"Sapristi!" he then exclaimed, smacking his tongue, "that is an excellent drop!"
"Bah, never mind the drop now, but answer my question," rejoined the lady. "What are you looking for here?"
"I—intended—"
"Quick, and do not stutter so awfully. Is it lawful at night and in darkness to enter a strange abode and to frighten people?"
"Alas, I shall certainly never do it again," stammered poor Coucou, crestfallen. "I came here, because—"
"Dear me, I almost believe you have lost your power of speech," laughingly interrupted Madame Caraman.
"Not exactly, madame, but behold, there are moments in the life of a soldier—"
"In which he proves himself especially stupid," added Madame Caraman impatiently; "stick to your subject."
Coucou bowed, as if a compliment were paid him.
"Madame," he commenced again, "Providence permitted us to-day to meet each other—"
"Providence?" repeated the lady in great merriment; "Mr. Zouave, you seem to me to be getting a little crazy!"
"Oh, madame," said Coucou ardently, "it will not offend you, if I tell you that I find you exceedingly—and, speaking plainly, consider you quite lovely! Call me impertinent, madame: but believe my assurance that I speak the real truth. I have seen ladies in all parts of the world, blondes and brunettes, black and white, but I never met one who understood how to win my heart till I this day met you!"
Madame Caraman was, indeed, Clary's governess, but she was, first of all, a wife, and Coucou's words were repugnant to her.
"Monsieur Zouave," she replied, "I am forty-two years old" (unwittingly she skipped a few), "and you may call yourself lucky that I do not mind a joke—"
"A joke? But I can take an oath—"
"Do not swear," interrupted the lady, in a menacing manner, "but let me speak. First, you ought to know that I have always been an honest wife, and only loved my husband, who is now in heaven. Secondly, I amemployed by a greatly esteemed and amiable young girl, and as you have without the slightest pretext entered here, you have forfeited the respect which you owe the owner of this villa. Thus you know now what you ought to know, and mark it down for the future, Monsieur Zouave."
Coucou felt as if it were best for him to sink into the ground; red like a peony he began to stutter:
"Pardon me, I intended nothing wrong!"
The widow of the gendarme officer had compassion on his embarrassment.
"Well, do not take it to heart too much," she said, kindly. "I do not bite anybody! You are, after all, a soldier, and if you do your duty, you cannot always touch everything with kid gloves. My dear departed husband often told me so, and therefore console yourself and listen to me. I am ready to pardon you, but only under one condition."
"Oh, under all conditions, even ever so difficult," ejaculated Coucou, lively. "Speak, please; what am I to do?"
"Not much, but to tell me, quite openly, why you have come to this place this evening?"
"Only to see you."
"Indeed! Well, I must confess I like you! So you have fallen in love with me, like a student at a boarding-school, and in order to satisfy your suddenly aroused desires you creep at night into other people's houses! Do you know how these fellows are generally styled?"
Coucou bent his head, and Madame Caraman earnestly continued:
"Would it not be more simple and also morebecoming, if you were to come here to-morrow by daylight, and ask for admittance?"
"But that is just the thing," despairingly exclaimed Coucou, "for me there is no morning!"
"What does that all mean?"
"Well, what I say is, that for me there is no morning here!"
"Lord and Saviour, how am I to understand this nonsense?" said Madame Caraman, impatiently.
Coucou changed his tactics.
"Madame," said he with emphasis, "I will admit that my uncalled-for entrance here was certainly quite wrong, but you ought not to consider it in the light of an offence."
"I hope so," replied the companion respectfully, "and I am ready to look for any proofs thereof."
The Zouave again looked down quite abashed.
"It passed previously through my head," he commenced, rather discouraged, "that you perhaps would show a little interest for me—"
"Always worse—you are getting impertinent!"
"No, no, madame, that I am not; only allow me to explain. Consider, I am a soldier; the regiment is my home, and I have neither father nor mother who care for me. Taking it all in all, I do not mind that; I fight with the Kabyles, and when one day my end approaches, nobody will have to mourn for me. But you appear to me so kind and trustworthy, that Satan urged me on, and as I shall probably never see you again—"
"Ah, and why not?"
"I bid you farewell, for to-morrow morning it will be all over."
"Well, not so hasty; don't jump immediately from one extreme to another," scolded Madame Caraman, who against her own desire felt some sympathy, although she tried to hide it; "tell me now exactly the whole proceeding; otherwise you seem to be a brave fellow, and it would be a pity for the uniform you wear were it not so. Well, then, speak out; what is the matter to-morrow?"
"Alas, madame, your kindness encourages me. Only consider, if a man is on the point of leaving his home, and perhaps forever, he is longing to say to somebody good-by, and when on such an occasion a beautiful woman shakes hands and says, 'Farewell, my boy,' then it surely brings luck!"
"But, Monsieur Zouave, you speak in riddles to me. Where are you going, if I may put the question?"
"To Algiers, in the desert, and then further."
"But you are returning to your regiment?"
"God forbid. I have an unlimited furlough."
"By my life, it requires a corkscrew in order to get the words out of your mouth! Plainly told, what mean all these preliminaries?"
"Well, you know already that the son of Madame Mercedes, Captain Joliette, has disappeared. I am attached to my captain and—"
"Quick, make haste, I am fast losing all patience!"
"To-day a pale-looking man with sparkling dark eyes, and coal-black hair and beard, told me that he starts to-morrow morning in order to search for Captain Joliette, and intends to take me with him!"
