When Francine found herself in the power of these scoundrels she fainted away, and these men carried her over their shoulders as if she had been a bag of flour, perfectly indifferent to her beauty.
Robeccal suddenly bade them halt. They had reached the vile place known as the Cour de Bretagne, a part of Paris known for its poverty and vice.
"I think it is about time!" grumbled one of Robeccal's men in reply.
"Oh! I suppose you thought you were to be paid for nothing, did you?"
Without heeding the growling of these fellows, Robeccal stepped up to a door and knocked. It was opened by a person who stood back in the shadow, and a hurried conversation took place. Satisfied apparently with what he heard, Robeccal bade his men follow him. They went to Belleville, which at that time was an excessively pretty place, as almost all the houses of any pretension had gardens and grounds. Robeccal had been extremely adroit in diverting suspicion and the observation of the people they encountered. He now knocked at a door in a wall half hidden by overhanging ivy.
"Who is there?" called a woman's voice.
"Robec and the kid," was the reply.
The door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges.
"Come in, all of you." It was Roulante who spoke.
Francine was at once carried to a little cottage at the foot of a long garden, where, still unconscious, she was laid on a couch.
Then Robeccal paid his assistants the sum agreed upon. They were not altogether satisfied, but he managed to get rid of them.
La Roulante was unchanged since the day when she and her lover discussed the assassination of Iron Jaws.
"I have done well, have I not?" asked Robeccal, with a friendly tap on the massive shoulders of this monstrosity.
"Her beauty is not marred, I hope?" she asked, anxiously.
"I am not such a fool as that! But I am afraid that the handkerchief was too tight. She is confoundedly pretty, that is a fact!"
"What is that to you?" asked the giantess, angrily. "Now give me that bottle."
"What are you going to do?"
"None of your business! Hand it here."
The woman poured out something that looked like wine, and dropped a spoonful between the girl's lips. She had so much difficulty in doing so, that Robeccal took a knife from his pocket, and inserted it between Francine's close shut teeth. As soon as the liquid disappeared down the girl's throat she started.
"You are not poisoning her?" asked Robeccal.
"Am I a fool? Hark! I hear a carriage. Take this girl up-stairs."
Robeccal snatched Francine from the sofa, and ran lightly up the stairs.
The room above was elegantly furnished, and had long windows looking out upon the garden, which seemed to stretch out indefinitely. In reality it ended at no very great distance in a wall sixteen feet in height.
As Robeccal laid the girl on the bed, he looked at her again with some anxiety. She was absolutely motionless.
There came a knock at the door. Robeccal started.
"That must be he!" said La Roulante.
It was in fact Talizac, who had arrived. Fernando was with him, but the Vicomte had knocked with the handle of his cane. It was not the signal agreed upon, and the door was not opened. Suddenly Frederic uttered an oath.
"Oh! it is he!" said Robeccal. "That is better than a visiting card!"
But La Roulante insisted on a little argument through the door before she would consent to move the heavy bolts.
"Damned sorceress!" cried Talizac, "you deserve that I should cut your face with my cane, for keeping me waiting so long."
La Roulante made no reply to this gentle address, and Talizac, with blood-stained face and torn clothing, entered the house, followed by Fernando, who was as dignified and correct in costume as he always was.
When Talizac reached the salon, he dropped into a chair. "Water! for the love of Heaven, give me some water!" he murmured. He felt almost ill, and would have been glad of a few hours of rest. "Is she here?" he asked.
"Yes, she is here," answered La Roulante.
Talizac rose. "I must repair the disorder of my toilette," he said. "Robeccal, come with me."
On Talizac's return, he asked La Roulante where the Marquise was.
"Oh! she is asleep," was the reply.
"Show me where she is, and move a little faster!"
"It strikes me, sir, that you are not over polite," muttered Robeccal.
"Let him have his own way," sneered the giantess; "he is in a hurry to see his darling, and has no time to be civil!" She made a grotesque reverence as she spoke. She preceded the Vicomte to show him the way. "Do you know," she cried, stopping on the stairs, "that the girl is as pretty as a pink."
"That is none of your affairs," answered Talizac, roughly, "I pay you to serve me, not to talk!"
"You are a little hard on us, I think," said La Roulante, with a sneer, "but I suppose when people are rich they can say and do as they please!"
"Is that the room?" Talizac asked, as he reached the top of the stairs, "if so, open the door at once, or I will force it!"
"No, you won't injure my house like that! But you want to see her, do you? Very well, I will show her to you, then."
She quickly slid back a narrow panel in the door, which permitted him to look into the room.
"Look in, gentlemen and ladies," said La Roulante, in the sing-song tone of a showman at the circus, "look in, it won't cost you anything!" And then the creature laughed.
Talizac did not heed her, but leaning toward the open panel looked at Francine, who lay with her arms folded on her breast like a child. Her hair was loosened, and nothing could have been lovelier than this face with its delicate features, reminding one of Raphael's pictures. Talizac looked, and forgot that this child was the victim of a miserable conspiracy. He was so impressed by her beauty and her innocence that he was ready to kneel before her. But La Roulante touched his arm with a cynical laugh.
"Open the door, I say!"
La Roulante closed the panel with a snap, and slowly drew a key from her pocket and stood with it in her fingers, and then said quietly and firmly:
"If I unlock that door, it will cost you twenty thousand francs!"
Talizac started back. "What do you mean?" he exclaimed.
"Just what I say, twenty thousand francs!"
"But this is abominable. Have I not paid the sum agreed upon?"
"A trifle, yes; but that won't do!"
"It is robbery, bare-faced robbery—"
"None of that, sir, you are not so honest yourself, that you can afford to taunt others!"
