Benedetto, who had been pushed into the open sea in a frail bark by the Count of Monte-Cristo, had been miraculously rescued by some fishermen, and when the murderer recovered consciousness his first glance fell on the box which stood near his bed. The contents were undisturbed, the poor fishermen had not thought of opening the box which the Count of Monte-Cristo had closed again, and thus the world stood open to the wretch.
His viperous instincts had not deserted him. One evening as Benedetto lay faint and weak on the straw, he heard low murmurs of conversation in the neighboring room. He discovered that his benefactors belonged to a patriotic league similar to the Carbonari, whose object was to free Italy. On this particular evening they were discussing the question of shipping arms and ammunition to their countrymen.
The next day Benedetto, with tears in his eyes, told them that he had to depart at once, as he was expected at Lucca by a friend of his. The honest fishermen took cordial leave of him. He arrived at Lucca, got some elegant clothing there, and went to Milan, where herepresented himself as Count San Pietro. His first visit was to Radetzky, to whom he denounced the fishermen who had saved his life. Radetzky took advantage of the traitor's story, captured the fishermen, had them tried by court-martial, and then shot. From that moment San Pietro became a favorite of the marshal.
The Major Bartolomeo had been formerly a croupier in a large gambling house at Lucca. Where he got his major's title from, no one knew; even his mistress, the beautiful Aurora Vertelli, was reticent on this point. When Bartolomeo came back from Paris and threw his winnings, amounting to fifty thousand francs, into the lap of the handsome Aurora Vertelli, the practical beauty said:
"Bartolomeo, suppose we open a dining-room too. You have been a croupier long enough—let us try to turn over the fifty thousand francs."
Bartolomeo gleefully assented to this proposal. They opened a magnificent place, and were soon making money hand over fist. Yet—no luck without a shadow—one evening, as Bartolomeo was receiving his guests, a tall, slim young man, whose face was disfigured by a scar, approached him, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, whispered in his ear:
"Good-evening, father."
The major trembled, and, looking with affright at the stranger, stammered:
"I do not know you, sir—it would be a great honor to me—but—"
The stranger laughed loudly, and, conducting the major to a neighboring room, impressively said:
"My dear sir, let us be candid—do you rememberthe name of Cavalcanti which you once wrongfully bore?"
The major grew pale, and the stranger continued unmercifully:
"If the officials were to find out that you were once a counterfeiter, it might go hard with you. Your license would be revoked, and besides—well, you understand."
The major looked about him in astonishment—who was the man who knew the secrets of his past life?
"Well, father?" mockingly said Benedetto.
"Father, father," repeated the major, dazed. "You are not—"
He mechanically opened his arms to press Benedetto to his heart.
"Not necessary," said the latter, laughing. "We are not in the Count of Monte-Cristo's house, and can dispense with tenderness."
The major sighed—for a further sum of fifty thousand francs he would have embraced ten Andreas.
"But who are you, anyhow?" he finally asked. "I thought I had heard that you—"
"Beware!" exclaimed Benedetto. "Do not refer to the past; here I am the Count of San Pietro!"
"The confidant—" stammered the major.
"Of Radetzky," added Benedetto.
"But as an Italian—"
"Keep silent and listen to me. Either you do as I say, or else I denounce you to the marshal," said Benedetto in a rough voice, and as the major bowed his head, the wretch explained to him what he wished of him. It was nothing less than to play the part of a spy.
One can call one's self a major, even play the part of a loving father for a sum of fifty thousand francs, and yet not be a traitor to one's country, and Bartolomeo, in spite of his being a criminal, was an ardent patriot; but when the count calmly said he would have Radetzky close the Casino, he gave in.
From that day the major tried to drive the Italians away from his Casino. He was pompous and disrespectful to his countrymen and polite and cordial to the Austrian officers, so that the latter were at length the only ones who came, and San Pietro's spy had very little news to report.
Aslitta, who was playing a double game, was the only one who could not be driven away. One day he took Bartolomeo aside, told him he knew his position exactly and would help him to deceive San Pietro and free Milan of the tyrant.
Bartolomeo, who until now found himself despised by his countrymen, was overjoyed; he threw himself at the feet of Aslitta, acknowledged him as his deity and vowed that he would follow him at command.
Bartolomeo arose, and as he did so he secretly resolved to square his account with Benedetto in such a way as to serve his country. He soon became the most clever of Aslitta's emissaries, and soon pictured himself as one of the most illustrious patriots of his country bedecked with laurels.
But fortune makes rapid strides. Through certain peculiar events Benedetto turned his attention to Bartolomeo and caused a strict watch to be kept upon him, and when on the evening of the 15th of March he saw him vanish from the Casino he realized all.
Night was already far advanced when he reached the damp subterranean cell of Bartolomeo and rattled the rusty hooks that held the bolts. The major having fallen into a pleasant revery in which he beheld visions of his future greatness as a martyr to duty's cause, raised his eyes and shrank back as he saw the three men, one of whom carried a cane tipped with hair of an unusual design.
"Get up, you old fool," cried the one who carried the cane, addressing the prisoner, "follow us!"
Bartolomeo rose without a murmur, and, arranging his disordered uniform, stepped between the two soldiers, who bore torches, and who rudely pushed him down a dark stair.
He was no coward, but yet he felt as though he would rather ascend to where he could at least enjoy the sunshine than go further down where it became darker and colder. They walked a considerable distance along dark passages, and halted in front of a rickety iron door. A huge key was thrust into the keyhole and slowly the bolts sprang back.
Accompanied by his guides, Bartolomeo stepped into a gloomy cavern—the torture-chamber. Heavy chains hung on the walls, blocks, tourniquets, thumbscrews, and other implements of torture lay upon the floor, while the corners contained a variety of others which the major could not recognize.
"Sit down," commanded the bearer of the cane, pointing to a block; as Bartolomeo hesitated, a well-directed blow caused him to accelerate his movements. Thereupon the man withdrew, leaving the major and the soldiers behind. The prisoner gazed timidly upon his jailers, and murmured:
"Poor prospects for me."
Although the remark was scarcely audible, a heavy blow from one of the soldiers caused him to stagger, and for the next fifteen minutes he remained silent.