Neither the Zouave nor Madame Caraman heard the half-suppressed exclamation, which had just occurredclose to the veranda; Madame Caraman felt astonished, and rising suddenly asked almost breathlessly:
"If I understand rightly, then, the Count of Monte-Cristo intends searching the Sahara for Captain Joliette?"
"Yes, that is the case, and I accompany him. For such an expedition courage is the first requirement, and, as I do not lack any, the count has selected me. Now, you know all and wherefore I came; I did not wish to vex you, and now I depart again. Adieu, Madame Caraman!"
The Zouave swung his cap and turned round ready to depart. The lady looked at him with mingled feelings; she was a kind-hearted soul and the brave Zouave amused her. She never had a son, but she thought, if God had presented her with one, he ought to have resembled the Jackal. That he came to bid her good-by, moved her, and she said in a half-audible voice:
"Monsieur Zouave!"
Coucou remained standing.
"Come this way! Are you, perhaps, afraid of me? On previous occasions you were less timid."
Coucou's hesitating steps justified this suspicion, and Madame Caraman continued, smilingly:
"I shall not hurt you; there, put your hand into mine—" Coucou blushed like a girl.
"What? I should be allowed to put my ugly paw into your hand!" he stuttered quite confounded, and then he perceived that he had been again rude and tried to excuse himself.
"I spoke of my ugly paw—I—"
"Never mind that," the lady interrupted him; "there, shake hands and think that I am your mother!"
"You my mother?" said Coucou laughing, with tears in his eyes; "oh, no such thing; then you must act differently! When I took leave of my poor mother, she took hold of my head and kissed me heartily on both cheeks! I believe I have to thank these kisses that I still carry my head between my shoulders!"
Madame Caraman wiped a tear from her eye, and then she took the head of the Zouave between her hands and did exactly like his mother.
"Hurrah, Mother Caraman," called out Coucou joyfully; "you are an excellent mother! Farewell, and if God spares me, I hope we may meet again!"
"I hope so, my boy," said Madame Caraman with faltering voice. "God protect you and grant that you may again find your captain! It will all be right in course of time—adieu!"
The Zouave made two long strides in getting downstairs, and in a moment he had reached and climbed the garden-wall. Placing himself upon it, he swung his cap, and calling aloud, "Adieu, Mother Caraman," disappeared.
"A real Parisian boy," muttered Madame Caraman to herself: "a hot-headed fellow with a golden heart. It would grieve me should I not see him again."
A soft hand now touched the lady's shoulder, and looking up she perceived herprotégée, who stood before her smiling.
"Is it you, Clary," said the companion rather awkwardly, while she changed color and became red and white, by turns, "you have then—"
"Seen and heard the Zouave," rejoined the young girl, laughing.
"But I can assure you—he came—I am not answerable—the garden-wall—"
"I know, I know, Mamma Caraman," interrupted Clary. "You do not think that I am going to reproach you? So Coucou goes to Algiers?"
"Yes, in order to search for Captain Joliette; the count—"
"I know all," said Clary, hastily placing her finger upon the governess's lips; "they are going, but it is all chance—"
"Yes, all chance work in a desert. It is terrible! Think only of the simoom, the sand, the Kabyles, and the wild animals!"
"Have you the map of Algiers at hand?"
"Yes, here is the atlas."
Clary knelt close to the chair of the governess, who had the atlas on her lap, and after they had studied minutely all the mountains and deserts of Africa, she suddenly inquired:
"How do people travel in the Sahara?"
"In caravans, with camels and negroes. It is a troublesome journey, dear child, and—"
"Mamma Caraman, how much money have we at present in hand?" suddenly interrupted Clary.
The governess drew a pocketbook out of her work-basket, and, examining the contents, said:
"About three hundred pounds sterling, or seven thousand five hundred francs."
"That is very little," said Clary.
"We have besides bills of exchange to the amount of one hundred thousand francs."
"What may be the time now?"
"Nearly ten o'clock, Clary."
"Well, then, please have our horses ready."
"Our horses, at this time?" said the governess, alarmed.
"Yes, at once. Hurry your toilet; I shall do the same, and then good-by."
"But, Clary, what do you intend to do?"
"Mamma Caraman, I am not yet quite clear upon that point, but on the road to Marseilles you shall know everything. Apropos, take the three hundred pounds with you."
"You are not thinking, surely, of spending the money this very evening?"
"H'm, who knows. At any rate take also the bills of exchange, and now go and make haste."
Clary soon got away, and the astonished governess had no other alternative than to obey the orders of the spoiled child. Ten minutes later both ladies sat in their saddles, and rode, accompanied by a groom, toward the town.
If one passes in Marseilles from Main Street across Villeneuve Place, and turns into Prison Street, there appears a dirty old house just opposite this street, which upon a signboard bears the appellation: "The Big Spider." This house is a resort for sailors of the worst kind, and, as soon as darkness sets in, becomes crowded with customers, whose physiognomies are anything but encouraging. The worst of vices found here in the Big Spider their formation, and the scum of all parts of the world used to assemble here. In fact, the whole surroundings of that quarter were nicknamed "The Spider Quarter," and many a one who had entered the quarter with well-filled pockets never left it again. The "Spider's web" closed upon him, and he was lost; for the walls never betrayed what passed behind them, nor did the inhabitants feel any desire to do so.
