Two white beds stood near each other. Muslin curtains tied with blue ribbons covered the windows with billowy folds. Among the pillows of one of the beds lay a beautiful face, and a young girl at her side held her frail hands.
This chamber was that of Irène de Salves, and very unlike it was to the chamber of the spoiled child in the Château des Vosges. There she had created a mixture of all colors—violent reds and yellows. Now everything was delicate and calm. The sweet face among the pillows was Francine's. The two young girls were like sisters. Irène felt that to love, protect, and care for Francine, was to love Fanfar. The shock Francine had experienced was terrible; she hardly knew what had taken place—whether she deliberately threw herself into the water, or whether faint and dizzy, she fell in; when Fanfar leaped to her rescue she clung to him convulsively. Then came the fever and delirium, and when she was at last conscious she beheld a sweet face bending over her, and Irène said, "Courage, sister, courage!"
Francine, surprised and touched, extended her thin hands, but suddenly imagining that she was again inthe house where she had suffered so much, she shrieked "Let me die! Let me die!"
A relapse took place, and for several days her life hung on a thread. Irène was indefatigable in her care, and finally she began to recover very slowly.
She questioned Irène as soon as she was able. What had become of the poor woman, the care of whom she had assumed? Hardly had she escaped from the jaws of death, than she began to think of others. Irène could tell her little. Ever since the violent scene of the ball, Arthur de Montferrand, without confessing his real motives, for he loved Francine, had placed himself at the disposal of Irène. He had divined her secret, and prevented her from betraying it to the curious crowd.
Fanfar was in prison. His trial was soon coming on. It was believed that his condemnation was certain. The disturbance to the health of the king, consequent on the attempted assassination at the Tuileries, had, it was said, greatly embittered the monarchists. A report was in circulation that an infamous comedy had been enacted by this Fanfar and his sister in order to break off the marriage between Talizac and Mademoiselle de Salves, a money-making scheme, worthy of a street singer and a mountebank.
The sick woman had disappeared. This intelligence drove Francine to despair. Who was this Caillette, who had pretended to take her place, and then disappeared, leaving no trace behind her?
"But," said Francine, "who was it who saved me?"
"Do you not know?" answered Irène, coloring deeply.
"No, I heard you mention a name that I do not know."
"Yes, that of Monsieur Fanfar."
"Who is he?"
Irène looked at her and wondered if in her fever the girl's reason had deserted her.
"I do not understand. Do you not know your brother?"
"My brother!"
Irène passed her hand over her troubled brow.
"My brother. Ah! what is it you say? I never had but one brother, dear little Jacques, who was always so good and kind to me!"
"Jacques! but that is the name of—Monsieur Fanfar!"
"I tell you," answered Francine, "that I never met any one of that name. Stop a moment, I remember a company of mountebanks on the Square; they were under the management of a man called Iron Jaws, and with him was this Fanfar, if I don't mistake."
"Precisely, and this Fanfar is your brother, I heard him say so, himself, when I went to help you. He said to me, 'she is my sister—'"
"Where is he? I must see him. He saved my life. Suppose that he is Jacques! But no, poor Jacques is dead!"
Irène could not help the poor girl; although she fully believed in the truth of what Fanfar had said, she could offer no proof.
Suddenly Francine exclaimed, "If he is my Jacques, he ought to be about twenty. He ought to be very handsome."
Irène colored, as she said, "He is handsome!"
"With black eyes, and brown curling hair?"
Irène was unwilling to admit that she had studied Fanfar in all these details, but she stammered out, "Yes, that describes him."
"For pity's sake, tell me all you know!"
Irène asked herself why she should hesitate. After all there was nothing to be ashamed of in her sentiments towards Fanfar.
"I will tell you all," she said, in a low voice.
"Why are you so disturbed?" asked Francine. "When you mention the name of this Fanfar, you have tears in your eyes."
Irène buried her face on her friend's shoulder: "I love him!" she whispered, "and I love you as if you were my sister!"
The two young girls embraced each other tenderly.
"But where is he?" said Francine, disengaging herself, "I wish to see him."
Irène started. Alas! amid all these emotions she had forgotten the sad truth that the brother, whom Francine ardently desired to embrace, was in a narrow cell, crushed under the accusation of an attempt on the life of the king.
"Why do you not tell me where I can find him?" asked Francine, her eyes bright with fever.
At this moment the door opened, and a tall and stately individual, known as Madame Ursula, made asign to Irène, who instantly obeyed the summons, glad to avoid the necessity of replying to Francine's questions.
"What is it?" she said.
Madame Ursula was unchanged. She was still in a constant state of horror at Irène's conduct and defiance of conventionalities.
"A very strange looking man wishes to speak to the young lady."
"She can not receive him," replied Irène, promptly.
"So I supposed, but I delivered the message because I thought she knew this person, and I myself have seen him before." Madame Ursula looked down in some confusion. "He was pretending to be a frog, on a certain occasion—"
"I do not understand you."
"He is one of those clowns who amused the peasants at Saint Amé."
"His name! his name!" cried Irène, impatiently.
"I don't know his name. He wore a gray hat—"
"Bobichel! It must be Bobichel!"
Irène had forgotten none of these names.
"Let him come in!" she cried. "Let him come in!"
In another moment Bobichel appeared. Was this the poor clown? No; there were no smiles on his lips, no quips and cranks on his tongue. His thinness had become emaciation.
Irène went forward.