At last the door was again opened and Benedetto entered; at a sign the soldiers withdrew; to his dismay, Bartolomeo saw his former son standing before him.
Benedetto wore the uniform of an Austrian officer, a kalpak was strapped over his forehead and his coat bedecked with costly gold lace. From his belt hung a dagger, whose handle was inlaid with jewels, which was partly concealed by the flowing mantle that covered his shoulders. As soon as he entered he threw off the mantle and posed, as if to dazzle Bartolomeo with the splendor of his attire.
"You know," he began, without wasting any words, "that you need expect no mercy from me."
The major remained silent, his speech failed him through the brusque manner in which he was addressed. Taking advantage of the situation, Benedetto continued:
"You have betrayed me. Don't deny it—I know all."
"I!" stammered the major, confused.
"Yes, you!—the virago has exposed you."
This remark roused the nobler qualities of Bartolomeo. He was astounded at the impudence of the knave who dared to call Aurora a virago.
"Be silent!" he cried, angrily; "and do not malign the character of a pure woman—you red-headed scoundrel!"
Benedetto moved as if to rise, but on second thoughts he remained seated, and burst into a hearty laugh.
"Your immutable confidence in your wife is to beenvied, but really it is out of place here. Aurora Vertelli has confessed to me what you will doubtless deny. I forced her to admit the truth at the point of the pistol."
The major grew pale, and beneath his clinched lips a terrible feeling raged.
"Base coward! to wring a confession from a woman in such a way."
"Enough—cease your idle talk," cried Benedetto, stamping his foot nervously. "Tell me, where do the so-called patriots hold their meetings? Do not hesitate. Aslitta is a prisoner like yourself, and I desire to know the truth."
"I do not know," replied the major, with a sinister smile.
"You don't say so. I am sorry for you, for I believed that your memory would come to the rescue," said Benedetto, casting a knowing glance at the implements of torture.
Bartolomeo's heart beat fast. He knew that Benedetto was capable of any crime. Not a muscle of his face trembled as Benedetto said threateningly:
"So you will not speak!"
Bartolomeo cast a look of contempt toward him, and exclaimed: "Go to the devil!"
Benedetto clinched his fist and held it in the face of the major.
"Did you not understand me? Look here! You see those beautiful toys?" pointing to the implements of torture. "I will dismember you if you hesitate longer!"
"Tell me, what did you want," demanded the major, with a shrug of his shoulders, "at the time when youintroduced me into the salon of the Count of Monte-Cristo?"
A cry of rage, uttered by Benedetto, interrupted him.
"Do not mention that name!" exclaimed the bandit, gritting his teeth. "If I kill you off and slay Aslitta it will only be to wreak my vengeance upon that man, whom I despise. Oh, he called me a galley slave once—the murderer!"
And he stopped short, his voice half choked with rage. Bartolomeo trembled visibly; and to humble him the more, Benedetto spat in his face.
The major scarcely regarded this last insult. He was busied with many reflections. How would it be if he tried to overpower Benedetto?
"Well, I am waiting," said San Pietro, after a pause; "will you speak?"
"No."
"You know that Aslitta is in my power, and you will die like him if you remain headstrong."
"Listen to me, Benedetto," said the major, earnestly. "I have lied and defrauded, but never will I consent to become a traitor to my country!"
"Well, then, come along!" cried Benedetto, seizing the major by the shoulder and shoving him to a corner of the closet. There stood an old wardrobe. Benedetto opened the door, and, by the flickering light of the torches, Bartolomeo saw the dim outlines of a human head, which stood out like a silhouette from the wall.
"Do you see that apparatus?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And do you know its purpose?"
"No."
"Then mark well what I say—you shall soon know! About a century ago an Italian nobleman was deceived by his wife, who had a liaison with one of his pages. The nobleman discovered it, but pretended ignorance in order to complete his plans for the destruction of both. One day he presented the page with a beautifully wrought helmet. As soon as the present was received, the page placed it upon his head, and, lo! it fitted him so perfectly that he could not take it off, and he died a horrible death; for as soon as it touched the forehead a concealed spring loosened and caused the helmet to drop over the head, thus choking him."
"Well," replied Bartolomeo, in suspense.
"Well, in this closet you will find the counterpart of that beautiful helmet. If you refuse to accede to my demands I shall summon aid and have you placed in the closet. A delicate attachment will push the helmet into place, and after your head has been placed inside, you will die a most horrible slow death by starvation, and that indeed is a terrible way to die."
"I am resigned," was the quick response of the major. With a strong grasp he seized Benedetto, who was unprepared for the attack, and pushed him into the wardrobe. The ominous helmet encircled his head, and, despite his struggles, he could not free himself.
Bartolomeo stopped for a moment; being a prudent man, he at once foresaw what was to be done. Throwing his green coat across his shoulders, he approached Benedetto. He tore the embroidered coat from his body, and replaced it by his own, and, together with the kalpak, which Benedetto had thrown aside, completed his toilet.
Hastily strapping the dagger to his side, he left the torture chamber. At the door he met the soldiers, who did not recognize him, and saluted him as he passed. His thoughts were not regarding his own safety—he desired to rescue Aslitta if possible.
The subterranean prison into which Aslitta had been thrown was dark as pitch, and it was a long time before his eyes became accustomed to the darkness and he could make out his surroundings. He remembered that he had descended many steps, and he supposed that his cell was in the casemates of the citadel.
He soon discovered that the cell was very narrow but high; about ten feet above his head he found an opening, secured by iron bars. All attempts to reach this proved futile, and he could secure no foothold on the slippery walls.
What should he do? At any moment the door might be opened, and his captors enter and lead him to the torture-chamber, or, perhaps, to his doom. He did not fear death itself—but what would become of Luciola in case he died? The last meeting of the patriots was to take place this very evening. As it was, there were but a few of these in comparison to the number of their oppressors, and if but one remained away the good work might be seriously hampered.
He paced the floor deeply absorbed in thought, when suddenly he stumbled and fell, as it appeared, into avast empty space. Instinctively extending his arms, he caught hold of one of the projecting ledges, and so hung suspended in mid-air.
What was to be done? Aslitta strove to secure a foothold, but the relation of his accident to his imprisonment soon dawned upon him.