In the dark smoky rooms alcoholic drinks were the principal beverage, and characterless women shared and indulged in the drunken revels. Continual strife and quarrels in which the knife was the chief weapon were always going on, while the police took good care not to come into contact with the guests of the Spider. Atpresent, of course, the Spider's Quarter has ceased to exist, and one who nowadays perceives the well-lighted streets will hardly believe what a place it formerly was—tempora mutantur. While the Zouave Coucou took leave in the villa, a mixed company, like on all other nights, had gathered together in the Spider. English, French, Maltese, Italians and Spanish sailors sat round the heavy oak tables; girls in curious dresses, whose painted cheeks showed plainly the traces of debauchery, thronged around a female card conjurer, who in a corner was performing her black art, while a woman with a harp was waiting with her old instrument till called upon to play or sing before the company. Here and there sat groups of men and women on whose foreheads vice was plainly written, and according as the dice rolled and the cards dropped, there could be heard curses and imprecations, as well as shouts of joy. The atmosphere was impregnated with the filthy oil of the dimly lighted lamps, the odor of alcoholic drinks, and the poisonous smell of tobacco.
It was almost midnight when a new-comer entered. The man wore a short jacket, a red girdle held the dark trousers around the waist, and a broad-brimmed oilcloth hat sat at an angle upon a head full of rich red-blond hair. The beard of the man was red and thick, while his form showed that he was possessed of great muscular power.
It was plain that the stranger was an English sailor, and the sharp accent with which he gave his orders to the morose landlord, of whom he demanded a mixture of rum and cordial, testified to this supposition. The host, who was a suspicious-looking individual with piercing black eyes, which wickedly squinted from under apair of peculiar thick eyelashes, soon brought the drink to the sailor, and while placing the tin can containing the hot beverage on the table, he held out his right hand to receive payment; for in the Spider the rule is: "First pay and then you may drink." The sailor did not seem to relish this custom; he drew a heavy purse from his pocket, took out a gold piece and threw it on the table.
While the host took the gold piece, a louis d'or, and curiously looked at it, more than twenty eyes turned greedily upon the sailor; the customers of the Spider knew well the sound of the gold pieces. Out of pure mischief the host tried the sound of the gold piece again on the tin can, and then smilingly placed it in his pocket: again, suspicious looks turned upon the man who paid in gold, and their bewilderment was increased as the stranger refused the change. "Keep it for yourself," said he, loud enough to be heard. The landlord, who understood many languages, shook his head and dryly replied:
"Keep your money, old fellow—I only take my due."
The Englishman felt vexed, struck with his fist on the table, took hold of the tin can and emptied the drink with one draught.
"You decline my money?" he asked with a strong English accent.
"I do not say so," added the host, in a half-satisfactory tone, "but to-day and to-morrow do not resemble each other, and what you bestow on me to-day you may rue to-morrow."
"That concerns no one but myself," exclaimed the sailor; "if I like to be generous, I have a right to be so. Yes or no—will you accept the money?"
"No, braggart, I do not need your money! The host of the Big Spider is richer than you!"
"Richer than I am? Who the dickens can say so?" ejaculated the sailor in a rage, and pulling out his purse and opening it he threw all its contents on the table. A heap of gold rolled on the oaken surface, and with loud shouting the guests around the table jumped up.
Only the landlord looked upon it indifferently.
"Englishman, you are a fool," he muttered half aloud; "you wish to be duped under all circumstances! Beware!"
"Shut up," shouted the sailor, and turning toward the rest, he said in a low voice:
"Do you know what the host has just whispered to me? He cautions me to be on my guard; he seemingly believes that you intend to murder me in order to get my money!"
A death-like silence followed these bold words, and the eyes of all present turned with unmistakable eagerness upon the heap of gold. Most of these miserable beings had already often bathed themselves knee-deep in blood; and therefore to commit murder was a bagatelle, as long as it brought profit.
The landlord, shrugging his shoulders, returned to his place near the door; he would let the sailor take his own part, if he really wanted to be stupid.
Now, a large fellow, a Provencal, approached and placed himself on a seat right before the Englishman, and was at once ready to take hold of the money.
"Old fellow," said he, grumbling, "is that lot of money really your own property?"
"Yes, all honestly earned money."
"H'm—that I care for but very little. Do you know, I am just at present short of cash, and I suppose you will not hesitate to lend a friend a helping hand, eh? Well, then, I'll take just what I am in want of."
The hand of the Provencal selected a few gold pieces, but almost at the same time he shouted aloud and staggered back.
The sailor, with a vise-like grip, grasped the wrist of the intruder and he soon dropped the gold pieces.
The Provencal gnashed his teeth in rage, and, rubbing his bruised wrist, muttered:
"If you do not wish your sinful money to be touched, then you should not expose it so boastingly! You will not even assist me a little? It stands to reason that later on I will pay you everything back: well, are you satisfied?"
"No," replied the sailor coolly, "go to the devil! Away—do not touch my money; I can skin you!"
"Ah, that we shall soon see," loudly exclaimed the Provencal, and putting his hand in his pocket he produced a large knife. At the same time he uttered a few words to his comrades in their own jargon, and immediately the sailor was surrounded by a dozen men whose hands were armed with glittering knives.
The Englishman seemed, however, not in the least affected; he put the money all in one heap, and placing himself with his back toward the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest, and asked, scornfully:
"What do you mean to do? Are you really ready to murder me?"
"Keep your peace, braggart! You wish to entice us with your money. Give us half of it, or you will not fare very well here. Well, are you willing to divide?"
"I don't know about that. If anybody in my part of the country says 'I will,' then he must prove that he is also able."
"What does this all mean? Do you think of defying us?"
"I am ready for you. Just come on, if you think proper!"
"Stand back, comrades!" exclaimed the Provencal, "I will teach him something better. Just wait, John Bull, you will soon know me; I'll get the best of you, and then we will divide the spoils."