"You come from him?" she said, hastily.
"From Fanfar? Oh! no—not directly, at least. They won't let me see him, you know."
"Who sends you here, then?"
"Gudel—Iron Jaws, you know."
"Why did he not come himself?"
"Ah! that I can't say. Gudel bade me give this note to you."
Irène broke the seal. The envelope contained two letters. One was directed to "MissIrainne," the other to "Mademoiselle de Salves." Why did she open the latter? Did she know from the defective orthography that the first could not come from Fanfar? The letter she opened was from Fanfar. This was it:
"You, who are so good and kind, be doubly so to the sister I found when too late. The hour draws near when the so-called justice of man will strike an innocent person. You do not doubt me, I know. I am not one who would dishonor a sacred cause. Say to my sister that little Jacques has endeavored to be worthy of his father—Simon Fougère."I beg my adopted father, Gudel, to explain to you in detail the singular events of my life. I place entire confidence in you. I leave to your care poor Françoise and little Cinette. Love them, and they will return your affection. You have not forgotten the words addressed to you so long ago: 'Make yourself beloved.'"I do not know whether I should now bid you an eternal farewell. I recognize the fact that I am the object of venomous hatred to some one, but to whom? Let no one seek to solve this mystery. I forgive this enemy, whomsoever he may be."In a few days—to-morrow, perhaps—my fate will be decided. Do not despair."
"You, who are so good and kind, be doubly so to the sister I found when too late. The hour draws near when the so-called justice of man will strike an innocent person. You do not doubt me, I know. I am not one who would dishonor a sacred cause. Say to my sister that little Jacques has endeavored to be worthy of his father—Simon Fougère.
"I beg my adopted father, Gudel, to explain to you in detail the singular events of my life. I place entire confidence in you. I leave to your care poor Françoise and little Cinette. Love them, and they will return your affection. You have not forgotten the words addressed to you so long ago: 'Make yourself beloved.'
"I do not know whether I should now bid you an eternal farewell. I recognize the fact that I am the object of venomous hatred to some one, but to whom? Let no one seek to solve this mystery. I forgive this enemy, whomsoever he may be.
"In a few days—to-morrow, perhaps—my fate will be decided. Do not despair."
Tears filled Irène's eyes as she finished this letter.
Bobichel watched her all the time, restraining his sobs with difficulty.
"You love him!" he said softly, "and you are right, for he is the best man I ever knew!"
Irène extended her hand, and the clown knelt to kiss it.
"But we must save him!" cried Irène. "He shall not be condemned—"
"Condemned?" said a voice. "Of whom do you speak?"
Francine, obeying an impulse, had thrown on a peignoir of white cashmere, and appeared, white and trembling, at the door. Irène ran to her side.
"Courage! sister," she cried, "courage!"
Then Irène herself gave way, and burst into passionate weeping. Francine took her brother's letter and read it slowly, but when she came to the words "little Jacques" and "Cinette," her eyes closed, and she would have fallen had not Bobichel caught her.
"You must not cry like that!" he said. "You must not weep. We will save Fanfar! Please, Mademoiselle Irène, read the letter Iron Jaws sends you. He has an idea, and he knows what he is about. He will save Fanfar!"
Bobichel's confidence was so great, his honest affection was so apparent, that the two girls exchanged a hopeful glance.
"Read!" said Francine.
Iron Jaws' letter was not faultless in respect to orthography. Its errors we will not repeat:
"Fanfar must be saved! I know your attachment for him. You have great influence with people in power. Try to see him, and give him something that Bobichel will hand you. I rely on your doing this."
"Fanfar must be saved! I know your attachment for him. You have great influence with people in power. Try to see him, and give him something that Bobichel will hand you. I rely on your doing this."
"What am I to say to Iron Jaws?" asked Bobichel.
"Tell him that I will do all he asks. But you have another note for me?"
"No, not a note." And Bobichel, with infinite care, took from the flap of his coat a pin, an ordinary pin though of large size, not large enough, however, to excite the smallest suspicion.
"Do you see that?" cried the clown, with much of his former gayety. "Do you see that, ladies and gentlemen? This pin does not look like much, does it, now? But you can screw off the head, and then you will find a tiny note—"
"It is most ingenious," said Irène, with a smile "and it shall be delivered as you desire."
"Ah! you are a brave creature, and if some day you want some one to amuse your children—that is, when you have any, you know—send for me, and I will be frogs for them all day long!"
And with this somewhat startling promise, Bobichel departed.
Monsieur de Fongereues was alone in his cabinet. Magdalena had left him only a few moments before. A violent scene had taken place between the husband and wife.
The ruin that threatened the Fongereues mansion had been temporarily staved off by the marriage that had been arranged between Irène and the Vicomte, but as soon as the world knew that the marriage was broken off, the tongues of gossips began to wag.
The Fongereues felt that their doom was sealed when they knew that Irène's millions were forever lost to them. Then this unhappy pair began to quarrel. To Magdalena's violent reproaches Fongereues answered by violent recriminations. Was it not her senseless indulgence that had caused the Vicomte to become the depraved and worthless person upon whom every one now turned a cold shoulder? If they were ruined, was it not because of the mad extravagance of mother and son?
And Magdalena replied:
"If I have been weak, was it not still more your duty to be strong? Who is the proper guide for a young man if not his father? You have been faithlessto your duties, and, moreover, has he a vice which is not yours?"
