Do not call it a farce; it is a drama, a terrible drama, my lord," replied Fanfaro, earnestly. "Ask your son, who is leaning pale and trembling against the wall, whether I am telling you the truth or not?"
"Yes, it is a lie!" exclaimed Talizac, hoarsely.
"It is no lie," declared Arthur de Montferrand, stepping in front of Talizac. "Vicomte, you have a bad memory, and if my hand had not fortunately stamped your face you might have even denied it to my face. Look at the vicomte, gentlemen; the traces which burn on his pale cheeks he owes to me, for I was present when he made the first attempt to scandalize this poor girl. I chastised him, and he stabbed me."
"He lies! He is crazy!" cried the vicomte, in despair.
But none of those who had a quarter of an hour before overwhelmed him with congratulations condescended to look at the wretch, and with a moan Talizac sank back in a chair.
In the meantime Irene had busied herself with Louison, and now triumphantly exclaimed:
"She lives, she breathes, she can still be saved! Mamma," she said, turning quickly to her mother, "we will take the poor child home with us and nurse her."
The countess assented with tears in her eyes; she was proud of her daughter.
"The poor thing is my sister," said Fanfaro in a low voice to Irene.
Irene bent over Louison and kissed her pale forehead. This was her answer to Fanfaro's information.
Talizac had now recovered his senses. He tore open the door and angrily cried:
"Is there no one here who will show this impudent fellow out? Come in, lackeys and servants; lay hands on him!"
"I would advise no one to touch me," said Fanfaro, coldly.
At this moment a hand was laid on Fanfaro's shoulder, and a deep voice said:
"In the name of the king, you are my prisoner!"
As if struck by lightning, the young man gazed upon an old man who wore a dark uniform with a white and gold scarf. All the entrances to the ballroom were occupied by soldiers, and Fanfaro saw at once that he was lost.
"My lord marquis," said the officer, turning to the master of the house, "I regret very much to disturb you, but I must obey my order. Less than an hour ago a man with a knife in his hand entered the apartments of his majesty and said that he intended to kill the king."
A cry of horror followed these words, and, pale and trembling, the guests crowded about the officer, who continued after a short pause:
"Asked about his accomplice, the would-be murderer declared that he was an agent for a secret society whose chief the prisoner Fanfaro is."
"Oh, what a monstrous lie!" exclaimed Fanfaro, beside himself with rage, while Irene de Salves rose upright and with flaming eyes said:
"He a murderer? Impossible!"
"Prudence," whispered Arthur to the young woman, "what I can do for him I will."
"Save my sister, Irene," said Fanfaro softly, andsorrowfully turning to the official, he declared with a loud voice: "Sir, I must deny the accusation that I am a murderer. I have openly fought against the present government, but have never employed any assassin! Do your duty, I will follow you without resistance and calmly await the judge's sentence."
With head erect Fanfaro strode toward the door and disappeared in company with the soldiers. Montferrand approached Talizac and hissed in his ear:
"It might be doing you an honor, but if there is no other remedy I will fight a duel with you to rid the world of a scoundrel—I await your seconds."
"You shall pay for this," said the vicomte, "I will kill you."
Half an hour later the splendid halls of the Fougereuse mansion were deserted; the guests hurried to leave a house where such things had occurred.
Like so many other places, Leigoutte had risen from the ashes after the war was over. A great sensation was caused one day by the appearance in the village of an old gray-headed man. He said he intended to erect a new building on the spot where the school and tavern house formerly stood. The old man paid without any haggling the price asked for the ground, and shortly afterward workmen were seen busily carting the ruins away and digging a foundation.
The villagers thought a new and elegant house would replace the old one now, but they deceived themselves. Strange to say, the new building resembled the old one even to the smallest details. In the basement was the kitchen from which a door led to the low narrow tavern-room, and in the upper story were two bedrooms and the large schoolroom.
When the house was finished, a sign half destroyed by fire was fastened to one end, and the peasants swore it was the sign of the former innkeeper, Jules Fougeres. In the right corner the words "To the welfare of France" could be clearly seen.
The new owner did not live in the house himself. Hegave it free of charge to the poorest family in the village, with the condition that he be allowed to live there a few weeks each year. A schoolmaster was soon found in the person of a former sergeant, and as Pierre Labarre—such was the name of the new owner—undertook to look out for the teacher's salary, the inhabitants of Leigoutte had every reason to be thankful to him. When Pierre came to the village, which was generally in spring, the big and little ones surrounded him, and the old man would smile at the children, play with them, and assemble the parents at evening in the large tavern-room, and relate stories of the Revolution.