"Yes, yes!" the others cried, "let us divide!"
"Keep quiet," said the Englishman, coolly. "You want a regular fight with knives, do you? Pah, I have no objection; but you will allow me, instead of using a knife, to make use of this weapon!" and thereupon he drew from his pocket a small, brightly polished poniard about three or four inches long, which looked more like a lady's plaything than anything else.
The shabby lot laughed at him loudly; and, comparing the Catalonian knives they handled with the sailor's poniard, it appeared like a sewing-needle.
"Perhaps you think I am a tailor?" said the Provencal, scornfully; "and have you not also a measure in your pocket?"
"Large words, large knives, and that is all," said the sailor, contemptuously. "Listen. I make you an offer: if you can touch me, the money is yours; and, mark well, not only half, but the whole of it!"
"Agreed. Comrades, step aside!"
With a push of his foot the Provencal cleared one of the tables; the rest did the same in putting tables andchairs aside for an open space. The host alone remained passive; he had seen enough of these occurrences, and was in nowise astonished. Even the female portion of the guests seemed to take an interest in the combat; everywhere you could see glittering eyes awaiting the spectacle to come, and now and then the call went forth: "The impertinent fool!" "Well, the Provencal will teach him better!" "Just look, the poniard is set with diamonds!" "Where could he have stolen it?" "Perhaps from his sweetheart. Ha! ha! ha!"
One of the guests, however, did not share in the general noise. He was a man who sat at a side table, his head resting in both his hands, so that his face could not exactly be recognized. Raven black long hair, slightly tinged with gray, fell down on his broad shoulders; the man wore sailor's clothes, but they looked tattered and worn out. Before him stood a large, half-emptied bottle of liquor. He sat motionless, and, in spite of the noise around him, remained at the table without stirring. The glance of the English sailor was at different times directed toward him, and it even seemed as if he wanted to speak to him, but nobody noticed it.
Now the Provencal approached the Englishman. It was quite a sight to see him standing with spread-out legs, half-naked, hairy arms, muscular chest, the knife lifted up in his right hand, and a vulgar smile on his thick lips, and many a one would have considered twice before he ventured on such a task. His age was, no doubt, about forty, and his glaring eyes glanced continually from the Englishman to the gold, and then again at his comrades, as if intending to say:
"Just be a little patient, I'll procure the prize for us."
The Englishman too had arisen. His slender figure appeared almost meagre when compared with his opponent, and yet his dark eyes looked around steadily and quietly. Either he plays with the danger threatening him, or he is not able to see it; one stroke of the Provencal was sufficient to batter down the Englishman, and what use is the neat little weapon in comparison with the terrible large knife?
"Are you ready?" shouted aloud the Provencal.
"Yes, bandit," sounded loudly in reply.
The sailor leaned with his back to the wall; a retrograde movement was impossible, and yet—yet the Provencal began to press him closely. The knife glittered—a jump—and the Provencal shrieked with pain and sank to the ground. The poniard of the Englishman had penetrated deeply into the hand which held the knife; a dark stream of blood flowed from the wound, when the sailor drew out the point of the blade, and the Provencal screamed in his agony:
"Wait, miserable juggler, you will suffer for it."
Breathing heavily he stepped back a few paces, and again swinging his knife, he threw it quickly at the face of the sailor. The sailor had lifted his left hand, and in a second struck the weapon as it fell; the knife whirled around, and the next moment the Englishman caught it in his hand. Triumphantly he swung round the knife in his left, and the poniard in his right hand; the Provencal uttered a heavy curse, and withdrawing the knife from a comrade standing behind him, he prepared to again attack his opponent.
The Englishman allowed him to approach; but as soon as he was ready to jump at him, he threw away poniardand knife, took hold of the Provencal by his wrists, and as easily as if he were but a child, pitched him right in the midst of bottles and glasses, placed upon a table some distance off.
The Provencal howled with rage; and the breaking of the bottles and glasses scattered glass all over the place, causing many bloody hands and heads. The giant bled from a wound on his forehead, and, turning to his comrades, he called aloud:
"Kill him, yecanaille! Can you look on quietly when he is killing me?"
Irresolute, the crowd stared at the sailor, and he, taking advantage of the momentary quietness, jumped over tables and benches into a corner, where the solitary guest sat, and placed his hand upon his shoulder:
"Up!" he called with penetrating voice, "up in the name of Manuelita!"
As if touched by an electric shock, the man jumped up, and, throwing one single glance at the sailor, he gave a yell and leaped right in the midst of the vagabonds, and with herculean power he knocked down all who were near him, crying with rage:
"Away with you, bandits! Whoever touches a hair on this man's head dies!"
As soon as the men heard the voice, they remained standing as if petrified, and even the most courageous turned pale.
"Jacopo!" went from mouth to mouth. "What the devil brought him here? Let us hasten to depart. See only how his eyes are rolling; he is once more in a passion!"
The other must have been aware of his ruling powerover these miserable vagabonds, for he pulled the door open and peremptorily ordered them to leave the room, saying threateningly:
"March off, or I'll get you all on the galleys again, which you ought never to have left!"
"We are going; pardon us!" cringingly replied the men; and like beaten dogs they all left quite hastily.
The Provencal lingered a while at the door.
"How about the money?" he inquired, in dog-like submission.
"Throw it to the bandits outside the door, Jacopo," said the sailor, despisingly.
Jacopo took the money in both hands and scattered it in a large circle on the street.
Howling, shrieking, and with a tremendous noise, the bandits fought for the booty. Jacopo locked the door, closed the latch, and kneeling before the sailor, whispered: "Master, what is it you demand of me?"
