Jane Zild lived in a modest room in a small house on the Champs-Elysées.
The interior was furnished in the ordinary style of a private house. In the basement was the reception-room, the sitting-room and dining-room. The owner of the house was Madame Vollard, the widow of an officer. One of her principles was, that it was better to have her rooms empty than to let them out to people whose reputation was not of the best.
She did not care much either for artists or actresses, but made some exceptions, and when Melosan, Jane Zild's secretary, offered her a considerable sum for a room on the first floor, she immediately accepted.
The bells of Notre-Dame struck one o'clock, when a carriage, which contained Jane and her companion, stopped in front of Madame Vollard's house.
In spite of the late hour, the landlady hurried to the street door to greet the young girl. When she saw the latter's disordered toilet, she uttered a cry of horror. Jane had thrown off the cloak, and the burned dress with the withered and crushed roses could be seen.
"What is the matter, my dear?" asked the worthy lady.
"Oh, nothing," replied Jane; "I am only tired."
"Then you tell me, at least, what has occurred," said Madame Vollard, turning to Melosan.
"Later on, later on. The young lady is excited and needs rest."
"Oh, I will give her some drops," said the good-hearted lady, "I—"
"Good-night, Madame Vollard," said the secretary, and taking a light from the lady's hands, he hurried up the stairs with Jane.
The young girl sank back in a chair exhausted. Melosan, a man about sixty years of age, with white hair and sunburned face, stood with folded hands before his mistress, and his dark eyes looked anxiously at Jane's pale face.
"You are suffering?" he said, after a pause.
Jane shuddered. "Ah, no," she said, "I am feeling perfectly well."
"But the fright?"
"Oh, that is nothing," replied Jane, sorrowfully; and, rising up wildly, she passionately added: "Why am I forced to enter a world which is not my own, and never can be! And it shall not be either," she sobbingly concluded, "never—never!"
Melosan held down his head.
"A queen would have been proud at the reception you had to-night."
"Why do you tell me this?" she exclaimed. "A queen? I? Oh, what bitter mockery!"
"But your eminent talent—your voice?"
"Would to God I had none! I—but go now, I want to be alone."
The man sorrowfully approached the door; on the threshold he paused and imploringly murmured:
"Pardon me, Jane, I did not wish to hurt you."
"I know it. I am sometimes hard and cruel, but my unhappy situation is the cause of it. Why did not the wretched fire consume me? Then all grief would have been at an end. O my God! my God!"
She sobbed as if her heart would break, and Melosan wrung his hands in despair.
"Jane, tell me what has happened," he said, in despair. "I have never seen you this way before. Has any one insulted you?"
"No one," said Jane, softly, "no one."
"Your fate is dreary and burdensome, but you are young and strong. You have life before you, and in time you'll forget the past and be happy."
Melosan's words caused the young girl to dry her tears.
"You are right," she said, half ashamed, "I was foolish and ungrateful. I will forget the past. Forgive me—grief overwhelmed me."
"You are an angel," cried Melosan, enthusiastically; "but now you must really go to bed. Good-night, Jane."
"Good-night," said the young girl, cordially, and then the door closed behind Melosan.
As the secretary was about to go to his room, Madame Vollard intercepted him on the stairs.
"Well, how goes it?" she asked; "has the poor child recovered?"
"Yes, thank you."
"What occurred?"
"She was almost burned to death; her dress had already caught fire."
"What a lucky accident—"
"Lucky accident?" repeated Melosan, not understanding.
"I do not mean the fire, but the fact that I just possess a walking suit, such as Mademoiselle Zild needs, and which I can let her have at a very moderate price. A silk dress with pomegranate leaves—"
"To-morrow, Madame Vollard, to-morrow," Melosan interrupted her. "I really feel fatigued, and should like to go to my room."
"You are right. I ought to have known it."
She disappeared, and Melosan walked up the stairs. On entering his room he locked the door, threw himself into a chair, and burying his face in his hands he sobbed bitterly.
"What is going to happen now," he muttered to himself; "my money is nearly all gone, and—"
Hastily springing up, he opened the bureau and took a torn portfolio out of it. Opening it, he sorrowfully counted its contents and shook his gray head.
"It is useless," he muttered in a hollow voice, "the day after to-morrow the rent is due, and what then remains to us is not worth speaking about. If I only could begin something, but everywhere my horrible past stares me in the face. I dare not go out in the broad daylight. I myself would be satisfied with dry bread, but Jane, the poor, poor thing! With her talent she could have had a brilliant life, and reign everywhere like a queen if it were not for the terrible past. Like a spectre, it stands in our path, and while she is innocent, the curse of being the cause of both our wretchedness strikes me. I—"
A slight noise caused Melosan to pause and listen. For a while all was silent, and then the noise recommenced.He hurried to the door, but could not see any one, and returning to the room he shook his head and resumed his seat.
"I must have been deceived," he murmured uneasily, "and yet I thought—"
The knock was repeated, and this time so loudly that Melosan discovered from whence it came. Hastily going to the attic window he threw the curtain aside and peered out. A dark shadow moved here and there on the roof, and Melosan reached for his pistol.
"Who's there?" he cried.
"Some one who desires to speak to you," came back in firm tones.
"To me? At this hour?" asked the secretary in a daze.
"Yes, to you—open quickly or I shall burst in the window."
Melosan saw that it could not be a thief, and so he hesitatingly shoved back the bolt.
A powerful hand raised the window from the outside, and Melosan raised his weapon threateningly; but at this moment the light from the room fell full on the man's face, and the secretary let the pistol fall, and cried in a faint, trembling voice:
"You! You! O God! how did you get here?"
"Ha! ha! ha! Don't you see I came from the roof?" cried the man, mockingly.
"But you shall not come in," cried Melosan, angrily, as he cocked his pistol. "Get out of here, or I shall blow your brains out."
