Before Robeckal had consented to play the part of a regicide, he had made his conditions, and not before they were accepted had he undertaken the job. He had been told that he would be condemned to deathpro forma, and set free at the right moment. He would then be given an amount necessary for him to go to England or America and live there.
Notwithstanding these promises, Robeckal felt a cold shudder run down his back when he heard the death sentence, and when he was taken back to jail again he impatiently awaited further developments. He thought it very strange that he should be left to his fate, and when hour after hour had passed and neither Simon nor any one else came to his cell, he began to feel seriously uneasy.
Suppose they no longer remembered the compact?
Cold drops of perspiration stood on the wretch's forehead, and his hands clinched nervously as these thoughts ran through his mind, and he tried to banish them. No, that must not be done to him. The rescue must come—he had not committed the fatal act for nothing. At last, the heavy iron door swung open, and Vidocq, the greatdetective, entered his cell. Robeckal knew him, and breathed more freely. Vidocq, no doubt, came to release him.
"Thank God you have come, Monsieur Vidocq," cried Robeckal to the official; "the time was becoming rather long for me."
"I am sorry that I have kept you waiting," replied Vidocq, quietly; "but there were certain formalities to be settled, and I—"
"Ah! no doubt in regard to the money?" said Robeckal, laughing. "Have you brought the yellow birds along?"
"Slowly, slowly—first let me inform you that the death sentence has been torn up."
"Really? I did not expect anything else."
"You do not say so," observed the official, ironically. "Then you already know your fate?"
"Yes, I am going to England and from there to America."
"I don't know anything about that; my information is that you will not leave France."
Robeckal's face became a shade paler, still he did not lose courage.
"Where am I to be sent?" he hastily asked.
"For the present to the south of France."
"To—the—south—of—France," repeated Robeckal.
"To Toulon."
"To Toulon?" cried the wretch, in terror. "That is impossible!"
"And why should it be impossible?" asked Vidocq, smiling maliciously.
"Because—because," stammered Robeckal, faintly, "the sentence—"
"Was death by strangulation. Thanks to the efforts of your friends, it has been commuted to the galleys for life, and I think you ought to be satisfied with the change."
"But—the—promise?" whined the criminal. "But, come, now, you are only joking?"
"I never joke," said the detective, earnestly; "besides, you must have been very innocent to imagine any one would make a compact with a scoundrel like you. It would be a crime against society to allow you to continue your bad course. No, thank God, the judges in France know their duty."
With these words, Vidocq beckoned to four muscular men to enter the cell. They seized Robeckal and put handcuffs and chains on him, in spite of his cries and entreaties. As the wretch continued to shout louder, a gag was put in his mouth, and in less than a quarter of an hour he was on the way to Toulon, which place he never left alive.
In a poor fisherman's cottage in Havre a young man was walking up and down in feverish uneasiness. From time to time he looked through the window which opened on to the sea. The waves ran high, the wind whistled, while dark clouds rolled over the starless sky.
A slight knock was now heard at the door of the cottage.
"Who is there?" asked the young man, anxiously.
"We are looking for Fanfaro," came from the outside; and, when the man hastily shoved back the bolt, two slim female forms, enveloped in dark cloaks, crossed the threshold.
Before the young man had time to greet the strangers, another knock was heard, and upon the question, "Who is there?" the answer came this time, in a soft, trembling voice:
"We have been sent here to find Fanfaro."
"Come in," cried the young man, eagerly; and two more female forms entered the cottage. One of them was young and strong; the other, old, gray-haired and broken-down, clung to her companion, who almost carried her.
They all looked silently at each other; finally, one of those who had first entered let her cloak, the hood of which she wore over her head, sink down, and, turning to the young man, she vivaciously said:
"Arthur, have you sent me this invitation?"
With these words, she handed Arthur de Montferrand, for he was the young man, the following note:
"Whoever wants to see Fanfaro once more should come to the fisherman's cottage of Antoine Michel, in Havre, on the 18th day of March."
"Whoever wants to see Fanfaro once more should come to the fisherman's cottage of Antoine Michel, in Havre, on the 18th day of March."
"I received a similar invitation," said Arthur. "I was told, at the same time, to come in the afternoon; to answer any inquiries that might be made; and to see that no stranger be admitted. Who invited us here, I do not know; but I think we shall not be kept waiting long for an explanation."
"As God pleases, this hope may be confirmed," replied Irene de Salves, and turning to her companion, who was softly sobbing, she whispered consolingly to her: "Courage, Louison, you will soon embrace your brother."
The two other women were Caillette and Louise; the latter looked vacantly before her, and all of Louison's caresses were of no avail to cheer her.
"Jacques—where is Jacques?" she incessantly repeated, and the fact that Louison was really her daughter seemed to have entirely escaped her.
Arthur de Montferrand never turned his eyes from the girl for whose honor he had fought so bravely, and every time Louison looked up she met the eyes of the young nobleman.
A skyrocket now shot up in the dark sky; it explodedaloft with a loud noise, and a golden rain lighted up the horizon for a while.
"That was undoubtedly a good sign," thought Arthur, hastily opening the cottage door.
Loud oar-sounds were now heard, and a light boat struck for the shore with the rapidity of an arrow.
The keel now struck the sand and a slim form sprang quickly out of the bark and hurried toward the cottage.
"Fanfaro!" joyously exclaimed the inmates of the cottage, and the young man who had been rescued from the grave was soon surrounded on all sides. He, however, had eyes alone for the broken-down old woman who clung to Caillette in great excitement and gently implored:
"Jacques—where is Jacques? I do not see him!"
"Here I am, my poor dear mother," sobbed Fanfaro, sinking on his knees in front of the old lady.
With trembling hands she caressed his hair, pressed her lips upon her son's forehead, and then sank, with a smile, to the floor. Death had released her from her sufferings after she had been permitted to enjoy the last, and, to her, highest earthly joy.
* * * * *
Here Fanfaro's story ended. Girdel knew something to add to it after Fanfaro had closed. He and Bobichel had succeeded in overtaking the funeral cortege which the marquis and Pierre Labarre conducted to the family vault. In a few words Pierre was informed of the condition of things, and as the marquis had become thoroughly exhausted, the faithful old servant had undertaken to bring Fanfaro's body to a place of safety. Girdel had been prudent enough to take along the physician who had given him the narcotic, and soon Fanfaro opened his eyes.