Who was Jacopo?
About nineteen years before, in February, 1829, Edmond Dantes—a prisoner for life in the Castle d'If—owing to his energy, escaped from his jailers, sewed up in a sack which had contained the corpse of his friend, the Abbe Faria. He was dragged by the jailers to the churchyard of the Castle d'If, and there buried. The churchyard of the Castle d'If, however, was the ocean! The waves were more merciful than man; they gave the deserted one a friendly reception, and washed him close to a ship, a genuine tartane, where in despair he called out for help. He waved the red sailor's cap which a sympathizing gust of wind had thrown down from a rock, and the men on board of the tartane saw it. "Courage!" they called to him. With a weak, despairing grasp he took hold of the rope which had been thrown toward him, and then became insensible.
When he came to he lay on the deck, and sympathizing sailors bent over him. They administered rum, they rubbed his benumbed body, and he who had first seen the unfortunate man put his own woollen jacket aroundthe man's shivering shoulders. This sympathizing sailor was called Jacopo; he was a powerful young fellow, with laughing blue eyes. When Edmond Dantes had recourse to stratagem, and, in order to remain alone at Monte-Cristo, leaped from the rock, it was Jacopo who picked him up, and only against his will left him again.
"Who knows whether you will not one time become a captain? Has not your countryman Bonaparte become emperor?"
Hereupon Jacopo almost went into hysterics; how could he become captain? no, so high he never climbed even in his boldest dreams; he felt satisfied if he only continued to have a place on the deck of a ship; then the ocean was his home, his family, his all!
Edmond Dantes has the name Jacopo fixed in his memory. He will, no doubt, have an after opportunity to reward the brave fellow.
Years had passed when the Count of Monte-Cristo began to recollect the brave Corsican. He searched for him and said:
"Do you remember a sailor whose life you once saved, and who prophesied that you would become a captain?"
Jacopo blushed; no, he has not yet forgotten this prophecy.
"I knew this sailor," continued the count, "and received of him the commission to cancel his debt to you."
"His debt?" exclaimed Jacopo, not knowing the meaning thereof.
"Yes, your dream points to a captaincy, and I have the order to realize this dream."
"You! oh, do not make fun of me—"
"What are you thinking of? Look here, Jacopo, do you see this yacht which is now riding on the waves?"
"I see her. She appears to me slender and beautiful—she is a pearl of a vessel."
"I am glad that the yacht is to your taste; she is my property, and I appoint you as captain, if you have no objection!"
Jacopo became almost wild with joy. During the next few months the elegant yacht, called the Ice Bird, moved her wings actively, crossing every sea, and the captain was delighted with her.
When the count came to Paris to investigate the fate of the families Villefort and Danglars, Jacopo received his dismissal, or rather his temporary freedom.
"Master," he asked, sorrowfully, "why do you send me away? Have you to complain of anything concerning me?"
"No, Jacopo; but at present I do not need the yacht any further; I intend for a time to remain in Paris."
"Well, at any rate, I will always be ready to obey your least hint," said the Corsican, with enthusiasm. "Command me, and I shall at once honor your call."
"How who knows?" said Monte-Cristo, laughingly.
"What do you wish to say by that assertion, master? Do you believe Jacopo will be remiss in fulfilling his promise?"
"Who knows?" repeated the count, still laughing, and then, drawing out his pocketbook, he said in an earnest tone: "Jacopo, you have a secret."
"I?"
"Why avoid my question? Your blushing cheeks convict you of untruth, and then you ought to knowme sufficiently; you know that my looks can penetrate the innermost depths of thy soul."
Jacopo bent down his head, turned the cap in his hand confusedly, and became red like a red garden flower.
"Am I to tell you that I am able to read you to the bottom of your heart?"
"Master—"
"I read there a name—"
Jacopo trembled, and grasped a chair to support himself.
"It is the name of a woman."
"Master, master, I entreat you not to mention the name. I suffer enough without that."
The count's countenance grew gloomy.
"Jacopo," said he, peremptorily, "I am forbearing if anybody places confidence in me; irreconcilable if any one seeks to deceive me. I keep silent if you wish it, but we are forever separated. Farewell, you will never see me more!"
He turned to go, but the power which this singular man exercised over others was so great that Jacopo broke out into loud lamentations. He preferred to suffer anything rather than consent to perpetual separation.
"Say, master," he said, with a sigh, "am I able to leave you?"
Monte-Cristo smiled.
"You are a child," he then said. "You cannot bear to hear anybody speaking of your love, because you are forever separated from her."
"Oh, master, then you know everything."
"Listen to me, I am ready to tell you all that I know. There below, in the Catalonian quarter of Marseilles, lives a fisherman's family. Brave and diligent, they were never ashamed of their calling. They have worked day and night with boat and net, and accumulated a nice amount of property. The family consists of ten persons: father, mother, seven sons, and one daughter live in the modest but decent hut. The sons are strong and courageous fellows, who are not afraid of anybody; the daughter is charming with her dark curly hair, her glowing sloe-black eyes, and her marble white skin. Jacopo, am I to tell you the name of the little one?"
"Manuelita"—it sounded gently like a breath from the lips of Jacopo.
"You have liked this beautiful child since you first saw her, and one day you took heart and you went to Manuelita's father—"
"Who turned me out like a beggar," interrupted Jacopo, gloomily.
"That he did not do," continued the count, coolly. "He told you quietly, Manuelita will not become a poor man's wife."
"And perhaps that was no insult?" continued Jacopo, vehemently. "All people cannot be rich."
