Very stately and magnificent were the offices of theBanque de Credit Imperial. The prospectus made one's mouth water. It was a magnificent conception of the Emperor's. To interest small capitalists would naturally result in great popularity.
Napoleon III. always felt a great interest in the money of other people, and also, to use a vulgar expression, liked to have his hand in everybody's pie.
The governor elected was Monsieur de Laisangy, who was looked upon as a marvelous financier. Although an old man, his activity was immense, both of mind and body.
It was about ten o'clock in the morning. In an exquisite room, where each detail was in the best of taste and very rich, Carmen, in a peignoir trimmed with lace, was half lying on a couch. Her beautiful hair was loosely tied, and fell over her shoulders in a golden cascade.
She was a beautiful creature, and yet there was a certain refinement lacking. Her hands, though white, were not delicately made, and her foot, in its rose-colored slipper, was not as slender as those of Parisian women. She seemed to be wrapped in thought.Finally, as if weary of arguing with herself, she extended her hand and rang the bell.
A pretty maid servant entered.
"What o'clock is it?"
"Half-past ten."
"Send a footman to tell Monsieur de Laisangy that I am waiting for him to come to breakfast."
"But are you not going to dress?" asked the woman in surprise.
"What for? I am not going out until four o'clock."
"Yes, but you will not care to go to the dining-room in your peignoir?"
"No, I will breakfast here in my boudoir."
"With Monsieur de Laisangy?"
"Yes. You look astonished. I do not like such airs. Arrange that small table, and wait upon us yourself."
"Very good, Mademoiselle."
As the woman left the room, she said to herself:
"They are certainly very queer people, but it is none of my business if a young lady chooses to breakfast half dressed with her father!"
In less than fifteen minutes the banker knocked at the door of the boudoir. He took his daughter's hand and pressed a paternal kiss upon it. As they were alone, Carmen withdrew her hand, and said quickly:
"None of that, if you please!"
The old man looked strangely disturbed, and fearing that these words had been spoken in too audible a voice, he laid a warning finger on his lip.
They presently seated themselves at the table. Thebreakfast was servedà la Russe—that is, with every thing on the table at once.
"You can leave us," said Carmen to her maid.
Laisangy ate heartily, but Carmen merely nibbled. The banker did not speak until he had eaten so much he could eat no more. He drank only water.
Carmen began to be impatient.
"It seems to me that I was never so hungry in my life before!" said Laisangy.
"Ah!" answered Carmen, "and yet there were times in your life when you were starving!"
Laisangy was eating a bit of cheese. He stopped with his fork in the air.
"We will not talk of that!" he replied.
"And why not? Everybody is not born with a million in his cradle. I, too, have been near starvation!"
"Carmen!"
"It is true, but pray finish your breakfast. I want to talk to you."
If Goutran, assisted by some magician, had been able to see and hear this interview, he would have been thunderstruck. What a tone! What an expression! Not that she was less pretty, but there was a something in her manner and appearance which would have offended his taste.
Laisangy finally stopped eating. Any other person would have been crimson after such a meal, but he actually looked paler than ever.
Carmen rang the bell for coffee, and then they were again alone.
"My dear Carmen, I am ready to listen to you," said the banker. She had lighted a cigarette, and was smoking, with her eyes fixed on him.
"You want money, I suppose?"
"No—I want information."
"Information!"
"Ah! that makes you uneasy, does it not? I am well aware that you are not fond of questions."
Laisangy, who was drinking his third cup of coffee, shivered a little at these words.
"I do not understand you," he said.
"You will, presently. But I never saw anybody with such an appetite. When I was sixteen and could hardly get a crust of bread, I could not eat like that."
"Why dwell on these memories, Carmen?"
"Because, if I remind you of what and who I am, I shall have a better chance, perhaps, to learn who you are."
"Carmen! Carmen!" said the old man imploringly, and becoming even paler than before.
"I tell you that I intend to know who you are. Now hold your tongue and let me speak. I have had a weight on my heart for a long time, and now I intend to make a clean breast of it."
No words can describe the terror on the face of the banker. He stammered and choked.
"But, Carmen, we are so comfortable and happy. What do you want more?"
"I wish to have my curiosity satisfied," answered Carmen, coldly. "Everything about you is a mystery and a fraud. In fact, you terrify me!"
"But——"
"Yes—even your way of eating is not natural. There is something of the wild beast about you, and I tell you I am afraid!"
"But this is childish. You have known me a long time."
"Yes. I am twenty-two now, and I was fifteen when you took me, while Mamma Lousteau was your cook at Florence—"
"Hush! Carmen, you will be heard!"
"Who cares! Yes, the whole world may hear the story of a girl whose mother was cook in a banker's house. The banker entered the girl's room in the night, the mother discovered it. Her rage and distress brought on an attack of apoplexy. She died, and I remained with you! These are the bare facts."
"Carmen!"
"Oh! I am not complaining. You were rich, you gave me jewels and fine clothes. I was only sixteen, I forgot your brutality and I remained with you. When you came back to France you told me that a certain regard must be paid to appearances, that we must lie, in short, and I agreed to pass as your daughter. And now, I ask"—she folded her arms on her breast—"I ask why you did not marry me?"
"Good heavens! because—"
"Because what? You cannot give me a good reason. Not a word of truth can ever be torn from you. I am convinced that back of all these lies there is some horrible infamy which you dare not acknowledge even to me."
"Carmen! no more of this, I implore you! What has gone wrong with you?"