He had come this spring to Leigoutte and the children gleefully greeted him. On the evening of a March day he was sitting pensively at the window of the tavern, when he suddenly saw two curious figures coming up the road. One of the figures, apparently a young, strong girl, had her arm about a bent old woman, who could hardly walk along, and had to be supported by her companion.
Pierre felt his heart painfully moved when he saw the two women, and following an indefinable impulse he left the room and seated himself on a bench in front of the house.
The wanderers did not notice him. When they were opposite the house the old woman raised her head, and Pierre now saw a fearfully disfigured face. The woman whispered a few words to her companion; the young girl nodded and began to walk in the direction of the school-house. The paralyzed woman climbed the few steps which led into the house, and walking along the corridor she entered the parlor.
Pierre could not sit still any more. He noiselessly aroseand entered the corridor. The parlor door was wide open, and he saw the gray-haired woman sitting at a table and looking all around her. Her small, fleshless lips parted, and half aloud she muttered:
"Where can Jules be? The dinner has been ready a long time, the children are getting impatient, and still he does not come! Come here, Jacques; father will be here soon. Louison, do not cry or I shall scold! Ah, little fool, I did not mean it: be quiet, he will soon be here!"
Pierre Labarre felt his heart stand still. The crippled, disfigured woman who sat there could be none other than Louise, Jules's wife! But who could her companion be?
No longer able to control himself, he softly entered the room. The young girl immediately perceived him, and folding her hands, she said, in a pleading tone:
"Do not get angry, sir! We shall not trouble you long."
"Make yourselves at home," replied Pierre, cordially; "but tell me," he continued, "who is this woman?"
Caillette, for she was the young woman, put her finger to her forehead, and looked significantly at the old woman.
"She is crazy," she whispered.
Pierre Labarre laid his hand over his eyes to hide his tears, but he could not prevent a nervous sob from shaking his broad frame.
"Tell me," he repeated softly, "who is the woman?"
"Ah! the poor woman has gone through a great deal of trouble," replied Caillette, sorrowfully. "She has lost her husband and her children, and was badly injured at a fire. Only a few weeks ago she could hardly move a limb, but since a short time her condition has wonderfully improved, and she can now walk, though not without assistance."
"But her name—what is she called?"
"Ah, my dear sir, I do not know her real name; the people who live in her neighborhood in Paris call her the 'Burned Woman,' and Louison calls her mamma or mother."
"Louison? Who is that?"
"A young girl who has taken care of her. She earns her living through singing, and is a charming girl. Her brother is named Fanfaro. Ah! it is a curious story, full of misfortune and crime."
Pierre was silent for a moment, and then asked:
"Who is this Fanfaro whom you just spoke about?"
Caillette did not answer immediately. Fanfaro was to her the incarnation of all that was good and noble in the world, but of course she could not tell the old man this.
"Fanfaro is a foundling," she finally said; "of course he is a man now, and just as energetic and brave as any one."
"Fanfaro, Fanfaro," repeated the old man, pensively; "where have I heard the name before?"
The maniac now raised her eyes, and, seeing Pierre, she politely said:
"Excuse the plain service, sir; it is very little, but comes from our hearts."
Pierre Labarre uttered a cry of astonishment.
"Louise—Louise Fougeres!" he cried, beside himself.
The invalid looked sharply at Pierre, and tremblingly said:
"Who called me? Who pronounced my name just now?"
"I, Louise," replied Pierre. "Louise Fougeres, do younot recollect your husband, Jules, and your children, Jacques and Louison?"
"Of course I remember them. Ah, how glad I would be if I could see them again! Where can Jules be? and Jacques—Jacques—"
The maniac was silent, and ran her crippled fingers through her gray hair, as if she were trying to recollect something.
"Yes, I know," she murmured pensively, "Louison is here, she sleeps in a neat white bed, but she is away now—and—and—"
Expectantly Pierre gazed at the poor woman, who was palpably confounding imagination with reality, and after a pause she continued:
"Oh, the door opens now, and Jacques enters! Welcome, my dear child. How handsome you have become. Thank God, I have you again!"
"Has she really found Jacques again?" asked Labarre, tremblingly, and turning to Caillette. "Is he living?"
"Yes, he is the same person as Fanfaro."
"God be praised. And Louison?"
"Louison has been abducted and—"
"Abducted? By whom?"
"By the Vicomte of Talizac."
"By Talizac? O my God!" stammered Labarre, in horror.
Louise, too, had heard the name, and raising herself with difficulty, she whispered:
"Talizac? He must know it! Jacques—the box, O God! where is the box?"