He looked at her in astonishment, and then rushed at the door as if to force it open. She called for Robeccal, who hurried to obey her summons. Talizac called Fernando, and Robeccal turned back. Drawing an enormous knife, he said, fiercely:
"Don't you interfere! My wife will settle her own matters with this gentleman!"
Fernando's attitude during the fight between Frederic and Montferrand has already informed us as to the courage of this man. Perhaps he was wise in not risking his life to defend Talizac, whom he estimated at his proper value. He was interested in the Fongereues family only as an emissary of that Society which at that time labored to strangle Liberalism at its birth.
"Very good!" answered Fernando, shrugging his shoulders indifferently, but as he did not propose to be mixed up in any disagreeable affair in this house, he determined to take himself off.
The giantess was not alarmed by Talizac's mad attempt. She calmly lifted him by the collar and landed him on the stairs, half way down.
"Robbers! Murderers!" shouted the Vicomte.
"Confound you! hold your tongue!" said Robeccal, flourishing the knife which had such an effect on Fernando.
"Why do you not keep your word?" angrily asked the Vicomte; "you promised—"
"People like us do not keep our promises," answered La Roulante, cynically. "You paid us for carrying off the girl, you paid us for giving her a shelter; we havedone both. But if you wish to enter that room it will cost you twenty thousand francs!"
"But that is an enormous sum!" moaned Talizac.
"Not to a man like you, who has a grandee for a father, and a mother rolling in wealth. She has diamonds, plenty of them!"
"Wretches that you are!"
"Thank you! I don't care for any more of these hard names, if it is all the same to you! And now let me tell you, if you don't hand over this money that the police will be at your heels."
At the word police, Fernando went to the Vicomte. "Come," he said, "we had better not remain in this cut-throat place. You must give the matter up, that is all there is to be said."
"No, I tell you, no!" Feeling in his pocket, Talizac drew out a handful of gold and flung it at the woman.
"Take this," he cried, "and unlock that door!"
La Roulante counted the money. "No," she replied, "this is but thirty-two louis."
"Come," persisted Fernando, dragging Talizac away.
"Call again!" shouted the woman. "You need not be in a hurry, but call again!"
And the door closed.
"My idea is a good one," said La Roulante to Robeccal. "He will come back, and will bring the twenty thousand francs!"
Day was breaking. The Marquis de Fongereues was standing in his dressing-room, listening with frowning brow to Cyprien, who was narrating the events of the night.
"I assure you, sir," said the valet, obsequiously, "that every precaution was taken, and yet we failed."
"There is one comfort—that Fanfar is every day compromising himself more deeply with these conspirators."
"Yes, and when the hour comes, Fanfar's condemnation is certain."
"But if he escapes us?"
"Impossible! We shall have him, even if we are forced to put the entire police on his track!"
A lacquey knocked at the door and entered.
"The Marquis de Montferrand desires to see you, sir, on a matter of great importance."
"Show him up at once!" said his master, who added to Cyprien: "Do not go away. I do not like this visit—I may need your services. Take your position behind that portière."
The heavy folds had scarcely fallen over him when the Marquis appeared. He was a noble-looking, white haired old man. He was excessively pale.
"Monsieur de Fongereues," he said, "we are morally responsible for the crimes our children commit, are we not?"
"How do you mean?"
"I speak of the Vicomte de Talizac, who is dishonoring himself, dishonors you, and compromises the cause to which you belong!"
"My son is young—if he has committed some peccadillo——"
"Peccadillo is hardly the word to use. Are you thus lenient toward one who is some day to bear your name?"
Fongereues writhed under this severe language, and yet he tried to contain himself, for De Montferrand was a precious ally. It was he who had induced Monsieur de Salves to accept the overtures of marriage made by the De Fongereues family.
"Speak," he said, "speak frankly. Your age and the long intimacy existing between our families give you the right to do so."
"The Vicomte de Talizac has this night endeavored to murder my son!"
"Impossible, sir!"
"My son never lies. He endeavored to prevent an infamous act, and Talizac attacked him with a knife. Arthur in return slapped the Vicomte's face."
Fongereues started forward.
"Wait!" said the old gentleman. "Hear my tale. Talizac paid scoundrels to abduct a girl, a street singer. My son became disgusted with the adventure, and it was then that the Vicomte attacked him.To-morrow the journals will all have this tale. I shall lay the facts before Monsieur de Salves, as it was I who acted as intermediary in the proposed marriage."
Fongereues became livid. He staggered, and caught at a table for support.
At this moment a portière was lifted, and Magdalena, Talizac's mother, appeared. Fongereues exclaimed:
"Madame! your son is a scoundrel. He is ruined, as are we all! This is the result of the education you have given him!"
Magdalena looked perfectly unmoved.
"Monsieur de Montferrand," she said, "I am aware that my son has been unfortunate enough to quarrel with yours. I come with his apologies."
"Apologies!" repeated both gentlemen, in amazement.
"You are astonished, I see, but remember that I am a mother, though I bear the name of de Fongereues. I know that my son has been greatly in the wrong. I know the whole story, and I cannot see why there should be so much said because the Vicomte de Talizac chanced to admire a daughter of the people. You talk of crime, of infamy. These are large words for a small matter. But the quarrel between the young men is of more importance. They had both been drinking, and I sincerely trust that such folly will be forgotten in view of the old friendship between the families. And I authorize you to kiss my hand as a token of forgiveness and reconciliation."
This little speech had been delivered with such assurance and ease that the old Marquis was nearlytaken off his feet. The fair Magdalena was still beautiful.
Monsieur de Montferrand bowed over the fair hand, and Fongereues wondered and admired.