"Everything. I simply wish to know, and am resolved to know, who you are—if not—"
"If not?"
"I have not quite decided. There are some things, bad as I am, which I will not stand, and I will make it the business of my life to discover what crimes you have committed, and I will denounce you!"
Laisangy started to his feet.
"Look at yourself in the mirror," cried Carmen, "and tell me if you do not look like a murderer!"
Laisangy bit his lips so fiercely that the blood started. Then suddenly, as if a thought had struck him, he cried:
"Come now, Carmen, don't say any more nasty things to me. I am an old man and have had many troubles."
"Indeed?"
"You have never questioned me like this before. Even my appetite offends you. Surely, there is no crime in that! You want to know something about me. One thing I will tell you—it may strike you as rather a joke. Once in Italy, going from one city to another, I had a large sum of money with me, and I was taken by brigands. These villains took it into their heads to sell me every mouthful I ate at its weight in gold. For some time I would not yield, and was nearly starved. Since that time I have had paroxysms of violent hunger. Do you see?"
Carmen did not see, and she said:
"But why did not the brigands take your money without subjecting you to this torture?"
Laisangy looked troubled as he replied:
"I am sure I don't know."
"It looks to me as if these men whom you call brigands were inflicting a chastisement upon you, perhaps."
"Carmen!"
"Come, throw down your cards. I tell you I will no longer submit to this miserable farce we are playing here. I will no longer call myself your daughter, nor will I be dragged into the maze of intrigues which I divine."
"Carmen! once more I implore you—"
"I will not be your accomplice and be dragged by you into an abyss of infamy!"
"But why should you say such things? I am rich, and honored by the favor of the Emperor."
"A fine recommendation, that!" cried Carmen, disdainfully.
"I am respected and honored by every one."
Carmen rose from her chair and looked the banker full in the face.
"Then tell me why, when we were at thesoiréelast evening, at a name pronounced by a lacquey you became ghastly pale."
"You are mistaken—"
"It is true; you fled as if you had seen a ghost, and the name was Monte-Cristo."
Laisangy was terrible to look at.
"Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!" and the banker rushed toward her with uplifted hand.
But Carmen, with her arms folded upon her breast, looked at him with such disdain that his arm fell at his side.
"And this is not all," she continued. "You met many enemies last evening, it seems; for some one said in the garden, 'Take care that you do not learn my name too soon, Monsieur de Laisangy.' These may not be the precise words, but they are nearly so."
"Ah! you are a spy, then! Look out!"
"I am not in the least afraid of you; but let me tell you that your present conduct strengthens all my suspicions, and I, in my turn, bid you look out! I shall learn the truth, and then—"
"And then—"
"I shall leave you. But if, in self-defence, you raise a finger against one whom I esteem, I will denounce you!"
Laisangy, exasperated beyond all self-control, seized a knife from the table. The door opened and the maid entered.
"Here is a card which the gentleman wished me to hand you at once, sir."
Carmen took the card and read the name.
"Signor Fagiano!" she read aloud. "Ah! he has come to tell you his right name, I fancy!"
Laisangy took the card from Carmen's hand and dashed from the room. Carmen said, half aloud:
"Goutran is the friend of the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo. I will watch!"
Signor Fagiano was standing, when Monsieur de Laisangy entered the room. He was a man of fifty, but extremely fine looking, with a little of the air of the Duc de Morny in his best days. He had, however, a scar across one cheek that disfigured him. No one would have recognized him as the convict Benedetto. Laisangy entered with a pale face of disdain.
We must not omit to mention what took place in the garden the previous evening. When the banker, overcome by the heat of the rooms, took refuge in the fresh air, he had been followed by Fagiano, who said to him, when out of hearing of every one:
"Monsieur de Laisangy, I know your past."
Laisangy started, and even uttered an exclamation of surprise. The other continued—a threat in every word. He asked for money—much money. Laisangy knew that in his long career he had left many creditors in the lurch, and finally he said:
"Who are you? Why should I give you money? What is your name?"
To these questions the mysterious stranger replied:
"Take care—you will know my name only too soon!"
Since then Laisangy had been very uneasy. Possiblyhis conscience was not quite clear. He now came to see this Fagiano in a state of rage, exasperated by the scene with Carmen, and the favorite of the Emperor now came to measure weapons with this stranger.
"Well, sir," said the banker, "this is the second time that you have seen fit to throw yourself in my path. Yesterday you addressed me in a fashion that savored of blackmail. What do you want? I do not know you, nor you me. I am a patient man, but even my patience has limits; and it may happen that I give my servants orders to throw you out of doors, neck and heels!"
The other, leaning with one elbow on the mantel, laughed aloud as he said:
"Ring, if you choose, my good fellow. There will then be a nice scandal!"
The banker's hand, even then on the bell, dropped at his side.
"Ah! I see you do not care for witnesses!"
Laisangy opened his lips to speak.
"And you are right, perhaps. Napoleon, who knew the world, said, 'It is always best to wash your dirty linen at home!' and we have—you and I—a tremendous wash on hand!"
Laisangy did not move; his eyes were fixed on the face of this man, to whom he could not give a name. He finally managed to say:
"I am not fond of mysteries. Who are you?"
"You do not know me, then?"
Fagiano laughed, and in this laugh was a certain ferocity.
"Give me two hundred thousand francs and you will never see me again!"
Laisangy answered with a certain dignity:
"I never give alms to strangers."
"Bless my soul!" cried Fagiano, "your manners are improving. You do not know my name, but I know yours, Monsieur Danglars!"
