Goutran left Carmen's room, his brain all in a whirl. It was late, but the young man knew not too late to go to the Vicomte's. Throwing himself into a carriage, he drove to the hôtel in the Champs Elysées. He was amazed to find it in total darkness, and when he asked for the Vicomte, was surprised at the embarrassed manner of the Swiss, as well as to hear that Esperance was out, without leaving word when he would return.
"And Madame Caraman and Coucon?"
"They are out too, sir."
While Goutran was thus impatiently questioning the man, a carriage stopped, from which descended Fanfar, Sanselme, Coucon and Madame Caraman.
"Ah! Monsieur Goutran!" exclaimed Fanfar, "I have just been to your rooms, and am thankful to meet you here. I am anxious to consult with you."
"You know, then, what is going on?" cried Goutran.
"I think I do; but let us go up-stairs; before we begin the fray, it is well to understand the battlefield, and to become familiar with it."
As he said this, Fanfar entered the vestibule, but the Swiss hurried after him.
"But, sir," he said, in some confusion, "in the absence of the Count and his son, I really cannot—"
"Shut yourself up in your room, and pay no heed to what is going on here," Fanfar replied, sternly, showing, as he spoke, a ring that he wore on his finger.
It belonged to Monte-Cristo, and had been entrusted to Fanfar by the Count when he went away. This ring was well known to every one of the Count's people. The man bowed low.
"I beg your pardon, sir. Shall I call the footman?"
"No; and on your life do not admit a living creature. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
They ascended the stairs and entered the large rooms one after the other. When the Vicomte's cabinet was entered, it was found all in disorder.
"The Vicomte, you see, has taken his pistols," said Coucon.
"What time did the Vicomte go?" asked Fanfar.
"I know not," answered Coucon, "and Madame was weeping so bitterly that she was of little use."
Fanfar was annoyed that he could elicit so little, knowing well that if Monte-Cristo were there his eagle eye would have discovered something.
"Send me the porter," he said.
And when the man appeared, he asked at what hour the Vicomte went out last. The man, in some confusion, replied that he did not see him go out.
"You were absent from your post, then?"
"No, sir, I was not. I was not away for one moment yesterday."
"And you saw every one who came in and went out?"
"Yes, sir. The Vicomte did go out, but he came in again."
"Came in!" cried Madame and Coucon, together.
"Yes; it was about an hour after that, when you came and told me he had disappeared. I thought that he might have gone out, and I not heeded it."
"And may not this have been so?" asked Fanfar. "If the Vicomte is not in the hôtel, he must have gone out, you know."
"I beg to observe, sir, that the Vicomte might have gone out by the small door which communicates directly with his apartment; but every night when I shut up the house I bolt that door, and it is still bolted; so that my young master did not go that way. It is possible, of course, that he could have passed my door without my seeing him. I can't always answer for myself; but I have proof that he did not do this."
"What is your proof?"
"Every night I fasten the great door with a chain and padlock and take the key. If any one wishes to go out in the night he must call me. As soon as the Vicomte came in I put up this chain. I assure you, sir, that I am speaking the truth. At first I was troubled and afraid I had been careless, but since I have collected my ideas, I am sure that I have nothing to reproach myself with."
"Do you mean to say, then," cried Coucon, "that the Vicomte walked through the wall?"
"It is very strange," said Fanfar, thoughtfully. "And now, my friends," he added, turning to Coucon andMadame, "you may leave me here with Monsieur Goutran."
"And with me?" added Bobichel.
"You can stay, if you will. I may need you."
"But, Monsieur Fanfar," said poor Madame, "I think we, too, are good for something. You ought not to send us away."
The poor woman was greatly distressed.
"Oh! I have something for you to do. Examine the garden carefully, and if you see the smallest thing that is unusual, come to me instantly."
"There won't be a corner in which I shall not put my nose, be sure of that!" cried Coucon.
"Oh! if the Count were only here!" sighed Madame.
Fanfar was alone with Bobichel and Goutran.
"Have you anything to suggest?" he said, suddenly turning to Goutran. "Do you know of any secret egress from this hôtel?"
"None whatever," answered the artist.
"And yet you will observe that the girl was not carried away by either of the doors that are known, and she is gone!"
"I did not think of that! There is unquestionably some issue known only to the Count."
"Alas! the Count's enemies know it, also," answered Fanfar.
"Let us go to the room that the girl was in—"
"I was about to make that proposal. Now is the time, Bobichel," said Fanfar, turning to the former clown, "to see if we cannot regain a little of our cleverness."
"I am ready, even to go through the eye of a needle, if it be necessary!" answered Bobichel.
Goutran took a candle and led the way. When they reached Jane's room Fanfar took up a position in the centre of it, examined the ceiling, the floor and the walls. Then Bobichel explored every inch of the floor, which was covered with a thick carpet. But nothing could be found.
"This is most extraordinary," murmured Fanfar, "and yet I am convinced that I am on the track."
Suddenly Bobichel uttered an exclamation. "Here is something, master!"
Fanfar and Goutran hastened to him. In one of the silk folds of the hanging on the wall there was a bit of white lace, evidently torn from something.
"I recognize that," said Goutran. "I ordered the peignoirs she required, for we did not wish to admit any one into our secrets; and that lace trimmed one of the peignoirs."