"And now let us talk a little," the lady said, as she seated herself. "I must not omit to say that my son promises not to see this girl again—it was but a passing fever. I realize that, and I promise to use all my influence with my son to induce him to forget this affair. But what are we to do to silence the scandal which will certainly be on every tongue to-morrow? Yes, that is the first consideration. The girl will be free in a few hours, and her silence can be bought. I am particularly anxious that there shall be no talk, as it would interfere greatly with my plans."
Fongereues ventured to ask to what plans his wife referred.
"You are aware," she said, "that for some time I have been anxious to obtain for my son a captaincy in His Majesty's Guards."
"Well?" asked her husband, breathlessly.
"I have received the royal promise, and to-day Talizac will have his commission, and also the order of Saint-Louis."
This was an immense joy to Fongereues, and from that moment the monarchist—the Marquis de Montferrand—felt that Talizac, a captain in the King's Guard, could do no evil.
"Forgive a mother's vanity," continued Magdalena. "I have sent out a large number of invitations for this evening, and as soon as the officer of His Majesty'shousehold hands to my son the commission which he has won by his merits and the badge of the Legion of Honor, Monsieur de Fongereues will officially announce the marriage of his son to Mademoiselle Salves. I rely on your aid, Monsieur de Montferrand."
"Ah! Madame," cried the old Marquis, "you are excessively clever, and you are an angel!"
She smiled.
"Arthur will come with you, I am sure, so that no cloud shall remain in our sky."
"Certainly, Madame, my son will come. Captain of the Guards—Chevalier de Saint-Louis. Zounds! that is a good deal for one day!"
"To-night, then, I shall see you, Marquis!" said Magdalena, as she rose from her chair.
Montferrand raised her hands to his lips once more, and took his leave.
Instantly Fongereues turned to his wife.
"Is this true?" he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, and left the room in silence. She went to her son's chamber.
"It is all settled," she said to him. "In a few hours you will have the twenty thousand francs you need to silence this scandal, and you will try to make yourself worthy of the favor of your king."
As soon as his mother left the room, Frederic sent to the house at Belleville, by a trusty messenger, the following note:
"I will be with you at four o'clock—shall bring the sum required. I desire that you shall leave me alone in the house with——you know."
A triumph like this was, of course, to be celebrated by La Roulante and Robeccal after their own fashion. They sat opposite each other at a table covered with bottles. In the centre lay the bag of gold. As they talked they played with it, making it up in little piles and arranging it in figures.
"We will buy a little place in the country, now," said La Roulante, as she filled her glass.
"Why does the girl sleep like this?" asked Robeccal.
"Oh! it is a secret that I learned some time ago—to make little girls submissive."
There was a sudden sound, a long, shivering sigh from above stairs.
"Did you hear that?" asked Robeccal, in a startled tone.
"It is nothing!" answered La Roulante, superciliously. "It is only the girl waking up at last!"
"But she will scream, I am sure!"
"Let her, if she dare!" and the giantess clenched her enormous fist. "I would crush her to jelly if she did!"
"And then you would lose the twenty thousand francs!"
The woman nodded in a tipsy manner.
"That's so!" she answered. "I had best go and talk to the Princess, anyway."
Another long sigh.
"I am coming! I am coming!" grunted La Roulante, slowly feeling her way up the stairs that creaked under her weight. She drew the key from her pocket with considerable difficulty, and finally succeeded in opening the door.
The young girl lay in the same position, but she seemed oppressed by a nightmare, for big tears rolled down her cheeks and sighs rent her breast.
La Roulante went to the side of the bed.
"Well, my child," she said, endeavoring to soften her harsh voice, "how are you to-night? Do you want anything?"
Francine's eyelids fluttered, and then slowly opened. A look of terrible horror came on her face as she beheld this most repulsive creature.
"Where am I?" faintly ejaculated the poor child.
"You are with good friends, who are anxious to make you happy."
Francine frowned. She was evidently trying to remember what had taken place.
La Roulante grew bolder. She seated herself on the foot of the bed.
"Virtue is a very good thing," she said, "but it neither feeds you nor clothes you. And it is rather a hard thing to starve and be cold when you are young, and then die in a hospital when you grow old. If a girl only realized this, she would never refuse what a nice young fellow offered!"
Francine started up with a burning face.
"What are you saying?" she cried. "But I do not wish to understand. Where am I?" She wrung her hands. "I remember now! I was gagged and carried away. I am not an ignorant child—I know too well the wickedness of this world, and I understand all. A villain, whose name my lips shall never pronounce, has placed me in this woman's house." Francine grasped La Roulante's arm. "Move aside," she said, "let me pass!"
La Roulante now stood in front of the door.
"Listen to me," said Francine. "I will forgive you if you let me go now. If you refuse, I will call for aid, and I will denounce you to the police!"
"It is too late, little girl, too late! Your lover was here with you all night!"
Francine uttered a terrific shriek and rushed to the window. She threw it open, and leaning out, cried:
"Help! Help!"
La Roulante immediately seized her and pulled her back. Robeccal ran in. The girl struggled until, breathless and exhausted, she was thrown on the floor.
"Give me that bottle!" said La Roulante.
Robeccal understood, as did poor Francine, who resolutely closed her lips. The man brutally pried them open with his fingers, while the woman poured a teaspoonful down the girl's throat, who in another moment lay unconscious.
Then La Roulante and Robeccal put the room in order, and going out, closed the door and returned to their wine below. They began to play cards, whilewaiting for the arrival of Frederic, from whom they had received the note.
The weather was still stormy, and about six o'clock Frederic, wrapped in a cloak, arrived. As soon as he rapped on the door the giantess opened it, but barred all passage.