"You won't do any such thing," said the other, coolly. "Do you think because you are posing as an honest manthat other people will imagine you are one? Ha! is the situation clear to you? A good memory is a good thing to have, and if one does not like to hear names it is better to acquiesce. Well, what do you say? Shall we talk over matters peacefully, or do you persist in firing off your pistol and attracting the attention of the police?"
A shudder ran through Melosan, and he looked at the floor in despair.
"Can I offer you a cigar?" continued the man. "No? Then permit me to light my own;" and turning himself in his chair, and reclining comfortably against the back of the fauteuil, the speaker lighted a cigar, and with the utmost calm of mind puffed blue clouds of smoke in the air.
Melosan was evidently struggling with himself. At last he had made up his mind, and, angrily approaching the other, said:
"Listen to me. The sooner we get rid of each other the better it will be for both of us. Why did you hunt me up? You ought to have known long ago that I did not wish to have anything to do with you. You go your way and I will go mine; let neither of us bother the other, and as I am called Melosan, I shall forget that you ever bore any other name than Fagiano."
"You have become proud!" exclaimed the man who called himself Fagiano, laughing mockingly; "upon my word, Anselmo, if I did not know that you were a former galley-slave, I would think you were a prince!"
"And I would hold you now and always for the incarnation of everything that is bad," replied Anselmo (for it was he). "You ought to be called Lucifer instead of Benedetto!"
The two men looked at each other with flaming eyes. In Toulon they were chained together, and now—
Anselmo had reversed the letters of his name and called himself Melosan. In Toulon they were both on the same moral plane, but since then their ways as well as their characters had changed. Benedetto sank lower and lower day by day, while Anselmo worked hard to obliterate the stigma of a galley-slave.
Benedetto, bold and impudent, looked at his former chain-companion, and a mocking smile played about his lips. Anselmo, however, lost little by little his assurance, and finally implored Benedetto to leave, saying:
"We two have nothing in common any more."
"That is a question. Sit down and listen to me."
"No, Benedetto, we are done with each other."
"Nonsense—you have become virtuous all of a sudden," mocked Count Vellini's secretary.
"Would to God it were so. When we were in Toulon an unfortunate accident brought us together; a far more unfortunate one separated us. Since then it has been my endeavor to have the sins which led me to the Bagnio atoned for by an honest life. I do not care to know whatkind of a life you have led. All I ask is that in the future we meet as strangers, and I hope you will consent to my wish!"
"And if I do not do so?" asked Benedetto, laying his hand upon his former comrade's shoulder. "Suppose I will not forget you nor want to be forgotten by you?"
Anselmo moaned aloud.
"Moan away," continued Benedetto. "I know all the details of your past life, and if you have forgotten anything I am in a position to refresh your memory."
"I—do not—understand you," stammered Anselmo.
"Think of the past," replied Benedetto, frowning.
"Of the time when the smith fastened us to the same chain?"
"Oh, think again."
Anselmo trembled.
"Do you speak of the moment when we jumped into the sea and escaped from the galleys?" he softly asked.
"No; your memory seems to be weak."
"I do not know what you mean."
"Really? You seem to have drunk from the spring of Lethe," said Benedetto, contemptuously. "Anselmo, have you forgotten our meeting at Beaussuet?"
"Scoundrel! miserable wretch! Do you really dare to remind me of that?" cried Anselmo, beside himself.
"Why not?"
"If you can do so—no power on earth can induce me to say another word about that horrible affair," said Anselmo, shuddering.
"My nerves are better than yours," laughed Benedetto. "It was only to speak to you about that particular nightthat I braved the danger of hunting you up. I need you as a witness, and that is why you see me here."
"As a witness?" exclaimed Anselmo, in surprise. "Either you are crazy or else I shall become so. Benedetto, if I open my mouth the gallows will be your fate!"
"That is my business and need not worry you at all. Do you remember the night of the 24th of February, 1839? Yes or no?"
"Yes," groaned Anselmo.
"No jeremiads! Do you also remember the vicarage at Beaussuet?"
"Yes."
"Well, a certain person came expressly from Toulon to see about a sum of money, a million—"
"I have not touched a penny of the money," interrupted Anselmo, shuddering.
"No, certainly not, you were always unselfish. Well, do not interrupt me. The person who came from Toulon (recteBenedetto) was just about to put the sum of money in his pocket, when the devil sent a stranger who—"
"Benedetto, if you are a human being and not a devil, keep silent," cried Anselmo, beside himself.
Benedetto shrugged his shoulders.
"You are a fool," he said, contemptuously. "I heard two persons on the stairs. I hid behind the door, with a knife in my right hand. The door opened. The shadow of a form appeared in the door, and I struck. I felt the knife sink deep into a human breast."
"Wretch! It was the breast of your mother!" stammered Anselmo.
"Ah, your memory is returning to you," mockedBenedetto, with a cynical smile. "Yes, it was my mother. But how did you know it?"
"I met the unfortunate woman on the way in the gorges of Oliolles—"
"Ah! and there she told you the story of her life."
"She begged me to help her save her son, and I promised to do so; I knew that you were that wretched son."
"Did she tell you her name?" said Benedetto, uneasily.
"She hid nothing from me. I found out that the son she wished to save intended to murder her—"
"Facts," said Benedetto, roughly, "and less talk."
"And that this son was a child of sin."
"Ah, really; and her name?"
"She made me swear to keep it secret."
"So much the better! She really thought, then, that a galley-slave was a man of his word?"
"Galley-slave or not, I have kept silent, and will do so further."
"You are a hero! Nevertheless, you can tell me the name."
"No!"
"And if I demand it?"
"I won't tell you, either."