"And now we have it!" shouted Bobichel, inserting the blade of his knife in one of the plaits of the silk.
Fanfar said hastily, "It is an iron door, and there must be a spring. Let us try, each of us, and feel over the whole wall, if it is necessary."
They went to work, and presently Bobichel was lucky enough to press a little knob. A panel slowly opened, and a puff of warm air came full in the eager faces of the anxious men. With the light of their candles they saw a well-finished passage and two or three stairs; it was too dark to see more.
"This is the way that Jane was abducted, and this is the way that Esperance went. Let us see where it goes." And Fanfar started first.
Hardly had they reached the stairs than they heard the iron door close behind them. In spite of all their courage, they shuddered. Had the door shut of itself, or had it been closed by some invisible enemy? They turned back hastily, but there was not the smallest sign to be seen of door or spring.
"What had we best do?" asked Goutran, uneasily.
Fanfar reflected a moment. "As we cannot go back, let us hasten forward with all possible speed. We will find the way out."
"Or we will make one!" cried Bobichel.
The three friends started once more, Bobichel in front, holding a heavy bronze candelabra.
It was indeed by this mysterious path that Esperance had gone. When he heard that Jane was not to be found, he at first could hardly comprehend what was said. He ran to Jane's room and looked about, then scarce knowing what he did, he left the house and then returned to it, after having wandered over Paris for two or three hours. No one noticed his pallor when he entered the hôtel. He went to Jane's room again, and there, lying back in a low chair, he looked about with sad eyes.
Suddenly he saw a panel slowly open in the wall. He was not afraid. Esperance did not know the sensation, and now he simply expected some revelation. He instantly knew that this was the path by which Jane had been taken away. He rose and entered the dark corridor. He had no light, and the door at once closed behind him; but he had inherited his father's singular power of seeing in the dark.
He discovered the stairs, and began to descend them. He went on and on, and then another corridor, and then more stairs. Finally he reached a door, which he opened, and entered a large room hung with silk. It was one of the houses which had been so useful to Monte-Cristo years before. The path by which Esperance had come crossed the Champs Elysées under ground, and communicated with this house.
All was magnificent, but Esperance saw nothing. Nothing but a lacquer table on which lay a letter. This letter contained the words, "If the son of Monte-Cristo be not a coward, if he wishes to find her whom he has lost, he will go from here to a certain Malvernet, who lives at Courberrie. There he will learn what he wishes to know, and will act as he deems best."
Esperance was delighted. He did not stop to think of the singularity of finding this note in this place. What did he care for this mystery that surrounded him? He had found Jane Zeld, or rather he had found traces of her. He went to the chimney to look at the clock, for he had lost all idea of time, and happening to see his own face in the mirror, he could not repress a start. He looked to himself at least ten years older than when he last stood before a mirror. He wondered at himself, when he remembered his father, whose youth seemed eternal, in spite of the trials through which he had passed. When he went out from the hôtel the first time he had mechanically put in his pocket a pair of revolvers—he had them now.
Twenty years since Courberrie was very far from what it is to-day. The houses were scattered and much fewer. Along the Seine extended deserted fields, against which the sullen tide rose and fell. In one of these fields stood an old wooden house which was not inhabited, for both wind and rain penetrated its roof and walls. On this especial night, however, any one familiar with the locality would have been astonished to see a light gleam through the worm-eaten shutters. In one room was a chair and a table. On the table was a lamp, but there was no other furniture.
Pacing the room, and occasionally stopping to listen to the storm that shook the old house like the bones of a skeleton, was a man—a reddish beard covered half his face. He was dressed in black, and had thrown a cloak and broad-brimmed hat on the table.
"Will he come?" he muttered, "will the long-expected hour ever strike?"
A slight sound was heard without. The dry branches crackled; the man started, then snatched his hat and pulled it well down over his forehead. The hand that was hidden in the folds of the cloak which he threw over his shoulders, held a dagger.
"I won't use it, though!" he said aloud, "his sufferings would be too brief!"
There came a knock at the door.
"Does a man named Malvernet live here?" asked a voice.
"Yes, come in," and the door was thrown wide open.
Esperance entered.
"What do you want of me? I am Malvernet," said a gruff voice.
Esperance looked about the room. The man was alone, and Esperance knew that he could defend himself.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"No. I was told to wait for a man here, who would come. I have done as I was bidden, that is all."
"I will tell you then. I am Esperance, the son of the Count of Monte-Cristo. I am rich, so rich that I do not myself know how much I have. Now if you obey me faithfully, I will make you so rich that every wish you have will be realized."
A sneer was on Malvernet's lips.
"You offer me money, do you, and why? Tell me what you want of me?"
"Scoundrels entered my house in the night—"
"And robbed you?"
"Yes, they robbed me of a treasure—a treasure for which I would give all else I have in the world. They carried away a young girl whom I love."
"And the girl's name?"
"Jane. And now I wish you to take me to her."
"And if I refuse?"
"I will kill you!" answered Esperance, coldly.
The other began to laugh noisily.
"No," he said, "you will not kill me! You know that if you did that, with me would disappear every trace of her whom you love, and you would say to yourself, if he refuses to-day he may yield to-morrow. You see, son of Monte-Cristo, that your threats are preposterous and can't frighten me."