"Have you the money?" she asked.
"Yes, yes—give me the key!"
Talizac threw down a pocketbook, and the giantess, with most exaggerated respect, pointed to the stairs.
As soon as Talizac had left the lower floor, she turned to Robeccal.
"And now we will make ourselves scarce!"
Hardly had the door closed on their retreating forms than an angry cry rang through the house. Talizac rushed from Francine's room. The girl had disappeared.
By what miracle had Francine vanished? How could she with her frail strength escape from that room, situated as we have said on the second floor of this house, and from the garden surrounded on all sides by walls which no man could climb.
When these wretches gave Francine the narcotic, they in their eagerness gave her too much, and the girl was utterly prostrated. She lay for an hour motionless while her jailers played cards and drank; and then her pulse began to flutter and nervous contractions shook her frail form, still she did not open her eyes. Her brain was over-excited. Suddenly she started up with eyes wide open, but eyes that saw not. She moved slowly and noiselessly. Did she reason? Not in the least. Instinct was her only guide.
Have you ever when half asleep heard the same words repeated over and over again? In Francine's brain the words "too late! too late!" were repeated with the regularity of a pendulum. The old woman had struck a cruel blow. The girl had believed for a few moments that she was dishonored and this thought now haunted her vaguely. She placed her feet on the floor, then glided toward the door. She tried it and found it locked. She turned to the window; sheslowly and gently opened the blinds, and then stepped upon the cornice outside; then she feels her way down to another projection where she places one foot and then the other until she finds herself on the ground. She then glides on until she reaches the wall.
Ah! child, it is useless for you to try! Not so! The clinging vines form a rope-ladder for her light weight. She reaches the top of the wall, and easily descends on the other side. She is saved! But she does not know this, and her pale lips murmur,
"Too late! Too late!"
Where is she going? Ah! she knows not. She feels no fatigue, but goes on and on. She has crossed the outer Boulevard, and moves swiftly on through the now crowded streets, where no one seems to notice her pallor. The fog is so thick that she is but dimly seen. She reaches the bridge over the Saint Martin Canal; here she stops, and leaning over the parapet seems to contemplate the dark water running below. While she stands there, we will see what is taking place in the house she has left.
Robeccal and La Roulante when they left the house, went to take the diligence in the Rue Saint Denis. Their plans had been long made; they meant to return to Robeccal's former home. They were groping their way through the fog, when suddenly Robeccal was lifted from the ground, and then flung some distance, while a voice shouted:
"Scoundrel! I have you at last!"
At the same moment, an iron grasp nailed thegiantess to the spot where she stood. The two wretches gasped out the names:
"Fanfar! Bobichel!"
"Where is Francine?" said Fanfar, sternly.
La Roulante laughed, and would not reply.
"Speak!" said Fanfar. "I know the whole story. Where is that girl?"
La Roulante knew that Fanfar was not to be trifled with, and after all why should she not now tell? She wanted to be free, that she and Robeccal might go far away.
"Take your hand away, and I will tell you."
"The truth, you understand, and make haste."
"Well, the girl is not far away."
"Alone?"
"I do not know."
"Show me the house."
"It is easy enough to find."
"Show me the way."
"No, it was not in the bargain."
"Show me the way."
Bobichel looked upon this delay as worthy of being celebrated, by lifting Robeccal by the skin of his neck as he would have lifted a cat.
These people now took their way to the deserted house.
La Roulante uttered a cry as they reached the house, for the door was open. She ran into the house, and flew toward the stairs. Fanfar was behind her. She beheld the window open.
"Look!" she cried, "he has taken her away!"
"Of whom do you speak?"
"Of the Vicomte de Talizac."
"Talizac!" exclaimed Fanfar, "would that I could kill that man!"
The house was searched, and found entirely deserted.
A folded paper lay on the table in the lower room. She snatched it up. It contained only these words from Talizac:
"You have infamously swindled me. You have taken the girl away, but I shall find her and be even with you."
"The man lies!" yelled the woman.
Fanfar was nearly stunned. He now had not the smallest clue to Francine.
"Bobichel," he said, sadly. "Fate is against us. Come with me."
"But what am I to do with him?" asked Bobichel, pointing to Robeccal, "Ah! I have it."
He seized a rope and bound Robeccal firmly, and then bundled him into a closet, which he locked and put the key into his pocket. They drove La Roulante out of the house, and locked that door also, and then hurried back to the city.
La Roulante when she was thus left hesitated a moment.
"No," she said, "if I let him out I shall have to divide the money."
And without more thought of Robeccal she too went away.
The hôtel of the Marquis de Fongereues was ablaze with lights. Magdalena having determined that her son's triumph should be dazzling, invitations had been sent to every one of distinction. For a long time rumors had been in circulation adverse to the Fongereues family, and the gay crowd, always ready to desert a falling house, had shown great coolness to them all. But as soon as the favors shown by the king became known at the clubs, the family were quickly reinstated in public opinion.
About nine o'clock carriages began to roll through the streets near the hôtel, the doors of which were thrown wide open to welcome the coming guests, who bore the oldest and noblest names of France.
Fongereues, under an air of great dignity, concealed the joy and pride that swelled his heart. Magdalena was superb in her matronly beauty and her diamonds. Talizac was excessively pale, his worn face telling the story of his excesses and the excitement of the previous night. Francine's flight, which he believed to have been arranged by the man and woman whom he had employed as his tools, had driven him nearly mad with rage, from which he had not yet recovered.
Suddenly a murmur of admiration ran around theroom. Mademoiselle de Salves had just come in. Her mother had with difficulty risen from her sick bed to witness the triumph of her child.