Fongereues foamed with rage, and before he could speak his wife had the audacity to say:
"You are choked by the blood of your brother!"
She thus reproached him for a crime that he had committed at her instigation. A moment more and this great lord would have demeaned himself to brutalities worthy of a lacquey, but with a look of contempt Magdalena swept past him and left the room. And now, crushed into a large arm-chair, the Marquis sat with his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Count Fernando de Vellebri wishes to see you," a servant knocked at the door to say.
"One moment!" answered the Marquis.
He hurried to his dressing room, bathed his face in cold water and hastily brushed his fast whitening hair. He took his seat at his desk, which was covered with papers.
"Show Monsieur de Vellebri up," he said.
He shuddered as he spoke, for he had learned through Cyprien that this Fernando belonged to the society of the Jesuits. The young man entered.
He was no longer the obsequious person with the stereotyped smile, who had done the will of the Vicomte de Talizac. Dressed in black, a long single-breasted coat, Fernando was the type of the Jesuits who pervaded French society. His dark hair rendered his pallor more remarkable. His half closed eyes were brilliant in spite of their heavy lids.
Fongereues divined a contest. What new strugglewould he be compelled to undergo? He pointed to a chair, but the Italian bowed and remained standing.
"You wished to see me," said the Marquis, "and I am at your service. But what is this costume? I was not aware that you belonged to any religious society, officially, at least."
"As to my claims to this dress," answered De Vellebri, coldly, "I am quite ready to explain them, if you will condescend to listen to me."
His voice was monotonous, as he continued:
"You are not ignorant, sir, of how greatly the conduct of the Vicomte de Talizac has compromised himself and his family."
"I beg your pardon," interrupted the Marquis, "but may I ask if you were not the companion of my son in most of his excesses?"
Fernando smiled satirically.
"Perhaps you are not quite aware of the part I played in these excesses. Monsieur de Talizac is not a child, to be influenced for good or evil by his friends. Perhaps, instead of accusing me, you should thank me for having saved the honor of your house more than once."
"Indeed, sir! I confess I do not understand."
"It seems to me," said Fernando, still very calm, "that we are wandering from the real subject of this conversation. A powerful Society, sir, attached above all else to the practice of all virtues and to the triumph of God's cause, has for a long time been watching you. Your influence and your talents all give a guaranteethat you may become a most useful auxiliary to the society to which I have the honor to belong."
"The Society of Jesus?" interrupted the Marquis.
Fernando did not reply to this direct question other than with a slight bow.
"This society," he continued, "is disposed to come to your aid. It is they who have prevented His Majesty from revoking the favors shown to your son."
Fongereues uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"And they, too, will enable you to re-conquer the rank to which you belong."
"On condition that I will be their slave!" said the Marquis, with a constrained smile.
It was certain that in this terrible crisis the Marquis was ready to snatch at anything that would save him. But in spite of himself, he felt an invincible repugnance to giving himself up entirely to the control of these people and to have no will of his own. He hesitated. Fernando seemed to read his every thought.
"I think, sir," he said, "that you exaggerate the consequences of the step I suggest."
"And if I refuse?"
"You will not refuse," said the Italian, quietly.
Fongereues bit his lips.
"What does the Society of Jesus require of me?"
"Two things—a great service and a guarantee."
"What do they offer me?"
"The position of Prime Minister."
The Marquis started.
"I do not understand you," he said.
"The position of Prime Minister."
Beads of sweat broke out on the brow of the Marquis. He knew that the society was strong enough to keep its promises. He knew that as Prime Minister all his dreams of power and wealth would be realized.
"You spoke also of a service and a guarantee," he said, quietly.
"The service is the greatest that can be rendered by any man to the Catholic world and to his Holiness the Pope."
Fernando lowered his voice.
"You are aware, sir, that by a Royal Edict of 1764 the Jesuits were expelled from France. Two years since, in 1822, His Majesty, unable to elevate in its integrity the standard of Catholicism, contented himself with authorizing the sojourn in France of the Fathers of the Faith. The time has now come to arrest these persecutions entailed on the Society of Jesus. We are resolved that they shall be solemnly re-established under their own name, with all their rights and privileges, and this not by virtue of a royal edict, but by a legal measure emanating from the Chamber of Peers. This is a bold act and one full of danger. We are fully aware of it, and do not propose to deny it. To carry out this plan successfully would require great dexterity and astuteness, as well as profound faith in the justice of the cause you defend. The reward would be the dazzling recompense I have named. Monsieur de Fongereues, are you—can you be this man?"
Fongereues started to his feet.
"Yes—I can!" he cried.
"We will assist you," said the Jesuit. "We are certain of the support of a respectable minority. It is for you to scatter rewards, and warm lukewarm consciences, and I repeat, sir—a work like this is magnificent."
"I belong to you, heart and soul," said Fongereues, "and to-morrow—"
"Wait," said Vellebri, laying his hand on the arm of the Marquis, thus forcing him back to his seat. "I spoke of a guarantee."
"Ah! yes," answered Fongereues, "my word of honor, I presume, is enough?"
Fernando did not seem to think a reply incumbent upon him. He continued:
"The man in whom the Society places enough confidence to entrust him with arms which will ensure his victory, should be bound to them by strong ties."
Fongereues listened with interest and curiosity.
"And the strongest ties are those of gold," said the Jesuit, slowly and distinctly. "You questioned me as to my claim to my dress. I am the Secretary of the General of the Society, and I am required to ask, if you are willing to aid in the establishment of houses like those of Montrouge and Saint-Acheul in Parma and Tuscany?"