As soon as he had sufficiently recovered, Pierre told him, in short outlines, who he was. The young man listened with deep emotion to the story, and then he swore a sacred oath that he would never call another man father than the one who had taken pity on him, the helpless child; the Marquis of Fougereuse had no right to him, and he would rather have died than touch a penny of his money. No power on earth could induce him to have anything to do with the marquis. He would leave France, and try to forget, in a foreign country, what he had suffered.
That very night Fanfaro travelled, in company with his sister, Girdel, Bobichel, and Caillette, to Algiers. Before the ship lifted anchor, Fanfaro had received from Irene's lips the promise that she would become his wife. Her mother's life hung on a thread, and as long as she remained on earth the daughter could not think of leaving her.
The old countess died about six months afterward, and as soon as Irene had arranged her affairs, she prepared herself for the journey to Africa.
She was not surprised when Arthur offered to accompany her. She was aware that a powerful magnet in the person of Louison attracted him across the ocean, and when the young nobleman landed in France again, after the lapse of a few months, he was accompanied by a handsome young wife, whom the old Marquis of Montferrand warmly welcomed to the home of his fathers—for was she not a scion of the house of Fougereuse, and the sole heiress of all the property of that family? Louison's uncle, the Marquis Jean de Fougereuse, had ended his dreary life shortly after the Vicomte de Talizac's death, and it was not difficult for Arthur, with Pierre Labarre's assistance, to maintain Louison's claims as the daughter of Jules de Fougereuse andsole heiress of the legacy. Of course, the Society of Jesus was much put out by the sudden apparition of an heiress, for it had hoped to come into possession of the millions some day.
Bobichel had become Caillette's husband; and though the handsome wife did not conceal the fact from him that not he, but Fanfaro, had been her first love, the supremely happy clown was satisfied. He knew Caillette was good to him and that he had no ground any more to be jealous of Irene's husband.
The life which the colonists led in Africa was full of dangers, but had also its pleasures and joys, and through Louison and her husband they remained in connection with their fatherland, whose children they remained in spite of everything.
* * * * *
At the end of a week Spero had entirely recovered, and the count prepared to depart for France. Before he parted from his kind host, he turned to Fanfaro and begged him in a solemn tone to stand by his son with his assistance and advice, should he ever need them, and Fanfaro cheerfully complied with his request.
"Rely on my word," he said, as the little caravan was about to start. "The son of the Count of Monte-Cristo is under the protection of all of us, and if he should ever call us to his assistance, whether by day or night, we shall obey the call!"
A Letter of the Count of Monte-Cristo to his son, Vicomte Spero"My Dearly Beloved Son—To-day is the anniversary of your rescue from the hands of that terrible Maldar, and although twelve years have passed since then, I still feel the effects of the fright I sustained. Thanks to faithful friends, you were saved to us; God bless them for it, and give you and me an opportunity to repay them for what they have done for us."In regard to myself this opportunity must come soon, for I have passed my sixtieth year, and my strength is failing."Yes, my dear Spero, your father, who was to you the incarnation of energy, is now only a broken-down man; since my poor wife died, all is over with the Count of Monte-Cristo. Five years, five long years, have passed since your dear mother breathed her last in my arms, and I, who never wept before, have cried like a child. How insignificant, how feeble I thought myself when I saw the cheeks of my dear wife become paler day by day and her beautiful eyes lose their sparkle. What good was all the art and science I had learned from the Abbé Faria to me if I could not rescue her? Like avenging spirits, the shades of all those upon whom I had taken revenge roseup before me: Villefort, Danglars, Morcerf, Benedetto, Maldar, had all been overcome by me, but death was stronger than I am—it took her from me!"My blood, my life, I would have given for that of your mother, but it was all of no use, death would not give up its prey. At that time, my dear son, you were sixteen years old. Your tears mingled with mine and you cried out in deep grief: 'Ah, mother, if I could only die for you!'"Spero, do you know what it is to feel that a person has deceived himself? I spent my life to carry out what I thought to be right, the punishment of wrong-doers and the rewarding of those who do good. I was all-powerful as long as it was a question of punishing the guilty, but as weak and feeble as a child when I attempted to make good the wrong I did in an excess of zeal, and all my tears and entreaties were of no avail."What good did it do that I rescued Albert, the son of the Countess Mercedes, from the murderous flames of Uargla? Two years later he was shot in thecoup d'étatof December, and his mother died of a broken heart."Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort met an early and a fearful death—they fell victims to the insurrection of the Sepoys in India, in the year 1859."You inherited from your mother everything that is good, noble, and sublime; from me a thirst for knowledge, energy, and activity. Would to God I could say that you did not also inherit my arrogance, my venomous arrogance. Spero, by the time you receive this letter, I shall be far away; yes, I am going away, and voluntarily place upon myself the heaviest burden, but it must be."Will you be able to understand me and my motives?Ah, Spero, I cannot help domineering over those about me, and that is why I am going."So long as you are at my side, you are not yourself. You look at life with my eyes, you judge according to my ideas, and my opinion is decisive for you in everything you do and think."You do not regard me as a man, but as a supernatural being. Far from me you will learn the meaning of responsibility for one's acts, and if not now, later on, you will be grateful to me for this temporary separation."Spero, I have furnished you with the best weapons for the struggle of life, and it is about time that you take up your arms and begin your first battle with life."You are now twenty-one years of age. You are brave and courageous, and will not shrink from any obstacle. You are rich, you have knowledge—now it must be seen whether you possess the will which guarantees success."Your path is smooth—no enemy threatens you, and a crowd of friends stand at your side. I have never had a real friend. Those who acted as such were either servants or poor people, and only those who are situated similarly and think alike can understand the blessings of friendship."My son! give generously, believe in humanity, and do not distrust any one; real experience is gained only by mistakes."Murder is the worst crime, for it can never be made good again. Of the old servants, I shall leave only Coucou with you. He is devoted to you and loves you enthusiastically. The brave Zouave will yearn for me, but console him by telling him I have gone for your good and tell yourself the same thing, should you feel likewise. With best love,Your Father."