Irène was certainly very beautiful, and her toilette was characterized by exquisite simplicity. But her face was sad, and the brilliancy of her eyes was due to fever. Why had she come? Why had she not resisted the wishes of her mother? A great change had come over the girl. All her former energy and innumerable caprices had given way to a charming timidity. She was all the time conscious that she concealed a secret in her heart, and that since a certain memorable day she thought of but one person. Her vanity, her patrician pride, all revolted against this truth. The name she repeated over and over again, was that of Fanfar. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw him, haughty and courageous, risking his life to save that of his adopted father. She heard his rich voice and the words he uttered:
"Make yourself beloved."
She struggled with all her power against this infatuation, and had come to Paris. There she saw him again, no longer in his theatrical costume, but dressed like the young men she met in society. He had saved her from being killed by the heavy timber. He had held her a minute in his arms, and she had felt his heart beat against her own. A hundred times since then she had seen him ride past the house, and over and over again she knew that he had thrown flowers over the wall. With trembling joy she had carried these flowers to the privacy of her own rooms. Shequestioned them, but they were mute and kept the secret that Fanfar had undoubtedly confided to them.
Who was this Fanfar? Irène's imagination ran riot. She heard him called a conspirator whom the police watched. He belonged to the party who aimed at the overthrowal of the royal power. How did one so lowly venture to menace one so high? Irène meditated and studied; her youthful mind awoke to great truths, and she realized that men like Fanfar were working for a great cause, and her soul was filled with noble wrath against those persons who were ruining and dishonoring France. How solitary she felt herself! How ignorant! How she longed to interrogate Fanfar on these great subjects. But she well knew that this was an impossible dream. He was far away from her, and love had made her timid. She ceased to struggle, but all the time asked herself why he did not come to save her from the fate hourly drawing nearer. She knew that her mother had promised her hand to the Vicomte de Talizac, and she knew that if she made any resistance it would break her mother's heart; but as the hour drew near when her sacrifice was to be consummated, Irène felt herself very weak.
She entered the Fongereues salon in a state of suppressed excitement, very pale but very beautiful. The Marquis met her and drew her arm through his. This marriage was his salvation. He, too, thought of Fanfar with a certain pity, for he knew that this mountebank, as he scornfully called him, was the only man who had the right to call himself the Marquis de Fongereues.
Irène's arrival was the signal for the opening of the ball. The orchestra began to play a waltz. Then came a sudden silence. A magnificent person entered, an officer of the Royal Guard, in his white and gold uniform. He was received by the Marquis de Fongereues.
"Marquis," he said, "I come in the name of the king."
Every one listened with bated breath. Fongereues was radiant.
"Desirous of recompensing services rendered to the holy cause of monarchy, His Majesty has condescended to lend a favorable ear to certain applications, and, Monsieur, I am the bearer of the commission which confers on your son the rank of lieutenant in the King's Guards."
Magdalena laid her hand on Frederic's shoulder.
"Talizac," she said, "remember that your life and the lives of the Fongereues belong to the king."
Talizac bowed low, and as he turned he gave Irène a look of triumph. She, poor girl, knew that her fate was sealed.
"How happy you will be!" whispered her mother, tenderly.
"Happy!" repeated Irène, drearily.
But this was not all. The Royal Envoy had not completed his mission. La Vicomte de Talizac was made a Chevalier de Saint-Louis.
"Vive le Roi!" cried the women, gayly.
Monsieur de Montferrand turned to his son Arthur. "You see, sir," he said, in a severe tone, "how ourKing, a worthy son of Henri IV., rewards those whom he finds worthy of his protection."
Arthur de Montferrand had, in obedience to his father's wishes, accompanied him to this entertainment. The two young men exchanged a few words of feigned cordiality, but Arthur felt the most profound contempt for the Vicomte; while the image of Francine in the power of those scoundrels haunted him perpetually.
Fernando did not make his appearance, and Arthur dared not talk to any one else of this miserable affair in which he had been engaged. He listened with a shudder to the congratulations and compliments showered upon the Vicomte, who finally had the audacity to go up to Arthur and demand his felicitations.
Arthur started, and said low in his ear, "I will congratulate you, sir, when the mark upon your cheek, which I imprinted there, is no longer to be seen."
Talizac uttered an exclamation, but Monsieur de Montferrand, suspecting what was going on, stepped forward.
"Arthur," he said sternly, "apologize to the Vicomte for your rash words, or leave this house!"
Arthur looked reproachfully at his father, and moved toward the door. At the same moment a great tumult was heard in the hall.
"What can it be?" said De Fongereues, nervously.
A door was flung open, servants were thrust aside, and a man bearing the inanimate form of a young girl, entered the ball-room.
"Fanfar!" cried Arthur de Montferrand. It was, indeed, Fanfar.
Standing in the centre of the ball-room, for no man ventured to oppose his progress, he addressed himself to the crowd.
"Gentlemen," he said, "behold the body of the unhappy girl whom the Vicomte de Talizac has murdered!"
There was a moment of silence, then the women screamed and fled, while the men turned pale and looked at each other.
Talizac caught at the mantel for support. Fongereues had heard Arthur utter the name of Fanfar, and shuddered at the ill-omen.
From Francine's drenched garments water was dripping upon the floor, and the pale face rested on Fanfar's shoulder.
The Marquis hastened forward. "Who is this man? What is he doing here?" he cried.
"Monsieur," said Fanfar, "a crime has been committed, the guilty must be punished, and this guilt is upon your son's head. You, gentlemen, seem to think that to your rank everything is permitted. Behold a young girl who, pure and industrious, toiled for her daily bread. This Vicomte de Talizac abducted her with the assistance of his paid emissaries. The poor creature, driven to despair, committed suicide. This is what your son has done, Marquis! Can you conceive of a more cowardly or infamous act?"