"Most certainly," answered Fongereues, uneasily, for this allusion to money was most unwelcome. "I am ready to second all efforts of this Society, but still it would be necessary for me to know just what amount would be required of me. My resources are just now greatly restricted, and—"
"Do not be concerned," said Vellebri, coldly, "the amount need not disturb you." Fongereues sighed with relief. "You will have to give but one million."
"A million!" repeated the Marquis, in despair.
"In fixing this sum our Superiors have merely carried out their plan of attaching you to their cause."
"But a million!" repeated the Marquis, "it is impossible. Were I to sell all that I now have in the world, I should not realize the half of this sum!"
"Is this, then, a refusal?"
"By no means. But a million!—I haven't it," and he repeated these words over and over again.
"But you have resources which should make such a sacrifice easy."
"No, you are mistaken. I am ruined, entirely ruined!"
His agitation was so great that he forgot to dissimulate.
"But the fortune of your father was very large, and cannot be exhausted."
"But I was robbed of that!"
Fernando rose from his chair.
"Permit me," he said, "to decline to enter into any affairs foreign to the matters we have under consideration. I came to offer you peace or war. Peace means fortune and power, and war—"
"War!" repeated Fongereues, "I do not understand you."
"When the Society proposes a compact, when, as I have just done to you, she unveils her secret designs,she holds in reserve a weapon which places at her mercy the man of whom she wished to make an ally, and whom she does not choose to have for an adversary."
"I! I an adversary of the Society of Jesus! You cannot mean what you say."
"Everything is possible, Marquis. This is our ultimatum—either you will accept the proposals I have made, and placing in my hands within five days the million I ask, you will at once begin the campaign whose success is certain, or within five days a certain person will place in the hands of the Procureur de Roi papers which will be your ruin."
"What do you mean?"
Fongereues was livid as he asked this question.
"They are notes, forged by the Vicomte, your son!"
"Talizac a forger! Impossible!"
"I assure you that it is only too true. Once more, let me ask for your decision."
"I beg you to remember that my devotion to the Society is unalterable. But a million—you know!"
"You understand," repeated Vellebri, "it is a million that is demanded?"
"Yes, I know. Grant me a little time."
"We give you five days, as I said, at the end of which time the proposition I have named must be presented to the Chamber of Peers."
"I will present it."
"But the Society will not permit you to interfere until you have given the required guarantee. And now, good-morning, sir."
In vain did Fongereues petition the Italian to remain, but Fernando bowed coldly and departed.
Fongereues sank back in his chair, utterly crushed. For a few moments he had indulged in the hope of a proud future, and now, knowing that he could not raise a million, he felt that he was in deeper perplexity than ever.
Cyprien now appeared.
"You made a mistake, sir, in hesitating for a moment. Write to the Society that before five days have elapsed you will have fulfilled the conditions imposed."
"That would be folly!"
"Is not Fanfar in prison?"
"What of that? He will not be condemned."
"By the judges, possibly not—but by us."
Fongereues held himself more erect.
"Tell me what you mean, Cyprien?" he asked.
The lacquey laughed.
"I mean simply, that I will kill this Fanfar!"
Political trials are all much alike, and this of Fanfar was no exception. On the day that it was to take place the pretended assassin and his pretended accomplice (that is to say Fanfar), were led to the court-room, where the magistrates, in their red robes and ermine, were seated. The newspapers, while attacking Fanfar furiously, had not omitted to mention that the accused was excessively handsome. This naturally brought a large number of women to the trial, and when the prisoner appeared, there was a low hum of admiration and surprise. Fanfar's companion, the man of whom Fanfar had made, it was said, a tool, excited neither admiration nor sympathy. Fanfar looked at him once and turned away in disgust.
It is now the proper time to say that this man, whom Cyprien had chosen to play the part of regicide, was none other than Fanfar's former enemy, Robeccal himself, who had been found in the closet and liberated by Cyprien.
This man had fallen so low that it mattered little to him what he did. The lacquey Cyprien profited by this mood, and in a short time obtained the result he desired.
To the declaration of the accused, who had been found secreted in the Tuileries, Fanfar replied withcontempt. He told who this man was, and the crimes of which he had been guilty. All this, however, by no means proved that he himself was innocent of participation in the crime. Fanfar had not mentioned the affair of the deserted house, for he did not wish his sister's name to appear. This was a great relief to Robeccal, who, in spite of the manner in which he had been treated by La Roulante, did not wish to get her into trouble.
The trial took its course. Robeccal wept and expressed great penitence, said that he loved the king, etc. All this produced an excellent effect on the jury, who considered the fellow a little simple.
Then came Fanfar's turn. He stood with arms folded on his breast, and once turned and looked toward the end of the court-room. He probably saw what he wished, for he smiled, and a light came into his eyes. Then he looked again at the President, and waited. In reality there was no other charge against him than the persistent declaration of Robeccal, but this was by the judges considered quite proof enough of his culpability.
"You belong to a secret association, do you not?" asked the judge.
"I am a Frenchman," answered Fanfar, "and like others of this heroic nation claim liberty of thought and action. Do you call France a secret society?"
The President reproved Fanfar for this speech, and called him in his anger an assassin. The young man replied, in a voice of great feeling:
"Only those," he said, "should be called assassinswho have cut the throat of France and plucked a blood-stained crown from the men!"