"Then you refuse to do as I ask?"
"By no means. Only I wish to prove to you that these grand airs are simply foolish. You need me, but I do not need you. The game is not equal!"
"You are right," said Esperance, "and I ask your pardon."
The eyes of Benedetto—for it was Benedetto—flashed with triumph to see the son of his enemy thus humble. He had him in his power now and could kill him if he pleased, but death would not have assuaged his thirst for vengeance.
"All right," he said, "I was a little provoked with you, but I will help you now."
Esperance uttered an exclamation of thankfulness.
"Then let us hasten. When I have found Jane, ask me for my life if you choose."
Benedetto opened the door.
"Go on, sir, I will follow you."
And as they went out, Benedetto muttered:
"You little know what you say. Your life is indeed mine, and I mean to have it."
The night was excessively dark, but Esperance feltneither rain nor wind; his fever was so great that he was not cold.
Ah! Monte-Cristo, where are you? Here is your son rushing into the most terrible danger, and you far away!
Through the darkness Esperance followed Benedetto the assassin. Suddenly it seemed to him that the obscurity was rent away like a vail.
"Where are we?" he said to his guide.
"On the bank of the Seine. We have not far to go. Are you afraid?"
Esperance did not reply to this insulting question.
"Go on!" he said.
Presently they stopped before a dark building. Not a light was to be seen. Benedetto turned to the son of Monte-Cristo.
"This is the place to which I agreed to bring you."
"Do you mean that my beloved Jane is in this house?"
"She is here."
"I cannot believe it. The whole thing is a plot!"
"Will you kindly tell me, sir," said Benedetto, "why I should take the trouble to come all this way? A half hour since we were together where no human eye could see us, nor human ear hear us. What would have prevented my attacking you then, had my intentions been sinister?"
"That is true; but tell me that you are mistaken—that my poor Jane is not here!"
At this moment shrill laughter and ribald songs came from the house near which Esperance stood.
"Let us go in!" cried the Vicomte. "Jane must not stay here one other minute."
"Come, then," answered Benedetto, "you shall be satisfied."
He opened the door, but it was as dark within as without. Esperance heard the door close; he spoke, but there was no answer. He stretched out his arms and felt the wall, and instantly his eyes regained their peculiar facility of sight. He was alone in a small, square room without door or window. He uttered a cry of rage.
"I have been deceived! The scoundrel!"
But at the same moment the wall opened before him like two sliding panels, but in the place of the wall were iron bars. And through these bars Esperance beheld Jane, but what he saw was so terrible that he recoiled and uttered a cry of terror, which was drowned in shrieks of laughter, wild songs and the clatter of glasses.
Goutran had entire faith in Carmen, and he was now anxious to communicate with her. He called the former Zouave.
"Coucon," he said, "do you know where Monsieur Laisangy lives?"
"The great banker? Oh! yes, sir, everybody knows that."
"Then without losing one minute, I want you to go to his hôtel. This note must be given to his daughter at once."
"To Miss Carmen, sir?"
"Precisely; but understand me—no one else must see it. This note must be given into her hands."
"I understand, sir; it shall be done. There is nothing I would not do, sir, to repair my own stupidity."
Coucon started off. To go to the hôtel and ask for Miss Carmen was simple enough, but he took it into his head that it would be better if no one knew that he was there. He thought he would examine the premises before he decided on his course of action.
When he reached the hôtel, to his great surprise he found the doors wide open and the courtyard blazing with lights. Carriage after carriage was driving up, and stopping at the vestibule.
"Upon my life," said Coucon, "this is bad enough."
He stepped into a wine-shop, and asked for a bottle of wine; as he drank it he said to himself: "How the deuce am I to see Miss Carmen? She is in the salon receiving her guests. Of course, she won't come into the anteroom to get abillet doux, but if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain, which means, that if Miss Carmen won't come to me in the anteroom, I must go to her!"
At this moment a Chasseur d'Afrique entered the wine-shop.
"Will you have the kindness to tell me," he asked, of the shop-keeper, "where I shall find the hôtel of a rich banker about here? Laisangy, I think, is the name."
"Almost opposite—where all those carriages stand."
"Ah! thanks!" And as the soldier turned round he saw Coucon.
The recognition was mutual, and the two former companions fell into each other's arms.
"Galaret!" cried Coucon.
"Yes. And now let us have a glass."
"Can't stop, have a commission to perform!"
Nevertheless, Coucon did stop to drink a little, and to gossip. "When did you come to Paris?" he asked.
"This very day, in the escort of Mohammed-Ben-Omar, a sort of Pasha, you know, and to-night he slipped on the stairs and wrenched his ankle. Take another glass, friend. Well, as I was saying, he was asked to thissoiréeat the banker's and had to writea refusal. As he lies on his sofa, and is likely to lie there for some little time, this note I must deliver."
Coucon did not seem to hear what his friend was saying, but suddenly exclaimed to an innocent looking bourgeois, at another table:
"What are you staring at?"
In vain did the man stammer that he was not even looking at them. One word led to another until a hot quarrel was in progress, the police were called in, and Galaret was arrested.
"Give me your note," said Coucon, in the most obliging manner, "I will see that it is delivered."
And he dashed out of the shop with suspicious alacrity. "You are a fool, Coucon," he said to himself, "if you don't manage to deliver your own note at the same time!"