* * * * *
How did these two women get to Leigoutte?
When Fanfaro went to search for Louison, his motherhad remained behind under the protection of Caillette. The day passed, night came, but neither Fanfaro, Girdel nor Bobichel returned. The maniac screamed and cried. She wanted to see Jacques, and Caillette could hardly calm her. Finally long past midnight she fell into a slumber, and Caillette, too, exhausted by the excitement of the last few hours, closed her eyes.
When she awoke it was daylight. She glanced at the maniac's bed. Merciful Heaven, it was empty!
Trembling with fear, Caillette hurried downstairs and asked the janitress whether she had seen anything of the "Burned Woman." The janitress looked at her in amazement and said she had thought at once when she saw the old crippled woman creeping down the stairs two hours before that all was not right in her head.
"But she cannot walk at all, how could she get out?" groaned Caillette. "Suppose Fanfaro came now and found that his mother was gone?"
"A milk-wagon stopped in front of the door," said the janitress, "and the driver let the old woman get in. I thought it had been arranged beforehand and was all right."
Caillette wrung her hands and then hurried to the station house and announced the disappearance of the "Burned Woman."
If her father and Bobichel, even Fanfaro, had come, she would have felt at ease. But no one showed himself, and Caillette, who knew that Girdel and Fanfaro were wanted, did not dare to make any inquiries.
She ran about in desperation. The only clew was the milkman, but where could she find him? Caillette passed hours of dreadful anxiety, and when a ragpicker told herthat he saw a woman who answered her description pass the Barriere d'Italie on a milk-wagon, she thought him a messenger of God.
As quick as she could go, she ran to the place designated; a hundred times on the way, she said to herself that the wagon must have gone on; and yet it struck like a clap of thunder when she found it was really so. What now? Caillette asked from house to house; every one had seen the woman, but she had gone in a different direction; and so the poor child wandered onward, right and left, forward and backward, always hoping to discover them. Finally, after she had been thirty-six hours on the way, she found the maniac in a little tavern by the roadside. She was crouching near the threshold, and smiled when she saw Caillette.
"God be praised! I have found you," cried the young girl, sobbing; and when the hostess, who had been standing in the background, heard these words, she joyfully said:
"I am glad I did not leave the poor woman go; she spoke so funny, I thought at once that she had run away from her family."
"What did she say?" asked Caillette, while the "Burned Woman" clung to her.
"Oh, she asked for bread, and then inquired the way to the Vosges."
"Yes, to the Vosges," said the maniac, hastily.
"But, mother, what should we do in the Vosges?" asked Caillette, in surprise.
"To Leigoutte—Leigoutte," repeated the maniac, urgently.
"Leigoutte—that is Fanfaro's home!" exclaimed the young girl, hastily.
"Not Fanfaro—Jacques," corrected the old woman.
"But what should we do in Leigoutte, mother?"
"The box—Jacques—Talizac—the papers," the woman replied.
And so we find Caillette and her patient, after weary wanderings, in Leigoutte. The young girl had sold, on the way, a gold cross, the only jewel she possessed, to pay the expenses of the journey. Charitable peasants had given the women short rides at times; kind-hearted farmers' wives had offered them food and drink, or else a night's lodging. Yet Caillette thanked God when she arrived at Leigoutte. What would happen now, she did not know. Nothing could induce the maniac to return, and the young girl thought it best not to oppose her wish. Little by little, she began to suspect herself that the journey might be important for Fanfaro; who could tell what thoughts were agitating the mad woman's brain; and, perhaps, the unexpected recovery of her son might have awakened recollections of the past.
"I must speak to old Laison," said the "Burned Woman," suddenly; "he must help me."
She arose, shoved Caillette and Pierre aside, and hobbled toward the back door. Opening it, she reached the open field, and without looking around, she walked on and on. Pierre and Caillette followed her unnoticed. She had now reached the spot on which the old farmhouse of Laison stood, and, looking timidly around her, she turned to the right.
Suddenly she uttered a loud scream, and when Caillette and Pierre hurried in affright to her, they found the maniac deathly pale, leaning against a hollow tree, while her crippled fingers held a box, which she had apparentlydug out of the earth; for close to the hollow tree was a deep hole, and the box was covered with dirt and earth.
"There it is!" she cried to Pierre, and from the eyes in which madness had shone before, reason now sparkled. "Jacques is not my son, but Vicomte de Talizac, and Louison is the Marquise of Fougereuse—here are the proofs."
She clutched a number of papers from the box and held them triumphantly uplifted; but then nature demanded her right, and, exhausted by the great excitement, she sank senseless into Caillette's arms.