A Letter of the Count of Monte-Cristo to his son, Vicomte Spero
"My Dearly Beloved Son—To-day is the anniversary of your rescue from the hands of that terrible Maldar, and although twelve years have passed since then, I still feel the effects of the fright I sustained. Thanks to faithful friends, you were saved to us; God bless them for it, and give you and me an opportunity to repay them for what they have done for us.
"In regard to myself this opportunity must come soon, for I have passed my sixtieth year, and my strength is failing.
"Yes, my dear Spero, your father, who was to you the incarnation of energy, is now only a broken-down man; since my poor wife died, all is over with the Count of Monte-Cristo. Five years, five long years, have passed since your dear mother breathed her last in my arms, and I, who never wept before, have cried like a child. How insignificant, how feeble I thought myself when I saw the cheeks of my dear wife become paler day by day and her beautiful eyes lose their sparkle. What good was all the art and science I had learned from the Abbé Faria to me if I could not rescue her? Like avenging spirits, the shades of all those upon whom I had taken revenge roseup before me: Villefort, Danglars, Morcerf, Benedetto, Maldar, had all been overcome by me, but death was stronger than I am—it took her from me!
"My blood, my life, I would have given for that of your mother, but it was all of no use, death would not give up its prey. At that time, my dear son, you were sixteen years old. Your tears mingled with mine and you cried out in deep grief: 'Ah, mother, if I could only die for you!'
"Spero, do you know what it is to feel that a person has deceived himself? I spent my life to carry out what I thought to be right, the punishment of wrong-doers and the rewarding of those who do good. I was all-powerful as long as it was a question of punishing the guilty, but as weak and feeble as a child when I attempted to make good the wrong I did in an excess of zeal, and all my tears and entreaties were of no avail.
"What good did it do that I rescued Albert, the son of the Countess Mercedes, from the murderous flames of Uargla? Two years later he was shot in thecoup d'étatof December, and his mother died of a broken heart.
"Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort met an early and a fearful death—they fell victims to the insurrection of the Sepoys in India, in the year 1859.
"You inherited from your mother everything that is good, noble, and sublime; from me a thirst for knowledge, energy, and activity. Would to God I could say that you did not also inherit my arrogance, my venomous arrogance. Spero, by the time you receive this letter, I shall be far away; yes, I am going away, and voluntarily place upon myself the heaviest burden, but it must be.
"Will you be able to understand me and my motives?Ah, Spero, I cannot help domineering over those about me, and that is why I am going.
"So long as you are at my side, you are not yourself. You look at life with my eyes, you judge according to my ideas, and my opinion is decisive for you in everything you do and think.
"You do not regard me as a man, but as a supernatural being. Far from me you will learn the meaning of responsibility for one's acts, and if not now, later on, you will be grateful to me for this temporary separation.
"Spero, I have furnished you with the best weapons for the struggle of life, and it is about time that you take up your arms and begin your first battle with life.
"You are now twenty-one years of age. You are brave and courageous, and will not shrink from any obstacle. You are rich, you have knowledge—now it must be seen whether you possess the will which guarantees success.
"Your path is smooth—no enemy threatens you, and a crowd of friends stand at your side. I have never had a real friend. Those who acted as such were either servants or poor people, and only those who are situated similarly and think alike can understand the blessings of friendship.
"My son! give generously, believe in humanity, and do not distrust any one; real experience is gained only by mistakes.
"Murder is the worst crime, for it can never be made good again. Of the old servants, I shall leave only Coucou with you. He is devoted to you and loves you enthusiastically. The brave Zouave will yearn for me, but console him by telling him I have gone for your good and tell yourself the same thing, should you feel likewise. With best love,
Your Father."
The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo was a wonderfully handsome man. The grace of his mother and the stalwart build of his father were united in him. His dark hair fell in wavy locks over his high white forehead, and the long eyelashes lay like veils upon his cheeks.
The young man's surroundings were in every particular arranged with consummate taste. The vicomte had inherited from his parents a taste for Oriental things, and his study looked like a costly tent, while his bedroom was furnished with the simplicity of a convent cell. The Count of Monte-Cristo had taught his son to be strict to himself and not become effeminate in any way. Nice pictures and statues were in the parlors, the bookcase was filled with selected volumes and he spent many hours each day in serious studies. Spero was a master in all physical accomplishments. His father's iron muscles were his legacy, and the count often proudly thought that his son, in case of need, would also have found the means and the way to escape from the Chateau d'If.
The vicomte sat at his writing-desk and was readinghis father's letter when Coucou entered. The Zouave had changed somewhat. He no longer wore a uniform or the little cap of a Jackal, but had changed them for a dark brown overcoat. His eyes, however, still sparkled as merrily as ever, and Coucou could laugh as heartily as ever.
"When did the count leave the house?" asked Spero, whose voice reminded one of his father's.
"This evening, vicomte," replied Coucou, with military briefness.
"Why was I not called?"
"The count forbade it. He ordered me to place the letter which you found on the writing-table and—"
"Did the count go alone?"
"No, Ali accompanied him."
"In what direction did he go?"
"I do not know. I was called to the count at two o'clock this morning, and after I had received the letter, I went away."
"Without asking any questions?"
"Oh, vicomte, no one asks the Count of Monte-Cristo for a reason," cried Coucou, vivaciously. "I am not a coward, but—"
"I know you possess courage," replied the young man.
"Sapristi—there, now, I have allowed myself to go again. I know that my way of speaking displeases you, vicomte, and I will try next time to do better."
"What makes you think that your language displeases me?" asked Spero, laughing.
"Because—excuse me, vicomte, but sometimes you look so stern—"
"Nonsense," interrupted Spero; "I may sometimes look troubled, but certainly not stern, and I beg you not to speak differently from what you were taught—speak to me as you do to my father."
"Ah, it is easy to speak to the count," said Coucou, unthinkingly; "he has such a cheering smile—"
A frown passed over Spero's face, and he gently said:
"My father is good—he is much better than I am—I knew it long ago."
"Vicomte, I did not say that," cried the Zouave, embarrassed.
"No, but you thought so, and were perfectly right, my dear Auguste; if you wish to have me for a friend, always tell the truth."
"Yes, sir," replied Coucou, "and now I have a special favor to ask you, vicomte."
"Speak, it is already granted."
"Vicomte, the count never calls me Auguste, which is my baptismal name, but Coucou. If you would call me Coucou, I—"
"With pleasure. Well, then, Coucou, you know nothing further?"