At this name the banker started back.
"You are mad!" he cried.
"Very well; but what would you say if at the Tuileries you heard yourself announced by your real name, Monsieur Danglars?"
Danglars, for it was he, drew a pistol from his pocket and presented it to Fagiano's breast. He with a quick blow struck it from the banker's hand. It fell on the floor and fortunately did not go off. Fagiano picked it up and drew the charge.
"Dangerous playthings and sad interruptions in a conversation," he said. "We can understand each other without this. And now, having gotten through with this melodramatic scene, I tell you that I shall not be content with less than five hundred thousand francs."
Danglars was utterly confounded. But presently, gathering himself together, he said:
"I am not intimidated by your threats. You can make what use you please of your knowledge, you share it with many others. No one cares."
"But I have more to say. I propose to reveal my own name to you. Can I so change that you do not recognize me?"
"I never saw you before."
"How does it happen, Monsieur Danglars, that you have a daughter of twenty when your wife was living fifteen years since? She had a daughter by you, and her name was not Carmen."
Danglars was disconcerted. He threw himself upon a chair.
"Go on," he said.
"Ah! you are beginning to understand me, are you? I know what I say, and will prove it to you. You, as a banker, enriched yourself in speculations, each more dishonorable than the other, and you encountered a man who crushed you like a worm under his heel. You fell, but you are of the kind that bounds, and to-day you are once more upon a pinnacle. You vegetated for years, until the moment came when you could once more seize fortune in your grasp. You are no longer Danglars the bankrupt and thief—you are Laisangy, respected and trusted. Know then that I have it in my power to throw you back into the mire from which you have struggled. I am ready to be your enemy or your accomplice, the choice is in your hands."
"Ah! I know you!" cried Danglars, throwing up his hands. "You are Andrea Cavalcanti. Yes, it is all coming back to me. You called yourself by a title to which you had no claim; you professed to have a fortune that had no existence, and you introduced yourself into my family. But the day came when the law interfered!"
"Ah! your memory is an excellent one!" Then relinquishing his sneer and his smile, he leaned toward Danglars. "I am Benedetto, the assassin; Benedetto,the convict. But that is not all. Are you acquainted with my father's name?"
"I heard of a scandalous suit, but I was not in France."
"No, you had fled. You were not here when, in the court-room, I flung my hatred and my loathing at the head of the Procureur du Roi—at the head of my father, Monsieur de Villefort. And do you know the name of my mother?"
"It was never given."
"I will tell it to you, nevertheless. She was Madame Danglars."
The banker started to his feet, his whole frame twitching nervously.
"It is not true! It is not true!" he cried.
"She was my mother, I tell you, and I punished her as she deserved, for I killed her!"
"Horrible! Horrible!" And the wretched man who listened to these words wrung his hands.
"Yes, and here is the proof."
Benedetto drew from his pocketbook the paper on which Sanselme had written the lines he had dictated.
"Read this," he said. "I was not alone; the witness is still living, and I can produce him if necessary."
Danglars had fallen back in his chair.
"Now then," continued Benedetto, "you know who I am, and you know, too, that I hesitate at nothing. Once more, will you obey me?"
"But what do you wish me to do?"
"In the first place, I want money. I am tired ofpoverty, and of the incessant perils which it forces me to run. You are rich. Make me rich."
"You shall have money."
"And much money. But this is not all."
Benedetto laid his hand on the shoulder of his companion.
"Have you forgotten," he said, in a stern voice, "the man who humiliated and tortured you? Do you feel no thirst for revenge?"
Danglars looked up quickly.
"That man," continued Benedetto, "was and is your evil genius, as well as mine. He tempted me. He launched me into a world where all my appetite for luxury was developed, then suddenly he sent me to a prison. You remember all the tortures he inflicted on you. Now it is in our power to heap on this man a vengeance so terrible that he will writhe at our feet. This vengeance I mean to have. Danglars, do you wish to see this man suffer? Then give me your hand, and we will work together."
Danglars murmured:
"It is impossible. Vengeance is sweet, but it can not be."
"Impossible!" sneered Benedetto. "We two will succeed, I swear to you."
"No, no, I am afraid of him!"
"Are you a child? Once more, Danglars, do you wish to be revenged on Monte-Cristo, if I can prove to you that you personally run no risk? I too am afraid of him. I too have thought for a long time that he was all-powerful and not to be reached. To-day Ihave discovered a fault in his armor, and intend that this man shall weep tears of blood. Once more, will you assist me?"
"Ah! if it were possible!" sighed Danglars.
"Listen to me a moment. This man has one immense passion, his love for his son, and it is through this love that we shall reach him. The Count of Monte-Cristo is invincible, you say. You forget that he has a son."
"The Vicomte Esperance!"
"To strike the son is to kill the father!"
"You are right—and I, like you, hate him!"
"Then join me, and we shall have a terrible revenge. I must have money, though, and you must swear to obey me blindly."
"And you say that we will crush Monte-Cristo?"
"I swear it!"
"Then," said Danglars, "I join you, for I hate him!"
And the two men shook hands in ratification of their oath.
Now let us go back to Esperance. Three days have elapsed since Jane was borne into the hôtel on the Champs-Elysées.
We find Madame Caraman deep in a conference with the person on whom she has more reliance than on any one else in the world, none other than herself! The good woman was lying on a sofa, listening to every sound which came from the room where Jane lay utterly prostrated.