There was a great tumult. "Bravo! Fanfar," said a voice among the audience.
Naturally a dozen innocent men were accused of uttering this incendiary exclamation, while Gudel, in a quiet livery, was not interfered with. Irène de Salves never moved her eyes from Fanfar. Finally, quiet was restored.
"Mr. President," said Fanfar, "my father fell in the French frontier, fighting against the Cossacks and the emigrés. There are no assassins in our family!"
From this moment the trial went on rapidly. The sentence was a foregone conclusion.
Robeccal was condemned to death. Fanfar, under the name of Jacques Fougère, was sentenced to the galleys for life.
But just as the sentenced was pronounced, a singular event occurred. Fanfar rose and opened his lips as if to speak, extended his arm, and fell full length on the floor. Cries of astonishment arose from the crowd.
"He has killed himself!" cried some.
"He has been poisoned!" said others.
Irène hastened to find Gudel. She had seen him near the door, but he had vanished. The crowd departed, saying to each other, sadly:
"He is dead!"
Robeccal was carried off more dead than alive. His sentence had frightened him. Perhaps he had not unbounded confidence in the honest people who had employed him.
"At last!" cried the Marquis, when the news of Fanfar's death reached him. He sent for Magdalena.
"Madame!" he said, "rejoice with me. Let us forget our mutual wrongs, for a new horizon stretches before us. All our anxieties are over. The man who stood between us and the possession of a fortune is dead!"
"Of whom do you speak?"
"Of this Fanfar, who, after making an attempt on the life of our king, was struck dead in the court-room during his trial."
"And this Fanfar was the son of Simon de Fongereues?"
"Yes, Madame, of my brother. And our father, who hated us, as you know, left the larger part of his fortune in the care of a fanatical body-servant of his, who held it as in trust for Simon's son whenever he should find him. He refused to relinquish this trust until he had proof of the death of the youth. Now he must be made to speak, for the only heir of the Fongereues fortune is myself, and I shall appeal to the law."
The Marquise talked with her husband for a longtime. The next thing to do was to make Gudel speak frankly. This he had no hesitation in doing, and he again told the story he had told to the Marquis.
As to Pierre Labarre, of course he could make no further resistance. So long as the Marquis knew that Fanfar was living he had been obliged to be cautious; now no such reason existed.
The dreams of the Marquis were realized—a million for the Jesuits, and the gratification of his ambition and pride.
"Our son will be rich and happy!" said Magdalena, in an ecstasy of joy. "But where is the boy? Write, Marquis, write to him at once. He must be suffering intolerably in this exile you have imposed upon him."
But Fongereues did not heed her words. He was thinking of other things.
"Cyprien has served me well!" he said. "How is it that I have not seen him for two days?"
"I was speaking of our son!" answered Magdalena, angrily. "Do you not think of your son? Do you not love your son?"
The Marquis took her hand. "It is time that we understood each other," he said, sadly. "For twenty years I have lived a melancholy life. I have yielded to your caprices, I have followed your counsel, and to what end? Look at me—my hair is gray, my face is seamed and lined. I have never had one hour of repose. For whom have I carried this burthen? For myself? I despise mankind, I despise power, I despise you, and despise myself. I have but one real passion in life, and that is my love for this wretched boy whobears my name. What have you, his mother, done for him?"
Magdalena turned away from her husband's melancholy eyes.
"Why I love him," continued the Marquis, "I know not, except that criminals love their children as wild beasts their young. You have questioned me, and I have answered you. Are you satisfied?"
There came at this moment a hurried knock at the door.
"Come in!" cried the Marquis, angrily.
A valet entered with a very pale face.
"Monsieur! my young master—"
"Ah! he has come!" cried the Marquise, rushing to the door.
But the lacquey extended his arms, as if to stop her.
"Madame!" he began.
"Well! what is it?"
"My young master is dead!" said the lacquey, with trembling lips.
Then there went up the cry of two stricken hearts. The two criminals looked at each other. They must have misunderstood the servant, who now pointed to the stairs, up which were coming men bearing a bier. What was underneath the cloth? Was it their son? Impossible!
A young man appeared. Magdalena rushed toward him, without a word. The youth bowed his head.
"Yes, he is dead. Monsieur de Talizac has been killed in a duel!"
Magdalena sank upon the floor, unconscious. Fongereues laughed hysterically.
"Nonsense! My son has fought no duel," he said.
"Yes—with Arthur de Montferrand, whose sword pierced his heart!"
Fongereues tore the cloth from the bier. Yes, it was the Vicomte de Talizac. The wretched father tried to speak. Every muscle in his face quivered. The servants fell back, shocked by all this agony.
"Tell me all!" he said at last.
"There is little to tell, sir, beyond the bare fact. I have, however, a letter which the Vicomte gave me before he went on the ground."
Magdalena snatched this letter and tore it open. It contained but one line:
"Faithless parents, I curse you with my dying breath!"
"Faithless parents, I curse you with my dying breath!"
These words, coming from beyond the tomb, were terrible.
At this moment the door opened. An old man, with head uncovered and long, white hair, stood there.
"The Vicomte de Talizac is dead!" whispered one of the servants.
The stranger started, and, with a compassionate look, laid his hand on the shoulder of the Marquis, who was kneeling by the body of his son. The Marquis looked up and shrank back, saying:
"Pierre Labarre!"