In the centre of the floor he had discovered an opening, which evidently was the passage leading to a well, or perhaps, as he thought, to one of the unused drains, such as there are many in the old castles. A low stone fence surrounded the opening, and it was this over which he had stumbled. Aslitta reflected for a moment—perhaps it was once covered with a stone, which, slipping out of place, dropped below. The opening was not very wide, and it was only after a great effort that he succeeded in jumping over the rail.
If he could only have seen whether there was water in the well which might aid him in his escape. What would he not have given for a match? But that was out of the question.
Suddenly he stopped short; it appeared as though he heard a noise proceed from the well. He listened, but again everything was quiet. He bent over the opening, and now he could distinctly hear a sound. It was a human voice—it was a curse he had heard uttered.
Placing his hands about his mouth he cried out:
"Is anybody here?"
No answer came. The prisoner waited and then called out once more.
Again no answer came.
Presently he heard a voice cry out, "You are a prisoner; are you not?"
"Yes, I am. Whoever you may be, have no fear; I am not your enemy," returned the voice of Aslitta.
"I am down in the water half drowned."
"Peculiar," thought Aslitta; "I ought to know that voice, it sounds so familiar;" and in a loud tone he asked, "Who are you?"
Yet no answer came; evidently the voice in the well doubted his sincerity. To his good fortune he found a match which he lighted. With a suppressed cry he shrank back; he recognized the uniform of the Austrian officer.
Before he could recover his surprise, he heard words in pure Italian proceeding from the well.
"Keep me up! I am sinking deeper and deeper."
Now there was no reason for doubt; were he friend or enemy he would save him. Quickly unfastening his scarf, he held one end firmly while he threw the other over into the well.
"Catch hold of the scarf," he called down, "the stuff is firm and will bear you."
Immediately thereafter he felt that his order had been obeyed—the heavy silk became taut.
"Pull up," a voice now cried from below, "I will hold tight."
Aslitta was young and powerful, but he had to exert himself terribly to pull up the heavy load and lift it over the rim of the well.
"Thank Heaven," the words reached his ear, "for the present we are saved. Ah, what would my poor Aurora say if she knew this?"
Aurora! This name seemed like a revelation to Aslitta, and, in glad surprise, he exclaimed:
"Bartolomeo—is it you?"
"Why, of course; but with whom have I the honor—It is as dark here as in a sack."
"I am Giorgio Aslitta."
"Heaven be praised that I have found you. I was looking for you."
"Indeed? Where, in truth, do you come from?"
"Oh, that would take us too far to-day. I fell into the clutches of that cursed San Pietro and escaped from him only through a miracle. Well, for that he's now got his deserts."
"Is he dead?"
"Oh, no. That sort of vermin has a very tough life, but he's locked up for the present, and therefore we must hurry up to clear out."
"I'm with you, only tell me how and in which way, and, besides, I would like to know how you obtained that Croatian uniform."
"Oh, that was a rare joke! It was San Pietro's uniform which I took from him. I will tell you the particulars later on—or do you mistrust me?"
"No, Bartolomeo, I know you as a good patriot."
"Thanks for this word. I come, besides, direct from the torture-chamber. After I had escaped from my torturer I was standing in a damp, narrow, totally dark passage. By groping along I reached a descending staircase; I slowly walked on and only stopped when I felt the moisture under my feet. But what could I do? I cautiously groped ahead, and soon my shoes were filled with water. It shortly afterward rose to my calves; and then, oh joy! I could again rise to my full height. The steps were at an end and I stood in a capacious vault,as I could perceive by the light of a match. At the same time I felt a strong draught, and then I heard your question whether anybody was down there. I answered for luck—whether I was captured or drowned in the gradually rising water would, in the end, amount to the same thing."
"But why were you arrested?"
"Later on you shall hear all."
"Can you not at least tell me whether Luciola has been saved?"
"Yes, she is in safety in the Count of Monte-Cristo's house."
"Heaven be praised! Now I can die calmly," whispered Aslitta.
"Nonsense! who is speaking of dying? Think of our rescue. It is not safe to remain here, and the sooner we get out of this hole the better. Where is this cell?"
"Ah, if I knew that! I have no matches, and, therefore, could not very well fix where I was."
"Good; we will find out."
Bartolomeo drew a match from his pocket, and soon a bright light illuminated the cell, without, however, revealing a consoling prospect.
"Humph!" growled the major, "it was, after all, better down there."
"But there, also, you did not find an exit."
"True; but I was, perhaps, awkward. You may do better. Let us descend."
"As if that was so easy. If one holds the scarf, the other can descend, and that's the end of the chapter," said Aslitta, calmly.
"Well, one's enough," thought the major, after a few moments' deliberation.
"How so?"
"Well, I don't amount to much, and if I go under, my poor wife will be taken care of. You will give Aurora a small annuity, will you not, marquis, should she fall in need, and you will tell her that I died for my country? You, on the other hand, must preserve yourself. What would become of Italy without you? Come, I will hold the scarf, and you can descend by it. The more I consider it, the surer I am that there's a canal down there, by means of which we can get into the moat of the fortress. Well, won't you do it?"
"No," replied Aslitta, with emotion. "I would be a scoundrel to save myself at your expense."
"But there's no other way. Were I in your place I would not hesitate an instant. Think of your friends; you are to lead them, and if you are missing, they are lost."
Tears rose to Aslitta's eyes, but he resisted no longer, and, cordially shaking the major's hand, he said: "Friend, I accept your sacrifice, and if I find an exit, I will save you."
It seemed to Bartolomeo as if Aslitta's clasp was the most precious thing he had gained, and he was almost overcome with emotion. But he quickly recovered when he heard footsteps close at hand, and urged Aslitta to leave.
The young man embraced the major.
"Thanks, in the name of Italy!" he ardently exclaimed. Then, tying the scarf around his waist, he swung himself from the rim of the well.
Bartolomeo held the other end of the scarf with all his might. Aslitta must now have reached the bottom.At the moment when the major let go of the silken stuff, a key was turned in the lock and the door opened. The major had crouched on the floor; but, as he threw a glance at those who entered, he almost uttered a loud ejaculation, for before him stood—Benedetto. "I thought so," muttered Bartolomeo, in a rage; "some cursed chance has rescued him. Such a scoundrel's soul is too bad for the devil himself."