"Nothing."
"It is good. You can go."
The Zouave turned toward the door. When he had nearly reached it, Spero cried:
"Coucou, stay a moment."
"Just as you say, vicomte."
"I only wished to beg you again," said Spero, in a low, trembling voice, "not to think me stern or ungrateful. I shall never forget that it was you whoaccompanied my father and me to Africa, and that you placed your own life in danger to rescue mine."
"Ah, vicomte," stammered the Zouave, deeply moved, "that was only my duty."
"That a good many would have shirked this duty, and that you did not, is why I thank you still to-day. Give me your hand in token of our friendship. Now we are good friends again, are we not?"
With tears in his laughing eyes, Coucou laid his big brown hand in the delicate hand of the vicomte. The latter cordially shook it, and was almost frightened, when the Zouave uttered a faint cry and hastily withdrew his fingers.
"What is the matter with you?" asked Spero, in amazement.
"Oh, nothing, but—"
"Well, but—"
"You see, vicomte, my hand is almost crushed, and because I was not prepared for it, I gave a slight cry. Who would have thought that such a fine, white, delicate hand could give you a squeeze like a piston-rod?"
Spero looked wonderingly at his hands, and then dreamily said:
"I am stronger than I thought."
"I think so, too," said Coucou. "Only the count understands how to squeeze one's hand in that way. I almost forgot to ask you, vicomte, where you intend to take breakfast?"
"Downstairs in the dining-room."
"Are you going to breakfast alone?"
"That depends. Perhaps one of my friends may drop in, though I haven't invited any one."
"Please ring the bell in case you want to be served," said Coucou, as he left the room.
Spero stood at the writing-desk for a time, and his dark eyes were humid. He shoved a brown velvet curtain aside and entered a small, dark room which opened from his study. A pressure of the finger upon the blinds caused them to spring open, and the broad daylight streamed through the high windows. The walls, which were hung with brown velvet, formed an octagon, and opposite the broad windows were two pictures in gold frames. The vicomte's look rested on these pictures. They were the features of his parents which had been placed upon the canvas by the hand of an artist. In all her goodness, Haydee, Ali Tebelen's daughter, looked down upon her son, and the bold, proud face of Edmond Dantes greeted his heir with a speaking look.
"Ah, my mother," whispered Spero, softly, "if you were only with me now that father has left me. How shall I get along in life without him? The future looks blank and dark to me, the present sad, and only the past is worth having lived for! What a present the proud name is that was laid in my cradle. Others see bright light where the shadow threatens to suffocate me, and my heart trembles when I think that I am standing in the labyrinth of life without a guide!"
From this it can be seen that the count had not exaggerated in his letter to his son. He domineered, consciously or unconsciously, over his surroundings, and so it happened that Spero hardly dared to express a thought of his own.
Spero was never heard to praise or admire this or that, before he had first inquired whether such anopinion would be proper to express. The father recognized too late that his son lacked independence of thought. He had, as he thought, schooled his son for the battle of life. He had taught him how to carry the weapons, but in his anxiety about exterior and trivial things he had forgotten to make allowance for the inward yearning. The form was more to him than the contents, and this was revenging itself now in a telling way. The demands of ordinary life were unknown to Spero. He had put his arm in the burning flame with the courage of a Mucius Scævola, and quailed before the prick of a needle.
Suddenly the door-bell rang, and breathing more freely the vicomte left the little room. When he returned to his study he found Coucou awaiting him. The Zouave presented a visiting card to the vicomte on a silver salver, and hardly had Spero thrown a look at it, when he joyfully cried:
"Bring the gentleman to the dining-room, Coucou, and put two covers on; we shall dine together."
When Spero entered the dining-room, a handsome young man about twenty-five years of age hurried toward him with outstretched arms.
"How are you, my dear Spero?" he vivaciously cried.
"Oh, thank you, very well. Do you know, Gontram, that you couldn't have come at a more appropriate hour?"
"Really? That pleases me," said the new-comer, a painter who in spite of his youth enjoyed a great reputation. Laying his hand on Spero's shoulder, he looked steadily at him and earnestly asked: "Has anything disagreeable happened to you?"
"No; what makes you think so?" replied Spero, confused.
"Your appearance is different from usual. Your eyes sparkle, and you are feverishly excited. Perhaps you have some secret to intrust to me?"
In the meantime the young men had seated themselves at table, and while they were eating they indulged in general conversation.
"Do you know that my father has left Paris suddenly?" asked Spero in the course of the conversation.
"No. Where has the count gone to?"
"I do not know," said the vicomte.
Gontram Sabran had been acquainted with Spero for two years.
He had attracted the vicomte's attention through a picture he had exhibited, and as Spero admired painting, he paid a visit to the creator of the wonderfully natural painting.
The picture represented a young gypsy who was playing the violin. The vicomte sent his father's steward to the artist with an order to buy the canvas at any price. Gontram Sabran had refused to sell the painting, and the vicomte went personally to the painter.
"Sir," said Gontram, politely, "you offered me twenty thousand francs for a picture which is worth far less; that I have nevertheless refused to sell the picture needs an explanation, and if you are willing, I shall be happy to give it to you."
Spero had become curious, and upon his acquiescence Gontram told him the following.
"I had a girl once who suffered from an incurable disease. We were very happy together, enjoyed the present, and thought very little of the future. One day, as was customary with us, we undertook a little promenade. It led us however further than we intended to go, and before we knew it we were in the woods of Meudon. Curious and wonderful sounds awoke us from our reveries, and going to an opening, we saw a young gypsy who was playing the violin and moving her body to and fro to the time of the instrument. Aimee listened attentively to the heavenly playing of the almost childish girl, but suddenly I felt her head lean heavily on my shoulder—shehad fainted, and I brought a very sick girl back to Paris.
"One week later death knocked at her door. Aimee knew she was going to die, and with tears in her eyes she begged me to hunt up the gypsy girl and have her play a song to her before she died.
"What was I to do? I could not find the gypsy, and was almost in despair. On the morning of the fourth day, the invalid suddenly rose in her bed and cried aloud:
"'There she is, I hear the gypsy's violin—oh, now I can die peacefully! Open the window, Gontram, so that I can hear the music better.'