It was, indeed, the old servant, sad eyed and hopeless. He had come to Paris as quickly as possible, leaving Françoise and Caillette to follow. He went at once to the court-room, and there heard that Fanfar had been carried to one of the lower rooms. Physicians had been sent for, who had attributed his death to an aneurism.
"You are avenged, Pierre!" cried the Marquis. "Why are you here? Leave this house at once!"
But the old man did not move.
"No!" he said, "you must hear me. We have not done with each other." He extended his hand toward the dead body. "You may well weep for your son, Marquis, but you may also weep for Fanfar."
"Yes, because this fellow, for whom you would have stolen my father's fortune, is dead. This Fanfar was my brother's son—I know it, and you know it, too, but you do not know that I killed him!"
Labarre drew back in terror.
"No, no—do not say that!"
"Why should I not say it? It is true. I discovered the secret of his birth, and I removed him from my path—I poisoned him!"
The old man staggered to the wall, where he leaned for support.
"Now, denounce me!" cried the Marquis, "and I am ready to mount the scaffold. I killed this Fanfar, and this thought is all that gives me a ray of comfort!"
"Hush! This Fanfar was not the Marquis de Fongereues, he was not Simon's son. Do you remember a night which you once spent in a humble cottage at Sachemont?"
"Sachemont?" repeated Fongereues.
"That night two men claimed the hospitality of an old man. One of these strangers was a Frenchman, but he was base enough to insult the daughter of the old man. He did worse—he committed a dastardly crime. That man, sir, was known as the Marquis de Talizac!"
Fongereues sat with his eyes fixed on the old man.
"The Vicomte fled like a scoundrel, leaving dishonor and despair on his track. But he never knew that the poor girl gave birth to a child—a son."
"What of that!" cried Fongereues, who did not choose to understand.
"Silence! I have not finished. Do you know who took that child and educated him? It was the brother whom you hated. Your victim was dead and he married her sister, and later, when you set the Cossacks on the village of Leigoutte and bade them to kill women and children, there was one child named Jacques and that child was your son."
Fongereues was deadly pale; large drops stood on his brow.
"You lie!" cried the Marquis, "Fanfar was my brother's son."
"Here is the certificate of his birth," said Pierre. "You knew Simon's writing, for you intercepted his letters to your father. Look! these lines tell the story."
"I, eldest son of the Marquis de Fongereues, declare,on my sacred word of honor, that the child who bears my name and passes for my son, is the child of Jacqueline Lemaître and the Vicomte de Talizac."
"I, eldest son of the Marquis de Fongereues, declare,on my sacred word of honor, that the child who bears my name and passes for my son, is the child of Jacqueline Lemaître and the Vicomte de Talizac."
"The paper is signed with Simon's full name."
The Marquis fell on his knees.
"Ah! Monsieur, these are terrible days, but you will not say again that you poisoned Fanfar."
Fongereues shuddered, and endeavored to hide his face.
Labarre felt dizzy with horror. "Answer me," he repeated.
Fongereues answered in a low voice:
"Kill me! I have killed my son!"
The old servant started forward as if to fell the Marquis to the earth, but suddenly he remembered his old master, the man whom he had loved so tenderly, and he could not harm his son. He half turned away.
"Tell me the whole," he faltered, "I must know the whole."
"Yes," stammered the Marquis. "Cyprien, who is my slave, poisoned him. I determined to have the fortune without longer delay. I bade him do this deed, and he obeyed me. I am accursed!"
Labarre went toward the door.
"Farewell!" he said.
"No," cried the Marquis, "you must not leave me alone with this dead man. I am afraid! You must take me too to see the other."
Labarre stopped short. "Where was Cyprien?" he asked hastily.
The Marquis understood him. He rang his bell furiously. It might be after all that he was not guilty of Fanfar's death.
A servant entered. The Marquis asked for Cyprien; he had not been seen in the hôtel for two days, the lacquey replied.
The Marquis turned to his father's servant.
"I have grave duties to perform," he said, quietly, "first I must see my son. You must go with me."
Labarre shook his head.
"In the name of my brother!" said Fongereues. Then stopping, he said, suddenly, "Does this fortune left by my father really exist?"
Labarre started. Could it be that this man at this time could be thinking of money?
"You misunderstand me!" cried the Marquis, "but never mind, answer me!"
"The money is safe," said Pierre.
"And you can give me a million to-morrow?"
"What do you want of a million?"
"Can you give it to me, that is the question?"
"I can."
Fongereues wrote a few words, and rang the bell.
"Take this letter to Monsieur Fernando de Vellebri, and see that there is no delay. And now, Pierre, come with me."
In a house opposite the Palais de Justice, two men were talking together in an attic room. One of these men was seated, the other was standing. The one who was seated, robust and vigorous, was anxiously questioning a person, who answered slowly and coldly.
"Then Doctor, you are sure?"
"Have no uneasiness. I know what I am doing."
"You understand that it is for to-morrow, and nothing can be done during the night. It means, in short, forty hours."
"When I accepted the terrible responsibility which you proposed to me, I weighed every detail. And once more I bid you have entire confidence in me and in science, and in the devotion of those who are brothers in a common cause."
"Forgive me!" repeated the other. "Forgive my anxiety and apparent distrust."
"I am at your disposal at all times and seasons; if the important moment be advanced or retarded, be sure that I shall be in readiness."
The two men shook hands cordially, and the Doctor went out. The other threw himself on a chair, and covering his face with his huge hands, wept bitterly—wept like a child, did this poor Iron Jaws. Suddenly he started up, and cried:
"This must succeed! This must succeed!"