"Get up, vagabond," roughly exclaimed Benedetto.
He had looked up Aslitta to avenge Bartolomeo's escape on him, and he was in a very bad humor.
As the major did not stir, Benedetto uttered an oath and cried:
"Are you deaf, Aslitta?"
He then snatched a torch from one of the soldiers who accompanied him and looked around. As if struck by lightning he started when a well-known voice tauntingly said:
"Good-day, Andrea Cavalcanti."
"You and always you!" cried the bandit furiously. "Where is the other one?"
The major shrugged his shoulders, while the soldiers looked in every corner and Benedetto angrily gnawed his under lip.
"He has probably escaped through the well," said one of the soldiers at last.
"Oh, then we have him sure," laughed another.
"Light here," ordered Benedetto, bending over the opening. The soldier obeyed as directed and Bartolomeo felt his heart cease beating.
"We have him sure," one of the soldiers had said. Was the well a trap? A strange sound was now heard.The major sank on his knees. He recognized the noise. The water was slowly rising in the well and soon stood hand-high under the stone curbing.
"Where does the water come from?" asked Benedetto, stepping back.
"About a quarter of an hour ago," replied one of the soldiers, "the commander gave the order to open the sluices of Santa Maria. Canals run from the aqueduct under the citadel, and that's why I said before we had our prisoner sure. He is drowned."
"Speak, wretch!" said San Pietro, turning to the major. "Did Aslitta escape through the well?"
But Bartolomeo made no reply. A dull sob escaped his lips, and his eyes, filled with hot tears, fixed themselves, in horror, on the silk scarf which the rising flood wafted to and fro.
"One has escaped," cried Benedetto, from between his gritted teeth, "but the other shall suffer for it. Take the prisoner with you," he added, addressing the soldiers; "to-morrow at daybreak he shall be shot."
He walked toward the door. Bartolomeo slowly rose to his feet and muttered only a single word:
"Villain!"
The morning of the 16th of March had come, and Milan had a martial appearance. Placards were attached to all the walls, informing the Imperial authorities of the ultimatum of the people of Lombardy; a great throng was gathered around these placards, and the streets were crowded with Austrian troops.
Grenadiers were on guard before the official buildings, but the sentinels were suddenly disarmed, and, without being able to tell how it happened, the palace was occupied by the citizens. The municipal councillors fled in every direction; only the president of the Senate remained firm, and only when the tumult became greater, he, too, went, guarded by an escort, to the Brobetto palace, which was situated in the centre of the city.
In the Via Del Monte the crowd was the greatest, and all passage was soon entirely cut off. Rifle shots were suddenly heard, deafening shouts followed, and there was a terrible confusion. Radetzky had ordered his soldiers to load heavily and to fire into the crowd. A howl of rage followed the first discharge, and numberless wounded fell to the ground. That was no honest combat, but an infamous massacre.
Monte-Cristo stood at one of the lofty arched windowsin the Vidiserti palace, and, with a dark frown, observed the terrible massacre which Radetzky's minions created in the streets. Spero stood at his father's side.
"See, papa," he said, with tear-choked utterance, "that wounded woman carrying a dead child. It was shot in her arms. Oh, the poor wretches, what did they do to the soldiers?"
"My child," sadly replied Monte-Cristo, "man's worst enemy is man!"
"Papa!" suddenly exclaimed Spero, "see, there, the flag!"
The count glanced in the direction indicated. A young Italian had just climbed up the tower of a church opposite the Vidiserti palace, and there unfurled the national standard. The tricolor fluttered gayly in the wind. Suddenly, however, the young man was seen to totter; he sought to hold himself, turned a somersault and fell crushed to the pavement. A bullet had hit him.
At this moment Bertuccio entered the hall.
"Well?" asked the count.
"Count, one of our emissaries has penetrated to the citadel. The Marquis Aslitta is no longer there!"
"What can that mean? Had he escaped he would have looked for us here," exclaimed the count uneasily.
"The man could learn nothing further," said Bertuccio, sadly; "but he was informed that some one else was found in the marquis's cell."
"Some one else? Who?"
"You know him. In Paris he called himself Major Cavalcanti, and here—"
"What about this substitute?" eagerly interrupted the count.
"He was sentenced to death; whether the sentence had been already executed our emissary could not ascertain."
"Bertuccio," said the count anxiously, "if Aslitta—"
"Aslitta is dead!" cried Luciola, who had entered unperceived and sank to her knees sobbing.
"Who dares to allege that?" exclaimed the count, turning pale.
"Step to the window," stammered Luciola.
The count did so and staggered back, for the sight he saw confirmed the poor girl's words; four men, with uncovered heads, carried a bier on which lay a motionless body. It was the Marquis Aslitta, and Monte-Cristo's heart swelled as he recognized him.
"How could this calamity have happened?" whispered Spero, clinging anxiously to Luciola.
Bertuccio, in the meantime, had run down into the street to direct the carriers. He now returned and tremblingly said:
"A quarter of an hour ago our men found the body in the moat of the fortifications; how Aslitta got there is a riddle."
Loud cries were heard from the street.
"Revenge on the murderers! Death to the miserable cowards."
A crowd numbered by hundreds gathered around the bier, and the carriers had trouble to reach the palace gate.
Luciola had dragged herself with difficulty to the staircase, but there she swooned away, and while Spero bedewed her beautiful pale face with his tears, he appealingly whispered to his father:
"Papa, you have already aided so many people, aid her too!"
Monte-Cristo started. He had promised Luciola to save Aslitta, and now—
The next moment he was standing beside the bier; his gaze rested searchingly, with unspeakable terror, on the pale features of the drowned man, and with trembling hands he bared the bosom and placed his ear to Aslitta's breast.
At this instant the beating of drums was heard and a Croatian battalion turned the corner of the street.
"Men," exclaimed Monte-Cristo, "carry the Marquis Aslitta into the Vidiserti palace, and if you love your leader, who has staked his life for you, see to it that no soldier enters the building! Turn the palace into a bulwark against which the soldiers smash their skulls, and who knows whether Italy and Aslitta may not, together, become resurrected?"