"I did as she said, and now the tones of the violin reached my ears. The dying girl listened breathlessly to the sweet sounds. When the song was over, Aimee took my hand and whispered:
"'Bring her up and beg her to play at my bedside.'
"I hurried into the street and asked the gypsy to fulfil the wish of the dying girl. She did so at once, and sitting beside Aimee she played upon her instrument. How long she played I do not know, but I was thrilled by the sudden cessation of the music, and when I looked in terror at Aimee, I saw she had drawn her last breath—she had gone to her eternal slumber to the music of the violin.
"The gypsy disappeared, and I have never seen her since. But I have put her features on canvas as they are engraved in my memory, and you can understand now why I do not wish to sell the picture."
"Monsieur Sabran," said Spero when the painter hadfinished, "your little romance is interesting, and I am now ready to pay fifty thousand francs for the picture."
Gontram looked pityingly at the vicomte and dryly replied:
"I stick to my refusal."
Spero went away disappointed. Two days later he hurried to the painter's studio and hesitatingly said:
"Monsieur Sabran, I treated you the other day in a mean way. Please excuse me."
Gontram was surprised. Taking the vicomte's hand, he cordially said:
"I am glad I was mistaken in you; if features such as yours are deceitful, then it is bad for humanity."
From that day on they became firm friends. When the painter saw Spero's disturbed features on this particular day, and heard that the count had departed, he had an idea that it would do him good.
"Where did your father go to?" he asked.
"I do not know," replied Spero, uneasily.
"What? Your father did not inform you?" asked Gontram.
"No," replied Spero; "he departed this evening and left a letter for me behind him."
"Ah, really, every one does as he pleases," said Gontram. "Do you know I came here to-day to ask a favor of you?"
"You couldn't do me a greater pleasure," replied Spero, cheerfully; "everything I possess is at your disposal."
"I thought so; the next time you will offer me your millions," cried Gontram, laughing.
"I hope you will ask me for something besideswretched money," said Spero, warmly. "I could gladly fight for you, or do some other important service for you."
"And suppose I was to keep you at your word?" asked Gontram, seriously; "suppose I came here only to demand a sacrifice of you?"
"Oh, speak!" cried the vicomte, eagerly.
"H'm, would you for my sake get on top of a stage?" asked Gontram, earnestly. "No, do not look so curiously at me. I know you never did such a thing before, and knew what I was talking about when I said I would ask a sacrifice of you."
"I—would—do it—to please you," replied Spero, hesitatingly.
"I thought so," cried the painter, laughing; "yet I made you the proposition, because I thought you were boring yourself to death here."
"But—"
"No, do not protest. You are not happy because you are the slave of propriety, and if you were to get in a stage with me it would be a heroic act on your part. If you want to go out, a carriage is at the door, the horses already harnessed. You have your own box at the theatre, and so on. Nowhere do you come in contact with the great world; your life is no life."
Spero gazed at the painter in astonishment.
"Why have you not told me all that long ago?" he slowly asked.
"Because a great deal depends on time and opportunity. If I had told you this at the commencement of our friendship you would have thought me impertinent, and I did not come here to-day either to give you a lecture.The words came unconsciously to my lips. Your life is that of a drop of oil which when put in a bottle of water feels itself in a strange element and decidedly uncomfortable."
Spero bit his lip.
"Am I ever going to hear what service I can do for you?" he asked with a calmness which reflected honor on his powers of self-control.
"Bravo, you have already learned something. First fill your wine-glass, otherwise I shall drink all your fine sherry alone."
The habit of drinking moderately Spero had also learned from his father.
Upon the remark of the painter, he filled his glass and impatiently said:
"Well?"
"I would like to make a loan. Don't laugh, but hear what I have to say. I intend to give a little party in my studio—"
"In your studio?" said Spero in surprise.
"Yes, it is certainly not as large as the Place Vendome, but that doesn't matter. Diogenes lived in a hogshead, and a dozen good friends will find plenty of room in my house. Let me tell you what gave me the idea. While I was studying in Rome, an aristocratic Italian, Count Vellini, took an interest in me. He was my friend, my Macænas, and I owe a great deal to him. The day before yesterday he arrived in Paris, and I should like to revenge myself for his kindness. As he is a millionnaire—not a millionnaire like you, for he has, at the utmost, five or six millions—I must offer him certain pleasures which cannot be obtained with money. I am going toturn my studio into a picture gallery and exhibit the best works of my numerous friends and my own. He shall see that I have become something in the meantime, and from what I know of him he will be delighted with my idea. I want to furnish my house properly, and for this I need some costly tapestries. You have real treasures of this description. Would you loan me a few pieces?"
"Is that all?" said Spero, cordially. "You give me joy, and I hope you will allow me to attend to it."
"That depends. What do you intend to do?"
"I would like to ask you to let my decorator take charge of the furnishing of your studio. To-morrow morning he can select from my storehouse whatever he thinks best—"
"And spoil my fun?" interrupted Gontram, frowning. "No, no, I cannot consent to that. Your decorator may be a very able man, but that isn't the question. I know of no greater pleasure than to do everything according to my own taste. But I had almost forgotten the principal thing; I count on your appearance."
"I generally work at night," replied Spero, hesitating.
"No rule without an exception," declared the painter; "I have invited ladies too, and I hope you will enjoy yourself."
On the night of the party, Gontram's room looked lovely, and when the guests arrived they could not refrain from expressing their admiration. The Oriental hangings gave the whole a piquant appearance, and Gontram knew where to stop, an art which few understand. The society which assembled in the painter's studio was a very exceptional one. Many a rich banker would have given a great deal if he could have won some of the artists who assembled here for his privatesoirées, for the first stars of the opera, the drama and literature had accepted the invitation. Rachel had offered to do the honors; Emma Bouges, a sculptress, assisted her, and Gontram was satisfied.
The painter had told the vicomte that he desired to revenge himself upon Count Vellini. The other reason he had for giving this party he said nothing of, and yet it was the one which did honor to his heart. Under the pretence of surprising the count, he had asked his numerous friends to loan him their pictures, and had hung them in splendid style. Of his own works he only exhibited the gypsy, and when the guests strode up and down the studio to the music of a small orchestra, it was natural that they criticised or admired this and that painting.
Count Vellini, a splendid old gentleman, was enthusiastic over the cause of the party. He gave the secretary who accompanied him directions to buy several of the exhibited paintings, and the secretary carefully noted everything.