Our readers must not suppose that Coucon was so simple as to think of penetrating the Laisangy salons, even with the note he had obtained in so abominable a manner from his friend. The plan he had devised was more audacious and more sure. Ten minutes later the former Zouave entered the shop of a costumer in the Rue de Pélétere. And in five minutes more he sallied forth a magnificent Bedouin, draped in white and wearing an enormous turban. He called out to the astonished coachman:
"Rue de Rivoli! and drive fast!"
"I will watch the enemy," Carmen had said to Goutran, when they parted. The enemy was the man who had taken advantage of her inexperience, and induced her to call him father. Why had she not realized what she was doing sooner? She had, however, shown her womanly courage by the confession she had made to Goutran, and now she found herself without shield or buckler in opposition to the man under whose roof she lived. She resolved to defend Goutran and all those he loved. Woe to whomsoever should attack them.
That same morning, Laisangy asked to be received by her. She was quite ready for another quarrel, but Laisangy was amiable and smiling, for he had at that moment heard from Benedetto that his vengeance was near being accomplished.
Strangely enough this man Laisangy was in deadly terror of Monte-Cristo, and fully estimated the almost superhuman power of this wonderful man. But when Benedetto appeared before him and he found that there was one villain greater than himself, he was encouraged and comforted. What joy it would be to torture, without danger to himself, the soul of him whom he had so feared.
Danglars had given himself, soul and body, to Benedetto, as in legends a man abandons himself to a demon. He smiled as he entered Carmen's room.
"What do you want of me?" she said, coldly.
"You have not forgotten that we give a grand reception this evening."
"This evening! Surely you mistake—"
"No. This is your own list of invitations that I hold in my hand."
Carmen had forgotten entirely that these invitations had been sent out a week before.
Laisangy looked at her closely.
"I fancied," he said, "that this entertainment had escaped your memory."
"I certainly shall not appear!" answered Carmen.
The banker bit his lips, this was precisely what he feared. He began to argue the matter gently. And she, in her turn, began to reflect. She saw on the list the name of Goutran, which she had written with a breaking heart. After all, had she the right to desert her post?
"Very well," she said, "I will be present."
Laisangy was astonished at his prompt success.
"Yes," she repeated, "on condition that you do not once call me your daughter."
"What shall I call you?" stammered Laisangy.
"Whatever you choose, only take care that you do not disobey me!"
In fact, the banker cared little upon this point. He had obtained what he wanted. His fête would be made brilliant by Carmen's presence. He did notretire, however, and the girl saw that he had something else to say.
"What more do you want?" she asked, impatiently.
"My dear child," began Laisangy, with some pomposity, "you have, doubtless, ere this discovered that matters of finance are composed of a thousand details more important than those of diplomacy."
"I have certainly learned that swindling is a troublesome business," she said through her teeth, and with intense disdain.
Laisangy pretended not to hear this.
"To-night," he said, with perfectsang froid, "we leave the Tuileries."
He had counted on the effect of these words. Carmen shrugged her shoulders, which certainly was not respectful to the Emperor.
"And I am greatly disturbed," continued the banker. "It may be necessary for me to leave for an hour. I shall pretend indisposition, which may be attributed to the heat, and while I am supposed to be recovering in my own room, I can go out and attend to my affairs."
"You may be obliged to go out, then?"
"Certainly; did you not understand?"
"Why do you not tell me that you wish to go to the Bourse?"
Laisangy was annoyed. He saw that Carmen was on thequi vive, and Carmen said to herself: "What does this mean? He is lying, and some infernal machination is on foot. I must learn what it is."
She replied more gently:
"But I care little about these matters; the Boursedoes not interest me. At what hour did you say you might be called away?"
"About midnight."
"Very good. Then you would like me, I suppose, to be very anxious about you, and urge you to withdraw?"
"Precisely!" answered the banker, much pleased. "Ah, Carmen, how well you understand me. Had you chosen, we two would have governed France!"
"Not I!" answered Carmen, abruptly. "We are companions, not accomplices. I do not understand you, and I do not propose to aid you in your infamy."
At this word Laisangy started, and thus confirmed the suspicions of Carmen, who was watching him.
He took her hand, and she withdrew it quickly. He had obtained what he desired, and was now ready to depart.
"What is he planning?" said Carmen to herself. "Is it really some financial operation, which, of course, I care nothing about, or is it——?"
Goutran's name rose to her lips. All day she watched him, but saw nothing to justify her in her belief, and yet she knew that her woman's instinct had not played her false. Over and over again she was tempted to retract her promise, for the idea of this fête was intolerable to her. She thought of Goutran, and remembered that she might save him.
The evening came, and Carmen's maid could hardly believe it was she who replied:
"What dress, did you say? I don't care in the least!"
Nevertheless, when Carmen appeared in the salons there was an audible murmur of admiration. In her white dress, with a few flowers in her beautiful hair, Carmen had never been more beautiful. She moved slowly through the rooms, looking for Goutran, who was not there, as we know.
Little did Carmen care for these men and women, who were the tools and slaves of the man of December. Laisangy was radiant, however. Carmen shivered whenever she looked at him. It seemed to her that he was in a state of unusual excitement.