"I don't know," said the old lady half aloud, "whether I am doing right or not. The Count begged me to look out for his son, and I have tried to do this. I have now accepted a new duty from the Vicomte, and for three days and nights I have been watching over this poor young girl. This is all very well. The Vicomte has requested me to keep the affair secret, even from his father, and I have consented. Here I am not sure that I have done wisely. The Count said: 'If you have any especial communication to make to me, you may go to Monsieur Fanfar.' That is clear enough. But if I obey the father I disobey the son!"
All these arguments failed to satisfy the good woman of the excellence of her cause, for she shook her headseveral times. She heard a long sigh, and ran to Jane's bed. The girl's face looked like wax, her eyelids had a brownish tinge. Her lips were parted with the sigh that her nurse had heard.
Poor Jane! Was she on the road to recovery? Alas! the physicians did not yet answer for her life. Goutran had, at the request of Esperance, brought two men of great science, but they agreed that the girl was in great danger.
When Madame leaned over her to give her the medicine, Jane seemed to be terribly frightened. The color rushed to her cheeks, and she panted for breath.
Suddenly her eyes opened wide, and she cried aloud:
"Ah! let me die—let me die!"
"My poor, dear child!" said Madame Caraman, kissing her tenderly on her brow, "you must not say that! Try to be calm and good."
But Jane did not listen to her. She seemed to be haunted by some terrible spectre. Delirium has some astonishing resurrections. She struggled so fiercely in the arms of her nurse that Madame, who had been told to summon Esperance at any moment, leaned forward and touched a bell.
In a moment the Vicomte appeared. Oh! how pale and hollow-eyed he was! As he entered, Jane fell back among her pillows, covering her face with her hands.
"What is it?" asked Esperance.
"Only a little more fever, sir, but I feared an accident, and called you."
"You did right, and I thank you."
He took the girl's hands gently in his. At his touch tears sprang to Jane's closed eyes, and a little shiver passed over her whole body.
"She is calmer now," said Madame, "and I am almost sorry that I have disturbed you."
"No—I am very glad you did. You must be very weary. Lie down, and I will stay here until dawn."
"No—I am old, I do not require much sleep, while you——"
Esperance sat on the foot of the bed, holding Jane's slender hands.
"Do you think," he said gently, "that I can sleep while she is suffering? Go, I beg of you—I will call you soon."
Madame still resisted a little, perhaps for form's sake, but finally obeyed his wishes. The young man then sank on his knees, still holding Jane's hands.
They remained thus, silent and motionless. From the touch of the Vicomte's hand Jane seemed to experience profound relief. Is it not certain that between two persons a certain magnetic communication may take place—an electric fluid may pass from one to the other, making the two momentarily one?
Esperance bowed his head and pressed his lips on Jane's hand. Then the young girl opened her eyes. The fever was gone. Her glorious eyes had regained all their softness, and her pulse beat more regularly.
"Jane! Jane!" whispered the young man. It seemed to him that he felt a gentle pressure of her fingers. "You hear me?" he said. "Will you allow me to remain near you? If you only knew how muchI suffer in seeing your sufferings, and how gladly I would spare you a pang!" Again the little quivering pressure.
"When I saw you the other night it did not seem to me that it was the first time. I felt as if I had seen you in my dreams. Jane, why did you wish to die?"
Was she listening? Did she hear him? A delicious torpor had taken possession of the girl. She thought she was dreaming, and was afraid to move lest she should awaken. The past seemed far away.
He continued:
"Jane, before I saw you I did not live. I was always sad. What did it matter to me the luxury with which I was surrounded? I have always felt singularly alone, my life was incomplete. But now I feel as if it were well rounded. You have suffered, but now all that is over. You will tell me all, because we are to have no secrets from each other. We will leave Paris, and find some quiet retreat together."
She did not speak, but from under her half-closed eyes a tear stole down her cheek. Esperance kissed the tear away. She smiled faintly, and then fell into a sweet sleep. Seeing this, Esperance rose and softly left the room.
In the ante-room Madame Caraman lay asleep on the sofa. Esperance smiled, but as he knew that Jane was safe, he did not arouse her nurse.
He went to his room. Hardly had the sound of his footsteps died away than the portière is lifted in yonder corner, and a dark form appears. It was a man. His face was hidden by a black vail. In his hand wasa white handkerchief and a glass bottle. He stole to the bed so softly that not a sound was heard.
Who is this man? It was thus that Monte-Cristo once entered the room of Valentine de Villefort. But this was not Monte-Cristo. As he reached the bed he extended his arm and held to the girl's face the handkerchief, from which exhaled a blue vapor.
Jane was breathing naturally. Suddenly her whole form quivered, then came immobility. Her limbs straighten, the rose fades from her cheek, her brow becomes like marble. The man lifted the inert form in his arms, and slowly, with infinite precautions, he moved toward the portière, which he pushes aside and disappears.
Ah! Madame Caraman, ah! Esperance, you little know what is going on!
This man is Benedetto. His revenge has begun!
And in that empty room there is now no other sound than the ticking of the clock.
My readers have not forgotten the romantic episode that followed Jane's suicide. How happened it that our old friends Fanfar and Bobichel were near and able to save the life of Sanselme?
It is a very simple matter. Monte-Cristo had said to Fanfar, "I trust my son to you. You love me, love him, also. Be to him what you have been to me."
"Rely on me," Fanfar said, and Monte-Cristo went away, confiding in himself, in everything, and still more in the strange fatality which had always served him.