"But Manuelita's father has also told you something else?" asked Monte-Cristo, quietly.
"Oh, yes," replied Jacopo, bitterly; "he called after me that if I came back with twenty thousand francs, then Manuelita should be mine. I earn such wealth! He was making sport of me."
And Jacopo stamped angrily and uttered a heavy curse.
Monte-Cristo looked at him reflectively. Then he took a leaf from his pocket-book, which he held in his hand, and offering it to Jacopo, said:
"Here, take this."
"What am I to do with it, master?" asked Jacopo, astonished.
"Well, can't you read any more?"
"Oh, yes; I read an order for 20,000 francs to which your name is affixed."
"And payable at—"
"Thomson & French, in Rome."
"You perhaps doubt whether these gentlemen will honor my signature."
"Oh, master, your signature is as good as ready cash!"
"Well, then, go to the first banker you can find and have the check cashed."
Jacopo looked at the count quite bewildered, and thus the conversation about Manuelita was ended, and his master gave him simply an order.
"Am I to deliver the cash to you, master?" he asked, not being certain yet.
"No, not to me."
"To whom, then, otherwise, master?"
"To nobody."
"Yes, but, dear me, what is the money for?"
"You shall keep it."
"I?"
"Yes, you yourself."
"And what am I to do with it?"
"You have to look for Manuelita's father, show him the money, and remind him of his pledge."
Pale, not able to utter a word, Jacopo stared at the count; Monte-Cristo waited a moment, and then said, smilingly:
"Have you now understood me?"
"No, master—I do not comprehend—"
"Nay, one might almost believe that you have not a grain of sense. The amount is your property—you have deserved it honestly."
"I deserve it? Oh, you make sport of me! If I have done my duty, that is my best recompense."
"Yes, for your services as captain of the yacht. But there are also other services which cannot be paid for; submission, honesty, and courage cannot be paid for in gold, and in spite of the 20,000 francs I remain still your debtor."
"Oh, master, you make me feel ashamed!"
"Jacopo," said the count, sorrowfully, "do not speak like that. Of what value is money to me? I can give you still more, but to what purpose? You have enough to be happy; you have had a dream of domestic happiness, try to realize it! Your desires are moderate; you intend to work and be useful from morning to night, and as the only reward for your labor you require Manuelita's love. Have you any further wishes, my brave man?"
"No, none; only Manuelita!"
"Then take her, and be happy!"
Jacopo stared yet at his master rather doubtfully.
"What is it to be, Jacopo, yes or no?"
Instead of answering, Jacopo kissed the hand of his master.
"All right, Jacopo," said Monte-Cristo. "I only require one thing of you."
"Oh, speak—speak only!"
"I know, in case I came in a few months to Marseilles, you will hesitate to accompany me."
"I hesitate, master? How can you believe that? My life belongs to you!"
"No, Jacopo; from the moment you call Manuelita yours your life belongs to her. Do not take any oath, for you will never keep it. Did not even Peter deny the Lord three times? and Peter had no loving wife. In six, in twelve months, the thought of leaving Manuelita will surely make you unhappy; I know man, and I know you."
Jacopo looked toward the ground rather ashamed; he was aware that the count had spoken the truth.
"Nor do I demand that you should leave her."
Jacopo breathed a great deal easier.
"What am I to do?" he inquired hastily.
"Swear to me that, at any day or any hour I should call on you in Manuelita's name to assist me, you will follow my orders!"
Jacopo lifted his right hand on high.
"Master, I swear it to you," said he, solemnly.
"I trust to your oath; go and be happy."
Overcome with joy, Jacopo hastened to Marseilles, soon reached the Catalonian quarter, and greeted Manuelita with a bright smile.
The father of the beautiful Catalonian was on the point of becoming vexed when he saw Jacopo, but soon became almost dumb when the Corsican waved a well-filled purse and reminded him of his promise.
Scarcely a month elapsed before the marriage was celebrated, and happy Jacopo led the beautifulManuelita to the neat abode which he had prepared for her.
There have passed days and months full of undisturbed happiness. Jacopo has bought a barge and baptized her Manuelita; he has sailed on the blue ocean and returned with a rich harvest of fish; prosperity reigns in the little cottage on the strand, and Manuelita is beautiful as the young day.
The count appeared one morning, when Jacopo was just ready for his fishing excursion.
"Will you accompany me?" he asked, laughingly.
The Corsican flushed, and Monte-Cristo said in a consoling tone: "Quiet yourself, I am only joking; what I want of you to-day will take only a short time."
That was at the time when the count ordered Jacopo to bring his farewell wishes to Valentine and Maximilian.
When the Ice Bird with sails unfurled left Marseilles, Jacopo felt somewhat dissatisfied with himself, and sometimes it appeared to him as if Manuelita had changed. Beautiful and lovely she still appeared, but her manner made some impression on Jacopo, and by degrees he found that others also thought his young, lovely wife had undergone a change. First, it was only hinted at, but afterward the talk spread and became louder that Manuelita deceived her husband; she loved another, Jacopo's friend. Jacopo did not at first mind this talk, but one evening he saw Manuelita fly at Parlo and offer him her sweet lips to kiss, and it enraged him to think that the people were in the right. He mastered with superhuman exertion all the thoughts that surged within him, and nobody might know that he was aware of thedisgrace of his wife, nor that he contemplated an awful revenge. Why Manuelita betrayed him none could tell! He was a most faithful and indulgent husband; he would have gone for the beautiful Catalonian into the fire, and she—the lips which she offered him were soiled from the adulterous kisses of Parlo—the arm which she placed round his neck had also embraced Judas lovingly—she was a monster in enticing form. From this time, when Jacopo realized Manuelita's faithlessness he resolved to destroy her and her lover, and that the boat which bore the name of the faithless wife should become the instrument to carry out his revenge!