And Fanfar, with head erect and lightning in his eyes, looked with contempt on the people about him.
Arthur rushed to his side. "Dead!" he cried, "is she dead?"
Fanfar gently laid Francine upon the floor. "Is there no one among all these ladies who will see if this girl lives? Beats there not one heart under all this silk and velvet?"
A woman advanced and knelt by the side of Francine. It was Irène de Salves.
"What does this senseless comedy mean?" asked the Marquis de Fongereues, angrily.
"It is no comedy, it is a horrible tragedy," answered Fanfar, coldly. "Ask what explanations you please from your son; he must answer you. See how he trembles; ask him if what I have said is not true?"
Talizac made a violent effort, and turning to his father, said, "This man lies!"
"And I, sir, swear that he speaks the truth!" cried Arthur de Montferrand. "Ah! Monsieur de Talizac, you forget too quickly; but my memory recalls the fact that the marks now on your face were imprinted yesterday by my hand, when you attacked me with a knife, because I endeavored to prevent you from committing this crime!"
"Liar!" shouted Talizac. Then turning to the crowd of spectators: "Gentlemen," he said, "I am the victim of a most monstrous calumny, and I call on you to treat this scoundrel with his trumped-up tale as he deserves!"
Not one moved. Fanfar, with folded arms, stood looking at them.
"She lives!" cried Irène. "She breathes! Mother, dear mother, permit this girl to be carried to our home.I will bring her back to life; you will give me permission?" she asked, turning to Fanfar.
"She is my sister!" said Fanfar.
Irène imprinted a kiss on Francine's brow. This was her reply to Fanfar's words.
Talizac ran to the door of the salon and summoned the lacqueys. "Here, take this man away!"
And, as they crowded in, Fanfar said: "Who dares lay a hand on me?"
"I do!" answered a voice behind him, as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "In the name of the king, I arrest you!"
The man who uttered these words wore a white scarf, fringed with gold. Soldiers filled every doorway.
"Monsieur," said the Magistrate, to Fongereues, "a man has just been found endeavoring to conceal himself in the apartments of His Majesty. He had arms concealed about his person, and did not hesitate to confess that he came with the intention of killing the king."
A cry of horror ran around the room. Fongereues was overjoyed. Cyprien had kept his word.
"And this man," continued the Magistrate, "when summoned to name his accomplices, said that he obeyed the instructions of a secret society, of which this Fanfar is the chief."
"An infamous falsehood!" exclaimed Fanfar.
"An assassin! never!" murmured Irène, as she rose from her knees, hastily.
Arthur held her back. He had divined her secret. "Do not betray yourself," he whispered, "rely on me."
Fanfar looked around. Escape was impossible. He turned to Irène. "Save my sister!" he said to her.
She bowed assent. Then Fanfar spoke to the Magistrate. "This unfounded accusation will recoil on the heads of my calumniators. I have been against the monarchy, but I have had no hand in any plot with murder as its object. I am at your service, gentlemen!"
Arthur whispered in the ear of de Talizac:
"To-morrow, if you are not a coward, I shall expect you!"
"And I will kill you!" answered the Vicomte.
In another hour the guests had left the Hôtel de Fongereues.
The kind reader who has followed thus far, has not forgotten a certain little village among the Vosges mountains, where in January, 1814, brave peasants fought and died in the defence of their country.
When Simon left Leigoutte with Sergeant Michel, he had no idea that the fury of the invaders would lead them to commit the crime of killing women and children, and to burn their homes. The Cossacks and the emigrés avenged themselves on French flesh and blood, and French homes and firesides.
While the Russians burned the cottage where Françoise and the children had taken shelter, Talizac, in order to ensure his possession of the title and Fongereues estates, set fire to the inn which was Simon's home. The emigrés took fiendish delight in destroying the school-room. Was it not there that the Republicans talked of duty and their country to the children? And when this band of royal thieves had passed, desolation settled down upon the valley.
The king was proclaimed at the Tuileries, and lying on his bed embroidered with purplefleur de lis, never condescended to think of the villages in the East that had welcomed the invaders with powder and shot.
By degrees Leigoutte, like its neighbors, began tohold up its head once more, and the few survivors agreed to take care of the women and children who had been left without protectors. The oldest among them remembered Simon's teachings, and repeated them to their children.
One day they experienced a great surprise. It became known that a stranger had purchased the land on which had formerly stood the inn and the school of Simon Fougère. Every one wondered what the old man, who seemed to be an intendant, meant to do with this place, about which hung so many sad legends. Then came an architect, who employed the workmen in the village. They were paid well and promptly. The older inhabitants were consulted as to the plan of the old inn and the school.
When wonder had passed, the villagers were amazed to find the inn had been built exactly like the old one that had been burned by the emigrés. Yes, there was the large, well-lighted room where Françoise, with her little girl in her arms, had cordially welcomed the travelers, while little Jacques flew about with bright cheeks and brighter eyes. The sign, too, was just the same as the old one. The only difference was that the tri-colored flag did not wave in the morning breeze. The new proprietor was named Pierre Labarre. Who was he? No one knew. He had a benevolent face, and he liked to talk of Simon Fougère, and made the villagers tell him the story of his death over and over again. Sometimes he was seen to listen with tears in his eyes.
"He knew him, that's sure!" said the peasants.
He selected a man and his wife to keep the inn. They had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl was named Francine. This completed the resemblance to the past. As a schoolmaster, Pierre appointed an old soldier, who was intelligent and honest.