"Anselmo, have a care!" hissed Benedetto, angrily. "Tell me the name, or—"
"I am silent," declared Anselmo; "you do not know the name, and you will never learn it from me."
Benedetto broke into a coarse laugh.
"You are either very naïve," he said, "or think I am. I only wished to see if you had not forgotten the name. The lady was Madame Danglars."
Anselmo uttered a cry of rage.
"Well, preacher of words, what do you say now?" asked Benedetto, politely.
"Since you know the name, we are done with each other," said Anselmo, "and I think you will now leave me in peace."
"You are wrong, my dear Anselmo; do you know that you are very disrespectful?"
Anselmo began to ponder whether it would not be better to appear more friendly to the hated comrade.
"Benedetto," he said, in a gentle voice, "why should we be enemies? I know you had reason to be angry a little while ago, but the recollection of that fearful night unmanned me, and I did not know what I was speaking about. At that time, too, I was terribly excited—"
"As I had reason to notice," interrupted Benedetto. "You were ready to kill me."
"Let us forget all that," said Anselmo, hastily. "You came here to ask a favor of me and I was a fool to refuse. We have both the same interests in keeping our past history from the world. Therefore speak. If what you desire is within the limits of reason, it shall be done."
"Bravo! you please me now, Anselmo," cried Benedetto, laughing. "At length you have become sensible. But tell me, is the little one handsome? For it is natural that your reform has been brought about by a woman; you always were an admirer and connoisseur of the fair sex."
Anselmo sprang upon Benedetto and, holding his clinched fist in his face, he said:
"Benedetto, if you care to live, don't say another word!"
"And why?" asked the wretch, with silent contempt.
"Because I shall not stand it," replied Anselmo, coldly. "You have me in your power, Benedetto. With an anonymous letter you could denounce me to-morrow as an escaped galley-slave and have me sent back to the galleys. I would not care a snap for that, but I most emphatically forbid you to throw a slur upon the reputation of the woman who lives with me under this roof."
"You forbid me? Come now, Anselmo, you speak in a peculiar tone," hissed Benedetto.
"I speak exactly in the tone the matter demands. You know my opinion; conduct yourself accordingly."
"And if I did not care to obey you?"
"Then I would denounce you, even though I put my own neck in danger."
"Ha! ha! I tell you you won't do anything of the kind."
"Listen," said Anselmo, "you do not know me. Yes, I was a wretch, a perjurer, worse than any highwayman. But I have suffered, suffered terribly for my sins, and since years it has been my only ambition to lead a blameless life as repentance for my crimes. I have taken care of a poor helpless being, and to defend her I will sacrifice my life. I bear everything to shield her from grief and misery; in fact, if it were necessary, I would accept her contempt, for if she ever found out who I am, she would despise me."
"Have you pen, ink and paper?" asked Benedetto, after Anselmo had concluded.
"Yes. What do you want to do with them?"
"You shall soon find out."
Anselmo silently pointed to a table upon whichwriting materials lay. Benedetto dipped the pen in the ink, and, grinning, said:
"My friend, have the kindness to take this pen and write what I dictate."
"I?"
"Yes, you. I only want you to write a few lines."
"What shall I write?"
"The truth."
"I do not understand you."
"It is very simple; you will write down what you have just said."
"Explain yourself more clearly."
"With pleasure; better still, write what I dictate."
Anselmo looked uneasily at the wretch; Benedetto quietly walked behind the ex-priest's chair, and began:
"On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped convict from the galleys of Toulon, murdered Madame Danglars, his mother."
"That is horrible!" cried Anselmo, throwing the pen down; "I shall not write that."
"You will write; you know I can force you; therefore—"
Anselmo sighed, and took up the pen again.
"So, I am done now," he said, after a pause; "must it be signed, too?"
"Certainly; though the name has nothing to do with it. You can put any one you please under it."
It sounded very simple, and yet Anselmo hesitated.
"No," he firmly said, "I will not do it. I know you are up to some trick, and I do not intend to assist you."
Benedetto laughed in a peculiar way.
"I know you are not rich," said the pretended secretary, "and—"
Anselmo made a threatening gesture, but Benedetto continued:
"I was at this window for some time. Count Vellini's house is next door to this, and I had no difficulty in getting here. I saw you counting your secret treasure, and consequently—"
Unconsciously Anselmo glanced at the portfolio which lay on the table. Benedetto noticed it and laughed maliciously.
"Yes, there lies your fortune," he said contemptuously. "The lean bank-notes you counted a little while ago will not keep you long above board."
"But I have not asked for anything," murmured Anselmo.
"I offer you a price."
Benedetto drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and took ten thousand-franc notes out of it which he laid upon the table. "Finish and sign the paper I dictated," he coldly said, "and the money is yours."
Anselmo grew pale. Did Benedetto know of his troubles? Had he read his thoughts?
"I will not do it," he said, rising up. "Keep your money, Benedetto; it would bring me misfortune."
Benedetto uttered a cry of rage, and, grasping the pen, he seated himself at the table and wrote a few words.
"So," he said, with a satanic gleam in his eyes as he held the paper under Anselmo's nose, "either you do what I say or else these lines which I have just written will be sent to the papers to-morrow."
Anselmo read, and the blood rushed to his head. Hefelt his brain whirl, and, beating his face with his hands, he groaned aloud. What had Benedetto written? Only a few words: "The lady who is known as Jane Zild is—"
"You will not send these lines off," cried Anselmo, springing up suddenly and clutching Benedetto by the throat. The latter, however, was too strong for him; in a minute he had thrown the ex-priest upon the bed.
"No nonsense," he sternly said, "either you write or I will send the notice to the papers to-morrow."
The ex-priest took the pen and with a trembling hand wrote what Benedetto had asked of him.
"Here," he said, in a choking voice, "swear to me—but no—you do not believe in anything—I—"
"My dear friend," interrupted Benedetto, "do not take the thing so seriously. I have no intention of disturbing your peace."