Fanfar kept his word. He watched everything that Esperance did. He had been told, also, not to permit this surveillance to be suspected unless some real danger made it necessary to disclose it.
The evening that Esperance went to Goutran's, Fanfar, accompanied by the inseparable Bobichel, had seen the young man enter his friend's house, he had seen him place Jane in the carriage, and finally had watched him walk away with Goutran.
Could there be anything more reassuring? Fanfar thought not, and in a state of perfect satisfaction they walked along the left shore of the Seine, where Fanfar had a little house in the Rue Bellechasse.
They were talking earnestly, when they heard loud cries for aid. They instantly plunged into the river and swam in the direction of the cries.
They were successful in their efforts, and saved the lives of both the man and the woman. Sanselme, however, had a brain fever, and the woman, Fanfar discovered, was insane. With her it was a passing delirium. Fanfar was greatly puzzled to know what to do with her. Who was she? Whence came she? There was nothing about her person which would elucidate the mystery. It was possible that she had escaped from some hospital, and Fanfar went to the Prefecture to make inquiries, but no such disappearance was registered there.
Fanfar naturally felt that there must be some connection between these two persons. Some frightful tragedy had been enacted. But he also felt that absolute secrecy was due the two unfortunates, till at last it was plain that there was no danger in revealing the adventure.
Days elapsed. Sanselme had terrible attacks of frenzy, and the woman, when she was able to move, had risen from her bed and gone to the door of her room, where she stood with terror and anguish imprinted on every feature, and if any one entered the room she would press both hands on her breast and utter a terrible shriek.
Finally Fanfar's wife had called him to see a scar on the breast of the unfortunate creature. She had certainly received a terrible wound, but when and where? The scar was not a new one.
Fanfar had sent Bobichel to the Vicomte's, for he had reproached himself that he had neglected Esperance in his interest for these two strangers. He sat near Sanselme's bed, and in the next room the mad woman was asleep, crouching on the floor near the door.
Fanfar looked at the man before him, and his unerring instinct told him that this livid, worn face had known not only great sorrow, but terrible remorse.
Sanselme said something. Fanfar leaned over him to hear more distinctly.
"My daughter; dead! dead!"
And these words were repeated over and over again. What did this mean? The woman Sanselme had saved was older than he; she could not be his daughter.
Fanfar said in distinct but soothing tones, "You have a daughter? You have lost her?"
"Yes, my Jane!"
Sanselme flung himself from one side of the bed to the other in intense agony, and Fanfar asked question after question. He could not tear from the man the smallest information.
Having taken a sedative the sick man fell asleep, but it was plain that his dreams were troubled. Fanfar took up a book, when he heard the door-bell, and Bobichel suddenly appeared all out of breath. He dropped on a chair, and seemed to be in great trouble.
"What is the matter?" asked Fanfar.
"Oh! such a dreadful thing has happened to Monte-Cristo's son!"
"To the Vicomte!" cried Fanfar, leaping from hischair. He seized Bobichel's arm rather roughly, and shaking it, cried, "Will you speak?"
"Yes, master, but I don't know how to tell you that the Vicomte has gone away."
"Gone away, and what of that?"
"But he has disappeared!"
"Who says so?"
"Old Madame Caraman and Coucon."
Fanfar passed his hand over his troubled brow. "My dear old friend," he said, "take pity on me, and tell me all you know; do not compel me to ask so many questions."
"Well, then, listen. You as well as I, became a little anxious because we had heard nothing of Monsieur Esperance for so long. I have found out that the night of thesoirée, while we were saving those two old people in there, he was also doing something of the same kind."
"Did he not go home then, as we supposed?"
"Not he! He did not go home for over two hours, then he and Monsieur Goutran had a person with them who had been wounded—a young girl—she had been shot!"
"What preposterous tale is this?"
"It is true, sir. I did not believe it myself, at first, and as I felt sure you would doubt the story, I took the liberty of bringing the witnesses with me. Caraman and Coucon are here, sir."
"Oh! Bobichel, why could you not have said this before? Let me see them at once, and I swear that I will get at the truth!"
Fanfar, in addition to his impatience, felt a certain remorse. If any accident happened to Esperance he felt in a measure responsible.
Caraman and Coucon came in. They were in great trouble.
"My good friends," said Fanfar, taking Madame's hand. She was sobbing fit to break her heart, while Coucon was gnawing the ends of his moustache, in order not to imitate her example. "My good friends, I do not yet believe that what Bobichel tells me is true. He says that the Vicomte has disappeared."
"Yes, sir," growled Coucon.
"Then, Madame Caraman, this is no time for tears. Tears remedy nothing, and we must have all our wits about us."
Madame held out her arms to Fanfar, as she fell on her knees before him.
"I am the one in fault, and I shall never forgive myself."
"Pray tell me the whole."
"I have broken all my promises in not sending to you before, and yet all the time I had a presentiment of evil."
She wept and sobbed to such a degree that Fanfar could scarcely understand her, but he finally managed to soothe her. She had little to explain, however. She told how Esperance and Goutran had come in late at night, and brought with them a young girl who had been wounded by a pistol shot, and who seemed to be dying. How she herself had watched over this girl night and day. She told how, in obedience to theVicomte, she had gone to lie down, being very weary and sleepy.
"I can't say how it happened," she sighed. "I had been greatly fatigued. I only meant to rest, not to sleep, but when I opened my eyes it was broad daylight. I jumped up, and ran to the door and listened, but all was silent; then I stole to the bed, I thought she was asleep, of course. Suddenly it occurred to me that the silence was too profound. I tore open the curtain, the bed was empty. At first I thought the girl might have been carried to some other room, she was too weak to walk, you understand, and perhaps Coucon had helped, so I went to him and he rubbed his eyes and yawned."