He heard hurried steps coming up the stairs, and then a knock at the door.
"Who is it?"
"Bobichel!"
It was indeed Bobichel, red and much out of breath.
"Well?" asked Gudel.
"Oh! she is an angel! she had been crying when I got there. She brought me here in her carriage, and she wants to see you."
Gudel strode from the room. On the lower floor he found Irène waiting; she was pale and dressed in black.
"Ah! sir," she said, anxiety sharpening her voice, "tell me what all this means!"
"Fanfar is not dead."
The girl swayed to and fro. Gudel caught her, and went on.
"No, he is not dead. I thought you ought to know it."
"Where is he?"
"Ah! dear lady, he lies at this moment in a dark room, and looks as if he could never again rise."
"Horrible!"
"Yes, in a way, but not so bad when you come to think about it, for to-morrow Fanfar will be alive and free."
"Alive and free! Ah! I dare not hope. But tell me the whole."
"You remember that I sent you a note to give to Fanfar?"
"Yes—I have it still."
"Now, if you are not afraid of a little dampness, I will show you something."
Irène looked at Gudel in amazement.
"Very good, but first about Fanfar?"
"I assure you, dear lady, that he is safe. Now, Bobichel, go; see and hear all you can, and if you find out anything new, come to me at once."
"All right, master," and with a double somersault Bobichel vanished.
Gudel lighted a lantern, and then said to Irène that he was ready. They went out into a corridor, and Gudel, taking a key from his pocket, opened a small door which showed stone steps going down.
"Be careful," said Iron Jaws, "for the steps are very slippery."
He held the lantern high and guided her steps. It was like a gnome guiding a fairy into some mine of wealth. But it was not toward any treasure that Gudel conducted Irène. He opened another door after pushing several bolts.
"Up with you!" he cried, "you have company!"
Notwithstanding all her courage, Irène started back.
"Have no fear, Mademoiselle," said Iron Jaws, "he is a ferocious beast, but he is chained!"
Irène beheld a man fastened to the wall with an iron chain. At first she did not recognize him.
"This individual," said Gudel, "is Cyprien, the man who does all the dirty work of his excellencythe Marquis de Fongereues, going so far as to do a little poisoning on occasion."
"Undo my chain!" cried Cyprien.
"Not if I know it! But if you answer my questions, you shall have something to eat."
"I am hungry!" murmured the rascal.
"Pshaw! one meal each day will certainly prevent your being miserable. Now, why did you poison Fanfar?"
The fellow sighed.
"Tell me what interest you had in poisoning Fanfar."
"I don't know."
"That is a lie!"
"He can tell you nothing," whispered Irène, "let him go."
"No, Mademoiselle. This scoundrel bribed one of the jailers to give Fanfar a drug that would have killed him in five minutes. Fortunately, I was on the watch. I captured Cyprien and I brought him here. But I confess I am greatly puzzled by one thing—it is that I can't make out what the Marquis had against Fanfar, and this animal will not tell me."
"My friend," said Irène, "however guilty you may be, you are but the instrument of others. Why, then, do you not try to make amends for your errors by telling the truth?"
Cyprien hesitated, but he said again:
"I do not know."
"Then good-night, my dear fellow!" said Gudel. "Here is a loaf of bread for you, rascal that you are!"
Irène hastened from the dungeon, and when they had again ascended the stairs, Gudel said to her:
"These fellows are all alike, after all!"
"What are you trying to do?" asked Irène.
"It is simple enough. Instead of poison, Fanfar took a narcotic, and lies as if dead. He will be buried, of course, but we will look out for that, and he will be taken care of."
The shock to Irène was so great that she burst into passionate weeping. Gudel was doing his best to soothe her, when suddenly the door was thrown open and Bobichel rushed in, all pale and dishevelled.
"Oh! master," he cried, "all is lost! There is to be an autopsy. One of the great physicians advises it."
Irène uttered a shriek of agony and dropped on her knees.
"Run!" she cried, "the truth must be made known at once. Oh! save him!"
Gudel tore his hair. Suddenly a thought struck him.
"Who is the physician?"
"Dr. Albant, from the Tuileries."
Iron Jaws reflected. He took Irène's hands in his.
"I am but a poor fellow, dear lady, only a strolling player, but I swear to you that Fanfar shall be saved!"
Irène was comforted.
The situation was indeed a terrible one. Bobichel's words were true.
When Fanfar fell as if dead, it was supposed that it was an attack of apoplexy, and some good people ventured to call it a judgment from heaven for his crimes. Others again spoke of poison, and arraigned the governor of the prison for carelessness. There was one physician among those who were called in who could not agree with the others. He used a number of scientific expressions, but the fact remained the same—Fanfar was dead. But there was so much discussion that a post-mortem examination was deemed essential. The body, therefore, was carried on a litter to the hospital, where he was examined by a crowd of curious medical students, who declared that he was so splendidly developed that he ought to have lived to be a hundred years old.
A messenger was sent to Dr. Albant, and the dissecting table was prepared.
This time the plan of the heroes of the right had failed. Fanfar was alive, but he would certainly be killed now, as his torpidity was so great that he would not utter a cry or a groan until the instruments touched some vital organ.
The door opened and Dr. Albant, a handsome old man, entered with smiles and nods. He removed his coat and tied on a large apron. Trying the edge of his scalpel on his nail, he turned to the students and physicians, and began to talk of the German method of conducting a post mortem.