Signor Fagiano, the secretary, was not a very agreeable-looking gentleman. A blood-red scar ran clear across his face, his deep black eyes had a sharp, restless look, and one of the young partners jokingly said:
"If I did not know that Signor Fagiano had charge of the count's finances, I would suspect him of robbing his employer—he has a bad look."
While the young man uttered these joking remarks, new guests were announced, and their names, "Monsieur de Larsagny and Mademoiselle de Larsagny," created surprise among the guests. Monsieur de Larsagny was the manager of the new credit-bank, and every one was astonished at Gontram's acquaintance with him. However, as soon as Mademoiselle de Larsagny was seen to enter the room leaning on her father's arm, the riddle was solved. The classical head of the young girl graced the lastsalon, and as Gontram had painted the picture, no one wondered any longer at seeing the handsome Carmen and her father in the studio.
The young girl appeared to be somewhat eccentric, a thing which was not looked upon as strange in the daughter of a millionnaire. Nevertheless, the pranks of the young heiress never overstepped the bounds of propriety, and the numerous admirers of the beautiful Carmen thought her on this account all the more piquant. Her ash-blond hair fell in a thousand locks over adazzling white forehead, and the small, finely formed mouth understood how to talk.
Hanging to Gontram's arm, Carmen walked up and down the studio. She sometimes directed her dark-blue eyes at the young painter, and who could scold Gontram if he loved to look in those magnificent stars?
"I am thankful to you, mademoiselle, for having come here," said Gontram, sparkling with joy, as he walked by the young girl's side.
"How could I have refused your cordial invitation?" replied Carmen, laughing; "even princesses have visited the studios of their court painters."
"The Duchess of Ferrara, for instance," said a young sculptor who had overheard the remark.
Gontram frowned, and whispered softly to the young artist:
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raoul."
Carmen, however, laughed, and carelessly said:
"Let him alone; I knew the story long ago."
To make this little scene understood, we must observe that the young sculptor's words referred to that Duchess of Ferrara whom Titian painted in the primitive costume of Mother Eve, and it stung the young painter to the heart when he heard Carmen confess that she had heard the story before—who could have told it to the nineteen-year-old girl?
"What about the surprise you were going to give your guests?" asked Carmen, after an uncomfortable pause.
"I will keep my word," replied the painter, laughing. "Have you ever heard the name of Jane Zild, mademoiselle?"
"Jane Zild? That wonderful songstress who comes from the north, either Lapland or Finland? What is the matter with her?"
"Well, this songstress, who, by the way, comes from Russia, has promised to be here to-night," declared Gontram, triumphantly.
"Ah, really?" replied Carmen, breathing heavily, while her eyes shot forth threatening gleams.
"What ails you, mademoiselle?" asked Gontram uneasily, "have I hurt you in any way?"
"No; what makes you think so? But let us go to the parlor; my father is already looking for me, and you know he can't be long without me."
A curious laugh issued from the pale lips, and it seemed to Gontram as if she had accented the words "my father" in a peculiar way.
Just as Gontram and his companion re-entered the parlor, a short but unpleasant scene was being acted there. An accident had brought Signor Fagiano and Monsieur de Larsagny together. Hardly had the secretary caught a glimpse of the banker than he recoiled in affright and nearly fell to the ground. Larsagny sprang to his rescue, but Fagiano muttered an excuse and hastily left the parlor.
Carmen and her companion were witnesses of the meeting, and Gontram felt the young girl's arm tremble. Before he could ask for the cause of this, she laughed aloud and mockingly said:
"A good host has generally several surprisesin pettofor his guests; are you an exception to the general rule?"
Gontram was about to reply when the door was opened and the servant announced:
"Mademoiselle Jane Zild, the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!"
"There you have my second surprise," said the painter, laughing; "are you satisfied now?"
Gontram did not find out whether this was the case, for the broker uttered a cry at the same moment and stretched his hands out as if to ward off a spectre.
"What has happened to you, Monsieur de Larsagny?" asked Gontram in amazement. "You are so pale and you tremble. Can I do anything for you?"
"No, thank you—it is the heat," stammered Larsagny. "Will you permit me to go on the terrace? I will recover in the fresh air."
Without deigning to notice Carmen, the banker turned toward the glass door which led to the terrace and disappeared. The young girl bit her lips, and the next minute she was the centre of a gay crowd of admirers.
Gontram in the meantime had gone to meet the young lady who had just entered. She was a wonderfully handsome girl, and taking the painter's arm she slowly walked through the decorated rooms.
Who Jane Zild was no one knew. Two months previously she had made her appearance in Paris society, and since then it was considered good form to patronize Jane Zild.
The members of the Opera and other theatres had arranged a performance for the relief of the inhabitants of a village which had been destroyed by fire, and the elegant world of the capital fairly grew wild with enthusiasm over the coming event.
The climax of the performance was to be a duet, to be sung by the great Roger and a diva who was past heryouth. Half an hour before the number was to be sung a messenger arrived who announced the sickness of the diva. Roger immediately declared his willingness to sing alone, and loud applause ran through the crowded auditorium when he sang the charming song from the "White Lady," "Ah, what a joy it is to be a soldier!"
The success of the first part of the concert was assured. Before the second part began a strange young lady went to the celebrated singer and offered to take the part of Madame X——, and sing several songs.
"What is your name, mademoiselle?" asked Roger.
"My name will be unknown to you, as I have only been two days in Paris," replied the stranger, laughing. "I am Jane Zild. Perhaps you will allow me to sing something to you first. Will the beggar aria from the 'Prophet' be agreeable to you?"
Without waiting for answer Jane Zild went to the piano.
The accompanist struck the first notes of the well-known aria, and hardly had Roger heard the magnificent contralto of the stranger than he enthusiastically exclaimed:
"Thank God, Madame X—— is sick!"
"That is treason!" scolded the young lady; but the public seemed to be of the same opinion as Roger, and rewarded the young songstress, when she had finished, with round after round of applause. Encouraged by the applause, she sang the aria from "Orpheus"—"Ah, I have lost her, all my happiness is gone." This set the audience wild.
For two days nothing else was talked of in Paris but the young songstress. Jane Zild lived in a house in theChamps-Elysées. She had arrived, as she said, but a few days before from Russia, in company with an elderly man, who was looked upon as her steward, and whom she called Melosan.