"Madame Caraman!" exclaimed Coucon.
"Yes, you did, and were as stupid as possible. At all events, he had heard nothing, seen nothing. Then I took it into my head that the Vicomte had taken her away. And—and—I can't tell you what I thought, but did not like to go to the Vicomte. I knew if she was in his room, that he would not like any one to know it. This was an infamous thought on my part, for she is a good girl, I am sure."
"Pray, go on with your story, my dear lady," said Fanfar, with a shade of impatience. "We are losing a great deal of precious time."
"You are right! Well, I finally decided to go to the Vicomte's door. He was sitting at the table studying some books on medicine, and I told him. Oh! how sorry I was for him. I had no idea that he would care, but he became deadly pale, and thrusting measide, a little rudely I must confess, he ran to the room I had just left, and when he found I had told him the simple truth he went nearly crazy. Even if, as I first thought might be the case, the girl had an attack of delirium, she could not have opened the window, besides it was fastened inside. The doors were all bolted too. I did not know what to think. Monsieur Esperance was in such a rage that I don't like to think of him. But after all he was right, I had no business to sleep in that way."
"Go on; tell me about Esperance. When did he go away?"
"We have not seen him since last evening. He put his hat on his head, and went out without saying a word to us."
Fanfar reflected.
"You have no idea where he went?"
"Not the slightest. Oh! what will the Count say to us!"
"You have been very imprudent, but there is no use in recriminations. We must look for Esperance at once. Do you know how the girl was wounded?"
"No, but Monsieur Goutran does."
"I will go to him immediately."
"Oh! we have been there, and he has gone away for the day. Here is a little bag which we found in the young lady's room, and it may tell you something."
And Madame, as she spoke, handed Fanfar one of those little morocco bags so much in vogue to be hung at the belt. Fanfar opened the bag, and found a letter without address.
"We must look at this," he said.
The letter was only a few lines of thanks written to the young girl by Goutran, when she consented to sing at hissoirée. The note began with the words "Miss Jane!"
"Miss Jane!" cried Fanfar, a sudden recollection flashing over him.
To this cry there was a response. The door opened, and Sanselme tottered in.
"Jane! Jane! Did you say Jane?"
Fanfar ran to his assistance.
"Don't trouble yourself about me," cried Sanselme. "Tell me, did I hear you speak the name of Jane?"
"That is certainly the name on this note," answered Fanfar, extending the paper in his hand, which Sanselme snatched from him.
"Yes, it is hers. It is my dau—" He stopped even in his delirium he had strength to conceal his secret. "It is Jane's," he added.
"Then you know this girl?" Fanfar asked, excitedly.
"Do I know her? Was it not she who wished to die? Was it not she whom I rescued?"
"No, calm yourself. You are mistaken. You must try and tell me what I wish to know. Terrible dangers threaten those whom perhaps we both love."
"Is Jane in danger?" asked Sanselme, frantically. "Let me go! I must leave this place at once."
He started from his chair, but his strength failed him, and if Fanfar had not caught him he would have fallen.
"Ah!" he half sobbed, "I might have known it!That wretch Benedetto is always a signal of misfortune to me."
"Who speaks of Benedetto!" said a hoarse voice.
Every one started. Before them stood the mad woman in torn and shabby garments, with her white hair in disorder. And as Sanselme looked up he saw her. A terrible cry escaped from his lips, and he recoiled with staring eyes riveted on the spectre before him.
"It is she!" he murmured. "The dead, it seems, are permitted to revisit the earth!"
The woman slowly approached Sanselme, and looked at him closely. She came so near that she could touch him, and then with a wild laugh, she screamed:
"The convict! Yes, it is he!"
And then, shuddering from head to foot, she repeated, "Benedetto! Who speaks of Benedetto?"
"What does all this mean?" asked Fanfar.
"I will tell you," said Sanselme, averting his eyes. "Yes, it is true, I am an escaped convict. This woman is right, but I never did her any harm. Look at me, woman! Tell me, was it I who struck you?"
The mad woman tore away the rags that covered the terrible scar on her breast.
"Oh! how it hurts," she said, moaning, "and how hot my head is."
"But who did it?"
The woman in a frightened whisper, answered:
"It was Benedetto—my son!"
A cry of horror escaped from every heart.
"Yes," exclaimed Sanselme, "and the wretch stilllives. He assassinated his mother, and by what miracle she escaped, I know not. He—this Benedetto—is to-day in Paris. He has come to avenge himself on Monte-Cristo."
Fanfar questioned Sanselme, who avowed everything except that Jane was his daughter. He would not have admitted this had he been threatened with the guillotine. Fanfar listened attentively.
"It is as clear as day to me," he said, at last, "that all this is Benedetto's work. Therefore we will first find him, and of him we will demand an account of this new crime. Sanselme, you have been a great criminal. Are you ready to prove your repentance?"
"I will obey you in whatsoever you order. Save Jane, no matter what becomes of me."
"Then all of you will make ready for the fray. I will summon the Count of Monte-Cristo, as it was agreed I should do in case of danger. He will be here in three days, and we must be able to say to him that we have saved his son."
"Yes, we must say that," cried the Zouave, "or Coucon will be dead."