Anselmo sank upon a chair, and his eyes filled with hot tears.
Benedetto hastily ran over the paper and his lips curled contemptuously when he saw the signature.
"The fool wrote his own name," he murmured as he rubbed his hands, "may it do him good."
The next minute the secretary of Count Vellini disappeared, and Anselmo breathed more freely.
Suddenly an idea flew through his brain as his gaze fell upon the bank-notes.
"We will fly," he muttered to himself, "now, this very hour! This demon knows everything; we are not safe from him, and if an accident happens to Jane—"
In desperation he walked up and down the room and disconnected words came from his lips.
"Who will guarantee me that he will keep silent? Oh, he was always a wretch—to-morrow at four o'clock we can take the train—we will go to England and from there to America."
He paused, and, going to the window, listened. Everything was quiet and Anselmo noticed that a rain shed connected the count's house with that of Madame Vollard. Benedetto's visit was probably undiscovered, and a great deal depended on that.
"I will wake Jane," said Anselmo after a short pause, "I will tell her an excuse, and since she believes in me, she will be ready at once to follow me! I will tell her I am in danger and must leave France."
Anselmo carefully opened the door and listened. All was still in the house, and, going on tiptoe, he glided up to the next story and into Jane's room. Merciful God, it was empty!
Uttering a cry he rushed out of the room and down the stairs, and, a prey to despair, hurried out into the dark night.
In deep silence Gontram and Spero walked along the Champs-Elysées, which at this time of the day was deserted. They were both indulging in day-dreams and permitted the magical spring air to affect them.
"Confound the slow pokes," cried the painter at length, after the two young men had been walking up and down for over an hour; "I will go directly to the point."
Spero looked up in amazement. Buried in thought, he believed his friend had spoken to him, and so he said confusedly:
"Excuse me, Gontram, I was thinking of something else and didn't catch your meaning."
"Oh, I was only thinking aloud," replied the painter, laughing, "but it is best if I talk the matter over with you. I will sooner reach a decision."
"I do not understand," stammered Spero.
"I believe you; but do you know that we are both in the same boat?"
"How so?"
"Oh, I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but hope that you will listen quietly to my confession and then give me your opinion."
"A confession? Have you any debts? You know very well—"
"That your purse is open to me I know, but I want to make a loan with your heart."
"Speak quickly; what is the matter?"
"It is about the solution of a problem which has already brought many a man to the brink of despair."
"Gontram!"
"Yes, look at me; it is unfortunately true. One of the most interesting chapters in Rabelais's 'Pantagruel' is devoted to the theme."
Spero was not in the humor for any literary discussion, and so he firmly said:
"If Rabelais handled this theme, he did it undoubtedly in a more worthy way than I could possibly have done."
"H'm, Rabelais merely gives the question, but does not answer it."
"You are speaking in riddles," said the vicomte, laughing, "and, as you know, I have very little acquaintance with practical life."
"But you know 'Pantagruel'?"
"Yes, but—"
"Panurge asks his master, 'Shall I marry or shall I not marry?' and Pantagruel replies, 'Marry or do not marry, just as you feel inclined.'"
"Ah, so that is the question you wish to place before me?" said Spero.
"Yes."
"But why do you come to me for my advice in such a delicate matter?"
"Because I have confidence in you," replied the painter, warmly.
"Thank you," said the vicomte, cordially; "in questions of ordinary life I know as little as a child. I think it is a misfortune to always live alone."
"Then you advise me to marry?"
"If the woman you have selected is worthy to be your wife."
For a time they were both silent, and then Spero continued:
"I think marriage must be based upon unlimited mutual esteem."
"You are right. You have, no doubt, observed that the young lady whom I conducted through the parlor this evening—"
Spero trembled and uttered a low cry. The painter looked suspiciously at him, but the vicomte laughingly said that he had knocked against a stone, and so the painter continued:
"The young lady has captivated me—"
"Of which lady are you speaking?" asked the vicomte, uneasily.
"Of the pretty blonde, Mademoiselle de Larsagny!"
"Ah! she is certainly very handsome," cried Spero, breathing more freely.
"Don't you think so?" exclaimed Gontram, enthusiastically. "That is the young lady I mean."
"In that case I can only congratulate you on the choice you have made."
"Thank you. Then you think Carmen de Larsagny charming?"
"Yes. From what I have seen of the young ladyshe deserves the love of such a splendid fellow as you are."
"If I were to obey the voice of love," said Gontram, "I would go to her now and say: 'I love you—be mine!'"
"And why do you hesitate? You love her, do you not?"
"I suppose so; Carmen is charming. This evening I was at the point of proposing—"
"Well? and—"
"That is just the point. Spero, have you never had a feeling which caused you to leave undone something which your heart prompted you to do? Several times this evening a feeling of coming misfortune overcame me, so that I had great trouble to retain my cheerfulness."
"Such things are sometimes deceiving," said Spero.
"That may be, but every time I think of a marriage with Carmen a feeling of uneasiness overcomes me."
"That is merely nervous excitement."
"I am in love and—"
"Well, you hesitate?"
"I have not told you everything yet. I committed an indiscretion."
"Of what nature?"
"I embraced Mademoiselle de Larsagny and kissed her."
"Ah! and the young girl?"
"Did not repulse me. Now shall I marry or not?"
"What does your heart tell you?"
"My heart is like Pantagruel. It knows no decided answer."
"Good. If you follow my advice, marry the girl. Akiss between two good young people is as binding as an engagement."
"You are right, a hundred times right, and yet the moment I pressed my lips to hers I felt a pain in my heart. If I only knew the cause of this fright which seizes me every time I think of Carmen."