The reporters had seized upon these meagre details and magnified them. According to them, Jane Zild was the daughter of a rich Russian nobleman. An unconquerable yearning for the stage brought her in conflict with her father, and, burdened with his curse, she ran away from home. If in spite of this she did not go on the stage it was not the reporters' fault.
The young lady was very capricious, and had refused the most tempting offers from the management of the Opera. She also refused to sing for the Emperor at Compiegne, and it therefore caused a sensation among Gontram's guests when Jane Zild suddenly appeared.
"Gontram's luck is really extraordinary," said a colleague of the young painter laughingly, as he saw the majestic figure of the diva enter the room. What would he have said if he had heard in what way Gontram had secured Jane Zild as one of his guests?
While the young painter was breakfasting with Spero, a perfumed note was sent up to his residence in the Rue Montaigne, wherein Jane Zild declared her willingness to appear in the painter's parlors and sing a few songs.
Gontram did not say no, and immediately hurried to the diva's house to thank her.
Spero had entered just behind the songstress, and Gontram smiled when he saw the vicomte. Spero's carriage had driven up in front of the house almost simultaneously with that of the diva, and Spero assisted the young lady to alight.
When the vicomte entered the parlor, he felt humiliated when he saw all eyes turned in the direction of the diva. No one seemed to care to notice the heir of the Count of Monte-Cristo.
Jane Zild strode the rooms with the dignity of a queen.
"Heavenly! Admirable! Beautiful!" Such were the epithets which were murmured half aloud, and later when she sat down at the piano and sang a simple ballad, loud applause ran through the room. The ballad was followed by an aria; Jane then sang a Russian melody, and closed with a magnificent tarantella.
"Monsieur Sabran," said a low voice to Gontram, "I must confess that you are an obliging host! You are forgetting all your other guests on account of the beautiful songstress, and I will reflect upon a suitable punishment."
The one who spoke was Carmen de Larsagny. Gontram blushed and made excuses, but it took some time to appease the young lady's wrath.
"Well," she finally said, "I will forgive you, but only upon one condition. Have you a moment's time?"
"For you always," replied the painter, warmly.
"Good; then conduct me to the terrace."
"To the terrace?" repeated Gontram in surprise. "How do you know I have a terrace?"
"Oh, I heard my father mention it a little while ago."
"That's so," replied the painter. "Will you please accompany me?"
They both walked through the studio and turned into the gallery.
Suddenly Gontram paused, and uttered a low cry of astonishment.
Spero was leaning against a door sunk in thought.
"Can I introduce the young man to you?" asked Gontram softly of his companion.
"Who is he?" replied Carmen.
"The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!"
"What? The son of the celebrated count?" asked the young lady, looking at Spero with increased interest.
"Yes. I have a high regard for the vicomte."
"I could have thought so," said Carmen, laughing.
"What do you mean by that, mademoiselle?" asked Gontram in surprise.
"Oh, you see you have the habit of caring very little for those whom you pretend to honor," replied the young girl, looking at the painter in such a way as made his heart beat fast.
"I hope to be able soon to prove my esteem for you," whispered the young man.
Carmen was for a moment silent, and then vivaciously said:
"Introduce me; I am curious to know your little vicomte."
Just then Spero raised his head, and, seeing Gontram, he cordially said:
"Gontram, am I not deserving of praise? You see I have accepted your invitation."
"I am very grateful to you," replied the painter warmly, and turning to Carmen he said:
"Mademoiselle de Larsagny, permit me to introduce the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo to you."
Spero bowed deeply. The young lady gazed steadily at the handsome cavalier, and admiration shone in her eyes.
"I really have not had the pleasure of seeing the vicomte. I should not have forgotten him."
"I believe you," said the painter; "the vicomte is, by the way, a man of serious ideas, an ascetic, who does not care for worldly pleasures."
Spero protested with a shake of the head, and muttered some disconnected words. Carmen, however, noticed that his thoughts were elsewhere.
"Mademoiselle de Larsagny," said Gontram, laughing now, "I hope that you and the other ladies here will succeed in converting the hermit."
Carmen was dissatisfied with the vicomte's indifference, and, bowing coldly, she went away, drawing the painter with her.
"Well, how does my eccentric please you?" asked Gontram.
"H'm, he is very handsome; whether he is intellectual, I cannot tell. Is the father of the little vicomte really the knight without fear and reproach, the hero of Dumas' novel?"
"The same."
"And has this man—Edmond Dantes was his right name—really had all the adventurous wanderings imputed to him?"
"I am sure of it."
"One more question. It might appear strange to you, but I must ask it nevertheless. Do you know whether Monsieur de Larsagny ever had any relations with the count?"
"I do not know, in fact I hardly think so. Your father has been living in Paris but a few years, and the count has not been in Paris for any great length of time during the past ten years. He is almost always travelling. I believe there is no country on earth which he has notvisited, and he is again absent. However, if it interests you, I will make inquiries and—"
"Not for any price," interrupted Carmen, laughing; "let us drop the subject and hurry to the terrace before others get there ahead of us."
"We are there already," said Gontram, laughing, as he shoved a Japanese drapery aside and stepped upon a small balcony with his companion. A beautiful view of the Champs-Elysées was had from here.
At that time the many mansions which now fill the Champs-Elysées were not yet built, and the eye reached far down the beautiful lanes to the Place de la Concorde.
The two young persons stood upon the little terrace, and the spring wind played with Carmen's golden locks and fanned Gontram's cheeks.
The young girl now leaned over the railing, and, breathing the balsamic air, she sighed:
"Ah, how beautiful and peaceful it is here."
Gontram had his arm about the young girl's slim waist, and carried away by his feelings he pressed a kiss upon Carmen's coral-red lips. The young girl returned the kiss, and who knows but that they would have continued their osculatory exercise had not a voice close to the terrace said:
"Take care, Monsieur de Larsagny, that you do not try to find out my name. You will know it sooner than will be agreeable to you."
Carmen shuddered, and leaning far over, she tried to espy the speakers. However, she could not see any one, though some passionate words reached her from below; Gontram, on the other hand, felt like strangling the disturbers.
"Let us go back to the parlor," said the young girl, and it seemed to Gontram that her voice had changed in tone.