"To work then," said Fanfar, rising. "Sanselme, come into my cabinet, there are several questions I wish to ask. But first, who is this woman?"
"Benedetto never told me," answered Sanselme.
Fanfar went to the mad woman, who was crouching near the door.
"Who are you?" he said. "What is your name?"
She laughed in a stupid way.
"I have no name, I am dead!"
Goutran was really in love, although for a time his attention had been distracted by the strange affair of Jane Zeld. But now that calm was in a measure restored, Goutran thought of Carmen with quickened pulse. He no longer hesitated. He resolved to write to a millionaire uncle of his who spent his last days hunting wolves in the Ardennes, and beg him to come up and lay his proposal before the banker. He told Esperance what he meant to do, and the Vicomte encouraged the plan.
When he had come to this conclusion, he was astonished to find that the same indecision again attacked him. Why did he hesitate? He would have been at a loss to say. He determined, however, on one of two things, either to ask Carmen's hand or never see her again. He had been with Esperance for forty-eight hours, encouraging him and ministering to Jane, and now he felt the need of fresh air. He walked toward Saint Cloud, softly saying to himself among the green trees:
"I love her! I love her!"
On his return the decision was made. He would write to his uncle the next day. As he entered the hôtel, the concierge said to him mysteriously:
"There was a lady here, sir."
"A lady! What lady?"
"Ah! sir, that I can't say. My discretion was too great to permit me to ask her name. I think she is young and pretty, though she was heavily vailed. She asked for you, and when I told her you were out she looked embarrassed, and finally drew from her pocket a little note which she had prepared. She gave it to me, saying it was very urgent."
"A note! Where is it? You should have given it to me at once."
"Oh! it is safe, sir, in my davenport."
A concierge with a davenport! What is the world coming to, thought Goutran.
Finally the good man produced the paper in question, rose colored and perfumed. Goutran tore it open, but did not read it until he reached his own room. The address was in delicate, long letters, the result of lessons from an English master. Who could have sent it? He did not know the writing. But when he glanced at the signature he with difficulty refrained from a cry of surprise. The note was signed, "Carmen de L——." These were its contents:
"Monsieur Goutran—or will you allow me to call you my friend—I must see you at once on matters of vast importance. To-night, at eleven o'clock, I shall expect you. Ring at the side door of the hôtel; my maid will be in attendance. Do not fail, for you and those you love are in danger."
"Monsieur Goutran—or will you allow me to call you my friend—I must see you at once on matters of vast importance. To-night, at eleven o'clock, I shall expect you. Ring at the side door of the hôtel; my maid will be in attendance. Do not fail, for you and those you love are in danger."
Goutran was amazed. What did these mysterious lines mean? And of whom did Carmen speak when she said "those you love"? He was greatly disturbed, but he was not the man to hesitate.
At ten o'clock he was already walking up and down a street which commanded a view of the Hôtel Laisangy, but he felt none of the emotion natural to a lover going to a rendezvous. He had a feeling of strange oppression. Finally the clock struck eleven. The side door was on the Rue Saint Honoré. Goutran was about to ring the bell, when the door was opened and a hand was laid on his.
"Come this way," said a woman's voice.
It was the curious maid whom we have already seen. She was enchanted, feeling sure that it was a lover she admitted. The stairs were carpeted and dimly lighted. Presently he entered Carmen's boudoir, but she was not there.
"I will notify the young lady," said the maid, with one of those knowing smiles that tell so much.
Goutran was standing with his hat in his hand when Carmen entered. She was very simply dressed in black. Her beautiful face was very pale. Her blonde hair looked like burnished gold. She extended her hand as he advanced with a profound bow.
"Many thanks," she said, "for having come. I hardly dared expect you."
"Why did you doubt me? Did you suppose that I could be deaf to such a mark of confidence?"
Carmen smiled sadly.
"Yes," she said, "I do feel entire confidence in you, a confidence that is most real."
She seated herself and motioned him to a chair, and with her large eyes fixed on her companion, was silent for a minute. At last she said, abruptly:
"Monsieur Goutran, do you love me?"
At this most unexpected question, Goutran started.
"Yes," he answered, gravely. "I love you, and I feel a devotion for you which is, perhaps, better than love."
Carmen's long lashes rested on her burning cheeks.
"Your words are sweeter to me than you can well imagine. By and by you will understand me better. I need your affection, and I need your assistance, but I am about to put your interest in me to a very severe test."
"You have but to express your wishes," said Goutran.
Carmen waited. Evidently she had not strength to go on with her explanation.
"Listen to me," she resumed. "I owe you a declaration which will remove every possibility of a misunderstanding between us. A few days ago, when on the terrace of your house my hands rested in yours, I fully realized that, so far as you were concerned, a tacit engagement from that moment existed between us."
"From that moment," interrupted Goutran, "I felt that if you would accept my hand and name——"
"And yet you did not apply to Monsieur Laisangy?" said Carmen, gently.
"Did you doubt me? I did not dare."
"And you were right, for, Monsieur Goutran, I can never be your wife!"
Goutran rose quickly.
"Was it to break my heart that you summoned me here to-night?" he cried.
"I can never be your wife," repeated Carmen, "because only an unstained woman should bear your name!"
Goutran turned deadly pale.
"And I," she continued, "am not such a woman!"
"Ah! Mademoiselle, I cannot understand you."
"Listen to me. Every word I speak I have thoroughly weighed, and I understand my duty. I hope my frankness will at least win your esteem, and possibly your pity."
"My pity! Ah! Carmen, for God's sake do not say such things!"