Luciola had heard the prophetic words; she rose up, and, approaching the bier, exclaimed enthusiastically:
"You hear his words; he always keeps what he promises. To arms, friends! Long live Italy and Liberty."
A shout of joy answered Luciola. The next instant the street was blocked by turned wagons, logs and other obstacles, the pavement was torn up, and as the Croatians approached they found a raging multitude ready for defence. At a first-story window of the Palace Vidiserti Luciola stood and encouraged the patriots. She had seized a flag, and, unmindful of the bullets which whistled around her, waved the tricolor in the air.
The spark had dropped into the powder barrel; fromall sides the patriots rallied around the national standard, and, amid the ringing of the alarm bells, the insurrection kept growing in dimensions.
Luciola had long ago left her place at the window and stood on a barricade, waving her flag and spurring on the combatants. The Croatians retreated after about an hour. Surrounded on all sides by the Italians, they sought safety in flight, and the patriots followed them with shouts of joy.
Luciola now left the barricade, and, hastening into the palace, sank on her knees beside the bier, on which Aslitta still lay extended motionless. She raised her clasped hands to Monte-Cristo, who was busying himself about the lifeless man, and imploringly exclaimed:
"Count, I have kept my word—the tricolor waves in freedom in Milan; restore Giorgio to me."
The count did not reply; he held in his hand a small vial containing a dark-red liquid, and slowly he dropped single drops on Aslitta's compressed lips.
At this instant Sante-Croce rushed into the apartment and excitedly exclaimed:
"Things are bad, count. Radetzky has retreated with his troops into the citadel and begins to bombard the city! You have promised to assist us with act and counsel, and, instead of redeeming your word, you are wasting the time in useless revivification experiments. Let the dead alone and take care of the living."
Monte-Cristo's flashing eyes fixed themselves on the old patriot, and with ringing tones he retorted:
"Marquis, I have as yet always kept my word."
"But when? It may soon be too late. We arelacking in arms and ammunition, and the superiority of numbers will crush us if we are defenceless."
"Ali," ordered the count.
The Nubian appeared and glanced inquiringly at his master.
"You have the key of the vault which contains the arms and ammunition?"
Ali nodded.
"Go and show the Marquis of Sante-Croce the way to the vaults. Arm the patriots, marquis, and believe my words, before night Radetzky will give up the fight and to-morrow will leave Milan. Stop, one instant yet; I told the patriots that the Marquis Aslitta would lead them. I have kept my word. See for yourself. Aslitta opens his eyes; he lives."
The dark eyelids really opened, and with a dreamy look Aslitta surveyed the people who surrounded him.
"Thanks be to God, he lives!" exclaimed Luciola, gleefully.
"Calm yourself, Eugenie," said the Count. "Aslitta must be spared for the present any excitement! Leave him to me, he will soon recover."
"Oh, you have performed a miracle," said Luciola, enthusiastically.
Monte-Cristo bowed his head and a tear glistened in his eye.
It was in memory of his friend and teacher, the Abbe Faria.
Sante-Croce looked wonderingly at the count.
"You are a god!" he exclaimed; "forgive the words I spoke before."
"I have nothing to forgive," replied the count, gently; "I have only to keep what I have promised. Spero, come here."
"Here I am, papa," called the boy.
"Good, my son. You know your duty. Accompany the patriots; take my place until Aslitta's condition permits me to relieve you."
A cannon-shot caused the house to shake to its foundations, and Haydee, pale and trembling, entered.
"The bombardment begins," she whispered to her husband. "Oh, the cruelty!"
Monte-Cristo threw his arm about his handsome wife, and giving the boy a wink, he consolingly said:
"Spero will be worthy of you and me. Come, Spero, say good-by and go."
Spero pressed a kiss on Haydee's lips, threw his arms about his father's neck and whispered in his ear:
"I will do my duty."
Turning to the marquis he put his hand in that of the old man and said:
"Let us go!"
A half-hour passed by. Monte-Cristo and Haydee were still busied with Aslitta, when a servant entered bearing a sealed letter on a silver salver.
"A courier who has come from France has just brought it," said the servant, in answer to a question of the count's.
"Did he give his name?"
"Yes; he said his name was Penelon, and that he came from Marseilles."
"From Marseilles!" exclaimed Haydee, anxiously; "oh, quick! see what the letter says."
Monte-Cristo broke the seal. The letter only contained a few words:
"I am dying from grief. Come at once!"Mercedes."
"I am dying from grief. Come at once!
"Mercedes."
The count handed the letter to Haydee. The latter read it and then said:
"When do we go?"
"Thanks, Haydee," said the count, tenderly. "We go as soon as my duty here is ended! Give the necessary orders. Let Bertuccio inform Jacopo and rest easy! See, Aslitta has recovered—God will protect Spero!"
Bartolomeo was thrown into a subterranean dungeon of the citadel, and now that Aslitta was lost he accepted his fate calmly. He could not be of any further service to the fatherland.
As he was sitting meditatively in his cell, the door opened and a corporal entered.
"What do you wish?" asked the major politely. "What time is it?"
"Three o'clock in the morning," replied the corporal, a handsome young fellow with blue eyes and blond hair.
"Only three o'clock. Then I have three long hours still to live. Can't I be shot at once?"
"No, no chance whatever."
"How awkward. What shall I do with myself? It's so monotonous here!"
"Oh, you can remedy that," said the corporal, laughing.
"How so? What do you mean?" asked Bartolomeo.
"Well, you see, I know that you are a good card-player. To-morrow I must shoot you, and before doing so I came here to ask you to do me a favor. Will you please teach meecarte?"
"With pleasure," replied the major.
"Good; then let us begin," said the soldier, gleefully, and pulling a pack of cards out of his pocket, he threw them on a chair and went away, returning shortly afterward with a drum.
The major seated himself on a chair, the corporal on the bed, and the drum served as a table.
The corporal was a good scholar and soon learned the elements of the game. Bartolomeo was delighted. He dealt, picked up, trumped, and forgot entirely that in a few hours he would be shot.
When the clock struck four, the young man had won twice, and he proudly exclaimed:
"If my luck continues, I will be ahead of you soon. Couldn't we play for money?"
"No, that would be unfair," replied the major, "I am so superior to you."