The orchestra was playing delightfully, and lacqueys were announcing the first names of the empire—counts, and barons, and princes. Suddenly a new name was heard:
"Mohammed-Ben-Omar!"
And a magnificent personage, wearing the Legion of Honor on his white bournous, entered the room. Every one turned to look at him. He was a magnificent looking Arab. With a gravity that was truly oriental, and with his face half concealed in the folds of his mantle, his brown hands folded on his breast, Mohammed-Ben-Omar advanced.
Laisangy went forward to meet him. In fact, he could hardly believe in his good fortune. Mohammed-Ben-Omar belonged to that class of Algerians who, listening to the counsel of French financiers, always cherished the project of making Algeria into a veritable El Dorado, and had now come to France to lend the support of his name and authority to some one ofthe speculations built on the sands of the desert, of which the Tuileries people were so fond.
Laisangy, learning of his arrival in Paris, had hastened to send him an invitation, but had hardly hoped to see him. He was, therefore, more than usually civil.
Ben-Omar replied to his courtesies only by carrying his hand to his heart and then to his forehead, in the recognized Mussulman manner. He did not speak one word of French, and yet, when Carmen passed, he said "Beautiful!" with a guttural intonation.
"My daughter, sir!" answered the banker, with pride.
"Beautiful! beautiful!" repeated the Mohammedan.
Laisangy signed to Omar to accompany him to the group where Carmen was talking. There he went through the ceremony of introduction. Then, leaning toward her, Omar said, under his breath:
"I come from Goutran. Allah il Allah!" he added, aloud.
Carmen started. Never was she so astonished. The name of Goutran from these lips was like lightning from a clear sky. She looked at the Arab's bronze face and his huge moustache.
"Take His Excellency's arm," said Laisangy, "and show him the gallery and statuary."
Carmen hesitated, but Omar at once threw his bournous aside and offered the young lady his arm.
Laisangy whispered in Carmen's ear:
"Do not delay too long. I have received the signal and must do what was agreed upon between us."
Carmen paid little heed to these words, but moved through the crowd on Omar's arm, slowly and thoughtfully. Omar was very solemn, but under his moustache he whispered:
"I come from Monsieur Goutran."
"Who are you?" she asked, raising her fan to hide her lips as she spoke.
Whenever the crowd came too near he raised his arm, and with a grand sweep of bournous, hand and arm, he said:
"Allah il Allah! Rassoul il Allah!"
Everybody drew back much impressed, for the incomprehensible has always great power.
At last, Omar and Carmen were alone in a small salon.
"Will you tell me who you are?" asked Carmen once again.
"I am Coucon—devoted to Monsieur Goutran and to Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo."
"And you disguised yourself to see me?"
"Yes, for I had a note to bring from Monsieur Goutran."
"Give it to me!" Carmen cried.
When at last Coucon succeeded in finding it among the folds of his bournous, she snatched it from him.
This is what she read:
"Carmen, my friend and my ally, you have promised your assistance. Gladly do I claim it. My friends are in great peril. Jane Zeld has vanished in the most mysterious manner, as has Esperance. There must bein the Hôtel de Monte-Cristo some secret issue which our enemies do not know. The infamous L—— must possess this secret. Do your best to discover it. You see that I place my reliance on you, for I love you."Goutran."
"Carmen, my friend and my ally, you have promised your assistance. Gladly do I claim it. My friends are in great peril. Jane Zeld has vanished in the most mysterious manner, as has Esperance. There must bein the Hôtel de Monte-Cristo some secret issue which our enemies do not know. The infamous L—— must possess this secret. Do your best to discover it. You see that I place my reliance on you, for I love you.
"Goutran."
Carmen uttered a joyous exclamation. Goutran loved her! Coucon turned toward her.
"Well," he asked, "what am I to tell him?"
"Return to Monsieur Goutran and tell him that if it costs me my life I will discover what he wishes to know. And remember that you must open the door of the hôtel to me at whatever time I may come. Of course, you and Monsieur Goutran will be there all night. Now, go!"
At this moment a terrified looking servant entered the room.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "your father has just been taken ill."
Omar respectfully saluted the young girl, and was lost in the crowd. No one noticed him, for there was much excitement over the illness of the great financier. Carmen followed the lacquey with rather too slow a step for the occasion. She was intensely irritated at this new comedy, and she was tempted to cry out to the crowd:
"He lies! He has always lied!"
Laisangy was lying back in his chair. There was no physician in the room, and yet the people about him talked knowingly of bleeding him. Fortunately for him, Carmen arrived.
"I know what it is," she said; "he has had similar attacks before. He will be better after a little rest."
And Carmen gave orders that the banker should be carried to his chamber. Then excusing herself to her guests, she followed.
Laisangy, who was becoming greatly bored by the part he was playing, supposed that Carmen would dismiss the servants and remain with him herself; but she had quite other plans. She bade the men undress their master and put him in his bed. Laisangy was ready to swear at her, but, of course, he was too ill to dispute. If he suddenly revived and made a row, then the story would get about of the ridiculous comedy he had played. His patience was not long tried, however. Carmen only wanted to gain a little time, in which she might hope to discover the contents of a letter which she saw the banker receive and put in his pocket early in the evening. She found the letter and retired into the next room to read it.
"Vengeance is assured. Fanfar and Goutran are prisoners in the house of Monte-Cristo. As to the girl, she is at the house at Courberrie, where Esperance will arrive too late."