One morning Jacopo said to Manuelita:
"The weather is delightful; I think I shall take a fishing cruise. Will you accompany me?"
Manuelita hesitated; she thought perhaps Parlo might visit her.
Jacopo noticed her hesitation, and said with a smile that tore his heart into pieces:
"I have also asked Parlo to accompany us, because he is such good company!"
Manuelita's countenance began to beam, and Jacopo suffered the pains of torment when he perceived it, but took heart and said coolly:
"I shall in the meantime go to the shore to see whether the nets are all in proper condition."
He went, and when he returned after a while, and accidentally threw a glance at the window, he found Parlo in Manuelita's arms.
Pale as death and with tottering knees the unfortunate remained almost petrified on the spot; and when he revived a little and came ten minutes later into thehouse he appeared gay, and nobody could guess what anguish of soul he suffered.
"Are you ready?" he inquired quietly.
"Yes," nodded Manuelita.
"Then let us go; the nets are all ready."
Like an automaton Jacopo walked along the shore between the guilty pair; he mechanically answered questions, and when Manuelita offered her lips for a kiss after being helped into the boat, he had sufficient power over himself to touch with his lips the false mouth.
The boat glided through the blue waves of the ocean; Manuelita's dark curls played with the wind, and Parlo was intoxicated with joy as he looked at her. Jacopo sat at the rudder and looked inquiringly at a small dark cloud which appeared on the horizon some distance off and quickly neared them.
The Corsican allowed the boat to go with full sail before the wind, and soon nothing but the sky and water could be seen.
Parlo and Manuelita, engaged with each other, did not perceive the change in the weather, and when they heard in the distance a hollow, rolling sound they quickly arose to their feet.
Manuelita trembled, and lifting her beautiful eyes to Jacopo she inquired anxiously:
"Jacopo, is there a storm coming on?"
"Pah," replied the Corsican reassuringly, as he threw his net into the sea; "it is of no importance."
Jacopo was an experienced seaman; when he said the storm did not signify, you could depend on it that he was right. Manuelita saw that Jacopo was quite unconcerned, and looking at the roaring, rising waves sheagain grew calm and again watched Parlo. He also seemed careless; he laughed and joked, and, behind Jacopo's back, stole many a kiss from his beloved.
A bright flash of lightning came down; the thunder rolled, and the black, cloudy wall rose ever higher on the blue horizon. Jacopo, however, did not mind it; he hummed a Corsican fisher-song and dipped his net into the sea. That he always drew it out empty did not trouble him; from time to time he threw unnoticed a glance at the others and gnashed his teeth.
Suddenly a heavy gale caught the foresail and tore it to shreds; the mainsail was also destroyed, then the foresail fell to the deck.
With a loud cry Manuelita sank on her knees and Parlo cried out terrified:
"Jacopo, we are lost!"
"Save us, Jacopo," sobbed the Catalonian; and then she made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer, while the storm increased in fury.
Jacopo remained motionless. He took an axe and lifted it high in his right hand, while the boat tossed like a nutshell and the noise of the storm deadened all other sounds.
"The boat is too heavy," muttered Jacopo to himself, and swinging his axe he cut off the mizzen-mast close to the deck. Neither Parlo nor Manuelita said a word, and, engaged only with each other, believed that Jacopo was trying to save them, and only as the mast heavily struck the waves realized their peril.
The storm now absolutely controlled the light boat and twisted her round here and there. Jacopo lifted his axe again and cut down also the foremast.
"Parlo," shrieked Manuelita, despairingly, "save us—we drown!"
Parlo pretended that he did not hear these words, for Jacopo's curious fixed look had put him on his guard. Manuelita, overcome with fright, forgot everything, and, clasping her hands around Parlo's neck, she sobbed out:
"Save me—oh, save me, Parlo!"
Jacopo swung his axe afresh, but this time it remained deep in the keel of the ship, and now light dawned on Parlo. Jacopo meant to destroy them.
"Hold on, Jacopo," he called aloud despairingly, and tried to take hold of the axe.
The Corsican said not a word, but he, with his axe uplifted, kept Parlo at a distance, and then cut again into the keel, till a loud creaking was audible.
Jacopo had at last succeeded in his object—gurgling and roaring, the agitated waters rose through the leak in the ship, and Parlo shrieked like a madman.
"Jacopo—you carry us to destruction!"
Jacopo's pale features became at last animated; he threw himself on Parlo, grasped his shoulders, and, forcing him on the floor of the boat, pressed his knee on his chest.
"Manuelita," he called, with a voice which sounded through the storm like a trumpet, "you shall be happy with your lover, miserable woman!"
Manuelita heard the words—she saw the quick rising flood—she saw Jacopo kneeling upon Parlo's chest, and she understood all—all!
Higher and higher still rose the water, and now Jacopo laughingly left his rival—he was drowning in the waves.
Manuelita raised her folded hands in entreaty—then came a last shriek, a hoarse laugh, and the boat sank, never to be seen again.
The next day the sea was serene and calm in the splendor of the rising sun, and a man engaged in fishing noticed a motionless body lying on the strand. Alarmed he hastened to lift up the body and recognized Jacopo!
Singularly enough, life was not quite extinct; the fisher brought the half-dead man to his house, and under the careful treatment of kind neighbors Jacopo soon revived as far as his body was concerned, but his mind remained affected.