"Perhaps it is her father, Monsieur de Larsagny, who does not inspire you with confidence?" said Spero after a pause.
In the meantime the two friends reached the Arc de Triomphe and walked up and down the woods.
"Perhaps you are right," said Gontram, answering the vicomte's last question. "I know very little of Monsieur de Larsagny, and yet I could swear that there are some dark spots in his past."
At this moment a shot sounded in the still night, and the friends stood still and looked at each other in surprise.
"What was that?" cried Spero.
"A shot, and, as I fear, a crime," said Gontram, softly.
The young men hurried in the direction from which the shot came, and were soon in a small pathway which was lighted up by the faint gleam of the moon. On the ground a motionless form lay. Spero bent over it, and, uttering a hollow cry, he took it in his arms and clasped the head with its long, black, streaming hair to his bosom. It was Jane Zild whom the vicomte held in his arms. Near her lay a revolver.
Spero hurried with his burden to the street, and Gontram could hardly keep up with him. Finally he overtook him, and, placing his hand on the vicomte's shoulder, he urgently cried:
"Spero, where are you going with this corpse?"
"She is not dead," replied the vicomte, tremblingly. "She lives; she must live—she dare not die!"
"And who is she?" asked Gontram, as he tried to get a glimpse of the face. Yes, he recognized her now as she lay in Spero's arms.
"Jane! Jane Zild?" stammered the painter, terror-stricken. "O my God!"
They had now reached the Place de l'Etoile, and Gontram looked around for a carriage.
"What shall we do?" he asked, turning in desperation to Spero. "Are you going to bring the poor thing to your house? I shall go and arouse the servants."
"Do so, Gontram, and hurry—every minute counts."
Soon the Monte-Cristo mansion was reached. Spero carried the unconscious girl up the stairs and gently laid her on the divan. He then got on his knees besideJane, and, hiding his face in his hands, he sobbed bitterly.
Gontram now approached his friend.
"Spero," he said, "calm yourself; we must rescue the poor child."
The vicomte sprang up.
"You are right, Gontram," he replied; "but if she is dead, I shall die, too, for I love her—I love her more than my life."
"She is no doubt wounded," said Gontram softly.
"Yes, just hold a light here," cried the vicomte. "I will examine her. I have not studied medicine for nothing."
The vicomte laid his ear to her bosom, and then said:
"She lives, but to tell whether there is any hope I must examine her more closely. Gontram, go to my study and bring me the cedar box which stands on my writing-desk."
Gontram left the room, and Spero was alone with the unconscious girl. Placing his hand upon her white forehead, he bent over the young girl and tenderly murmured:
"Poor dear child! Why did you wish to die? Oh, Jane, Jane! you must live—live for me, and no power on earth shall tear you from me!"
He pressed his lips upon her pale mouth, and with this kiss his soul was bound to that of the young girl.
Gontram now returned; Spero opened the box and took an instrument from it.
"Feel if my hand trembles," he said, turning to thepainter; "only if that is not the case can I dare to probe for the bullet."
Gontram took hold of the white hand. It did not tremble, and Spero began to probe for the bullet.
"The ball has not touched a vital part," whispered the vicomte at length; "it lies in the muscles. I touched it with the instrument."
"Do you think you can remove the bullet?" asked the painter.
"I hope so."
The vicomte motioned to Gontram to hand him the box again, and taking a bistoury and a pincette he bent over the unconscious girl again.
An anxious moment passed and then Spero triumphantly exclaimed:
"Saved!"
"Saved," repeated Gontram as he took the murderous lead from the vicomte's hand.
"Then we can call the housekeeper," said Spero, after he had poured a liquid down the young girl's throat.
He hurried out, and returned in less than five minutes with Madame Caraman.
The last time we saw the worthy governess she was in Africa, in company with Miss Clary. The latter fell in love with Captain Joliette and married him in spite of Lord Ellis's opposition. The young couple were very happy until thecoup d'étatof the 2d of December, 1851, when Albert de Morcerf was killed by a murderous ball. Six months later Miss Clary died of grief. Four weeks after her death Madame Caraman became the housekeeper of the Monte-Cristo mansion. Thus it came about that Spero hurried to her for aid for the sick girl. She askedno questions, but, with the vicomte's assistance, placed a bandage upon the young girl's wound and wished to discreetly retire.
"Mamma Caraman," said Spero, imploringly, "stay here and watch over the young girl whom I place under your protection. Let no one know that she is in this house."
Spero thereupon withdrew, while Jane Zild remained under the care of the good-hearted woman.
We left Melosan as he ran into the street in despair, hoping to find the missing girl. Had Jane run away? Had she been abducted?
Two policemen were patrolling the Champs-Elysées, and Anselmo went up to them and politely asked them whether they had not seen his mistress, a young lady?
The officials looked suspiciously at him, and remarked that the young lady would have something else to do than wander in the streets at this time of night. Anselmo sorrowfully bowed his head, and, after thanking them, continued on his way.
He had reached the polygon and listened attentively. He heard steps, but not the right ones. Suppose Jane had committed suicide?
She had been so painfully excited this evening, and Anselmo, who knew her past, shuddered when he thought that the Seine was not far away.
Without a pause he ran to the edge of the water; the dawning day was raw and chilly, and Anselmo shuddered as he looked in the dark waves. Were they taking his dearest treasure on earth along in their course?
What mysterious tie bound him to Jane Zild? the former galley-slave to the beautiful, talented creature?
* * * * *
Twenty-one years had passed since Anselmo had witnessed the killing of Madame Danglars by her son Benedetto and the latter's flight with the treasure. Anselmo was, of course, a scoundrel, too; but his whole being rose up in anger at such inhuman cruelty, and, grasping the knife, he had threatened to kill the parricide if he did not depart at once.
Benedetto was thrown into the sea, and was rescued upon the island of Monte-Cristo.