Once more Leigoutte began to take heart. Pierre Labarre spent several days each year in the village, and yet the good people knew nothing of him more than his name. Pierre Labarre was not the real benefactor, who slept in his tomb, but when dying he had said to his old servant:
"I have been unfaithful to my duty toward Simon. I have been cowardly toward him. I have a large amount for my grandchildren, where, you alone will know. Seek these children, and make them rich. If Fate be against us, if you cannot find these children, consecrate this fortune to making the name of Simon beloved. Go to the poor village of Leigoutte, and let those who loved him, that is, all who knew him, be the heirs of that son whom the Marquis de Fongereues adored in his heart."
For many years he sought in vain for the smallest clue, but one day, after much discouragement, a new hope sprang to life in his heart. It was when the so-called Marquis de Fongereues came to demand at his hands the secret entrusted to the old man by his master. The very violence of the two men on that day proved that Simon's son was living. Had he been dead, the heirs of the Fongereues would have applied to the courts.
Then Pierre Labarre resumed his search, and an oldman was continually seen on all the highways and by-ways of France, entering the humblest cottages and asking, in tremulous tones:
"Do you remember? It was in 1814."
But this was ten years ago. No one had seen two children flying for their lives. How many hopes were based upon a word, and how many disappointments followed!
Finally, he determined to act on the last words of his dying master, and he went to Leigoutte. It was an idea of his own to restore to Leigoutte its old look, the look it had one day long before when Simon Fougère gave him a seat at his fireside, and Jacques looked at the stranger with his big, earnest eyes, while Cinette ran around the room.
The evening of which we write, this old servant of an emigré sat under the trees opposite the school-room. He had gathered the village children about him. Night was coming on, but the spring air was soft and sweet. He spoke in a low voice, for the authorities of the village might have considered his words as somewhat of an incendiary nature. He said, softly:
"In other days, in Simon Fougère's school, all the children said, 'Vive la France! Vive la Republique!'"
And the little children repeated these words: "Vive la France! Vive la Republique!"
At this moment a strange scene took place on the Square. Two shadows, dimly seen in the twilight, were kneeling before the inn. No one had seen them approach. Pierre Labarre was the first to notice them, and he felt a quick contraction of theheart that heralded some unlooked-for event. He rose quickly, and signed to the children to keep perfectly still. He nearly reached the two unknown without their hearing him. He saw that one was endeavoring to raise the other, who seemed to be infirm. She extended her hand to the inn, and seemed to be saying something, and then the two slowly mounted the steps of the inn.
Pierre, who was very near them, heard a sob. Who could they be? Pierre asked himself. The two strangers were now in the large room, where nothing seemed changed since the day that the wounded soldier leaned against the wall, exhausted by suffering and fatigue. There was the huge chimney, and there the shining tables.
The infirm woman now walks unaided. She goes straight to the fireplace, and seats herself in a chair. She looks at the door eagerly and expectantly.
Labarre again asked himself who this woman was, and what frightful accident had so injured her. Suddenly, while Labarre was watching her, the woman smiled.
"Ah! you have come, Simon!" she said with a smile, as if speaking to some one who had just come in. "The children are waiting for you, and the soup is ready. Jacques has been good, but you must talk to Cinette—she is a perfect little fiend, sometimes!"
Labarre, with his heart in his mouth, clutched at the wall to prevent himself from falling.
"Come! Cinette—come; you must not be naughty!"
It was plain to Labarre who this person was—hehad heard her voice before. But this girl—who was she?
The old man now entered the room. The girl saw him, and said, apologetically:
"Pray, do not scold us—we mean no harm."
"Whoever asks hospitality at this door receives it," answered Labarre. "But tell who you both are."
Caillette, for it was she, laid her finger on her lips and whispered low:
"She is mad!"
Tears came to the old man's eyes.
"I beg of you," he asked again, "to tell me who this woman is."
"A poor, sick creature, who was once very happy. She has lost her husband and her children, and met with some terrible accident beside."
"But her name?"
"I have not the smallest idea. Cinette always calls her mamma."
"Cinette! Who bears that name?"
"A good little girl in Paris, who earns her bread by singing in the streets. It now seems that she is the sister of Fanfar. It is a very strange sorrow, one fall of sorrow!"
"And Fanfar—whom do you call Fanfar?" asked the old man, with a troubled face.
Caillette started. She remembered that her love had been disdained, but she was kind-hearted, of the stuff of which martyrs are made.
"Fanfar was a foundling. He is now a young man both good and handsome."
"Where have I heard that name?" Labarre said to himself.
Suddenly the woman seated in the chair looked up.
"Excuse the simplicity of the arrangements—the inn does as well as possible."
"Françoise Fougère!" he cried.
Françoise started up, as if sustained by supernatural strength.
"Who calls me?" she cried. "Who is it that speaks my name?"
"Françoise, do you remember Simon, Jacques, Cinette?"
"My children? Yes, yes—I remember them. Where is it that I have just seen them? Oh! yes—I remember. I was all alone. Cinette's little bed was empty, and then the door opened and Jacques came!"
"Is he alive?" cried Labarre.
"Yes," answered Caillette. "They knew each other at once."
"But where is Francine?"
"She has been abducted by the Vicomte de Talizac."
"Talizac!"
Labarre caught at a chair for support. Françoise heard these words.
"Talizac! Oh! the base, cruel man. Quick! we cannot stay here. I must save Francine and Jacques. Oh! my box—where is my box?"
My readers must now learn how Françoise and Caillette found themselves at Leigoutte. They will remember that just as Fanfar recognized in the poor, sick woman the mother whose loss he had so deeplydeplored, and in Francine the worshipped little sister whose agonized cries he had heard in the subterranean passages among the Vosges, all clue was lost, for Bobichel vanished, and with him Caillette.