Hardly had Carmen grasped the sense of these words than she ran to her room, and wrapping herself in her long black cloak, left the hôtel by the private door.
We left Esperance in the house at Courberrie just when the panels had been thrown open. He uttered a cry of horror. What did he see? Around a table covered with glasses sat a number of women singing drunken songs, and among these women sat one pale as a ghost, and this one was Jane!
Ah! poor child! Of what terrible machination was she the victim?
Benedetto, who required her as a tool for his vengeance, had carried her through the subterranean passage, she all the time entirely unconscious. He laid her on a sofa, and stood with folded arms looking down upon her. Did he feel the smallest emotion of pity? No, not he! He was only asking himself if the girl was so attractive that Esperance would really feel her loss as much as his enemies wished. Suddenly she sighed—a long, strange, fluttering sigh. Benedetto leaned over her anxiously. What if she were to die now! He must hasten. Everything had been arranged. He opened her teeth with the blade of a knife, and poured down her throat a few drops of a clear white liquor. It was an anesthetic whose terrible properties he well understood. Jane would see, Jane would hear, and Jane would suffer, but as she could neither speaknor move—all resistance would be impossible. And, that night she was carried to the house at Courberrie, what terrible agony she suffered! She knew that she was in the power of an enemy, that she had been torn from him whom she loved better than life, and from whose lips she had just heard oaths of eternal fidelity. With a heart swelling with agony she could not utter a sound. Her soul was alive, but her body was motionless. Suddenly the room in which she lay was brilliantly illuminated. A crowd of women came pouring in—and such women! My readers who remember Jane's past can readily imagine that the girl regarded this scene as a hideous dream. She even fancied that she saw her mother.
Esperance beheld all this. He rushed forward, only to be stopped by iron bars.
This terrible scene had been most adroitly managed. The house at Courberrie belonged to Danglars, and had been the scene of many ignoble orgies. The opening through which Esperance looked was not more than thirty feet from Jane. He called, but she could not hear him. Then all was suddenly dark. The lights returned in a few minutes, and Jane was seen alone.
"Jane! Jane!" cried Esperance. Suddenly a door opened. Esperance saw an old man enter the room. He went up to Jane with a hideous smile on his face. It was Laisangy.
Of all the crimes that Benedetto had committed, this was the most infamous!
Esperance caught the iron bars and shook them violently, and with such enormous strength that one ofthem was loosened. Esperance passed through them and stood in a corridor, but there was a sheet of plate glass still between him and Jane. This glass he broke with his clenched hands, and Esperance sprang at the throat of Danglars and threw him to the other end of the room. Then, taking Jane in his arms, he cried:
"Jane! my beloved—do you not hear me? I am Monte-Cristo."
"Monte-Cristo!" repeated a hoarse voice.
Esperance half turned.
Danglars had staggered up from the floor, and was gazing at Esperance with eyes fairly starting from his head. With his deadly pallor and a gash on his cheek from the glass through which he had passed, Esperance bore a striking resemblance to his father. He looked as Dantès looked the day his infamous companion betrayed him at Marseilles. Danglars was appalled.
"Edmond Dantès!" he cried in agony, raising his arms high above his head, and wildly clutching the air for support. Then he fell forward on his face in an attack of apoplexy.
Esperance laid Jane again on the sofa, and ran to his assistance. He lifted him from the floor. The banker was dead.
Esperance was as if stunned. The strange events, coming one after the other, affected his reason. He believed himself the victim of a hideous nightmare. He heard a sigh and turned back to Jane, who seemed to be trying to throw off the stupor that had weighed her down. The effect of the narcotic was probably passing off. She raised her hands and pressed them toher forehead. Esperance forgot everything else, and falling at Jane's feet he cried, in an agony of entreaty.
"Oh! Jane, awake! I must take you from this terrible place. Jane, awake!"
The girl's eyes moved.
"Who speaks my name?" she whispered.
"It is I—I, who loves—Esperance!"
Jane opened her eyes quickly.
"Esperance! Oh! not here—it must not be!"
She began to sob convulsively.
"I know all, my beloved!" he answered, soothingly, "I know the snare that was laid for you. But why do you repel me, dearest?"
"Ah! you do not know," she said, amid her sobs. "Those women—those songs. Ah! let me die!"
"No, do not say that! We are surrounded by enemies, but I fear them not. Come, we must leave this place."
But, with her brain still excited by opium, she continued to resist.
"Jane, you know me?—I am Esperance. Let us fly, and find our happiness together. Jane—dear Jane!"
His voice was so tender and so persuasive that suddenly the terror-stricken expression left the girl's face. She placed her hands on his shoulder, and contemplated him in a sort of ecstasy.
"Yes, I remember. Esperance, how I love you!"
At this instant, like a chorus behind the scenes, there came the shouts of ribald laughter. She fell on the floor, crying: "Alas! alas! I am accursed!"
The door of the room was thrown open, and a man entered. This man was Benedetto.
Having played his little comedy with consummate skill, Coucon hastened to the carriage he had kept waiting, and drove to the Hôtel de Monte-Cristo. He was in such haste to inform Goutran that he had successfully fulfilled his mission, that he forgot to disembarrass himself of his fancy costume, so that when he appeared before Madame Caraman, the good woman uttered a cry of terror.