Anselmo had remained behind, half dazed, and only little by little did he recover his senses sufficiently to think over his own situation. It was a desperate one; yet he would not have exchanged with Benedetto for any price.
Suddenly, a faint glimmer of daylight shone through the open window, and Anselmo trembled when his gaze fell on the pale face of the murdered woman. Suppose she was not dead? Anselmo bent over her and listened; not the slightest sign of breathing was visible, and yet the convict thought he felt an almost imperceptible beating of the heart.
Should he call for help? That would be equivalent to delivering himself over to the hangman. If he hesitated, the woman would die, under all circumstances. Who would believe him, if he said that the woman's own son was the murderer? Appearances were against him, and, if the murdered woman really recovered consciousness again, and she should be asked who raised the knife against her, she would much sooner accuse him than the son whom she madly loved.
While Anselmo was still debating the question in his mind, he heard a noise in front of the house, and, hurrying to the window, he perceived the priest, who had just returned home from his journey. The convict uttered a cry of relief. He could now leave without having a murder upon his soul; for the clergyman would, no doubt, immediately discover what had happened, and take care of the victim. He waited until he had heard the priest's steps on the stairs, and then swung himself through the window on to the tree which had helped Benedetto to enter the room, and disappeared at the very moment that the horrified clergyman entered the room. Anselmo determined to leave France in an easterly direction. After great trials and difficulties he reached Switzerland, and from there he journeyed to Germany. Intelligent and active, he soon found a means of earning an honest living; he settled in Munich, and, under the name of Melosan, gave lessons in French.
Fifteen years passed in this way. Anselmo worked hard, and was satisfied with the reward of his activity. His scholars esteemed him. During this time an entire change had taken place in the former convict. But then a yearning to see France once more seized him, and he resolved to return to the fatherland.
He first went to Lyons, where he gave lessons in German and Italian. He lived in a modest apartment in the Faubourg St. Antoine. One evening Anselmo was walking along the quay when he heard quarrelling voices. A woman's voice cried aloud:
"Let me go! I want to go for my daughter. I have nothing to do with you. Help, help!"
Anselmo stood still. A woman was no doubtstruggling with some men, and when her cries redoubled, he forgot his prudence and hurried toward the group.
As he suspected, he found three drunken workmen trying to force a sixteen-year-old girl from the grasp of an elderly woman.
The woman cried loudly for help and struck angrily around her. The young girl, however, silently defended herself.
"Don't be so prudish, Zilda," said one of the men. "You make as much noise as if we were going to hang the little one."
The speaker, as he said this, threw his arms around the slim waist of the young girl and tried to draw her to him. At this moment Anselmo appeared, and with a terrible blow he struck the fellow to the ground.
The young girl sobbed, and taking the hand of her rescuer she pressed a kiss upon it. Then turning to the old lady, who was leaning against the wall moaning, she cried, beside herself:
"Oh, mother, mother! What is the matter with you? My God, she is dying!"
This really seemed to be the case; the poor woman had become deathly pale, and sank to the ground.
"Let me help you," said Anselmo to the young girl. He bent down and took the unconscious woman in his arms. "Where do you live?"
As simple as the question was, the girl appeared to be embarrassed by it.
"Won't you tell me where you live?" said Anselmo, as the girl remained silent.
"We do not live far from here, in the Rue Franchefoin."
"I do not know that street."
"Ah, I believe you," stammered the poor child, shuddering; "I shall proceed in advance."
"Do so," said Anselmo.
The ex-priest followed her, bearing the unconscious woman in his muscular arms, and only gradually did he perceive that his companion was leading him into one of the most disreputable streets in the city.
The young girl stopped in front of a small house. A robust woman stood in the doorway, and when she saw the young girl she venomously said:
"Zilda has taken time. She stayed away a good two hours to get her daughter."
"My mother is dangerously ill, perhaps dying," said the young girl in a sharp voice.
"It won't be so serious," replied the woman, with a coarse laugh.
"Have you not heard that the woman is dangerously ill?" said the ex-priest.
"Is she sick?" asked the woman, coldly. "Well, if she dies, it won't be a great misfortune. I—"
"Madame, for God's sake!" implored the young girl.
"Show me to a room where I can lay the invalid down," said Anselmo roughly.
"Yes, yes, directly. Follow me if you are in such a hurry," growled the woman.
Just then two men who were intoxicated staggered into the hallway.
"Ah, there is Zilda," cried one of them; "quick, old woman; come in and sing us a song."
The woman opened a door and winked to the ex-priest to enter. The room was small and dirty. In the cornerstood a slovenly bed upon which Anselmo deposited the invalid.
"Is there a physician in the neighborhood?" he asked.
"A physician? That is hardly worth the trouble," mocked the virago, "she is only drunk."
The ex-priest took a five-franc piece from his pocket and said:
"Get a physician, I insist upon it."
The next minute the virago was on the way.
Anselmo remained alone with the two women. The young girl sobbed silently, and the invalid remained motionless.
"Mademoiselle," he began, "I think you might loosen your mother's dress; the fainting fit lasts rather long."
The young girl looked at him, seeming not to understand.
"She is your mother, is she not?"
The young girl nodded, and, rising, pressed her lips upon the woman's forehead. Thereupon she loosened her mother's dress and held a glass of water to her lips. The invalid mechanically drank a few drops, but soon waved it back and whispered:
"No more, no water, leave me!"
"Mother," said the young girl, "mother, it is I; do you not know me?"
"No, I do not know who you are!" cried the invalid. "Away, I cannot sing to-day—my breast pains me. Oh—"
"Oh, mother," sobbed the poor child.
"Yes—I am cold—why do you put ice on my feet?" complained the invalid, and with a quick movement she raised herself up in bed.