And Gudel's daughter, who loved Fanfar with a love that was without hope, said to him:
"She is your mother. Will you allow me to take care of her?"
Fanfar looked at Caillette with loving, grateful eyes, and then hastened away with Bobichel and Gudel.
Then Caillette was left alone with the sick woman, who began to cry and sob. Her mind had been so long torpid that now this shock seemed to have swept away the last vestige of her intelligence. But Caillette was good and patient, and finally the sick woman slept. Caillette watched her and waited through the twilight, and at last, holding the hand of her charge in hers, she too fell asleep.
When the girl opened her eyes it was daybreak, and the bed was empty. Yes, Fanfar's mother, whom she had promised to guard, had vanished. She ran into the next room. No one was there, and the door was open.
Caillette ran to the concierge. "Where is she?" she cried.
"Do you mean the old woman? Oh! she went away before light."
"Impossible! She cannot walk."
"I was astonished myself, but my wife said to me, who is that coming down stairs? I looked, and I saw a ghost—not a pretty one either, begging your pardon.It was the paralytic, the old woman who had never walked a step all the while that the Marquise took care of her.
"'Where are you going?' I said to her.
"'To save Jacques.'"
"Jacques is her son, go on, quick," interrupted Caillette.
"'But you can't save any one,' I then said. This was not kind, Miss, but I was so astonished. She did not seem to mind it though, for she began to talk about a box, and told me to open the door. I had no right to disobey, you know."
"And she went away?" cried Caillette.
"Yes, and quick enough, too."
Caillette did not wait to hear more. She flew down the stairs also.
It was seven o'clock in the morning. Caillette did not dare to find Jacques, and tell him she had been faithless to her trust. No, she must find Françoise herself. She asked questions of all she met, and at last she had a ray of light. An old rag picker told her that he had seen a woman answering to the description given by Caillette. She at once started in the direction he pointed out; it was the road to Germany she took. She sold a small gold locket, which held a bit of ribbon from a sash Fanfar had once given her. She kept the ribbon, and received several crowns for the locket. She walked all day, finally certain that Françoise was not far in advance. It was not until the morning of the second day that the girl was rewardedby seeing Françoise at the door of an inn. Caillette rushed forward.
"Mother!" she cried.
"Ah! you know her?" said the innkeeper. "She is very strange."
"What did she say to you?"
"She asked for bread, and ate it without a word. Then, just as she saw you, she asked me where some village was. I never heard the name before."
The old woman now came to meet Caillette.
"Leigoutte!" she said. "Leigoutte!"
"Leigoutte!" repeated Caillette, "that is Fanfar's village."
The old woman shook her head, she did not know the name.
"I mean Leigoutte is where Jacques came from."
"Yes—yes—Jacques. I must save Jacques and the box!"
What was going on in the impaired mind of Françoise? Fanfar's sudden appearance had carried her memory back to the last interview she had with Simon, when, our readers will remember, he had given his wife the papers that proved his birth and that of Jacques. And now Françoise had but one idea, to return to Leigoutte. In vain did Caillette urge her to return to Paris, and the girl had promised Fanfar not to leave his mother. She therefore went on toward Germany with her. Fortunately, a wagoner took pity on these two women, and took them up. In this way they reached Leigoutte. Françoise was silent, except a few low words that she muttered underher breath at long intervals. Caillette thought with despair of Fanfar, and his agony at his mother's disappearance.
Alas! poor girl, she did not know that the night when she and Françoise entered the inn at Leigoutte, Fanfar, alone in his prison, thought of his mother whom he had scarcely seen, and of the sister whom he had held in his arms. Ah! it was a bitter trial for the strong, faithful heart.
Caillette and Pierre Labarre watched Françoise, when finally she arose from her chair, and went toward the door. On the threshold she seemed to hesitate. She thrust back her gray hair, and pressed her hand to her brow. Then, as if she suddenly remembered something, she turned and went toward the door in the back of the house, Caillette and Pierre following her every step she took. She went out into the garden, and up a winding path to the hill, which she began to climb with panting breath.
"Ah! she is going to the little farm of Lasvène which was burned," said Pierre to himself.
Then, all the time watching Françoise, he began to question Caillette.
What motive had Françoise in these persistent wanderings? Was it merely the whim of a mad woman or had she some fixed design?
Françoise walked on. Sometimes she stopped short, and called Jacques, then Cinette. Labarre asked himself if it were not his duty to stop this poor woman, but a secret instinct bade him watch her to the end.
An hour elapsed, but Françoise seemed to feel nofatigue. At the cross-roads she did not hesitate. Finally they reached the Gorge d'Outremont. In the fast gathering darkness, the place was horrible and gloomy. As in a former description we have said, the mountain seemed at this gorge to have been cleft in twain by a gigantic hatchet.
At this moment, the clouds parted, and a pale young moon looked down on the landscape.
Françoise stopped short, Pierre well knew why. The little cottage of old Lasvène had vanished, and the poor woman was bewildered. Labarre went to her, and took her hand. He knew where the foundations of the cottage were, and convinced that this was why she had come, he led her to the ruins. She laughed in a childish way.
"Burned? Ah! yes;" she repeated the cry of the Cossacks. "Death to the French!" And then she began to run.
It was an outbreak of madness. Caillette and Pierre uttered cries of fright.
The mystery of such a strange occurrence may never be solved, but Françoise threw herself on the ground in a corner where the little garden had stood, and began to dig furiously in the earth. Presently, she screamed:
"The box! The box! Jacques is not my son; Cinette is the Marquise de Fongereues. Jacques—Fanfar is Vicomte de Talizac!" And she fell unconscious into the arms of Labarre.