"It is only I—Coucon."
Madame protested against his selecting a time like this to indulge in a masquerade.
"It is nothing of the kind," answered Coucon, impatiently. "Where is Monsieur Goutran?"
"I have not seen the gentlemen since you went out."
"Then they must be in Miss Jane's room still?"
"I suppose so."
"We will go there at once, then."
But the Zouave was interrupted by a strange sound like that made by a heavy hammer at some distance.
Madame turned pale.
"You know, Coucon, that I am not a coward, but I tell you I can't make out that sound. I have heard it now for some time."
"It seems to come from the cellar."
"Yes, that is what I think. But let us tell the friends."
They by this time had reached Jane's door, on which they knocked. No reply. Then, after knocking and listening, Madame said:
"We must go in!"
She opened the door, and both uttered a cry on finding the chamber empty. The iron panel had closed, and no one would have suspected its existence.
Coucon could not believe his eyes. He ran through every room, but those they sought had vanished. They had not gone out of the hôtel, for Madame had guarded it.
"Well!" cried Coucon, "vanished like Miss Jane, like the Vicomte Esperance!"
Hark! Again they heard the strange noise.
Coucon, born and bred in Paris, had read many novels and seen many plays. He at once announced that the house they were in had subterranean passages.
"But there are no doors."
"What of that!"
He dashed from the room, and came back with hammer and chisel!
"What are you going to do?"
"Demolish the house, if necessary."
Madame wrung her hands.
"We shall be forgiven if we make mistakes," said Coucon. "We can do only our best."
And Coucon began to tear up the carpet, and then to sound the boards.
"Above," he said, looking up, "are the bath rooms,and I think we had best begin by pulling down the hangings on the wall."
"Oh! that is wicked!"
It was of no use to argue, the Zouave had made up his mind, and he ripped off the silk as if it had been old cotton. Madame, fired by his example, went to work also. While they were thus frantically busy, the door-bell rang.
"It is Miss Carmen," cried Coucon. "She may be able to tell us something."
He hastened to the door. It was Carmen, as he had supposed.
"My friends," she said, "where is Goutran?"
"I do not know," was the reply.
"I will tell you, then. He, with Monsieur Fanfar are prisoners in this house."
"What did I tell you!" shouted Coucon. "And now, listen—the noise has begun again."
Seizing the hammer, Coucon struck three hard blows on the walls at regular intervals. He waited and listened. Three blows answered him. He struck again, varying the number, which were immediately repeated.
"Yes, it is plain. Our friends hear us, and wish to communicate with us. But hark! they have begun." Twenty-five blows were struck, one after the other, in quick succession. The three looked at each other, greatly troubled.
"The twenty-five letters of the alphabet!" cried Madame.
"Yes," said Carmen, "repeat, to prove that you understand."
After repeated experiments it was found that communication was easy, and Carmen spelled out:
"There is an iron door under the silk."
"I knew it!" Coucon exclaimed, "I had began to tear it off when you came."
They pulled off the silk, and suddenly Coucon exclaimed:
"Here is the door!" Without well knowing what he was doing, Coucon pressed the knob, and the panel flew open so quickly that Coucon was nearly knocked over. "Take the light and come!" he shouted.
Carmen snatched the candelabra, and they passed through the door.
It will be remembered what happened when Goutran and his friends entered the passage. When their feet touched the stairs the panel closed. In fact, a secret mechanism connected the first stair with the iron door. Those who did not know it became prisoners at once, while others simply stepped over this stair, and so left the iron panel open. But neither Coucon nor the others knew this. Down went Coucon's foot in the wrong place, and the panel swung to. At the same moment Fanfar, Goutran and Bobichel appeared. They had been guided by the light.
"Goutran!" cried Carmen, running toward him.
"What! is it you who has delivered us?"
They went back all together, to find themselves prisoners? No, for Coucon had dropped the hammer, which accidentally fell in the aperture, thus preventingthe door from closing entirely when the spring on the stair was touched. They were saved!
In Jane's room they held a consultation. Carmen communicated what she had heard, and showed the note she had taken from Laisangy.
"But where is the place he speaks of?" asked Fanfar.
"I can show you," she said, quietly.
Coucon ran to the stables, and in ten minutes the carriage stood at the door.
"Heaven grant that we arrive in time!" said Fanfar.
Alas! it was a vain hope. Much time had been lost while the three men had been shut up. Their candles had burned out. Fanfar tore a rail from the stairs and began to sound the wall, and suddenly they heard themselves answered, but all the time they were at a loss to understand how they had been able to establish such prompt communication. But this was no time for explanation. All they now thought of was Esperance. The carriage was driven at full speed toward Courberrie.
Benedetto entered. He was now the escaped convict, neither more nor less. On his lips was a hideous smile. He had attained his aim at last—he had in his power the son of the man whom he hated, and revenge was sweet.
Esperance held Jane in his arms, and merely turned his head toward Benedetto.
"Who are you?" he cried. "I know you not, but if you are not the basest of the base, you will aid me to make my escape from this terrible place, and enable me to take this poor child with me."
"No, sir!" answered Benedetto, slowly. "I will not aid you to escape, and you will not save this woman."