"Oh, that could be tested by a trial. But first I will get some rum. I am thirsty, and you are so also, no doubt."
"Thanks, I will take some too," replied Bartolomeo.
The corporal disappeared. As soon as the footsteps died away, the major took the cards and stacked them. When the soldier returned with the rum, the major had already taken his place.
"Ah, that tastes good," he said, after he had taken a deep draught.
The corporal drank also and then they sat down again. This time the game was for money, the stakes being a few pennies. After a while, the soldier in the meantime having won repeatedly, the stakes were increased. The major continued to lose, and soon the soldier had wonall of Bartolomeo's cash. While the play was going on they drank often, and when Bartolomeo refused to play any more because his money was all gone, the corporal said he would lend him a few lire.
"Ah, if I lose these too," remarked the major, "the time will have gone by for a revenge. It is already past five o'clock."
"Bah—let us play anyhow!" exclaimed the corporal, exhilarated by the money he had won and the liquor he had swallowed.
A slight smile crossed the major's lips. The play began again, but this time the prisoner won. It did not take long before the major had not only won back all his money, but that of the corporal's too, and just as the latter had asked him for a loan a knock was heard at the door.
"Confound it!" exclaimed the corporal, "who is disturbing us now?"
In answer to a harsh "Come in," the door opened and a soldier appeared. He announced that it was time to go to the barracks in the Piazza Poliziotti.
"It is all right; I shall be there directly," answered the corporal.
The soldier departed, and the corporal now turned to Bartolomeo, who had arisen from his chair.
"One more game," begged the Austrian.
"Not for the world. I must collect my thoughts now, and close my account with God," replied the major.
"But you won my money and ought to give me a revenge."
"Gladly, if I only had time to do so."
The corporal, who was very tight, swore roundly.
The major gazed at him for a moment, and then in a hesitating way said:
"I know a way out of the difficulty."
"What is it?" asked the corporal, breathlessly.
"Your order is to shoot me, and then to go to the barracks; postpone the execution half an hour—take me with you to the Poliziotti barracks, and I will give you your revenge there," proposed Bartolomeo.
"Certainly," cried the corporal, gleefully.
He strode in advance of Bartolomeo, and ordered his men to take the major along to the barracks.
The soldiers looked at one another in astonishment, but none dared to say a word, and at a quick step they were on their way to the barracks.
"Time won—everything won," muttered the major. "I have not played cards a lifetime for nothing."
In the streets of Milan the battle raged. The Italians resembled lions in courage, and soon one bulwark after another fell into their hands. The ladies of the aristocracy were busy in the Casa Borromeo melting lead and making cannon-balls. All the druggists and chemists manufactured powder and gun-cotton, and the gunsmiths gave up their stocks of firearms.
In spite of the brave resistance of the Austrians, the Borletto Palace had been conquered again by the patriots. Radetzky demanded an armistice, but his proposition was declined. The enemy were not allowed time to collect themselves.
One barrack after the other was captured, and then the great mass of the patriots turned toward the Casa Santa Margarita, where theeliteof the artillery had taken up a position, and a bitter struggle ensued. The battle raged indecisively for a long time, when suddenly a bright flame issued from the gate. A patriot, Pasquale Sottocorni, had stealthily reached the palace and set it on fire. He was the first victim of his heroic deed, and died with the cry on his lips:
"Long live Italy!"
But his boldness helped the patriots materially. The escaping soldiers were taken prisoners, and the ranks of the people were recruited in numbers. The Poliziotti barracks still remained to be captured. The Poliziotti was intensely hated in Milan because it was mainly filled with renegades—Italians who sold themselves to Radetzky.
While the fight was going on about the building, Bartolomeo and the corporal were sitting in a room playing cards. The major permitted his pupil to win and lose at times. Every minute he gained was precious to him, and the corporal did not dream of shooting his teacher while they were playingecarte.
From time to time a soldier put his head in the room to ask when the execution was going to take place.
Every time he did so he was told to be off.
The corporal had just finished dealing the cards, when the soldier again appeared.
"Corporal," he said, breathlessly, "the Poliziotti are giving way, the Croatians are decimated—shall we go to their rescue?"
"Bah! we are only a handful," growled the corporal. "Let us await the result."
The door closed behind the soldier. Bartolomeo now sprang up, took the sword and gun from the drunken corporal, and cried in his ear:
"Obey my order, or you are a dead man!"
"What—should—I—do?" stammered the corporal, partly sobered.
"Hoist the white flag—quick!"
"But I—have—no—authority—here!"
"Who cares?" exclaimed Bartolomeo, "give the order—the people will be needlessly sacrificed—are you going now?"
The corporal still hesitated, but just then a police sergeant ran in and cried:
"Corporal—let your men get shot—the scoundrels refuse to fight!"
Bartolomeo had placed himself behind the corporal; the muzzle of the gun lay against his knee, and this fact made the Austrian obedient.
"My people are right," he said, gruffly; "I have given the order to hoist the white flag."
"The white flag? What for?"
"Special order from the marshal," replied the corporal.
"Which reached you?" asked the sergeant, distrustfully.
"Yes; do not consider any longer!" thundered Bartolomeo, coming forward: "I have brought the order myself."
The sergeant saw the Austrian uniform; he disappeared hurriedly, and Bartolomeo called after him:
"God help you if the flag is not hoisted before two minutes have passed."
Suddenly the firing ceased, a loud noise was heard. The Italians saluted the white flag—the signal of peace.
In the barracks itself loud curses were heard—Count San Pietro had discovered that the white flag had been hoisted, and was heaping insults upon the officers. No one admitted having given the order. Benedetto, though, did not look kindly upon the proposition of an old colonel to have the flag removed. With a diabolical smile he said:
"If the patriots have any confidence in the flag then it's their own fault. Follow my commands punctually, and I will forget your stupidity."
A few minutes later a terrible crash was heard, followed by a loud cry. From all the windows the bullets flew; the cannons threw death and destruction into the ranks of the trusting patriots.
The confusion only lasted a moment.
"Surround the rat-hole! Not a single one must escape—down with the poliziotti!" exclaimed the Italians, wildly.
In firm columns they advanced against the barracks, and then they paused. Suppose treachery was in store for them?