He silently opened the drapery and brought his companion back to the studio; when they entered it, the vicomte hurried to the painter, and said in a low tone:
"Gontram, have you a minute for me? I must speak to you."
The vicomte's disturbed features and the tone of his voice caused Gontram to become anxious, and leading Carmen into the music-room, he stammered an excuse, and then returned to Spero.
"What has happened to you?" he asked, as he saw the young man was still excited. "I am afraid I am a very inattentive host."
"Oh, that is not it," said Spero, hesitating; "but—"
"Well, speak. You frighten me," said Gontram, uneasily.
"Gontram," began the vicomte, "you have confidence in me?"
"Certainly; but what have we to do with that now? You know that I esteem you—"
"And you do not think me capable of deceiving or lying to you?"
"Spero, I do not know you any more," cried Gontram, more and more confused.
"Have patience, you will soon learn to understand me," said the vicomte, smiling curiously; "let me now tell you what has happened to me."
Spero took a long breath, and then continued:
"About ten minutes ago I was standing here, listeningto the wonderful singing of that beautiful creature whom you call Jane Zild. The melody transported me to another world, and I saw and heard very little of what was going on about me. Suddenly I heard a slight noise behind the drapery, and these words reached my ears: 'Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, take care of yourself. A trap has been set for you, and woe to you if you are foolish enough not to notice it.'"
"A trap laid? What does that mean, and who was it that gave you this warning?" asked Gontram, in amazement.
"I do not know. Springing up I ran in the direction whence the words came. I shoved the drapery aside, but could see no one."
"No one?" repeated the painter, breathing more freely. "That looks like magic! Are you sure, Spero, that you didn't deceive yourself?"
"You do not believe me," said the vicomte, smiling sorrowfully.
"Spero, you misunderstand me. Let us proceed to work thoroughly, and, if possible, find out what has occurred. You yourself confessed that you were plunged in thought. In such half-dreamy conditions it often happens that we imagine we see things which have no foundation in fact. We believe we see persons, hear voices—"
"You speak of imagination," interrupted Spero, "while I told you of something that I actually have experienced. I heard the words clearly and legibly; the voice was strange to me, and yet there was something sincere in it which struck me."
"Curious! Perhaps some one has played a joke upon you."
"That would not be improbable, yet I do not believe it. The words were spoken seriously."
"But you are mad! A trap, if laid for you, could only be done by me. I must now ask you the same question you put to me: Have you confidence in me?"
"Perfect confidence," said the vicomte, warmly.
"God be praised! Now follow me to the parlor, and forget your black thoughts," and, shoving his arm under the vicomte's, he led him into the music-room.
"And where should the trap be?" asked Gontram, as they walked on; "not in Jane Zild's heavenly tones? Just look how the dark eyes are looking at you—really you are in luck."
Jane Zild had risen after the song was ended, and while the applause sounded about her, she looked steadily at the vicomte.
"Banish the black thoughts," whispered Gontram to the young man, "come and talk a little to the diva; she appears to expect it."
"Mademoiselle," he said, turning to Jane, "here is one of your most enthusiastic admirers, who would consider himself happy if you would make a tour of the gallery with him."
Gontram turned to other guests, and Spero timidly drew near to the young girl and offered her his arm. Jane hesitated for a moment to take it, and looked expectantly at the vicomte. She waited, no doubt, for a compliment or some word from him. As Spero remained silent, a satisfied smile crossed the classical features of the diva, and placing her hand on his arm she carelessly said: "Let us go."
Just then something unexpected happened. Aburning candle fell down from the chandelier, and a flame licked the black lace dress of the diva and enveloped her.
A cry of horror came from the lips of the bystanders, and they all rushed away. Spero was the only one who showed self-possession. Quick as thought, he tore one of the draperies from the wall, and placing the thick cloth around the shoulders of the diva, he pressed her tightly to his bosom.
The next minute Jane stood with pale face, but otherwise uninjured, before her rescuer, and holding her little hand to him, she whispered cordially:
"Thanks, a thousand thanks!"
Spero took the long fingers and pressed his lips as respectfully upon them as if Jane Zild were a queen and he her subject. The diva, with the drapery still about her shoulders, looked really like a queen, and all eyes were turned admiringly toward her.
A man dressed in plain dark clothes hurried through the crowd, and looking anxiously at Jane he cried in a vibrating voice:
"Are you injured?"
The diva trembled when she heard the voice, and blushing deeply, she hastily replied:
"No, thank God, I am not hurt. The coolness of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo prevented a misfortune."
The vicomte, too, trembled when he heard the unknown's words, for he felt certain that the voice was the same as that which had given him the mysterious warning.
The man bowed respectfully to the vicomte, and Jane, turning to Spero, said in cordial tones:
"Complete your good work, vicomte, and conduct me to my carriage."
Spero laid her little hand upon his arm and led her out. As Spero assisted her in the carriage she bowed again to him and whispered:
"I hope we shall see each other again."
Jane's companion looked at the vicomte in an embarrassed way; he evidently wished to say something to him, but had not the courage to do so. The next minute the horses started and the carriage rolled away.
Spero looked after the equipage as long as it could be seen and then called for his coachman, as he wished to go home too. Just as he was about to enter the carriage, the coachman, in surprise, exclaimed:
"You have forgotten your hat, vicomte. Jean, quick, go and get it."
Spero, in astonishment, felt his head; it was true, the coachman was right.
"Stay, Jean, I shall go myself," he briefly said, as he hurried back to the house.
Just as he reached the stairs, Monsieur de Larsagny and his daughter, whom Gontram escorted, and Count Vellini and his secretary came down.
"Vicomte," said Carmen, vivaciously, "you are a hero, and the rest of the gentlemen can take you for an example."
Monsieur de Larsagny coughed slightly, while Fagiano loudly cried:
"The vicomte is the worthy son of his father, the great count."
These words, although spoken in a respectful tone, displeased Spero, yet he kept silent and the guests departed.
"Stay a minute longer," begged Gontram, "I will take a walk with you, if it is agreeable; I am too much excited yet to go to bed."
"That is my position, too," replied the vicomte.
The servant brought them their hats and cloaks, and they both walked in the direction of the Champs-Elysées. Neither of them noticed a dark form which stood at a street corner and looked after them.
"Have a care," hissed Fagiano's voice, "you shall suffer for being his son."