Suddenly the delirious woman caught sight of Anselmo, and with a terrible cry she sprung at him with clinched fists.
"There you are, you wretch," she hissed; "where have you put your black coat?"
Just then the virago returned with the doctor.
The latter looked contemptuously at her, and in a gruff voice said:
"Lie down!"
He then beat her bosom, counted her pulse, and shook his head.
"Nothing can be done," he dryly declared; "her strength has been impaired by a fast and dissipated life, and—"
"But, doctor," interrupted Anselmo, "have some compunction for the poor woman. You see she is conscious and understands every word."
"Ah, you are probably a relative of hers, or has your warm interest in her some other ground?"
"Doctor, I only speak as a human being," replied Anselmo, sternly, "and if you do not do your duty as a physician I will notify the proper authorities."
This threat had the desired effect. The doctor drew his note-book from his pocket, rapidly wrote a prescription, and went away.
Anselmo took the prescription and hurried to the nearest drug-store. As he walked along the snow-covered streets, he muttered to himself:
"Merciful God, do not punish me so hard!"
When he returned he found the virago awaiting him at the door.
"Monsieur," she said, "it seems that Zilda interests you."
"Yes, like any other unhappy creature."
"Well, I have her papers. Her name is Zild—Jane Zild."
"Give them to me," said Anselmo, firmly; "I will take care of her."
"May God reward you; the sooner you get her out of my house the happier I shall be."
The woman hurried into the house, and Anselmo handed the invalid's daughter the medicine he had bought and waited for the return of the virago. In less than five minutes she returned and handed the ex-priest a package of papers.
"Where can I look through them?" he asked, uneasily.
"Oh, come into the kitchen."
Anselmo accepted her invitation, and by the flickering light of a tallow candle he unfolded the yellow and withered papers.
One of the papers contained a passport for the work-man, Jean Zild, and his daughter Jane, made out by the commune of Sitzheim in Alsace. When Anselmo read this he grew pale and nearly fell to the floor in a faint.
"The reading seems to overtax your strength," said the woman giggling. "Zilda has travelled a great deal, and maybe you have met her before."
"I hardly think so," stammered Anselmo.
In company with the virago, Anselmo re-entered the sick-room, and, laying his hand on the young girl's shoulder, he said:
"My dear child, your mother is much better now, and if you follow my advice you will go to bed and take a rest. I shall stay with the invalid. The housekeeper here has kindly consented to give you a room."
"Not for any price," cried the little one in terror. "I cannot stay in this house overnight."
Little by little he managed to calm the poor child and make her understand his aim. She hesitatingly consented to stay overnight in the house, and the housekeeper conducted her to a little room. With inward terror the little one gazed at the unclean walls, and only her love for her mother induced her to stay and not return even now.
"Good-night, mother," she said, sobbing.
The woman looked vacantly at her and gave no sign of recognition of her daughter.
"Do not wake your mother up," said Anselmo, hastily. "Sleep is necessary to her and I will call you if she asks for you."
"Then you really intend to stay here?"
"Yes."
"Do you know us?"
"No," stammered Anselmo; "but go to bed now, it is late."
"You will surely call me?" asked the little one.
"Certainly; go now and rely on me."
She went, and Anselmo was alone with the invalid—the dying woman, as he shudderingly said to himself.
From time to time the sick woman would wake up in her sleep and utter a low moan.
Anselmo looked in terror at the face, which showed traces of former beauty. Whose fault was it that her life ended so early and so sadly?
Suddenly the invalid opened her big black eyes, and gazed at the ex-convict who was sitting by her bedside with folded hands.
"How did you get here?" she asked, timidly.
"You are sick, keep quiet; later on you shall learn everything," replied Anselmo.
"I am sick! Ha! ha! ha! I am cursed—cursed!" she cried.
"Keep still; go to sleep," begged Anselmo, frightened. "No one has cursed you."
"But he—my father—oh, I have brought shame and sorrow upon him; but it was not my fault—no, not my fault! Oh, I was so young and innocent. Father said, pray earnestly and often, and so I prayed. Oh, how nice it was in Sitzheim; the church lay upon a hill, hid in ivy, from which a view of the peaceful village could be had. A well was also in the village. Evenings we young girls used to go there to get water, and then—then he went past. How he frowned. He wore a black coat, and the bald spot on his shaved head shone like ivory. When he came near, we made the sign of the cross. We must honor the embassadors of God!"
The dying woman with trembling hands made the sign of the cross, and Anselmo groaned and moaned.
"I had not yet gone to confession," continued the delirious woman; "my father used to laugh at me and say: 'Stay at home, little Jane, you haven't any sins to confess yet.' I stayed. I was only sixteen. But one day as I was sitting in front of our door the man addressed me.
"'Why do you not come to confession?' he asked sternly.
"'Because my father said I was too young, and have no sins to confess.'
"'We are all sinners in God,' he earnestly replied. 'Do not forget that you will be eternally damned if you do not confess.'
"I got frightened; no, I did not wish to be damned, and so I went secretly to confession. He always gave me absolution and I was happy. He sometimes met me when I went walking, and was always very friendly to me."
Anselmo leaned his head against the hard bed-post and sobbed—they were the bitterest tears he had ever wept.
"He told me I was so pretty," continued the woman. "He promised me dresses, books and sweetmeats—my father must not know that I saw his reverence almost every day, and then—then he suddenly disappeared from the village—his superiors had transferred him, and I—I wept until my eyes were red. And then—then came a terrible time. The girls at the well pointed their fingers in scorn at me—my father threw me out of the house! I ran as far as my feet would carry me—I suffered from hunger and thirst—I froze, for it was a bitter cold winter; and when I could no longer sustain my misery, I sprang into the water.
"I was rescued," she laughingly continued, "and then my child, my little Jane, was born, and to nurse her I had to keep on living. Yes, I lived, but how? The fault was not mine, but that of the hypocrite and scoundrel in clergyman's dress!"