The patriots now retreated to the right and left, to make room for two persons: a white-haired old man and a handsome dark-featured boy. The old man turned to the Italians, and said in a loud voice:
"Friends and brothers! The barracks of San Francisco, San Vittore and the military hospital are in our possession. Radetzky's palace has been stormed, and the marshal's baton has fallen into the hands of the conquerors. Forward, with God! We two, an old man and a weak child, will show you the way!"
Proudly erect, the old man strode toward the door, and Spero walked hurriedly behind him, and a fanatical, enthusiastic crowd followed.
On the threshold stood an Austrian officer. He lifted his gun, and triumphantly exclaimed:
"Ha, Monte-Cristo—to-day I shall strike you through the heart! Curses on you and your race!"
The gun directed against Spero's breast went off. When the smoke had cleared away, the boy stoodthere unharmed, while a man tumbled down at his feet. It was Bartolomeo! Taking advantage of the confusion, he ran away and came just in the nick of time to receive Benedetto's murderous bullet in his breast.
A quarter of an hour later Aslitta appeared accompanied by Monte-Cristo and La Luciola. He was still pale and exhausted, but he swung his sword and joyfully exclaimed: "Radetzky has fled. The citadel has surrendered."
The Italians embraced each other. Their dream was realized. Milan was free.
"Papa," whispered Spero, "come with me. There is a man lying over there who sacrificed himself for me."
Monte-Cristo bent over the major, whose pale face lighted up joyfully when he saw the count.
"Let me see the wound," said Monte-Cristo. "Who knows but—"
"Unnecessary," whispered Bartolomeo; "my adopted son understands—how—to—aim!"
"Ha! then it was Benedetto!" exclaimed the count.
"His bullet was intended for me," said Spero. "He said he wished to strike you through the heart."
"The monster!" said Monte-Cristo, and turning to Bartolomeo, he added: "and how shall I thank you?"
"Ah!—that—does good," stammered Bartolomeo. "Count—care for—Aurora. Ah!—I am dying. Your hand—farewell—child. Italy—is—free!"
The major stretched himself out and his eyes became glassy.
Spero sobbed bitterly, and the count whispered:
"May the earth be light to you. If you have sinned, your love for your country has made atonement!"
One hour later the count, Haydee and Spero bade adieu to Aslitta and Luciola in the Café Vidiserti.
"Farewell, marquis," said the count, throwing a knowing glance at Aslitta, who held the diva in his arms.
Aslitta nodded.
"To-day Luciola will be my bride," he gently said.
"Why do you wish to leave us?" exclaimed Luciola, sobbing.
"Because others need me. Come, Haydee, Mercedes is waiting."
Ten years had passed since Mercedes had bade her only son good-by. She lived in the small house in the Allee de Meillan at Marseilles, which formerly belonged to old Dantes, and though her face was pale and her eyes no longer sparkled as of yore, the widow of General de Morcerf was still a wonderfully handsome woman. Mercedes was standing at the window, gazing out upon the sea. Behind her stood a man in the uniform of a Zouave. Small, brown and thin, he looked like the type of what a Zouave is generally thought to be.
What the Zouave's name was no one exactly knew. He had many sobriquets, the most popular of which was "Sergeant Coucou," so that after a while he was never called otherwise.
The sergeant's cradle, in spite of his brown skin, had not stood in Africa, but in the Faubourg Merceau in Paris.
Coucou was the son of a poor washerwoman. His first studies were made on the curbstone and in the gutter, and pretty soon he became the toughest boy in the neighborhood. His mother decided the time had come for herson to enter the army. Coucou did not hesitate long; only he made it a condition that he be allowed to enter an African regiment. The mother was satisfied. A regiment which bore the trusting name, the "Jackals," was just on the point of sailing to Algiers, and so Coucou became a Jackal.
When the time for saying good-by came, the mother began to weep, but Coucou consoled her.
"You see, mamma," he said, confidently, "I will make a name for myself, and when you read about my heroic deeds in the papers, you will be proud of me."
The mother laughed between her sobs. The few pennies she had saved she used to buy a pair of spectacles to read the forthcoming chronicles; for she was one of that class of innocent people who believe that the faculty of reading rests in spectacles.
About the year 1843 the Zouave regiment, to which Coucou belonged, made a sortie under General Cavaignac against the Kabyles in Beni Djaad. Among the few who escaped was the Sheik Sidi ben Abed. No one knew where he had disappeared to, and when the call to retreat had been sounded, Coucou declared he would remain behind to find out where the Kabyles were.
"They will kill you," his comrades warned him.
"Bah! a Parisian child does not fear the devil!" said Coucou, laughing.
In a few minutes he had disappeared. The soldiers feared the worst; but, to their astonishment, Coucou came back in a few hours, dragging the sheik by his long beard behind him. The Kabyle was armed to the teeth, but nevertheless Coucou had forced him to succumb without a struggle.
Six months later Coucou was struck over the head by a yataghan, and, but for the timely interference of a comrade, would have been killed. How the sergeant came to the little house in the Allee de Meillan we will relate further on. One thing was certain, Mercedes' silence made him feel uncomfortable; but his eye lighted up when the door opened, and a small white hand was laid on Mercedes' shoulder, and a clear, bright voice said:
"Good-day, my dear little woman."
Mercedes trembled and shrunk away, although the possessor of the small white hand was a charming young girl.
A pretty little head with ash-blond hair, deep blue eyes and fresh red lips made Miss Clary Ellis—that was the name of the eighteen-year-old girl—a very beautiful picture, and the sergeant drew back respectfully, while Mercedes said:
"Good-day, my darling—always joyful, always happy."
"And you are always sorrowful, and have tears in your eyes. Better take me for a model, who, as a consumptive, have far more reason to be melancholy than you have."
"I am waiting," said Mercedes, sorrowfully, "for him, and he will surely come if he lives."
"And who is he?"
"He is a faithful friend in need," replied Mercedes, solemnly, "and I love him as if he were divine. But tell me what brought you here to-day? Curiosity?"
"Ungrateful woman," pouted the English girl, "as if I did not like to come here. But if you are so solemn, why—"
"Oh, Clary, I am not solemn—I am melancholy, and at times desperate."