A few days later the corpses of Parlo and Manuelita were driven on the strand, and now what had caused Jacopo to become insane was no more a riddle—had he not in one day lost the wife and the friend?
Jacopo's madness was of a quiet kind; for hours he could sit on the shore and watch the playful movements of the waves; sometimes he bent over the blue waters as if he were in search of something, and then he shook his head sorrowfully. One day he sat again during a heavy gale on the strand; he saw a boat in which two men and a woman were sitting fighting with the waves. In his eyes light began to dawn all at once. He plunged into the water and soon had reached the boat. Breathless stood the people who saw it and noticed all his movements, and now they found him swimming toward the shore, holding a human figure in his arms, and loud hurrahs and rejoicing met him for his courage.
He had succeeded in saving the woman; the two men found a watery grave. In expectation of something, heknelt down by the woman, and when she opened her eyes Jacopo uttered sorrowfully:
"It is not her," and then departed.
From this day Jacopo's madness was broken; he certainly roamed about for days on the strand, but the veil which had clouded his mind was torn, and only when a storm raged it came over him like inspiration, and he ventured courageously upon saving the lives of those in danger.
Thus not a week passed in which Jacopo had not found opportunity to save people from shipwreck: the inhabitants on the strand surrounded him with a godlike veneration, and whenever a vessel was in danger there he was on the spot. Heaven seemingly favored him; hundreds he saved from a watery grave, and soon his word on the strand became quite an authority.
In course of time Jacopo began clearly to remember the entire affair as it happened on that eventful morning, and in order to drown those recollections he became a drunkard. In this state he was found by the English sailor, in whom, no doubt, the reader must have recognized the Count of Monte-Cristo; also Jacopo knew the voice of his beloved master, and his heart became animated with fresh hopes when he called him to his help. As Jacopo knelt before the count, Monte-Cristo put aside the long, entangled hair which hung down over the Corsican's face, and, in a sorrowful tone and compassionately moved by the sight, said to him:
"Jacopo, you have suffered heavily!"
The Corsican sobbed bitterly, and the count continued: "How long it is since I saw your bright face on the strand; at that time you were happy in the possessionof Manuelita, and to-day I find you broken, despairing, and—alone!"
Jacopo could only go on sobbing, and hot tears came down his pale, haggard cheeks.
"You have killed Manuelita," whispered the count softly.
Jacopo trembled.
"Who has told you, master?"
"Don't you know that I can read your soul?"
"Yes," nodded Jacopo. "I have killed her!"
"And do you regret the deed?"
"This question I cannot exactly answer," observed Jacopo timidly. "I was for a time insane, and often I wish I were so even now; the clouded mind was bliss compared with the terrible recollections which now break my heart! Oh, what wouldn't I give to have courage enough to take my own life; but I lack that courage; I suffer terribly, I cry, I wring my hands, and yet I live. Oh, the cowardice! who will save me from myself?"
"I," said Monte-Cristo, earnestly.
"You, master? Yes, you are almighty, and if you like you are able to pull out of my bleeding wounds the painful darts which are tearing my heart. Pity me, count, and I am free!"
Monte-Cristo's look rested pitifully upon the unfortunate, and his voice sounded soft and mild when saying:
"Jacopo, only to save you I came here."
"I feel it, I know it; oh, how kind you are!"
"Jacopo, when man is carried away by his passions and has done evil—what you have done was bad, becauseyou did not possess the right to judge Manuelita, and you feel it by your remorse—then there is only one remedy, to atone for the sin—"
"Oh, mention the remedy, master! It is singular, but since I have looked into your eyes and heard your voice, I have the feeling that the bloody fog which darkened my eyes had disappeared. I breathe again more freely, and my head is clear as it was previously, when I passed days on the ocean and saw nothing above me but heaven and sun. Master, tell me, what am I to do?"
"So much good, that the evil may disappear before it."
"Alas, if I could do that! I have killed, and I am lacking the power to raise the dead."
"And if you could nevertheless atone for your crime?"
"Master, I hear your words, but their meaning is clouded for me; please speak plain to me, that I may understand you."
"Jacopo, life and death are related together, which, however, a secret and indissoluble union connect with each other. Not for nothing have I put you to the test; when I visited this cursed place, when I sounded my gold pieces, it was only because I wanted to find out whether misery had also corrupted your soul."
"Oh," replied Jacopo, contemptuously, "it does not say much to have remained an honest man."
"You are too modest, Jacopo; I have found you again as I left you ten years ago; now, listen, will you accompany me?"
Jacopo trembled all over.
"Leave Marseilles?" muttered he, in half-suppressedwords; "oh, master, if you only knew that it is my sole and only joy to wander on the strand, and to contemplate that blue ocean which swallowed her up!"
"Jacopo, I have come here for the purpose of fetching you, as I am in want of you. I have to undertake difficulties; my way leads into foreign lands, on ways where death and crime are on the watch, and I have counted on your assistance. Shall I have been mistaken?"
Instead of an answer Jacopo made a bow, and taking the hands of his master, kissed them.
"Thanks, master," muttered he; "I am yours in body and soul!"
"Good, Jacopo, I know you!"
"When do we depart?"
"To-morrow morning."
"And where am I to meet you?"
"On board of the Ice Bird."
"I shall be there."
"I depend on your word; remember my prophecy, that death is the fountain of life, and that your sin disappears when God gives you grace to save the lives of others! Farewell for to-day, by daybreak we meet again."
Monte-Cristo left the liquor store, the Spider and Jacopo looked after him with a glimpse of new awakening hope in their eyes.