"I have not finished. Goutran, I love you, deeply and sincerely. Your character, your talents, all inspire me, for the first time in my life, with those sentiments which tend to elevate us. Before knowing you I passed through life knowing little, and caring little, of what was right or what was wrong."
Tears were now pouring down her cheeks.
"I am not the daughter," she sobbed, "I am not the daughter, I am the friend, of Monsieur de Laisangy!"
A pained exclamation broke from Goutran's breast, and he hid his face in his hands. He felt as if a dagger had struck him in the heart.
"Yes," continued Carmen, with a smile of contempt, "this old man, for reasons of his own, insisted on my bearing his name. Do not condemn me too greatly," she continued, "I was not sixteen when I fell into the trap that this man laid for me. Think of it!"
"The miserable scoundrel!"
"Yes, he ruined me, body and soul! All the finer instincts of my nature he sneered at. He taught me to despise everything—himself, myself! For five long years I endured this martyrdom. When we reached Paris, he added another wrong to those he had already inflicted on me. He compelled me to profane the sacred name of father, and yet I did not realize my shame until the day I met you. I sat to you for my portrait, and as you talked I felt a whole new world opening before me. I knew then, for the first time, that I was unworthy of the love of an honest man. Ah! Goutran, how I have suffered in loving you!"
And the poor girl sank on her knees, a very Magdalen.
Goutran laid his hand on her head.
"Carmen, these avowals prove to me that I was not wrong in thinking you the best and the most adorable woman in the world!"
"You do not loathe me, then?"
"Have I any right to be your judge? I have certainly received a sad shock."
He lifted her to a chair.
"If you have made me this terrible confidence it is because you wish to give me a proof of your greatconfidence in me. I shall be worthy of it, be sure of that. And now, tell me what you wish."
Carmen lifted her sad eyes to his.
"How good you are!" she said, quietly. "But you are right. Now you will not doubt my motives nor me?"
"I swear that I will believe every syllable you utter!"
Carmen, after a few moments' consideration, said:
"You are very fond of this young Monte-Cristo?"
"Certainly I am. He is one of the noblest fellows I ever met. But why do you speak of him?"
"Because it was to speak of him that I summoned you here to-night. Your friend, Goutran, is in great danger, as are you—and myself, too."
"Danger!"
"We must find some means of avoiding it, but your enemies——"
"I have no enemies!"
"Yes, and Monsieur de Laisangy is one of them."
"That scoundrel!"
"Yes, and he is worse than I supposed, and the other foe is—but did you notice an Italian here, the secretary of the Italian Count?"
"Yes—his name was Fagiano."
"He calls himself Fagiano, but that is not his real name."
"Who is he, then?"
"I cannot say. But listen. For some time I have hated and loathed Laisangy. I felt that he was a greater criminal towards others than myself, and as myconscience began to stir, I felt my suspicions daily increase. At yoursoiréeI noticed that this man whom I called father started and turned pale when he heard the name of Monte-Cristo, and then he invented some pretext to leave the room."
"I remember," said Goutran.
"Then, when we were on the terrace—" Carmen hesitated. There were memories connected with that terrace which she did not care to approach.
Goutran said, kindly:
"Go on, dear child."
"I do not know if you remember as well as myself a dispute which we, in a measure, overheard. I recognized Laisangy's voice, and the disconnected words confirmed my suspicions. Early the next morning I sent for him and questioned him very closely, and in a most peremptory manner. In the midst of our animated discussion a card was brought in. This Signor Fagiano had called to see Monsieur de Laisangy.
"I heard no more of him, saw no more of him, until yesterday, when, as I entered the hôtel, I saw Fagiano coming in. I at once ran into Laisangy's private office, and reached it first, where I hid in a closet, ready to listen to every word. Do not reprove me. All means are lawful when dangers threaten those you love, and some instinct taught me that I should learn something of you and the Vicomte."
Goutran kissed Carmen's hand as his sole reply.
"The two men came in a moment or two, and I at once learned from the first words they uttered thatthey were associates in some crime. What it is I know not, but Fagiano said:
"'I have done it, and now our vengeance is certain. But I need money.'
"'I have already told you that I would give it to you. Here is what you want. And now, what do you mean to do?'
"'She is in my power now, and I shall soon have him, too.'
"'No imprudence! We must not be compromised.'
"'I am hardly foolish enough for that. I will torture Monte-Cristo's son, but not in a way that the law can reach!'
"'Let him be tortured! Let him pay for all the agony his father has inflicted on me!'
"'You shall be satisfied!'
"The two men then walked away still talking, but in such low voices that I could not hear. I rushed from my hiding-place and hastened to my room. I had learned little, it is true; but what I heard had opened wide and fearful possibilities. I knew Monsieur de Laisangy, and knew that he would stop at nothing. It would be useless for me to interfere openly, and then I thought of you."
"And you we're right in sending for me. In your recital, however, there are many points that are obscure. Thank you for warning me. You asked me, a few moments since, if I loved Esperance. I look upon him as my brother, and I would give my life to spare him a pang."
"But of whom did the man speak when he said, 'sheis in my power'?"
"I do not venture to say; but in an hour we shall know."
The young man turned toward the door. Carmen came to his side and gave him her hand. He drew her to his breast.
"You have hurt me, Carmen, but I respect you more than ever, and I love you!"
"Ah!" she said, passionately, "those words from your lips have made me your slave. I belong to you from this moment! I will mount guard over the enemy, and we will work together!"