"Mercy," implored Anselmo. "Mercy, Jane!"
"Ha! who—is it that—calls me?" stammered the dying woman, faintly. "I should know—that—voice!"
"Oh, Jane, it is I—the wretched priest!" whispered Anselmo; "forgive me for my crimes against you and tell me if that girl there is," he pointed to the other room—"my—our daughter?"
But the invalid could not speak any more; she only nodded, and then closed her eyes forever.
When day dawned a broken-down man rose from the bedside of the deceased. He had spent the night in torture, and now went to wake the daughter of the dead woman—wake his daughter! He must take care of her without letting her know that he was her father.
When he told the girl her mother was dead, she threw herself upon the corpse, covered the pale face with tears and kisses, and yet—curious phase of this girl's soul—when she thought she was not observed, she whispered faintly:
"God be thanked that your troubles are over, poor mother—now I can love you without blushing for you."
Anselmo ordered a respectable funeral, and when he returned from the cemetery with the young girl he said with deep emotion:
"Jane, I knew your mother—I promised her that I would look out for you. Will you stay with me?"
Jane Zild sorrowfully said "Yes." Anselmo left Lyons in company with the lonely child. He worked hard to place Jane above want, and tenderly loved her. Gradually he tried to win the young girl's confidence; he comprehended that Jane was on the brink of despair, and to distract her he began to educate her.
The result was well worth the work. Jane learned with the greatest facility, and took pleasure in study. Yet she remained pale and melancholy, and Anselmo knew what troubled her—the memory of the horrible past. It seemed as if she were branded—as if every one could read on her forehead whose daughter she was.
An accident revealed to Anselmo that Jane possessed eminent musical talents, and a magnificent contralto voice. He worked, saved and economized to be able to give Jane the best teachers. He removed with the young girl to a German city which possessed a celebrated conservatory; there Jane studied music and singing.
Three years father and daughter remained in Leipsic, and then Jane felt homesick—homesick for France. Anselmo selected Paris as their place of residence, and hoped that she would succeed in conquering a position at the Opera.
But Jane refused all offers from the managers, and when Anselmo reproached her she said, in bitter tones:
"If I were not my mother's daughter the matter would be different. Shame would kill me if some one were to discover in me the daughter of Jane Zild. No, I must remain in seclusion until God sees fit to end my miserable existence!"
It therefore surprised him when the young girl told him she thought of visiting the young painter's soiree and singing there. Was she in love with the painter, or did she expect to meet some one in his parlor?
Anselmo declared that he would not go to any party in Paris, and would only bring her to the Rue Montaigne and then call for her again. He was, however, not prepared for the surprise which awaited him in Gontram Sabran's parlor. He recognized in Count Vellini's secretary the demon Benedetto, and his heart ceased beating when he saw the wretch. He hoped Benedetto would not recognize him, but he was destined to be deceived, as we have seen.
When Anselmo heard the name of the Vicomte ofMonte-Cristo, he recollected the oath which the convict Benedetto had sworn against the Count of Monte-Cristo.
Hidden by the drapery, he had given Spero the mysterious warning. After the soiree was over he was surprised at the excited condition of Jane. He attributed it to a recurrence of her thoughts to her horrible past.
And while he was promising to assist the former galley-slave in carrying out some deviltry to save himself from being unmasked, Jane disappeared. Anselmo regarded it as a new evidence of the wrath of God.
How long he lay crouched in a corner of the quay, buried in thought, he knew not; all he knew was that the sound of hurried footsteps, which were coming toward him, had aroused him.
Suppose it was Jane who wished to seek oblivion in the waters of the Seine? Anselmo listened. The footsteps drew near now—the spectral apparition of a woman went past him and swung itself on the bridge railing.
"Jane—my child!" cried the despairing father; but when he reached the spot where he had seen the apparition it was empty.
He bent over the railing. Something dark swam about. Anselmo thought he recognized Jane's black dress, and only filled with a desire to rescue his child, he plunged into the turbulent waters.
With a few powerful strokes he had reached the place where he had last seen the figure. Thank God! it was in front of him. He stretched out his arm—clutched the hand of the drowning person, and tried to swim back to shore with his dear burden.
But the shore was still far away, the body lay heavy as lead on his left arm, and much as he tried to cleavethe ice-cold water with his right he could not succeed in doing it. He felt his strength grow feeble—was he going to be overcome at the last moment?
"Help! help! we are sinking!" he cried aloud, and as he felt himself seized at that moment by a huge wave, whose power he could not resist—the water entered his mouth—he cried again:
"Help! help!"
"Patience! Keep up a moment longer! I am coming!" came back in a loud voice.
The water was parted with powerful strokes, four arms were stretched toward the drowning persons, and Anselmo and his burden were brought to the shore by two men.
"Confound the cold," said one of the men, shaking himself as if he were a poodle. "I should like to know what reason induced these two people to take a cold bath so early in the morning?"
"Bring them to my house, Bobichel," said the other, a strong, handsome man, "and everything will be explained there."
"Yes, if they are still alive," replied Bobichel. "I think, Fanfaro, that we came just at the right moment. What will Madame Irene say when we arrive home?"
"She will at once prepare for everything," said Fanfaro, laughing.
After they had both walked along with their burdens in their arms for about a quarter of an hour, they stopped in front of a small house which lay back of a pretty garden.
Five minutes later both the unfortunates lay in acomfortably warmed room, and Fanfaro, his wife, and Bobichel busily attended to them.
"Who can they be?" asked Irene, gently, of her husband.
"God knows," replied Fanfaro; "anyhow, I am glad that they both still live."
But the woman Anselmo had rescued at the risk of his life was not Jane, but a gray-haired old lady.