"Desperate? How can you say such a thing?"
"If you had lost everything, as I have, you would understand me," said Mercedes, gently. "Ah, Clary, I have seen everything about me tumble, but I remained easy so long as my son was with me! Since he has left me the world has no pleasures for me, and should I never see him again—"
"But, madam," interrupted Coucou, "how can you talk that way! Why should you not see my brave captain again? My captain is not one of those who are eaten by Kabyles for supper. He defends his life, and if he should be in the bowels of the earth I will find him. I—"
"Brave sergeant!" exclaimed Clary, and turning to Mercedes, she said:
"You must not despair, little woman. As far back as I can remember people always said about me: 'Ah, the poor child, to have to die so young—it is terrible—she must go to the south!' My father and brother made me sign all kinds of documents in case of my death. What was the use of my fortune if I died, and it was a settled fact I was to die?"
With a gay laugh Clary arose, and, bidding Mercedes a cordial farewell, left the house. The light-hearted girl's full name was Clara Ellis, and three months before, she, and her French governess, the widow of a police sergeant, had settled down in Nice. Madame Caraman, or, as Clary called her, Mamma Caraman, was of sound health, while her young ward, according to the opinion of eminent English physicians, was in an indifferentstate of health. They sent her, because she suffered from a slight cough, and as being incurable and consumptive, to the south. Nice was the Eldorado of all chest complaints, and thus the ladies took up their residence in that place.
Lord Ellis, Clary's father, had inherited from his parents a large fortune, which, however, he squandered in noble passions, and it was feared that his son Sir Edward, the heir-at-law, would one day inherit only the empty title. But it happened that owing to the sudden death of a rich aunt residing in India, Sir Edward's sister, Miss Clary Ellis, inherited an immense fortune, and from that day Lord Ellis began to pay attention and took care of his daughter to a much greater extent than he used to do. Clary since her eighth year had lived in a world of her own imagination; fantastic ideas and representations were the fruits of her education, which pompous governesses had inculcated at an early age, and the education recommended to Clary was for the sole purpose of increasing her romantic inclinations. The heroines of Byron and Lamartine were enviously looked upon by Clary—the "Sorrows of Werther" were continually lying upon her desk ready for perusal, and the young enthusiast was soon convinced that there was no nicer death than that of Marie Beaumarchais.
Almost with joy she welcomed her sickness, looking upon it as a forerunner of approaching dissolution. Wrapped in furs, she spent her days upon her couch, and from an "imaginary patient" she was becoming a real sick person; inasmuch as the want of exercise, as well as the continual strain on the whole nervous system, did not fail to have its effect.
Lord Ellis faced with manly courage the hard lot of losing his daughter at an early age. It was indeed a great pity that Clary could not make use of and enjoy her wealth, but what else could be done? As a careful father the lord prepared for any emergency; he urged Clary to sign various papers, which entitled him and his sons to make use of her immense wealth. The sum thus turned over for his use amounted to above one million sterling—but what good did it do? If Clary died, she could not, after all, take away her great wealth; and the million sterling was only a share of the still larger sum thus to be expected in case of her demise.
The physicians all agreed that Clary should at least hold out and die in the south, and a companion had to be procured. She soon found one in the person of Madame Caraman, a lady of about forty-five years, who showed a sincere interest in her suffering ward, and thus they entered on their journey. But soon Madame Caraman found reason to doubt the incurability of her patient—she noticed that Clary, when leaving her carriage, or performing any other movement of the body, usually painful for chest complaints, never felt pain or the slightest inconvenience.
This lasted for some time, and then Madame Caraman one day said quite earnestly:
"My dear child—now it is enough—you are as much sick as I am! You will be kind enough from this day to try to eat heartily, in order to regain your strength; you will drink daily a glass of Bordeaux and take a walk with me, and not, like a sick bird in its cage, remain wrapped up in the corner of a carriage. No—no objections. You will also never cough again as youget accustomed to it; and after the lapse of a month we will see what further to do."
Clary sighed and sobbed, but it was no use—Madame Caraman stuck to her will, and, trembling and hesitating, the young lady was persuaded to eat her first beefsteak, and to her great surprise she was not suffocated by the unaccustomed food; the wine she found excellent, and Madame Caraman triumphed.
An accident happened which also brought help. One night some robbers tried to enter their villa; the servants slept in a building close by, and in this emergency Madame Caraman took to arms as soon as she heard a suspicious noise. With a heavy silver candlestick in her hand she entered the parlor from whence the noise proceeded. She knocked a person down, but ere she could pick up the heavy candlestick the second one had got hold of her throat and she would have been lost had not a shot been fired at the same moment, and her assailant with a loud shriek fell to the ground.
When Madame Caraman turned around she saw Clary, pale, but with a pair of beaming eyes, standing at the entrance of the room, and in her tiny white hand the yet smoking pistol.
The servants rushed in—the wounded were made prisoners, and Madame Caraman had to thank Clary with tears in her eyes for her assistance.
"Well, for one already half dead you certainly possess a great deal of strength and energy," she said afterward, with cunning look; "only courage, dear child—we will soon see who is in the right."
Clary was, to all appearance, from this day continually becoming more cheerful, and her strength increasedgradually. It is no wonder that sometimes she still clung to her painful ideas, and thought it not worth while to live, while Madame Caraman tried hard to teach her better principles.
"You must have some kind of occupation," she said; "you must give your life some aim, some purpose."
"But how? Nobody stands in need of me," sobbed Clary.
"Oh, that is only your own belief, but it is not so. There is much sorrow and misery in the world, but in large and fine streets you cannot meet with it, and only in narrow streets and lanes and alleys can you find it. I am, for instance, a native of Paris, and I know that in the beautiful town every day many die of hunger, if not in the Rue de la Paix and on the Boulevard des Italiens."
"Alas," sobbed Clary; "if I could help them!"
"And why should it be impossible?" said Madame Caraman, in an amiable voice; "misery is easily found—one must only look for it."
"Madame Caraman, I should like to call you Mamma Caraman; will you allow me?"
"With pleasure, dear child."
"Well, then, Mamma Caraman, I am getting tired of Nice."
"I am also tired of it," nodded the companion.
"How should you like to go to Marseilles?"