"We French, however, begin here," he said, lightly placing his scalpel on the tender flesh.
"Dr. Albant!" cried a stentorian voice.
The surgeon turned. A messenger in the king's livery stood in the doorway.
"Gentlemen, excuse me—the king communicates with me!"
A close observer would have thought it singular that the king should send a letter by an ordinary servant, like a simple bourgeois. But this did not seem to strike Dr. Albant, who, with a face beaming with smiles, turned to the students, saying:
"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the king demands my presence."
"But the autopsy?"
"Oh! that may be given up. This man died from cerebral congestion—I see it as plain as day!"
As he spoke he tore off his apron, and got himself into his coat again with all possible speed.
"Bury the man at once!" he said as he left the room. A carriage awaited him at the door, and he drove off.
The royal messenger waited a moment and then he, too, walked away, and going down a narrow alley heentered a little wineshop by a back door, and throwing himself on a bench, exclaimed:
"I was just in time, Bobichel. A second later and Fanfar would have been no more!"
The hospital was now anxious to get rid of this useless body, and orders were given that it should be buried without delay. Gudel and his friends had bribed the functionaries.
All went smoothly, and in an hour the hearse was to take Fanfar away. But before this, a card was brought in to the governor of the hospital. On this card was the name of the Marquis de Fongereues, and in the corner of the glossy bit of pasteboard was a tiny sign, which signified that his visitor was especially recommended by the Society of which he was a member. He gave orders that the Marquis should be shown in at once.
Fongereues appeared, leaning on the arm of Pierre Labarre. The Marquis had suddenly grown old, his strength was gone, and his feet were as uncertain as those of a drunken man.
The governor rose to receive him. Fongereues tried to speak, but his voice died in his throat. He handed the governor an order from the minister, directing that the body of the man named Fanfar should be surrendered to the Marquis de Fongereues.
Our readers will notice that the promised million had already borne fruit in the granting of the first request made by the Marquis, who had laid aside his ambition and thought only of recovering the body of his son in return for the million.
"Can I see the body?" asked the Marquis.
The governor bowed assent and led him to the room where Fanfar still lay. Fongereues looked down on the noble features and manly form. How entirely they differed from those of the son for whom the Marquis had sacrificed everything. The Marquis knelt in silence for some minutes, while Labarre shed bitter tears.
"What does the Marquis propose to do?" asked the governor, who did not understand this scene, and was becoming impatient.
Labarre said, in a low voice, "The men will come up with a bier."
In a few minutes Fanfar's body was carried to the Hôtel de Fongereues and laid by the side of the Vicomte.
Labarre made no attempt to resist this caprice of the Marquis. The old servant, now that De Fongereues showed such humility and grief, had become his devoted servant.
The Marquis asked for his wife, and was told that she had left the hôtel alone and on foot.
"Pierre," said the Marquis, "I must say a few words to you. With the exception of this million I have required at your hands, the fortune which should have been Simon's must be given to his daughter. Tell her the whole truth; it is only just. Watch over this girl, proclaim her right to the name and property of our house. When I am dead do not lay me in French soil—I am not worthy of France—but placeme where I am unknown and unheard of. You will obey these wishes?"
Labarre answered, solemnly, "I will obey them."
"Very good; we will start to-night for the château, and there side by side we will bury the two sons whom I have murdered."
While Fongereues, crushed under the weight of his remorse, was thus announcing his last wishes, another scene was taking place in the hospital. Gudel and Bobichel had applied for Fanfar's body.
"Too late!" answered the concierge. And the two men heard with consternation that Fanfar had been taken away. And where? No one knew.
Delay was inevitable. Gudel and the former clown went out into the street and there abandoned themselves to their distress.
To be condemned to death cannot be a very pleasant feeling, and Robeccal, though assured that he should not suffer, was naturally very uneasy. He did his best to keep up his courage, hoping every minute that some one would appear and furnish him with the means of leaving France. Finally the door opened, and Vidocq himself, the Chief of Police, entered.
Robeccal, in a state of suppressed delight, had the audacity to wink at him.
"At last!" said the prisoner. "Really, sir, I think I have had about enough of this. When am I to leave France?"
"I think, my dear sir," answered Vidocq, in a somewhat sarcastic voice, "that you will not leave France."
"Ah! I am glad to hear that."
"A residence has been assigned to you in a most delightful climate."
"And where may that be? What is the name of the place?"
"You will have no difficulty in remembering it, I fancy. Toulon is the name."
"Toulon!" repeated Robeccal, his eyes fairly starting from his head.
"Yes, your punishment has been changed. You are condemned, not to death, but to imprisonment for life."
Robeccal tried to smile. It was a joke, of course, but he did not like it.
"My dear sir," continued Vidocq, calmly and politely, "You are a scoundrel, and you accepted a base rôle. You think we have broken faith with you, but faith can not be kept with creatures like yourself."
Robeccal protested and raved, all to no purpose.
Vidocq went to the door and called; four men, each Hercules, appeared.
"Take this fellow away," said Vidocq, "he is to go with the other prisoners to Toulon in the morning."
Robeccal began to curse and swear.
"You will gag him," added Vidocq, "it is better. Good-bye, Monsieur Robeccal, I don't think we are likely to meet again!"
Vidocq looked on with a satirical smile while Robeccal was carried off.
Some months later he endeavored to make his escape from Toulon, and was shot.