"Ah! I understand you. You are the accomplice of these scoundrels. Very well; I will make a way for myself."
He drew his revolvers from his pocket, and pointed one at Benedetto.
"Move!" he cried, "or I will kill you as I would a dog!"
"You would commit murder then, would you?"
"No—it would be simple self-protection. I am notyour prisoner, and this woman ought to be sacred to you."
"This woman," said Benedetto, "tells you she comes here not of her own free will. Do you believe her?"
"Jane! answer him, my beloved! Tell him he lies!"
Benedetto started back.
"Jane Zeld," he said, "tell the absolute truth. Tell the Vicomte if you consider yourself worthy of him." Jane turned her weary eyes upon the Vicomte. "Tell him if the daughter of the Lyons outcast has any right to lean on the arm of the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo. Jane Zeld, think of the past. Tell this gentleman who your mother was. Tell him where she died."
"No, no!" cried Jane. "Enough! enough!"
"No, it is not enough. Lead the Vicomte to your mother's tomb and there place your hand in his, if you dare!"
"Be silent!" cried Esperance, who felt himself growing mad.
"But this is not all," continued Benedetto. "Jane Zeld, shall I tell the Vicomte the name of your father?"
"I know it not!"
"Have you forgotten the man who took you from a wretched house at the time of your mother's death? This man was Sanselme, the former priest—Sanselme, the former convict, and your father! And now, Vicomte, will you kill me? Do so, if you dare!"
Jane fell back, fainting.
"She is dead!" cried Esperance. "Ah! coward and assassin, I will have your life for this. Have you arms? I wish you to have some chance."
Benedetto threw aside the mantle he wore and showed two swords, one of which he threw at the feet of Esperance.
Yes, he had long craved this duel, and, sure of his ability, felt that he had to do with a mere boy.
Esperance seized the sword, and went up to Benedetto.
"You have insulted me," he said, gravely, "in insulting this woman who is dearer to me than life itself; it matters little who you are, prepare to die."
This room was a singular duelling ground, but Esperance cared little for that. His pulse beat no more quickly than usual. He had greatly changed in the last few hours. He felt himself elevated to the dignity of chastisement.
The two antagonists stood on guard. There was a moment of profound silence. In a mural painting on the walls of a German cathedral, two men stand like this, and a little distance off, half hidden behind a tree, is the figure of Death.
Esperance was perfectly cool, but Benedetto saw after two or three passes that he had no boy antagonist. Calling together all his resources he made a lunge. His antagonist returned it, and grazed Benedetto's breast.
At this moment Jane revived. "Courage, Esperance, courage!" she murmured.
The young man heard her voice, and the contestwas renewed. Ten times did the sword of Esperance menace the heart of Benedetto, ten times did the scoundrel escape death. But he began to feel afraid. The sword of the son of Monte-Cristo flashed and gleamed before his eyes like the fiery sword of the Bible. Esperance was gaining the advantage, and a cry of rage escaped the panting breast of Benedetto. Was it possible that after all, his vengeance was about to slip through his fingers? And was he to die instead of Monte-Cristo's son! He recoiled further and further, feeling that the sword of his opponent would pin him to the wall.
Monte-Cristo's son said to him, "Scoundrel! your life is in my power. Repent of the evil you have done, and I will show you mercy."
"Mercy!" sneered Benedetto. "You talk of mercy. Take care, I hate you! I hate your father. Hasten to take my life or I swear that I will take yours!"
"Die then!" cried Esperance.
And with a rapid movement of his sword he disarmed his adversary; his blade was about to enter Benedetto's breast when the report of a pistol was heard, and Esperance, shot through the heart, fell by Jane's side. She threw herself on his body with cries of despair. Benedetto, with an infernal smile, turned away with a pistol in his hand.
It will be remembered that Esperance in his righteous anger had aimed his pistols at Benedetto, but the thought of a murder in this upright soul was but apassing one, and when he drew his sword he laid down his pistols upon a chair near him.
At the moment when Benedetto felt that all was lost his eyes fell an the arms, and an infernal thought struck him. He gradually approached the chair, and finally, with a sudden movement, snatched one of the revolvers. The scoundrel had murdered his adversary. Esperance fell and Jane encircled him with her arms.
Benedetto frowningly looked on. He had at last achieved his object. Unable to injure the man he hated, he had wounded him through his son, his only child!
"Farewell," sighed Esperance, "I love thee, Jane, but I am dying!"
"And I die with you!" answered Jane, with paling lips.
And as if the angel of death touched them both at the same time, they slept in eternal night.
Benedetto did not move. Suddenly he started. Loud noises were heard at the door of the deserted house.
"We are here, Esperance! We bring you aid!" voices called in cheering tones.
Benedetto looked about like a wild boar at bay. Every issue was cut off. He knew that he had no pity to expect, for when these men beheld him here with his two victims they would take his life without the smallest hesitation. He rushed to the window and opened it; the Seine ran dark at his feet.
Benedetto waited until Fanfar and his friendsentered the room, and then crying out to them, "You are too late! I have killed the son of Monte-Cristo!" leaped into the river.
Goutran rushed to Esperance, and lifting him in his arms, said despairingly: "Dead! murdered!"
And in the presence of these two young creatures so beautiful in death, the men uncovered their bowed heads and Carmen knelt in passionate weeping.